The Year's Best Horror Stories 21

by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed. )

  “He is!”

  “He’s not.”

  “He’s going to do it, I tell you. He is actually going to do it.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Look at him. He’s decided. He’s crossing the street.”

  Ignoring the voices I approached Park View. Most of the window frames looked rotten. The front door had been roughly painted purple. But there were enough scratches on it to show every color it had been painted since 1875. A dozen door bells set in an illuminated plastic panel caught my eye. A few had cards bearing handwritten names. Joseph Lawton was not among them.

  I FEEL UNREAL I FEEL ALONE.

  I am Joseph Lawton. This happens:

  On the rug, the black cat sits licking her paw. It is 5:30.

  “Sophie, are you frightened?”

  “No,” she replies with a little shake of her head and watches me with her clear eyes.

  “There is no hatred in this, “I explain. “I have read the messages. I must save lives. When I kill you I will be doing it for love.”

  She agrees.

  “I hear them shouting from the street. Sophie, they have voices like ghosts—all in pain and crunching out. I have to save them.”

  She sits on the settee, wearing a purple skirt and a white T-shirt. It bears the picture of a black cat playing with a ball of wool.

  I smile, hoping it will stop her worrying. Lightly, I run the knife, like a single-toothed comb, through her hair. No, don’t be frightened, sweet Sophie, smile and smile and smile.

  Once those voices that crunch and crack from the pavement are gone I will be happy again. We can ride the golden cycles to the river once more.

  It all goes quickly. The knifing.

  She took it very well. That pleases me. She doesn’t cry out or wriggle.

  She just sits there as I press the knife into her neck. Three times there. Four times through the cat picture on her T-shirt.

  I pull the knife out of her, wash it, and put it in the drawer.

  When I return she still sits on the sofa, the hair about her white face looks very red.

  “Will it take long?” she asked. “My neck is sore.”

  “Not long, sweet Sophie.” I hold her hand and stroke her hair. “After you’ve left this place, will you still love me?”

  She makes a little smile; then her eyes go cloudy.

  At 6:15 pm she is dead. I prop her up with cushions so she can still see me. Then I switch on the tape deck. The voices in the street stop screaming at me; my arms are clean; and yet I feel as if all the magic that I once knew has gone. My world is cold and lonely now.

  Now the guitar is in my hands. I sit on the chair by the table.

  “Yeah.” I nod to Sophie. “This is it.” Softly, I begin to play my guitar.

  I pushed open the door of Park View and stepped inside. I stopped suddenly. It was as if I’d been there before. Incongruously the place smelled pleasantly of cooking smells, especially garlic.

  With no trace of hesitation I half-ran up the stairs to the second floor. No carpets made the sound of my feet echo up and down the stairwell.

  When I reached a door with 7b written large in black felt tip, I stopped. For some reason I was holding my breath. Then it came. I don’t know why, but for some reason the place I was in suddenly scared me. The squares of carpets outside doors looked too thick, the doors too big for their doorways; nail heads swelled from the skirting boards in a way that was somehow disgusting, gray metallic stumps forcing outward. I closed my eyes to stop the images lodging like parasites inside my head.

  The sickening feeling went as quickly as it came. I felt calm. Somewhere in the distance came the sound of a girl singing. A ballad, slow, haunting. Outside, trees gently waved in the breeze. The sense of peace was beautiful.

  I knocked on the door. “Mr Lawton. I happened to come across a tape of your songs in a ...”

  Maybe that was better. Mentally rehearsing the greeting I knocked again.

  “Hello?”

  The door remained closed. I realized the voice came from behind me. I turned to see a girl. In her twenties, ginger hair; she wore a vaguely hippy-style dress and plain white blouse. There was a black cat in her hands which she stroked nervously.

  “Hello,” I smiled. “I’m looking for the tenant.”

  She wrinkled her freckled nose. “Sorry?”

  I looked back at the door. “Does a man live there? A musician?”

  “No ... no. That one’s empty. It’s been empty for months.”

  Gone. I was on the verge of swearing furiously, but the fury did not come. I felt a lightness oozing through my body; a pleasant sensation. And life looked different now. I looked, no, I felt different. Enlightened. I would become a different person. Something was happening to me. Something special.

  “Is there anything else you want?”

  Her voice pulled me back. I must have been staring.

  “Yes there is,” I said firmly. “I need a place to stay. The empty flat will be fine.”

  She stroked the cat in a shy but quietly pleased way. She liked me. “The landlord comes to collect the rent about now. You could ask him about the flat.” She looked up with the tiniest of shy smiles. “If you want ... if you’re not in a hurry ... you could wait for him in my flat. I’ve got some tea.” She rubbed the cat’s head. The green stone in her ring caught the light with an emerald flash.

  As I followed her through the door she paused and looked back up at me. “What’s your name, mister?”

  I smiled, feeling a liquid heat run through my body. “My name?” I reached out and ran my fingers through the cat’s coal-black fur. “My name’s Joseph Lawton.”

  I followed her inside and shut the door.

  Martin!

  Thanks for the letter. From what you say the songs sound fascinating. But check your stereo for gremlins. The tape you sent me was blank!

  Good luck, Bob Finch.

  FALLEN IDOL by Lillian Csernica

  I watched her while I ate my sandwich at a table in the mall. The gang of skinheads and punkers around her did nothing without her approval. She never smiled. She never spoke. Only a faint nod or a limp gesture, but the gang responded as if they were commands.

  Her face. That was what really caught me. I could do a series of portrait photos on that alone. Her paleness made her black-painted lips stand out harsh and strange. Her eyelids were silver with the faint blue shine of bad meat. Shed shaved her eyebrows then painted lines like barbed wire over her dull eyes.

  I was in the mall covering a fashion show held by one of the major stores to kick off a new line. The models were so many bits of clumsy flash next to the dark, sullen poise of this girl. Girl? Woman? Hard to tell. Her bizarre makeup hid her age. After watching the models float around in bright spring florals, I was drawn to the maze of black cloth around her: a high-necked ruffled blouse, tight black leather miniskirt, black stockings ending in little boots with pointy heels. Over it all she wore a coat with immense shoulder pads, its hem brushing her boots. Delicate gloves hid her fingers, between which dangled a cigarette whose smoke stung my nose with strange sweetness.

  Excitement made me gobble my sandwich. After years of covering fashion shows and garden parties, taking mother-and-baby shots for the feature pages, I wanted something wild, something dangerous. Here she was. The paper paid me well enough, but I was a guy who wanted more. My hands itched to snap her photo, to catch her in other costumes. Her gaudy clash of face and clothing could make a modern Mona Lisa.

  I chased her for a week, haunting the mall and using a telephoto lens to get as close to her face as possible. Six of her faces were proofed and protected in a small album inside my backpack, next to my camera. She never wore the same face twice, and not one of the faces ever smiled.

  At the end of the week I sat watching her through a screen of ferns, my coffee cooling in front of me. Today she was done up like a zombie Pierrot. Her face was dead white, her lips blackened in a shape that mocked Betty
Boop’s kiss. One eye was ringed in black, the other leaked painted tears. Again she wore nothing but black. She was a true artist, knowing the right backdrop for the paintings she wore.

  Every day toward sunset she would appear here, taking a table near the food counters where she would sit and smoke. The punkers and skinheads would find her and begin their complicated games of boredom and gossip, their glances at her and hidden whispers a way of paying homage to her superior outrageousness and consummate ennui. Their obvious fascination took on the nature of worship. If she was grateful, it never showed.

  Another week yielded more faces, each unique. I stayed up late in my darkroom every night, examining the day’s “catch.” Other assignments got shelved while I compared a black eye on a flesh-colored cheek to that eerie blue shimmer leaking tears onto smeared rouge. I couldn’t wait to see her and the next day’s ingenuity. I debated showing my many-faced lady the album. Would she be flattered? Angry? I wanted to light a spark in those empty eyes. I thought of her while I lay in bed, wondering where she was, what she was thinking. My eyes made shadows into her long hair, dyed that dull black so popular among her worshipers. Not once had I seen even an inch of her naked skin. She was always hidden by black cloth or heavy makeup. I had no idea what color her skin might really be. I wanted to watch her strip, see her shed the black layer by layer, revealing her own skin while my camera caught every naked inch.

  Sleep would not come until I decided to force some reaction from her. If the old superstitions were true, I had a lot of power over her. I had her soul on film. Thirteen faces—thirteen different souls? I intended to count them all. On Monday I waited outside the mall for her, just before closing time. The crowds dwindled and the parking lot emptied. Lights went out inside. Gates came down over the doors of the shops. She had to come out this door. It was closest to the food counters where she held court. Another ten minutes passed. Security guards checked the door and locked it. I felt the rising sourness of disappointment. The way back to my car felt impossibly long. I was halfway to it when I heard the peculiar sound of spike heels on cement. The red spark of a cigarette caught my eye. There she was! She walked straight across the parking lot, weaving in and out among the few remaining cars.

  I paced her, trying to keep my own stride slow and casual. She lounged on the bus stop bench, still smoking. The night deepened around her. The evening breeze brought me that sweet smoke like her singular perfume. I went to the opposite end of the bench and sat down. She didn’t look over, just stared straight ahead and smoked with that curious determination.

  “Hello,” I tried.

  No response. I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the album. She had to react to it. I flipped it open and held it out to her.

  “I have all your faces.”

  Those cadaverous eyes swung around. She stared down at the open pages.

  Four of her faces stared back. Her painted brows rose. The black pucker of her mouth fell open. At last her eyes met mine.

  “They’re good shots.” I turned the page. “I took several. Have you ever considered modeling?” Another page, and four more. None the same. She reached out toward the album, her hand shaking. Then she snatched her hand back, leaped up and ran. I stuffed the album into my backpack and charged after her, fumbling with the backpack’s zipper. She ran toward the mail’s loading bay. Few light poles lit the area. The gaping mouth of the only open bay doorway loomed ahead of us. The shadows reached out to her. I lost her for a moment in the blended darkness, then the shower of sparks from her thrown cigarette told me where she was. I ran for the doorway as she vanished into it. The bay was a cavern, filled with boxes and crates. The few yellowed bulbs burning high above cast a feeble light.

  “Hey!” I called. A chorus of echoes answered. “Don’t be afraid. I’m a photographer. I just wanted to show you—”

  Metal screeched off to my left. Something came flying at me out of the gloom. I fell to my knees, hugging the backpack to protect my camera. Overhead a thick chain whistled past. I scrambled over to a big box and crouched there in the dark behind it, trying to quiet my ragged breathing.

  Her heels clattered somewhere ahead of me. I followed the sound, moving farther into the maze of crates and boxes. I eased the zipper open on my backpack and pulled out the Swiss Army knife I kept inside. It was handy for tightening screws or opening film boxes, but right now its blade could serve a more defensive purpose. If she wanted to play rough, I was ready.

  I crept forward, listening for her heels. At a crossroad in the narrow aisles she darted past, the tail of her long hair flashing by. I lunged forward, trying to keep her in sight. Echoes told me she turned down another aisle close by. I followed, turning the corner into an even darker and tighter aisle. Cardboard rasped. A weight hit my shoulders and flattened me. The heavy box pinned me. My legs were bent oddly. Thank God the camera wasn’t under me.

  Her little stiletto-heel boots tiptoed around the corner. I twisted my head around to follow them but the box blocked my sight.

  “Hey! Are you crazy? Get this off me!”

  I felt a jerk on my left arm. The backpack straps were tangled around it, cutting off circulation. She tugged harder. I heard the zipper give an inch or so. She fought with it. Good thing it was partially wedged under the box with me.

  “Listen! I can get you reprints. Who are you? Talk to me?”

  Her silence was scaring the hell out of me. The tugging and zipper noise stopped. Pain stabbed my knife hand. I twisted my head around to see the heel of her boot digging into the back of that hand. Her gloved fingers reached down for my knife. I clung to it, pulling my hand back as far as I could. She stamped down again and wrenched my fingers free. The knife vanished upward in her grip. Real fear chilled me. Maybe she was insane.

  More tugging on the backpack, and the rasp of the knife on the straps. She was trying to cut it free! I kicked out, fighting to shove the box off me; it was too heavy. I couldn’t drag the backpack any closer. My left arm was nearly numb. The straps slid down it a few inches. I strained to grab them with my right hand. She was not getting my camera!

  The loud clang and roll of the bay door closing filled her horrible silence. The wrenching of the backpack stopped. I heard the knife hit the cement floor. The clatter of her heels faded as she ran. I let out a long breath, sucked in another. My heart hammered and sweat slicked my palms. Now I had to get out.

  With much grunting and scraping, I managed to roll over part way onto my back. That gave me enough room to shove the box upward inch by inch, working my knee up under it and wedging it between the walls of the aisle. I worked myself out, dragging my limp arm and backpack after me. I snatched up my knife and staggered down the aisle to retrace my way to the door.

  Full night filled the bay with darkness. Even the dim ceiling lights had been turned off. A narrow rectangle of faint light showed me the door was still open a little. I hurried toward it, wary of ambush. She’d need a cigarette after going so long without. I sniffed the air, watching for the red glow, but that oddly sweet smoke had vanished with her.

  Out in the parking lot, I leaned against my car and calmed down. Sense told me to find another project. Sense told me to stick with the bread-and-butter work at the paper. Another part of me whispered this was my chance. She was wild. She was dangerous.

  I pulled out the album and flipped through it, marveling again at all her different faces. She was gifted, to think up so many and execute them with such precise skill. And the flair she had, to parade her art in such a bourgeois setting. It was too late to listen to sense. With every face I looked on, my fascination with her grew.

  The first answer would have to be where that bus took her. I’d start there.

  On Sunday the mall closed early. I waited in the parking lot, watching from inside my car. I had my knife in one pocket and in my backpack a flashlight big enough to double as a club. The gas tank was full.

  The sun went down. Parking lot lights flickered and lit themselves, pale h
alos shining against the gathering dark. Shoppers poured out of the mall. Again she was the last one out the door. She reached the bench and smoked a steady stream of cigarettes until a bus pulled up. She stepped inside the steel body and it rumbled off. I was out the driveway and behind it before the bus got too far ahead. It wound its ponderous way through the city. Stores and residences began to thin. The occasional neon of a bar sign lit otherwise blank rows of buildings. City noise faded, leaving me with the audible groans of the bus brakes.

  On the dingy outskirts of the industrial zone, the bus pulled up beside the sign marking the isolated stop. The last passenger aboard, she stepped out the back door and took off down a straight stretch of sidewalk.

  An empty parking lot was just ahead. I parked, watching the bus make a U-turn. So this was the end of the line. I shouldered my backpack and went after her. She was a block ahead. She kept walking, on and on through the pools of darkness between street lights. I followed, feeling the hum of the overhead power lines in my bones. No cars passed, no dogs barked. We were alone. No fear or anxiety hurried her, a woman on her own in this concrete desolation.

  She turned in at a gravel drive which led through a rusted chain link gate hanging crooked on its hinges. I stepped lightly on the gravel, begging silence from my battered Nikes. A small shed offered cover. I ducked behind it. I watched her stop before a large warehouse. In the glare from the single streetlight by the gate, all I could see was cracked wood and a litter of debris. No metal shone through the dark smears of rust.

  She crushed out her cigarette beneath her boot and walked around to the side of the building. Ringing thuds carried through the stillness. I ran across the gravel to the warehouse, hoping her noise would cover mine. A door opened and closed, its hinges crying with rust. I inched around the corner. The metal stairway around the side of the warehouse was empty. I eased up the stair and listened at the door. Nothing. The stairway continued upward. I started up, hoping for a skylight.