The Year's Best Horror Stories 6

by Gerald W. Page (Ed. )

  Copyright ©, 1978, by DAW Books, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Michael Whelan.

  DEDICATION

  To my grandfather,

  William E. Grindle.

  First Printing, July 1978

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  PRINTED IN U.S.A.

  Wickerman eBooks

  INTRODUCTION

  In 1957 Joseph Payne Brennan began a small magazine called Macabre, which ran short weird fiction and poetry. It differed from professional magazines in several respects, notably its small circulation, and the lack of newsstand distribution; but it was not quite a fan magazine in the sense of the science fiction fanzines, either, principally because it was trying to provide a serious outlet for horror writing that did not exist at that time in any professional magazine.

  When this series of anthologies was launched a few years ago, there still was no regular professional magazine devoted to horror fiction. Today things are a little better. Magazines as diverse as Fantasy and Science Fiction, Mike Shayne Mystery, and Penthouse make it a point to carry good horror fiction with some frequency. Anthologists as astute as Kirby McCauley, Ramsey Campbell and Charles L. Grant are preparing books of original stories. Where, just a few short years ago the challenge of putting together a book such as this one lay in finding enough good stories to include, today there is the anguish of deciding what must be left out because there is only so much space available.

  Brennan’s Macabre is no longer published, but in a large part the current growth of the horror field owes much to Macabre and its successors. It is true, of course, that at the demise of Weird Tales magazine in 1954, the anchor of the field became August Derleth through the agency of his editing and publishing of the Arkham House line of books. But since Derleth’s death in 1971 the small semi-professional magazine has played an increasingly important role in the field.

  There are many such magazines today. Most of them are of negligible quality, or else geared to forms of fantasy other than horror (particularly to heroic adventure). Only a few of them can attract the sort of writing talent necessary to draw notice, and the majority are put together by people whose editorial abilities and taste are more hopeful than developed. But despite this, a surprising number of these magazines are good, and there are two of them—specializing in horror fiction—that stand out clearly as the field’s current leaders: Whispers, edited by Stuart David Schiff, and Weirdbook, edited by W. Paul Ganley.

  Whispers has clearly attracted the most favorable attention of any horror magazine, of any sort, since Weird Tales. In 1976 it carried a short story titled “Sticks,” written by Karl Edward Wagner, that won the August Derleth Award as the year’s best short fiction. Winning such an award in the science fiction and fantasy field is an unheard-of achievement for any story published in an amateur magazine. In 1977 the magazine itself won a World Fantasy Award. There has been an anthology of stories from Whispers (along with some new material by Whispers’ regulars) published by Doubleday, and another is reported on the way. Schiff’s taste in fiction is good and he’s demonstrated the ability to attract regularly writers of the stature of Fritz Leiber, R. A. Lafferty and Manly Wade Wellman.

  Weirdbook has been around a bit longer than Whispers; it recently published its tenth anniversary issue. Over the years it has relied heavily on newer writers, along with established names, and the result has been a certain unavoidable unevenness, although this has lessened in recent issues. But this has paid off for the magazine, too. There are three writers whose work to date has been largely confined to semi- and non-professional markets, but who have shown notable talent: Janet Fox, Charles Saunders and William Scott Home. All three have appeared in Weirdbook. Home, in fact, has been one of the magazine’s major contributors. Ganley’s championing of Home—a writer who is sometimes difficult, but who is usually vivid and often original—may well be his major contribution to the field. This is a fact that hasn’t gone unnoticed among other writers, especially professionals, who are starting to contribute to Weirdbook in increasing numbers.

  It isn’t easy to predict the future for magazines like Whispers and Weirdbook. Certainly the immediate future looks good. Right now the state of the horror market is limited. It consists of magazines which specialize in other types of stories but allow in an occasional weird tale, a few hardback anthologies of new material, and the non-professional magazines. It’s a strangely complementary mixture, too, with the diverse markets seeming to draw strength from one another.

  But if a new professional horror magazine should manage to establish itself—by no means an assured task—it would be hard to say what the result would be on the existing markets. The irony might be that such a magazine would find itself with a real fight on its hands, trying to compete with the amateurs.

  —Gerald W. Page

  Atlanta, Ga.

  AT THE BOTTOM OF THE GARDEN by David Campton

  What could be more appealing, more homey, than a garden—a British garden, at that, boasting an array of flowers and hedges and other such charming Old World items. Murder, for example. What would Dame Agatha Christie or Dorothy Sayers have done without those gardens which seemed always to hold—if not an interestingly slain corpse—at least an incriminating footprint among the roses. And didn’t John Dickson Carr seem as fond of victims among daisies and in summer houses as he was of them in hermetically sealed rooms? And that’s all well and good, but that’s not the sort of thing, strictly, that belongs here, and we take some pride in the fact that we can offer you the following story which, while it takes place in a garden, ignores the grim specter of crime and provides us with, instead, a thing of no more menace than the play of children . . .

  “Mummy, why has Ineed got furry teeth?”

  Mrs. Williams ignored the question and tried to concentrate on the recipe in front of her. The breeze through the open kitchen door fluttered the page of the magazine propped up against the saucepan in which last night’s milk had been boiled. Mrs. Williams had the uncomfortable feeling that the saucepan was going to be needed in a hurry. She ought to have more saucepans, but where could she put them? That was the trouble with this kitchen: there was not enough shelf space, and the equipment was always in the wrong place. She was not such a bad cook, or even as accident-prone as her husband suggested. The kitchen was just badly planned. The fish-slice had fallen behind the refrigerator, but how foolish to hang a fish-slice over a refrigerator: luckily it would not be needed until Friday.

  “Please shut the door,” she pleaded as a draught flicked the page over. She dabbed at the magazine with the wooden spoon, leaving a blob of something white and sticky in the middle of the recipe. She sighed, and fumbled in the sink for the dishcloth. Conviction was growing that this experiment was developing into a disaster.

  These days she was finding the disposal of remains more difficult. When she was lucky some results could be garnished and served up as something else: certain sauces could be sliced, and occasional moulds might be poured. At worst, though, as when washing powder had unaccountably insinuated itself into a mixture and even the birds had refused the offering, it could lie for days on the lawn, advertising her incompetence; and after the occasion when a failure with rice had blocked the lavatory she had never dared to flush away a mistake. These days an inedible mess was destined for the dustbin, and she had to endure her husband’s raised eyebrows if he caught a glimpse or whiff of it. After nine years Mr. Williams no longer complained about the cooking, but it seemed that he could not control his eyebrows.

  Mrs. Williams wiped dough from the page, and peered at the small print through flour-fogged spectacles. It seemed to her that there
was always something missing in the instructions.

  The kitchen door banged.

  “Add the dry ingredients.”

  “Mummy!”

  Where was the ginger? She was sure she had taken the packet from the cupboard with the other things. Ah! No, that was dried sage. Why couldn’t manufacturers label packets more clearly? Mrs. Williams jerked the cupboard open. A small jar fell out and smashed: well, it could be cleared up later. She grabbed at a cylindrical box; flipped the lid on to the floor; and shook a teaspoonful of curry powder among the other dry cake ingredients.

  “Mummy, why has Ineed? . . ."

  On the stove something boiled over.

  Mrs. Williams sank into the kitchen chair, and ran a hand over her head. Bits of cake mix were left sticking in her hair.

  “Why don’t you listen to me, Mummy?”

  Dimly, through a haze of conflicting thoughts, Mrs. Williams became aware of her daughter. She caught the tone of complaint in the child’s voice.

  “What were you saying, dear?”

  “I knew you weren’t listening to me.”

  “Mummy was listening, darling. Mummy can listen and get dinner ready at the same time.” Now what could they have for dinner?

  “I was telling you about Ineed.”

  “Enid, dear,” corrected Mrs. Williams automatically. There was half a cold meat pie in the pantry, even though that would mean having cold pie for two days running. “Her name is Enid.”

  “She calls it Ineed.”

  “That is up to her. But the name is pronounced Enid.” And they could have rice pudding afterwards. There was no shortage of rice pudding.

  “But why has she?”

  “Why has she what?” Or semolina, or tapioca, or sage. Nothing drastic could go wrong with a tinned milk pudding—apart from burning the saucepan.

  “I told you, Mummy. Furry teeth. Why has Ineed got furry teeth?”

  Why was it so difficult to concentrate? Why did recipes never turn out like their pictures? Why couldn’t she talk to a child on a child’s level?

  “I’m sure Enid hasn’t got furry teeth, darling,” said Mrs. Williams. “She was just saying that.”

  “But she has, Mummy. She showed them to me.”

  “Did she, darling?” Or would a tin of fruit be better? Plums, perhaps. Was there enough milk left to make a custard?

  “Yes. She took them out, and showed them to me. They were furry all over.”

  “Then she ought to see a dentist.”

  “You don’t understand, Mummy. That’s the way her teeth are. Fur all over them. She let me feel it before she put them back. It was quite soft—like a kitten’s back.”

  Mrs. Williams felt a sudden ache at the back of her eyes. She could no longer ignore the brown mess sticking to the top of the cooker. With a bit of luck she might get most of the chaos cleaned up before Eric came home, and raised his eyebrows.

  “That’s very interesting, dear,” she said. “Now run out and play again. If you’re a good girl, we’ll have plums and custard for dinner.”

  The child turned toward the kitchen door.

  “You weren’t listening,” she accused her mother. “You never listen. You don’t care about Ineed. You don’t care about anything.”

  Then she was gone.

  Mrs. Williams took off her glasses, and rubbed her eyes, smudging flour on her eyelashes. She tried. Honestly she tried. If she didn’t try, there would be fewer failures to throw away. If she didn’t try, they could live on corned beef, and crisps, and baked beans. If she didn’t try so hard there would be more time to spare for Geraldine. As events were turning out, was Geraldine doomed to being another of her mother’s failures?

  Geraldine wore thick-lensed spectacles, like her mother. Geraldine had her mother’s flat features, unhealthy complexion, and dust-colored hair. Geraldine was prone to sickly headaches. Geraldine had uneven teeth. Like her mother, Geraldine was not very bright.

  What had the girl been talking about? Another child with peculiar teeth? Fur? Imagination. Geraldine had shown so few signs of having any imagination that it was a pity not to have encouraged her now. But the cooker had to be cleaned.

  Once, during the cleaning, Mrs. Williams paused. Who was Enid anyway? Then she kicked over a bucket of dirty water, and the thought was washed away.

  Geraldine did not mention Ineed again for several weeks. Mrs. Williams was dimly aware that her daughter had a little friend. Once she saw them playing together by the hedge at the bottom of the garden. It was a thick hedge and had originally formed the boundary to the field on which this part of the housing estate had been built. With rare sensitivity, the builders had left it undisturbed. The two children were sitting together in the shadow of the hedge. The other child seemed smaller than Geraldine, dark-haired and very thin. At that distance Mrs. Williams could not quite make out what the children were doing. It seemed almost as though the dark one had unscrewed one of her hands and passed it to Geraldine for inspection. Although Mrs. Williams knew that her eyesight was at fault—she must have her eyes tested again when she could find the time—she felt vaguely uneasy, and rapped on the window. The children scurried out of sight, making Mrs. Williams feel guilty. She had blundered again. Geraldine did not make friends—she reflected her mother’s insecurity when dealing with other people—at least her own mother need not frighten away the few friends she had. Mrs. Williams made a mental note to encourage Geraldine’s new playmate. Perhaps the little girl could be invited to tea? Well, perhaps not to a meal; but invited to—something. However as the good intention grew vaguer, so did the impetus, and finally Mrs. Williams did nothing. As Geraldine did not mention her new friend, Ineed became a cloudy figure in the background of Mrs. Williams’s ever-cluttered mind.

  It was Mr. Williams who was responsible for bringing the matter up again while they were having dinner. It had been a successful meal: roast chicken (which Mrs. Williams had bought from the delicatessen) and salad. Mr. Williams had found only one caterpillar on his lettuce and had quietly pushed it to the side of his plate. They were all finishing their ice cream when her father noticed that Geraldine was no longer wearing the braces on her teeth.

  He was not angry because he was never angry; however he pointed out that Geraldine had made a promise to take care of the braces until her teeth had been straightened. Geraldine smiled at him, showing all her teeth. It was a delightful smile that almost made one forget the thick spectacles, the lank hair, and the pasty complexion. Moreover, her teeth were perfect.

  Mr. Williams put down his spoon and stared across the table.

  “May I see them again?” he asked.

  Geraldine grinned. Her teeth were even, white and sparkling. They even seemed to have lost their yellow tinge.

  “Remarkable,” said Mr. Williams. “Had you noticed, mother?”

  Mrs. Williams hadn’t noticed. She did, however, notice the implied rebuke in the question: he expected her not to have noticed the child’s teeth.

  “I'm sure I should have done so sooner or later,” she murmured.

  “Mummy wouldn’t notice if I lost my head,” muttered Geraldine.

  “Now, now,” rebuked her father; but he was too pleased to sound really severe. “I must say that dentist did a good job. He warned us that it might take over twelve months, but this has taken less than six weeks.”

  “Ineed did it,” said Geraldine.

  “I really ought to congratulate him,” went on Mr. Williams.

  “Ineed did it,” repeated Geraldine.

  “Ineed?”

  “Geraldine has a little friend called Enid,” explained Mrs. Williams. “Enid, dear. Do try to remember that. It’s Enid. You must ask her round for tea, or a glass of lemonade, or something.”

  “She’s shy,” said Geraldine. “She isn’t ordinary. So she only makes friends with people who aren’t ordinary. Like me and Barry Mapel. Barry can’t walk properly because he has twisted legs. Ineed has got holes where her ears should be, an
d her teeth are covered with fur.”

  “Really?” said Mr. Williams. “Of course one doesn’t usually write to one’s dentist, but I expect he’d like to know that we appreciate what he’s done.”

  “Ineed took all my teeth out,” said Geraldine. “It didn’t hurt at all.”

  “I’m so glad,” said Mrs. Williams, sniffing. Had she remembered to turn the light out under the milk for the coffee?

  “Ineed said that she’d never seen teeth like mine before. They were so twisted. So she straightened them before she put them back. She rubbed them white, too.”

  “After all,” said Mr. Williams, “a professional man must take a pride in his profession.”

  “I asked her if there was anything she could do about my headaches, but she said that she’d have to think about it.”

  “The laborer is worthy of his hire,” quoted Mr. Williams with some satisfaction.

  A hissing and spluttering came from the kitchen. With the speed and precision that long practice had tempered into second nature Mr. Williams strode into the kitchen, turning out the light under the milk with one hand, and reaching for the dish-cloth with the other.

  Mrs. Williams sat back with a sigh, and tried to pick up the threads of half-heard and dimly remembered conversations.

  “This Enid. Doesn’t she live near here?”

  “Hereabouts.”

  “I suppose her family has just moved into the district.”

  “Oh, no. They’ve lived here a long time. As long as anyone can remember, Ineed says. Years and years.”

  “Longbarrow hasn’t been built all that long, dear,” mused Mrs. Williams. “The estate was quite new when your father and I bought this house. I remember having to wade through mud to inspect it. What is Enid’s other name?”