The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 24 (Mammoth Books)

by Stephen Jones

  The chair began to swing. I held tight to the sides, letting it take me upwards and out, back towards the light.

  “It is unnerving, no?” Arturo leaned over me, releasing the rope. “Especially with only one light. Usually we have a group. Three lights each. But this, I felt you should see.”

  I stared at him. Kath was watching me, her expression anxious. I nodded, letting her know I was fine. I didn’t feel fine. My knees shook as I stepped away from the hole. I wanted to sit on the ground, taste the dust on my tongue.

  “It is a wondrous place, no? Your friend – he love this place. He wanted to see it alone. We say he should not do this, but he did it anyway. He was like that.” Arturo turned to Kath, nodding at her. “We thought he had gone away for a while. I am sorry. Sorry.” He couldn’t stop nodding. “But cave exploration, it is dangerous. We go together, sí? Not alone. Much of the caves – it is very deep. No one has been through them all.” He paused. “If it is any comfort – your brother, he wish to see everything. And perhaps he did. Perhaps he saw things we will never see.”

  We ate fajitas and refried beans as the light faded, sitting in our hammocks. We had already packed our bags. First thing tomorrow we would be on our way, back to officialdom and bureaucracy, the task of getting the body home. I could no longer imagine returning to my tour after that, couldn’t visualise it any more.

  Kath chewed steadily, staring into space.

  The thing that had happened to Rick – I couldn’t find a way of looking at it. When I tried, all I saw was that black, empty space; putting out my hand to touch the wall and finding nothing there.

  His face had been stripped. The muscles peeled away.

  “You heading out?” The voice was loud, chirpy, and I turned. It was the American, the one who’d given us directions to the camp. He came over, waving his hand.

  “In the morning,” I said. “Early.” Kath didn’t say anything.

  “He was a brave guy, your friend.”

  “You knew him?”

  “We all did.”

  “You all liked him?”

  “Sure.” He looked at me.

  “He had a wild streak,” I said. “Arturo said Rick went off alone, into the cenoté. He said he loved the place.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. He always liked to push it.” He shrugged. “Not sure whether ‘loved’ is the right word, though.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He was fascinated by it, sure. He was always talking about what was down there. But he said to me once – Rob, he said to me, there’s something wrong with this place.”

  “Wrong?” Kath spoke at last. “What do you mean? He knew there was something dangerous?”

  “Not dangerous, no. He thought he’d seen something down there once. It freaked him out. There’s a place where you go down through the halocline, then through a squeeze, then upward again. He said he saw something in the place you come up through the halocline again.”

  The halocline. I had heard of that: a place where lighter fresh water meets the heavier salt water beneath. I’d seen pictures of it, a place that blurred and swirled, where light was distorted. In some of the pictures you would swear that the fresh water was actually air; you’d soon find out it wasn’t, if you took off your mask. As illusions went, the halocline could be deadly.

  “What did he think he saw?”

  “Wouldn’t say.” Rob shrugged. “Probably nothing. Your mind plays tricks on you down there, you know? Look, I’m sorry about what happened, okay? I just wanted to say that, before you go.”

  I could only nod as he walked away and Kath went back to staring into space.

  I didn’t sleep, not at first. I stared up at the rough ceiling of the palapas, watching the shadows deepen. And yet I knew when Rick was there.

  I sat up and saw his pale skin shining in the moonlight. I couldn’t see his face but his chest was whole, and that made it worse somehow; the shadow that lay above. He didn’t beckon or say anything, just led the way as he had before, and I followed.

  I couldn’t hear his footsteps; couldn’t hear my own. Even the insects were silent as I went down the path. I didn’t need to keep Rick in sight to know where he was going.

  At first, when I reached the clearing, I couldn’t see him; then I did. He stood off to the side, next to some piles of equipment. When I edged around the cenoté, he was gone; there were diving tanks on the ground where he had been. I didn’t want to think about what he was telling me. I couldn’t do it; but I knew I couldn’t go back either. I had to face this, to see whatever it was he wanted me to see.

  I gathered the tanks and one of the lights. There was a pile of wetsuits; I found one my size and pulled it on. Then I stared at the winch. It was a problem, and yet I could see the solution straight away, as if I’d planned this. I’d winch the equipment down to the water then climb down the cable. When it was done, I’d just have to hope I could climb back up; either that, or hold on until someone came. In the wetsuit I should be all right until morning, providing nothing happened down there.

  I tried not to think about Rick’s face as I started up the winch. The motor was loud but I ran it until I thought I heard a distant splash. The equipment was down: it was time.

  The hole was a narrow well leading to blackness. I leaned out and took hold of the cable, wrapped my legs around it and started to slide.

  This time I had switched on the spotlight before lowering it and the surface of the water shone blackly beneath me. The cable hissed under my hands and I tried to grip tighter, to slow my descent. The cable are slepering, I thought, and grimaced. It wasn’t funny; it was also too late. I already knew I would never be able to climb out. Then I heard a sound, the same cry I had heard before; something like a jaguar, but impossibly close, and in the next moment I was falling.

  I hit the surface hard, came up thrashing through water that was dead cold. I couldn’t get my breath, just kept gasping at the shock of it. I was trapped. I was drowning. I thought of sacrifices, how long they might have lasted. I forced myself to take steady breaths, reminded myself that I wasn’t hurt, that I could float. The wetsuit was doing its job, warming me. Tomorrow, help would come. Now . . . now I could follow my friend. I focused on that, on Rick’s grin, the way he would have laughed at my fear.

  When I’d retrieved the equipment I shone the lamp downwards into the water and I dived. It took a while to find the bottom; the cave went deep. I stretched out a hand and found answering fingers of stone reaching upward, their surface almost as dark as everything else. Then something moved. It was a dream of movement, maybe nothing at all, but I headed towards it. The water ahead swirled as if disturbed by a diver’s flippers; then it settled and I saw a rope marking the route into the caves. I shone the light along it. There. Something else, swimming ahead of me: Rick.

  I followed, ducking through a gap and into a new space. I had no idea how big it was, but it felt endless. I was dwarfed, despite the fact that my world had contracted to only this: the sound of my breathing; the dark; a thin, pale rope.

  I kept going for what seemed a long time. I started to wonder if the remaining air would last long enough for this journey and back again; pushed the thought away.

  Alex.

  I stopped.

  Alex.

  It was sensory deprivation, that was all. I already knew how sound could seem distorted down here, how the dark could make the mind play tricks. I remembered that noise I’d heard, the cry of a jaguar; closed my eyes. When I opened them Rick was there, his face whole this time, pushed up close to mine. His eyes were wide open. I started, blinked, and then there was nothing but the halocline blurring and shifting, the flashlight sparking blues and greens from its heart. It was the place the American had spoken about.

  I went down through the blurring water, saw where the tunnel narrowed and balked. There’s a place where you go down through the halocline, he had said. Then through a squeeze.

  I wasn’t a great diver: I knew this. I was
n’t like Rick, who would do anything, go anywhere. The squeeze was a dark hole that didn’t get any better when I shone the light into it. It was full of particles that danced and swam and confused everything. It was too narrow for my tanks. I’d have to take them off and push them in front of me, a manoeuvre I’d heard about but never tried. It was no good. I’d have to go back, wait in the pool until help arrived. I’d have to confess I’d wanted to see the place where Rick had died but that I got scared; that I didn’t have my friend’s courage.

  I took off the tanks. Without allowing myself to pause, I entered the tunnel.

  The tanks were unwieldy, too buoyant, catching on the roof. My breathing quickened; I couldn’t seem to slow it down. I knew if they got stuck I’d be trapped down here, tethered to them until the air ran out. The walls touched me, welcoming. Closing in. I was in a tomb, a narrow, dark tomb, and I couldn’t breathe.

  Then the tanks moved and I lunged forwards, felt them pull away from me at the other end. I was through. I saw the halocline at once. It was just like before except brighter, as if there was some source of illumination within it; it was turquoise and cerulean and sapphire, all the colours of the Caribbean, the shades moving and passing into each other like veils. Then I saw what was on the other side.

  A woman was waiting there. She stood clear of the water on a stone platform that jutted from the cave wall. I craned my neck to look at her. She wore a simple tunic, black stones about her neck and feathers in her hair. Her fierce eyes were turned on me.

  I was caught on some surge of water, had to look away. When I looked back I expected her to be gone, but instead I saw someone standing next to her. It was Rick.

  I swam towards them, still pushing the tanks. I looked up again into clear air. Their clothes didn’t cling; the feathers stuck out from the woman’s hair. They were dry. And yet . . . that was what the halocline did, wasn’t it? Caused illusions. And Rick, after all, was dead, lying on a slab in some overheated mortuary.

  My dive tanks bumped against the platform edge. They were bobbing on the surface; no more water.

  I climbed out, knowing that it was all wrong, that there shouldn’t be any air down here. And yet when Rick smiled, gesturing towards my mouthpiece, I took it off and pulled in an experimental breath.

  I turned to Rick, but it was the woman who spoke.

  “You travelled through the body of the life-giver,” she said. “What gift do you bring?” Her voice was quiet but resonated like the cry of the jaguar. She was dangerous, this woman. I could sense it, see it in her eyes. They were dark and yet liquid: eyes of water, I thought.

  “The waters are restless. They will have sacrifice. What do you bring, traveller?”

  I shook my head.

  She made a low growling in her throat. Her eyes shone. “My god is a jealous god,” she said. “It is the giving time.”

  My throat felt clogged, as if I wasn’t breathing at all. I looked at Rick. It was him I’d seen on the slab, I knew that now.

  She threw back her head and laughed. “We are the servants of Chaac. Be sure that your gift is enough, or Chaac will take what he needs. The things he desires.”

  I thought of Rick’s face, the remnants of skin, the soft mound of a nose. Defleshed. What had he offered, to have failed so badly? When I looked at him he didn’t say a word.

  “What does Chaac require?” I asked.

  She smiled. It was a casual smile, but it made me want to tear the eyes from my head. She had small, white, pointed teeth. She went to Rick, trailed her fingers across his chest. “Blood,” she said.

  I looked at my old friend, searching for some trace of the boy I had known. “Rick, help me.”

  Her laughter rang out, mocking. It echoed around the cave, deepening until my chest ached.

  “Ask him,” she said. “Ask him what he gave. Ask him if it was good enough.” Her voice was harsh, peremptory, and my mouth opened of its own accord.

  “Rick?”

  His head jerked as if he had just woken. He glanced at me, looked away. And I knew, then, even before he mouthed the word: “You.”

  “Rick?”

  He wouldn’t look at me.

  The woman waved a hand. “Choose,” she said. “What will you give?”

  I thought, wildly. I had nothing. Some money, back home; I could borrow more, use it to purchase – what had Arturo spoken of ? Gold. Jade. But when I looked into this woman’s eyes, I knew it would never be enough.

  Then I thought of Kath, on the outside, not so far away. Sleeping in a hammock in the warm, close night. I could come back here, bring her with me. Rick’s offering hadn’t been enough, but perhaps she would be. It was all I could think of. I looked at Rick. He was staring down at the floor, his eyes half-closed. It would be a fine revenge, to bring her here: his sister. Still I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

  “Speak,” she said.

  I shook my head and her eyes snapped to mine. And I decided.

  “I have nothing to give,” I said. “I have nothing. I can’t make – I can’t give you a sacrifice.” I wanted to continue, to say something about how that didn’t happen, it wasn’t done any more, and forced myself to shut my mouth. She would flay the flesh from my bones. Rip the face from my body.

  Something in her look told me I had to continue.

  “There’s only me.” My throat constricted around the words. “It’s all I have. I can’t bring anything else. I can’t offer anyone else.” I looked at Rick and saw that other version of him: the faceless one. She would give me to Chaac, to the water, and it would take me down. Flense my body. Eat me and spit out the bones.

  “Do it now,” I said, and let my head fall. I closed my eyes. “Quickly. Please.” I didn’t open them again. I didn’t have to as the thunder of water filled my ears.

  There was cold all around. Other than that I couldn’t feel anything: my body was numb, my hands, my face; especially that. I reached up and touched my skin. It felt smooth, but maybe it did, afterwards. I opened my eyes and found I was blind. Then everything started to come back, the light, the air, and I started to shake. My face, though, was warming; I felt the sun on it, the blessed brightness. I was in the water, but something about it was wrong. It roiled and surged like something restless.

  When I looked around I could see the coast. In the distance were boats, people swimming. Further inland was the edge of the jungle; it must be a long way to the camp where Kath would be waiting. I had no idea how to get back there, or how I would explain. No doubt they’d say I’d pulled some prank, or that I’d delved too far; that I had merely been lucky to survive my fool’s dive.

  They’d say the changes in pressure had got to me. Made me hallucinate.

  I allowed myself to move with the water. Whatever they said, however it happened, I was here, in the eyes, the ojos de agua. Somewhere far below, water gushed from a cave mouth that led out of the earth. The dark was waiting there, something that didn’t sleep and didn’t die.

  And I had pledged myself to it.

  When I closed my eyes, I saw my friend’s face. His whole, complete face. I remembered what he’d done: You, he’d said. When I remembered the woman, I couldn’t quite bring myself to hate him for it.

  Rick had always been the one to go farther, to see things no one else had seen, the one who laughed at what made others fear. But I hadn’t betrayed him. I’d been to the place he wanted me to go, seen the things he wanted me to see; but I hadn’t given any life but my own.

  I wondered when the creature of the cenoté would claim it from me.

  I started to strike out for the shore, thinking of the freedivers plunging down towards their crucified god. I thought about how we offered ourselves, wondered if, after all, it was some need we had, to throw ourselves before some idea or thing. Maybe, sooner or later, all of us had something or someone waiting to collect. If so, maybe it wasn’t so bad; better than being trapped in the endless dark, unable to go forward, unable to go back. Whatever I had gi
ven, for now, it was enough. And the thing in the cave – it was the lifegiver, too.

  The breeze was picking up and I swam harder. It became easier as the feeling flooded back into my limbs. It felt as if my body were re-forming itself, my arms and legs becoming solid, capable, more real; defined by their motion as I swam out of the bright place where the sun struck the water.

  STEPHEN JONES & KIM NEWMAN

  Necrology: 2012

  ONCE AGAIN, WE mark the passing of many notable writers, artists, performers and technicians who, during their lifetimes, made significant contributions to the horror, science fiction and fantasy genres (or left their mark on popular culture in other, often fascinating, ways) . . .

  AUTHORS/ARTISTS/COMPOSERS

  Richard Alf, chairman and co-founder of the San Diego Comic-Con, died of pancreatic cancer on January 4, aged 59.

  American comic strip artist John Celardo died on January 6, aged 93. In the early 1950s he succeeded Bob Lubbers as the illustrator of the syndicated daily and Sunday Tarzan newspaper strips, which he continued until 1968. Celardo also worked for various comic book titles, including Jungle Comics, and he illustrated a Land of the Giants strip on packages of the Topps Chewing Gum trading cards.

  Author Phyllis MacLennan died on January 8, aged 91. After working in Military Intelligence during World War II, she made her SF debut in Fantastic in 1963. MacLennan published six more stories, some of which appeared in various anthologies, and her only SF novel was Turned Loose on Irdra (1970).

  UK film composer David Whitaker died on January 11, aged 81. He composed the scores for Scream and Scream Again, Hammer’s Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde and Vampire Circus, Vampira (aka Old Dracula), Dominique (aka Dominique is Dead) and The Sword and the Sorcerer.