The author of more than twenty books, including the Books of Blood, The Damnation Game, Weaveworld, Cabal, The Great and Secret Show, Imajica, The Thief of Always, Everville, Sacrament, Galilee, Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story and the New York Times bestselling Arabat series, he is one of the leading authors of contemporary horror and fantasy, as well as being an acclaimed artist, playwright, film producer and director.
Barker is currently working on a new collection, The Scarlet Gospels, the title story of which centres around his two most famous characters, the demonic Pinhead and occult detective Harry D’Amour.
Recently, IDW published a three-issue comic book adaptation of Barker’s children’s fantasy novel The Thief of Always, written and painted by Kris Oprisko and Gabriel Hernandez, and The Great and Secret Show is set to be a twelve-issue series from the same publisher.
As a film-maker, he created the hugely influential Hellraiser franchise in 1987 and went on to direct Nightbreed and Lord of Illusions. Barker also executive produced the Oscar-winning Gods and Monsters, while the Candyman series, along with Underworld, Rawhead Rex, Quicksilver Highway and Saint Sinner, are all based on his concepts.
The following story was adapted for the Showtime cable series Masters of Horror by Mick Garris and directed by John McNaughton (Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer) after original director Roger Corman had to pull out because of a back injury.
As Corman observed at the time: “Clive Barker’s provocative short story suggests an opportunity to go one step further than Mary Shelley’s nightmare masterpiece, Frankenstein, in suggesting how closely the erotic drive and the obsession with death are linked.”
PURRUCKER DIED LAST WEEK, after a long illness. I never much liked the man, but the news of his passing still saddened me. With him gone I am now the last of our little group; there’s no one left with whom to talk over the old times. Not that I ever did; at least not with him. We followed such different paths, after Hamburg. He became a physicist, and lived mostly, I think, in Paris. I stayed here in Germany, and worked with Herman Helmholtz, mainly working in the area of mathematics, but occasionally offering my contribution to other disciplines. I do not think I will be remembered when I go. Herman was touched by greatness; I never was. But I found comfort in the cool shadow of his theories. He had a clear mind, a precise mind. He refused to let sentiment or superstition into his view of the world. I learned a good deal from that.
And yet now, as I think back over my life to my early twenties (I’m two years younger than the century, which turns in a month), it is not the times of intellectual triumph that I find myself remembering; it is not Helmholtz’s analytical skills, or his gentle detachment.
In truth, it is little more than the slip of a story that’s on my mind right now. But it refuses to go away, so I am setting it down here, as a way of clearing it from my mind.
In 1822, I was – along with Purrucker and another eight or so bright young men – the member of an informal club of aspirant intellectuals in Hamburg. We were all of us in that circle learning to be scientists, and being young had great ambition, both for ourselves and for the future of scientific endeavor. Every Sunday we gathered at a coffeehouse on the Reeperbahn, and in a back room which we hired for the purpose, fell to debate on any subject that suited us, as long as we felt the exchanges in some manner advanced our comprehension of the world. We were pompous, no doubt, and very full of ourselves; but our ardour was quite genuine. It was an exciting time. Every week, it seemed, one of us would come to a meeting with some new idea.
It was an evening during the summer – which was, that year, oppressively hot, even at night – when Ernst Haeckel told us all the story I am about to relate. I remember the circumstances well. At least I think I do. Memory is less exact than it believes itself to be, yes? Well, it scarcely matters. What I remember may as well be the truth. After all, there’s nobody left to disprove it. What happened was this: towards the end of the evening, when everyone had drunk enough beer to float the German fleet, and the keen edge of intellectual debate had been dulled somewhat (to be honest we were descending into gossip, as we inevitably did after midnight), Eisentrout, who later became a great surgeon, made casual mention of a man called Montesquino. The fellow’s name was familiar to us all, though none of us had met him. He had come into the city a month before, and attracted a good deal of attention in society, because he claimed to be a necromancer. He could speak with and even raise the dead, he claimed, and was holding seances in the houses of the rich. He was charging the ladies of the city a small fortune for his services.
The mention of Montesquino’s name brought a chorus of slurred opinions from around the room, every one of them unflattering. He was a contemptuous cheat and a sham. He should be sent back to France – from whence he’d come – but not before the skin had been flogged off his back for his impertinence.
The only voice in the room that was not raised against him was that of Ernst Haeckel, who in my opinion was the finest mind amongst us. He sat by the open window – hoping perhaps for some stir of a breeze off the Elbe on this smothering night – with his chin laid against his hand.
“What do you think of all this, Ernst?” I asked him.
“You don’t want to know,” he said softly.
“Yes, we do. Of course we do.”
Haeckel looked back at us. “Very well then,” he said. “I’ll tell you.”
His face looked sickly in the candlelight, and I remember thinking – distinctly thinking – that I’d never seen such a look in his eyes as he had at that moment. Whatever thoughts had ventured into his head, they had muddied the clarity of his gaze. He looked fretful.
“Here’s what I think,” he said. “That we should be careful when we talk about necromancers.”
“Careful?” said Purrucker, who was an argumentative man at the best of times, and even more volatile when drunk. “Why should we be careful of a little French prick who preys on our women? Good Lord, he’s practically stealing from their purses!”
“How so?”
“Because he’s telling them he can raise the dead!” Purrucker yelled, banging the table for emphasis.
“And how do we know he cannot?”
“Oh now Haeckel,” I said, “you don’t believe –”
“I believe the evidence of my eyes, Theodor,” Haeckel said to me. “And I saw – once in my life – what I take to be proof that such crafts as this Montesquino professes are real.”
The room erupted with laughter and protests. Haeckel sat them out, unmoving. At last, when all our din had subsided, he said: “Do you want to hear what I have to say or don’t you?”
“Of course we want to hear,” said Julius Linneman, who doted on Haeckel; almost girlishly, we used to think.
“Then listen,” Haeckel said. “What I’m about to tell you is absolutely true, though by the time I get to the end of it you may not welcome me back into this room, because you may think I am a little crazy. More than a little perhaps.”
The softness of his voice, and the haunted look in his eyes, had quieted everyone, even the volatile Purrucker. We all took seats, or lounged against the mantelpiece, and listened. After a moment of introspection, Haeckel began to tell his tale. And as best I remember it, this is what he told us.
“Ten years ago I was at Wittenberg, studying philosophy under Wilhem Hauser. He was a metaphysician, of course; monkish in his ways. He didn’t care for the physical world; it didn’t touch him, really. And he urged his students to live with the same asceticism as he himself practiced. This was of course hard for us. We were very young, and full of appetite. But while I was in Wittenberg, and under his watchful eye, I really tried to live as close to his precepts as I could.
“In the spring of my second year under Hauser, I got word that my father – who lived in Luneburg – was seriously ill, and I had to leave my studies and return home. I was a student. I’d spent all my money on books and bread. I couldn’t afford the carriage fare. So I
had to walk. It was several day’s journey, of course, across the empty heath, but I had my meditations to accompany me, and I was happy enough. At least for the first half of the journey. Then, out of nowhere there came a terrible rainstorm. I was soaked to the skin, and despite my valiant attempts to put my concern for physical comfort out of my mind, I could not. I was cold and unhappy, and the rarifications of the metaphysical life were very far from my mind.
“On the fourth or fifth evening, sniffling and cursing, I gathered some twigs and made a fire against a little stone wall, hoping to dry myself out before I slept. While I was gathering moss to make a pillow for my head an old man, his face the very portrait of melancholy, appeared out of the gloom, and spoke to me like a prophet.
“ ‘It would not be wise for you to sleep here tonight,’ he said to me.
“I was in no mood to debate the issue with him. I was too fed up. ‘I’m not going to move an inch,’ I told him. ‘This is an open road. I have every right to sleep here if I wish to.’
“ ‘Of course you do,’ the old man said to me. ‘I didn’t say the right was not yours. I simply said it wasn’t wise.’
“I was a little ashamed of my sharpness, to be honest. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to him. ‘I’m cold and I’m tired and I’m hungry. I meant no insult.’
“The old man said that none was taken. His name, he said, was Walter Wolfram.
“I told him my name, and my situation. He listened, then offered to bring me back to his house, which he said was close by. There I might enjoy a proper fire and some hot potato soup. I did not refuse him, of course. But I did ask him, when I’d risen, why he thought it was unwise for me to sleep in that place.
“He gave me such a sorrowful look. A heart-breaking look, the meaning of which I did not comprehend. Then he said: ‘You are a young man, and no doubt you do not fear the workings of the world. But please believe me when I tell you there are nights when it’s not good to sleep next to a place where the dead are laid.’
“ ‘The dead?’ I replied, and looked back. In my exhausted state I had not seen what lay on the other side of the stone wall. Now, with the rain-clouds cleared and the moon climbing, I could see a large number of graves there, old and new intermingled. Usually such a sight would not have much disturbed me. Hauser had taught us to look coldly on death. It should not, he said, move a man more than the prospect of sunrise, for it is just as certain, and just as unremarkable. It was good advice when heard on a warm afternoon in a classroom in Wittenberg. But here – out in the middle of nowhere, with an old man murmuring his superstitions at my side – I was not so certain it made sense.
“Anyway, Wolfram took me home to his little house, which lay no more than half a mile from the necropolis. There was the fire, as he’d promised. And the soup, as he’d promised. But there also, much to my surprise and delight, was his wife, Elise.
“She could not have been more than twenty-two, and easily the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Wittenberg had its share of beauties, of course. But I don’t believe its streets ever boasted a woman as perfect as this. Chestnut hair, all the way down to her tiny waist. Full lips, full hips, full breasts. And such eyes! When they met mine they seemed to consume me.
“I did my best, for decency’s sake, to conceal my admiration, but it was hard to do. I wanted to fall down on my knees and declare my undying devotion to her, there and then.
“If Walter noticed any of this, he made no sign. He was anxious about something, I began to realize. He constantly glanced up at the clock on the mantel, and looked towards the door.
“I was glad of his distraction, in truth. It allowed me to talk to Elise, who – though she was reticent at first – grew more animated as the evening proceeded. She kept plying me with wine, and I kept drinking it, until sometime before midnight I fell asleep, right there amongst the dishes I’d eaten from.”
At this juncture, somebody in our little assembly – I think it may have been Purrucker – remarked that he hoped this wasn’t going to be a story about disappointed love, because he really wasn’t in the mood. To which Haeckel replied that the story had absolutely nothing to do with love in any shape or form. It was a simple enough reply, but it did the job: it silenced the man who’d interrupted, and it deepened our sense of foreboding.
The noise from the café had by now died almost completely; as had the sounds from the street outside. Hamburg had retired to bed. But we were held there, by the story, and by the look in Ernst Haeckel’s eyes.
“I awoke a little while later,” he went on, “but I was so weary and so heavy with wine, I barely opened my eyes. The door was ajar, and on the threshold stood a man in a dark cloak. He was having a whispered conversation with Walter. There was, I thought, an exchange of money; though I couldn’t see clearly. Then the man departed. I got only the merest glimpse of his face, by the light thrown from the fire. It was not the face of a man I would like to quarrel with, I thought. Nor indeed even meet. Narrow eyes, sunk deep in fretful flesh. I was glad he was gone. As Walter closed the door I lay my head back down and almost closed my eyes, preferring that he not know I was awake. I can’t tell you exactly why. I just knew that something was going on I was better not becoming involved with.
“Then, as I lay there, listening, I hear a baby crying. Walter called for Elise, instructing her to calm the infant down. I didn’t hear her response. Rather, I heard it, I just couldn’t make any sense of it. Her voice, which had been soft and sweet when I’d talked with her, now sounded strange. Through the slits of my eyes I could see that she’d gone to the window, and was staring out, her palms pressed flat against the glass.
“Again, Walter told her to attend to the child. Again, she gave him some guttural reply. This time she turned to him, and I saw that she was by no means the same woman as I’d conversed with. She seemed to be in the early stages of some kind of fit. Her colour was high, her eyes wild, her lips drawn back from her teeth.
“So much that had seemed, earlier, evidence of her beauty and vitality now looked more like a glimpse of the sickness that was consuming her. She’d glowed too brightly; like someone consumed by a fever, who in that hour when all is at risk seems to burn with a terrible vividness.
“One of her hands went down between her legs and she began to rub herself there, in a most disturbing manner. If you’ve ever been to a mad-house you’ve maybe seen some of the kind of behavior she was exhibiting.
“ ‘Patience,’ Walter said to her, ‘everything’s being taken care of. Now go and look after the child.’
“Finally she conceded to his request, and off she went into the next room. Until I’d heard the infant crying I hadn’t even realized they had a child, and it seemed odd to me that Elise had not made mention of it. Lying there, feigning sleep, I tried to work out what I should do next. Should I perhaps pretend to wake, and announce to my host that I would not after all be accepting his hospitality? I decided against this course. I would stay where I was. As long as they thought I was asleep they’d ignore me. Or so I hoped.
“The baby’s crying had now subsided. Elise’s presence had soothed it.
“ ‘Make sure he’s had enough before you put him down,’ I heard Walter say to her. ‘I don’t want him waking and crying for you when you’re gone.’
“From this I gathered that she was breast-feeding the child; which fact explained the lovely generosity of her breasts. They were plump with milk. And I must admit, even after the way Elise had looked when she was at the window, I felt a little spasm of envy for the child, suckling at those lovely breasts.
“Then I returned my thoughts to the business of trying to understand what was happening here. Who was the man who’d come to the front door? Elise’s lover, perhaps? If so, why was Walter paying him? Was it possible that the old man had hired this fellow to satisfy his wife, because he was incapable of doing the job himself? Was Elise’s twitching at the window simply erotic anticipation?
“At last, she came out of the infant’
s room, and very carefully closed the door. There was a whispered exchange between the husband and wife, which I caught no part of, but which set off a new round of questions in my head. Suppose they were conspiring to kill me? I will tell you, my neck felt very naked at that moment . . .
“But I needn’t have worried. After a minute they finished their whispering and Elise left the house. Walter, for his part, went to sit by the fire. I heard him pour himself a drink, and down it noisily; then pour himself another. Plainly he was drowning his sorrows; or doing his best. He kept drinking, and muttering to himself while he drank. Presently, the muttering became tearful. Soon he was sobbing.
“I couldn’t bear this any longer. I raised my head off the table, and I turned to him.
“ ‘Herr Wolfram,’ I said, ‘. . . what’s going on here?’
“He had tears pouring down his face, running into his beard.
“ ‘Oh my friend,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I could not begin to explain. This is a night of unutterable sadness.’
“ ‘Would you prefer that I left you to your tears?’ I asked him.
“ ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t want you to go out there right now.’
“I wanted to know why, of course. Was there something he was afraid I’d see?
“I had risen from the table, and now went to him. ‘The man who came to the door –’
“Walter’s lip curled at my mention of him. ‘Who is he?’ I asked.
“ ‘His name is Doctor Skal. He’s an Englishman of my acquaintance.’
“I waited for further explanation. But when none was forthcoming, I said: ‘And a friend of your wife’s.’
“ ‘No,’ Walter said. ‘It’s not what you think it is.’ He poured himself some more brandy, and drank again. ‘You’re supposing they’re lovers. But they’re not. Elise has not the slightest interest in the company of Doctor Skal, believe me. Nor indeed in any visitor to this house.’
“I assumed this remark was a little barb directed at me, and I began to defend myself, but Walter waved my protestations away.
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