Sudden light spills in upon him, and in its centre—a face—the face of the Grey Man. There is steel in the moonlight . . . terror . . . death . . .
Grey eyes, grey face, looming larger, nearer . . . moonlight on steel . . . grey face . . . grey eyes . . .
Steel.
Moonlight.
Steel.
"Come!" says the voice that is not a voice.
He cannot hear it.
But he comes.
They stand in the outer chamber of the House, in the early morning quietness.
Morney glances uncertainly at Duval.
"He will be there?"
"Sure to be. This is his great day!" Duval's voice is grim, but he is uneasy. He does not want to feel triumph over a foe about to fall.
"Duval." Morney speaks softly, divining his feelings, his thoughts. "Let me see him! After all, it was my guilt that made it possible."
Duval hesitates. "What will you tell him?"
"The truth."
"Very well." His voice is gruff with relief. "I'll wait here."
Morney pushes open one of the great doors, closes it quickly behind him.
Duval waits, his eyes fastened on the closed doors. A thought disturbs him. What if the man is violent? What if the doctor—His unease grows. He pushes open the door, enters the Chamber.
He stops. Morney is kneeling beside something on the floor beneath the visitors' gallery—something crumpled, sprawled . . .
"Morney!"
The doctor looks up. He is trembling violently.
"Is he—dead?" asks Duval quietly.
Morney does not answer.
"In the Name of God, man—what is it?"
Morney shakes his head. "Not in the Name of God, Duval! Not in His Name!"
Duval does not know the doctor's voice. It is thick, strange—as though he were someone else. It spurs Duval to his side.
"Have you examined him?"
Morney gets up quickly as Duval approaches, stands between him and the crumpled heap on the floor.
"Yes . . . yes, he's—dead!"
"Don't blame yourself for this, Morney! He couldn't have known that you were about to end his masquerade."
"No. He couldn't have known."
Duval looks at him closely, curiously. It was still not Morney's voice. And his face was as if death had touched him also. He tries to move past him, but Morney puts out a pleading hand.
"No, Duval! Don't touch him! He's—been dead a long time . . . the soul has surely gone!"
Duval is gently reproachful. "We cannot say that. No one knows how long the soul remains with the body. I must give him conditional absolution."
"Absolution?" Morney laughs, and—like his voice—the laughter is not his. "The innocent need no absolution!"
"The innocent!" Duval stares at him. "Hardly that, Morney! Penitent, perhaps, in those last few seconds before he—" He glances briefly up at the visitors' gallery then gently but firmly sets the trembling doctor aside.
Duval is kneeling now, pulling apart the coat that Wellborn had worn yesterday in the House. A crushed and twisted body, a battered, bloody head stove in by the violent fall—these he had been prepared to see, and the soul that might be in them to forgive.
But these things he does not see. Just bands of linen, yellow-aged, incongruous in the midst of the crumpled, empty clothing.
Duval is very still. The blessing of heaven is in his hands and his heart, but in his mind in his soul—a strange and awful knowledge of the living powers of hell.
His fingers touch the linen bands. Slowly, and with dread, he sets them aside. Morney scarcely breathes beside him, so still is he. Then:—
"A long time," says Morney. "Dead . . . a long, long time . . ."
Duval looks down at what his trembling hands have uncovered.
Something small, so very small—so very, very small.
And on the little left foot of the tiny withered body—just three toes.
Just three toes.
PREY by Richard Matheson
Amelia arrived at her apartment at six-fourteen. Hanging her coat in the hall closet, she carried the small package into the living room and sat on the sofa. She nudged off her shoes while she unwrapped the package on her lap. The wooden box resembled a casket. Amelia raised its lid and smiled. It was the ugliest doll she'd ever seen. Seven inches long and carved from wood, it had a skeletal body and an oversize head. Its expression was maniacally fierce, its pointed teeth completely bared, its glaring eyes protuberant. It clutched an eight-inch spear in its right hand. A length of fine, gold chain was wrapped around its body from the shoulders to the knees. A tiny scroll was wedged between the doll and the inside wall of its box. Amelia picked it up and unrolled it. There was handwriting on it. This is He Who Kills, it began. He is a deadly hunter. Amelia smiled as she read the rest of the words. Arthur would be pleased.
The thought of Arthur made her turn to look at the telephone on the table beside her. After a while, she sighed and set the wooden box on the sofa. Lifting the telephone to her lap, she picked up the receiver and dialed a number.
Her mother answered.
"Hello, Mom," Amelia said.
"Haven't you left yet?" her mother asked.
Amelia steeled herself. "Mom, I know it's Friday night . . ." she started.
She couldn't finish. There was silence on the line. Amelia closed her eyes. Mom, please, she thought. She swallowed. "There's this man," she said. "His name is Arthur Breslow. He's a high school teacher."
"You aren't coming," her mother said.
Amelia shivered. "It's his birthday," she said. She opened her eyes and looked at the doll. "I sort of promised him we'd . . . spend the evening together."
Her mother was silent. There aren't any good movies playing tonight, anyway, Amelia's mind continued. "We could go tomorrow night," she said.
Her mother was silent.
"Mom?"
"Now even Friday night's too much for you."
"Mom, I see you two, three nights a week."
"To visit," said her mother. "When you have your own room here."
"Mom, let's not start on that again," Amelia said. I'm not a child, she thought. Stop treating me as though I were a child!
"How long have you been seeing him?" her mother asked.
"A month or so."
"Without telling me," her mother said.
"I had every intention of telling you." Amelia's head was starting to throb. I will not get a headache, she told herself. She looked at the doll. It seemed to be glaring at her. "He's a nice man, Mom," she said.
Her mother didn't speak. Amelia felt her stomach muscles drawing taut. I won't be able to eat tonight, she thought.
She was conscious suddenly of huddling over the telephone. She forced herself to sit erect. I'm 33 years old, she thought. Reaching out, she lifted the doll from its box. "You should see what I'm giving him for his birthday," she said. "I found it in a curio shop on Third Avenue. It's a genuine Zuni fetish doll, extremely rare. Arthur is a buff on anthropology. That's why I got it for him."
There was silence on the line. All right, don't talk, Amelia thought. "It's a hunting fetish," she continued, trying hard to sound untroubled. "It's supposed to have the spirit of a Zuni hunter trapped inside it. There's a golden chain around it to prevent the spirit from" (She couldn't think of the word. She ran a shaking finger over the chain.) "escaping, I guess," she said. "His name is He Who Kills. You should see his face." She felt warm tears trickling down her cheeks.
"Have a good time," said her mother, hanging up.
Amelia stared at the receiver, listening to the dial tone. Why is it always like this? she thought. She dropped the receiver onto its cradle and set aside the telephone. The darkening room looked blurred to her. She stood the doll on the coffee-table edge and pushed to her feet. I'll take my bath now, she told herself. I'll meet him and we'll have a lovely time. She walked across the living room. A lovely time, her mind repeated emptily. She kn
ew it wasn't possible. Oh, Mom! she thought. She clenched her fist in helpless fury as she went into the bedroom.
In the living room, the doll fell off the table edge. It landed head down and the spear point, sticking into the carpet, braced the doll's legs in the air.
The fine, gold chain began to slither downward.
It was almost dark when Amelia came back into the living room. She had taken off her clothes and was wearing her terrycloth robe. In the bathroom, water was running into the tub.
She sat on the sofa and placed the telephone on her lap. For several minutes, she stared at it. At last, with a heavy sigh, she lifted the receiver and dialed a number.
"Arthur?" she said when he answered.
"Yes?" Amelia knew the tone; pleasant but suspecting. She couldn't speak.
"Your mother," Arthur finally said.
That cold, heavy sinking in her stomach. "It's our night together," she explained. "Every Friday—" She stopped and waited. Arthur didn't speak. "I've mentioned it before," she said.
"I know you've mentioned it," he said.
Amelia rubbed at her temple.
"She's still running your life, isn't she?" he said.
Amelia tensed. "I just don't want to hurt her feelings anymore," she said. "My moving out was hard enough on her."
"I don't want to hurt her feelings either," Arthur said. "But how many birthdays a year do I have? We planned on this."
"I know." She felt her stomach muscles tightening again.
"Are you really going to let her do this to you?" Arthur asked. "One Friday night out of the whole year?"
Amelia closed her eyes. Her lips moved soundlessly. I just can't hurt her feelings anymore, she thought. She swallowed. "She's my mother," she said.
"Very well," he said. "I'm sorry. I was looking forward to it, but—" He paused. "I'm sorry," he said. He hung up quietly.
Amelia sat in silence for a long time, listening to the dial tone. She started when the recorded voice said, loudly, "Please hang up." Putting the receiver down, she replaced the telephone on its table. So much for my birthday present, she thought. It would be pointless to give it to Arthur now. She reached out, switching on the table lamp. She'd take the doll back tomorrow.
The doll was not on the coffee table. Looking down, Amelia saw the gold chain lying on the carpet. She eased off the sofa edge onto her knees and picked it up, dropping it into the wooden box. The doll was not beneath the coffee table. Bending over, Amelia felt around underneath the sofa.
She cried out, jerking back her hand. Straightening up, she turned to the lamp and looked at her hand. There was something wedged beneath the index fingernail. She shivered as she plucked it out. It was the head of the doll's spear. She dropped it into the box and put the finger in her mouth. Bending over again, she felt around more cautiously beneath the sofa.
She couldn't find the doll. Standing with a weary groan, she started pulling one end of the sofa from the wall. It was terribly heavy. She recalled the night that she and her mother had shopped for furniture. She'd wanted to furnish the apartment in Danish modern. Mother had insisted on this heavy, maple sofa; it had been on sale. Amelia grunted as she dragged it from the wall. She was conscious of the water running in the bathroom. She'd better turn it off soon.
She looked at the section of the carpet she'd cleared, catching sight of the spear shaft. The doll was not beside it. Amelia picked it up and set it on the coffee table. The doll was caught beneath the sofa, she decided; when she'd moved the sofa, she had moved the doll as well.
She thought she heard a sound behind her—fragile, skittering. Amelia turned. The sound had stopped. She felt a chill move up the backs of her legs. "It's He Who Kills," she said with a smile. "He's taken off his chain and gone—"
She broke off suddenly. There had definitely been a noise inside the kitchen; a metallic, rasping sound. Amelia swallowed nervously. What's going on? she thought. She walked across the living room and reached into the kitchen, switching on the light. She peered inside. Everything looked normal. Her gaze moved falteringly across the stove, the pan of water on it, the table and chair, the drawers and cabinet doors all shut, the electric clock, the small refrigerator with the cookbook lying on top of it, the picture on the wall, the knife rack fastened to the cabinet side—its small knife missing.
Amelia stared at the knife rack. Don't be silly, she told herself. She'd put the knife in the drawer, that's all. Stepping into the kitchen, she pulled out the silverware drawer. The knife was not inside it.
Another sound made her look down quickly at the floor. She gasped in shock. For several moments, she could not react; then, stepping to the doorway, she looked into the living room, her heart-beat thudding. Had it been imagination? She was sure she'd seen a movement.
"Oh, come on," she said. She made a disparaging sound. She hadn't seen a thing.
Across the room, the lamp went out.
Amelia jumped so startledly, she rammed her right elbow against the door-jamb. Crying out, she clutched the elbow with her left hand, eyes closed momentarily, her face a mask of pain.
She opened her eyes and looked into the darkened living room. "Come on," she told herself in aggravation. Three sounds plus a burned-out bulb did not add up to anything as idiotic as—
She willed away the thought. She had to turn the water off. Leaving the kitchen, she started for the hall. She rubbed her elbow, grimacing.
There was another sound. Amelia froze. Something was coming across the carpet toward her. She looked down dumbly. No, she thought.
She saw it then: a rapid movement near the floor. There was a glint of metal; instantly, a stabbling pain in her right calf. Amelia gasped. She kicked out blindly. Pain again. She felt warm blood running down her skin. She turned and lunged into the hall. The throw rug slipped beneath her and she fell against the wall, hot pain lancing through her right ankle. She clutched at the wall to keep from falling, then went sprawling on her side. She thrashed around with a sob of fear.
More movement, dark on dark. Pain in her left calf, then her right again. Amelia cried out. Something brushed along her thigh. She scrabbled back, then lurched up blindly, almost falling again. She fought for balance, reaching out convulsively. The heel of her left hand rammed against the wall, supporting her. She twisted around and rushed into the darkened bedroom. Slamming the door, she fell against it, panting. Something banged against it on the other side; something small and near the floor.
Amelia listened, trying not to breathe so loudly. She pulled carefully at the knob to make sure the latch had caught. When there were no further sounds outside the door, she backed toward the bed. She started as she bumped against the mattress edge. Slumping down, she grabbed at the extension phone and pulled it to her lap. Whom could she call? The police? They'd think her mad. Mother? She was too far off.
She was dialing Arthur's number by the light from the bathroom when the doorknob started turning. Suddenly, her fingers couldn't move. She stared across the darkened room. The door latch clicked. The telephone slipped off her lap. She heard it thudding onto the carpet as the door swung open. Something dropped from the outside knob.
Amelia jerked back, pulling up her legs. A shadowy form was scurrying across the carpet toward the bed. She gaped at it. It isn't true, she thought. She stiffened at the tugging on her bedspread. It was climbing up to get her. No, she thought; it isn't true. She couldn't move. She stared at the edge of the mattress.
Something that looked like a tiny head appeared. Amelia twisted around with a cry of shock, flung herself across the bed and jumped to the floor. Plunging into the bathroom, she spun around and slammed the door, gasping at the pain in her ankle. She had barely thumbed in the button on the doorknob when something banged against the bottom of the door. Amelia heard a noise like the scratching of a rat. Then it was still.
She turned and leaned across the tub. The level of the water was almost to the overflow drain. As she twisted shut the faucets, she saw drops of blood f
alling into the water. Straightening up, she turned to the medicine-cabinet mirror above the sink.
She caught her breath in horror as she saw the gash across her neck. She pressed a shaking hand against it. Abruptly, she became aware of pain in her legs and looked down. She'd been slashed along the calves of both legs. Blood was running down her ankles, dripping off the edges of her feet. Amelia started crying. Blood ran between the fingers of the hand against her neck. It trickled down her wrist. She looked at her reflection through a glaze of tears.
Something in her face aroused her: a wretchedness, a look of terrified surrender. No, she thought. She reached out for the medicine-cabinet door. Opening it, she pulled out iodine, gauze and tape. She dropped the cover of the toilet seat and sank down gingerly. It was a struggle to remove the stopper of the iodine bottle. She had to rap it hard against the sink three times before it opened.
The burning of the antiseptic on her calves made her gasp. Amelia clenched her teeth as she wrapped gauze around her right leg.
A sound made her twist toward the door. She saw the knife blade being jabbed beneath it. It's trying to stab my feet, she thought; it thinks I'm standing there. She felt unreal to be considering its thoughts. This is He Who Kills; the scroll flashed suddenly across her mind. He is a deadly hunter. Amelia stared at the poking knife blade. God, she thought.
Hastily, she bandaged both her legs, then stood and, looking into the mirror, cleaned the blood from her neck with a washrag. She swabbed some iodine along the edges of the gash, hissing at the fiery pain.
She whirled at the new sound, heart-beat leaping. Stepping to the door, she leaned down, listening hard. There was a faint, metallic noise inside the knob.
The doll was trying to unlock it.
Amelia backed off slowly, staring at the knob. She tried to visualize the doll. Was it hanging from the knob by one arm, using the other to probe inside the knob lock with the knife? The vision was insane. She felt an icy prickling on the back of her neck. I mustn't let it in, she thought.
A hoarse cry pulled her lips back as the doorknob button popped out. Reaching out impulsively, she dragged a bath towel off its rack. The doorknob turned, the latch clicked free. The door began to open.
The Year's Best Horror Stories 1 Page 6