The Best New Horror 2

by Ramsay Campbell

  There were times when I became so despondent I wanted to lie down and just fade into death, the way a primitive tribesman will give up all hope and turn his face to the wall. There were times when I became angry, and screeched at the structure that had me trapped in its belly, remonstrating with it until my voice was hoarse. Sometimes I was driven to useless violence and picked up the nearest object to smash at my tormentor, even if my actions brought the place down around my ears.

  Once, I even whispered to the darkness:

  “I’ll be your slave. Tell me what to do—any evil thing—and I’ll do it. If you let me go, I promise to follow your wishes. Tell me what to do. . . .”

  And still it laughed at me, until I knew I was going insane.

  Finally, I began singing to myself, not to keep up my spirits like brave men are supposed to, but because I was beginning to slip into that crazy world that rejects reality in favor of fantasy. I thought I was home, in my own house, making coffee. I found myself going through the actions of putting on the kettle, and preparing the coffee, milk and sugar, humming a pleasant tune to myself all the while. One part of me recognized that domestic scene was make-believe, but the other was convinced that I could not possibly be trapped by a malevolent entity and about to die in the dark corridors of its multisectioned shell.

  Then something happened, to jerk me into sanity.

  The sequence of events covering the next few minutes or so are lost to me. Only by concentrating very hard and surmising can I recall what might have happened. Certainly, I believe I remember those first few moments, when a sound deafened me, and the whole building rocked and trembled as if in an earthquake. Then I think I fell to the floor and had the presence of mind to jam the helmet on my head. There followed a second (what I now know to be) explosion. Pieces of building rained around me: bricks were striking my shoulders and bouncing off my hard hat. I think the only reason none of them injured me badly was because the builders, being poor, had used the cheapest materials they could find. These were bricks fashioned out of crushed coke, which are luckily light and airy.

  A hole appeared, through which I could see blinding daylight. I was on my feet in an instant, and racing toward it. Nails appeared out of the woodwork, up from the floor, and ripped and tore at my flesh like sharp fangs. Metal posts crashed across my path, struck me on my limbs. I was attacked from all sides by chunks of masonry and debris, until I was bruised and raw, bleeding from dozens of cuts and penetrations.

  When I reached the hole in the wall, I threw myself at it, and landed outside in the dust. There, the demolition people saw me, and one risked his life to dash forward and pull me clear of the collapsing building. I was then rushed to hospital. I was found to have a broken arm and multiple lacerations, some of them quite deep.

  Mostly, I don’t remember what happened at the end. I’m going by what I’ve been told, and what flashes on and off in my nightmares, and using these have pieced together the above account of my escape from the Walled City. It seems as though it might be reasonably accurate.

  I have not, of course, told the true story of what happened inside those walls, except in this account, which will go into a safe place until after my death. Such a tale would only have people clucking their tongues and saying, “It’s the shock, you know—the trauma of such an experience,” and sending for the psychiatrist. I tried to tell Sheena once, but I could see that it was disturbing her, so I mumbled something about, “Of course, I can see that one’s imagination can work overtime in a place like that,” and never mentioned it to her again.

  I did manage to tell the demolition crew about John. I told them he might still be alive, under all that rubble. They stopped their operations immediately and sent in search parties, but though they found the bodies of the guide and policemen, John was never seen again. The search parties all managed to get out safely, which has me wondering whether perhaps there is something wrong with my head—except I have the wounds, and there are the corpses of my traveling companions. I don’t know. I can only say now what I think happened. I told the police (and stuck rigidly to my story) that I was separated from the others before any deaths occurred. How was I to explain two deaths by sharp instruments, and a subsequent hanging? I let them try to figure it out. All I told them was that I heard John’s final cry, and that was the truth. I don’t even care whether or not they believe me. I’m outside that damn hellhole, and that’s all that concerns me.

  And Sheena? It is seven months since the incident. And it was only yesterday that I confronted and accused her of having an affair with John, and she looked so shocked and distressed and denied it so vehemently that I have to admit I believe that nothing of the kind happened between them. I was about to tell her that John had admitted to it, but had second thoughts. I mean, had he? He certainly inferred that there had been something between them, but perhaps he was just trying to goad me? Maybe I had filled in the gaps with my own jealous fears? To tell you the truth, I can’t honestly remember, and the guilt is going to be hard to live with. You see, when they asked me for the location of John’s cry for help, I indicated a spot . . . well, I think I told them to dig—I said . . . anyway, they didn’t find him, which wasn’t surprising, since I . . . well, perhaps this is not the place for full confessions.

  John is still under there somewhere, God help him. I have the awful feeling that the underground ruins of the Walled City might keep him alive in some way, with redirected water, and food in the form of rats and cockroaches. A starving man will eat dirt, if it fills his stomach. Perhaps he is still below, in some pocket created by that underworld? Such a slow, terrible torture, keeping a man barely alive in his own grave, would be consistent with that devious, nefarious entity I know as the Walled City of the Manchus.

  Some nights when I am feeling especially brave, I go to the park and listen—listen for small cries from a subterranean prison—listen for the faint pleas for help from an oubliette far below the ground.

  Sometimes I think I hear them.

  JEAN-DANIEL BREQUE

  On the Wing

  JEAN-DANIEL BREQUE was born in Bordeaux, France. After studying to become a Math teacher and spending five years working in a Dunkirk tax-office, he decided to become a full-time translator in 1987, moving to Paris where he still lives and works.

  Most of his translation work has been in the horror field, and he has worked on books and stories by such well-known names as Clive Barker, Brian Lumley, Ramsey Campbell, Graham Masterton, Dean R. Koontz, Raymond E. Feist, David Morrell, Charles L. Grant and Garfield Reeves-Stevens, amongst others. He has recently translated stories by Stephen King, Fritz Leiber, Richard Matheson, Richard Christian Matheson, Nicholas Royle, Ramsey Campbell, Edward Bryant and others for the new anthology series Territoires de l’Inquietude, edited by Alain Doremieux.

  “On the Wing” was the first story he wrote, although it waited five years to be published. For its initial appearance in English it was translated by Nicholas Royle, who appears elsewhere in this volume with his own, equally powerful story of disquietude.

  THE BEGINNING OF SUMMER in Merignac: dry pine needles cracking underfoot, petals lying shrivelled on the ground, the numbing din of crickets in the trees. Robin cleared a path through the thicket, scratching himself on the broom and getting his fingers sticky with resin, searching for the track which led to the little quarry, and to the pool. Just like every summer, the anarchic advent of plants and foliage of all kinds had almost completely hidden the track shaped by their feet the previous year. Etched day after day by their wanderings, it never kept exactly the same outline from one summer to the next, and its landmarks became muddled in their minds: was it last year or the year before that this twisted pine tree had materialised a turn?

  Robin stopped short before a square of sandy earth, in which shallow circular depressions had been dug. He smiled; for a long time, he had thought these holes were footprints left by some mysterious creature roaming the thicket, silently following him. Then, one d
ay, he had seen a sparrow bathing itself in the soil, and he had been almost ashamed by the vagaries of his mind.

  He recognised a pile of dead branches encroached upon by clumps of moss; the scents of resin and broom swept over him with sudden violence. Close by, a pine tree had been blown over by the wind, and he had to stoop under it to get to the quarry. A bush next to him crackled dryly and a black bird made an abrupt swoop toward the sky. In front of him, the surface of the pool sparkled in the sunlight.

  He was alone.

  Taken aback, Robin stepped onto the little beach of blackish sand. He stopped a moment to take off his tennis shoes, then proceeded to test the water. Slowly, he directed his gaze around the pool, stopping at each tree in the surrounding woods. No one. So where were the others? Where were Gérard and Michel? This was not the first time they had decided to do something together without bothering to tell him, leaving him alone, feeling stupid and understanding nothing. Asshole, he said in a low voice, embarrassed by his crudeness. There’s no one to hear you, he continued. No one. He walked a little way and saw marks left by bare feet on the sand: they had already been here, in the morning or more likely the day before, without saying anything to him, without letting him know; and today, the first real day of the holidays, they were not here. Robin had never dared play truant from school.

  He got undressed quickly, placed his shirt and shorts on a rock next to his trainers, stepped into the water and swam towards the centre of the pool. He came to a halt, gently moving his arms to keep himself in position. He half-expected to see Michel or Gérard dart out from behind a bush and run towards his clothes, to seize them and throw them into the water; Michel and Gérard, who had perfected the crawl and would catch up with him in less than five seconds, while he was scarcely able to remain afloat.

  Once, he had tried to dive, forced into it by their incessant, almost spiteful teasing. On the other side of the quarry stood a thirty-foot rock, from the top of which he had taken flight with his eyes closed. Breaking the surface, he had seen a fine laceration running right down his leg, and as the water cleared, it had revealed a metal girder rusting away at the bottom of the pool.

  The sun snatched flashes of light from the waves, and he shut his eyes against the glare, but beneath his closed eyelids, white patches danced on a dark velvet backcloth. The soft warmth of the air and the water’s biting chill battled to dominate the skin over his ribs and thighs; he let himself drift slowly across the shimmering surface of the pool, floating in search of some undefined shoreline. He could have believed himself captured in a cocoon, isolated from the outside world, were it not for the light breeze which caressed his chest from time to time and the rattling of the pines which gradually faded into silence. Opaque light glimmered across his inner eye, mingled with darting shadows in an unceasing ballet. He felt an immediate presence and opened his eyes. A black shape blocked his view. He screamed, covered his face with his arms, and dropped straight down. When he rose to the surface again, the crow had disappeared.

  After putting his bicycle away, Robin carefully closed the garage door and walked to the house. His hair was still a bit damp and he stopped a moment to rub his head. Nestling in the pines, the house revealed only a part of its squat outline and would be easily missed by someone who did not know it was here. His parents were not back and he did not have a key. He sat on the ground, picked up a handful of pine needles and began to weave them into a wreath; either too supple or too brittle, they evaded his grasp and he hurled them away.

  He got up and walked around the outside of the house. His bedroom window had been left open. His hand rested against the pine tree nearest the house. Could he possibly . . .? He made a sudden decision, left his towel on a branch and began to climb. A few minutes later, he was perched on the branch which brushed against his window, the branch which his father had to trim each spring. Crouched on the ledge, he gazed at the carefully made bed, the bookcase full of books worn-out from so many readings, and the cupboard stuffed full of toys he no longer touched.

  He imagined himself surprising his parents: they would enter the house somewhat taken aback, wondering if they had left him locked in all afternoon. Then he recalled his father making vague remarks about cutting the tree down. He took a book from his bookcase, then climbed back down again.

  He spread out the towel on the carpet of needles, in the sun, and lay down to read.

  The cry of a bird flying just above woke him. No, it was his parents’ car horn. In a tone of forced joviality, they asked him questions which he grumpily evaded.

  He went to the kitchen and got himself a glass of ice-cold Coke, while his parents sat down in front of the television. A sumptuously dressed woman was slitting the throat of a tuxedo-clad prince while the detective jotted down notes. Una paloma blanca. He went up to his room.

  Next to the window, the branch seemed to provoke him. Had he really climbed up here? He leaned out and was seized by giddiness. At a loose end, he turned to the cupboard, which he jerked open. Something pale and hairy fell on his face, making him jump. His heart in his mouth, he looked at the wig lying on the floor. Three or four years ago, he was not really sure when, his schoolteacher had organised an end-of-the-year show. Disguised as cherubs, he and a dozen other kids had bustled about pathetically on stage, to the great delight of their assembled parents. That summer, Gérard and Michel, who were moving up to high school in the autumn, never stopped their mocking cries of “little angel”.

  He threw the wig back on the shelf and closed the cupboard. He no longer wanted to play. The book he took from the bookcase was already open when he noticed his mother had come into the room.

  “What is it, Robin? Is there something wrong?”

  “No, no. I’m fine.”

  “Where did you go this afternoon? To the pool?”

  He grunted.

  “Answer me. Were you off with those friends of yours again?” She pronounced “friends” in her most cutting voice. Robin was silent. “Answer me, will you.”

  “No. I was alone.”

  “Good. I prefer that. You know, it would be better if you saw them a little less. After all, they are older than you. Can’t you find friends of your own age? What about Antoine, for instance?” Who still plays with little plastic cowboys, Robin thought to himself. He lay on the bed and opened his book. “And don’t sprawl on your bed like that, if you don’t mind. How many times do I have to tell you?” Grumbling, he got up and sat in the chair, his head buried in his book.

  He squirmed, ill at ease, when his mother leaned over to give him a kiss. The long black curtain of her hair imprisoned his head, plunging him into suffocating darkness. She murmured something unintelligible, then left the room.

  He was floating motionless in the pool, but the light had disappeared. The surface of the water reflected only the blind shadows of a starless night. His eyes were wide open, but he could not distinguish anything; nothing detached itself from the darkness. Silence. Somewhere deep within him, his heart beat a hurried rhythm, but the pulse did not reach his brain. A flash. A glimmer, a pinprick piercing the shadows, accompanied by an even darker indistinct shape. The crow landed on his chest.

  Robin did not move. Had he wanted to move, to brush the bird away with his arm, he would not have been able to. An icy flash of light revealed the eye of the crow, its beak poised over Robin’s throat and striking now repeatedly with little dry pecks, like a child’s kisses, gradually becoming more urgent, more violent, more painful. Hot liquid flowed over his chest. The crow lifted its blood-darkened beak, uttered a shrill cry, and dug once more into the proffered throat.

  He woke up, soaking in sweat, and stifled a scream. Had he noticed movement on the tree outside? That cry, was it the cry of a bird? Trembling, he got up and went to the window. Nothing. He lowered his gaze. The branch was grooved with dark scratches.

  He went back to bed and noticed he had torn the cover of the bolster, gripping it with his nails; several white feathers lay on the shee
ts. He shook his head. Was he dreaming? As he looked at them, the feathers grew steadily darker, seeming to quiver, almost flying away. He closed his eyes and opened them again. They had gone. The tear was still there in the bolster, but the feathers had disappeared.

  Should he tell his parents? He half-opened his bedroom door, but did not step outside. Downstairs, the light was still on in the living room. He heard his mother’s voice.

  “—not that he should be shut in here all day, no, but I’d rather he stopped hanging around with those little louts. After all, you know very well what happened at the school last spring.”

  He could not hear his father’s reply.

  “Oh right! You’re not going to tell me you were like them at their age?” Again, an indistinct murmur. “No, he was at the pool on his own, at least that’s what he told me, and he didn’t sound like he was lying, he just sounded annoyed. Fortunately, I think they want to stop seeing him. Anyway, according to what I’ve been told, it’s in the evening they meet at that wretched quarry, to . . . to . . .”

  Robin was not listening anymore to his mother’s recriminations. So, Michel and Gerard hadn’t been at the pool in the daytime, but during the night. And they no longer wanted him to take part in their games.

  He lay down again. It was too late to do anything now, but tomorrow . . . Tomorrow . . .

  His parents both worked all day, and he was alone when he got up. His mother had come to kiss him before leaving, but he had pretended to be asleep; he had kept his face still when her long black hair had lightly brushed his throat. He quickly gulped down his breakfast and went to the garage. No, he wouldn’t take his bicycle today. He’d go on foot.

  He had a canvas bag, which he began to fill with pebbles. When he decided it was heavy enough, he set off to the pool. No problem, until he got to the secondary road; afterwards, he started to leave markers at regular intervals. He reached the thicket about midday and paused there: the path was not yet cleared and the others would probably need to look at the ground in order to find their way; was there not a risk that they would find his markers? He had a sudden idea. He put his bag on the ground and climbed up a tree. When he had taken his bearings, he cut a notch in a branch with his knife. He proceeded in the same manner, marking about a dozen trees, before reaching his destination.