The Mammoth Book of Terror

by Stephen Jones

  “You’re sick,” she said. “Crazy.”

  “It happened.”

  “Sure it happened.” She lit another cigarette. “No matter what you imagine somewhere, at some time, it has happened. So people died out here – so what?”

  “Can’t you feel it? The atmosphere? The magic?”

  “I feel cold,” she snapped impatiently. “I feel hungry and tired and cramped. I need a good meal, a bath, a warm bed. How much longer are you going to amuse yourself by dragging me around these godforsaken roads?”

  She had no imagination, but he had known that when he married her. Then it hadn’t seemed important and he had traded compatibility for appearance. She had dazzled him with her physical beauty and he had lusted after the prize. Now, too often, he regretted having won it.

  Patiently he said, “Try harder, darling. Look at these hills, each as old as time. Listen to the thunder. Feel the atmosphere of the place. It’s odd. Strange. As if aliens had landed here eons ago and performed mysterious rites to unknown gods. See!” He pointed to a distant rift, one suddenly touched by the glare of lightning. “Beyond that cleft could lie a forgotten village in which at each sunset, a sacrifice is made. A hen or a rat, maybe, but once a year something larger. A dog, a goat, even a girl. A real, live unblemished virgin!”

  “Stop it!”

  “You wouldn’t qualify, of course, not as a virgin. But they’d settle for your beauty.”

  She snapped, savagely, “That’s enough of this stupid talk. Writers are supposed to be a little crazy but this is too much. If you’re trying to frighten me you’re wasting your time. Now let’s get back to civilization and find a decent motel.”

  It wasn’t that easy. As the night closed around them he realised they were lost. The road he followed branched into smaller tracks and, choosing one at random, he drove down a path on which it was impossible to turn.

  As Diane complained he said, quickly, “This must lead to a farm. When we reach it there’ll be room to turn. Just sit and relax.”

  Several minutes later, without warning, the path opened to reveal the totally unexpected.

  “No!” Braking he leaned forward to stare at what lay ahead. “I don’t believe it!”

  “A house! Stephen, it’s a house!”

  A mansion set against a wall of trees. A tall building with twisted chimneys and arched windows now illuminated by the glare of headlights and the flashes of lightning accompanying the growing fury of the storm. An old house that squatted like a decaying beast beneath sagging eaves. One with warped frames and scabs of lichen, flaking bricks and mouldering tiles. The relic of a bygone age; the path they had followed the remains of a once-tended drive.

  “A house,” she said again. “There must be people.” Then, as he made no effort to move, “See if we’re welcome. Find out where we are. Ask if you can use the phone.”

  She’d turned on the radio by the time he returned, the sound fuzzed and distorted. Thunder rolled as he switched it off. As it faded she said, “Well?”

  “No luck.”

  “What?”

  “The place is empty,” he explained. “Deserted. I couldn’t get an answer and saw no signs of life. It must have been abandoned years ago. We’ll have to keep moving.”

  The car moved forward as he engaged the drive, swinging wide to avoid a pool, straightening to sweep the house with searchlight clarity.

  “Wait!” Diane caught at his arm. “I saw something in an upper window. A face. It looked like a face.”

  “A reflection.”

  “A face,” she insisted. “Someone is watching us.”

  He grunted, making no comment, fighting the wheel as the car skidded towards the pool. Rain hammered on the roof, gushed over the windscreen, churned the ground to mud as the storm, breaking, filled the air with noise and fury. Abruptly he braked and cut the ignition.

  “Stephen?”

  “We’ll have to take shelter in the house. This rain will wash out the roads. If we get wrecked no one will ever find us. Get to the door. I’ll follow after I switch off the lights.”

  “Can’t you leave them?”

  “And run down the battery? Not a chance. The lightning will guide us. Hurry!”

  She ran, long legs flashing, her coat lifted to protect her hair. He followed after collecting the bag of provisions from the boot; cans of meat, crackers, pickles, pate and some wine. Items picked up at a local store as a bribe in return for directions. A place a county away now. A world.

  The door, sheltered by a weathered portico, had defied her attempts to open it. With sudden impatience he lifted his boot and slammed it against the lock. Wood splintered, yielded beneath a second onslaught, the door opening with a creak of hinges. Air gusted from the dark interior, chill, tainted with a sickly odour.

  “Quick.” Stephen led the way. “Inside.”

  Lighting illuminated the interior with stroboscopic flashes; a wide hall, bare boards, stairs that wound upwards, doors that were closed, a box on which rested a stub of candle. It flared to life as Diane set fire to the wick. From the walls faces stared with brooding hostility.

  Lifting the candle Stephen examined the framed portraits. All were of men and bore a common likeness; the jowls heavy, the lips full, the chin deeply cleft. Some wore wigs, others had ribboned hair, some were proudly bald. Their eyes seemed to move in the flickering light.

  “It’s cold.” Diane shivered. “Can’t we light a fire?”

  “Not here.” The gaping fireplace held nothing but dust and wind carried rain through the open door. “I’ll look upstairs. Shut the door and find the lights.”

  There were no lights; the house had never been wired for electricity or piped for gas and any lamps had long since vanished. There were no more candles but Stephen found a bowl of grease that held a wick. It threw a guttering light and emitted a noisome odour. Hastily he extinguished it.

  “We’ll make do with the candle. There’s a room upstairs with a fireplace and a few chairs the looters didn’t take. They’ll do for fuel.”

  “Looters?”

  “Owners, then, I don’t know. Whoever cleared this place. Relatives, friends, debtors, thieves, who can tell?” He paused on the stairs and looked at the portraits. “This must have been a family home but they died out long ago. No modern costumes, see? The land gave out and the money, and the workers would have left. The owners would have clung on from habit and pride. A decaying aristocracy drifting into incest, perversion, degeneracy. Winding up as idiots. Dying out in the end. It’s an old story.”

  Diane said, thoughtfully, “Why didn’t they sell the portraits? If they had to get rid of everything else then why keep them? Why leave them here?”

  “For the same reason you leave headstones in a graveyard. Fear. Respect – this was their home, remember. In a way it still is.” Chuckling he added, “I’ve an idea. Let’s invite them to dinner. Take them upstairs. It’ll add to the adventure. Come on, darling, help me.”

  “No.” She didn’t want to touch the portraits. “Do it if you must. I’ll start the fire and set the table.”

  There was no table, only a section of the floor, the bright labels of the provisions a glaring contrast to the warped and time-stained boards. The wine had come with plastic cups.

  Stephen poured, solemnly lifted his container and bowed to the row of faces he had set against a wall.

  “To your very good health, my lords. I salute you!”

  Diane watched, not amused. It was more idiocy to add to the rest; the tiresome journey, the search for ancient places, his interest in the house, the ridiculous urge that had made him bring the mouldering portraits into the room. Not all of them, most still remained in the hall, but those he had chosen seemed to have a special vibrancy.

  “Here!” Stephen offered her wine. “It’s your turn to make a toast.”

  “Must I?”

  “Not if you don’t want to. But drink it anyway, it’ll help you to relax.”

  Accepting the con
tainer she stepped towards the window and looked out into the night and the storm. It had yet to ease and distant flashes walked on the hills and thunder echoed like gunfire. She drank and turned, quickly, suddenly startled. Wine splashed over her hand.

  “Is something wrong?” Stephen, at her side, was concerned.

  “It’s nothing. I just – it’s nothing.”

  “You saw something,” he said. “Look.” Turning her to face the window he said, “You saw me. My reflection. Did you think I was a ghost?”

  Pale against the night he could have been but, if so, she was another. Reflections caught in the mirror the window had become. Two figures almost of an equal height, his thinner, older, hers making no secret of her sex. As she watched she saw his hand rise, move, felt the touch of his fingers, the pressure of his flesh, the yielding of her own.

  “My darling,” he murmured. “You are beautiful.”

  A long moment in which she felt herself begin to respond then the glare of lightning destroyed the reflections and the blast of thunder made the floor quiver and the flames dance in the grate. Flames that died as the candle died.

  “Damn!” Stephen poked at the embers. “I can’t eat in the dark. We’ll have to use the bowl.”

  The one filled with a rancid grease which yielded an odour which now oddly seemed less repugnant than earlier. By its light he opened cans and packets and dispensed the food. Eating he looked at the row of painted faces again lifting his container of wine in a silent toast. One in which Diane refused to share. The faces were too alive, the eyes gloating as they followed her every move, the lips moist, the teeth gleaming.

  “Stephen, they’re horrible! Turn them to the wall!”

  “Why? Don’t you like an audience?”

  “What do you mean? Damn you, answer me!”

  Her anger startled him. “Mean? Nothing. It’s just that you’re fond of making an entrance. To be the centre of attention. Most beautiful women are. Like flowers they love the sun.”

  Flattery but she was worthy of it and was it flattery to tell the truth? She was beautiful and, sitting on the floor before where she sat in the only remaining chair, he could appreciate the curved perfection of her body. Mentally he assessed it as the wine warmed him with a pungent glow.

  “Stephen?” Diane was staring at him, her mouth tense. “Your eyes – is anything wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Your expression. I’ve never seen you look like that. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing is the matter. I was just looking at you and thinking of the early days of our marriage and remembering just how lovely you are.” Smiling he reached towards her, touched her, fingers running over the smooth contours of her calves and thighs. “You look wonderful, darling.”

  And was wonderful in a variety of ways. He felt her withdraw from the touch of his hand as his mind filled with bizarre images. What games had the owners played? Isolated in the hills how had they amused themselves? Bonded servants chased and slaughtered in a travesty of the hunt? Nubile girls tormented, beaten, whipped, flayed and used as objects of sexual gratification? Things easy to believe; the painted faces held a demented perversion. What would they have thought of Diane? Her physical attraction?

  “Stephen!”

  Her tone snapped him from his reverie.

  “Sorry.” He found the wine and drank from the bottle ignoring the cups as he did the portraits. “I was thinking about something.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “This is a vacation, darling, so why not enjoy it?” Rising, he moved to stand behind her, his hands dropping to her shoulders, moving lower in an intimate caress. “Two people,” he whispered. “Lost in the hills. An old deserted house. The storm. A perfect setting for them to perform the act of love that confirms their union. Please, darling, I need you.”

  “Are you crazy!” Twisting in his arms she glared her distaste. “You want to use me? Here? Not on your life!”

  Once she hadn’t been so particular. His hands cradled softness as thunder blasted the air with force enough to shake the window.

  “See, my darling? The gods are with me. They demand we perform the ancient rite.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I’ve had a drink,” he admitted. “But that has nothing to do with it. I want to make love to you. Here and now.” His fingers closed with sudden, hurtful strength. “Damn it, woman, you’re my wife!”

  “Don’t be an animal.” She rose, breaking his grasp as she stepped aside. “You think I’d do that? On the floor? Before them?” She gestured at the portraits, her painted nails looking as if tipped with flame. “Look at them! Degenerates! Filthy lechers! Scum!”

  “They’re only paint and canvas. If you want I’ll turn them to face the wall.”

  “Won’t that spoil your fun?” She glared her anger. “Is that what you really want? To have others watch while you kiss and grope and slobber? You disgust me! Get out! You drunken pervert! Get away from me! Leave me alone!”

  He went with the wine, weaving down the stairs and into the hall, the gloom, the watchful eyes of painted faces. To a window where he stared into darkness, his features reflected in the pane. To a spot on the floor where he sat and leaned his back against a wall. To finish the wine. To close his eyes. To sleep. To dream.

  The house became alive with whispering susurrations. Figures moved, stepped from their frames, followed the steps of an elaborate saraband. All were men. No women. This house belonged to men and he felt a part of it. Felt he had returned to something he had once known. A companionship that embraced him with its comfort. The storm murmured in the distance, walking the sky on feet of lightning, talking in the voice of thunder. He stirred in his sleep as the dream turned into nightmare.

  The figures became ghosts, which merged into him, sinking into his body as if he were a sponge absorbing their souls. They became him and became a host to them all. Together they roved through the house and, as they roved, hunger came to join them.

  A blast and the house shook to the dying fury of the storm and abruptly he was in a small, familiar room. One flanked by painted faces, the litter of a picnic spread before them. He wasn’t alone.

  Before him, facing him, a naked figure with a cleft chin and heavy jowls stooped and lifted things high into the air their juices dappling his face and head with carmine smears. Scraps that had been torn from something lying on the floor, which had once been round and smooth with velvet skin and nails the colour of flame. Something that was now red all over.

  Diane, her stomach ripped open, intestines spread in greasy ribbons. The proud breasts missing from the wall of her chest. Flesh torn from her buttocks, back, the soft flesh of her thighs. Delicacies to feed a degenerated appetite. All illuminated by the guttering flame of a wick set in bowl of rancid, human fat. Light which shone on the prominent teeth of the ghoul as it feasted on the body of the dead.

  Stephen cried out and lunged forward and saw the creature vanished with the breaking of the bowl to leave only darkness and the crystalline shatter of the window it had broken. The mirror of the night.

  BRIAN MOONEY’S FIRST PROFESSIONAL sale was to The London Mystery Selection in 1971. Since then, his fiction has been published in such anthologies and magazines as The Pan Book of Horror Stories, Dark Voices, The Mammoth Book of Werewolves, The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein, Final Shadows, Dark Horizons and Fiesta.

  His adventures of the psychic detective Reuben Calloway have appeared in Dark Detectives, Shadows Over Innsmouth, The Anthology of Fantasy & the Supernatural Cthulhu: Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos #2 and Kadath, and the author is currently working on a new tale featuring the character.

  “The idea for ‘Maypole’ came to me during a rail journey,” recalls the author, “and was just one of those odd chains of thought which lead to inspiration. The train passed a field where a solitary tall post or stake had been driven into the ground. Several children were chasing each other around this post and it occurred to me that they had a re
ady-made Maypole for May Day.

  “This led me to remember something I had once read about the possible origin of the Maypole and in turn, the wonderful ‘What if . . .?’ question popped into my mind. I pulled out a large notebook I had in my case and by the time I reached my destination, I had roughed out the opening section of the story.”

  DEATH’S EMISSARIES CAME FOR Thomas Comstock a few minutes before midnight on a fine spring evening. The limping man was there, as was the man with the blemished face. The two were overshadowed by their companion, the giant. The three were expected and Comstock received them with joy in his heart.

  When the men arrived, one of them gave a sharp rap on the front door of the tied cottage and they entered unbidden. Comstock had prepared himself in the ordained fashion and he awaited them in his cramped living room.

  The mantel above the open fireplace was littered with tacky souvenirs and a wall-mounted pendulum clock ticked away the minutes of Comstock’s life. A battered Welsh dresser, its shelves crammed with paperback Westerns, stood against one wall, while at the opposite was a folded dining-table with two ill-matched chairs. A greasy black leather sofa faced the television and the floor was covered with a threadbare carpet. Amidst this mundane clutter, the men’s garb was incongruous and anachronistic.

  The three newcomers were clothed in ankle-length white gowns, secured at the waist with silken cords, and their brows were adorned with circlets of some silvery metal.

  In contrast, Thomas Comstock wore a coarse shift, several pieces of sacking loosely sewn together with light thread, which reached no further than his knees. His thick, reddish hair was crowned with a wreath woven from young oak leaves.