The Mammoth Book of Nightmare Stories

by Stephen Jones

  Killed his wife.

  Given his son bad luck.

  Yesterday afternoon he had been lucky enough to find someone willing to sell him a gun, the weapon with which he would blow his own brains out. And that, he thought, perfectly summed up what his life had become.

  “Oh, look,” Adam muttered, “a four-leafed clover.” He flicked the little plant and sighed, pushing himself to his feet, stretching. He had been lying on the grass for a long time.

  He walked across the lawn and onto the graveled driveway, past the Mercedes parked mock-casual. Its tires were flat and the engine rusted through, although it was only a year old. One of a bad batch, he had thought, and he still tried to convince himself of that, even after all this time.

  He entered the house and passed into the study.

  Two walls were lined with moldy books he had never read, and never would read. The portraits of the people he loved stared down at him and he should have felt at peace, should have felt comforted, but he did not. There was a large map on one wall, a thousand intended destinations marked in red, the half-dozen places he had visited pinned green. Travel was no longer on his agenda, neither was reading. He could go anywhere on his own, because he had the means to do so, but he no longer felt the desire. Not now that his family was lost to him.

  He was about to take a journey of a different kind. Somewhere even stranger than the places he had already seen. Stranger than anyone had seen, more terrifying, more—final. After the past year he was keener than ever to find his way there.

  And he had a map. It was in the bureau drawer. A .44 Magnum, gleaming snake-like silver, slick to the touch, cold, impersonal. He hugged it between his legs to warm it. May as well feel comfortable for his final seconds.

  Outside, the fourth leaf on the clover glowed brightly and then disappeared into a pinprick of light. A transparent finger rose from the ground to scoop it up. Then it was gone.

  “Well,” Adam said to the house, empty but alive with the memories he had brought here, planted and allowed to grow. “It wasn’t bad to begin with … but it could have been better.”

  He heard footsteps approaching along the graveled driveway, frantic footsteps pounding toward the house.

  “Adam!” someone shouted, emotion giving their voice an androgynous lilt.

  It may have been Howards, regretting the news he had brought.

  Or perhaps it was Amaranth? Realizing that he had slipped their attention for just too long. Knowing, finally, that he would defeat them.

  Whoever. It was the last sound he would hear.

  He placed the barrel of the gun inside his mouth, angled it upward, and pulled the trigger.

  The first thing he heard was Howards.

  “… bounced off your skull and shattered your knee. They took your leg off, too. But I suppose that won’t really bother you much. The doctors say you were so lucky to survive. But then, they would.”

  The shuffle of feet, the creak of someone standing from a plastic chair.

  “I wish you could hear me. I wish you knew how sorry I am, Adam. I thought perhaps you could defeat them …”

  He could not turn to see Howards. He saw nothing but the cracked ceiling. A polystyrene tile had shifted in its grid, and a triangle of darkness stared down at him. Perhaps there were eyes hidden within its gloom even now.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Footsteps as Howards left.

  With a great effort, one that burned into his muscles and set them aflame, Adam lifted his hands. And he felt what was left of his head.

  A face pressed down at him from the ceiling, lifeless, emotionless, transparent but for darker stripes across its chin and cheeks. Another joined it, then two more.

  They watched him for quite some time.

  For all the world, Adam wished he could look away.

  ONE OF US

  DENNIS ETCHISON

  Dennis Etchison is a three-time winner of both the British Fantasy and World Fantasy Awards. His collections include The Dark Country, Red Dreams, The Blood Kiss, The Death Artist, Talking in the Dark, Fine Cuts, Got To Kill Them All & Other Stories, A Little Black Book of Horror Tales, and It Only Comes Out At Night & Other Stories.

  He is also the author of the novels Darkside, Shadowman, California Gothic, Double Edge, The Fog, Halloween II and III, and Videodrome (the latter three under the pseudonym “Jack Martin”), and the editor of the anthologies Cutting Edge, Masters of Darkness I–III, MetaHorror, The Museum of Horrors, and (with Ramsey Campbell and Jack Dann) Gathering the Bones.

  Etchison has written extensively for film, television, and radio, including more than 150 scripts for The Twilight Zone Radio Dramas. He served as President of the Horror Writers Association from 1992–94 and is a recipient of the Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement.

  “My friend Patrick was a professional driver,” the author explains. “He owned two limousines, was Ray Bradbury’s personal chauffeur (the license plate on that car read F451, naturally), and also provided transportation for some of the motion picture and television studios in Los Angeles. Every year the networks spent two or three busy months publicizing their new shows for the fall season, previewing them for the press and staging various publicity events. Patrick usually had contracts to shuttle stars to and from these events, and when the rush was on it may have been necessary for him to subcontract with other independent drivers in order to guarantee enough cars.

  “One day in 2001 he asked me to help him out by driving a TV talk-show host to and from a press junket. When the drive, approximately one-half mile in each direction, netted me a quick fifty-dollar cash tip, I wondered whether Patrick might need help any other time soon. He did, and so over the next couple of months I spent a few hours a week behind the wheel of the F451 Cadillac with its 32-valve Northstar engine, ferrying movie and TV series stars to airports, photo opportunities, studio shoots, and the like—probably the most painless work I have ever done, and a great deal easier than writing.

  “The experience was interesting and also turned out to be a research opportunity, the first product being the story you are about to read … which, I should emphasize, is fiction.”

  HEYMAN RANG THE bell one more time, then walked down the driveway to the shade.

  The Lincoln was so quiet he had to open the door to be sure it was running. He switched off the engine, pressed the button to pop the trunk, and went around to the back, but before he could reach inside the car the gate behind him buzzed.

  A tall boy came up the driveway from the street, dragging his feet through the dry leaves.

  “Morning,” said Heyman.

  The boy had on hiking boots, baggy shorts, and a T-shirt with a distorted logo across the front. He tried to focus his eyes. “Uh. You must be the dude.”

  Heyman nodded. “I’m the driver.”

  “Uh, Willy, right?”

  “Willy’s off today.”

  “Uh.” The boy lost interest and stumbled on toward the house.

  Heyman called after him. “Is anybody home?”

  “Yih.”

  “You sure?”

  “Dude,” said the boy, “it’s rilly early.”

  Now Heyman heard an electric guitar crank up, slashing away at one chord over and over, each time on the downbeat. Heart attack music, he thought. He looked at his watch: 10:30. The boy disappeared along the side of the house. There was the sound of French doors rattling. The music got louder for a moment and then the doors closed.

  He started the engine and set the air conditioning on high again, then punched a number into his cell phone.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Yeah, I found it. No problem. They’re about ready.”

  He shut the phone, took a duster out of the trunk, and knocked the dead leaves and haze off the limo until the paint shone like oil. When he saw his reflection sharpen in the black surface he straightened his collar and tie. Then he put the duster away and took the envelope from the trunk, checking to see that everything was there. H
e lowered the trunk lid.

  A few minutes later all three boys came out. One was dressed in old Nikes, jeans, and a ratty T-shirt; the other in leather sandals, pleated slacks, and a silk shirt, carrying a Tumi backpack. The tall boy in the baggy shorts still walked cautiously, as if worried about land mines on the property.

  Heyman flashed a smile. “Which one of you is Perry Leyman?”

  The boy with the old Nikes hooked a thumb at his friend in the sandals.

  The man held out his hand. “I’m Paul.”

  The well-dressed boy looked through him, went directly to the car, and waited for Heyman to open the passenger door.

  The tall one bumped his head getting into the back.

  “Watch yourself, there,” said Heyman. “I put some chips and sodas in the armrest. If you need anything else, let me know.”

  “Where’s Willy?” asked Perry, climbing into the front seat.

  “He couldn’t make it.”

  “Slick Willy.” Perry unwound a pair of earplug headphones. “We go way back. My whole life, almost.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Dude,” said a voice from the back seat, “did you bring it?”

  Perry undid the Velcro on the backpack. Inside were some folded squares of paper, a CD player, and a stack of discs in jewel cases. He passed it all over his shoulder.

  “Yih.”

  “Your brother got the delivery?”

  In the mirror Heyman saw the tall one elbow him. “Jason, man, try to be cool.”

  Perry turned to the driver. “You know where you’re going?”

  Heyman shifted into reverse and rolled down the driveway, waiting for the security gate to slide back. “Irvine. The Bowl.”

  “Yih.”

  “When’s the concert?”

  “Noon.”

  “We’ll make it. Got your tickets?”

  “Passes.”

  “Great.” Heyman put it into drive and started the big tires rolling out of the cul-de-sac and down the canyon. “What kind of bands? Punk?”

  In the back seat, the tall one laughed. “Punk went underground.”

  “Yeah,” said Jason, “way underground.”

  “New Wave, then,” Heyman said. “Or grunge—is that what they call it now?”

  “In the day.”

  “Black metal,” Perry explained.

  “What label are they on?”

  “Lots of different ones. Indies and imports.”

  “Not your old man’s,” said Jason.

  “I got my dad to sign Blutvergieben.” Perry spoke the word with a practiced German accent. “But the manager screwed him and kept the advance.”

  “I think I’ve heard of them,” said Heyman.

  “Hang a right.”

  “I thought we’d take Kester to the freeway …”

  “We have to pick up Juno.” Perry took out a cell phone of his own and hit a programmed number. “Where are you? Stop,” he told the driver.

  At the next corner a teenage girl with blue streaks in her hair teetered on the curb, about to cross into the cul-de-sac. She had on a black belly shirt with white letters that spelled FUCT. As Heyman pulled over she stashed her phone in a jogger’s pouch and squeezed into the back seat.

  “Did you call the bitch?” the girl said.

  “Nuh,” said Perry.

  “Thanks!”

  “I don’t have the number.”

  “Your dad could get it.”

  “My dad’s in the Caymans.”

  “Then I’ll just have to kick her little ass.”

  The boys looked out the tinted windows and tried not to laugh.

  “You’re tripping,” Perry told her.

  “Is that what you guys think?”

  “Nuh.”

  “Nuh.”

  “The drummer’s pretty big, though,” said Perry.

  “I could give such a massive shit. Did your brother get the drugs?”

  “Later, Juno,” Perry told her.

  Heyman took the 405 south while she continued to rant. It seemed that she had tried out as lead singer for a band but lost the job to another girl and was royally pissed. They hit a detour after LAX, an overturned truck that forced them onto the surface streets for several miles before he could pick up another freeway. He kept a map book open and followed the jumbled maze of lines that connected through to Orange County and the coast.

  After a while she gave it up and put on the earplugs. From the back seat he heard a faint hiss as she sampled one CD after another, jerking her head to the white noise of insect music. The three boys exchanged information about musicians and remixes and club dates. Glancing at the mirror, he decided that they were no more than fifteen. He was responsible for them while they were in the car, at least as far as their parents and the law were concerned. If he saw any drugs come out he would have to pull over. They would love him for that.

  The girl took the earphones off and glared at the boy on her right. “Sean, will you stand up for me?”

  “Yih.”

  “Don’t shit me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What about you, Jason? Do you even have your knife?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “There’s other bands,” Perry told her.

  “Fine!” she said. “Then you are all so busted. I’ll tell Eric what you do with his good shit!”

  “You don’t talk to my brother. Ever.”

  “And your dad!”

  “Try it. We’ll see who’s busted. My brother just got accepted at Yale.”

  “Like I care!”

  “One word, Juno.”

  A half-mile from the concert the traffic stopped dead. Dust swirled up. Vendors walked along the side of the road, hawking posters and fake tattoos. Heyman heard guttural lyrics warring between the cars as twin silver-lightning-bolt decals glittered in the sun. With the air conditioner on high the big engine started to overheat. He paid ten dollars to get into the lot and dropped them off in front of the main gate. A poster advertised the German band as the headline act.

  “What time?” he asked Perry.

  “Eight.”

  “I’ll be here. As close as I can get.”

  “What’s your number?”

  The boy meant the cell phone. Heyman wrote it on one of Willy’s business cards and gave it to him.

  “Call me when you’re ready.”

  “Yih.”

  He drove on through the parking lot and over the spikes to the street. As soon as he got out of the jam he opened the front console and flipped through Willy’s jazz collection. He found a tape of Miles and Cannonball and looked around for a spot to park for a few hours. Then he dialed Willy.

  “I just dropped them off.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Nice kids.”

  “You made good time,” Willy said. “Did you check the trunk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All there, right?”

  “No sweat.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Not you. The dad.”

  “Sorry,” said Willy, “but you know I can’t cut that shit anymore.”

  “I know. You’re retired.”

  “All I want to do now is drive.”

  “You got it.”

  He stopped off at the nearest strip mall, loosened his tie, and stretched his legs. Then he ordered a spicy chicken sandwich and a large coffee at Carl’s Jr. The fast-food restaurant was full of all kinds. When he finished eating he returned to the limo, popped the trunk again, and took out the padded envelope, but before he could get another look at the photo a panhandler tried to hit him up. He flipped the guy a buck, closed the trunk, got back in the car, and cruised the streets for a better spot.

  Everywhere he went people were on their way to the concert. Some had sleeveless shirts and lightning bolts on their biceps but most were normal high school kids in cut-offs and tank tops, college couples in cotton prints and white socks. There were a few old heavy metal fans and even some
families, the little ones done up in their best SpongeBob and Powerpuff Girls colors. It had been a while since a rock festival came to town. He drove over to the beachfront and finally found some shade under the palm trees so that he could kick back.

  On the jazz album, Cannonball had top billing and most of the time Miles sounded like a sideman. Miles was never greedy. He just laid down his part, got in there and got out of there, and picked up his pay. The man was an inspiration.

  Heyman took off his black coat and tried to relax. Whenever he switched tapes he could hear a distant booming, as if a storm were about to roll in even though the air was clear all the way to the horizon. As the day wore on he could feel it inside in the car, pulsing through the ground and the tires like low-frequency electrical waves, coming closer.

  At five o’clock he ran a shaver over his chin, straightened his tie, and drove back to the concert site. The throbbing grew deeper as he cruised the perimeter. There were generators beyond the tent, at the rear of the outdoor stage. He could not hear them hammering away but they vibrated and blurred under a floating layer of exhaust. The decibel level from the banked speakers was overpowering, amplifying the lyrics to a hysterical roar. Heyman realized that he could find any pattern at all in the wall of sound, as long as it had to do with anger and rage. The music did not speak to him.

  At six o’clock he went back to the fast-food restaurant for more coffee, then gassed up the car and returned to the site. There was a break between sets now and families were already leaving with groggy children on their shoulders. He parked behind a line of limos near the Artists Only entrance, reached under the seat, and found a rolled-up towel. He stuck it under his coat and took it with him to the gate.

  A young security guard in a yellow jacket stopped him.

  “Who’s next?” asked Heyman.

  “Last act. Where’s your pass?”

  A cascade of pyrotechnics lit the night with blue-white lightning. The headline band crouched at the flap of the tent, ready to run up the scaffolding to the stage. The guard looked skyward, shielding his eyes, and Heyman slipped inside the chain-link fence.