The Year's Best Horror Stories 4

by Gerald W. Page (Ed. )

  Charley shook his head. "No, I mean, just ordinary money."

  The bookdealer bowed and shook his own head. "Neighboring sir," he said, "I have not twenty-seven times risked my life, nor suffered pangs and pains innumerable, merely to sell for ordinary money these treasures handed down from my progenitors, nor ignore their noble standards of value. Oh, nay." And he restored to its container The Book of Macaws, Egrets, and Francolins. In the Five Colors.

  A certain stubbornness crept over Charley. "Well, then, what is the cheapest one you've got, then?" he demanded.

  The scion of the High Vale of Lhom-bhya shrugged, fingered his lower lip, looked here and there, uttered a slight and soft exclamation, and took from the last cabinet in the far comer an immense scroll. It had rollers of chalcedony with ivory finials and a case of scented samal-wood lacquered in vermilion and picked with gold; its cord weights were of banded agate.

  "This is a mere diversion for the idle moments of a prince. In abridged form, its title reads, Book of Precious Secrets on How to Make Silver and Gold from Dust, Dung, and Bran; Also How to Obtain the Affections; Plus One Hundred and Thirty-Eight Attitudes for Carnal Conjunction and Sixty Recipes for Substances Guaranteed to Maintain the Stance as Well as Tasting Good: by a Sage." He opened the scroll and slowly began to unwind it over the length of the table.

  The pictures were of the most exquisitely detailed workmanship and brilliant of color on which crushed gold quartz had been sprinkled while the glorious pigments were as yet still wet. Charley's heart gave a great bound, then sank. "No, I said the cheapest one—"

  His host stifled a very slight yawn. "This is the cheapest," he said, indifferent, almost. "What is cheaper than lust or of less value than alchemy or aphrodisiacs? The price . . . the price," he said examining the tag, which was of ebony inlaid with jasper. "The price is the crushed head of a sandal merchant of Babylon, with a red, red rose between his teeth: a trifle. The precise utility of that escapes me, but it is of no matter. My only task is to obtain the price as established—that and, of course, to act as your host until the stars turn pale."

  Charley rose. "I guess I'll be going, anyway," he said. "I certainly want to thank you for showing me all this. Maybe I'll be back tomorrow for something, if they haven't all been sold by then." His heart knew what his heart desired, his head knew the impossibility of any of it, but his lips at least maintained a proper politeness even at the last.

  He went down the stairs, his mind filled with odd thoughts, half enjoyable, half despairing. Heavy footsteps sounded coming up; who was it but Mungo. "I thought you said you lived on the second floor," he said. "No use lying to me; come on, dumbbell, I need you. Earn your goddamn money for a change. My funking car's got a flat; move it, I tell you, spit-head; when I say move it, you move it!" And he jabbed his thick, stiff fingers into Charley's kidneys and, ignoring his employee's cry of pain, half guided, half goaded him along the empty blocks to the empty block lined with closed warehouses where, indeed, an automobile stood, somewhat sagging to one side.

  "Get the goddamn jack up; what're you dreaming about? Quit stumbling over your goddamn feet, or cry-sake; you think I got nothing better to do? You think I do nothing but sell greasy stoves to greaseballs? Move it, nipplehead! I want you to know that I also own the biggest goddamn shoe store in Babylon, Long Island. Pick up that tire iron!"

  CHRISTMAS PRESENT by Ramsey Campbell

  Probably no other writer has so thoroughly made the milieu of contemporary youth his stalking ground for horror as Ramsey Campbell; which may be one reason why he has produced some of the most powerful stories of fear in recent print. The lovely example that follows was broadcast on BBC radio on Christmas Eve in 1969 but did not see print until this past year. It reminds us of that now neglected tradition—the Christmas ghost story—but it can be enjoyed in any season.

  (A slightly different version of this story was broadcast on BBC Radio Mersey-side on December 24, 1969; it was produced by Tony Wolfe, read by Gavin Richards, with a specially composed electronic score by Donald Henshilwood, and for these reasons the story is dedicated to them.)

  You scarcely notice Christmas in Liverpool 8, except that there are more parties. On Christmas Eve I made my way early to the pub; as I hurried along Gambier Terrace I glanced up in search of party-goers, but most of the rooms of students and writers of ephemeral verse were unlit, blackly rattling in the wind which swept up from the river around the horned tower of the Anglican cathedral and across the sloughed graveyard, recently scraped clean of graves. Still, by ten o'clock in The Grapes, bottles of California Chablis were gathering on the tables; my table had collected three and a half of anonymous Riesling. Not that I knew all the people behind the names: only Bill and Les and Desmond and Jill, just back from London for Christmas, whose hand I was holding. I couldn't place the mute student on the other side of Jill; I'd caught his name and let it drift away among the stained glasses. He was one of those people you always seem to meet in the neurotics' ward of O'Connor's Tavern or arguing with the Marxists at the Phil, a face everyone knows and nobody can name, and I didn't know what to do with him.

  We hadn't objected when he joined us, thrust smiling hopefully against our table by the deafening scarved crowd, a drooping streamer supporting his head like a red chinstrap—but he'd shown no inclination to provide a bottle. I couldn't bring myself to say "Look, there are enough of us already"; it was Christmas. Perhaps if we waited he naught go away. But at other tables groups were clutching bottles like truncheons and rising, and outside the first police cars were howling their way to Upper Parliament and Lime Streets. "We might as well go," I said and stood with Jill, followed by the others.

  At last the student spoke. Jarred, I realized that I hadn't heard his voice, aggressive beneath the deprecating Southern whine. "I've got a present here for someone," he told his hands lurking under the table. "I wanted to be sure it'd be appreciated. Shall I give it to you, then?" he asked me.

  "Do I take it you've been watching me to make sure?"

  "It was a nice thought," Jill said, squeezing my hand and watching my face. "Wasn't it?"

  I knew she needed to believe in the Christmas spirit. "Well, thank you very much," I told the student. "We're going back to my place for a party if you're free."

  "Great," he said. His hands ventured forth and passed me a small box wrapped in black paper, tightly sealed and Sello-taped. "I'd like to be there when you open it," he said.

  We forced our way through brimming tables and discussions of the art of cinema and emerged into Catherine Street. Fragmented by shadows of branches hard and sharp as black ice, we made our way through to Gambier Terrace, but Diane and Beatrice were out, for their cacti clawed at an unlit window. For a second I thought I heard the tin choirboys singing carols in the tree outside the Jacey Cinema, but as they faded, buffeted out of shape by the wind, I decided that they were trapped in a radio. Jill was peering through the hedge opposite the cathedral; beyond the Mersey glittered, and at Birkenhead the dinosaur skeletons of cranes had come down to the water to drink in darkness. My hand was frozen around the cardboard box. I hid Jill's in my pocket and we turned into Canning Street.

  As we did so I heard the student say, "Look at the face on that cathedral."

  We looked. An edge of the night-wind slipped into me as I took in the image; the tower's horns had pricked up triumphant and mocking, the long windows were eyes, drawn down and slitted into static evil. "I wish it had a mouth. Then at least we could guess its thoughts," I said.

  "It looks as if it's shouldering its way up from the graveyards," Jill said, and then immediately: "Don't make me say things like that."

  "Don't worry," I said. "There no longer is a graveyard."

  "Thanks for trying," said Jill. "I've just been staring into that graveyard. If you hadn't pulled me away I might still be there. Why is it so crowded? And why in heaven's name do they have to light it up at night?"

  "Come on, Jill, this is no party mood," I protested
and hurried her back to the corner of Hope Street, the others curving back in formation and following us like a tail. "They've cleared the graveyard out completely. I'll show you."

  "No, John, please don't!" Jill cried.

  "Look, don't force her," the student intervened. "He's quite right, you know. No graveyard at all."

  Jill steered us back toward my flat. I nodded thanks to the student. "What is your name, by the way?" I asked.

  "I'll tell you later," he promised.

  "When you've decided in our favor?"

  "If you like."

  "My God!" I shouted beerily, but Jill gripped my arm. "Look!" she said. "We're being followed."

  "By what?"

  "Darkness."

  I persuaded myself to relax. Turning, I saw that the light at the end of Canning Street was unlit. Behind us our procession plodded; a dark figure, probably Bill, waved a bottle at me. Briefly I thought: Surely there were only eight more of us in the pub? How many are there now? But as they stepped one by one over the edge of light, I saw that there were no more than eight—certainly not the few dozen dark shapes that for a moment I thought I'd seen.

  When the second light went out I said quickly to Jill, "Someone in the power station is stoned."

  "Surely they can't turn off individual lamps," she whispered.

  "Of course they can," I said, letting her cling to me as she strode on.

  The third light vanished almost before we reached it, transformed into a dwindling image of brightness receded like hope. Behind us the others shouted comments. There wasn't a car to be seen in Canning Street except the shells at the curb, and there were two more lights ahead to be passed. Jill was almost running, snatching at the light before it was extinguished. I gripped my present and hurried with her. Beside her the student moved with us. His face suggested an expression which I couldn't read; as it seemed about to identify itself a fist of darkness clamped over his face. We were running. His face reappeared, expressionless, and we'd reached my flat. I glanced back; the others, however many there were, arrived panting. On the steps I hesitated, staring back along the fake Regency facades; surely some of the houses had been lit when we passed? But, an incoherent singing bus weaved past on Catherine Street, my key slipped into the lock, and we piled inside.

  Jill and I plunged straight into the party, filling glasses where I'd placed them ready on the mantelpiece, sweeping up my abandoned afternoon's manuscript and burying it in the bedroom beneath coats, drawing back the curtains to attract those who might still be wandering with bottles, lighting the fire and throwing up the window. A record smacked the turntable and caught the needle. A bottle drained; conversations intertwined; laughter sprang up. Someone was dancing; a corner of my Beatles poster tore from the wall, but I'd meant to throw it out a month ago. Jill and I leaned against the chiming mantelpiece and sipped. Jill saw the student before I did, standing at the open window, staring down the lightless street toward the cathedral. As the next record hung alert for the needle, Jill cried: "Listen, everyone! John's had a present!"

  "Well, open it," Bill called.

  I took the sealed box from among the glasses on the mantelpiece, but the student turned. "No, not yet," he said. "Wait until midnight."

  "Why midnight?" Bill demanded.

  "Christmas Day."

  "Well, that's right," Bill agreed. "That's tradition."

  "Tradition," Jill hissed. I could feel her tensing.

  "Come on, Jill, sit down, love," I said.

  But Bill called: "What's wrong with tradition?"

  "Oh, not tradition," Jill said from the couch. "Myths. How can we all stop for a couple of days and get stoned on the myth of human fellowship when people are being murdered in Vietnam?"

  "Oh, come on," Bill said, offering a bottle. "Never mind that for now. It's Christmas."

  "In Vietnam too?"

  "You can't ignore myths," the student interrupted. "A war is a clash between a myth and its antithesis."

  "Don't be pretentious," Jill said.

  "All right, you stay on your debating-society level, but you wait. I'll show you that myths are dangerous."

  Jill recoiled. The arrested dancers looked uneasy. "That's a hell of a generalization," I intervened. "How dangerous?"

  "All belief needs is a mob to give it form," he said. "Listen, mate, there's nothing more frightening than people gathering round a belief. And I'll tell you why. Because if a belief exists it must have an opposite. That exists too but they try to ignore it. That's why people in a group are dangerous."

  He'd given me a present but I couldn't resist saying, "In that case I'm surprised you came here."

  "Ah, well," he said. "I'm safe now."

  I think all this was above most of our heads. The second record had fallen unheard, but the touch of the needle on the third galvanized us all; we danced frenetically. Someone tried to draw the student into the dance, but he shook her off and returned to the window. As I whirled with Jill I saw him push the window up and climb onto the balcony, his hair springing up against the darkness. The record spun to a climax and lost the needle, and in the suspended silence we all heard the bell.

  At least, we couldn't imagine what else it might be. "It's the cathedral. What's wrong?" Bill demanded. For the bell sounded drowned, its note boomed and then choked, muffled, swept away screaming and was engulfed. It dragged itself back, clanged unbearably loud and then dulled, thudded tonelessly in mud. We all stared at the student's intent back, but he never turned.

  "It must be the electricity, like the lights," Bill said, and was about to go on when the voices began. "Carol singers!" he said happily.

  Yes, we thought, carol singers, they can't be anything else. But there seemed to be so many coming up from the cathedral, an entire choir. I didn't recognize the tune, and I could tell that everyone was baffled, for the tune led toward recognition and then fled squealing and growling into impossible extremes, notes leaping like frogs and falling dead. The voices squirmed between the suffocated tones of the bell, voices thin and cold as the wind, thick and black as wet earth, and paced toward us up Canning Street.

  "What are they singing?" Bill said desperately.

  "Does it matter?" Jill muttered.

  I pushed past the student and gripped the chill iron of the balcony. But Canning Street was an abyss of blackness, leading to the powerful horned form of the cathedral. I could see nothing, only hear their voices fling a contorted mass of sound toward the sky and into the earth, and wonder whether they were moving to the music. I could only imagine their faces turned up to me as they chanted and knocked at the door beneath my feet.

  When I thrust my head back through the window it was too late. "I'll go and give them something," Bill said. "After all, it's Christmas," and he'd gone.

  Nobody else moved. Perhaps they were right; perhaps Bill was right. The bell swung reverberating through the sky. I peered down through the mesh of the balcony. Before I could strain sight from the darkness, I heard the street door open. I listened for minutes, waiting to hear more than the clangor of the bell and the packed insistent voices. But there was nothing, except determined conversation in the room behind me, until Jill gripped my arm through the window and whispered urgently, "John, they're in the house. They're coming upstairs."

  I dragged myself over the sill and fell into the room. I could hear the voices turn at the first landing, mount the stairs lethargically like a gigantic worm. "Where's Bill?" I demanded.

  "I don't know."

  "Quickly," I shouted. The voices were bursting forth at the top of the stairs. "Everyone. We'll take a collection. Give them money. Jill, you collect half."

  But she was staring aghast out of the window. I whirled. On the balcony the student bent ecstatic against the gale of sound. Jill stood, a cry blocking her mouth; her face drained of color and wrinkled like an apple. The voices massed toward the door of the flat. "Don't offer them money," Jill choked. "Give them that present."

  I lunged for the mantelpi
ece, thrusting bodies aside. Everyone seemed determined to ignore what was happening, to leave the decision to me; I waded through entangled conversations and clusters of faces like blank bubbles. I threw out my hand and caught up the cardboard box, and the student pinioned my arm. "Don't touch it, you fool!" he cried. "Not now!"

  The voices were at the door, roaring a single note or a million, a sound which could never have emerged from threats but might have burst forth from a tunnel. I struggled with him. "One moment more," he pleaded. "Just to see."

  And Jill shrieked and snatched the cardboard box from me and threw it into the fire.

  For a moment the trembling flames were crushed, struggling, helpless. The bell crashed like tons of drowned iron; the voices squealed in triumph. Then the flames sprang up, swarmed up the corners of the box, and a minute later it puffed like rotten wood and collapsed into shapeless ash. The bell swung up into an aching silence; a draft muttered where the voices had been.

  We waited until Bill knocked on the flat door. "Why on earth did I go downstairs?" he wondered.

  "So much for your myths," Jill said to the student. "Damn you."

  I controlled myself. "There's one thing I want to know," I said. "What did you put in that box?"

  "Surely you can see that that doesn't matter," the student said. "Just something to give form to a belief, that's all. It was a sort of anti-Christmas present, actually. The antithesis of a Christmas present. An experiment, mate, you know. Or do you mean the actual contents of the box?"

  "We don't need to know that," I told him. "In fact, I think Jill would rather not." I hit him only once, but he fell.

  "Here, hang on," Bill protested. The others looked away. That I expected; but Jill clutched my shoulders and cried: "Bring him round! Bring him round, for God's sake! How do we know where he was before he met us? How do we know he didn't give someone else a present?"