The Year's Best Horror Stories 16

by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed. )

  It was a valiant effort, but too late. Bruce was dearly exhausted from the steps, and he was still ten yards from the car when he was overcome by snarling canines which leaped at him from all sides until he sank under a quivering mountain of them. His cries of agony were more prolonged than Leonard would have liked, but mercifully stopped at last, just as Leonard dropped into the driver’s seat and propelled the car forward. The howling animals scattered, and there was nothing now to be seen of Bruce except an unrecognizable shape being dragged off by the last of them. A shape that had once worn a blue striped suit ...

  The car had a sunshine roof. Almost demented by what he had witnessed, Leonard opened it, stood on the seat and cried for help. But now there was no one within earshot to respond except the dogs, several of which snarled ominously from the shadows. He dropped again into the driver’s seat and switched on full headlights, which only illuminated the shiny pool of blood where Bruce had last been seen. Three desperate turns brought him to the slope at the foot of which he urgently hoped and desired to find Rosalie and Bernard intact, since they had left the village proper before the holocaust began ... and there they were indeed, picked up by his headlights as they sheltered from the drizzle against the back wall of a primitive bus shelter. Both seemed in good order, though Rosalie was on the verge of hysterics because of the terrible sounds which had assailed her ears from the upper place. To their questions, Leonard could only shake his head: it was too early even to try to explain what had happened to Bruce. And as for Tom, he presumably was still wandering the cobbled streets ... unless the night of the dogs had been his last, too.

  Leonard bundled the rescued pair into the back seat of the Volvo and zoomed once more up the hill, though when he arrived in the place he was careful to turn his headlights away from the blood. He had found a torch in the glove compartment, and when it revealed no sign of dogs he and Bernard ventured as far as the terrace to call once more for Tom. There was no reply; but nor was any window in Malchateau opened in protest at this desecration of the small hours of night.

  An official investigation was the only possibility which remained, but the local gendarmes, when summoned from the little station on the coast road, showed some reluctance to come up to the village at all. When prevailed upon to do so with a few guns and flashlights, their wary patrol of the steep narrow streets produced no conclusive discovery of Tom unless one counted, in a back alley under the cliff, one black shoe with part of a foot in it, such a fragment as may sometimes be left by a partly satisfied animal when its feast is disturbed. From the upper place, torn strips of the blue serge suit were also recovered. This was hysteria time for Leonard and Bernard as well as for Rosalie, but two hours later, as they sat huddled and dazed in the old gendarmerie, Leonard was sufficiently strengthened by cups of hot chocolate to take down from a shelf an old book called Villages Perches des Alpes-Maritimes. Looking up Malchateau, he found the following passage, given here in translation:

  It is said that in medieval times the villagers kept savage dogs with whose help they waylaid and killed solitary travelers for their money and valuables. The dogs were bred for the purpose by a certain Madame Bejard who also kept a local restaurant, renamed La Maitresse des Chiens. Here, it was alleged, the remains of the victims often turned up in the ragout. The woman was executed in 1823, but to the villagers, whose fortunes seemed to turn for the better as a result of her activities (the notoriety attracting many tourists) she remained something of a heroine; and so for many years, no doubt with tongue in cheek, one winter night in each year has been reserved in her honor. Though a local by-law has long prevented dogs from being kept in the village (the chief intention being to prevent fouling of the narrow streets) and the restaurant itself was torn down a hundred years ago by incensed descendants of the victims, few who know the legend would venture alone on that night into the alleys of Malchateau.

  Leonard thought suddenly of the steak au poivre, and went off to be sick.

  ECHOES FROM THE ABBEY by Sheila Hodgson

  As a rule I would have completed making my selections for The Year’s Best Horror Stories by Christmas each year. This time, however, I was laid low for weeks by a memorably nasty flu bug, all of which delayed my mailing out permissions requests until the very last minute. So, on January 25 I wrote to Sheila Hodgson at her former address, and I quickly received her answer, dated January 30: “It was pure luck that I got your letter at all—we moved house six months ago and there is nobody living at our previous address! Fortunately (well, not really) the place was damaged in the hurricane we suffered last October, so we went back to Hove to oversee the repairs and found your contract lying in the hall.” Perhaps “Echoes from the Abbey” was fated to appear in this book.

  London-born Sheila Hodgson began her career in the theater before joining the BBC in 1960 as a staff writer. Six years later she turned freelance, writing for both commercial television and the BBC in addition to working extensively for radio. While she has also published short stories and a novel, fans of this genre will be most interested in a series of radio plays she wrote based upon story ideas suggested by M. R. James in his essay, “Stories I Have Tried to Write.” “Echoes from the Abbey” is one of these inventive efforts, and this story was originally written as a radio play, which was broadcast on BBC Radio 4 on November 21, 1984. As an added novelty, M. R. James himself takes center stage here.

  I have always held that friendship is the chief thing, friendship ranks first among the uncertain pleasures of this world. I have been fortunate in my friends, but acquaintances—ah, that is an altogether different matter! The casual meeting, the mumbled introduction, the name that all too often fails to reach my ear and if it does will convey nothing to me when I come face to face with the owner some days later. Horrible! Horrible! Moreover memory can play abominable tricks; it is not that I don’t remember faces, I feel quite positive that I do. Not so long ago I had a letter from Canada, a graduate who declared he had met me at the May Day ball in 1893; he was apparently in England on a visit and expressed a great desire to see me again. Now I could have sworn I knew the gentleman, a medievalist and scholar of some talent. I made haste to send a cordial invitation. It was only when a wretched little humbug bounced into my chambers, all hairy beard and smiles, that I realized I had confused him with somebody else; why, I remembered this fellow and would have gone to considerable lengths to avoid him. Too late! Alas, too late! Since then I have exercised caution when dealing with any correspondent who claims to be an old acquaintance; the question is not Do they remember me—I will not dispute the recollection of others—but Do I remember them?

  Arthur Layton. He wrote in flowing compliment underlining several of the words, a practice I deplore; he informed me that he had risen to become headmaster of some obscure private school and attributed his success entirely to my early tuition.

  Arthur Layton?

  Memory, when prodded, obliged with a faded impression of a young man, somewhat nervous, given to overstretching his limited ability. Yes, yes. Arthur Layton. I must confess I had not given the fellow another thought from that day to this; his letter seemed quite unreasonably cordial, good heavens, he invited me to visit him just before Christmas! He urged me to accept in black ink with more copious underlinings; he hinted at some mystery and promised lavish entertainment; the handwriting positively shook with anxiety and need. The pages were on their way to my waste paper basket, I had already formulated a polite refusal when, needing to prepare the envelope, I glanced at the address. Medborough Academy For Young Gentlemen, near Medborough Abbey.

  Odd. I am frequently amused by the part played in our lives by coincidence. As chance would have it I had recently undertaken to write a series of articles on English Abbeys, and Medborough ...? A ruin as far as I could recall, a little-known enclosed order of monks had lived there and vanished entirely after the Suppression of the Monasteries. It might yield a couple of paragraphs; possibly I could sketch any points of architectural interest.
I made my way to the college library and what I found there was so very curious ...

  But I anticipate. Suffice it to say that I redrafted my letter to Mr. Arthur Layton; I accepted his kind invitation, and on a day of quite unparalleled nastiness I descended from the train at Medborough Halt. A thin sleet hissed across the roof of the station and the landscape appeared to be soaked in mist.

  There was nobody there.

  I would certainly have gone straight home had the only train not left. I could see no cab or indeed any kind of conveyance, there were no railway staff visible and the waiting room proved to be locked. After rattling foolishly at the doorknob and shouting to the empty air, I grabbed my valise and set off down the road; fortunately the Abbey tower showed clear against the skyline, and at a little distance I perceived a squat building which must surely be the Academy For Young Gentlemen. My natural indignation made me step out at a good speed. I occupied myself by composing a speech; upon my word, this was a shabby way to treat a guest, to abandon him in the middle of winter at a strange railway station. After a while the sleet abated, by the time I drew level with the Abbey the mist had drained away into the ground and the ruins stood in wet blocks around me.

  There was really very little left. A single finely vaulted bay which promised to reward investigation, some excellent late Perpendicular work, the traces of a cloister. I put down my baggage and made a detour; it might be sensible to discover what was or was not worthy of attention before the light went. I drew my cloak tight against the chill and smiled, the action reminding me briefly of my goddaughter. On seeing me for the first time in the garment, she had exclaimed, “Would you mind if I called you Black Mouse?” I assured her I should be honored; and remained Black Mouse to the end of the chapter. Still smiling at the recollection I picked my way among the masonry, and received a most disagreeable impression.

  I was being watched.

  It is hard to say what primeval instinct warns a man on such occasions. I could see nothing and hear no sound, yet I became most horribly aware of eyes following my every movement, an almost physical sensation in the small of my back. Robbers? Inconceivable. A tramp, sheltering among the arches ...? I paused—swung round—and surprised him.

  A small boy, sitting high up on a ledge. My immediate concern was that the child might fall; I cried out loud:

  “Boy! Come down at once! What are you doing there? Come down!”

  He continued to stare at me with an expression of blank terror as if beholding some monstrous ghost, so I called to him again.

  “This is not safe! Come here, you little imp!”

  His voice reached me in a gasp barely audible above the wind.

  “Are you one of them ...?” whispered the boy; and tumbled backward in frantic alarm. He stumbled and picked himself up and disappeared among the tombstones—running, running, running.

  Oh dear me. The young can be singularly irritating; I can cope with only a certain amount of unreason. I turned in some annoyance and made my way to the Medborough Academy, determined to rebuke my host and demand an explanation.

  The man was not there. Mrs. Layton received me in a babble of apology; I gathered her husband had gone to meet the wrong train, I have no idea why. She fed me buttered toast and prattled by the fireside; at least they kept a good fire; a moth-eaten tiger rug lay on the floor concealing or rather failing to conceal a bare patch in the carpet; the furniture had seen better days but not, I fear, recently. The lady herself wore bangles, earrings, and thin ginger hair twisted into frizzy curls; she talked incessantly and seemed relieved when the door opened and Arthur Layton clattered in at last.

  “Ah, Dr. James, do forgive me, I thought the Cambridge train arrived at four-ten, how very stupid, what appalling weather, have you had tea?”

  He stood gabbling like his wife; I studied him, ah yes, I did remember the gentleman. The years had simply accentuated the eager smile, the semaphoring hands, the bulging eyes fixed on mine; he had looked the same in 1894 when he arrived in my chambers demanding to know, in tones of mounting hysteria, why his examination results had been so unaccountably bad. Then as now I lacked the courage to tell him the truth; I heard myself uttering conventional lies and assuring him I had enjoyed my walk from the station and was delighted to renew his acquaintance.

  It had been a great mistake to come.

  How great became apparent shortly after Mrs. Layton left us. I gathered she had private means; not to put too fine a point on it he had used her money to set up the Medborough Academy For Young Gentlemen. Well, well. That explained one mystery; I had indeed wondered how such a person had ever risen to be headmaster of anything. No matter. I wished him well, he was an amiable creature and entitled to do the best he could for himself. But worse was to follow; while offering me a small sherry he grew pink around the ears and said:

  “Dr. James. It occurred to me. Forgive the liberty. I thought perhaps—as a friend—an old acquaintance. Would you care to mention Medborough Academy to any parents you meet at Cambridge? I should be most appreciative—grateful—and perhaps a small paragraph in your house magazine?”

  I confess I felt outraged. One should not be oversensitive, but I became conscious of being manipulated for private and possibly undesirable ends. It was a piece of impertinence, I had to frame my answer carefully; I had no wish to hurt the man but in all conscience ...

  “It would be highly improper, Layton! Oh come, come! Surely you realize! I really must decline to do anything of the sort. I have absolutely no knowledge of your school.”

  “You will be staying at least a week! You can form your own opinion!”

  “While the place is empty? No, no, no. May we drop the subject, please, it can only embarrass both of us. Oh dear me. Good heavens. I fear you have invited me to Medborough on a false assumption; this is most unfortunate ...”

  At which juncture the door opened and a small boy peered in. I recognised him instantly; if he recognised me he showed no sign of it. Arthur Layton leapt to his feet, exclaiming:

  “Harley! Good, yes, let me introduce you to Dr. James. Harley has been left with us for the Christmas holidays. His parents are in Hyderabad,” he added, as if confiding some deplorable social gaffe. The boy shifted his feet, muttered “Sir” to the carpet and was understood to say that Dinner was ready. I wondered at the lack of a maid servant; during the meal it occurred to me that perhaps they had no cook either, the food being quite inexcusably bad. Layton kept up a running monologue on the problems that beset him, the shortage of teachers, the expense of the new gymnasium, the irrational demands of parents and a general tendency not to pay his fees on time. His wife echoed each complaint with little wails of her own, the boy ate in silence and I contented myself with those courteous grunts which pass for conversation on such occasions. As soon as I decently could I pleaded fatigue and the need to unpack, Mrs. Layton vanished into the kitchen, the child Harley skidded upstairs and I left Layton himself in a deep melancholy, stabbing at the fire with a cast iron poker.

  At about two in the morning I woke from uneasy slumber to a sound of wild female shrieks. In that curious half-dreaming state my first conscious thought was: Ah, they have maids after all; then I struggled from bed, groped for my dressing gown and went out into the passage to investigate. A disheveled creature who I subsequently discovered was called Gladys rushed past me howling, “Oh sir, we can’t find him, oh sir, he’s been murdered in his bed!”

  Before I could point out the basic absurdity of this statement Layton came down the stairway, he looked dazed and on seeing me stopped short, clutching at the bannister.

  “James. I had no idea you were awake.”

  I remarked that it would be somewhat difficult to sleep through the general uproar.

  “The boy is missing!”

  “Good heavens.”

  “He must be found! We are responsible for the child! If there’s been some frightful accident and his parents hear of it ...”

  It took several minutes to ca
lm the man. I gathered he had discovered the situation by accident; on his way to the bathroom he noticed Harley’s bedroom door ajar and the bed empty. As they had already searched the house I proposed to put my clothes on and help in a search of the grounds; by now it was half past two and bitter cold. On emerging into a glittering night (oh dear me, it had been snowing as well), I saw most of the household rampaging up and down alternately shrieking to the boy and shrieking to one another.

  “Harley! Harley! Harley!”

  Memory stirred at the back of my sleepy brain. A small figure balanced on a stone ledge. I left them to it and made my way across the frozen grass to the ruins of Medborough Abbey. It seemed to me that my hypothesis was quite as likely as any other. The ground proved treacherous, slippery with ice and potholed by neglect; twice I skidded, saving myself only by a wild clutch at a bush; once I tripped on a broken tombstone and nearly fell flat on my face, which would most certainly have broken my glasses if not my ankle. Jagged pillars cut the sky, slabs of masonry lay tilted at crazy angles, a net of hoar frost had been flung over everything and a thin wind hissed along the north transept. As I stepped between the boulders I could hear the wind. Surely it must be imagination that turned the sound into voices?

  Does-he-know-he-must-not-know-he-surely-knows!

  Does-he-know-he-must-not-know-he-surely-knows!

  Whispering. Innumerable voices whispering among the ruin of the chapter house, and now they grew louder and now they grew ever clearer and more close.

  Will-he-come-he-must-not-come-He-comes-he-comes!