The Best Horror of the Year Volume Eleven

by Ellen Datlow

  He nodded, but only with his head, not his eyes.

  Dad spends most of his time in his office with the door shut. Every time he comes out, he asks me more questions, which are mostly the same questions: What did the old man look like? Did Bea get out the last time we stopped the van? Did she get in the van at the hotel?

  But last night he asked me if Bea was wearing her galoshes. Even though it’s something she’d do, I can’t remember.

  I think he’s waiting for me—for someone—to tell him something that will fix this or at least explain it. He looks at me funny, all pinched nose and squinted eyes, lips shaped into a different question, one he wants to—but can’t—ask. I want to tell the truth, I can feel it pushing on my lips, but it’s locked behind a brick wall and there’s no door.

  He won’t let us say anything.

  I tried to write it down last night, but instead of words I drew a shape: a circle with a starburst inside it. It means something, it means something important, but I don’t know what. I drew it over and over again, tearing holes in the paper.

  The worst part, though, the thing that’s worming its way through me like living barbed wire, never mind what I said to Andy? I’m afraid it isn’t over yet. I’m afraid it won’t ever be over.

  ANDREW

  What Bea never told our parents, what we kept to ourselves, were the extra verses of the song, the lines that really mattered. There were other secrets—things we saw on the dunes, out by the water, and in the shadows too, but I think it started with the song.

  Golden sun gonna come for me, golden sun gonna come for you.

  The sun gonna burn as it sets you free, sun for you, and sun for me.

  There’s more, but I’m not ready to sing it, to share it yet, because I miss Bea, my sister, and yet, I feel like she’s still here. But what do I know, I’m just a baby, crying at night, afraid of the dark, my parents living ghosts now, my only sister, Cat, as thin as a sheet of glass. When I try to sleep at night now, I keep going back to the beach. There are two of me now—before and after, then and now. They are linked somehow, but I can’t figure it out.

  All of those little moments—running on the beach, loading up the car, Bea sleeping in the back, covered with a blanket—they are blurry, and come to me in bits and pieces. I remember thinking about the name of the hotel, Beachcomber Inn, and in my head I saw a giant comb, huge black teeth raking across the sand, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  When Dad isn’t looking, I go to his office, push open the heavy oak door, and sneak inside. It scares me to death, when I go there, not because I’m afraid of my father, although I am at times, but because of the bottle cap. It shouldn’t be here, not at all. Mom has found me more than once, sitting on the rug, the light fading, crying as I hold the cap, pushing the edges into my hand.

  Is it my fault?

  Mom never says anything, when she finds me, but when she picks me up, and stares out the windows—I swear I can hear the waves crashing on the beach again, those stupid seagulls and the bread crumbs we threw at them. I never trusted those rats with wings—beady black eyes, and gray, dirty feathers.

  Sometimes I sit at the breakfast table, eating my Cheerios, Dad hiding behind the newspaper, Mom looking out the window, Cat texting a friend with an angry look on her face, and I ask them questions that never get answered.

  “Where did Bea go?” I ask.

  “Will we ever see Bea again?”

  And then in a softer voice, “Did I even have a sister named Bea?”

  They never say anything, and I wonder if I’m actually talking, so much in my head these days—conversations with a pile of stuffed animals; none of them answering, but all of them listening. I fall asleep crying, slipping under the animals, their arms around me, the fluffy weight of them pushing me under, to a nightmare where I search for my sister, her voice on the dunes, always one more hill, up and down, never finding her. Chester bear watches over us all, a little bit of Bea sitting on top of the pile, his right ear torn, one black eye slowly coming undone.

  I wonder, if I try hard enough, if I keep thinking about her—can I bring her back? Is there a verse I don’t know? And if I somehow stop thinking about her, if I forget her face—those bright blue galoshes that sit in the front hall behind the umbrellas there one minute, and gone the next—will she really, truly be gone?

  I don’t know what to believe.

  When I fall asleep, it’s always the old man, and the bottle I see.

  And then I’m back there, on the beach, and the man has eyes for me this time. Maybe he always did. But I wouldn’t drink it. I was the one that found the bottle—bored, hot, wishing that something exciting would happen, something fun, something different. I was humming to myself, as I was digging—first out of boredom, then with fast, angry fingers, burrowing down, through grass, and shells, and pebbles.

  And then I held it in my hands.

  Golden sun gonna come for me, golden sun gonna come for you.

  The sun gonna burn as it sets you free, sun for you, and sun for me.

  When you fly too high, to the sun in the sky,

  Tell me what you see, what you want to be.

  And then there were shadows standing over me, two of them, Cat and Bea, and they wanted the bottle, but it was mine. My turn. Not the baby . . . my turn. But they took it away from me anyway, stronger, both of them—first Cat, and then Bea, with her quick little hands. And as she tipped it back, Bea’s eyes became bright, behind her something shimmering in the sunlight, the muddy liquid disappearing down her throat—and inside the bottle something swam. Little fishes, bits of seaweed, something with a spark inside—it all happened so fast.

  And then he was there. The old man who wasn’t old, the boy trapped in a bottle—the bottle made of flesh. He was a clown, without the makeup, terrifying. His fingers were always moving, I don’t know if the others saw it—running a coin over his knuckles, holding a ball of burning light, rubbing his fingers together, tapping them tip to tip—always moving, and it made my skin crawl. Around his head there was a halo, and then a ring of buzzing flies, and then a crown made of thorns. The mixture of suntan lotion and the sickly sweet coconut with the smell of rotting fish—I thought I might puke. I covered my mouth, afraid of what might come out.

  In the distance I could hear the water rushing in, and slipping out, a warm wind on the dunes, something foul in the air.

  None of it was real.

  All of it was real.

  And what did we wish for? I know what Bea wished for. What she always wished for.

  She wanted to be special.

  I was the baby, that’s what they said, “But he’s just a baby,” and “Cat, take care of the baby, the little one,” and “When you’re older, Andrew, but not now—you’re too young.” So Cat was the big sister—Mom when Mom was away, or busy, or tired. Cat could make a mean grilled cheese sandwich, always in triangles, one of the few times I’d ever see her smile. Sometimes she was Dad, too, taking out the garbage with a huff, smashing a spider with a paper towel, a snarl on her lips, stretching up on her toes to bring down a game from the top shelf of my closet.

  But Bea? She was lost in the middle, sometimes stuck between baby and big girl, too old for my picture books, and simple toys, never getting the extra attention that Mom and Dad gave to me. And not old enough to be in charge, either, poor Bea—that was Cat, with a sigh, and a frown, and sometimes, a rare hug to make it all better. Bea was stuck between worlds. And she didn’t like it.

  Stuck between worlds.

  I sit up in bed, the star nightlight glowing from the wall. And out the window, I see the moon is filling up again, with light, to shine down on us all.

  If the sun is yellow, is bright, what is the moon?

  A different light, a way to keep away the darkness, I think.

  I go to the window, and stand there, pushing away the tears, the house so quiet. And when I look down to my little hand, and open it up, there is the bottle cap, gleaming in the mo
onlight.

  Golden Sun.

  New words, I think. We need new words.

  I close my eyes and think, as hard as I can, trying hard to remember everything the old man, the boy, the spirit trapped in another body, told us. What he showed me.

  When I was holding the bottle, before the girls, he was nothing but a glimmer. Not real yet. Only possible. But the things the bottle promised—in a flash it washed over me, no longer the baby, but an older boy now, tan skin, long hair, running through a forest, a spear in my hand, chasing something, but free at last to do what I wanted—to stay up late, to stuff my face with meat and cheese, to cover myself in mud, to splash in a creek, no, a lake, no . . . the ocean? There were others there, I was not alone—boys and girls, long hair and shaved heads, skin in colors from pale white, to light brown, to tan, and darker still. And it made me happy, this life, far away, somewhere else. It shouldn’t have. It should have scared me to death.

  In the shadows, there was something else. And it moved so slow, branches cracking, tree roots ripping up from the earth, the ground trembling. How big? How large?

  Huge.

  So big.

  I don’t have the words to describe it. At least, I didn’t then. But I do now, the beach disappearing, the dunes, the man who was not a man, the forest that was not a forest—hard words to say, something I saw on a television show. National Geographic, I think. PBS maybe.

  Behemoth.

  A show on mythical creatures, on monsters, and legends.

  Leviathan.

  That one, to do with water.

  Something else, something old, maybe. Something more, or all, at once.

  I open my eyes at the window, full of words for the moon, words I shouldn’t know, but they spill from my lips anyway—harvest, waxing, crescent, waning, yellow, pale, and gibbous.

  The bottle cap vibrates in my hand, and I spit up something onto the floor—muddy water filled with squirming creatures, a flicker of light dotting the puddle, sparks of salt, or minerals, maybe—wound in seaweed, fishing line, and little bits of twine. My throat is raw, and slick with pain.

  When I close my hand, the cap bites into my skin, an orbit of crescent moons running around my palm. I cry out softly, these nips at my flesh, a few drops of blood falling to the carpet—one coin, a second coin, a third coin paid.

  I miss my sister, I miss the fighting, the late nights talking about school and friends, and summer—all the ways we would explore the world together. I close my eyes and try to remember her face.

  Bea.

  Bea. Again.

  Bea. Always. With us.

  And the words come again, this time, something to capture the magic of my wish.

  Harvest, waxing, crescent, waning,

  yellow, pale, and gibbous—staining.

  And in my heart, I know the blue galoshes are no longer in the front hall, if they were ever there to begin with. My lips tremble, afraid to go on, my skin cold, goosebumps rising up, afraid to open my eyes, but also . . . afraid to stop. Not halfway, not between.

  I can smell the ocean, hear it crashing on the beach, those damn seagulls cawing and circling, while the bushes around our house rustle, the trees swaying back and forth, branches rubbing up against the house, scraping and screeching, my eyes still closed, the words still coming.

  What was lost, is still remaining.

  Sun and moon forever reigning.

  A scratch at the window, and I can’t open my eyes. I think of what we were before, my family—my father the strong one, picking me up, laughing as he spun me round; Mom always smiling, her eyes filled with light and love; Cat as lost as the rest of us, but trying to be so brave.

  And Bea.

  Always Bea in the shadows. Bea. Lost, for so long. Now found.

  I place my right hand on the glass, and it is cold, so very cool, and on the other side, a gentle clacking, afraid to open my eyes, fingers drumming, bones tapping. In my head I can see Bea standing in the sunshine, and maybe she has the blue galoshes on, and maybe she doesn’t, but she’s smiling, singing a song, a catchy tune, and I sing along with her.

  WHITE MARE

  THANA NIVEAU

  April was the cruelest month for grownups, but for kids it was definitely September. The wild ride of summer came crashing to an end and the return to school was like being dragged back to prison after weeks of freedom.

  Heather had never minded, though, because September gave way to October. And October was her favorite month. The air turned crisp and the leaves were at their most vibrant and colorful. And best of all, there was Halloween. It was a magical time, a time when the world transformed, putting on one last show before the long cold winter set in.

  Heather had turned fourteen the month before, and her dad was letting her throw her first party, to celebrate both holidays. Together they spent a week transforming their boring little house in the Austin suburbs into a haunted palace.

  They decorated it with orange and black streamers and stuck rubber blood spatters on all the windows and mirrors. They turned the kitchen into a gruesome abattoir, with peeled grape eyeballs and pasta intestines lying in dishes under low lights. A cauldron filled with dry ice bubbled ominously on the stove. The bathrooms were crawling with plastic spiders while glow-in-the-dark skulls and ghosts grinned from every shadowy nook and corner.

  Outside, a hideous animatronic scarecrow rose up to scream at anyone who came near enough to wake him.

  It was total overkill, but it was totally worth it. Sam and Mia said it was the sickest party they’d ever seen. Word got out on Twitter and soon the house was full. You knew a party was a success when kids you didn’t even know started showing up.

  They gleefully drank blood punch from plastic goblets and ate zombie cake off black paper plates. And even though they were technically too old for it, the costumed teenagers went trick-or-treating up and down the block, then gorged themselves on candy and pumpkin pie when they got back to the party. Heather had dressed as Wednesday Addams (her dad’s idea), but she was having such a blast it was impossible to stay in character. Her deadpan demeanor gave way to shrieking and giggling along with her friends at every manufactured scare.

  Of course they also took great delight in terrifying any kids brave enough to come knocking. Heather’s dad jumped out from his hiding place dressed like a medieval executioner, swinging a huge headsman’s axe. One younger group of trick-or-treaters ran screaming back to their mother’s car and were too afraid to return for their treats. Heather and her friends had laughed themselves into hysterical tears over that and declared that Dave Barton was the Coolest Dad Ever.

  It was the best night Heather could remember in a long time. It was almost enough to make her forget that her mother had vanished without a trace the year before.

  “Night, Mom,” Heather whispered to the creased photo she kept tucked under her pillow. “You would have loved it.”

  But even as she said it, she realized that the raw, aching wound in her heart had finally begun to heal. A year ago she’d never have imagined herself capable of smiling again. Her dad either, for that matter. But if the trauma had brought the two of them closer, the party had made them best friends.

  She’d always secretly believed it was a magical time of year. Now she knew it for a fact. So of course she began counting down the days until they could do it all again.

  “We’re going where?”

  She could remember the moment like it was yesterday. Her father had sighed and looked down at the table, where loads of important-looking papers were strewn out in front of him. “England. Just for a while. Just to get things settled.”

  England. The other side of the world. Where she didn’t know anybody.

  “But why do we have to go now?”

  “Because otherwise the farmhouse is just sitting there abandoned. It’s already been broken into twice. We can’t afford to leave it and let it get trashed.”

  Heather hadn’t been able to stop herself resenting Ruth, h
er dad’s recently deceased maiden aunt. She’d never even met the woman who’d surfaced from the distant past just to dump her creepy old farm on them.

  “Besides,” her father added sheepishly, “we need the money we’ll get from the sale of whatever’s inside. She apparently had a lot of antiques.”

  “So why can’t we go over Christmas?” Heather persisted. Missing out on Christmas was vastly preferable to being deprived of another awesome Halloween.

  “Because it’s too expensive. Everyone flies over Christmas.”

  “But our party—”

  “Heather.” For long moments her father stared down at the scattered papers, shaking his head sadly. Suddenly he wasn’t Dave Barton her BFF anymore; he was just “Dad.”

  When he finally met her eyes again, he seemed profoundly weary. Heather knew that look. He’d worn it every day until the police told them they’d abandoned the search for her mom. And then every day after that. There had been no evidence of foul play, no suggestion that she’d run off with another man, no . . . nothing. It had broken her father.

  Heather’s face burned as she realized how selfish she was being. Last year’s Halloween/birthday bash had been the first time they’d had fun since the nightmare began, the first time they’d been able to cut loose. But love wasn’t just about the fun times. What had the school counselor told her? Two steps forward, one step back?

  Her dad hadn’t known his aunt well. Hadn’t even seen her in twenty years. The death of a virtual stranger was nothing compared to what they’d gone through over Heather’s mom. But it was still awful. Aunt Ruth was dead. Not missing. Not vanished without a trace. Stone cold factually dead. And she’d left them her farm.

  “Hey,” Heather said, her voice catching. She moved to her father’s side and flopped down on the floor, resting her head on his knee. “It’s okay. I understand.” It was all she could say without breaking down.

  She felt her father’s hand in her hair, ruffling the pixie cut. “Thanks, kiddo. I knew I could count on you. And you never know—we might actually like it there.”