Great Noir Fiction

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  It wasn’t, though. As Roy worked, the dust increased and my frustration with the book project—not to mention the commercial jobs that were my bread and butter—deepened. The house, fortunately, was paid for, purchased with a bequest from my aunt, the only member of my family who didn’t think it dreadful for a girl from Fairmont, West Virginia, to run off and become a photographer in a big western city. The money from the book, however, was what would make the house habitable, and the first part of the advance had already been eaten up. The only way I was going to squeeze more cash out of the publisher was to show him some progress, and so far I had made none of that.

  Friday morning I told Roy to take the day off. Maybe I could get some work done if he wasn’t raising clouds of dust. I spent the morning in the lab developing the rolls I’d shot that week, then went into the studio and looked over what prints I had ready to show to the publisher.

  The exterior shots, taken before the demolition had begun, were fine. They showed a three-story structure with square bay windows and rough peeling paint. The fanlight over the front door had been broken and replaced with plywood, and much of the gingerbread trim was missing. All in all, she was a bedraggled old lady, but she would again be beautiful—if I could finish the damned book.

  The early interior shots were not bad either. In fact, they evoked a nice sense of gloomy neglect. And the renovation of this floor, the attic, into studio and lab was well documented. It was with the second floor that my problems began.

  At first the dust had been slight, and I hadn’t noticed it on the negatives. As a result the prints were marred with white specks. In a couple of cases the dust had scratched the negatives while I’d handled them and the fine lines showed up in the pictures. Touching them up would be painstaking work, but it could be done.

  But now the dust had become more active, taken over. I was forced to soak and resoak the negatives. A few rolls of film had proven unsalvageable after repeated soakings. And, in losing them, I was losing documentation of a very important part of the renovation.

  I went to the window and looked down at the driveway where Roy was sunning himself on the grass beside his truck. The mongrel dog lay next to a tire in the shade of the vehicle. Roy reached under there for one of his ever-present beers, swigged at it and set it back down.

  How, I wondered, did he stand the heat? He took to it like a native, seemingly oblivious to the sun’s glare. But then, maybe Roy was a native of the Sun Belt. What did I know of him, really?

  Only that he was a tireless worker and his knowledge of old houses was invaluable to me. He unerringly sensed which were the original walls and which were false, what should be torn down and what should remain. He could tell whether a fixture was the real thing or merely a good copy. I could not have managed without him.

  I shrugged off thoughts of my handyman and lifted my hair from my shoulders. It was wheat colored, heavy, and, right now, uncomfortable. I pulled it on top of my head, looked around and spotted the mother-of-pearl comb we’d found in the cozy. It was small, designed to be worn as half of a pair on one side of the head. I secured the hair on my left with it, then pinned up the right side with one of the clips I used to hang negatives. Then I went into the darkroom.

  The negatives were dry. I took one strip out of the cabinet and held it to the light. It seemed relatively clear. Perhaps, as long as the house wasn’t disturbed, the dust ceased its silent takeover. I removed the other strips. Dammit, some were still spotty, especially those of the cozy and the objects we’d discovered in it. Those could be reshot, however. I decided to go ahead and make contact prints of the lot.

  I cut the negatives into strips of six frames each, then inserted them in plastic holders. Shutting the door and turning on the safelight, I removed photographic paper from the small refrigerator, placed it and the negative holders under glass in the enlarger, and set my timer. Nine seconds at f/8 would do nicely.

  When the first sheet of paper was exposed, I slipped it into the developer tray and watched, fascinated as I had been since the first time I’d done this, for the images to emerge. Yes, nine seconds had been right. I went to the enlarger and exposed the other negatives.

  I moved the contact sheets along, developer to stop bath to fixer, then put them into the washing tray. Now I could open the door to the darkroom and let some air in. Even though Roy had insulated up here, it was still hot and close when I was working in the lab. I pinned my hair more securely on my head and took the contact sheets to the print dryer.

  I scanned the sheets eagerly as they came off the roller. Most of the negatives had printed clearly and some of the shots were quite good. I should be able to assemble a decent selection for my editor with very little trouble. Relieved, I reached for the final sheet.

  There were the pictures I had shot the day we’d discovered the cozy. They were different from the others. And different from past dust-damaged rolls. I picked up my magnifying loupe and took the sheet out into the light.

  Somehow the dust had gotten to this set of negatives. Rather than leaving speckles, though, it had drifted like a sandstorm. It clustered in iridescent patches, as if an object had caught the light in a strange way. The effect was eerie; perhaps I could put it to use.

  I circled the oddest-looking frames and went back into the darkroom, shutting the door securely. I selected the negative that corresponded to one circled on the sheet, routinely sprayed it with canned air for surface dirt, and inserted it into the holder of the enlarger. Adjusting the height, I shone the light down through the negative, positioning the image within the paper guides.

  Yes, I had something extremely odd here.

  Quickly I snapped off the light, set the timer, and slipped a piece of unexposed paper into the guides. The light came on again, the timer whirred, and then all was silent and dark. I slid the paper into the developer tray and waited.

  The image was of the cozy with the bird mummy resting on the bench. That would have been good enough, but the effect of the dust made it spectacular. Above the dead bird rose a white-gray shape, a second bird in flight, spiraling upward.

  Like a ghost. The ghost of a trapped bird, finally freed.

  I shivered.

  Could I use something like this in the book? It was perfect. But what if my editor asked how I’d done it? Photography was not only art but science. You strove for images that evoked certain emotions. But you had dammed well better know how you got those images.

  Don’t worry about that now, I told myself. See what else is here.

  I replaced the bird negative with another one and exposed it. The image emerged slowly in the developing tray: first the carved arch of the cozy, then the plaster-and-lath heaped on the floor, finally the shimmering figure of a man.

  I leaned over the tray. Roy? A double exposure perhaps? It looked like Roy, yet it didn’t. And I hadn’t taken any pictures of him anyway. No, this was another effect created by the dust, a mere outline of a tall man in what appeared to be an old-fashioned frock coat.

  The ghost of a man? That was silly. I didn’t believe in such things. Not in my house.

  Still, the photos had a wonderful eeriness. I could include them in the book, as a novelty chapter. I could write a little explanation about the dust.

  And while on the subject of dust, wasn’t it rising again? Had Roy begun work, even though I’d told him not to?

  I crossed the studio to the window and looked down. No, he was still there by the truck, although he was now dappled by the shade of a nearby tree. The sun had moved; it was getting on toward midafternoon.

  Back in the darkroom I continued to print from the dust- damaged group of negatives. Maybe I was becoming fanciful, or maybe the chemicals were getting to me after being cooped up in here all day, but I was seeing stranger and stranger images. One looked like a woman in a long, full-skirted dress, standing in the entrance to the cozy. In another the man was reaching out—maybe trying to catch the bird that had invaded his home?

  Was
it his home? Who were these people? What were they doing in my negatives?

  As I worked the heat increased. I became aware of the dust which, with or without Roy’s help, had again taken up its stealthy activity. It had a life all its own, as demonstrated by these photos. I began to worry that it would damage the prints before I could put them on the dryer.

  The gritty air became suffocating. The clip that held my hair on the right side came loose and a lock hung hot and heavy against my neck. I put one last print on the dryer and went into the studio.

  Dust lay on every surface again. What had caused it to rise? I went to the window and looked down. Roy was sitting on the bed of the truck with the mongrel, drinking another beer. Well, if he hadn’t done anything, I was truly stumped. Was I going to be plagued by dust throughout the restoration, whether work was going on or not?

  I began to pace the studio, repinning my hair and securing the mother-of-pearl comb as I went. The eerie images had me more disturbed than I was willing to admit. And this dust . . . dammit, this dust!

  Anger flaring, I headed down the stairs. I’d get to the bottom of this. There had to be a perfectly natural cause, and if I had to turn the house upside down I’d find it.

  The air on the second floor was choking, but the dust seemed to rise from the first. I charged down the next flight of stairs, unheedful for the first time since I’d lived here of the missing bannister. The dust seemed thickest by the cozy. Maybe opening the wall had created a draft. I hurried back there.

  A current of air, cooler than that in the hall, emanated from the cozy. I stepped inside and felt around with my hand. It came from a crack in the bench. A crack? I knelt to examine it. No, it wasn’t a crack. It looked like the seat of the bench was designed to be lifted. Of course it was—there were hidden hinges which we’d missed when we first discovered it.

  I grasped the edge of the bench and pulled. It was stuck. I tugged harder. Still it didn’t give. Feeling along the seat, I found the nails that held it shut.

  This called for Roy’s strength. I went to the front door and called him. “Bring your crowbar. We’re about to make another discovery.”

  He stood up in the bed of the truck and rummaged through his tools, then came toward me, crowbar in hand. “What now?”

  “The cozy. That bench in there has a seat that raises. Some sort of woodbox, maybe.”

  Roy stopped inside the front door. “Now that you mention it, I think you’re right. It’s not a woodbox, though. In the old days, ladies would change into house shoes from outdoor shoes when they came calling. The bench was to store them in.”

  “Well, it’s going to be my woodbox. And I think it’s what’s making the dust move around so much. There’s a draft coming from it.” I led him back to the cozy. “How come you know so much about old houses anyway?”

  He shrugged. “When you’ve torn up as many as I have, you learn fast. I’ve always had an affinity for Victorians. What do you want me to do here?”

  “It’s nailed shut. Pry it open.”

  “I might wreck the wood.”

  “Pry gently.”

  “I’ll try.”

  I stepped back and let him at the bench. He worked carefully, loosening each nail with the point of the bar. It seemed to take a long time. Finally he turned.

  “There. All the nails are out.”

  “Then open it.”

  “No, it’s your discovery. You do it.” He stepped back.

  The draft was stronger now. I went up to the bench, then hesitated.

  “Go on,” Roy said. His voice shook with excitement.

  My palms were sweaty. Grit stuck to them. I reached out and lifted the seat.

  My sight was blurred by a duststorm like those on the negatives. Then it cleared. I leaned forward. Recoiled. A scream rose in my throat, but it came out a croak.

  It was the lady of my photographs.

  She lay on her back inside the bench. She wore a long, full- skirted dress of some beaded material. Her hands were crossed on her breasts. Like the bird mummy, she was perfectly preserved—even to the heavy wheat-colored hair, with the mother- of-pearl comb holding it up on the left side.

  I put my hand to my wheat-colored hair. To my mother-of-pearl comb. Then, shaken, I turned to Roy.

  He had raised the arm that held the crowbar—just like the man had had his hand raised in the last print, the one I’d forgotten to remove from the dryer. Roy’s work shirt billowed out, resembling an old-fashioned frock coat. The look in his eyes was eerie.

  And the dust was rising again . . .

  Faces

  F. Paul Wilson

  F. Paul Wilson wrote the best-sellers The Keep and Re-Born. He’s a horror- science fiction-adventure writer who is as good a storyteller as you’ll find anywhere. He’s got a novel called SIBS that will, I predict, be nominated for a best-novel Edgar the year it appears. This story, “Faces,” is one of the two or three best stories of the entire eighties.

  First published in 1988.

  Bite her face off.

  No pain. Her dead already. Kill her quick like others. Not want make pain. Not her fault.

  The boyfriend groan but not move. Face way on ground now. Got from behind. Got quick. Never see. He can live.

  Girl look me after the boyfriend go down. Gasp first. When see face start scream. Two claws not cut short rip her throat before sound get loud.

  Her sick-scared look just like all others. Hate that look. Hate it terrible.

  Sorry, girl. Not your fault.

  Chew her face skin. Chew all. Chew hard and swallow. Warm wet redness make sickish but chew and chew. Must eat face. Must get all down. Keep down.

  Leave the eyes.

  The boyfriend groan again. Move arm. Must leave quick. Take last look blood and teeth and stare-eyes that once pretty girlface.

  Sorry, girl. Not your fault.

  Got go. Get way hurry. First take money. Girl money. Take the boyfriend wallet, also too. Always take money. Need money.

  Go now. Not too far. Climb wall of near building. Find dark spot where can see and not be seen. Where can wait. Soon the Detective Harrison arrive.

  In downbelow can see the boyfriend roll over. Get to knees. Sway. See him look the girlfriend.

  The boyfriend scream terrible. Bad to hear. Make so sad. Make cry.

  Kevin Harrison heard Jacobi’s voice on the other end of the line and wanted to be sick.

  “Don’t say it,” he groaned.

  “Sorry,” said Jacobi. “It’s another one.”

  “Where?”

  “West Forty-ninth, right near—”

  “I’ll find it.” All he had to do was look for the flashing red lights. “I’m on my way. Shouldn’t take me too long to get in from Monroe at this hour.”

  “We’ve got all night, lieutenant.” Unsaid but well understood was an admonishing, You ’re the one who wants to live on Long Island.

  Beside him in the bed, Martha spoke from deep in her pillow as he hung up.

  “Not another one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, God! When is it going to stop?”

  “When I catch the guy.”

  Her hand touched his arm, gently. “I know all this responsibility’s not easy. I’m here when you need me.”

  “I know.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Thanks.”

  He left the warm bed and skipped the shower. No time for that. A fresh shirt, yesterday’s rumpled suit, a tie shoved into his pocket, and he was off into the winter night.

  With his secure little ranch house falling away behind him, Harrison felt naked and vulnerable out here in the dark. As he headed south on Glen Cove Road toward the LIE, he realized that Martha and the kids were all that were holding him together these days. His family had become an island of sanity and stability in a world gone mad.

  Everything else was in flux. For reasons he still could not comprehend, he had volunteered to head up the search for this killer. Now his whole future in the departme
nt had come to hinge on his success in finding him.

  The papers had named the maniac “the Facelift Killer.” As apt a name as the tabloids could want, but Harrison resented it. The moniker was callous, trivializing the mutilations perpetrated on the victims. But it had caught on with the public and they were stuck with it, especially with all the ink the story was getting.

  Six killings, one a week for six weeks in a row, and eight million people in a panic. Then, for almost two weeks, the city had gone without a new slaying.

  Until tonight.

  Harrison’s stomach pitched and rolled at the thought of having to look at one of those corpses again.

  “That’s enough,” Harrison said, averting his eyes from the faceless thing.

  The raw, gouged, bloody flesh, the exposed muscle and bone were.

  Somewhere in the darkness above, someone was watching him. Probably from the roof. He could sense the piercing scrutiny and it made him a little weak. That was no ghoulish neighborhood voyeur, up there. That was the Facelift Killer.

  He had to get to Jacobi, have him seal off the building. But he couldn’t act spooked. He had to act calm, casual.

  See the Detective Harrison’s eyes. See from way up in dark. Tall- thin. Hair brown. Nice eyes. Soft brown eyes. Not hard like many-many eyes. Look here. Even from here see eyes make wide. Him know it me.

  Watch the Detective Harrison turn slow. Walk slow. Tell inside him want to run. Must leave here. Leave quick.

  Bend low. Run cross roof. Jump to next. And next. Again til most block away. Then down wall. Wrap scarf round head. Hide bad-face. Hunch inside big-big coat. Walk through lighted spots.

  Hate light. Hate crowds. Theatres here. Movies and plays. Like them. Some night sneak in and see. See one with man in mask. Hang from wall behind big drapes. Make cry.