The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, 2015 Edition

by Paula Guran

  “I think I hear the girls,” she said. “Why don’t you go play with them a while, and then bring them to the diner and we’ll all have milkshakes.”

  He hesitated.

  “You like Rose and Hannah, don’t you?”

  He nodded, and her smile broadened, telling him this was the right answer, so he added, “They’re nice,” to please her.

  “They’re very nice,” she said. “I like to see you playing with them, Bobby. It’s not easy for some children to find playmates. Some boys and girls are different, and other children don’t always like different. You’ll appreciate it more someday, when being different helps you stand out. But children don’t always want to stand out, do they?”

  He shook his head. She understood, as she always did. His parents lied and tried to pretend he wasn’t different. She acknowledged it and understood it and made him feel better about it.

  “Do you want to go play with the girls?”

  He nodded. He did like the girls—Hannah, at least. What bothered him was the prospect of sharing Mrs. Yates with them later. But it would make her happy, and he was still her special favorite, so he shouldn’t complain.

  “Off you go then. Come to the diner later and we’ll have those milkshakes.”

  Mrs. Yates said Hannah and Rose were in the small park behind the bank. They were often there on the swings, and when he rounded the corner, that’s where he expected to see them. The swings were empty, though. He looked around the park, bordered by a fence topped with chimera heads. Walkways branched off in every compass direction. He heard Rose’s voice, coming from the one leading to Rowan Street.

  The girls crouched beside a toppled cardboard box. Hannah was reaching in and talking. He liked Hannah. Everyone liked Hannah. His mother said she reminded her of The Gnat, but she couldn’t be more wrong. Yes, Hannah was pretty, with brown curls and dark eyes and freckles across her nose. And, like The Gnat, she was always laughing, always bouncing around, chattering. But with Hannah, it was real. The Gnat only acted that way because it tricked people into liking her.

  Rose was different. Very different. She was a year younger than Bobby and Hannah, but she acted like a teenager, and she looked at you like she could see right through you and wasn’t sure she liked what she saw. She had black straight hair and weirdly cold blue eyes that blasted through him. She wasn’t pretty and she never giggled—she rarely even laughed, unless she was with Hannah.

  Rose saw him coming first, though it always felt like “saw” wasn’t the right word. Rose seemed to sense him coming. She stood and when she fixed those blue eyes on him, he quailed as he always did, falling back a step before reminding himself he had done nothing wrong. Rose only tilted her head, and when she spoke, her rough voice was kind.

  “Are you okay, Bobby?”

  “Sure.”

  Her lips pursed, as if calling him a liar, then she waved for him to join them. As he stepped up beside the girls, he was chagrined to realize that as much as he’d grown in the last few months, Rose had grown more. She might be only seven and a girl, but he barely came up to her eyebrows. She moved back to let him stand beside Hannah.

  “See what we found?” Hannah said.

  It was a cat, with four kittens, all tabbies like the momma, except the smallest, which was ink black.

  “Show him what you can do,” Rose said.

  Hannah glanced up, her forehead creasing with worry.

  “Go on,” Rose said. “Bobby can keep a secret. Show him.”

  He looked at Rose, and she nodded, giving him a small smile—a sympathetic smile, as if she knew what he was going through and wanted Hannah to share her secret to make him feel better. He bristled. He didn’t want her sympathy. Didn’t need it. But he did want the secret, so he let Rose cajole Hannah until she blurted it out.

  “I can talk to animals.” Hannah paused, face reddening. “No, that doesn’t sound right. It’s not like Dr. Dolittle. I don’t hear them talk. Animals don’t talk. But they do . . . ” She turned to Rose. “What’s the word you used?”

  “Communicate.”

  Hannah nodded. “They communicate. I can understand them, and they can understand me.”

  He must have seemed skeptical, because her face went the color of apples in autumn.

  “See?” she hissed at Rose. “This is why I can’t tell anyone. They’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” he said. “But you’re right—you probably shouldn’t tell anyone else.”

  Hannah’s gaze dropped, and he felt bad. Like maybe he should tell her about the dreams and how he admitted it to Gran, and what happened next.

  Did they know what happened? His grandmother always said Cainsville was a “backwater nowhere” town, where they lived like they weren’t sixty miles from one of the biggest cities in America. Gran said they were ignorant, and they liked it that way. They didn’t read newspapers, didn’t listen to the news or even watch it on television. That wasn’t true. He’d once told Mrs. Yates about going to the site of the World Fair, and she’d known all about it. She’d told him stories about the fair, the sights and sounds and even the smells. He’d gotten an A on his paper and his teacher said it was almost like he’d been there. He’d asked Mrs. Yates if she’d been there, and she’d laughed and said she wasn’t that old. No one was. So people in Cainsville weren’t ignorant, but he supposed that knowing about the 1893 World Fair wasn’t the same as knowing what his teacher called “current events.”

  “You shouldn’t tell everyone,” Rose said to Hannah. “Definitely not anyone outside Cainsville. But no one here will think you’re crazy.” She nudged Hannah with her sneaker. “Tell him about the black kitten.”

  Hannah took more prodding, but when Bobby expressed an interest, she finally stood and said, “He’s sick. Momma Cat is worried he’s going to die. He doesn’t get enough to eat because he’s smaller than the others.”

  “He’s not that much smaller.”

  “He’s different,” Rose said. “That’s why they won’t let him eat very much. I think he’s a matagot. That’s what we were talking about when you came up.”

  “A matagot?”

  “Magician’s cat,” Rose said, as matter-of-factly as if she’d said the cat was a Siamese. “It’s a spirit that’s taken the form of a black cat.”

  “They say that if you keep one and treat it well, it will reward you with a gold piece every day,” Hannah said.

  “Gold?” he said.

  Something in his tone made Rose tense—or maybe it was the way he looked at the black kitten. Hannah only giggled.

  “It’s not true, silly,” Hannah said. “Magic doesn’t work that way. Not real magic.”

  “What do you know about real magic?”

  She shrugged. “Enough. I know it can make gargoyles disappear in daylight and tomato plants grow straight and true. I know it can let some people read omens—like old Mrs. Carew—and some see the future, like Rose’s Nana Walsh.”

  He turned to Rose. “Your grandmother can see the future?”

  “Futures,” she said. “There’s more than one. It’s all about choices.”

  He didn’t understand that, but pushed on. “If I asked her to see my futures—”

  “You can’t,” Hannah cut in. “Not unless you can talk to ghosts. I’m not sure anyone can talk to ghosts. If there are ghosts.” She turned to Rose, as if she was the older, wiser girl.

  “There are,” Rose said. “Those with the sight sometimes say they see them. Others can, too. But most times when a person says they’re seeing ghosts it’s their imagination. Even if you can talk to them I’m not sure why you’d want to.”

  Hannah nodded, and his gaze shot from one girl to the other, unable to believe they were talking about such things seriously. Kids at school would call them babies for believing in magic. His parents would call it ungodly. His grandmother would probably call them changelings.

  “About the cat. The . . . matagot.” He stumbled
over the foreign word.

  “We don’t know if it is one,” Rose said. “Hannah says his mother thinks he’s strange. She still loves him, though.”

  “As she should,” Hannah said. “There’s nothing wrong with strange.”

  Rose nodded. “But we’re worried.”

  “Very worried.” Hannah knelt beside the box where the mother cat was licking the black kitten’s head. “Momma Cat is even more worried. Aren’t you?”

  The cat mrrowed deep in its throat and looked up at Hannah. Then she nosed the kitten away from her side.

  “I think she’s going to drive it off,” Bobby said. “They do that sometimes. With the weak, the ones that are different.”

  Hannah shook her head, curls bouncing. “No, she’s asking me to take it.”

  “You should,” Rose said. “Your parents would let you.”

  “I know. I just hate taking a kitten from its mother.”

  The cat nosed the kitten again and meowed. Hannah nodded, said, “I understand,” and very gently lifted the little black ball in both hands. The cat meowed again, but it didn’t sound like protest. She gave the black kitten one last look, then shifted, letting its siblings fill the empty space against her belly.

  “You’ll need to feed it with a dropper,” Rose said. “We can get books at the library and talk to the vet when she comes back through town.”

  Hannah nodded. “I’ll take him home first and ask Mom to watch him.”

  They got to the end of the walkway before they seemed to realize he wasn’t following. They turned.

  “Do you want to come with us?” Hannah asked.

  He did, but he wanted the milkshake with Mrs. Yates too, and if the girls were busy, he’d get the old woman all to himself.

  “I told Mrs. Yates I’d meet her at the diner,” he said, not mentioning the milkshakes.

  Rose nodded. “Then you should do that. We’ll see you later.”

  “Is your family coming for Samhain?” Hannah asked.

  “I think we are.”

  Hannah smiled. “I hope so.”

  “Make sure you do,” Rose said. “It’s more fun when you’re here.”

  He couldn’t tell if she meant it or was just being nice, but it felt good to hear her say it and even better when Hannah nodded enthusiastically. He said he’d be back for Samhain, and went to find Mrs. Yates.

  On the way home, his grandmother asked about his visit with Mrs. Yates. She was trying to get him to admit that he’d tattled on her. Even if he had, he certainly wouldn’t admit it. His grandmother might say he was too smart for his age, but sometimes she acted as if he was dumber than The Gnat. Finally, she pulled off the highway, turned in her seat and said, “Did Mrs. Yates ask how things were at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “That they were fine.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder. It was the first time since he’d admitted to the dreams that she’d voluntarily touched him, except to pinch or slap.

  “You know it’s a sin to lie, Bobby.”

  “I do.”

  “Then tell me the truth. Did you say more?”

  He hesitated. Nibbled his lip. Then said, “I told her Natalie was being a pest.”

  Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “But you asked—”

  “Did you say anything more?”

  “No.” He hid his smile. “Not a word.”

  A month later, as Samhain drew near, he mentioned it over dinner.

  “We aren’t going,” his mother said quietly.

  “What?”

  “Gran feels Cainsville isn’t a good influence on you right now.”

  He shot a look at his grandmother, who returned a small, smug smile and ate another forkful of peas.

  “Remember what happened when you visited last month?” his father said. “You came home and you were quite a little terror.”

  That was a lie. His grandmother had punished him twice as much after they got back, making up twice as many stories about him misbehaving. He’d thought she was just angry because her plan—whatever it had been—failed.

  Gran’s smile widened, her false teeth shining as she watched him.

  “I don’t care,” the Gnat said. “I hate Cainsville. It’s boring.”

  His grandmother patted her head. “I agree.

  He shot to his feet.

  “Bobby . . . ” his father said.

  “May I be excused?” he asked.

  His father sighed. “If you’re done.”

  Bobby walked to his room, trying very hard not to run in and slam the door. Once he got there, he fell facedown on his bed. The door clicked open. His grandmother walked in.

  “You’re a very stupid little beast,” she said. “You should have told the elders. They’d take you back.”

  He flipped over to look at her.

  “If you’re being mistreated, they’ll take you back,” she said. “But you didn’t tell them, so now we have to wait for them to come to us. I’ll make sure they come to us.”

  His grandmother soon discovered another flaw in her plan. Two, actually. First, that whoever she thought would “come for him” was not coming, no matter how harsh her punishments. Second, that his parents’ blindness had limits.

  As the months of abuse had passed, he’d come to accept that his parents weren’t really as oblivious as they pretended. Nor were they as enlightened as they thought. Even if they’d never admit it, there seemed to be a part of them that thought his grandmother’s wild accusation was true. Or perhaps it was not that they actually believed him a changeling faerie child, but that they thought there was something wrong, terribly wrong, with him. He was different. Odd. Too distant and too cold. His sister hated him. Other children avoided him. Like animals, they sensed something was off and steered clear. Perhaps, then, the beatings would help. Not that they’d ever admit such a thing—heavens no, they were modern parents—but if he didn’t complain, then perhaps neither should they.

  They did have limits, though. When the sore spots became bruises and then welts, they objected. What would the neighbors think? Or, worse, his teachers, who might call children’s services. Hadn’t the family been through enough? Gran could punish him if he misbehaved, but she must use a lighter hand.

  That did not solve the problem, but it opened a door. A possibility. That door cracked open a little more when his mother received a call at work from one of the elders, who wondered why they hadn’t seen the Sheehan family in so long. Was everything all right? His mother said it was, but when she reported the call at home, over dinner, his grandmother fairly gnashed her teeth. His mother noticed and asked what was wrong, and Gran said nothing but still, his mother had noticed. He tucked that away and remembered it.

  Christmas came, and he waited until he was alone in the house with his mother, and asked if they’d visit family in Cainsville. His mother wavered. And he was ready.

  “Your grandmother doesn’t think you’re ready,” she said as they sat in front of the television, wrapping gifts.

  “I’ve been much better,” he said.

  “I’m not sure that you have.”

  He stretched tape over a seam. “I don’t think I’m as bad as Gran says. I think she’s still mad at me because we had to move.”

  A soft sigh, but his mother said nothing. He finished his package and took another.

  “I think she might exaggerate sometimes,” he said quietly. “I think Natalie might, too. I sometimes get the feeling they don’t like me very much.”

  Of course his mother had to protest that, but her protests were muted, as if she couldn’t work up true conviction.

  “If you don’t see me misbehaving, maybe I’m not,” he said. “I do, sometimes. All kids do. But maybe it’s not quite as much as Gran and Natalie say.”

  He worded it all so carefully. Not blaming anyone. Only giving his opinion, as a child. His mother went silent, wrapp
ing her gift while nibbling her lower lip, the same way he did when he was thinking.

  “I have friends in Cainsville,” he said. “Little girls who like playing with me. They’re very nice girls.”

  “Hannah and Rose,” his mother said. “I like Hannah. Rose is . . . ”

  “Different,” he said. “Like me. But she’s not mean and she doesn’t misbehave. She hardly ever gets in trouble. Even less than Hannah.”

  “Rose is a very serious girl,” she said. “Like you. I can see why you’d like her.”

  “I do. I miss them. I promise if we go to Cainsville, I’ll be better than ever.” He clipped off a piece of ribbon. “And they are your family. You want to see them. Gran never liked Cainsville, so she’s happy if we don’t go.”

  “That’s true,” his mother murmured, and with that, he knew he’d won an ally in his fight to return to Cainsville. But as he soon learned, it hardly mattered at all. His mother had a job, just like a man, but she didn’t make a lot of money, and his father always joked that it was more a hobby than an occupation, which made his mother angry. That meant, though, that his father was the head of the house. As it should be, Gran would say, and she could, because there was only one person his father always listened to—his own mother, Gran. If Bobby’s grandmother said no to Cainsville, then they would not be going to Cainsville and that was that.

  Gran said no to Cainsville.

  No to Cainsville for the holidays. No to Cainsville for Candlemas. No to Cainsville for May Day.

  It was the last that broke him. May Day was his favorite holiday, with the gargoyle hunt contest, which he was almost certain to win this year, according to Mrs. Yates.

  He would go to Cainsville for May Day. All he had to do was eliminate the obstacle.

  Everyone always told him how smart he was. Part of that was his memory. He heard things, and if he thought they might be important, he filed the information away as neatly as his father filed papers in his basement office. A year ago, his grandmother had admitted to feeding him one of her heart medicine pills. Father Joseph had been horrified—digitalis was foxglove, which was poison. Bobby had mentally filed those details and now, when he needed it, he tugged them out and set off for the library, where he read everything he found on the subject. Then he began stealing pills from Gran’s bottle, one every third day. After two weeks, he had enough. He ground them up and put them in her dinner. And she died. There were a few steps in between—the heart attack, the ambulance, the hospital bed, his parents and the Gnat sobbing and praying—but in the end, he got what he wanted. Gran died and the obstacle was removed, and with it, he got an unexpected gift, one that made him wish he’d taken this step months ago, because as his grandmother breathed her last and he stood beside her bed, watching, he finally heard the screams of dragons.