Best New Horror 29

by Stephen Jones

  When Glenda got home again, she filled a glass with water from the tap, and drank it standing at the sink. It was past lunchtime, but she was not hungry, and there was still food in the cat’s bowl from before. She went through to the lounge and sat down in an armchair, next to the second-hand table with the phone on it. She had disliked that table, she thought, but now she could not really see what was wrong with it; she did not have any strong feelings about it either way. Next to the phone were her phone numbers. There was the number for the council—she would have to call them again at some point, about that letter she had sent to them. And there was Fiona’s number—she ought to call her; she ought to call everyone. The protest would have to be rescheduled. The numbers seemed to blur; she must be tired. She switched on the TV and watched the afternoon programmes. She was still sitting there when Dougie came in from the factory. He lay down on the sofa.

  “Have you seen the cat?” asked Glenda.

  “Uh-uh,” said Dougie.

  In between TV programmes, Glenda said, “I’m going to go up to bed,” but she did not actually move for a while.

  Eventually, she got to the bathroom and picked up her toothbrush. She looked at herself in the mirror. It felt like being stared at by a stranger. Her eyes were the colour of dull pennies. She left the bathroom and got into bed. She looked at her book but she felt that she just wanted to sleep. She realised that she had somehow not cleaned her teeth after all. She thought about her unbrushed teeth rotting in the night, but she did not get up again; she just left them.

  A week and a half later, Glenda found the cat beneath the back wheel of her car, against the kerb. It must not have moved out of the way when Glenda was parking. She had not been anywhere since the previous weekend, when she went to fetch that weedkiller.

  She stood at the kerb, trying to remember what she had come outside for. There was no point driving over to Fiona’s house: the group had dissolved.

  Glenda’s placard was still propped against the front wall. She picked it up, looking at the faded lettering: WE WANT ANSWERS! Had she written that? It did not sound like her, like something she would say. Perhaps she had got somebody else’s placard by mistake. She stood on the pavement, near the kerb. She could see the factory chimney in the distance, down by the river, belching its mustard smoke into the sky. Dougie would be taking his lunch break soon. She could walk down there and try to see him, see if he was feeling any better. If she found, on the way, that she did not want to keep carrying the placard, which may or may not have been hers, she could just leave it somewhere.

  She stepped into the road, with the sign hanging down, the message (WE WANT ANSWERS!) dangling in the gutter. She moved out into the road, slowly, as if she were stepping through the mud at the edge of the river, mud in which Dougie had seen fish lying belly up.

  She did have a sense of the size and weight of the vehicle that was coming towards her. She was not oblivious to the juggernaut that was bearing down on her. But it felt more peripheral, more distant, than it was. She was moving forward, looking towards the far side of the road, but with no great sense of urgency.

  WILLIAM F. NOLAN

  CARNIVOROUS

  WILLIAM F. NOLAN writes mostly in the science fiction, fantasy and horror genres. Though best known for co-authoring the classic science fiction novel Logan’s Run with George Clayton Johnson, Nolan is the author of more than 2,000 pieces (fiction, non-fiction, articles and books), and has edited twenty-six anthologies in his sixty-plus year career.

  Adept at poetry and screenwriting as well as fiction (with more than twenty produced scripts to his credit), he was co-writer (with Dan Curtis) of the screenplay for the 1976 horror movie Burnt Offerings, and co-wrote the TV movie Trilogy of Terror with Richard Matheson.

  An artist, Nolan worked at Hallmark Cards and in comic books before becoming an author. During the 1950s, he was an integral part of the writing ensemble known as “The Group” (also called “The Southern California Writing School” by former Los Angeles Times critic Robert Kirsch), which included numerous veteran and soon-to-be well-known genre writers, such as Matheson and Johnson, Ray Bradbury, Charles Beaumont and John Tomerlin, many of whom wrote for Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone series. Nolan is also considered a leading expert on Dashiell Hammett, and pulps such as Black Mask and Western Story, and is the world authority on the works of prolific scribe Max Brand.

  Of his numerous awards, there are several of which he is most proud: being voted a Living Legend in Dark Fantasy by the International Horror Guild in 2002; twice winning the Edgar Allan Poe Award from the Mystery Writers of America; being awarded the honorary title of Author Emeritus by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America in 2006; receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Horror Writers Association in 2010; and as recipient of the 2013 World Fantasy Convention Award, along with Brian W. Aldiss. He was also named a World Horror Society Grand Master in 2015.

  “I have long had an interest in carnivorous plants,” explains the vegetarian author. “They are fascinating to me because they turn the tables—instead of animals eating them, they have the capability of eating animals! How terrifying to think that something we normally think of as no threat at all can do us injury. It’s one thing that made John Wyndham’s The Day of the Triffids such a shock. During my research for this story, I came across many more species than I even realised existed!

  “Some of the dynamic of the couple is based on my real life. My marriage wasn’t as great as I would have liked. As a result, I poured some of my irritation into this tale, which I think turned out pretty well. I hope the readers agree…and watch out for those plants!”

  “I WILL NOT SPEND another winter in this city!” declared Martha Burns. She paced the living room of their small apartment, stared out the window at the yard littered with wind-snapped branches. A fresh gust rattled the pane. To Martha, these constant, battering gusts seemed truly demonic, with the worst yet to come. Winter, in Chicago, had barely begun, and the cold spring months ahead were only a minor improvement. The cold was dreadful, penetrating, exhausting—a gradual erosion of the soul.

  She faced her husband, desperation in her eyes. “This awful wind…the snow…the ice…The weather is killing me, Dave! I need to see some greenery—trees, flowers, plants. I’m tired of this grey world of concrete and steel. It was so freezing cold shopping the Loop this afternoon that the little hairs in my nose froze up. No more of these damn winters!”

  Dave Burns agreed. As a boy in Missouri—young, eager, full of energy—he had looked forward to each winter…sledding down the hill on 34th with Tommy Griffith who lived at the end of the block…helping Dad build a six-foot snowman in the back yard…a time for tossing iced snowballs at Jimmy Farmer, his worst enemy…a time for Mom’s hot apple cider…skating Troost Lake…and watching a zillion fast-falling white flakes cover the streets and sidewalks, turning Kansas City into a crystal wonderland.

  But he was no longer that snow-loving boy. He was a balding, overweight, forty-year-old manager of a barely profitable music store in downtown Chicago—who hated winter.

  “Okay,” he told Martha, “I’ll get Sid Collins to fill in at the store and we’ll head for California. Sid lived there in the 1970s. Says it never gets really cold in Los Angeles. Sunshine all year round. I’ll post an online ad and see what turns up. Gotta admit this bloody cold is killing us both.”

  The ad was brief and to the point:

  WANTED: Chicago couple seek rental of modest house in L.A. area for winter/spring months. Must be reasonably priced. Contact information provided once terms are met.

  The ad was answered by a woman who said she would call soon.

  A few days later, a woman who identified herself as Viola P. Fanning called. If a suitable agreement could be reached, she was prepared to offer them her home in the Santa Monica suburb of Greater Los Angeles for the desired period, all utilities paid. The house, she explained, was quite old. “But I have faithfully maintained it. And th
ere is an upstairs view of the ocean.”

  “Sounds wonderful!” exclaimed Martha. “I can’t wait to sunbathe on the beach!”

  “We should complete this discussion via Skype,” declared the woman. “It is important, at this point, that we establish visual contact.”

  “Of course,” said Martha. “I understand…about visual contact.”

  Dave expressed doubt to his wife after the call had ended. “Let’s not rush into this—take it one step at a time. We can’t handle anything fancy. Rent in California is sky-high. We don’t know what she’ll charge.”

  “But our ad said ‘reasonable’. I’m sure we’ll be able to afford it.” She shivered. “Oh, Dave, we’ve just got to get out of this miserable cold!”

  Dave Burns nodded. “That’s what we both want.”

  The Skype call came through the next day. The screen image of Viola Fanning was that of a stark-faced woman in her late sixties, attired in black, with a flow of Victorian lace at her throat. Her grey hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her eyes cold and night-haunted.

  “I am an avid collector,” the woman on the screen told them. “I am particularly fond of fungoid plants. In Europe, if I am fortunate, I shall unearth several rare species. I expect to remain overseas into fall, and—if I am satisfied that you meet my requirements—you may have the house here in California for a period of five months.”

  Dave was suddenly sceptical. “And just what are your requirements, Ms. Fanning?”

  “You must not be accompanied by pets or children. I dislike cats and dogs—and children are messy. I will not tolerate them.”

  “There’s just the two of us,” said Martha.

  “My primary concern is the proper care of my darlings.” Her dark eyes bore into them. “Do either of you know anything about plants?”

  “I was good in botany in college,” said Martha, “but I’m no expert.”

  “Are you diligent about following instructions? My dearly departed husband wasn’t too careful about that.”

  “I would say so.”

  “My darlings require special care. They are, each of them, very close to my heart. They’re the only link to my family that I have left.”

  “Me,” Dave declared, “I’m into flowers. Like roses. All kinds of roses.”

  Her dark eyes flashed. “My darlings are much more than roses.” She made the word sound obscene. “They are sensitive and intelligent.”

  “I’ve never thought of plants that way,” he admitted, adjusting his chair to face the screen. “Before we discuss this any further we have to know what the rent will be. We can’t afford a—”

  She waved the problem aside. “You need have no concern in that regard. The house is yours, rent free, if you follow my instructions.”

  Martha was nudging him, nodding vigorously. Her whisper was strident: “Tell her yes!”

  “Your offer is most generous, Ms. Fanning. I’m sure we can take good care of your plants if that’s all you want.”

  “Nothing more,” said the dark woman. “You will find some bottles in the greenhouse containing the food for my darlings. So…do we have a deal?” And she smiled, but her eyes remained cold.

  “Yeah,” said Dave. “We have a deal.”

  A large manila envelope later arrived at their Chicago apartment, a contract enclosed along with a hand-written note:

  In accepting this contract, you agree, totally and completely, to comply with the terms contained herein. Any alteration shall result in the immediate termination of the agreement.

  WARNING: You are not to enter the laboratory behind the greenhouse. Entry is forbidden. The work done there must remain private.

  The note was signed V.P.F. Dave began scanning the pages. Two paragraphs in the contract were underlined in red:

  My plants must be fed twice during each 24-hour period: at noon and again at midnight. Their feed must consist only of the bottled food from the greenhouse.

  Additionally, Mrs. Burns must sing to my plants after each nightly feeding. They adore romantic songs. Their particular favourites are ‘In the Good Old Summertime’, ‘I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair’, and ‘In the Sweet Bye and Bye’. No other songs may be substituted. Lyrics are provided.

  “Well, that cuts it!” Dave tossed aside the contract with a snarl of disgust. “The old bat is a fruitcake. Totally out of her freaking mind. She can’t expect us to—”

  “But we have no other options,” declared Martha. “Our personal stuff is already on the way to California. And we’re getting the place for free! We can’t back out now.”

  Dave shook his head. “This whole set-up is crazy. We haven’t even seen the house yet. Could be a shack.”

  “In Santa Monica? C’mon, hon, get real. There are no ‘shacks’ in Santa Monica.”

  “I still say the whole thing is crazy. But…” His voice softened. “Guess you’re right. We have no other options.”

  The Fanning house was far from a shack, eliciting a burst of joy from Martha.

  The screen-porched two-storey structure, freshly painted in dandelion yellow, was located at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. It nested in a mass of neat green shrubbery, fenced by opposing box hedges. A flagstone path, through the well-trimmed yard, led to brightly-coloured wooden steps fronting an oak door.

  Inside, the house was decorated in ornate Victorian style. Heavy velvet drapes, dark, artfully carved furniture. Lace curtains. Leaded windows, flashing a variety of rainbow colours. The master bedroom was, in Dave’s words, “super cool,” and the kitchen, to Martha’s delight, was three times the size of theirs in Chicago.

  Of course, the weather was perfect.

  Martha cupped her hands, eyes shining. “Oh, Dave, isn’t it just—just grand?”

  Dave was grinning. “Pretty neat, I’d say. Even has a good-sized library. And there’s a gazebo out back next to the greenhouse. Yep, the old gal sure has kept the place up, I’ll give her that.”

  “We’re so lucky to be here.”

  “Yeah,” Dave nodded. “Lucky.”

  “It’s getting towards noon,” Martha reported to Dave. He was in porch shade, seated in the chain swing, reading a book. “Feeding time for the plants.”

  He looked annoyed. “Let ’em wait. I want to check out the rest of Fanning’s library. Some great books there. Classics!” He held up the thick volume he’d been reading. “Moby-Dick. First edition!”

  She frowned. “I’m ashamed of you! We promised to take proper care of her plants. If you won’t go with me, I’ll go alone.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, returning to his book.

  After she’d left the porch, Dave relented. “Aw, hell!” he muttered—and caught up with her at the greenhouse door. “You laid a guilt trip on me,” he mock-complained.

  She smiled at his words. “C’mon, let’s meet the gang.”

  Sliding open the glass door, they entered the greenhouse. The odour was not pleasant.

  “I thought plants were supposed to smell sweet,” said Dave.

  “Different plants give off different odours,” she said, scanning the area. “The one that’s really foul isn’t here. Native to Indonesia. Called the ‘corpse plant’ because it smells like a rotting body. Eats the dead flesh of its prey—dung beetles and other insects.”

  “Jeez!” Dave grunted. “That one sounds really gross.”

  “It’s also quite large. Can grow up to ten feet. It’s purple, with a long yellow tubular stalk thrusting up from the centre, like—”

  “Like it’s giving you the finger.”

  She laughed. “Exactly! They say its stench attracts prey.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?”

  “Botany, remember? I’ve told you before that I majored in science at college. Botany was big for me.”

  “You haven’t talked much about your college days.”

  “Why talk about the past? It’s over and done with.” Impish chuckle. “I’ve noticed you don’t talk much abou
t your life with all those bosomy Missouri chicks.”

  “Touché.”

  They both smiled.

  The greenhouse was wide and deep, with columned shafts of sunlight spearing down from the beamed glass roof. Boxed plants were on tables everywhere, and the whole place was lined with a fuzzy moss exuding a faint orangish glow.

  “What about roses?” asked Dave. “Where are they? Thought I’d see a lot of roses.”

  “Obviously Ms. Fanning prefers exotic plants.” Spotting a shelf to their left, she nodded. “Ah…the food for her darlings.” She removed an odd-shaped bottle of luminescent, orange-pink liquid from several others on the shelf. “Ought to be enough here to last a while.”

  “The old gal is certainly freaked out on plants,” he declared.

  The tables created a series of aisles with various plants on top of them. Most were unlabelled and looked as though they were dying from lack of care. Except, of course, the tables in the area closest to the back. The moss was especially thick on these tables, beginning to climb the walls in verdant cascades.

  “All these here are carnivorous—not indigenous to California. This moss is unusual: it appears to be exhibiting a form of bioluminescence. How curious!”

  “Bio-whatsit?”

  “Bioluminescence—a phenomenon where certain plants and animals can produce their own light. They can glow, in other words.”

  Dave shook his head in bewilderment as they moved along the aisle.

  “Okay, Professor, give me a rundown on ‘carnivorous’. Educate me.”

  “Well, there are over seven hundred types of carnivorous plants,” she explained. “They’re predators, trapping small creatures like flies and digesting them. Some use mechanical means to kill prey, à la the Venus Flytrap, or pitcher plants. Still others, such as the Sundew, exude a sticky kind of mucus, similar to tree sap, and the insects can’t get away.”