Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 1

by Jeff Strand

  Someone had tied string around her ankle. Affixed to it was a note that read Eleanor R. Stuart considered that the name might be a pseudonym, but he liked it all the same. Whatever else there was of Eleanor's origins had been buried along with her real name.

  That was fifteen years ago. Since then, Stuart had done the best he could by Eleanor. He bled dry his meager congregation to help raise her, and when that wasn't enough, he begged from merchants and passers-by and any charitable sorts he could find, all under the guise of raising money for the church. He sacrificed his own well-being and personal comforts for a baby girl who was not his kin. All the while, he kept her a secret, knowing too well how intolerant the world could be.

  Now, fifteen wonderful years later—happy years, he liked to think, for both of them—the world still was not ready for Eleanor. It would never accept her.

  With a heavy sigh, thinking himself more a jailor than a father, Stuart knocked, then opened the door to her chamber. She stood in front of her bed, her back toward the door.

  "What mask is it today, Eleanor?"

  She turned and faced him. A mask made of stiffened linen, bleached to a fine white, covered her face, a broad smile stretching across it. Stuart had picked up the twin masks of comedy and tragedy on a trip to Greece long before he had parenting responsibilities. Leather straps held the mask in place, hooked into one of the ridges lining the back of her head.

  Once, Stuart had given her a whole slew of masks, their expressions marking a full range of human emotion, but variety had led to confusion, and he'd decided to simplify things by ridding them of too many options. Only the original two masks remained: one happy face and one sad. Eleanor always wore one of the two. She kept them on a small table by the door and would put one on whenever she would hear him coming up the stairs. She wore them so often that Stuart hadn't seen her true face in many years.

  Not that her face was something he could ever forget.

  He struggled with the memory, then remembered his company. A sweet girl, fair-natured Eleanor was undeserving of scorn or ridicule, especially from he who loved her. And when she spun around, all doubt and misgivings vanished. He had raised a wonderful child.

  Stuart beamed at the sight of Eleanor in her happy mask. He took her in. Even dressed in a dull brown frock, Eleanor might have passed for a beauty if not for her patchwork, matted hair, her misshapen cranium and that abomination that could not rightfully be called her face because it wasn't a face at all. That hid behind her masks, and Stuart was thankful for it. He had offered her several wigs to hide her remaining deformities, but Eleanor never took to any of them.

  For a child who had been given no chance, who by all rights should have died at birth from any number of complications if not from her abandonment, Eleanor had sprouted and grown strong. Tall and lithe like a dancer, she moved with grace, confident in her steps even though she was blind.

  She walked a straight line up to Stuart and threw her arms around him. The bag of groceries he carried beneath his arm crinkled. With his free hand, he pulled her closer. Her body seemed to compliment his. Her breasts heaved against his chest.

  When did you become a woman? She had grown so much under his watchful eye. Her appearance suggested that Eleanor had come of age, but she was still a child in so many ways. She needed him, and he needed her.

  Stuart stared into the empty white eyes of her mask. They, too, were smiling. He hoped that Eleanor was truly smiling behind them, that the life he had provided her was enough and would always be so.

  "Give me a moment, dear. Let me put these groceries down." He gently pushed her away, but she resisted and snuggled in closer. He gave in. "Are you hungry? I've brought apples, the kind you like best."

  Eleanor's hand slid gently along his side, found the grocery bag and reached inside. When she withdrew her hand, it was holding a plump red apple. Stuart had no doubt that, somehow, she had plucked the finest specimen from the bag. She always did.

  "Would you like me to cut it up for you?"

  She cocked her head, then scurried into a corner like a dog that thinks its master might take back the treat it had been given. She turned her back to Stuart, her custom when she ate.

  Stuart was thankful for that particular quirk of hers. He could never get used to that slit down the front of her neck and how it opened into a cavern when she ate. Somewhere in that hole were teeth and only God knew what else. Eleanor had nearly died the first week in his care before Stuart could summon the nerve to stick a bottle in that hole and see if it would take milk. He shuddered whenever he thought about it.

  But Stuart never revealed his repulsion. Eleanor couldn't see it on his face, and he was careful to never let her hear it. He wondered why she hid herself. How could she, a girl who had spent her entire life limited to a single room in the care of one who cherished her, know shame?

  Stuart suspected, though he could not understand how, that Eleanor was tuned in to his emotions. It was almost as if she could sense what he was feeling.

  Always.

  The face she chose that day and every other day mimicked his mood. Stuart tried his best to be happy as much as possible, for her sake. Eleanor had already suffered her fair share of misfortune.

  "What shall I read you tonight?" he asked when she'd finished her apple, core and all. "The Good Book?"

  Eleanor faced him. Juice ran down the front of her frock. The mask stared blankly.

  Stuart laughed. "I didn't think so. How about Homer?"

  Nothing.
"Dickens? Yeats?"
Eleanor balled up her fists and straightened her arms by her sides. She snapped her head left and right and tapped her foot. Stuart was teasing her now, and she knew it.

  He laughed. "Okay. How about Chaucer? Shelley?"

  Eleanor raised up on her toes. Stuart didn't believe the Catholic Church approved of either author, but Eleanor seemed to like them. Her head cocked to the side. He knew he had piqued her interest, but she hadn't given him a solid sign of approval.

  "Dumas?" Stuart paused, awaiting her reaction but saw none. He sighed. He knew what she wanted. "Swift?"

  Eleanor clapped and nodded repeatedly. He figured that was as sure a sign of approval as any.

  "Swift it is. One of these days, I hope I will understand your fascination with Gulliver and all those silly Lilliputian fellows."

  Eleanor traced the wide smile on her mask with her finger. A gurgle rose from her throat.

  "What? Lilliputians? They make you smile?"

  Eleanor nodded. She crouched and hovered her hand over the floor.

  "Yes, I know. They're small."

  Eleanor sprang up. She grabbed the sides of her dress and twirled.

  Stuart couldn't help but laugh. Eleanor was good company. She filled all his empty hours, staved off the voracious beast that was loneliness, a constant predator in the life he'd chosen. A twinge of guilt came with the selfish thought. He hoped he offered Eleanor some comfort in return.

  And what will she do after I'm gone? Stuart forced the question out of his mind. For now, Eleanor seemed happy. They would face tomorrow when tomorrow came.

  "Okay, silly," he said. "Get cleaned up. Dinner will be in one hour, if you didn't just go and spoil it. Afterward, we'll go visit those Lilliputians you like so much."

  Eleanor ran to the closet and picked out her nicest dress, a blue one that Stuart had bought her for her thirteenth birthday. It was too big for her then, but she hadn't stopped growing. The last time she wore it, Eleanor had filled it out nicely.

  With her mask on, it was sometimes easy to pretend she was pretty. The hole in her neck was barely visible when she closed it. As he looked upon Eleanor, Stuart couldn't help but feel the sin of pride. He had done right by her. He had done right by God.

  •

  WHEN THE HOUR had passed, Stuart carried Eleanor's dinner—porridge and a bit of leftover lamb from Sunday's supper—up to her room. He set the tray down and knocked on the door, giving her time to make herself decent before e
ntering.

  When he opened the door, he jumped, startled to see Eleanor standing just inside it. She wore her blue dress. It clung to her curves, revealing her shapeliness, except where the neckline had been ravaged. Shreds of fabric hung down over her breasts, baring her cleavage.

  She wore her sad face.

  Stuart frowned. He entered the room and placed the tray on her nightstand, then returned to where Eleanor stood fidgeting. He took her hands in his. "What's wrong, dear?"

  Eleanor pinched the front of her dress and pulled it. Her chin dropped, and she shuffled her feet.

  "Too tight?" Eleanor nodded slowly. "Couldn't breathe?" Again, she nodded. "Well, there's nothing to be done for it," Stuart said. He released her hands and slapped his own together. "We will just have to buy you a new dress."

  Eleanor cocked her head at that, then fell against him, squeezing him tightly. Stuart's fingers drew soothing circles on her back. After a moment, she slipped from the embrace and ran toward the door. She picked up her happy face, then paused.

  "Don't worry. I won't look."

  And Stuart didn't. He turned away, wanting to believe, wanting to deceive himself that Eleanor was beautiful lest she ever sense from him otherwise.

  "You will always be beautiful to me," he muttered. "God's little miracle."

  Her happy face on, Eleanor clapped and skipped back over to him. She started to pull her dress over her head, raising the hem high enough for Stuart to glimpse the milky skin of her thigh.

  He stopped her.

  "Wait a moment. I'm still here, silly goose. Your dinner is on the nightstand. When you're finished, if it pleases you, change into your nightgown and hop into bed. I have to work on next weekend's sermon. I will return with Gulliver as soon as I've finished."

  Eleanor nodded and raised her head. She sniffed at the air and bee-lined toward her dinner, but she waited for Stuart to leave before eating. He said goodbye and returned to his room to pen his next homily.

  After an hour, Stuart stared down at a blank sheet of paper. He couldn't wipe the image of Eleanor in her blue dress from his mind.

  •

  STUART FINISHED reading the last word of the Book of Genesis, then stood to stretch. He slid a finger along the novels on his shelf until he came across a ragged tome. Hello, Gulliver. Eleanor's fondness for the story reassured him. Her body might be growing up, but Eleanor still had the mind and heart of a child.

  With the book and a candle in hand, he crossed the hallway to her room. He found her sitting up in bed, waiting in the dark for him. He wondered if she'd been sitting like that since he had left her. She had dolls and toys enough, but had outgrown most of them. What did she do when he left her alone?

  He shook his head and paused before stepping into the room. Again, he wished there was more of a life he could offer her. Her room was all she knew, all she would ever know, beyond what he read to her in his paltry collection of books. I will have to ask for more donations soon.

  But the worlds in his books were not real. The world outside her window was, and it would destroy Eleanor if given the chance. Out there, happy endings were things the less privileged could only read about.

  And with her deformities, Eleanor would end up a toy for the damned.

  People fear and hate what they do not understand.

  Could Stuart blame them? He had feared her once, too.

  He donned a shaky smile and shed the weight from his shoulders. Eleanor clapped as he approached. She slid over on the bed and patted the mattress, offering him a place to sit. Stuart settled in next to her for what would likely be a marathon journey through Swift's work, skipping certain parts he knew would upset her. Eleanor hated when he stopped before the story was complete. He broke the binding and began to read.

  Midway through the sixth chapter of Gulliver's exotic journey, a strange purring sound emanated from Eleanor. She had long ago given up on sitting, her head sunk deep into her pillow. At first, Stuart thought she was snoring. He closed the book and rose quietly. That's when he noticed her hand making small circular motions beneath the sheet.

  "Eleanor!" Stuart gasped. This was something new, something he had never considered. His face must have spanned every shade of red. He was unprepared. "Are you … you can't do that!"

  Eleanor didn't stop. Her body and mind seemed locked in a rhythmic trance in tune with the motion of her hand. Her purring turned to moaning. Embarrassed and not knowing what else to do, Stuart ran from the room.

  •

  OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS, Stuart couldn't shake Eleanor from his thoughts, his mind endlessly replaying her sinful behavior. Such thoughts were unbecoming of any man, let alone a priest and the girl's guardian. He felt filthy, vile, lowly. He kept his distance from Eleanor, leaving her to her own devices except to deliver her daily meals. Stuart had never been with a woman, and these ungodly visions ruminating in his brain filled him with shame and disgust. He prayed to God every hour on the hour for forgiveness.

  Day in and day out, Eleanor wore her sad mask. Did she understand why he kept away? She pawed at Stuart during each brief visit, hugged him tightly, clung to him so that he wouldn't leave her. She'd worn a different dress each time he had brought her a meal. He could tell she was trying desperately to find the one that would please him, make him stay, convince him that she was still beautiful.

  Stuart knew all this because he knew Eleanor. Her sadness made him weep. His heart ached with hers. It isn't your fault, Eleanor. He wanted to tell her as much, but how could he explain to her the kind of thoughts that were festering inside him, the feelings they stirred? They were unnatural, ungodly even. If he tried to explain them to her, how would she ever be able to love him again?

  At last, he broke down and went to her with wet cheeks. "You know why I have stopped reading to you, don't you?"

  Eleanor lowered her chin. The sad, melodramatic frown of her mask, together with the single tear forever emblazoned on its cheek, somehow didn't seem melodramatic at all. It fit Eleanor perfectly. It matched what he felt.

  "Well?"

  She nodded slowly. "Do you promise never to do it again?" She nodded. "Very well," he said. "I'm sorry we did not have this talk sooner. I was … uncomfortable, and I apologize for making you wait and even more so for making you sad. I will come back later and read to you tonight, something other than Swift. Would that please you?"

  Eleanor dropped down to her knees and wrapped her arms around Stuart's leg. She rubbed the side of her head, a smooth surface where an ear should have been but where only an open cavern existed, against his thigh.

  Stuart stiffened. "Get up." He ripped himself free and stormed out the door, slamming it behind him and no doubt leaving her to contemplate what she had done wrong.

  But he kept his promise. That night, he returned to Eleanor's room with a book he selected at random, something by Sophocles. He read, and she listened, and for the moment, they were content. Eleanor even wore her happy face again.

  He returned to his room, relieved. Things seemed to be returning to normal—on the surface. But a fire burned within Stuart that no amount of prayer could extinguish. That didn't stop him from trying. He got on his knees and prayed that the Devil would not tempt him again.

  His prayers failed him. Temptation had taken residence. It slept across the hall.

  •

  MONTHS PASSED. Stuart went about his routine as he always had. But something wasn't right. Life had been difficult, solitary before, but now all joy had left it. The empty space Eleanor had filled had sprung a leak. The contents of his mind and soul spiraled in a whirlpool of doubt and depression. She was still with him the same as she had been, but Stuart had changed, and he didn't know how to change back. So instead, he suppressed his urges toward Eleanor by keeping her at arm's length. The intimacy they once shared had broken.

  She must have sensed something was wrong. Though she wore her happy face, it no longer seemed genuine, at odds with body language she'd quickly correct, but
not before Stuart took notice. Clinging her arms around her knees while he read, sleeping with a doll again, turning away each time Stuart looked at her with sadness in his heart—Eleanor couldn't hide her feelings from him. At first, Stuart had thought he was only projecting his inner turmoil upon her. But when he visited her this time, Eleanor had on the same frock she'd been wearing for the last three days. Her hygiene suffered, too. A foul odor, faint but persistent like a rotting carcass covered in lye, filled her room. She'd lost her girlish bounce; her energy had gone flat.

  "I brought you your favorite," Stuart said, desperate to lessen the rift that had grown between them. He smiled, but his brow furrowed with worry. "It wasn't easy to get them. They're out of season."

  Eleanor took two quick steps toward Stuart, then halted. She cocked her head and waited.

  "It's okay."

  She skulked toward him and reached out her hand. Stuart placed an apple in it.

  "Shall I cut it up for you?"

  Eleanor started to turn, but pounced back to his side and latched onto his arm. Stuart jumped, but did not pull away. She followed the length of his arm down to his hand, where he held a long, serrated kitchen knife with a dull but effective point.

  She snatched it from him. "Now be careful with that—" Eleanor jabbed the knife into the apple near its base and made a horizontal slit through its peel. The apple oozed, bleeding juices from an open wound. Above the line, she dug out two tiny pits roughly level to one another. Then she stabbed the knife at Stuart's face.

  He stepped back. He gasped, but was not afraid. He didn't believe Eleanor was trying to harm him, but he didn't immediately understand the message she was trying to convey either. Then it struck him.

  "What is it, Eleanor? You gave the apple a face?'

  She nodded. She placed the knife and the apple atop her dresser and approached him, standing closer than they had been for months. He could feel the heat of her body against his, the warmth of her breasts and the heart beating behind them. Her breath tickled the hairs on his neck. The sweet scent of ripe fruit entered his nose as her fingers danced across the contours of his face.