The Spectral Book of Horror Stories (23 page)

#

The day began deathly grey and did not improve. The afternoon light into which Henry stepped was so weak and ineffectual that he almost missed the crouched man. If he’d not been heading towards the pickup he’d spent part of the morning changing the tyre of, he’d not have seen the man at all. As he got closer Henry saw the dull gleam of a blade, not terribly big, but big enough to do damage. The man was about to puncture the tyre yet again.A red veil covered Henry’s eyes. His temper wasn’t short, not by a long shot, but nor was he inclined to forgive this kind of spiteful vandalism. He didn’t know who the bloke was or why he was targeting Henry, and at that point he didn’t care. The youth took swift steps, got close enough for the other to hear him and begin to turn and rise.

Henry threw himself forward.Henry stopped.The rank body odour hit him first, then the man’s fist punched him in the stomach. Henry caught a glimpse of a frightened weary face, rumpled as if someone had slept in it too long, mud-green eyes swimming in fear and guilt, and a mouth that kept saying something over and over. Henry’s hearing had deserted him, the world fallen silent, and his belly flared both hot and cold.He looked down.The knife was protruding from his hard-earned six pack.

He didn’t think the man had meant to do it; it was just the angle, Henry’s momentum, the man’s fright. He wanted to say
It’s okay
, that he knew it hadn’t been on purpose. Noise began to seep back to him, and he heard the man yelling
Help! Help!
as he caught at Henry and laid him down on the footpath.
Help! Help!
as he ran away so he wouldn’t get caught. As if he had something better to do.Chills rushed through him, up and down. Henry hoped someone would let Mrs Morgan know he wouldn’t make it tonight. He hoped he wouldn’t feel worse. He hoped someone would come soon.

#

Cecil ran like he’d never done before. He wasn’t a runner. He was a short, fat, middle-aged man burdened by grief and junk food. After Gil had gone, after Cecil’s wife had left him, no one cared for him, not even Cecil. He just kept going, knowing he needed nourishment and nothing more. He didn’t eat for taste or enjoyment or health, just to exist. It meant he wasn’t fussy with portions or calories; it meant things fried deeply and provided quickly formed a major part of his diet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a piece of fruit, or there’d been something in his fridge that was green because it was meant to be, rather than green because it was going off and Cecil’s refrigerator was the place things went to die. He ran, though he knew he couldn’t be as fast as he felt, as if things sped by in the grey dusk. As if he flew along the deserted streets as he fled the terrible mistake he’d made.He’d stopped shouting soon after he’d let the boy down, pressing the lad’s large hands to the wound. He’d pulled out the knife, knowing it would make the lad bleed all the worse, but Cecil couldn’t leave it behind. There were his prints—a drunk driving conviction fifteen years ago meant he’d be on file—and he didn’t want to let the thing go because it had been Gil’s. He hoped someone had gone to the boy’s aid, hoped it wasn’t the sort of neighbourhood where shouting caused people to secure their doors and huddle inside until everything seemed quiet again. But he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t get caught. He was so close.He stumbled over the threshold of his rented house and slammed the door, pressed his forehead against it, then turned, rested his back on the wood, waited until the breath shooting from his lungs didn’t feel like fire, until the shaking of his limbs had calmed. And then he bent over and vomited hard on the tenant-resistant, slate-coloured carpet. He huddled, hands wrapped around his head, ragged nails biting through his thinning hair into the pale scalp beneath.The pain brought him back to himself.He had to focus.He had to go on.This was his chance.He couldn’t let it—her—slip away again.He forced himself upwards. He had hours yet; he should clean the mess he’d made, watch the monitors. But somehow he knew he couldn’t wait them out here. He should go. He should go before the streets began to hold traces of random trick-or-treaters. What if someone had seen? What if he’d left some trace, though he couldn’t image what it might be? What if, what if what if? What if the police were already speeding towards this place?That thought galvanised him. He picked through the gear in the sitting room, extracted the sleeping bag for warmth and the ghillie suit for camouflage. In the end he took only the Swiss Army Knife, wiping its blade as clean as he could, stuffing it in a trouser pocket.He knew where she would go.He knew where he would meet her.

#

The air was brisk, lacing her lungs as she breathed deeply, taking long strides up the incline. Once she’d have carried a burning brand to illuminate her track, to ignite the pyre, but that might have caught attention. So, it was a Maglite in her hand, providing a bright circle to follow, but giving off no warmth the way an old torch would. It was enough that the
form
of things be honoured in spirit, not slavish mimicry.Around her foxes yipped and badgers snuffled; other things she couldn’t identify made noise too, but Mirabel had no fear of the dark, no fear of the forest. She’d walked across the fields, then taken the path around the base of the tor, traversing rills and ditches, stiles and fallen trees, marking the way with light, the way that must lead ever upwards. When she passed under the canopy of trees that would take her to the glade, where Henry would be waiting, she sighed contentedly. In her long years she had never been let down by any of her chosen. All things had their time, their natural conclusion.Everything she directed her existence towards was coming to fruition.

#

Cecil almost gasped as she moved past him in the darkness. Her face was shadowed, but he knew it was her, knew her shape; he’d watched her enough from the first time they’d met. From when she’d moved in across the street from his family home in Otter St Mary and lived there for a year. The lovely, gracious woman who’d asked politely if their son, their only child, just turned nineteen, might be kind enough to do some gardening for her. Effortlessly attractive, effortlessly desirable.The woman who’d come and gone like a storm, like a flood, stealing something so precious he’d not cared to see what she’d left behind, the benefits she’d given to a village that had been foundering, its crops poor and stunted, its children pale and sickly, its businesses and farms dying a slow death. A village that, after Gil had gone, began to breathe, to produce, to be
fertile
again, though that benevolence gladdened Cecil’s heart not a jot.She walked slowly, he noticed, slower than seemed normal. He wondered if she’d injured herself crossing dark fields, then reminded himself it didn’t matter. He waited until she was well ahead, then rolled from the sleeping bag, left it and the ghillie suit behind, and began to follow.

#

She reached the top of the slope, stepped into the clearing. The bulk of the woven bed was there, picked out by the beam of the Maglite. On top lay the torch she’d made, a branch of yew, one end wrapped around with dried henbane and belladonna and other lesser kindling. She lit it with the matches in her coat pocket and switched off the flashlight. The burning brand gave better light and she nodded with satisfaction, feeling her blood warmed by the leaping blue-orange flame. She held it high and looked around.No sign of Henry.She frowned.Called his name and received no reply.Looked at the cheap watch on her wrist, though she didn’t need to; the tides in her veins kept track of the hours. Fifteen minutes. He still had fifteen minutes.She threw the brand onto the pyre; that at least could be started. She felt the heat and smiled, welcoming it like an old friend to warm her ancient bones.Once the blaze was settled, she turned her back to it as she always did, knowing the bright amber light made of her a silhouette so Henry, as he came up the bridal path, could not see the change in her. Could not see how, on Halloween Eve, age had rushed in upon her, how all the seasons’ endings had converged where she stood, rendering her old, weakened, vulnerable.Tension was beginning to take a hold on Mirabel when she at last saw the blurred shape appear at the mouth of the path; her eyes aged too, let her down. A man, yes. Henry, she thought and relaxed into a smile. He wouldn’t see her face, not until the last moment and by then it wouldn’t matter.She raised her hands, stretched out her arms to welcome him, though it caused an ache in her hoary joints, a popping she feared was audible. Her smile would not be dimmed, however, as she felt the ebbing that was essential for a new beginning.Henry came towards her, faster now, faster, and as he got closer she knew something was wrong.

#

Her face was a blank, black oval to Cecil, his eyes burned by the glare of the bonfire behind her, but he saw in the way she shifted that she
knew
. She knew somehow.That something was not right.And Cecil was filled with an unreasoning terror that she would get away. That she would turn into a puff of smoke, sprout wings and fly, become airy in the extreme and sink into the earth’s arms, away from his. He put on a burst of speed, the last he’d ever make, propelling his fat little self forward until his soft body met her bony one, and he heard bones break with the impact, heard her gasp turn into a shriek as they both plummeted back, against the pyre, then into its heart as flames reached up and around to envelop them.And in that moment, that final moment, Cecil experienced with startling clarity a rare self-awareness. He knew, at last, that his question for the October Widow was not and had never been
Why my son?
but rather
Why not me?

#

When she woke she sensed an earth changed and not for the better, and that she had changed, also not for the better. She ached, not as badly as on her last night, but still a dull throb of pain ran through her. Where was the spring in her step, the strength in her form that renewal had always promised and ever delivered?The October Widow had slept for two solid days in the ashes and bones, the dirt and cinders, while the land and her body re-knitted themselves, made themselves anew, the debt called in with the blood of the young king.She shook her head. Her memories were loose, scrambled, rattling around in her head as though her skull were too big for her brain. Lying back in her cold charcoal bed, Mirabel closed her eyes, breathed deep, trying to centre herself, to pull the core together.No. Not the young king. Not her consort,
not
her sacrifice.Someone else. A man, yes, but not Henry. A man, older, soft and lost, barely holding on to his life. A man weak and whimpering, clasping her as if she were a mother who’d failed to love him.A man who didn’t know what he’d done.Slowly she raised her hands, examined them. Brown-spotted, dry, fingers twigs, nails broken and brittle, joints swollen. She put them to her face and felt the damage there: skin corrugated, furrowed like a field before planting. The eyebrows bushy, the dips beneath the eyes so soft they felt like decayed fruit, and the chin—oh, the chin! Raised lumps… not moles, nothing so benign, but
warts
. With stiff sharp hairs growing from them.Slowly she rolled to one side, drew her legs towards her chest, then rolled onto hands and knees, as if to search for something in the cinders, as if to beg. When at last she found her feet, she dug them through the clinkers and soot, ignoring the sharp bits of broken, unconsumed bone, until she found the ground proper. Looked down at her naked body as she waited, saw firsthand the damage done by an inappropriate forfeit: stretch-marked skin, empty dugs for breasts, scrawny arms, a hollow pelvis, thighs destined never to meet, knees like knucklebones, calves no more than long ankles. The October Widow shuddered. She closed her eyes again, concentrated. Listened. Felt.She’d always known where to travel next for the pulse of the world directed her. But now… now it was weak, so weak she could barely feel it beneath the soles of her feet. She had to kneel once more, press her ear and her palms to the dirt, heedless of the grey-black that coated her flesh, to try and find it. To hear its voice more clearly.She straightened. There was a message, yes, but it wasn’t a location, not yet. The world wasn’t strong enough to know, for everywhere the slow decline that a lesser offering brought was beginning. That man, she thought, that stupid sad little man had dumped all his grieving, all his pain into the sacred fire, into her, into the earth. Left his mark behind and it would not be easily erased.But it
could
be done.She
would
do it.In that renewal would be her own, the little man’s stain washed away with a tide of young blood.

THE SLISTA

Stephen Laws

You must be gud, says Svival. You must be gud, or The Slista will come get you.Svival has been a-telling us about The Slista long as we can member. It is the only thing what we are fright about. No thing other has us a-fright. Not the hair-things I done found called rats now, which can bite and go scratcsh but taste good. Not the all kinds Big Noyse that go past window of our under-the-ground place in the Big Howse. Not the sky thunders, not nothing else. But The Slista – this is the big scare thing.Svival told us long tyme that we are all safe here in the under-ground place where no one go. No one no we here—the five of us. We are the famly—me, and my name is Critch (which now I can rite when I been looking at story-book brung down once by Svival). Then there is Kate, who is next down from me. Then Morris, he boy. Then Declin and True. One time there was six—but Kenny come out of Kate very little small and he not good with noyses. No noyse be made when peepuls come. That is why we be safe all tyme. So Svival, he come down from up the-stare-place very a-noyed and Kenny not make noyse no more and we not need rats for long tyme. Svival say—no noyse, or peepuls here and tell The Slista. It come home and taken all us away to Bad Place away from under-ground place. So, shhhhhhh.We all have the Big Love here in dark. We all brothers (that is word in book) and sisters (that is also word in book). We strong but all different. Kate has fingers gud for tear-up. Morris, he fast and move no hearing noyses. Declin, eyes that see thru and tell all. True, go on up-wall to (ceiling)—that word from book. True, teeth long and sharp for byting. Me, all kinds things. But me Big One and love and keep all.Then one day, Svival come down say listen. We listen, and there are noyses coming up with his voyce. Wet noyses. His two eyes wet and I say Svival, what is rong? He sit bump on wood stare and say You all must listen. We listen, and he say I am going sleep and no wake lyke Kenny. Morris make wet eyes, but Svival say no, no, no and no! I have been telling many tymes that all sleep long tyme but go Happy Place, isn’t that right? Morris make eyes dry, and we say yes Svival we always reddy for long sleep and not being sad becoz you said. Svival nod and say yes, yes, you must let me go to Long Tyme Sleeping Place and you must all leave the Big Love in the Downstares Dark. Go out and find different Big Love in the Downstares Dark. There are lots of them. One will be waiting some-wheres for you. So you will find it.Why asks True? Why Svival, if you go to Long Tyme Sleeping Place we no stay in the Big Love here? Becoz, says Svival—and you must not be feared—I must go to Long Tyme Sleeping Place very soon and The Slista will come.Now we are a-fright, but Svival say No! Do not be a-fright! The Slista will come in the Big Car (You member Big Car what you seen thru little looking-place?) We say yes, Svival—we member Big Car. Well, say Svival—he come in Big Car and find me in Long Tyme Sleeping Place and he say Good, now I will eat Svival and take away Big Howse. But you will be gone-way to diffrint place and he will not be finding any of Svival’s Lovelies.How can The Slista be doing these things, we ask? Svival say The Slista come from Big Place called Offis or Offises, with Magic Papers that have Magic Words that can take happy places and happy peepuls lyke us away frever.We all ask—What must we do, Svival? Be gone away, be gone away, says Svival. And member all things I been telling you since little tymes. Look after you and yous all. Pro-tect and keep the Big Love.These are the Rules of Svival, he says.And then he is gone to Long Tyme Sleeping Place there on the wood stare. And at same tyme, with no tyme for the wet eyes, True says listen there is noyse of the Big Car out-side. We go run little looking place and yes there is Big Car. Do not be a-fright I say when Man in Black Cloth-rap stuff get out Big Car and come with skware bag. But I am a-fright insyde, becoz this is The Slista and skware bag will have Magic Papers and Magic Words. But also and but—I am Big One for love and keep all and I am now new Svival becoz old Svival is now gone to Long Tyme Sleeping Place. So I must be the Big Up.Morris, I say, be fast and go to the up-the-stare place and be make no noyse. Declin, I say, go all-so and open the Ding-Dong Door when go Ding-Dong, then hide up on hi place. True, I say, you go other too—and up on up-wall (ceiling) for to wait. When Ding-Dong Door go Ding-Dong—I will be speeking with Svival voice and I will say: Cum in wy doanchoo? (Lyke we heer befor lots of tymes). My Svival voice better coz is rumbler than other Lovelies. Kate, I say, be reddy with fingers. True, I say, also to be reddy with the byting.We go and we are been reddy.Ding-Dong says the Ding-Dong Door.So now we are been going away from the Old Big Love under-the-ground Old Place and—just lyke the old Svival sayed—we are finding the New Big Love under-the-ground New Place and we are reddy to come into it. When the peepuls who are in the up-the-stares don’t see, me and the Lovelies will come into it and be new Happy. They are wanting me to keep old name Critch, but I say oh no, oh no, I will be now the new Svival not the old Critch. Becoz that is the job of the oldest to do, and they say oh all-ryte, yes then are glad. But I am gud in-side because they love me as the Old Critch and will love me as the new Svival.Svival was kind to us and I will be kind to them. This is the Laws of Svival, member?I will be kind and we will be warm and happy and hirt ennyone what will want harm us. We will eat nyce things all tyme. Nycer and nycer things. And when Long Sleep will come for me then Kate will be new Svival after me—and we will be going on. I lyke thinking when I go Long Tyme Sleeping Place, they will be eet of me and I will be of them hear in bodees and of them in Long Tyme Sleeping Place also.Happy lyke when we eet Old Svival.But not Happy lyke when we eet The Slista.He not tasting nyce.Not nyce, at all.