New Fears II--Brand New Horror Stories by Masters of the Macabre
Page 1
CONTENTS
COVER
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
INTRODUCTION by Mark Morris
MAW by Priya Sharma
THE AIRPORT GORILLA by Stephen Volk
THUMBSUCKER by Robert Shearman
BULB by Gemma Files
FISH HOOKS by Kit Power
EMERGENCE by Tim Lebbon
ON CUTLER STREET by Benjamin Percy
LETTERS FROM ELODIE by Laura Mauro
STEEL BODIES by Ray Cluley
THE MIGRANTS by Tim Lucas
RUT SEASONS by Brian Hodge
SENTINEL by Catriona Ward
ALMOST AUREATE by V.H. Leslie
THE TYPEWRITER by Rio Youers
LEAKING OUT by Brian Evenson
THANATRAUMA by Steve Rasnic Tem
PACK YOUR COAT by Aliya Whiteley
HAAK by John Langan
THE DEAD THING by Paul Tremblay
THE SKETCH by Alison Moore
PIGS DON’T SQUEAL IN TIGERTOWN by Bracken MacLeod
BIOGRAPHIES
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
New Fears
Phantoms: Haunting Tales from the Masters of the Genre
Dark Cities: All-New Masterpieces of Urban Terror
Dead Letters: An Anthology of the Undelivered, the Missing, the Returned…
Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse
Wastelands 2: More Stories of the Apocalypse
Associates of Sherlock Holmes
Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes
NEW FEARS 2
Print edition ISBN: 9781785655531
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785655593
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: September 2018
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Introduction Copyright © 2018 Mark Morris
Maw Copyright © 2018 Priya Sharma
The Airport Gorilla Copyright © 2018 Stephen Volk
Thumbsucker Copyright © 2018 Robert Shearman
Bulb Copyright © 2018 Gemma Files
Fish Hooks Copyright © 2018 Kit Power
Emergence Copyright © 2018 Tim Lebbon
On Cutler Street Copyright © 2018 Benjamin Percy
Letters From Elodie Copyright © 2018 Laura Mauro
Steel Bodies Copyright © 2018 Ray Cluley
The Migrants Copyright © 2018 Tim Lucas
Rut Seasons Copyright © 2018 Brian Hodge
Sentinel Copyright © 2018 Catriona Ward
Almost Aureate Copyright © 2018 V.H. Leslie
The Typewriter Copyright © 2018 Rio Youers
Leaking Out Copyright © 2018 Brian Evenson
Thanatrauma Copyright © 2018 Steve Rasnic Tem
Pack Your Coat Copyright © 2018 Aliya Whiteley
Haak Copyright © 2018 John Langan
The Dead Thing Copyright © 2018 Paul Tremblay
The Sketch Copyright © 2018 Alison Moore
Pigs Don’t Squeal In Tigertown Copyright © 2018 Bracken MacLeod
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
INTRODUCTION
So here we are again.
For those of you who missed out on the original volume in this series, let me explain what New Fears is all about. As a child I grew up reading numerous anthologies of ghost and horror stories, and back in those halcyon days they were nearly all un-themed. Each book contained a delicious blend of stories both supernatural and non-supernatural, some of which would be gory, some subtle, some surreal, some sad, some funny… In short, you never knew what kind of story you were going to be reading next, as a result of which each anthology was a leap into the unknown, a journey of twists and turns leading to a series of exhilarating destinations.
In recent years, though, market forces have dictated that if anthologies are to appeal to the reader, then they must have a theme. Hence we now see a proliferation of anthologies in which all the stories are about vampires, or zombies, or werewolves, or mad scientists; or anthologies in which all the stories are set in the same location; or anthologies whose stories all focus on a single, sometimes abstract concept: evolution, the dark, phobias, obsessions, dreams.
Don’t get me wrong. Some of these themed anthologies are excellent. But they’re also restrictive to a greater or lesser degree, and whenever I read one I find myself hankering for a bit more variety; I find myself thinking wistfully of the un-themed genre anthologies which have most influenced and excited me over the years: the annual Pan and Fontana Books of Horror and Ghost Stories; Ramsey Campbell’s New Terrors (originally published in two volumes in 1980, and as an omnibus edition in 1985); Kirby McCauley’s Dark Voices (1980); Douglas E. Winter’s Prime Evil (1989); Nicholas Royle’s Darklands (1991) and Darklands 2 (1992); Stephen Jones and David Sutton’s six-volume Dark Terrors series (1996–2002).
My aim with New Fears, therefore, is to bring back the un-themed horror anthology—and not as a one-off, but as an annual publication, with each volume acting as a showcase for the very best and most innovative fiction that this exhilarating genre has to offer. “Horror” is a catch-all term for a field that has an almost infinite variety of approaches, themes and styles, and I want New Fears to reflect that.
And judging by the feedback we’ve received for the first volume we’ve made an excellent start.
When New Fears was released in September 2017 my main hope was that the modern horror readership would buy into an old idea made new. But not only did they buy into the idea, they embraced it like a long-lost but much-loved relative, lavishing it with praise and plaudits, and even with love.
Ginger Nuts of Horror said that New Fears “oozes quality from an eclectic range of leading writers from the world of horror and dark fiction…” whereas Kendall Reviews described the book as “a stunning collection of nineteen tales that will both terrify and delight you. The quality of writing is brilliant… a special anthology that I hope to see run and run…” HorrorTalk, meanwhile, thought New Fears “…a gathering of glittering gems by some of the finest minds in the business today…” and Risingshadow simply described it as “…one of the best horror anthologies of the year…”
Additionally, New Fears was chosen as the only anthology on Barnes and Noble’s auspicious and influential Best Horror of 2017 list.
An excellent start then, as I said.
But now it’s time to look forward, not back. Which begs the question: what does New Fears 2 have to offer?
Well, first and foremost an entirely new line-up of writers. From the outset I decided that in order to showcase the work of as many genre practitioners as possible, all of the writers who had a story in volume one would be ineligible to send me a story for volume two. What this means is that, taken together, volumes one and two of New Fears offer you forty brand new stories from forty of the best genre writers working
today. Which doesn’t mean I’ve now exhausted the options where new contributors are concerned—far from it. Such is the current vibrancy of the genre that if New Fears continues beyond volume two, there are many, many more writers I would love to feature within its pages. Indeed, if I wanted to, I could almost certainly fill up at least half a dozen volumes of New Fears before returning to writers I’ve used before. In fact, my only regret with editing these first two volumes has been that I’ve had to restrict my choices. Believe me, the hardest part of being an editor is not, as some might think, having to plough through hundreds of submissions to find the nuggets of gold; it’s having to turn excellent stories and writers away because there simply isn’t room to accommodate them all.
I’m delighted with the choices I’ve made for New Fears 2, though, and I hope you will be too. As in volume one, the stories featured here are from a range of established masters, such as Stephen Volk, Tim Lebbon and Steve Rasnic Tem, recent genre stars like Paul Tremblay, Benjamin Percy and Catriona Ward, and relative newcomers like Priya Sharma, Laura Mauro, Aliya Whiteley and Kit Power.
Also, as in volume one, the stories are a dizzyingly eclectic mix of styles and approaches. Within these pages are tales of inanimate objects infused with evil; of otherworldly entities and living myths; of family curses and predators both natural and supernatural; of dread and regret and madness and outright terror.
There are stories too which may not at first seem like horror stories at all, but which nevertheless leave you with the uncomfortable notion that there is something askew, off-kilter, not quite right with the world.
Fears, after all, come in many shapes and sizes, and here is just a small selection of them. And who knows? Maybe one of your own fears is waiting for you right here.
Why not find out?
Just turn the page.
MARK MORRIS
January 2018
MAW
Priya Sharma
The sea brought the container in on the highest tide that Little Isle had seen in thirty years, beaching it on the rocks at the base of the cliffs.
Magnus and his sons found it first. They’d been following the trail of dead seals and fish along the beach.
The ferry had been cancelled because the sky over the other islands and the mainland was wild, but the driving wind and rain had paused over Little Isle, making it a bright spot in the darkness.
Hildy, Magnus’s wife, gave him a pointed look when he suggested a day of roaming to the boys, before saying, “Back for lunchtime, okay? You have a homework box for days like this.”
Days when they were cut off and they couldn’t get to primary school on the next island.
The sea was now in retreat. The air smelt swept clean. Water collected in the ripples on the sand and reflected the blue sky overhead.
Donald, Magnus’s younger son, saw the dead seal first. Magnus squatted beside it. Its neck was badly bruised and one of its eyes had gone. A flipper was missing.
“What happened to it, Dad?”
Magnus rolled it over. His cursory post-mortem was inconclusive.
“I don’t know.”
They followed the curve of the beach, and there lay mackerel, herring and ugly monkfish, dull eyes wide in surprise at their fate. Some were whole, but most were torn up, the clumsy dissection revealing guts and flesh already starting to rot.
“Shame. What a waste.”
They picked their way through more seal carcasses. These had fared less well. Most were missing great chunks. Some looked bitten down to bone, the edges black and high.
“Rank.” Peter covered his nose.
“It’s nature.” Magnus loved his sons too much to coddle them. “We all end up like this.”
Magnus meant rotting, not chewed up. Donald screwed up his face.
They found pieces of oars too, beaten and worn. A rowing boat with a hole in its hull. A length of fearsome-looking chain. The ocean bed had been dredged and deposited on the shore.
After a quarter of a mile, the soft ascent of beach onto land was replaced by vertical columns of rock. The container was in the cliff’s shadow.
Donald was about to run to it but Magnus grabbed the hood of his coat and hauled him back. Peter, who was ten, stayed by his father’s side, frowning.
“What is it, Dad?” Peter whispered.
“A shipping container. Take Donald and go straight home. And not up the cliff path either, it’ll be slippery. Go back the way we came.”
Two figures approached them from the opposite direction. Magnus was relieved to see it was Jimmy and Iain. His sons walked away, looking back. Jimmy waved at them. Magnus watched them go and then turned his attention back to the container.
“They don’t normally drop off ships, do they?” Iain asked.
“No, not usually.”
Magnus had authority on Little Isle because of his knowledge of plumbing, plastering and mechanics, and because his grandfather was John Spence. Plus, he’d worked on the mainland port when he was younger, amid acres of decks stacked high with these identical steel boxes. That was the year before he’d married Hildy.
“That’s odd.” Magnus went from one end of the container to the other, kneeling to inspect it. “No twist locks.”
Iain looked blank.
“There should be one at each corner. They lock each container to the one below it, or to the deck.”
Jimmy picked up a pebble.
“Don’t.”
Iain was too late. It hit the container’s side with a dull thud rather than the clang Magnus expected. The stone that had survived endless beatings by the sea shattered into jagged shards. Jimmy’s gaze darted to Iain and then Magnus’s face, awaiting reprimand. Iain shook his head, then turned to Magnus.
“Are they watertight?”
“Should be.”
“What if it’s full of bodies?” Jimmy said. “Immigrants.”
“Don’t be daft.”
Iain’s embarrassment didn’t register with Jimmy, who put his ear to the container.
“What can you hear?” Magnus asked gently. Jimmy was everyone’s to look out for, not just his younger brother’s responsibility.
“I can’t hear what they’re saying.” Jimmy closed his eyes.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“What?” Jimmy was on Iain, fast and fierce. “For God’s sake, what?”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Magnus soothed him. “Come and help me look for something. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” Jimmy looked deflated, as if the unaccustomed anger had taken it out of him. His focus shifted to somewhere beyond Magnus.
“I’m looking for something called a CSC plate. It’s a metal rectangle. So big.” He held up his hands to demonstrate. “It has writing on it. Normally it’s on the doors.”
They circled the container, climbing up and down the rocks, or leaping from one to another. Nothing. Magnus lowered himself between two boulders to inspect the underside.
“What do you see?” Iain called.
“A load of barnacles. This hasn’t come off a ship recently.”
Barnacles, inside their carapaces, looked like closed eyelids or mouths. Barnacles don’t have hearts. His father had told him that.
I must remember to teach the boys, Magnus thought.
He ran his fingers over the jagged colony that was interrupted by limpets, their shells marked with starburst ridges.
Iain reached down to help him climb out.
“Can we keep it? They found one of these on Hesketh Head. It was full of quad bikes. That would be something, wouldn’t it?”
Magnus put his chin on his chest, considering Iain’s suggestion. “The police called them looters.”
“Didn’t catch them though, did they? We don’t have to keep it for ourselves. We could use it for everyone.”
“Maybe you’re right. We’re owed a bit of luck.” He lifted his eyes skyward. “Here comes his lordship. Well, that’s fucked that idea then.”
* * *<
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“Simon.” Magnus gave him a curt nod.
“How’s Hildy?”
“Fine.”
“Give her my regards.”
“Will do.”
“Did that wash up this morning?” Simon gestured towards the container.
Magnus didn’t reply, so neither did Iain.
“There’s no CSC plate on it. We looked.” Jimmy kicked at a dead fish and then wandered away when Simon gave him a bemused smile.
“Have either of you been able to get outside contact?”
“No, everything’s down,” Magnus replied. “The storm’s still out there.”
“We’ll let the coastguard know when the radio’s back up.”
“So that’s it. You’ve decided without a word to anyone.”
Magnus willed Simon to say It’s my island so he could have a go at him but Simon didn’t oblige.
“What’s there to decide?”
“You have no idea what’s in there.”
“Whatever it is, it isn’t ours.”
“Look at it. It’s been in the ocean for God knows how long. The insurance will have already been paid out on it.”
“It might be someone’s personal things.”
“Or there might be a load of laptops.”
“So you’re planning to sell stolen goods?”
“You can’t decide for everyone.”
There were distant figures on the beach. The islanders that couldn’t get to work on the bigger islands were out to see what the storm had washed up.
A fish flopped around in a shallow rock pool at Magnus’s feet. It was barely covered by the water. Magnus flipped the mackerel onto the sand and then seized it. He put his thumb in its mouth, snapping the head back at a sharp angle. The sudden motion ripped the gills from its throat and blood pulsed from its arteries onto its silver stripes. Magnus let it drip, holding the fish fast in its death throes.
“Was that necessary? Wouldn’t hitting it on the head be kinder?”
“Ignoramus.”
Bleeding kept the flesh from rotting, otherwise it clotted in the body where bacteria could breed.
Magnus flung it to Simon who fumbled with it, getting blood and brine on his jacket.
“Take it home. Make some fucking sushi or something.”