The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

by Stephen Jones (ed. )

  “Who?! Stop talking shit, willya? I –” Carol bit her tongue.

  For the first time, the woman smiled. “Are you moderating your language for me?” she said. “That’s adorable.”

  Carol felt strangely flustered. Was this woman flirting with her?

  “I understand,” the woman said, still smiling, still staring straight into Carol’s eyes. “I’m an older lady and you want to be polite. But, you know, I’m not really that much older.” She stepped out of the pool and stood there right in front of Carol, glistening wet and naked. “See what I mean?” she said.

  Carol felt funny. She swallowed. The woman kept her eyes fixed on Carol as she stepped very close to her. “I’m going to tell you a secret,” she said, and leaned forward to whisper the secret in Carol’s ear. “I’m real limber for my age.”

  Carol jumped back as the woman’s voice began a familiar rhythmic chant.

  “Down in Nagasaki,

  Where the fellas chew tobaccy,

  And the women wicky-wacky-woo.”

  Carol tried to run but the woman had already grabbed her by the throat. “What’s your rush, sweetheart?” she said, and her voice was different now, guttural and amused. “Party’s just getting started.”

  Carol was struggling in the choking grip. She tried to swing a fist at the woman’s head but her punch was effortlessly blocked by the woman’s other arm.

  “Your eyes are so pretty,” the woman said. “I’m going to have them for earrings.”

  Her mouth opened inhumanly wide. Her tongue flicked out with reptile speed. It was long and black and forked.

  “But, like I said,” said Carol, “I escaped.”

  “How?” said Michael, expecting another previously unmentioned element to be brought into play, like a knife or a gun or a really sharp stick or a last-minute rescue by her Francophile friends from the recently-invented boat. But Carol had a different ending in mind.

  “I walked into the moon,” she said.

  Michael looked up to the night sky.

  “No,” said Carol. “Not that moon. This one.”

  She was pointing out towards the center of the utterly calm lake and the perfect moon reflected there. Looking at it with her, neither of them walking now, Michael felt the cold of the night as if for the first time. He waited in silence, afraid to speak, afraid to give voice to his questions, afraid that they would be answered.

  She told another story then, the last, he knew, that his sweet lost friend would ever tell him, the tale of how the other moon had many ways into and out of this world: through placid lakes on summer evenings; through city streets on rain-slicked nights; from out of the ocean depths for the eyes of lonely night-watch sailors.

  And when she was done, when Michael could no longer pretend not to know in whose company he truly was, she turned to him and smiled a heartbreaking smile of farewell.

  She looked beautiful in monochrome, in the subtle tones of the moon that had claimed her for its own. Not drained of colour, but richly reimagined, painted in shades of silver and grey, of black and delicate lunar blue. She looked almost liquid, as if, were Michael to reach out a hand and even try to touch her, she might ripple into strange expansions of herself.

  “Thanks, Michael,” she said. “I can make it home from here.”

  Michael didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what he could possibly find to say that the tears in his young eyes weren’t already saying. The beautiful dead girl pointed a silver finger beyond him, in the direction of his life. “Go on,” she said kindly. “Don’t look back.”

  And he didn’t look back, not even when he heard the impossible footsteps on the water, not even when he heard the shadow moon sigh in welcome, and the quiet lapping of the lake water as if something had slipped effortlessly beneath it.

  He’d later hear the alternative versions, of course – the stories of how, one moonlit night, Carol had walked out of the third-floor window of her step-father’s house and the vile rumors as to why – but he would prefer, for all his days, to believe the story that the lost girl herself had chosen to tell him.

  He continued home through the park, not even breaking step as his fingers sought and found the numb spot on his cheek, the frozen place where her cold lips had blessed him, waiting for her frostbite kiss to bloom in tomorrow’s mirror.

  GENE WOLFE

  Sob in the Silence

  GENE WOLFE IS ACCLAIMED for his dense, allusion-rich prose. He is a prolific short story writer as well as a novelist, and has won two Nebula Awards and three World Fantasy Awards.

  His latest books are Pirate Freedom, published by Tor, and Severian of the Guild: The Book of the New Sun, from Gollancz. The author has been described as being “simultaneously the Dickens and the Nabokov of the speculative genres”. He lives in Barrington, Illinois.

  “ ‘Sob in the Silence’ is horror, I think,” says Wolfe. “It originally appeared in Strange Birds, a chapbook published by Greg Ketter’s DreamHaven Books. The art is Lisa Snelling-Clark’s, and the stories are mine.

  “In the booklet, the reproduction of Lisa’s ‘The Children’s Hour’ is too small and too dim to see the terrified faces of the children; they are peeping from the pocket of a tall figure with a puppet. The original art, in all its dark glory, comes pretty close to terrifying.”

  “THIS,” THE HORROR WRITER told the family visiting him, “is beyond any question the least haunted house in the Midwest. No ghost, none at all, will come within miles of the place. So I am assured.”

  Robbie straightened his little glasses and mumbled, “Well, it looks haunted.”

  “It does, young man.” After teetering between seven and eight, the horror writer decided that Robbie was about seven. “It’s the filthy yellow stucco. No doubt it was a cheerful yellow once, but God only knows how long it’s been up. I’m going to have it torn off, every scrap of it, and put up fresh, which I will paint white.”

  “Can’t you just paint over?” Kiara asked. (Kiara of the all-conquering pout, of the golden hair and the tiny silver earrings.)

  Looking very serious, the horror writer nodded. And licked his lips only mentally. “I’ve tried, believe me. That hideous color is the result of air pollution – of smoke, soot, and dirt, if you will – that has clung to the stucco. Paint over it, and it bleeds out through the new paint. Washing—”

  “Water jets under high pressure.” Dan was Robbie’s father, and Kiara’s. “You can rent the units, or buy one for a thousand or so.”

  “I own one,” the horror writer told him. “With a strong cleaning agent added to the water, it will do the job.” He paused to smile. “Unfortunately, the stucco’s old and fragile. Here and there, a good jet breaks it.”

  “Ghosts,” Charity said. Charity was Mrs Dan, a pudgy woman with a soft, not unattractive face and a remarkable talent for dowdy hats. “Please go back to your ghosts. I find ghosts far more interesting.”

  “As do I.” The horror writer favored her with his most dazzling smile. “I’ve tried repeatedly to interest psychic researchers in the old place, which has a – may I call it fascinating? History. I’ve been persuasive and persistent, and no less than three teams have checked this old place out as a result. All three have reported that they found nothing. No evidence whatsoever. No spoor of spooks. No cooperative specters a struggling author might use for research purposes.”

  “And publicity,” Kiara said. “Don’t forget publicity. I plan to get into public relations when I graduate.”

  “And publicity, you’re right. By the time you’re well settled in public relations, I hope to be wealthy enough to engage you. If I am, I will. That’s a promise.”

  Charity leveled a plump forefinger. “You, on the other hand, have clearly seen or heard or felt something. You had to have something more than this big dark living-room to get the psychics in, and you had it. Tell us.”

  The horror writer produced a sharply bent briar that showed signs of years of use. “Will this trouble anyone? I rare
ly smoke in here, but if we’re going to have a good long chat – well, a pipe may make things go more smoothly. Would anyone care for a drink?”

  Charity was quickly equipped with white wine, Dan with Johnnie-Walker-and-water, and Robbie with cola. “A lot of the kids drink beer at IVY Tech,” Kiara announced in a tone that indicated she was one of them. “I don’t, though.”

  “Not until you’re twenty-one,” Dan said firmly.

  “You see?” She pouted.

  The horror writer nodded. “I do indeed. One of the things I see is that you have good parents, parents who care about you and are zealous for your welfare.” He slipped Kiara a scarcely perceptible wink. “What about a plain soda? I always find soda water over ice refreshing, myself.”

  Charity said, “That would be fine, if she wants it.”

  Kiara said she did, and he became busy behind the bar.

  Robbie had been watching the dark upper corners of the old, high-ceilinged room. “I thought I saw one.”

  “A ghost?” The horror writer looked up, his blue eyes twinkling.

  “A bat. Maybe we can catch it.”

  Dan said, “There’s probably a belfry, too.”

  “I’m afraid not. Perhaps I’ll add one once I get the new stucco on.”

  “You need one. As I’ve told my wife a dozen times, anybody who believes in ghosts has bats in his belfry.”

  “It’s better, perhaps,” Charity murmured, “if living things breathe and move up there. Better than just bells, rotting ropes, and dust. Tell us more about this place, please.”

  “It was a country house originally.” With the air of one who performed a sacrament, the horror writer poured club soda into a tall frosted glass that already contained five ice cubes and (wholly concealed by his fingers) a generous two inches of vodka. “A quiet place in which a wealthy family could get away from the heat and stench of city summers. The family was ruined somehow – I don’t recall the details. I know it’s usually the man who kills in murder-suicides, but in this house it was the woman. She shot her husband and her stepdaughters, and killed herself.”

  Charity said, “I could never bring myself to do that. I could never kill Dan. Or his children. I suppose I might kill myself. That’s conceivable. But not the rest.”

  Straight-faced, the horror writer handed his frosted glass to Kiara. “I couldn’t kill myself,” he told her. “I like myself too much. Other people? Who can say?”

  Robbie banged down his cola. “You’re trying to scare us!”

  “Of course I am. It’s my trade.”

  Dan asked, “They all died? That’s good shooting.”

  The horror writer resumed his chair and picked up his briar. “No. As a matter of fact they didn’t. One of the three stepdaughters survived. She had been shot in the head at close range, yet she lived.”

  Dan said, “Happens sometime.”

  “It does. It did in this case. Her name was Maude Parkhurst. Maude was a popular name back around 1900, which is when her parents and sisters died. Ever hear of her?”

  Dan shook his head.

  “She was left penniless and scarred for life. It seems to have disordered her thinking. Or perhaps the bullet did it. In any event, she founded her own church and was its pope and prophetess. It was called – maybe it’s still called, since it may still be around for all I know – the Unionists of Heaven and Earth.”

  Charity said, “I’ve heard of it. It sounded innocent enough.”

  The horror writer shrugged. “Today? Perhaps it is. Back then, I would say no. Decidedly no. It was, in its own fantastic fashion, about as repellent as a cult can be. May I call it a cult?”

  Kiara grinned prettily over her glass. “Go right ahead. I won’t object.”

  “A friend of mine, another Dan, once defined a cult for me. He said that if the leader gets all the women, it’s a cult.”

  Dan nodded. “Good man. There’s a lot to that.”

  “There is, but in the case of the UHE, as it was called, it didn’t apply. Maude Parkhurst didn’t want the women, or the men either. The way to get to Heaven, she told her followers, was to live like angels here on earth.”

  Dan snorted.

  “Exactly. Any sensible person would have told them that they were not angels. That it was natural and right for angels to live like angels, but that men and women should live like human beings.”

  “We really know almost nothing about angels.” Charity looked pensive. “Just that they carry the Lord’s messages. It’s Saint Paul, I think, who says that each of us has an angel who acts as our advocate in Heaven. So we know that, too. But it’s really very little.”

  “This is about sex,” Kiara said. “I smell it coming.”

  The horror writer nodded. “You’re exactly right, and I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not the most intelligent person here. It is indeed. Members of the UHE were to refrain from all forms of sexual activity. If unmarried, they were not to marry. If married, they were to separate and remain separated.”

  “The University of Heaven at Elysium. On a T-shirt. I can see it now.”

  Charity coughed, the sound of it scarcely audible in the large, dark room. “Well, Kiara, I don’t see anything wrong with that if it was voluntary.”

  “Neither do I,” the horror writer said, “but there’s more. Those wishing to join underwent an initiation period of a year. At the end of that time, there was a midnight ceremony. If they had children, those children had to attend, all of them. There they watched their parents commit suicide – or that’s how it looked. I don’t know the details, but I know that at the end of the service they were carried out of the church, apparently lifeless and covered with blood.”

  Charity whispered, “Good God . . .”

  “When the congregation had gone home,” the horror writer continued, “the children were brought here. They were told that it was an orphanage, and it was operated like one. Before long it actually was one. Apparently there was some sort of tax advantage, so it was registered with the state as a church-run foundation, and from time to time the authorities sent actual orphans here. It was the age of orphanages, as you may know. Few children, if any, were put in foster homes. Normally, it was the orphanage for any child without parents or close relatives.”

  Dan said, “There used to be a comic strip about it, Little Orphan Annie.”

  The horror writer nodded. “Based upon a popular poem of the nineteenth century.

  “ ‘Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,

  An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up,

  an’ brush the crumbs away,

  An’ shoo the chickens off the porch,

  an’ dust the hearth an’ sweep,

  An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread,

  an’ earn her board an’ keep.

  An’ all us other children,

  when the supper things is done,

  We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun

  A-list’nin’ to the witch tales ’at Annie tells about,

  An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gets you

  Ef you

  Don’t

  Watch

  Out!’

  “You see,” the horror writer finished, smiling, “in those days you could get an orphan girl from such an orphanage as this to be your maid of all work and baby-sitter. You fed and clothed her, gave her a place to sleep, and paid her nothing at all. Despite being showered with that sort of kindness, those girls picked up enough of the monstrosity and lonely emptiness of the universe to become the first practitioners of my art, the oral recounters of horrific tales whose efforts preceded all horror writing.”

  “Was it really so bad for them?” Kiara asked.

  “Here? Worse. I haven’t told you the worst yet, you see. Indeed, I haven’t even touched upon it.” The horror writer turned to Dan. “Perhaps you’d like to send Robbie out. That might be advisable.”

  Dan shrugged. “He watches TV. I doubt that anything you’ll say wi
ll frighten him.”

  Charity pursed her lips but said nothing.

  The horror writer had taken advantage of the pause to light his pipe. “You don’t have to stay, Robbie.” He puffed fragrant white smoke, and watched it begin its slow climb to the ceiling. “You know where your room is, and you may go anywhere in the house unless you meet with a locked door.”

  Kiara smiled. “Secrets! We’re in Bluebeard’s cashel – castle. I knew it!”

  “No secrets,” the horror writer told her, “just a very dangerous cellar stair – steep, shaky, and innocent of any sort of railing.”

  Robbie whispered, “I’m not going.”

  “So I see. From time to time, Robbie, one of the children would learn or guess that his parents were not in fact dead. When that happened, he or she might try to get away and return home. I’ve made every effort to learn just how often that happened, but the sources are contradictory on the point. Some say three and some five, and one says more than twenty. I should add that we who perform this type of research soon learn to be wary of the number three. It’s the favorite of those who don’t know the real number. There are several places on the grounds that may once of have been graves – unmarked graves long since emptied by the authorities. But . . .”

  Charity leaned toward him, her face tense. “Do you mean to say that those children were killed?”

  The horror writer nodded. “I do. Those who were returned here by their parents were. That is the most horrible fact attached to this really quite awful old house. Or at least, it is the worst we know of – perhaps the worst that occurred.”

  He drew on his pipe, letting smoke trickle from his nostrils. “A special midnight service was held here, in this room in which we sit. At that service the church members are said to have flown. To have fluttered about this room like so many strange birds. No doubt they ran and waved their arms, as children sometimes do. Very possibly they thought they flew. The members of medieval witch cults seem really to have believed that they flew to the gatherings of their covens, although no sane person supposes they actually did.”