The Best New Horror 3

by Stephen Jones

  Finally it was finished and I stood back and looked at it. It looked pretty damn solid.

  “Let’s see you get through that then, you bastards,” I said quietly, half sitting and half collapsing to the ground.

  After a moment I noticed how quiet it was. At some point they must have stopped banging against the door. How long ago I had no idea. I’d been making far too much noise to notice, and my ears were still ringing. I put my ear against the barrier and listened. Silence. I lit a cigarette and let tiredness and a blessed feeling of safeness wash over me. The sound of the match striking was slightly muted, but that could’ve been the ringing in my ears as much as anything and the kitchen looked pretty grubby but no more than that. And I felt fine.

  Vaguely wondering what the two outside were up to, whether there was any chance that they might, not realising that I understood about the right door and the wrong door, have given up and be waiting for the change to take its course, I sat and finished my cigarette, actually savouring the feeling of being balanced between two worlds, secure in the knowledge that in a moment I would just walk out that front door and the house would come back and none of it would matter a damn.

  Eventually I stood up. I was really going to ache tomorrow, I thought as I stepped into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding a large black spider that scuttled out of one of the cartons. The floor was getting very messy now, with scraps of dried-up rotted meat covered with the corpses of dead maggots and small piles of stuff I really didn’t want to look at too closely. Skirting the rubbish I walked over to the door past the now bizarrely misshapen fridge and into the front hall.

  The hallway was still clear, and as far as I could see, utterly normal. As I crossed it towards the front door, anxious now to get the whole thing over with, and wondering how I was going to explain the state of the back door to my family, I noticed a very faint tapping sound in the far distance. After a moment it stopped, and then restarted from a slightly different direction. Odd, but scarcely a primary concern. Right now my priority was getting out of that front door before the hall got any stranger.

  Feeling like an actor about to bound onto stage, and looking forward very much to looking out onto the real world, I reached out to the doorknob, twisted it and pulled it towards me, smiling.

  At first I couldn’t take it in. I couldn’t understand why instead of the driveway all I could see was brown. Brown flatness. Then as I adjusted my focal length, pulling it in for something much closer than the drive I’d been expecting, I began to realise, because the view looked rather familiar. I’d seen something like it very recently.

  It was a barrier. An impregnable wooden barrier nailed across the door into the walls from the outside. Now I knew what they’d been doing as I finished nailing them out. They’d been nailing me in.

  I tried everything I could think of against that barrier, my fists, my shoulder, a chair. It was there to stay. I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t come back in through the right door and for the moment they couldn’t get in through the wrong door. A sort of stalemate. But a very poor sort for me, because they were much the stronger and getting more so all the time, because the house was still going over and now I couldn’t stop it.

  I walked into the kitchen, rubbing my bruised shoulder and thinking furiously. There had to be something I could do, and I had to do it fast. The change was speeding up. Although the hall still looked normal the kitchen was now filthy, and the fifties fridge was back. In the background I could still hear the faint tapping noise. Maybe they were trying to get in through the roof.

  I had to get out, had to find a way. Come on, lateral thinking. You leave a house by a door. How else? No other way. You always leave by a door. But is there any other way you could leave? The doors . . . Christ. The windows. What about the windows? If there was a right door and a wrong door, maybe there were right and wrong windows too, and maybe the right ones looked out onto the real world. Maybe, just maybe, you could smash one and then climb out and then back in again. Maybe that would work.

  I had no idea whether it would or not, I wasn’t kidding myself that I understood anything, and God alone knew where I might land if I chose the wrong window. Perhaps I’d go out the wrong one and then be chased round the house by the two maniacs outside as I tried to find a right window to break back in through. That would be a barrel of laughs, wouldn’t it? That would be just Fun City. But what choice did I have? Through the square window today, children, I thought crazily, and ran into the living room, heading for the big picture window.

  I don’t know how I could not have made the connection. Maybe because the taps were so quiet. I just stood in the living room, my mouth open. This time they were one jump ahead. They’d boarded up the bloody windows.

  I ran into the hall, the dining room, upstairs to the bedrooms. Every single window was boarded up. I knew where they’d got the nails from, I’d spilt more then enough when I fell, but how . . . Then I realised how they’d nailed them in without a hammer, why the tapping had been so quiet. With sudden sickening clarity I found I could imagine the suited man clubbing the nails in with his fists, smashing them in with his forehead and grinning while he did it. Oh Jesus.

  I walked downstairs again. Every single window. Even the ones that were too small to climb through. Then as I stood in the kitchen amidst the growing piles, the pounding on the back door started. There was no way I could get out of the house. I couldn’t stop it. This time it was going over all the way and taking me with it. And they were going to smash their way in to come along for the ride. To get me. I listened, watching the rubbish, as the pounding got louder and louder.

  It’s still getting louder, and I can tell from the sound that some of the planks are beginning to give way. The house stopped balancing long ago, and the change is coming on more quickly. The kitchen looks like a bomb site and there are an awful lot of spiders in there now. Eventually I left them to it and came through the hall into here, only making one or two wrong turnings. Into the living room.

  And that’s where I am now, just sitting and waiting. There is nothing I can do about the change, nothing. I can’t get out. I can’t stop them getting in.

  But there is one thing I can do. I’m going to stay here, in the living room. I can see small shadows now, gathering in corners and darting out from under the chairs, and it’s quite dark down by the end wall. The wall itself seems less important now, less substantial, less of a barrier. And I think I can hear the sound of running water somewhere far away, and smell the faintest hint of dark and lush vegetation.

  I won’t let them get me. I’ll wait, in the gathering darkness here in the living room, listening to the coming of the night sounds, feeling a soft breeze on my face and sensing the room opening out as the walls shade away, as I sit here quietly in the dark warm air. And then I’ll get up and start walking, walking out into the dark land, into the jungle and amidst the trees that stand all around behind the darkness, smelling the greenness that surrounds me and hearing the gentle river off somewhere to the right. And I’ll feel happy walking away into the night, and maybe far away I’ll meet whatever makes the growling sounds I begin to hear in the distance and we’ll sit together by running water and be at peace in the darkness.

  DENNIS ETCHISON

  When They Gave Us Memory

  DENNIS ETCHISON has been described as the best short story writer in the horror field today. After winning $250 at the age of twelve for an essay called “What America Means to Me”, he made his first professional sale to Escapade in 1961.

  Although not a prolific writer, Etchison has contributed to numerous magazines and anthologies, and his short fiction is collected in The Dark Country, Red Dreams and The Blood Kiss. He has edited the anthologies Cutting Edge, three volumes of Masters of Darkness, Lord John Ten and MetaHorror, and he is the author of the novels Darkside, Shadow Man and the novelisation of John Carpenter’s movie The Fog. Under the pseudonym “Jack Martin” he has also novelised Halloween II, Halloween III and Videodro
me.

  “When They Gave Us Memory” is a particularly autobiographical story by the author and a fine example of what he doesn’t consider to be horror fiction. But we do.

  HALFWAY AROUND THE BAY, BEFORE PASSING through the rock, he stopped and listened.

  There was only the creaking of masts as sailboats listed back at the docks, straining their ropes and drubbing the pilings where they were moored. That and a distant hissing as water lapped the shore and deposited another layer of broken shells on the sand.

  He saw the beach and the pier through the mist, the teenagers with zinc oxide on their noses, the white-legged tourists in walking shorts. No one else, except for the faded statue of an old-fashioned groom or footman in front of the carousel enclosure. The path along the jetty behind him was clear.

  Even so, he could not shake the conviction that he was being followed.

  He had sensed eyes on him in the restaurant, and the feeling grew when he went down to the pier. At every stand and gift shop he had paused, pretending interest in the souvenirs as he stole glances over his shoulder, but the boards remained empty. Pearly mobiles spinning in Mother Goose’s Mall, cotton candy congealing against glass in the Taffy House, postcards curling outside the Fortune Hunter. Nothing else. He tried to let it go.

  I should have called first, he thought.

  He had hoped to surprise them in Captain Ahab’s, their usual lunchtime spot, but the drive was longer than he remembered and he’d arrived late; by then strangers filled every table. Had his parents come early to avoid the noon rush and then gone for a walk? He couldn’t imagine his dad sitting any longer than necessary . . .

  By now he had covered most of the waterfront, including the pier and the beach. All that was left was the jetty, a stone path that curved out over the bay in a half circle before returning to shore. In order to complete his search he would have to pass through the rock, an ancient landmark left untouched by the harbor’s developers except for the installation of a railing where the foothold narrowed and became treacherous.

  Now the natural arch loomed before him, dark and dripping with moisture.

  He hesitated as a sudden wind moaned within the cavern.

  Leaning on a coin-operated telescope, he caught his breath. Here the sea was calm, lapping gently at colonies of mollusks that clung to the slippery stones, at skittering crustaceans that sought purchase on the slick, eroded surfaces. Farther out, however, past the breakers, whitecaps were already forming where the currents merged in the gulf.

  He watched one of the whitecaps detach from the tip of a wave, lift and begin to drift inland. Then another, another, flecks of spume breaking loose and taking flight.

  They were coming this way.

  When he saw that they were gulls, he waved. They swooped closer, poised just above the railing, their sleek wings fully extended.

  Then they cawed, zeroing in on him.

  He held out his arms to show that he had no food, no bread or leftover bait, but they dropped closer, feathers ruffling as they hovered in a holding pattern. The largest gull beat the air and cawed again. He noticed the sharp beak, the arrow tongue, the beady eyes focused on his empty fingers, and nervously stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  The bird cocked its head, opened its beak wider, and shrieked.

  What did it see?

  He turned.

  There was no one else on the jetty. A quarter mile away, the teenagers and tourists were still on the beach. The concession stands on the pier were boarded up now. It appeared that even the carousel was closed; the statue of the groom was no longer there.

  When he turned back, the gulls were gone. He caught a last glimpse of their crescent wings pumping away on the horizon.

  Ahead, a wave boomed in the cave.

  The tide was rising. As plumes of spray settled over him he imagined the jetty awash, the rock path submerged, cutting off his return to land.

  There was nothing left to do but go through before the waters rose any higher.

  In the center of the arch a circle of diffused light shone through salt spray. The jetty beyond curved landward again so that there seemed to be nothing but endless sea on the other side. The walls of the cave swam with condensation, winking at him as though encrusted with tiny eyes.

  He let go of the railing, hunched his shoulders, and walked forward.

  Inside, the pounding of the surf was magnified until the pressure against his eardrums reached an all but unbearable level. He reconsidered, but there was no way around the rock. The jetty leading out from shore was less than a yard wide here, with only jagged boulders and the ocean beyond the railing. And the tide was swelling dangerously. Wasn’t that a splash of white foam already bobbing above the path behind him?

  Between the ebb and flow he heard water draining away, every drop resonating with the force of a pistol shot. He covered his ears but the throbbing was in the bones of his skull. He took his hands away, and almost lost his footing as a deep, bellowing roar sounded directly in front of him.

  The cave wall shimmered and expanded, and something huge and formless spilled out over the rail into the circle of light, blocking his way.

  A sea lion.

  The massive creature reared its head, settled heavily on its haunches, and bellowed again.

  He held the rail tightly and stood stock-still.

  After a few seconds the animal twitched its glistening gray whiskers and waddled aside to allow passage. Another, smaller shape wriggled wetly in the shadows. It slapped its flippers and cried out hoarsely, as if welcoming him.

  He took a breath, measuring his next step.

  “Hi,” said a voice.

  He froze as something cold touched the middle of his back, then came to rest on his shoulder.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” said the voice, barely audible above the pounding.

  He spun around too fast. This time he lost his foothold and went sprawling.

  A statue looked down at him. It was the groom from the pier. The cutaway jacket now hung in sodden folds. The figure extended a clammy, gloved hand and helped him to his feet.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I recognized you right off.”

  It was not a statue. It was a young man in costume. A mime, he realized, one whose job it must be to stand in front of the carousel for hours at a time without moving a muscle, attracting customers.

  He stared incredulously at the young mime. “You’ve been following me.”

  “You’re Madsen, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Sure you are. From ‘As the World Ends’? It’s my favorite show! I’ve been watching it since I was a little boy.”

  The mime reached under his jacket and brought out a damp piece of paper and a ballpoint pen.

  “Would you mind?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  The young man blinked through running makeup. The smile faded.

  “What’s the matter? Too stuck-up to sign autographs for your fans?”

  They stood there in the cave, daring each other to back off, as the sea lions barked from the sidelines.

  When he finally managed to call from a pay phone, a computerized voice told him that the number he had dialed was no longer in service.

  That was impossible. Had it been so long? Only last Christmas he had spoken to them, or was it New Year’s? And he had sent his mother something on her birthday, and his father, after the operation. Surely he had done that.

  Directory Assistance was unable to help.

  Had they taken an unlisted number? That was reasonable, he supposed. Reporters had a way of tracking down relatives for gossipy feature stories; he had learned that the hard way during his first marriage.

  He drove out along back streets to the house where he had grown up. The plain stucco one-story had still been his address when he began reading for little theater parts in high school. It was where he had sat up nights memorizing lines in his room, where he had lost his virginity to Carol Moreland
while his parents were gone on vacation. After that he had seen them less often as rehearsals kept him away from home except to eat and sleep, until he could afford his own apartment. By his mid-twenties his lifestyle had become something his parents could no longer share or understand.

  As he turned the corner he slowed, wondering if this was the right street, after all. The trees were denser and older, their split limbs hanging low over a buckled sidewalk. The houses seemed small and dingy, with cracked driveways and peeling facades. But then he reached the end of the block and recognized the sagging mailbox, the one he had repaired for his dad before moving out.

  While maneuvering for a place to park between unfamiliar automobiles, he noticed a sign stuck into the ground at the edge of the property, next to the weathered fence and the oleander bush:

  For Sale.

  It couldn’t be true. But the lawn was parched and overrun with weeds, the screen door rusting, the bare windows clotted with grime. One of the panes had been broken out and left unreplaced. That was not like his dad. It was not like him at all.

  He got out of the car and went to the shattered window.

  Squinting between the dust and harsh shadows, he saw a torn curtain hanging from a twisted rod, an emptied bookcase. The floor he knew so well was bare, the boards scuffed and warped. Through the kitchen doorway he could make out denuded cupboards and the misaligned geometry of water-damaged linoleum.

  He rang the bell at the next house. No one answered there, though when he walked away a pale face withdrew from the front window, as if someone were hiding inside, too frightened of him to open the door.