The Year's Best Horror Stories, Series IX
Edited by Karl Edward Wagner
(1981, DAW)
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Introduction: The Year of the Anthology and Beyond by KARL EDWARD WAGNER
The year past, 1980, will go down in the annals of horror literature as the year of the blockbuster original anthology. One has to go back to those thousand-page super-dreadnought-class horror anthologies published in England during the 1930's—particularly those edited by John Gawsworth—to find a comparison.
Most visible was Dark Forces, edited by Kirby McCauley, a finely produced 550-page hardcover volume containing 23 stories by major authors, published by The Viking Press in the U.S. and by Macdonald in England. Less opulent but a far better value was Ramsey Campbell's two-volume paperback anthology, New Terrors, offering 37 original stories crammed into 670 pages. This was published by Pan Books in England; regrettably there has not yet been a U.S. edition, but on the brighter side there has been talk of continuing New Terrors as a series. The avowed intent of both of these anthologies was to showcase the cream of today's horror fiction—the genre's top writers creating contemporary tales of terror. How often and how well they succeed in achieving that is something each reader will enjoy deciding for himself.
Against these two shelf-benders, the other original horror anthologies of 1980 might well be unjustly overlooked. Charles L. Grant has edited Shadows 3 for Doubleday—a collection that maintains the same level of his previous two entries in the series. Pan Books published The 21st Pan Book of Horror, edited by Herbert van Thal, which unfortunately maintains the level of that long-lived series. Perhaps best of 1980's crop of original anthologies was New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos, edited by Ramsey Campbell for Arkham House. Instead of the inept and amateurish Lovecraftian pastiches one might have expected (Douglas E. Winter has pointed out in a review that "Cthulhu Mythos" has been given a pejorative connotation in recent years), Campbell asked his authors for (and for the most part received from them) genuinely original and intelligent contemporary interpretations of the underlying concepts of Lovecraft's synthesis....
THE CATS OF PERE LACHAISE by Neil Olonoff
This is a wonderfully evocative weird story. According to ISFDB, Olonoff only had a coupleof stories published, and these were in the 1970s.
....Pierre looked at the tabby cat. "He's a big one, all right," he said. "The fellow told me a funny story about the cats. I don't know whether or not to believe it."
"What was that?" The tabby cat was gazing at Bateman with that manic expression they acquire when they are hungry.
"The ovens have gas burners," said Pierre. "They reach twelve hundred degrees, but gas is so expensive these days that they try to economize by reducing the time between cremations, so the ovens don't have a chance to cool down."
"That makes sense."
"Yes, except it means they must remove the previous corpse sooner. Often, with a large body, especially one that has been frozen, the bones aren't completely reduced to ashes."
"You're joking," Bateman said. "What do they do then?"
"Well, generally, they break the bones with the raclette."
"A raclette? Like the bakers use?"
"More or less. But that's not the worst of it. The skull and brain are a bigger problem."
"The brain?"
"Oh, yes. You can imagine. It's enclosed and surrounded by fluid. It's very difficult to burn. And, you know, in summer, the bodies must be kept frozen. It takes much longer to burn a frozen corpse."
"I do see what you mean," said Bateman, a vague nausea beginning in his chest.
"At any rate, the fellow was saying . . ." Pierre fell silent as they rounded the corner. They had come to a section of the graves covered by graffiti, much of it obscene. "I want to fuck you, Jim," "The Snake," "Patrick, Harley Davidson, 1984," and, finally, sprayed in day-glo colors across an unmarked granite slab, the explanation: "Jim Morrison, The Doors...."
***
THE PROPERT BEQUEST by Basil A. Smith
Smith is one of the obscure Jamesians, and his collection The Scallion Stone is I believe out of print. He is worth seeking out, as his sense of place and skill at complication is masterful.
....The host nodded slightly as he poured out some whisky.
"Ah," continued Hook, sighing, "he made some alterations, did Mr. Faik, and not much to Dr. Propert's liking as it turned out. But yet I will say this, sir, Mr. Faik must'a been partial to the old chapel for look how he bought up every picture of it far and near as he might lay 'is 'ands upon. I warrant there's scarce a painting o' Peryford anywhere in England but was in 'is persession when he died. That's what makes me think some o' these 'ere might be valuable, sir."
"But," objected Sir Leslie, ignoring the last suggestion, "I understand that Mr. Faik almost entirely rebuilt the chapel when it became a library. Why should he make such drastic alterations if he valued the original building? This east end with the turrets, for instance, bears no resemblance to the place as it is now."
"Now you've beat me, sir," replied Hook. "All I can say is—there's summat queer about the edifice. Take them turrets now: it's my belief they was 'aunted and best done away with."
"What makes you say that?" inquired the baronet with mild interest, handing him a glass.
"Only what I've 'eard, sir, and putting two and two together, as you might say. (Thank you, sir.) When them alterations was in and Mr. Faik he comes to me and says 'Hook, I don't like that east end and I've got an idea to improve it. I'm having a bigger window put in to give more light.' You see, sir, there was some tracery for an old rose window, as they call it, among them priory ruins in the grounds, and he told me he'd got a firm from away to fix in some glass sent special from Boyhemia or some foreign place. Well, sir, that was the beginning of all the trouble. The rector, Mr. Laycock—afore Mr. Sanderton came—objected to Mr. Faik's 'remodeling scheme' as they called it, and wrote off to Dr. Propert. Then there was quarrels between my men off the estate and the foreign chaps from London measuring and ordering. In the end, sir, Mr. Faik had all the gable, window and all, covered up with a tarpaulin sheet, sacked the local men, and sent me off to work at his place there in 'Engsward.
"When next I was past Peryford—that is for Mop Fair at the back-end—I see the chapel all completed and these Italian 'craftsmen' (what's wrong with ordinary workmen, I don't know) all cleared back to London. The turrets is gone, and the gable all altered just as you see it now, but to keep up the old appearance like they'd trained the ivy and stuff back to cover the new stonework. Aye, and to cap all, my cousin (as was housekeeper to Mr. Laycock afore he died, sir) she tells me Mr. Faik is busy with all sorts o' science professors and whatnot (a queer sample by all accounts) having meetings in the new library every month."
Sanderton looked pointedly at Sir Leslie. "And you, had you any hand in the alterations?" he said.
"O yes, sir. That's the funny part. Me and the under-joiner, Tom Cass, and two lads had very near done all the woodwork when this 'ere plan for pulling out the east end come up. Gallery was finished and I had all but fixed the walls with shelves when we was packed off. When the new window was in, some of Mr. Faik's men filled in the sides of it with some old paneling (as you may still see, sir, at the gallery end and in that Monument Room)."
"You mean the Muniment Room! Yes, I have seen it—some old Tudor work, nearly black," nodded Sir Leslie. "But I thought you said the place was haunted or queer in some way?"
"I'm coming to that, sir," continued the old carpenter. "Changes came very quick. Poor Mr. Laycock died, sir, as you know. Then one day Dr. Propert came back from China or somewhere—it was afore Mr. Sanderton's time—and there was 'ard words by all accounts, and Mr. Faik left pretty sharp. It was plain the old doctor was grieved about the alterations. Not that he could ever 'a seen the chapel as it was, for he had never lived at Peryford, but he had heard plenty from Mr. Laycock.
"Well, all I know is, one Friday when I was mending a wagon in the yard over there, who should come in but Dr. Propert on that roan hunter of his. He'd been told about me, doubtless, and what he wanted was to know why I'd gone to 'Engsward, seeing as our family was always on the Peryford estate. I told 'im, sir, what I've told you. 'Well,' he says, 'you've made your bed and I'm not sure but you'll have it to lie on. Anyway I want you now to come over to the priory with me and bring some keys and locksmith's gear with you.'
"So I got ready and he took me to the library, and round through the bushes at the back, to the left 'and corner outside . . ."
"Yes," interposed Sanderton, "the northeast corner, you mean?"
"That will be so, sir," continued the joiner. "The doctor went straight to it. 'Now, Hook,' he says, 'get that axe and clear this ivy back.' I did as he said, and there was a little door in the wall; and I soon had it unlocked. The turrets may be gone,' says the doctor, 'but the turret stairs are still here at any rate. Give me that lantern, and stay here and see that nobody comes prying round.'
"With that, sir, he went up and I 'eard 'im tramping round and round up them winding steps inside the wall. I had not noticed before, but there were one or two window slits higher up among the ivy, and I saw them light up as he climbed to the top. After that I waited a longish time, and no sign of the doctor at all. I was just going to shout up after 'im when he came round the corner outside, behind me, and I got quite a start.
" 'Don't be alarmed, Hook,' he says, 'there's a way through to the gallery inside. That's what I suspected. When one sees lights in the night, it may be ghosts—or, it may be burglars, eh? Come along inside with me. No, not that way—it's rather stuffy and unpleasant. We'll "enter by the door" as the Bible says.'
"So along we went to the main door into the library and up to the gallery, right to the far end. We went quite close to the east window and I saw at once how the doctor had got through: one of the panels was evidently a door, for it stood open as he had left it, and I could see a spiral stairs inside, leading down.
"Well, sir, to cut a long story short, Dr. Propert got me to bar up that bottom door outside, so as nobody could get in or out again. I was to have fixed the panel door up in the gallery too, but he got the idea of locking it instead. I thought perhaps it might lead up to the roof and be useful in case of fire. But that was not the idea, sir. The doctor ordered a special little safety latch and I had to place it neatly on the inside. (In fact I was doing it that day when Professor Courtleigh came the first time to look round.)
"I often wondered what the doctor's game was, and I think it was a trap, for you could set it so as anyone could push it open from the gallery side (that is if they knowed about the panel!) and get into that stair. But if you was inside when it springed to—well, you'd be catched like a rat in a cage! But that was the doctor all over. A very egsentric man, sir, if I may say so. Well, he took the little key when I'd finished the job, and then he looks at me very stem, and says, 'Now, Hook, you've left my service and I'm not sure whether I can find room to have you back. I'll give you a trial; and if you can keep your own counsel about this little discovery of ours, I'll not forget you later on....'
***
THE CATACOMB by Peter Shilston
A vacation/tourist horror anecdote. Those who appreciate vacation/tourist tales in the Jamesian (and Ramsey Campbell) mode will have something to savor here.
....Mr. Pearsall's command of Italian was not great, but he seemed to detect the phrase, "can't come to much harm if they're all together."
Mr. Pearsall, however, did not intend to stay with the others as they stood around on the pavement in a pointless fashion. He had glimpsed a church down a side street as they drove into the town. It had looked old and surprisingly large for such an insignificant place, and he thought it might just be worth an exploratory visit. The "harm" Giuliano had mentioned (assuming he had understood him right), he took to mean thieves. They had been warned to beware of bag-snatchers in the major cities, but it was hardly likely that gangs of muggers would bother to patrol a town where no tourists ever stopped. The streets seemed absolutely deserted. Besides, Mr. Pearsall was still quite fit, and imagined he could hold his own against the average thief; or at the very worst, run fast enough to get away. So, taking his camera, he imparted his intended destination to a fellow passenger (who showed not the slightest inclination to accompany him) and set out at a brisk pace.
The side streets of the town were very narrow and ran steeply up the hill toward the great beetling overhang of the cliff. Some of them had steps in them. Mr. Pearsall wondered how claustrophobic it would be to live beneath that great black shadow, and also speculated whether the town was ever damaged by rockfalls. After a couple of turns into dead ends, he found himself in a little gravel-strewn square, as devoid of people as the rest of the town, facing the church itself. A glance at the sun told him that he was approaching it from the west end; the southeastern corner of it almost touched the base of the cliff. Because it had exactly the same color and texture as that towering mass, the church gave the slightly disturbing impression of having been carved by the hand of a giant in a single piece out of the living rock.
His first sensation, Mr. Pearsall tells us, was of great age and general dilapidation. The church looked far older than the Doric temples at Agrigento which he had admired earlier in the week, though his intellect told him this could not possibly be the case. He supposed it must be a Norman building, though possibly on an older foundation; Arabic or even Roman. The style was typical enough, though rather ill-proportioned. Two squat, heavy towers, with hardly any windows (and those very small) flanked a portico of three large pointed arches. What little decoration there had ever been was now barely discernible. There seemed at one time to have been fresco paintings inside the portico, but now the plaster was badly cracked and in some places fallen away entirely. Only a few dim outlines of human figures—presumably saints—could be discovered. There was a large wooden door, decayed and worm-eaten, with panels carved in what had once been ornate abstract patterns. Moorish influence, said Mr. Pearsall to himself, and tried the door. It was locked.
This was predictable under the circumstances, but still annoying. Mr. Pearsall retreated to the square to take a picture, and then looked at his watch. A mere fifteen minutes had passed since he left the coach, and he still had plenty of time to kill. The day was hotter than ever, and if there was any shops in this godforsaken place, they were resolutely shut. He decided to stroll round the outside of the church, for sheer lack of anything else to do. Besides, he would be in the shade for part of his walk, and it would be cooler. Without any great enthusiasm, he set out. He was a mild-tempered man, but if there was one thing that caused him irritation, it was suddenly finding himself with nothing whatsoever to do when he had expected to be occupied.
Along the south side of the church, the shuttered houses ran so close that the street was more like a tunnel. He had not gone far when he noticed a small side door. It should cause us no great surprise that he tried to open it, and much to his gratification, found it was not locked. Surprised at his good fortune, and congratulating himself on his persistence, he went inside....
***
THE KING by William Relling, Jr.
A rock and roll band horror story for the eve of your August 16th observances. The story's style is sharp and clear, moving all the elements forward with ease. Great performance by the author.
....We closed the show with "Girl Happy," and that crowd was just insane when Jay ran off with the rest of us. Tommy was right there in the wings, and he claps an arm around Jay's shoulder and starts to lead him away toward the dressing room. I could see Tommy's head bobbing up and down, and could imagine that little cash register going ka-ching all over again. But Tommy knows his stuff, right? He knows to let that crowd build up to a point where they're gonna explode, and then let Jay come out by himself and do his solo and really kill 'em.
I looked down at my watch and saw it wasn't quite 10:15. Plenty of time for the encore, and then clear 'em out and set up for the second show. Plenty of time.
They cut the house lights.
The applause and the yelling was enough to shake that whole damn building like it was an earthquake. It was black out there again, and they started to hold up lit matches and cigarette lighters, and it looked like torches or stars against a night sky. That's when I heard the scream.
It came from behind me, from somewhere backstage. I squinted at Bobby, who was next to me in the dark. Did you hear that? I asked him.
What? he says.
That scream, I say.
Jesus, he says, they're all screamin'.
From behind me I heard somebody hiss that Jay was comin'. I turned around, and he shuffled past me real slow. I reached up to pat him on the back, but something stopped me. And I noticed a smell.
It was real sweet and sort of sickening, like if you go into a flower shop and open one of the refrigerators, where they keep the roses and the carnations and all. It was almost enough to knock me over.
It was still dark when he walked to center stage and picked up his guitar. He played the first chords to "Love Me Tender," and all of a sudden, it was so quiet. It was like being in a church.
Then he started to sing.
I'd never heard Jay sing the song like that before. Usually he did it real well, which was why he saved it for an encore. But this time it was different.
It was more than good. It was incredible. It was pain and fear and loneliness and crying and every sad thing you ever felt in your life, or could ever imagine.
And nobody in that whole place could make a sound, except for the man on stage. Nobody could even move.
He finished the song, and the place was dead silent until he put the guitar down and started to move off toward the wings.
Then it all broke loose.
We were there waiting for him and whooping, and ready to hug him and congratulate him. But when he got close enough and Bobby started for him, something froze all of us, and he walked right by like we were statues. He went down the hall backstage toward the dressing rooms, but didn't go into his. Instead he kept right on going, down the dark hallway toward the stage exit door.
Then it was like somebody turned on a switch and we could all move again. I started to run after him and called his name, but he was a good twenty feet or so in front of me by the time he reached the door. He was right under the red exit sign....
***
WITHOUT RHYME OR REASON by Peter Valentine Timlett
A fine Blochian nightmare, right down to a (possibly) mad Mrs. Bates.
"What happened?"
"Three weeks after he left they were both killed in a car crash in southern France, and I hope she rots in hell for all time. And it was all so unnecessary. A discreet affair would have been far better. It would have satisfied the sexual attraction and preserved the marriage."
The girl did not comment. Her sympathy was instinctively with the husband. An autocratic woman such as Mrs. Bates would not be easy to live with from any aspect, sexual or otherwise. There was probably more than one reason why he had left her.
"And all because of a revealing evening gown," said Mrs. Bates bitterly. "That girl had worked at that office for two years and I know that there had been nothing between them prior to that dinner party. It was the gown that did it."
Deborah sipped at her coffee again. Possible, but not likely. If it had only been a question of sex then a discreet affair would indeed have satisfied the situation. There had to be more to it than that. The way this woman kept harping on that one particular aspect seemed to suggest that Mrs. Bates felt very inadequate and inferior in that area.
"And so I went out and bought this gown, and some other clothing," said Mrs. Bates. "And do you know why?"
Deborah shook her head. She didn't like the way this was going. The woman really did have a most peculiar expression in her eyes.
Mrs. Bates stood up abruptly. "Then I will show you. Come with me," and she took the girl's hand and led her to the other end of the lounge to where a large mirror hung on the wall. "That's why," she said, pointing to the two reflections. "Having come off second best on one notable occasion I wanted to see how I would compare if I were similarly dressed."
The girl felt her spine begin to tingle. Not fear exactly, but that instinctive nervous apprehension that the sane sometimes feel in the company of the insane. By God, how long had this woman brooded on her misfortune to have produced this sort of crazy reaction? This obviously explained the long string of attractive girls. Mrs. Bates was measuring herself against them, one after the other. And then what? If the measurement was in the older woman's favor then presumably that was an end of the matter, honor having been satisfied. But what if the comparison was unfavorable?
Deborah looked at the two reflections. Mary Bates really was an attractive woman. Her body was trim and taut, and her figure was still quite superb, even without a bra, and in that wisp of a gown she looked like a high priestess of a pagan cult, sensual, uninhibited, and devastatingly provocative. Few women her age could even begin to compare. But she was forty-eight years of age, and she looked it. Nothing could hide the difference in age between the two women reflected in that mirror, and ironically the two provocative gowns served only to reveal that difference more clearly. Deborah was not vain about her own looks, but she knew that if a choice had to be made at that precise moment then most men would choose herself. Mrs. Bates simply did not compare.
The girl smiled nervously. "There's no comparison," she said lightly. "If there were any men around I wouldn't stand a chance." In the mirror she saw the woman's eyes narrow to an expression of cold hatred.
"Nonsense, my dear," said Mrs. Bates smoothly. "You are far more attractive than I. If the whole situation occurred again my husband would undoubtedly go off with you."
Deborah released her hand and walked away back to the coffee table. "You underestimate yourself, Mrs. Bates." She picked up her shawl. "I'm not attractive to men and never have been, no matter what I wear. Why do you think I live on my own? It's not by choice, I assure you." She began to move toward the door. Oh God, she simply had to escape from this stupid insanity. "Anyway, it's getting late, and the wine has given me a headache. If you'll excuse me I think I'll go to bed."
The look of hatred had vanished from the woman's eyes. "By all means," she said coldly. "Thank you for a lovely dinner, and a most entertaining evening."
The girl could not get to her room fast enough. Once inside the bedroom she leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. Her hands were trembling, and sweat had broken out over her whole body. What a weird scene! No wonder the others had left in so much of a hurry. First thing tomorrow she would see if she could get her old bedsit back again. She was not going to stay in this house with that crazy woman a minute longer than absolutely necessary. She stripped off her gown, towelled herself dry, put on her nightdress, and lay down on the bed, but her mind was in too much of a turmoil for sleep.
❖
Jay
6 June 2020
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