The Best New Horror 2

by Ramsay Campbell

  “I hear you get death threats.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I understand that you get threats against your life.”

  It was true; he still got some pretty scary threats. But his pseudonym and the anonymous nature of the network protected him. “Yes, that’s true. There are people out there who don’t like what I do and would like to kill me for it. Why, are you one of them?”

  “Does it worry you?”

  “Of course it worries me. Anti-American lunatics who want to kill me because of what I do? Sure that worries me.”

  “Well, I don’t think you should be worried about that.”

  “And why’s that, sir?”

  “Because I don’t think you’ll be killed for what you do. I think you’ll be killed for what you are.”

  The back of Andy’s neck shriveled like a raisin and his hand trembled as he hit the button. “Rest well, sir, and be sure to take your medication regularly.” He sighed heavily into the microphone. “Is the moon full, Tanya?”

  She laughed beyond the glass.

  “Tanya, of course, is my immensely talented producer, a lovely woman and a fine human being. You see? You see how nice I am to women? In fact, our next call is from a woman and her name is Mary. How are you tonight, Mary?”

  “Oh . . . not so good, Arthur.” Her voice was soft, breathy and tremulous.

  One of his devoted female listeners with a personal problem. Arthur shifted in his chair, got comfortable. “First of all, I need you to speak up, dear. Okay?”

  “O . . . kay.”

  “Now, tell me . . . what’s wrong?”

  “Well, it’s about my boyfriend. He’s . . . he’s really hurt me, Arthur, and I just don’t know—”

  “Physically? Has he hit you?”

  “Oh, no, no.”

  “Well, thank God for that. What’s his problem, honey?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you could help. I listen to your show all the time and you seem so smart, so . . . worldly and wise.”

  “That I am. So how can I help you.”

  “All I want, see, is for him to let me into his life. And to let me let him into my life, see?”

  Andy glanced over at Tanya and rolled his eyes. “Oookay, if you say so.”

  “I mean, we don’t really share anything, you know?”

  “Do you sleep together?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s sharing in my book.”

  “Yeah, but . . . but . . . well, it’s little things. Important things. I don’t know anything about him, about his life, his past. Y’know, those little things that make people close. And he doesn’t wanna know anything about me. Like, what I want to do with my life and, well, what I’ve been through, I mean, just a year and half ago I was in a . . . in the hospital.”

  “Oh? Anything serious?”

  “Well, I had some, um, a few nervous problems. It wasn’t a . . . regular hospital. Um, it was a . . . a . . .”

  “You were in the cracker factory, Mary? Is that it? C’mon, spit it out.”

  She giggled. “Yeah. Guess so.”

  “Okay, so you blew a fuse for a while. How are you now?”

  “I’m . . . well, I’m—” She sniffed a couple times. “—better. I’m doing better. Anyway, he just doesn’t seem to . . . feel anything. You know. It’s like he doesn’t have any real emotions. And I also think he’s sleeping around.”

  “Oh-ho, now, whoah, hold the phone. You mean, this guy is your boyfriend and he’s sleeping with other women?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, now, honey, were you listening a few minutes ago when I said there are some guys who deserve to have their balls cut off?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, this clown sounds like a prime candidate to me. So why don’t you just chop the lousy bastard’s gonads off and stuff ’em down his lying throat. And tell him Arthur Colton, Jr., said he deserved it.”

  Tanya grinned through the glass and made a scissor-like cutting motion with two fingers.

  “Martha’s been on hold for a while. Go ahead, Martha, you’re on.”

  “Hello, Arthur, dear.” An old woman. “Oh, my, I’ve listened to you for so long I feel like I know you.” She said that every time. “I just called to tell you my son got that position I told you about a few weeks ago.”

  Oh, God, Andy thought. “Oh, really?” he asked.

  “Yes. He and his wife are moving to New Jersey now, which is where the company’s main plant is. Only problem is, they can’t take their dogs with them and the children are so disappointed.”

  “Oh, too bad.” He drummed his fingers on the console.

  “And speaking of dogs, my Pookie is getting bigger every day. You remember the dachshund I got last month?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Well, he’s just as cute as a button and—”

  “Take care, Martha, talk to you in a week or so. Keith in Provo, Utah.”

  “What gives you the right, man, what gives you the right to just dismiss people the way you do. You talk about freedom of speech, but you just cut people off like they’re nothing. Who do you think you are? What gives you the right?”

  “Well, I may not have the right, but I’ve got the button, which I’m gonna use . . . right . . . now. Lancaster, Pennsylvania, you’re on.”

  “Yeah, Arthur, I hope you’ll let me make my point and not cut me off.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I think maybe that last caller was onto something when he mentioned freedom of speech. You talk about it a lot, and yet your show is anything but an example of free speech because you hang up on anybody who disagrees with you before they’ve even made their point or asked their question. That’s not freedom of speech. If you’re so convinced you’re right, why don’t you let them speak? What are you afraid of? Why can’t you discuss it with them?”

  “Okay, okay, I get this question a lot. Listen, sir, when I talk about freedom of speech, I’m talking about freedom of speech within the country. This country was built on freedom of speech and continues to uphold that freedom, and it’s one of the reasons I love my country so much.”

  “Continues to uphold—whatta you mea—what about flag burning?”

  “Just hold onto your dick a second, sir, I’m getting to that. If you think I’m so anti-free speech, why do you listen? It’s a free country, sir, you don’t have to listen. If it weren’t a free country, there might be a law requiring you to listen to me, but there’s not, so why do you? I think it’s because, deep down inside, even the people who hate me know, in their heart of hearts, that I’m right. As for flag burning, don’t start with that bullshit argument the faggot liberals used back in the eighties when this whole thing came up. Freedom of speech doesn’t mean freedom of vandalism. Men died for that flag and to burn it—”

  “They died for what it stands for, there’s a big—”

  “And that flag stands for the thing for which they died, so to burn it has been made a crime, as it should be, and people are now in prison for it, where I hope they rot. It’s barbaric, it’s treasonous, and nothing less than criminal.

  “Now this is what I’m sick of, sir, people like you who—look, I’ll tell you why I run my show the way I do. Because I . . . love . . . my . . . country! And I’ll explain that. Like I said, one of the things I love most about America is its freedom of speech. It’s in the constitution, it was granted us by our forefathers. It is available to all who live here. I support it. But sometimes, ladies and gentlemen and Lancaster, Pennsylvania, sometimes it frustrates the hell out of me. Because this freedom is often abused by those who represent everything that is un-American. And I’m talking, now, about these people who think it’s just fine and dandy to burn our flag, who think that it’s just a piece of cloth and that burning it is a statement, when you and I, dear listener, we know that it’s no different than pissing on our country, no different than shitting on the graves of those men who have given their lives so that ours
might be free. Those who think that shouldn’t be a crime—which it is—abuse the freedom of speech. And I’m talking about these women, these, these . . . okay, I’ll say it, I’m not afraid . . . these sluts who think they have the right to fuck everything that moves when they know full well they might get pregnant, then, and then . . . when they do . . . they feel they have the right to kill—to scrape out and dispose of—the very life they’ve created. These women who think abortion—which is also a crime—is a fine and dandy method of birth control because the life they’ve created just isn’t con-veeeenient for them are abusing America’s freedoms. And the list goes on. The faggots who continue spreading AIDS among innocent people. What, you think AIDS just appears in bags of plasma in some blood bank? You think it comes out of nowhere? Those queers who can’t keep their dicks in their pants are abusing America’s freedoms. The people who vote into office the liberal scum who pass laws requiring a white boss to hire a black employee when a white man is more qualified just because the black employee is black! Do you like that? I don’t. I have nothing against blacks, some of my best friends are black, but some of my best friends are white, too! Those people—not the liberal scum, but the people who vote them into office—those people are abusing America’s freedoms. And the Jews who have gained control of America’s film and television industries so they can degrade the Christian values and beliefs that we all hold dear—they abuse America’s freedoms. Those people make me sick. But I realize that they have just as much access to those freedoms as I do.

  “However, folks, my show is not a country. It’s my show. I’m in control here. Those people, those scumbags, those shitheels, they have all the rights they need, and they abuse them to hell and back. On this show, they do not have that right. And neither do the people who support them. My critics say I’m a danger to American freedoms but I say they’re full of shit. My show is for the throbbing heart of America: the people who love and value their freedoms and use them as our forefathers meant them to be used. My show, sir, is not for people like you, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t call again. Ever. In fact, I would appreciate it even more if you didn’t listen anymore. And I would especially appreciate it if you would kindly take your fly-eaten, shit-soaked, un-American opinion and blow it out your ass. Have a wonderful evening.” He hit the button. “And if this wasn’t America—God bless her—I couldn’t say that.” He sighed heavily. “We’ve got a couple minutes of commercials, then we’ll be back for more open phones. Stick around.”

  Andy looked up to see Harold and Tanya standing and applauding in the control room. It was one of the best—maybe the best—speech he’d ever given and he was exhilarated. He laughed, knowing that many of his listeners throughout the country were probably standing in front of their radios doing the same thing as Harold and Tanya. It tickled him pink.

  *

  . . . I don’t think you’ll be killed for what you do. I think you’ll be killed for what you are . . .

  . . . for what you are . . .

  . . . what you are . . .

  Andy shuddered. He’d never had any trouble leaving his work behind him when he went home, but as his cab drove through the warm, dark city, he couldn’t shake that one call . . . one of the shortest calls of the night . . .

  It haunted him.

  He even remembered the caller: Paul from Anderson, California.

  . . . I don’t think you’ll be killed for what you do. I think you’ll be killed for what you are.

  Andy leaned forward and said to the cab driver, “Right here, on this corner.” The cab stopped and he walked into Sol’s All Nite Deli where he heard Sex Talk with Dr Tracy Connor, the show that followed him on TBN. It was playing on the radio beside Sol’s cash register.

  “Andy!” Sol shouted with a grin and a wave. He was in his late sixties, short, fat, balding and loud.

  “Hey, Solly, how you doing?”

  “Shitty. I’m shitty! I been listening to this Arthur Colton shmuck. You hear him tonight?”

  “Never listen, Sol.”

  “Aaaa.” He swiped his meaty hand through the air, grimacing. “Dreck. That’s what it is. Talkin’ about how the Jews control movies and TV so we can destroy Christianity. What, like we haven’t been through enough? Like we don’t have enough troubles as it is? He’s gotta stir the goyim sommore? Aaaa, meshuganuh.”

  “Why do you listen, Solly?”

  He shrugged, stuck out his lower lip and cocked his head.

  Andy grinned. “Well, if it’s any help, Solly, I’m not Jewish and I think you’re the bee’s knees.”

  Sol laughed. “You want the usual?”

  Andy nodded.

  As he left the deli with his sandwich and pickle, Andy shook his head, puzzled. Why didn’t they understand? And if they didn’t understand, why did they listen?

  As he walked into his dark apartment, his mouth watering for the sandwich, Andy was startled by the smell of a familiar perfume. He stood in the entryway a moment, staring into the dark, before he switched on the light.

  “Andy?” The voice—a woman’s—came from down the hall.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me.”

  It was Sherrie. First, Andy rolled his eyes, knowing his plans for the night were shattered, then, heading down the hall, he shouted, “How the hell did you get in here?”

  Andy froze in his bedroom doorway. The room was bathed in candlelight, and so was Sherrie, who lay on his brass bed wearing a sheer negligee that left little to the imagination. One knee was cocked up, one hand rested between her legs and her blond hair fell around her shoulders.

  “Holy shit,” Andy muttered with a smirk.

  “I convinced the super to let me in,” she whispered. “After all, he knows me, right? He’s seen me before. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Wuh-well, I did sort of have other plans . . .”

  She slid her hand up between her breasts and spread her legs. “Were your plans this good?”

  “Ummm . . . no.” As he entered the room, she stood and lifted a satchel from the floor, holding it between them, her eyes twinkling.

  “I thought we’d try something different tonight.”

  “Different?” He tingled.

  She nodded, dropped the satchel and embraced him, giving him a long, deep kiss as she began to remove his clothes. When he was naked, they moved to the bed, kissing again, and, removing something from the satchel, she told him to lie on his back.

  Sherrie held up four lengths of velvet. “Have you ever been tied up?”

  He laughed. “No. But I’ll try anything once!” Smiling, Andy decided that Shane could go fuck himself.

  Sherrie tied his wrists and ankles to the brass, put the satchel on the edge of the bed, then straddled him and began covering him with kisses. His cock was erect long before she took it in her mouth and began moving her head up and down on it as she ran her fingertips over his body like feathers.

  Andy felt as if his brain were melting and he moaned deeply, moving his head back and forth, eyes closed.

  She stopped.

  He lifted his head as she fished through the satchel.

  “You up for something really kinky?” she asked.

  He gasped, “You kidding? Sure!”

  She removed something long from the satchel.

  A vibrator? he thought. Oh, my God!

  There was a click and the object she held began to hum.

  “Oh, my God,” Andy moaned, dropping his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes.

  She cupped his balls in her hand.

  The electric hum continued.

  Sherrie giggled.

  Andy lifted his head, smiling, and saw it.

  Its quivering blade caught the light as she lifted it.

  An electric carving knife.

  “What the—”

  Sherrie grinned. “Arthur Colton, Jr., said you deserve this.”

  As her arm moved downward—so slowly, unbelievably slowly—Andy
understood with terrifying clarity, remembered the call, remembered his response, and screamed, “No no wait you don’t know you don’t underst—”

  He heard the sound.

  He felt the pain.

  Before he could react, something was stuffed into his mouth . . .

  MICHAEL

  MARSHALL SMITH

  The Man Who Drew Cats

  MICHAEL MARSHALL SMITH currently works as a Press Information Officer in Britain, although his early years were spent living in Australia, South Africa and the USA.

  He has also worked as a writer and performer of revue comedy with The Throbbs on the BBC Radio 4 series And Now in Colour . . . and is currently working on a number of screen treatments and a novel. He cites Stephen King, Ramsey Campbell, Kingsley and Martin Amis as influences on his fiction.

  “The Man Who Drew Cats” was the first story he has had published (other tales are forthcoming in Darklands and Fantasy Tales). He got the idea from watching a pavement chalk artist at work and seeing a child crying nearby. The original setting was Edinburgh, but he transferred the action to the Midwest and wrote the story in a day. It’s a stunning debut of a promising new talent . . .

  OLD TOM WAS A VERY TALL MAN. He was so tall he didn’t even have a nickname for it. Ned Black, who was at least a head shorter, had been “Tower Block” since the sixth grade, and Jack, the owner of the Hog’s Head Bar, had a sign up over the door saying “Mind Your Head, Ned”. But Tom was just Tom. It was like he was so tall it didn’t bear mentioning even for a joke: be a bit like ragging someone for breathing.

  Course there were other reasons too for not ragging Tom about his height or anything else. The guys you’ll find perched on stools round Jack’s bar watching the ball game and buying beers, they’ve known each other for ever. Gone to Miss Stadler’s school together, got under each other’s Mom’s feet, and double-dated together right up to giving each other’s best man’s speech. Kingstown is a small place, you understand, and the old boys who come regular to Jack’s mostly spent their childhoods in the same tree-house. Course they’d gone their separate ways, up to a point: Pete was an accountant now, had a small office down Union Street just off the square and did pretty good, whereas Ned, well he was still pumping gas and changing oil and after forty years he did that pretty good too. Comes a time when men have known each other so long they forget what they do for a living most of the time because it just don’t matter: when you talk there’s a little bit of skimming stones down the quarry in second grade, a bit of dolling up to go to that first dance, and going to the housewarming when they moved ten years back. There’s all that and more than you can say so none of it’s important ’cept for having happened.