The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, Volume 1

by Paula Guran

  I stepped inside, with the same fear and humility as entering synagogue. The walls were blue. So was the floor. And the ceiling.

  “What’s . . .”

  I looked down. The blue was a plant, a vine that had grown to cover every surface.

  “Gorillas are vegetarians,” she said. “Most people don’t know that.” “I did.” I’d read a lot about gorillas in the months after Kong fell.

  Dreamed of being a zoologist, except that you needed to be able to afford to go to college for that.

  “Kong ate plants. So he had seeds, in his belly. Nobody but me noticed that something had sprouted from his dung. I potted it, kept it secret.”

  I nodded.

  “I made clippings,” she said, and gave me a small terra-cotta pot. “This is for you.”

  Up close I could see spearhead-shaped leaves. Red veins spread out in curls and ripples. Vines trailed down the side, ending in fat seed pods. At the center of the pot the leaves curled inward, numerous and beautiful as the petals on a chrysanthemum.

  A piece of him. Of Kong.

  “Watch the center,” she said. “And be very quiet.”

  I watched. I was quiet. I was patient. The pattern of the veins was so intricate. Hypnotic, almost. So much so that I could have sworn I saw one vine growing while I watched. But of course no plant grew so fast.

  The leaf-petals parted, suddenly. Like an eye opening. And beneath the petals: an actual eye. Not human, but not far from it, either. All brown iris, and black pupil. It blinked, twice, twitched around as the eye scanned the sky. Then found mine. Held my gaze.

  “Is that his?”

  Ann nodded. “The plant took something, passing through him.”

  I held the pot in my hands. Reverent; apologetic. Unworthy.

  “I planted some in a vacant lot next to my building,” she said. “Near some kudzu. Came back that afternoon and it had totally swallowed up the kudzu. Would have covered the whole lot in a day if I hadn’t clipped it back.”

  Her eyes were on me. Wanting something. “I—I don’t . . .”

  “We killed him,” she said. “We saw him, this god, this king, and the only thing we could think to do was capture and chain and kill it. That’s what people are. You see that, don’t you? I know you do. It’s why I brought you here.”

  “Yeah, of course,” I said, looking back and forth between her eyes and the plant’s. “But I don’t . . .”

  “Skull Island was rough. Anything that evolved to survive there would be the ultimate invasive species. It’d cover the earth, if it got the chance. Choke off all kinds of life.”

  And—I got it. I nodded. Said, “What a shame that would be.”

  “The money from my book deal—I spent that on a tour of the USA, and then Europe. Dropped a few seeds wherever I went.”

  “You spend any time in Oklahoma?” I asked, remembering the news about the blighted corn crop.

  “Just enough,” Ann said. “Maybe you want to help.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my hands occupied, unable to wipe the tears off my face. Wondering where so many had come from, so fast.

  She hugged me. She smelled like alcohol and lilacs and I sobbed into her neck.

  I drove back into Manhattan. Headed for the Ziegfeld again. By now the after-parties would be getting out; drunk movie stars needing rides home. Plenty of people hailed me, but I didn’t stop. In the seat where Ann sat was a potted plant.

  Kong was my passenger. He always had been. I’d carried him in my heart since the moment I watched him fall, felt the earth shake, the sidewalk shatter, my heart with it. All of our hearts.

  On the corner of 54th and Seventh, I saw a woman leaning on a streetlamp. Dressed up; holding a high heel under her arm while she rubbed that stockinged foot. Her day had been long, and hard. She was angry. She was going to do something about it. Most people probably wouldn’t be able to see it, but I could. Now. How mighty she was. What heights she could climb to. How she could shatter the world with the seeds she carried inside her.

  SAM J. MILLER is the Nebula Award–winning author of The Art of Starving (an NPR best of the year) and Blackfish City (a best book of the year for Vulture, The Washington Post, Barnes & Noble, and more—and a “Must Read” in Entertainment Weekly and O: The Oprah Winfrey Magazine). His supernatural thriller The Blade Between will appear in late 2020. A recipient of the Shirley Jackson Award and a graduate of the Clarion Writers’ Workshop, Miller’s work has been nominated for the World Fantasy, Theodore Sturgeon, John W. Campbell, and Locus Awards, and has been reprinted in dozens of anthologies. A community organizer by day, he lives in New York City.

  THE SURVIVING CHILD

  JOYCE CAROL OATES

  1.

  The surviving child, he is called. Not to his face—of course.

  The other, younger child died with the mother three years before. Murder, suicide it had been. More precisely Filicide, suicide.

  The first glimpse she has of the surviving child is shocking to her: a beautiful face, pale and lightly freckled, darkly luminous eyes, a prematurely adult manner—solemn, sorrowful, wary and watchful.

  Sharp as a sliver of glass piercing her heart comes the thought—I will love him. I will save him. I am the one.

  “Stefan! Say hello to my friend—”

  No comfortable way for Stefan’s father to introduce her, the father’s fiancée, to the surviving child. Presumably Alexander has been telling Stefan about her, preparing him. I am thinking of remarrying. I have met a young woman I would like you to meet. I think you will like her, and she will—she will like you . . . No way to express such thoughts that is not painful.

  Seeing the apprehension in the child’s face. Wondering if, since the mother’s death, the father has introduced Stefan to other women whom he has invited to the house; or if Stefan has chanced to see his father with a woman, one who might be expected to take the mother’s place.

  But Elisabeth is not jealous of other women. Elisabeth is not envious of other women. Elisabeth is grateful to have been plucked from obscurity by the gentlemanly man who is her fiancé, the widower of the (deceased) (notorious) poet N.K.

  Stooping to shake the child’s small-boned hand. Hearing herself say brightly, reassuringly, “Hello, Stefan! So nice to meet you . . .” Her voice trails off. She is smiling so hard her face hurts. Hoping the child will not shrink from her out of shyness, dislike, or resentment.

  Stefan is ten years old, small for his age. It is terrible to think (the fiancée thinks) how small this delicately-boned child had to have been three years before when his mother had tried to kill him along with his little sister and herself.

  Alexander told her how the boy stopped growing for months after the trauma. Very little appetite, sleep disturbed by nightmares, wandering the house in the night. Disappearing into the house in broad daylight so that the father and the housekeeper searched for him calling his name—Stefan! Stefan!—until suddenly Stefan would appear around a corner, on a staircase, in a corridor blinking and short of breath and unable to explain where he’d been.

  Almost asphyxiated by the mother. Heavily sedated with barbiturates as well. Yet somehow: he’d been spared.

  Stefan had not cried in the aftermath of the trauma, or not much—“Not what you’d expect under the circumstances.”

  Under the circumstances! Elisabeth winced at Alexander’s oddly unfeeling remark.

  The fiancée has been introduced to the child as Elisabeth but the child cannot call her that name of course. Nor can the child call her Miss Lundquist. In time, when Elisabeth and the child’s father are married, the child will learn to call her—what? Not Mother. Not Mom. Mommy? Will that ever be possible?

  (Elisabeth has no idea what the child called his mother. It is very difficult to imagine the elusive poet N.K. as any child’s mother let alone as Mom, Mommy.)

  Those wary, watchful eyes. How like a fledgling bird in its nest Stefan is, prepared to cringe at a gliding shadow. A parent-bird, or a p
redator that will tear him to pieces? The fledgling can’t know which until it is too late.

  Yet politely Stefan murmurs replies to questions put to him by the adults. Familiar questions about school, questions he has answered many times. He will not be asked questions which are painful to answer. Not now. When he’d been asked such questions in the aftermath of his mother’s death the child had stared into a corner of the room with narrowed eyes, silent. His jaws had clenched, a small vein twitched at his temple but his gaze held firm and unswerving.

  Later the father would say he’d been afraid to touch the child’s chest, or his throat, at the time—I was sure Stefan had stopped breathing. He’d gone somewhere deep inside himself where that terrible woman was calling him.

  It is months later. In fact it is years later. That terrible woman has disappeared from their lives and from the beautiful old shingle board house in Wainscott, Massachusetts, in which Alexander and N.K. lived during their twelve-year-marriage.

  Lived “only intermittently”—Alexander has said. For frequently they lived apart as N.K. pursued her own “utterly selfish” life.

  Not in the house but in the adjoining three-car garage, a converted stable, which the fiancée has not (yet) seen, the poet N.K. killed herself and her four-year-old daughter Clea by carbon monoxide poisoning.

  And no suicide note. Neither in the car nor elsewhere.

  It is true, Alexander acknowledged having found a diary of N.K. kept in the last fevered weeks of her life, in her bedside table.

  His claim was he’d had to destroy the diary—without reading it—knowing it would contain terrible accusations, lies. The ravings of a homicidal madwoman, from which his son had to be spared.

  For he could not risk it, that Stefan would grow up having to encounter in the world echoes and reflections of the sick and debased mind that had tried to destroy him . . .

  Despite the trauma Stefan has done reasonably well at the Wainscott Academy. For several months after the deaths he’d been kept home, with a nurse to care for him—he’d had to repeat third grade—but since then he has caught up with his fifth-grade classmates, Alexander has said proudly. All that one might have predicted—fits of crying, child-depression, “acting out”—mysterious illnesses—seemed not to have occurred, or were fleeting. “My son has a stoical spirit,” the father has said. “Like me.”

  The fiancée thinks, seeing the child—No. He is just in hiding.

  Elisabeth has calculated that there is almost exactly the identical distance in age between Stefan’s age and hers, as between hers and Alexander’s: eighteen years. (Stefan is ten, Elisabeth is twenty-eight. Alexander is in his late forties.)

  Elisabeth will brood over this fact. It is a very minor fact yet (she thinks) a way of linking her and the child though (probably) the child will never realize.

  If she were alive, the sick and debased N.K. would be just thirty-six. Young, still.

  But if N.K. were alive Elisabeth Lundquist would not be here in Wainscott in her fiancé’s distinguished old family house smiling so hard her face aches.

  It is impressive: Stefan knows to stand very still as adults speak at him, to him, above his head. He does not twitch, quiver as another (normal?) child might. He does not betray restlessness, resentment. He does not betray misery. His smile is quicksilver, his eyes are heavy-lidded. Beautiful dark-brown eyes. Elisabeth wonders if those eyes, so much darker than the father’s eyes, as the child’s complexion is so much paler than the father’s ruddy skin, resemble the deceased mother’s eyes.

  Elisabeth has seen photographs of the dramatically beautiful N.K. of course. She has seen a number of videos including those that, after N.K.’s death, went “viral.” It would have been unnatural if, under the circumstances, she had not.

  The Guatemalan housekeeper Ana has overseen Stefan’s bath, combed and brushed the boy’s curly fair-brown hair, laid out clean clothes for him. Of course at the age of ten he dresses himself. On his small feet, denim sneakers with laces neatly tied. Elisabeth feels a pang of loss, the child is too old for her to help him with his laces—ever.

  It will be a challenge, Elisabeth thinks. To win over this beautiful wounded child.

  “Mr. Hendrick?”—Ana appears, smiling and gracious, deferential. It is time now for the evening meal.

  Supper is in a glassed-in porch at the rear of the house where a small round table has been set for just three people. At its center, a vase of white roses fresh-picked from the garden.

  As they enter the room Elisabeth feels an impulse to take the child’s hand, very gently—to allow Stefan to know that she cares for him already though they have just met. She will be his friend.

  But when Elisabeth reaches for Stefan’s hand her fingers encounter something cold and clotty, sticky like mucus—“Oh! Oh God.” She gives a little scream, and steps away shuddering.

  “What is it, Elisabeth?” Alexander asks, concerned.

  What is it, Elisabeth has no idea. For when she looks at Stefan, at Stefan’s hand, small-boned and innocent, entirely clean, lifted palm-outward before him in a pleading gesture, she sees nothing unusual—certainly nothing that might have felt cold, clotty, sticky as mucus.

  “I just felt—cold . . .”

  “Well! Are your hands cold, Stefan?”

  Shyly Stefan shakes his head. Murmuring. “Don’t know.”

  Elisabeth apologizes, deeply embarrassed. Must have imagined—something . . .

  Alexander has no idea what is going on—unless Alexander has a very good idea what is going on—but chooses to be bemused by his young fiancée, eighteen years his junior: the young woman’s fear of harmless insects, her fear of driving in urban areas, her fear of flying in small propeller planes used by commuters from Boston to Cape Cod.

  Elisabeth manages to laugh, uneasily. She reasons that it is better for Alexander to express bemusement, impatience, irritation with her, than with the sensitive Stefan.

  Quite a beautiful room, the glassed-in porch. White wicker furniture, a pale beige Peruvian woven rug. On a wall a Childe Hassam Impressionist seascape of the late nineteenth century.

  As they are about to sit Stefan suddenly freezes. Murmurs that he has to use a bathroom. Over Alexander’s face there comes a flicker of annoyance. Oh, just as Ana is serving the meal! Elisabeth is sorry about this.

  “Of course. Go.”

  At the table Alexander pours (white, tart) wine into the adults’ glasses. He is determined not to express the annoyance he feels for his son but Elisabeth can see his hands trembling.

  Elisabeth remarks that they have plenty of time to drive to the concert in Provincetown for which they have tickets—“It’s only six. We have an hour and a half for dinner . . .”

  “I’m aware of the time, Elisabeth. Thank you.”

  A rebuff. Alexander doesn’t like his naïve young fiancée even to appear to be correcting him.

  Gamely Elisabeth tries again: “Your son is so—beautiful. He’s . . . .”

  Unique. Unworldly. Wraith-like.

  Alexander grunts a vague assent. Somehow managing to signaling yes and at the same time Enough of this subject.

  Elisabeth is one of those shy individuals who find themselves chattering nervously, for conversational silence intimidates them. It is hard for her to remain silent—she feels (she thinks) that she is being judged. Yet, she has discovered to her surprise that it is not difficult to offend Alexander Hendrick, inadvertently. A man of his stature, so thin-skinned? She worries that even a naively well-intentioned compliment about Stefan may remind him of the other child Clea, who died of carbon monoxide poisoning wrapped in a mohair shawl in her mother’s arms . . .

  Terrible! Elisabeth shudders.

  “How is this wine? It’s Portuguese—d’you like it?”

  Wine? Elisabeth knows little about wine. “Yes,” she tells Alexander who is frowning over his glass as if nothing were more important than the wine he is about to drink.

  “I’m wondering if I should
have bought an entire case. Might’ve been a mistake.”

  Is wine important? Elisabeth supposes that it must be, if Alexander thinks so. Her fiancé, to her a distinguished man, director of a wealthy arts foundation established by his grandfather, has a habit of weighing minor acts, innocuous-seeming decisions, as if they were crucially important, and might turn into mistakes. At first Elisabeth thought he was only joking since the issues were often trivial but now she sees that nothing is trivial to her fiancé. The mere possibility of a mistake is upsetting to him.

  Driving to Wainscott, bringing Elisabeth for her first weekend visit to the house on Oceanview Avenue, Alexander said suddenly: “I hope this isn’t going to be a mistake.”

  Elisabeth laughed nervously. Hesitant to ask Alexander to explain for he hadn’t actually seemed to be speaking to her, only thinking aloud.

  They are waiting for Stefan to return to the table. Ana has lighted candles that quaver with their breaths. Why is the boy taking so much time? Is he hiding from them?—from his father? At Alexander’s insistence Ana serves the first, lavish course—roasted sweet peppers stuffed with pureed mushroom. On each Wedgwood plate a red pepper and a green pepper perfectly matched.

  Not the sort of food a boy of ten probably likes, Elisabeth thinks.

  “Well. Let’s begin. We may run into traffic on the highway.”

  Heavy silver forks, knives. Engraved with the letter H. Virtually everything in the house as well as the house itself is Alexander’s inheritance; N.K.’s things, which were not many, were moved out after the deaths, given away. Even the books. Especially, books with N.K. on the spine.

  Not a trace of her remaining. Don’t worry, darling!

  Wondering another time if Alexander has brought other women to Wainscott, to meet Stefan. To see how they reacted to the surviving child, and the house. Young women, presumably. (Now that he is middle-aged Alexander isn’t the type to be attracted to women his own age.) Wondering if, initially drawn to Alexander Hendrick, these women have fled?