The Best New Horror 2

by Ramsay Campbell

“That door behind you.”

  He needed something sharp. Why?

  “Do you have a knife? A sharp one?” The words seemed to form on their own.

  Her expression was quizzical. “I think so. The paperhangers were using razor blades—”

  “That’ll be fine.” He went to the work bench and found the utility knife, then headed for the bathroom. “I’ll only be a minute. Wait for me in the bedroom.”

  What am I doing?

  In the bathroom he stood before the mirror with the utility knife gripped in the fur-wrapped fingers of his right hand. A sudden wave of cold shuddered through him. He felt half-frozen, trapped, afraid. Then he saw old Jameson’s whiskered face, huge in the mirror, saw his monstrous foot ram toward him. Jake gagged with the crushing pain in his throat, he was suffocating, God, he couldn’t breathe—!

  And then just as suddenly he was fine again. Everything was all right. He pushed the upper corner of the utility blade through the skin at the top of his breast bone, just deep enough to pierce its full thickness through to the fatty layer beneath. Then he drew the blade straight down the length of his sternum. When he reached the top of his abdomen he angled the cut to the right, following the line of the bottom rib across his flank. He heard the tendons and ligaments in his shoulder joint creak and pop in protest as his hand extended the cut all the way around his waist to his back, but he felt no pain, not from the shoulder, not even from the gash that had begun to bleed so freely. Something within him was screaming in horror but it was far away. Everything was all right here. Everything was fine.

  When he had extended the first cut all the way back to his spine he switched the blade to his left hand and made a similar cut from the front toward the left, meeting the first cut at the rear near the base of his spine. Then he made a circular cut around each shoulder—over the top and through the armpit. Then another all the way around his neck. When that was done, he gripped the edges on each side of the incision he had made over the breast bone and yanked. Amid sprays of red, the skin began to pull free of the underlying tissues.

  Everything was all right . . . all right . . .

  Jake kept tugging.

  III

  Where the hell is he?

  Wrapped in the coat, Shanna stood before her bedroom mirror and waited for Jake.

  She wasn’t looking forward to this. No way. The thought of that flabby white body flopping around on top of her made her a little ill, but she was going through with it: Nothing was going to keep her from wearing this fur.

  She snuggled the coat closer about her but it kept falling away, almost as if it didn’t want to touch her. Silly thought.

  She did a slow turn before the mirror.

  Looking good, Shanna!

  This was it. This was one of those moments you hear about when your whole future hinges on a single decision. Shanna knew what that decision had to be. Her career was stalled short of the top. She was making good money but she wanted more—she wanted her face recognized everywhere. And this coat was going to get her that recognition. A couple of international shows and she’d be known the world over as the girl in the fabulous fur. From then on she could write her own ticket.

  In spite of her queasy stomach, Shanna allowed herself a sour smile. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d spread to get something she wanted. Jake Feldman had been leching after her for years; if letting him get his jollies on her a couple of times assured her of exclusive rights to model his coat, tonight might be the last time she ever had to spread for anyone like Jake Feldman.

  What was he doing in the bathroom—papering it? She wished he’d get out of there and get this over with. Then she could—

  She heard the bathroom door open, heard his footsteps in the great room. He was shuffling.

  “In here, Jake!” she called.

  Quickly she pulled free of the coat long enough to shed the robe, then slipped back into it and stretched out on the bed. She rolled onto her side and propped herself up on one elbow but the fur kept falling away from her. Well, that was okay too. She left it open, arranging the coat so that her best stuff was displayed to the max. She knew all the provocative poses. She’d done her share of nudie sessions to pay her bills between those early fashion assignments.

  Outside the door the shuffling steps were drawing closer. What was he doing—walking around with his pants around his ankles?

  “Hurry up, honey! I’m waiting for you!”

  Let’s get this show on the road, you fat slob!

  Suddenly she was cold, her leg hurt, she saw a boyish-faced giant looming over her with a raised club, saw it come crashing down on her head. As she began to scream she suddenly found herself back in her condo, sprawled on her bed with the fur.

  Jake was shuffling through the door.

  Shanna’s mind dimly registered that he was holding something, but her attention was immediately captured by the red. Jake was all red—dripping red—his pants, the skin of his arms, his bare—

  Oh God it was blood! He was covered with blood! And his chest and upper abdomen—they were the bloodiest. Christ! The skin was gone! Gone! Like someone had ripped the hide off his upper torso.

  “I . . .” His voice was hoarse. A croak. His eyes were wide and glazed as he shuffled toward her. “I made this vest for you.”

  And then Shanna looked at what he held out to her, what drooped from his bloody fingers—fingers that seemed to be covered with fur.

  It was indeed a vest. A white, blood-streaked, sleeveless vest. Between the streaks of blood she could see the wiry chest hairs straggling across the front . . . whorling around the nipples . . .

  Shanna screamed and rolled off the bed, hugging the coat around her. She wished she could have pulled it over her head to hide the sight of him.

  “It’s for you,” he said, continuing his shuffle toward her. “You can wear it under the coat . . .”

  Whimpering in fear and revulsion, Shanna ran around the bed and dashed for the door. She ran across the great room and out into the hall. The elevator! She had to get away from that man, that thing who’d cut his skin into a—

  The shuffling. He was coming!

  She pressed the down button, pounded on it. Behind the steel door she heard the winches whir to life. The elevator was on its way. She turned and gagged as she saw Jake come through her apartment door and approach her, leaving a trail of red behind him, holding the bloody skin out as if expecting her to slip her arms through the openings.

  A clank behind her. She turned, pulled the lever that opened the heavy steel doors, and leaped inside. An upward push on the inner lever brought the outer doors down with a deafening clang, shutting out the sight of Jake and his hideous offering.

  Clutching the coat around her bare body Shanna sank to her knees and began to sob.

  God, what was happening here? Why had Jake cut his skin off like that? How had he done it?

  “Shanna, please,” said that croaking voice from the other side of the doors. “I made it for you.”

  And then the doors started to open! Before her eyes a horizontal slit was opening between the outer doors, and two bloody arms with fur-wrapped fingers were thrusting the loathsome vest toward her through the gap.

  Shanna’s scream echoed up and down the open elevator shaft as she hit the Down button. The car lurched and started to sink.

  Thank you, God!

  But the third floor doors continued to open. As she passed the second floor and continued her descent, Shanna’s eyes were irresistibly drawn upward. Through the open ceiling of the car she watched the ever-widening gap, watched as the two protruding arms and the vest were joined by Jake’s head and upper torso.

  “Shanna! It’s for you!”

  The car stopped with a jolt. First floor. Shanna yanked up the safety grate and pulled the lever. Five seconds . . . five seconds and she’d be running for the street, for the cops. As the outer doors slowly parted, that voice echoed again through the elevator shaft.

  “Sha
nna!”

  She chanced one last look upward.

  The third floor doors had retracted to the floor and ceiling lines. Most of Jake’s torso seemed to be hanging over the edge.

  “It’s for—”

  He leaned too far.

  Oh, shit, he’s falling!

  “—yooooouuuuu!”

  Shanna’s high-pitched scream of “Noooo!” blended with Jake’s voice in a fearful harmony that ended with his head striking the upper edge of the elevator car’s rear wall. As the rest of his body whipped around in a wild, blood-splattering, pinwheeling sprawl, his shoed foot slammed against Shanna’s head, knocking her back against the door lever. Half-dazed, she watched the steel doors reverse their opening motion.

  “No!”

  And Jake . . . Jake was still moving, crawling toward her an inch at a time on twisted arms, broken legs, his shattered head raised, trying to speak, still clutching the vest in one hand, still offering it to her.

  The coat seemed to ripple around her, moving on its own. She had to get out of here!

  The doors! Shanna lunged for the opening, reaching toward the light from the deserted front foyer. She could make it through if—

  She slipped on the blood, went down on one knee, still reaching as the steel doors slammed down on her wrist. Shanna heard her bones crunch as pain beyond anything she had ever known ran up her arm. She would have screamed but the agony had stolen her voice. She tried to pull free but she was caught, tried to reach the lever but it was a good foot beyond her grasp.

  Something touched her foot. Jake—it was what was left of Jake holding his vest out to her with one hand, caressing her bare foot with one of the fur strips wrapped around the fingers of his other hand. She kicked at him, slid herself away from him. She couldn’t let him get near her. He’d want to put that vest on her, want to try to do other things to her. And she was bare-ass naked under this coat. She had to get free, get free of these doors, anything to get free!

  She began chewing at the flesh of her trapped wrist, tearing at it, unmindful of the greater pain, of the running blood. It seemed the natural thing to do, the only thing to do.

  Free! She had to get free!

  IV

  Juanita wasn’t having much luck tonight. She’d just pushed her shopping cart with all her worldly belongings the length of a narrow alley looking for a safe place to huddle for the night, an alcove or deep doorway, someplace out of sight and out of the wind. A good alley, real potential, but it was already occupied by someone very drunk and very nasty. She’d moved on.

  Cold. Really felt the cold these days. Didn’t know how old she was but knew that her bones creaked and her back hurt and she couldn’t stand the cold like she used to. If she could find a place to hide her cart, maybe she could sneak into the subway for the night. Always warmer down there. But when she came up top again all her things might be gone.

  Didn’t want to be carted off to no shelter, neither. Even a safe one. Didn’t like being closed in, and once they got you into those places they never let you go till morning. Liked to come and go as she pleased. Besides, she got confused indoors and her mind wouldn’t work straight. She was an outdoors person. That was where she did her clearest thinking, where she intended to stay.

  As she turned a corner she spotted all the flashing red and blue lights outside a building she remembered as a warehouse but was now a bunch of apartments. Like a child, she was drawn to the bright, pretty lights to see what was going on.

  Took her a while to find out. Juanita allowed herself few illusions. She knew not many people want to explain things to someone who looks like a walking rag pile, but she persisted and eventually managed to pick up half a dozen variations on what had happened inside. All agreed on one thing: a gruesome double murder in the building’s elevator involving a naked woman and a half-naked man. After that the stories got crazy. Some said the man had been flayed alive and the woman was wearing his skin, others said the man had cut off the woman’s hand, still others said she’d chewed her own hand off.

  Enough. Shuddering, Juanita turned and pushed her cart away. She’d gone only a few yards when she spotted movement as she was passing a shadowed doorway. Not human movement; too low to the ground. Looked like an animal but it was too big for a rat, even a New York City rat. Light from a passing EMS wagon glinted off the thing and Juanita was struck by the thickness of its fur, by the way the light danced and flickered over its surface.

  Then she realized it was a coat—a fur coat. Even in the dark she could see that it wasn’t some junky fun fur. This was the real thing, a true, blue, top-of-the-line, utterly fabulous fur coat. She grabbed it and held it up. Mira! Even in the dark she could see how lovely it was, how the fur glistened.

  She slipped into it. The coat seemed to ripple away from her for a second, then it snuggled against her. Instantly she was warm. So warm. Almost as if the fur was generating its own heat, like an electric blanket. Seemed to draw the cold right out of her bones. Must’ve been ages since she last felt so toasty. But she forced herself to pull free of it and hold it up again.

  Sadly, Juanita shook her head. No good. Too nice. Wear this thing around and someone’d think she was rich and roll her but good. Maybe she could pawn it. But it was probably hot and that would get her busted. Couldn’t take being locked up ever again. A shame, though. Such a nice warm coat and she couldn’t wear it.

  And then she had an idea. She found an alley like the one she’d left before and dropped the coat onto the pavement, fur side down. Then she knelt beside it and began to rub it into the filth. From top to bottom she covered the fur with any grime she could find. Practically cleaned the end of the alley with that coat. Then she held it up again.

  Better. Much better. No one would recognize it and hardly anybody would bother trying to take it from her the way it looked now. But what did she care how she looked in it? As long as it served its purpose, that was all she asked. She slipped into it again and once more the warmth enveloped her.

  She smiled and felt the wind whistle through the gaps between her teeth.

  This is living! she thought. Nothing like a fur to keep you warm. And after all, for those of us who do our living in the outdoors, ain’t that what fur is for?

  DAVID SUTTON

  Those of Rhenea

  DAVID SUTTON’S horror and dark fantasy fiction has been published in such anthologies and magazines as Final Shadows, Cold Fear, Taste of Fear, Skeleton Crew, Ghosts & Scholars, Grue, 2AM, Kadath and others.

  He has written Earthchild, a novel of elemental forces, Aboriginal myths and drugs, and is currently at work on a second, tentatively titled Feng Shui, set in Hong Kong.

  He was one of the originators of The British Fantasy Society, has worked extensively to promote fantasy and horror in the UK since the late ’60s, and was instrumental in beginning the British Fantasy Conventions.

  He is a winner of the World Fantasy Award and eight-time recipient of the British Fantasy Award for his co-editorship of Fantasy Tales with Stephen Jones. The same team is also responsible for The Best Horror from Fantasy Tales and two volumes of Dark Voices: The Pan Book of Horror. His other anthologies include New Writings in Horror and the Supernatural 1 and 2 and The Satyr’s Head and Other Tales of Terror.

  Another example of holiday horrors, the following story may put you off package trips to Greece for quite some time . . .

  EXCEPT WHEN SHE THOUGHT ABOUT IT, the frenzy of Athens was a million miles away. When she did, flashes of its rampant lifestyle tore through Elizabeth’s brain like an express locomotive.

  The recent elections had daubed the city with myriadfold banners, hung between every available lamp-post and tree, or across buildings, advocating this party or the other. The equally strident calls to the faithful from the various political headquarters in Ormonia Square—their loudspeakers issuing the usual pre-election promises interspersed with Greek muzak at an ear-stinging rate of decibels—were guaranteed to inflame the heart of any Hawkwind
fan. If it wasn’t the noise of the political canvassing, from which you were even at risk on the trolley buses, from leafleteers, it was the incessant roar of traffic.

  Elizabeth’s hotel, the Alexandros, was just off Vas Sofias, up by the American Embassy, and the noise from the omnipresent automobiles and their obligatory horns had, in the end, become almost restful. Twenty-four hours a day Athens is penetrated, she thought, like some symbolic whore, by motor cars driving across the city at dizzying speeds. By night and the street lamps, the polluting fog of carbon monoxide fumes lay like a thick pale yellow duvet over the lower parts of the city.

  Now though, Athens was a half-remembered dream. She had met Steve at a bar in Syntagma Square—no emotional entanglement so far, thank God—and they had both found they were going to Naxos in two days’ time. Although the largest of the islands in the Cyclades, Naxos had no airport, which Steve had found surprising. Elizabeth was initally pleased, she didn’t look forward to flying. The ten-hour ferry trip had, however, been crowded and unpleasant, with an unhelpful Greek crew. Only the barman made any attempt at friendliness and Elizabeth had been glad of Steve’s company.

  From the Venetian charm of Naxos town—it seemed that every Greek island had at one time bent to the maritime will of the great Italian empire—Steve persuaded Elizabeth on a boat trip to fabled Delos.

  Steve had won her over with his surprised-looking, but attractive crew-cut, his cheap black plastic sunglasses, his camera and his anecdotes from Greek Mythology. He was on a sabbatical from Boston University and had plenty of time for travel, and he seemed to like to keep moving, even when he was staying in one place. She’d have been just as happy to stay on the beaches soaking up the sun, and Naxos was relaxing, but a boat trip appealed to her, so long as it wasn’t akin to the crossing from Piraeus.

  The only thing which dampened her enthusiasm, albeit briefly, was the curious incident in the National Museum of Antiquities, which had taken place the day before their departure from Athens. The day after she’d met Steve, he took her to lunch and then to the museum. It was a vast, staggering array of treasures and she’d felt dwarfed by the sculpture, the gold, the decorative eloquence of Greek history.