The Year's Best Horror Stories 16

by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed. )

  I shook my head quite violently when Matilda said to me, “Can’t you give your Auntie Edith a little shove, dear? That’s all she needs to get her going.”

  But Edith at length got herself going. Trod into the loose soil, pounded it down and ploughed her way up and in until she stood on the very peak of the mound, her feet covered with earth, her eyes rolling like black marbles.

  The sisters expressed encouragement by clapping black-gloved hands together and saying, “Well done, dear. Oh, very well done.” Then: “Down you go, dear. Down you go.”

  Grand-Aunt Edith began to vaporize.

  She did. She did.

  First the head began to dissolve into white, seething vapor. Then the neck went all floppy before running into the torso. After that the process speeded up. Arms sort of exploded into vapor, only there wasn’t any sound. Torso collapsed, Vapor dropped around the legs as if to hide them from vulgar gaze. Then the entire mess sank into the grave and disappeared from view.

  Edith had finally moved.

  The two sisters lowered their heads and called out in low sweet voices: “Bye-bye, dear. See you on Sunday.”

  I can’t be sure but I think that’s the way vampires are born, but for what now passes for my peace of mind I’m not suggesting that Great-Aunt Edith became a vampire. If she had I am certain someone in the village would have mentioned it.

  Before we left the churchyard, the moon being by now quite bright, they insisted we visit my empty plot. My grave to be. Edna looked at it, while Matilda looked at me. I think they both spoke together.

  “To think that one day you will move into here! How thrilled you must be.”

  But the final chilly twist came on the way home. We all three walked abreast. Edna on my left, Matilda to my right. Suddenly Edna looked back and expelled her breath as a deep sigh of annoyance.

  “It is really too bad,” she said.

  I looked back. A column of vapor about five feet six high was drifting down the middle of the road. Matilda stamped her foot.

  “No, dear, not until Sunday. You really musn’t follow us. Go back.”

  Both sisters advanced toward the column making shooing sounds.

  I ran toward the railway station.

  OK, I passed up two hundred thousand pounds, but money is not everything.

  LA NUIT DES CHIENS by Leslie Halliwell

  Born in Bolton in 1929, Leslie Halliwell presently makes his home in Surrey—when he isn’t making buying trips to Hollywood or just globe-trotting in general. Since 1968 Halliwell has been program buyer for the entire ITV network in England, and more recently for Channel 4, where his nostalgic season of films from the golden age of movies has won wide approval. He is well known in England for his books on television and film, including Halliwell’s Filmgoer’s Companion, Halliwell’s Film Guide, Halliwell’s Television Companion, Halliwell’s Teleguide, Halliwell’s Hundred, and Halliwell’s Harvest.

  Aside from his love for films, Leslie Halliwell has a deep interest in ghost stories—a genre in which he feels the cinema has never truly done justice. Recently Halliwell has taken to writing horror fiction of his own, in moods which range from M. R. James to Roald Dahl to dark humor. His first such collection, The Ghost of Sherlock Holmes, has been followed by a second, A Demon Close Behind. Halliwell has also recently published a novel, Return to Shangri-La (a sequel to Lost Horizon), and he is preparing two more collections of ghostly tales, A Demon on the Stair and A Demon at the Window.

  “Pres du chateau illumine?” asked the concierge. “Ah, oui, a Malchateau. You ’ad better not go there tonight, monsieur. C’est la nuit des chiens. I suggest to you per’aps ...”

  Leonard Haskins allowed the man to book a table for five at a restaurant he had never heard of along the main road to Menton, but he was not happy about it. His days at the Monte Carlo market were few enough for him not to take chances on restaurants. Both his wife and his chairman would expect him to have pulled something out of the hat, and at least two of the restaurants in Malchateau were commended in Michelin. Besides, the Coca Cola boys were paying, so they had to be satisfied too. It was a shame. From the hotel steps you could see the old castle high across the bay, rising out of the immemorial mountainside to which the entire village seemed to cling: that is often the way with these ancient villages of the Alpes Maritimes, with their damp smells and impossibly stepped streets.

  Once in his youth Leonard had climbed up to the castle, which was ruined and less remarkable than its village; he remembered that in one of the bars he had drunk more Ricard than was good for his stomach. He had certainly preferred Malchateau to St Paul de Vence, because it was less commercialized. Still, since he spoke only a few words of French, and the hotel staff refused to speak clear English, there was no point in trying to argue; and in any case it couldn’t be less than a tolerable evening, because Bruce Meredith and Tom Vernon were pleasant chaps who would lay on a comfortable car and expensive wine to ease the burdens of conversation. All they had asked Leonard to do was choose the location, and he felt he had let them down. Well, Pinocchio might be better than he feared: the concierge of a four-star hotel was supposed to know about things like that. But it was annoying all the same. What was that the man had said about a night of dogs? Some local festival, presumably, that closed the whole village to casual visitors. Might have been interesting at that.

  They met at eight and clambered into a capacious Volvo. The evening was cool for Monte Carlo, but the whole of Europe had felt that particular winter more than most. Everything began well. The salesfolk were old friends. Bernard Poskitt, Leonard’s new Chairman, was clearly disposed to enjoy himself. Even Leonard’s wife Rosalie was clearly looking forward with pleasure to what might have been a mere duty evening. But they soon came to a setback: the maitre d’ at Pinocchio had never heard of them—the concierge must have called the wrong restaurant—and the place was absolument complet.

  Though the mistake was not his fault, Leonard felt bound somehow to set things right. By now, all the restaurants along the millionaires’ coast would be full of his friends and colleagues. High on the hills, though, matters should be different. He suggested a voyage of discovery, starting at the modernistic hotel Vistaero, which overhangs the Haute Corniche like a pile of white matchboxes. If that disappointed, there were modest eating places in La Turbie; the group might hopefully be amused by their lack of presumption. And if all else failed, they could double back to the Grill at the Hotel de Paris, which was open till midnight.

  In less time than it takes to tell they were speeding east along the coast road, looking for a left turn which would take them into the hills. The first one they found had a sign for Vistaero, and also one for Malchateau; indeed, after less than five miles of uphill bends they found themselves rounding a curve immediately below the modestly floodlit castle of the ancient community. On impulse Leonard suggested a quick tour of the village: they could always turn back if the crowds were too thick, and the restaurants might not be full after all. The plan was agreed, but when a sharp turn to the right carried them swiftly up the steepest hill of the evening, and brought them within two minutes into the lower part of Malchateau itself, whatever festivities constituted the night of the dogs seemed to be over; at any rate, not a human being was to be seen on the dark streets.

  It was a mystery indeed. Cars were parked, and lights were on within some of the old houses, but all doors were firmly shut. “Take the next sharp right,” said Leonard. “It runs you up to a sort of square with a view of the coast.” Bruce stepped on the accelerator and proved this prediction to be true; but the upper place was just as deserted as the lower. Cars crowded the little area, and he parked with difficulty in the only possible space, so that the party could stretch its legs and see the view. This they were all delighted to do, but the mystery of Malchateau deepened. Even the little cafe, La Grotte, was firmly closed, and no sound of radio, television, or other entertainment came from within. The deserted area formed a strange contrast
with the distant lights of the Monte Carlo shore.

  “It’s eerie,” said Rosalie, and the men agreed.

  “Whatever festivities are taking place here tonight,” said Bernard, “are taking place indoors. The village is as empty as a film set after dark.”

  “Perhaps it is a film set,” suggested Tom: “we could hire it and stage a new version of Dracula.” Leonard was promptly cast as the count, with Bernard as Van Helsing, but after that, imagination faltered. And then it transpired that the village was not quite empty after all. A strange pattering sound from an alley to the right turned out to herald a large dog carrying in its mouth a foot-long piece of squashed plastic which might have once been a skittle from a child’s set but was now firmly the dog’s plaything. The animal dashed it to the ground at Bruce’s feet, then bounded back and forth until the gentle American picked up the object and hurled it down the street. The dog, a large breed which in the darkness looked like an Irish wolfhound with a French coiffure, had clearly intended this, for the object was retrieved and the action repeated. Twice was enough for Bruce, but the dog wanted more; when more was not forthcoming, it put its feet up on Bruce’s shoulders, and bit his ear.

  The bite may not have been intended, but teeth certainly came into contact with the side of Bruce’s face, and scratched his ear lobe quite badly, so that it bled all over his collar. After that, the dog was firmly sent packing, and everyone made suggestions, thinking vaguely of rabies; but the only remedy to hand was some menthol lip salve which had lain long in Rosalie’s handbag, and that had to do. Afterward Bruce waved away the various expressions of sympathy with a shrug of apparent composure, but one could tell that for him the evening was ruined: he made no more jokes. “Hadn’t we better do something about finding a restaurant?” he asked.

  Tom had become separated from the group and was studying a notice high on the wall below a lamp bracket. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Here’s one that says it’s open toutes les nuits. Nothing about dog night being excluded. And there’s an arrow and a walking sign. Eighty-four rue du Chateau. La Maitresse des Chiens, it’s called. My word, aren’t they doggy around here?”

  “Let’s try it,” said Bruce crisply. “A concierge is wrong once, he can be wrong twice.” The arrow pointed through a narrow space between domestic buildings, and less than twenty yards on the other side Leonard found steps clearly labeled rue du Chateau. Steep they were, and, from a recent icy snap, full of grit which acted like miniature ball bearings and made progress a slippery business. It was a short but wearying climb, and Leonard was not cheered when he looked back and saw in the shadows at least four large dogs silently following them up the steps. But very shortly, on the right under an arch, there came in view a small illuminated sign for the restaurant they sought; and the door when opened revealed an empty but delightfully welcoming and well-warmed double chamber with stone walls and arches. From under one of the latter there emerged an elegant though sallow Frenchwoman in her fifties. She issued a rather formal welcome, and said that she would be pleased to offer all of her specialties, none of which took very long in the cooking.

  It was a satisfying, candlelit, impeccably served meal, though the industry gossip was more subdued than usual. They all began with soupe aux truffes en croute, and were then divided between fillet au poivre and mostelle a l’anglaise. It was a puzzle where the food was cooked—some of it seemed to be brought in from the street—but there was certainly nobody to serve it but madame, who produced each dish with style but seemed disinclined for conversation. Leonard’s French, as has been said, was fragmentary, but he did once make an effort by pointing on the menu to the name of the establishment and asking: “Ou sont les chiens? Au dehors?”

  “Oui,” she said with a strange thoughtful smile. “Tous. Au dehors.”

  “They are at that,” said Bernard, who was just returning from la toilette. “All outside. Dozens of them, milling about. I could see through the front window. Frankly I don’t understand what’s going on, but they seem quiet enough.”

  Eventually the coffee was drunk and the bill paid. Leonard had finished off with a marc de Provence, but still felt unaccountably chilled as he stepped into the night air, and Rosalie shivered audibly as she slipped into the gray coat he was holding for her. “Now, don’t anybody break a leg going down those steps,” he said. “It’s dark and treacherous out here. And my God, there seems to be a dog in every doorway, watching us. Must be walkey-walkey time in Malchateau!”

  The dogs however were not troublesome at this point: only their dimly seen red eyes were disturbing. It was the darkness that was worrying: the main street lights seemed to have been switched off, leaving only a few faint pools of illumination. At one point Tom turned back to ask madame for help, but not only had she gone inside, the entire restaurant was now in sudden darkness.

  “I have the distinct feeling,” said Bernard, “that she only opened up for our benefit, though don’t ask me how she knew we were coming.”

  “The dogs told her, of course,” said Rosalie; “or perhaps the whole village is like Brigadoon, and only comes to life once in a hundred years.”

  Leonard could not be amused by the conversation: he was too aware that an increasingly large number of dogs was silently following them down the steps, and in imagination he felt the savage amusement of the beasts at the group’s clumsy, hesitant progress. Absolute concentration on the next step was essential, and, probably for this reason, they realized too late that they had gone down more steps than they came up. Bernard and Rosalie were by this time far ahead of the others, and Tom called to them as loudly as he could without raising the village: “Stay where you are: I’m going back to find the turning.” The distant faint clatter of Rosalie’s heels came to a halt as Tom bounded back up the steps, followed by Bruce and Leonard, who was relieved to see that no dogs now blocked their path. The narrow alleyway between the two houses was quickly found: it had been missed because the bright light over it had been turned off, making the alley look more private than public. The square on the other side of it, however, still had its meager share of illumination, and Bruce was clearly relieved to find that his hired car was intact. Leonard was less happy. “Look at the doorways,” he said. They did, and perceived dimly in each the eyes of at least one dog.

  “I’m beginning not to like this,” said Bruce. “Let’s get out of here. Are the others coming up?”

  “No,” said Tom. “Shall I go down?”

  “Better do something. Reassure them at least. If they’ve found a way to the main road, go down with them and we’ll pick you up. We’ll wait five minutes first in case you come back.”

  “Right.” Tom clattered off along the pebbles, and then the sound died away.

  Bruce lit a cigarette, glancing around him the while, and threw it away after a couple of puffs. “Get in the car,” he said to Leonard. “I’ll turn it round.” Even after he had done so, the rest of the five minutes seemed endless, but at last, with a final look toward the gap through which Tom had disappeared, he switched the car into action and said, “Right. Obviously they’ve all gone on down. We’re off.”

  It was the work of less than a minute to drive down to the lower car park, but nowhere along the road to the T-junction was a human being to be seen. “They can’t have come out further on, surely,” muttered Bruce. “We’d better go back, God damn it.” At the junction he just managed a three-point turn and headed back for the upper place, which however proved as empty as when they left it. No human beings, anyway: just the dogs. Leonard glanced at his luminous watch and was disconcerted to find that the time was five minutes to midnight. “What do we do now?” he muttered. “Wherever they are they’re going to be cold and lonely, and it’s starting to drizzle.”

  Bruce swore to himself. “You stay here and I’ll chase down the steps after them.” Leonard felt that this was an insufficiently detailed arrangement, but Bruce was already out of the car and running off in the same direction as Tom, leaving not only
engine and lights on but his door open. Left alone, Leonard found the engine noise encouraging, but decided to open his passenger door and stand in the fresh air. As he did so, the lights inside La Grotte went out, along with every light in the square except those on the car. And a distant clock began to strike twelve. “This is silly,” thought Leonard to himself, beginning to feel like the last little nigger boy. But reality struck back instantly in the sound of a horrid choking cry, which might have come from almost any animal including one of his friends. Without thinking of any possible danger, he propelled himself over to the viewing platform and gazed down at the dark lower streets of the village. “Who’s there?” he called. “Where are you, Bruce?”

  “Coming back,” came a welcome reply. “But what the hell was that cry?”

  It was a rhetorical question, and Leonard was almost too relieved to answer, especially when he heard another familiar voice from the opposite direction: “Is that you, Leonard? We’re near the lower car park.” So Bernard was safe, and Rosalie too. “We’ll come and get you,” Leonard called back. “Wait two minutes.” He shook his head incredulously: they would all laugh about this on the way home. Bruce’s steps were nearer now, and predictably slower as the steps got steeper. “Might as well sit in the car,” thought Leonard; but as he made his move to do so, the entire place came alive with dogs. Hairy dogs, smooth dogs, big dogs and small dogs, but all snarling dogs with sharp teeth, hurling themselves in his direction. He closed the door on his side easily enough, but the driver’s door was something else, and he got his hand badly gashed in the attempt before using his cane to hook onto the open half window and slam the door shut. At the first attempt he seemed to close the metal on a paw; at any rate a large animal ran squealing down the street. Simultaneously, in the car headlights, he saw the breathless figure of Bruce running toward him.