Psychomania: Killer Stories

by Stephen Jones

  And as Cecelia held the final note, stretching it out so long that Iz thought it might go on for ever, almost as if it promised that there might be no other moment on the other side of it, he remembered once teaching that same song to another. Another young girl whose raw talents demanded instruction, in another city, at another time.

  “You recognize my song,” Cecelia said. “I see it in your eyes. That’s good. You’re starting to remember. But do you remember it all? Do you remember teaching it to my mother?”

  He should have known, but he’d been too swept up by the remarkable voice, too distracted, to have picked up on the resemblance between the faces, so similar at similar ages even with her attempts to hide it. He should have known.

  “Cecelia, I—”

  “Do you remember the other things you did to her? I do. She told me all about them before she left us.”

  “I’m sorry that she died, Cecelia, but—”

  Cecelia suddenly leaned in so close she could have bitten him if she chose. Or kissed him.

  “My mother didn’t just die, Mr I. She killed herself. She tried, after all of the torment you put her through, to have a normal life. She married. She had me. But it was too much for her. You had worn her down. That was no accident that killed her. She left us a note, telling us everything. She stepped in front of that bus willingly. She just couldn’t go on.”

  “But don’t you see, Cecelia?” Iz said, tears of joy streaming down his face. “I may not have planned for your mother to have been snuffed out that way, but the grief was all for a greater good. Listen to yourself! If not for me, moulding first her, and then through her you, you wouldn’t have been blessed with this magnificent instrument. I was meant to find you someday. This is part of an eternal plan.”

  “No, Mr I,” said Cecelia. “I was the one meant to find you. You think our move to this town was a coincidence? You think anything that happened here was accidental? While you were watching us all week, I was watching, too. This all went according to plan. My plan.”

  She stood, and backed away from him until she was at her father’s side.

  “You’re close, Cecelia,” he cried out. “So very close. Let me keep teaching you. I promise you, God Himself will weep. I’ll give you a voice to silence the stars.”

  “Oh, there’ll be silence, all right,” she said.

  Cecelia nodded to her father, and as the man approached, lifted the trophy high over his head, and brought it crashing down, Iz himself finally uttered the perfect note which had eluded him for centuries.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  JOHN LLEWELLYN PROBERT

  Case Conference #1

  WELL, THAT ONE’S probably true,” said Stanhope, shifting in his chair to ease some of the pins and needles that had begun to accrue during the telling of the last story.

  “You think so?” Parrish uncapped his fountain pen and poised the nib above the document he had been reading from. “Last chance to change your mind,” he said.

  “The only thing that makes me wonder is: whose case notes are you reading this from?” Stanhope winced as the feeling began to return to his lower limbs. “I mean, it can’t be Mr Iz, can it?”

  The doctor didn’t seem to agree. “And why not?”

  “Because he died, didn’t he?” Stanhope spluttered. “At the end of the story Cecelia’s father bopped him over the head and he—”

  “—and he sang,” said Parrish, “quite beautifully according to the case notes. Who is to say that after that little episode he didn’t end up being transferred here, perhaps as part of a witness protection programme designed to keep him away from the understandable lust for vengeance of a husband and daughter, whose wife and mother he had driven to her death in the name of art?”

  Stanhope shrugged. “I suppose that could be what happened,” he said. “Anyway, whichever way you cut it, I certainly agree that a story like that could be true. Music has been known to induce insanity, hasn’t it?”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t think we can wholly attribute the poor gentleman’s lack of mental stability to music in this case,” said Parrish, making a mark on his notes and popping the cap back on his pen. “Rather it was his obsessive love of one certain aspect of it that drove him to do the things he did.”

  Stanhope’s eyes followed the doctor as Parrish returned the case file to a low shelf behind his desk. “But surely you would agree that music can cause insanity under certain conditions?” the journalist insisted. “Or at least particular types of music can? There are always stories of kids going mental at rock concerts. Drugs, heavy metal, you know the sort of thing.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” said Parrish, taking the opportunity to stretch now that he was on his feet. “And what you have just come out with is, if you will forgive me for saying so, just the kind of hysterical nonsense the newspapers you work for demand, so that their middle-aged readership can feel shocked and horrified at something they pretend not to understand. It’s very rare that young people are capable of the kind of atrocities I have documented here. Now if you’ll just wait a moment...”

  The doctor went over to a low cupboard near the door. It had been fashioned from dark wood and was held shut with a small but robust-looking padlock. Parrish opened it with a tiny key he took from his jacket pocket. The hinges made a noise like mice being put through a mangle.

  “Hasn’t been oiled in a while, I’m afraid,” Parrish said as he rummaged about within.

  “What’s in there then?” Stanhope asked, the furrow in his brow deepening as he saw the object that was lifted out.

  Dr Parrish carried the battered, crumbling violin case to the desk with infinite care, and once he had laid it down he opened the rusting catches as gently as possible. The lid didn’t so much open as lift off, its hinges brittle and broken by decades of use. Parrish put the crumbling wood safely out of the way before turning his attention to what lay inside.

  If anything, the violin that nestled within the folds of rotting green velvet looked even older than the case that protected it, and Parrish unwrapped the instrument with the care one might afford a new-born child. Finally, divested of its protective coverings, the violin was lifted from its resting-place so that Parrish could display it to Stanhope.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.

  Stanhope shrugged. “If you want me to be honest,” he said, “and I’m sure you do, it looks like something one might find in a downmarket antique shop.”

  Parrish tutted. “If you did,” he said, “that would be a great shame, for this violin has a history so fascinating and yet so terrible that its story will never be written down.”

  Stanhope looked amused by his words. “Not even in your case files?”

  Parrish shook his head. “Not the full story, anyway.”

  The journalist reached out to touch the violin, but Parrish wouldn’t let him.

  “Be careful,” said the doctor. “We wouldn’t want you to be captivated by whatever power it is rumoured to possess, now would we?”

  Stanhope’s twitching fingers were still poised to make contact with the instrument when Parrish’s words made him laugh out loud. “So you think you’ve got a magic violin there, do you?”

  “I don’t,” said Parrish. “But I have a very strong personality and I’m not easily influenced by such things. Professor Mortenhoe, to whom this particular piece belonged for a short while, and who is now resident upstairs for the rest of his natural life, is a weak man who knew the history of this violin when he purchased it and, I believe, was unduly influenced by what he believed it capable of.”

  Stanhope chuckled. “Well, this is the most novel method of presenting one of your cases to me yet!” he said. “Go on then, tell me. What exactly did he think it was capable of...?”

  Parrish held the violin higher and plucked one of the three remaining strings. It produced a note as pure and as perfect as Stanhope had ever heard. But there was som
ething else about the sound as well, something hypnotic, ethereal. Before he could stop himself, Stanhope asked if Parrish wouldn’t mind plucking the string again.

  “Oh, no.”The doctor smiled. “Once is quite enough. I can see that from your eyes. Twice will have you attempting to wrench this instrument from me so you can play it yourself - do you play the violin, by the way?” Stanhope didn’t. “In that case it’s just as well I haven’t let you touch it. Professor Mortenhoe could play … when he still had fingers. In fact, he could play very well. Not well enough for concert standard, but enough to hold a teaching position at a well-known university. Of course, as we have just seen, if one is obsessed with music to the extent that it is driving one slowly insane, it is never a good idea to be around those who might be vulnerable to one’s ... little eccentricities.”

  “Well, that last story you told me proved that,” said Stanhope. “Not that it really needed proving. So what did Mortenhoe do?”

  “No one knows, exactly,” said Parrish. “The professor was discovered in his study, keening over this very instrument. He was totally uncommunicative, and has remained so ever since.”

  “Why was he so upset?” Stanhope asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the violin. “Was it because he’d broken a string?”

  “Partly,” said Parrish, “and partly because he had tried to replace it. And failed. His attempts to do so were what led to his being secured here.”

  Stanhope gazed at the instrument, fascinated by the scratches on the wood. “He killed someone, then?”

  Parrish placed the violin back in its case and secured the lid. Stanhope’s grunt of dissatisfaction as he did so did not go unnoticed.

  “Several people, in fact,” the doctor replied. “All girls, all blondes. Mind you, they didn’t have the lovely long hair they started out with by the time he had finished with them. One of the rather strange stories that seems to have grown up around this violin is that the beautiful sound it can produce is a result of the strings having been fashioned from the treated hair of virgins. In a fit of rather over-zealous playing, the professor broke one of the strings and presumably tried to replace it in the only way he could think of.

  “When his donors proved to be unwilling to have their heads shaved he killed them, and when their hair proved unsatisfactory, presumably because of the ... unsuitable nature of the girls themselves, he had to find more. He got through five of them before he was stopped.” Parrish grinned. “Apparently he kept the bodies locked in the part of the music library devoted to the sixteenth-century stuff because no one ever went in there. Poor old Palestrina, eh? Good thing his ghost didn’t haunt the place, or it would probably have been very annoyed by having dead girls dumped next to his manuscripts. Or who knows? Perhaps he would have got a kick out of it.”

  “You’re saying the other strings on the violin are made from human hair?” Stanhope said.

  The doctor shook his head. “I am not. I am saying that Professor Mortenhoe believed that to be the case. As far as I am aware the remaining strings have not been tested and, besides, I’m not sure if it would be possible to tell the difference between the ancient keratin that would be the main constituent of years-old human hair, and the catgut that was used to string such instruments in those days.”

  “Well, if you need my thoughts on that one, I’d say it’s probably true,” said Stanhope.

  “Really?” Parrish was back at the cupboard now, locking away his museum piece. “Just because I showed you a battered old violin and gave you the impression that you might be in danger of coming under its spell? And told you a story without the benefit of any case notes, a story that for all you know I might have been making up off the top of my head?” Parrish tutted as he returned to his desk. “I do hope I’m not beginning to convince you that everything I say is true.”

  He regarded the reporter’s disbelieving stare and broke into laughter.

  “My goodness me, it appears I might be!” Parrish clapped his hands. “How delicious! And talking of delicious, my dear fellow, would you care for something to eat?”

  Stanhope stared at him open-mouthed. “I beg your pardon?”

  The doctor indicated the empty tea tray in the corner. “All you’ve had since you came here is some tea and biscuits. Would you like me to get you anything else?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Stanhope felt incensed by the joke that Parrish had just played on him. If, of course, it was a joke. The fact that he was still undecided made him even more angry, but he was determined not to show it.

  “You’re quite sure?”

  Stanhope was.

  “You should, you know,” said Parrish, “you won’t want to eat anything after this next story.” He was already searching through one of his lower desk drawers. Finally he produced a worn manila folder with a few scraps of paper inside. “It’s a short case from more than fifty years ago, but nevertheless one that might put even those with a strong stomach off their food. You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Get on with it,” said Stanhope, crossing his legs.

  “Very well, but it’s your funeral,” said Parrish with a giggle. “Or rather, it isn’t, but I’m sure you would have been invited if they had felt it was appropriate ...”

  <>

  ~ * ~

  ROBERT SILVERBERG

  The Undertaker’s Sideline

  THE FUNERAL SERVICE for the late and sorely lamented Thomas F. Underhill of the town of Reeseport was drawing to its close. A hundred citizens of Reeseport were on hand to hear the final praises of the late Thomas F. Underhill, who had been taken from this world by a heart attack at the untimely age of forty-seven. Thomas F. Underhill had been one of the town’s most substantial citizens, in more ways than one. He had left a good deal of money behind. And he had tipped the scales in the funeral parlour at a plump, rotund 216 pounds.

  A very substantial citizen indeed, thought the solemn person in black frock coat who stood at the rear of the auditorium. He was the highly respected J. Michael Tenneshaw, Mortician - the town undertaker of Reeseport for more than thirty years.

  J. Michael Tenneshaw had supervised the burials of most of Reeseport’s substantial citizens since some time in 1925. He had grown quite wealthy in that time, since his trade was one that rarely lacked for customers. He stood now surveying his handiwork. The departed lay serenely in his luxurious coffin. J. Michael Tenneshaw had worked hard over the dead man’s face, lightly covering it with wax to conceal the mottled purple effects of his fatal heart seizure. It now looked as if Thomas F. Underhill had died peacefully in his sleep - whereas Underhill had actually gone to his repose while screaming and clawing at the air.

  Tenneshaw was a craftsman at his trade.

  The funeral service was ending. They were closing the coffin lid; weeping relatives, still tense about the not-yet-disclosed terms of the dead man’s will, flung themselves piteously down on the burnished coffin to sob out a few gasps of mourning.

  Then the pallbearers were carrying the coffin through the hall outside, placing it aboard Mr Tenneshaw’s gleaming, flower-bedecked hearse. Then came the ride to the cemetery, where the open grave awaited the coffin of Thomas F. Underhill.

  The minister said the proper words; the mourners wept appropriately. The newly dug earth was shovelled over the coffin in a few minutes.

  Thomas F. Underhill had gone to his eternal rest.

  Or so the people of the town of Reeseport were happy to believe. Gradually, the funeral attendees dispersed. Mr J. Michael Tenneshaw returned to his sumptuous mortuary establishment and occupied himself for a while by preparing a bill for funeral services. The bill would be discreetly delivered to the Underhill family in a few days, after the will had been read. They were more likely not to notice the size of the bill once they realized how much money they had come into.

  Mr J. Michael Tenneshaw was a wealthy man, of course. But he believed in providing for a secure old age by continuing to
amass wealth. This was why he was not content merely to run a funeral parlour. Mr J. Michael Tenneshaw augmented his earnings from the undertaking business by operating a sideline - in another town, of course.

  ~ * ~

  Night descended slowly over the town of Reeseport. Mr Tenneshaw returned to his own large house on the outskirts and occupied himself until dark by reading; he had obtained a rare edition of von Juntz’s Unaussprechlichen Kulten, in the English translation of 1876. When only the light of the distant stars broke the town’s darkness, Mr Tenneshaw divested himself of his starched and impeccable black funeral garb, and donned in its place an odd and contrasting outfit: a white jacket and white trousers, along with a white apron, all somewhat stained with blood.

  He descended to his garage, where he ignored his personal car and instead climbed into a medium-sized truck of elderly vintage. Mr Tenneshaw drove out into the night. A dog ran baying at him along the road for a while, but soon was left far behind.