Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories

by Clive Barker

  Colin would like to run fast through the story too, but his uncle wants to know “How many stones were there again?”

  “Ten, and they looked so close together he didn’t have to stretch to walk. Only he was on the middle two when he felt them start to move. And when he looked down he saw the stream was really as deep as the sky, and lying on the bottom was a giant made out of rocks and moss that was holding up its arms to him. They were longer than he didn’t know how many trees stuck together, and their hands were as big as the roots of an old tree, and he was standing on top of two of the fingers. Then the giant’s eyes began to open like boulders rolling about in the mud, and its mouth opened like a cave and sent up a laugh in a bubble that spattered the boy with mud, and the stones he was on started to move apart.”

  “His uncle was always with him though, wasn’t he?”

  “The boy couldn’t see him,” Colin says in case this lets his uncle realise how it felt, and then he knows his uncle already did. “He heard him saying you mustn’t look down, because being seen was what woke up the god of the wood. So the boy kept looking straight ahead, though he could see the shadows that weren’t shadows crowding behind the trees to wait for him. He could feel how even the water underneath him wanted him to slip on the slimy stones, and how the stones were ready to swim apart so he’d fall between them if he caught the smallest glimpse of them. Then he did, and the one he was standing on sank deep into the water, but he’d jumped on the bank of the stream. The shadows that must have been the bits that were left of people who’d looked down too long let him see his uncle, and they walked to the other side of the woods. Maybe he wouldn’t have got there without his uncle, because the shadows kept dancing around them to make them think there was no way between the trees.”

  “Brave boy, to see all that.” Darkness has reclaimed the left side of Uncle Lucian’s face; Colin is reminded of a moon that the night is squeezing out of shape. “Don’t stop now, Colin,” his uncle says. “Remember last year.”

  This is taking longer than his bedtime stories ever have. Colin feels as if the versions he’s reciting may rob him of his whole night’s sleep. Downstairs his parents and his aunt sound as if they need to talk for hours yet. “It was here in town,” he says accusingly. “It was down in Lower Brichester.”

  He wants to communicate how betrayed he felt, by the city or his uncle or by both. He’d thought houses and people would keep away the old things, but now he knows that nobody who can’t see can help. “It was where the boy’s mother and father wouldn’t have liked him to go,” he says, but that simply makes him feel the way his uncle’s stories do, frightened and excited and unable to separate the feelings. “Half the houses were shut up with boards but people were still using them, and there were men and ladies on the corners of the streets waiting for whoever wanted them or stuff they were selling. And in the middle of it all there were railway lines and passages to walk under them. Only the people who lived round there must have felt something, because there was one passage nobody walked through.”

  “But the boy did.”

  “A man sitting drinking with his legs in the road told him not to, but he did. His uncle went through another passage and said he’d meet him on the other side. Anyone could have seen something was wrong with the tunnel, because people had dropped needles all over the place except in there. But it looked like it’d just be a minute to walk through, less if you ran. So the boy started to hurry through, only he tried to be quiet because he didn’t like how his feet made so much noise he kept thinking someone was following him, except it sounded more like lots of fingers tapping on the bricks behind him. When he managed to be quiet the noise didn’t all go away, but he tried to think it was water dripping, because he felt it cold and wet on the top of his head. Then more of it touched the back of his neck, but he didn’t want to look round, because the passage was getting darker behind him. He was in the middle of the tunnel when the cold touch landed on his face and made him look.”

  His uncle’s face is barely outlined, but his eyes take on an extra gleam. “And when he looked . . . ”

  “He saw why the passage was so dark, with all the arms as thin as his poking out of the bricks. They could grow long enough to reach halfway down the passage and grope around till they found him with their fingers that were as wet as worms. Then he couldn’t even see them, because the half of the passage he had to walk through was filling up with arms as well, so many he couldn’t see out. And all he could do was what his uncle’s story had said, stay absolutely still, because if he tried to run the hands would grab him and drag him through the walls into the earth, and he wouldn’t even be able to die of how they did it. So he shut his eyes to be as blind as the things with the arms were, that’s if there wasn’t just one thing behind the walls. And after he nearly forgot how to breathe the hands stopped pawing at his head as if they were feeling how his brain showed him everything about them, maybe even brought them because he’d learned to see the old things. When he opened his eyes the arms were worming back into the walls, but he felt them all around him right to the end of the passage. And when he went outside he couldn’t believe in the daylight any more. It was like a picture someone had put up to hide the dark.”

  “He could believe in his uncle though, couldn’t he? He saw his uncle waiting for him and telling him well done. I hope he knew how much his uncle thought of him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, now it’s another year.”

  Uncle Lucian’s voice is so low, and his face is so nearly invisible, that Colin isn’t sure whether his words are meant to be comforting or to warn the boy that there’s more. “Another story,” Colin mumbles, inviting it or simply giving in.

  “I don’t think so any more. I think you’re too old for that.”

  Colin doesn’t know in what way he feels abandoned as he whispers “Have we finished?”

  “Nothing like. Tomorrow, just go and lie down and look up.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere you’re by yourself.”

  Colin feels he is now. “Then what?” he pleads.

  “You’ll see. I can’t begin to tell you. See for yourself.”

  That makes Colin more nervous than his uncle’s stories ever did. He’s struggling to think how to persuade his uncle to give him at least a hint when he realises he’s alone in the darkness. He lies on his back and stares upwards in case that gets whatever has to happen over with, but all he sees are memories of the places his uncle has made him recall. Downstairs his parents and his aunt are still talking, and he attempts to use their voices to keep him with them, but feels as if they’re dragging him down into the moonless dark. Then he’s been asleep, because they’re shutting their doors close to his. After that, whenever he twitches awake it’s a little less dark. As soon as he’s able to see he sneaks out of bed to avoid his parents and his aunt. Whatever is imminent, having to lie about where he’s going would make his nerves feel even more like rusty wire about to snap.

  He’s as quick and as quiet in the bathroom as he can be. Once he’s dressed he rolls up the quilt to lie on and slips out of the house. In the front garden he thinks moonlight has left a crust on the fallen leaves and the grass. Down the hill a train shakes itself awake while the city mutters in its sleep. He turns away and heads for the open country behind the house.

  A few crows jab at the earth with their beaks and sail up as if they mean to peck the icy sky. The ground has turned into a single flattened greenish bone exactly as bright as the low vault of dull cloud. Colin walks until the fields bear the houses out of sight. That’s as alone as he’s likely to be. Flapping the quilt, he spreads it on the frozen ground. He throws himself on top of it and slaps his hands on it in case that starts whatever’s meant to happen. He’s already so cold he can’t keep still.

  At first he thinks that’s the only reason he’s shivering, and then he notices the sky isn’t right. He feels as if all the stories he’s had to act out have gathered in
his head, or the way they’ve made him see has. That ability is letting him observe how thin the sky is growing, or perhaps it’s leaving him unable not to. Is it also attracting whatever’s looming down to peer at him from behind the sky? A shiver is drumming his heels on the ground through the quilt when the sky seems to vanish as though it has been clawed apart above him, and he glimpses as much of a face as there’s room for—an eye like a sea black as space with a moon for its pupil. It seems indifferent as death and yet it’s watching him. An instant of seeing is all he can take before he twists onto his front and presses his face into the quilt as though it’s a magic carpet that will transport him home to bed and, better still, unconsciousness.

  He digs his fingers into the quilt until he recognises he can’t burrow into the earth. He stops for fear of tearing his aunt’s quilt and having to explain. He straightens up in a crouch to retrieve the quilt, which he hugs as he stumbles back across the field with his head down. The sky is pretending that it never faltered, but all the way to the house he’s afraid it will part to expose more of a face.

  While nobody is up yet, Colin senses that his uncle isn’t in the house. He tiptoes upstairs to leave the quilt on his bed, and then he sends himself out again. There’s no sign of his uncle on the way downhill. Colin dodges onto the path under the trees in case his uncle prefers not to be seen. “Uncle Lucian,” he pleads.

  “You found me.”

  He doesn’t seem especially pleased, but Colin demands “What did I see?”

  “Not much yet. Just as much as your mind could take. It’s like our stories, do you understand? Your mind had to tell you a story about what you saw, but in time you won’t need it. You’ll see what’s really there.”

  “Suppose I don’t want to?” Colin blurts. “What’s it all for?”

  “Would you rather be like my sister and only see what everyone else sees? She was no fun when she was your age, your mother.”

  “I never had the choice.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t ever have said that to my grandfather. I was nothing but grateful to him.”

  Though his uncle sounds not merely disappointed but offended, Colin says “Can’t I stop now?”

  “Everything will know you can see, son. If you don’t greet the old things where you find them they’ll come to find you.”

  Colin voices a last hope. “Has it stopped for you?”

  “It never will. I’m part of it now. Do you want to see?”

  “No.”

  Presumably Colin’s cry offends his uncle, because there’s a spidery rustle beyond the trees that conceal the end of the path and then silence. Time passes before Colin dares to venture forward. As he steps from beneath the trees he feels as if the sky has lowered itself towards him like a mask. He’s almost blind with resentment of his uncle for making him aware of so much and for leaving him alone, afraid to see even Uncle Lucian. Though it doesn’t help, Colin starts kicking the stone with his uncle’s name on it and the pair of years ending with this one. When he’s exhausted he turns away towards the rest of his life.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Doug Murano:

  To my wife, Jessica: But for your love and support, this book would not exist. Thank you for carrying me through nights, weeks, months of doubt. Thank you for celebrating each quiet victory along the way. Thank you for giving me the time I need. I love you.

  To our authors: Thank you for taking a chance on us—and on our rather difficult idea for a book. You’ve been wonderful, all of you, and I hope we get a chance to work together again soon.

  To Joe Mynhardt: You turned us loose to make this book what we wanted it to be, which is a rare and priceless thing. Thank you for your faith in us, and for taking this project under the Crystal Lake Publishing banner.

  To David: Thank you for indulging me, and joining me, in the pursuit of this tricky, amorphous concept. Thank you for banging your head against the wall with me when things went wrong, and for standing in awe with me as things went more right than we ever dreamed they could.

  To our readers: Your readership is, well, everything. Thank you for dropping by our dark and disturbing corner of the universe. We hope to see you around these parts again.

  To GJW: Thank you for leaving me all that store credit. You know why.

  D. Alexander Ward:

  To all of the authors who contributed stories to this book, I offer my heartfelt thanks. Through your stories, you have shaped something beautiful and terrible.

  To Joe Mynhardt and Crystal Lake Publishing, it truly has been a pleasure.

  To Doug, who, with an idea, plucked this strange bit of fruit from the ether.

  And to the readers. Keep those tissues handy.

  ABOUT THE EDITORS

  Doug Murano is an author and editor who lives somewhere between Mount Rushmore and the mighty Missouri River. A proud South Dakota native, he earned his Master of Arts in English Literature (creative writing track) at The University of South Dakota. In addition to co-editing the collection you’re holding right now, heis the co-editor of the best-selling and critically acclaimed small-town Lovecraftian horror anthology, Shadows Over Main Street and the forthcoming Shadows Over Main Street, Volume 2 (Cutting Block Books).

  An Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association, he was the organization’s promotions and social media coordinator from 2013-15, served as the communications chair for the 2014 World Horror Convention in Portland, Oregon, and has served as a jurist for the Bram Stoker Awards. He is a recipient of the Horror Writers Association’s Richard Laymon President’s Award for Service.

  Follow him on Twitter: @muranofiction.

  D. Alexander Ward is an author and editor of horror and dark fiction and an involved participant in the independent horror community.

  In addition to Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories, he co-edited the Lovecraftian horror anthologies, Shadows Over Main Street, Volumes 1 and 2 from Cutting Block Books.

  His novels include Beneath Ash & Bone and Blood Savages from Necro Publications and Bedlam Press.

  Along with his family and the haints in the woods, he lives near the farm where he grew up in what used to be rural Virginia, where his love for the people, passions and folklore of the South was nurtured.

  He is active on social media and you can find out more on his website: www.dalexward.com.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Richard Chizmar is the founder/publisher of Cemetery Dance magazine and the Cemetery Dance Publications book imprint. He has edited more than 20 anthologies and his fiction has appeared in dozens of publications, including Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and The Year’s 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories. He has won two World Fantasy awards, four International Horror Guild awards, and the HWA’s Board of Trustee’s award.

  Chizmar (in collaboration with Johnathon Schaech) has also written screenplays and teleplays for United Artists, Sony Screen Gems, Lions Gate, Showtime, NBC, and many other companies. Chizmar is the creator/writer of Stephen King Revisited, and his next short story collection, A Long December, is due in 2016 from Subterranean Press. Chizmar’s work has been translated into many languages throughout the world, and he has appeared at numerous conferences as a writing instructor, guest speaker, panelist, and guest of honor.

  You can follow Richard Chizmar on both Facebook and Twitter.

  Stephanie M. Wytovich is an instructor of English by day and a horror writer by night. She is the poetry editor for Raw Dog Screaming Press, a book reviewer for Nameless Magazine, and the assistant to Carlow University’s international MFA Program for Creative Writing. She is a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, an active member of the Horror Writers Association, and a graduate of Seton Hill University’s MFA program for Writing Popular Fiction.

  Her Bram Stoker Award-nominated poetry collections, Hysteria: A Collection of Madness, Mourning Jewelry, and An Exorcism of Angels can be found at www.rawdogscreaming.com, and her debut novel, The Eighth, will be out in 2016 from Dark Regions Pres
s.

  Follow Wytovich at stephaniewytovich.blogspot.com and on twitter @JustAfterSunset.

  Brian Kirk is an author of dark thrillers and psychological suspense. His short fiction has been published in many popular magazines and anthologies, and his debut novel, We Are Monsters, was released in July 2015. In addition to being nominated for a Bram Stoker Award® for Superior Achievement in a First Novel, We Are Monsters was included on many of the industry’s most illustrious “Best of the Year” lists, and has been optioned for film development by the Executive Producer for movies such as The Messengers starring Dylan McDermott and Kristen Stewart, Role Models starring Paul Rudd, and Lone Survivor starring Mark Wahlberg.

  Feel free to connect with him at www.briankirkfiction.com or on Twitter @Brian_Kirk. Don't worry, he only kills his characters.

  Lisa Mannetti’s debut novel, The Gentling Box, garnered a Bram Stoker Award and she has since been nominated four times for the prestigious award in both the short and long fiction categories: Her story, “Everybody Wins,” was made into a short film and her novella, “Dissolution,” will soon be a feature-length film directed by Paul Leyden. Recent short stories include, “Esmeralda’s Stocking” in Never Fear: Christmas Terrors; “Resurgam” in Zombies: MoreRecent Dead edited by Paula Guran, and “Almost Everybody Wins,” in Insidious Assassins. Her work, including The Gentling Box, and “1925: A Fall River Halloween” has been translated into Italian.

  Her most recently published longer work, The Box Jumper, a novella about Houdini, has not only been nominated for both the Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson Awards, it won the “Novella of the Year” award from This is Horror in the UK.

  She has also authored The New Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, two companion novellas in her collection, Deathwatch, a macabre gag book, 51 Fiendish Ways to Leave your Lover, as well as non-fiction books, and numerous articles and short stories in newspapers, magazines and anthologies. Forthcoming works include more stories and a dark novel about the dial-painter tragedy in the post-WWI era, Radium Girl.