The doll who ate his mother: a novel of modern terror

by Ramsey Campbell

  Beyond a partition was the kitchen area. The first thing she saw was the cat’s dish, smashed against the wall. She could imagine his dismayed fury. If only he hadn’t hidden his feelings she would never have upset him! Perhaps in time he would let her see his feelings. On the table, old salad lay on and beside a cracked plate. She glanced at the stove.

  Oh, Chris. She wrinkled her nose. He was more helpless than any other man she’d met. How could he stand it? Well, she couldn’t. He needed looking after, and she’d start now. The stove looked like a full day’s job, but at least she could tidy up.

  She picked up clothes and laid them on the bed, squashing the burrow of sheets. Handling the patchwork trousers, she felt a twinge of jealousy. Maybe she couldn’t have made them, but she wondered how well the girl he’d lived with had looked after him. Too well, maybe. Well, finding his flat tidied might shock him into improving. She hung clothes over her arm and went to the wardrobe.

  The door wouldn’t budge. She tugged at it; the wardrobe’s stumpy legs pawed at the floor. Something rolled about inside, but the door stayed clamped. She laid the clothes on the bed again and tugged two-handed. The wardrobe nodded forward, and she had to let it fall back with a thud; its contents rolled and thumped against its back. She put one hand on the poster and wrenched at the doorknob with the other. But the swollen wood was firm in its frame; only her hand slipped on the poster, and Clyde Barrow’s face tore.

  Oh no, Clare thought. Oh, where was the tape? Could she tape the back of the tear? She was glancing about in distress when she heard the door slam downstairs.

  “Mr. Barrow?” A woman was hurrying upstairs. “Mr. Barrow, is that you?” The landing thundered; a key struggled in the lock. Clare forced herself to move, over the sill, slamming the sash, down the clanking fire escape, skidding past the dustbins, along the alley and out. She didn’t dare look back at the window.

  As she drove home through the terraced side streets, slowly after her headlong first few hundred yards, she felt light-headed. Children ran across the streets, shrieking. Oh dear, poor Chris. Tomorrow she’d look for a poster for him. But halfway home she had to stop the car, to giggle. She was wondering what he would do when he saw what had happened to his flat.

  Wednesday,

  September 24

  Mary Kelly lay very still. What had wakened her? Heat hung about her, close and immobile. The house creaked, but it always did; that wasn’t what she’d heard. The silence didn’t fool her. She had heard something.

  Her eyes were full of the feeling of light, grey. When she raised her eyelids it remained, pressing close as thumbs. She held the rest of herself still. The silence feigned innocence. She heard her heart; it sounded starved and feeble.

  Perhaps she’d heard a cat, or one of the young drunks who made a row at all hours, with no thought for anyone. It was early morning: the television her neighbours played thoughtlessly past midnight was silent; there was no traffic; no birds were greeting dawn. Perhaps she’d heard a police car hunting criminals, howling. She reached for her handbag and pulled it into bed with her.

  She’d not sleep again tonight. Since the writer and his cronies had upset her she had hardly slept at all. They’d succeeded there, though she hadn’t let them see. Since losing her sight she hadn’t had a single night of unbroken sleep. Last night, tired out, she had hoped to sleep. She shouldn’t allow herself hope in this world. It only made God test her, every time.

  The heat stood over her. Heavy weather always felt like an intruder. She remembered the weeks after he, Cissy’s creature, had gone—when she couldn’t be sure that he’d actually left: groping in her new blindness, she had sensed the oppressive hulking heat everywhere before her, and she had been sure it was him, playing a sadistic game. The heat had blocked her path these last few nights. Only the heat. If he dared show his face here, God would punish him for anything he did to her.

  The heat surrounded her bed with presences. They stooped toward her, thrust their grinning faces within an inch of hers, waiting for her to have to touch them. She closed her eyelids and began to pray.

  She prayed loudly. Her neighbours had complained that she kept them awake. They’d do better to pray themselves, instead of complaining. She offered up her soul to God. She prayed for Cissy; let God in His mercy grant her a place in Heaven. Again she offered up her own soul, more loudly, for her voice sounded muffled—by the heat, of course. After a pause she prayed for Christopher. Let God in His infinite mercy save him. Perhaps, after all, Christopher should not be blamed for what he was.

  Nor should she be blamed. She had been a woman alone, trying to fend for herself and a child. In her letter Cissy had told her the Satanist’s name and address, but what could she have done? If he had been caught she would have had to give evidence—what might the Devil have done to her, to the child? She didn’t think God could condemn her fear, and she didn’t care what anyone else thought. Anyway, she could have changed nothing; the child had already been what he was, the monster he’d become. She shuddered and offered up her soul a last time.

  When the silence returned she knew she was not alone in the house.

  The house was holding itself still, waiting for her to be fooled. Suddenly she kicked off the sheets, to feel the floor solid underfoot. She wasn’t going to lie there like Pearl White. Once she’d searched the house, she might at least be able to rest. If anyone was there, they wouldn’t stop her screaming.

  She put on her dressing gown and slippers. Grasping her handbag, she made slowly for the door. Her legs creaked painfully, like sticks swollen a little in sockets. Her movements sounded oddly muffled. By the heat. Her footfalls were enclosed by the wall, then fell out onto the landing. At least nobody could hide behind a door. The house was colder without its doors, but she felt more secure; she’d told Mr. Wright so when he’d argued.

  The backs of her fingers ticked across ridged strips of the wallpaper. Her other hand closed on the knob at the top of the banister; its paint was chill. Her footfalls were open and hollow now, but the heat still crowded her; the grey feeling of light pressed into her face like a constant threat. Let anyone try to threaten her. Go on, let them hurt her. God would catch up with them.

  The banister cracked loudly beneath her grip. That would startle any lurkers. She smiled bitterly, though her thin blood was rushing faster in her ears. In the hall she stopped to rest, then shuffled to the front door.

  The lock and bolts were fastened. Beyond the door she could hear a dog scrabbling at litter, whining. She moved along the hall. Dust-furred grease from the kitchen walls gathered on her nails. The back door was locked and bolted too; the key was still in the lock, just beneath the bolt. All the windows that could have been opened were nailed shut.

  The kitchen table flitted vaguely on the greyness. Objects often did that; people, seldom. Its flitting startled her; suddenly she was afraid. She groped for the table drawer. But it was shut, and the knives were all there. In any case, most of them were blunt. She had almost closed the drawer when she reached in and chose the sharpest knife. She would carry that in future.

  In the front room her movements sounded padded; the grey seemed thicker. The presence of chairs loomed at her; there were no other presences—her oppression had lifted somewhat. The fire-irons rattled as she checked them. They were the only potential weapons. Ash whispered dryly beside her face, crumbling. No, there were the photographs; their corners were sharp. She unfolded painfully from squatting. Her hand trembled as it gripped the mantlepiece. She shuffled to the table in the alcove.

  One of the photographs was gone.

  It was the larger one, the family group. It was nowhere on the table, which was rough with dust; nor on the floor, nor in the corners of the alcove among the ropes of dust. Her tension pulled her to her feet; her whole body shook. She clung to her handbag with one hand; the other gripped the trembling knife.

  Mrs. Laird must have moved the photograph. The woman had been interfering lately. She wasn’t sat
isfied just to read out the newspapers to her; she had to keep going outside to the toilet, so she could see how bad the kitchen looked. Let her take herself back to the launderette if she was going to interfere, her and her oily soapy smell. She’d been dusting the house surreptitiously, Mary Kelly was sure.

  Or perhaps that interfering teacher had moved the photograph—the one who had come with the writer. Or Mr. Wright—he’d come the other day, pretending to make sure the wiring was safe. They were all taking advantage of her. Well, let them. God would see to them. He’d protect her.

  But she knew none of them would have moved only one photograph. Cissy’s creature had been here. He must have come with the writer; she’d let no other strangers in. They had all been playing a game with her. They must all have been his friends, helping him.

  He was welcome to the photograph. See if it did him any good. She had her memories of Cissy—they had been a happy family; they would be again, in Heaven. God in His mercy would allow that. Claws scraped the window, something snarled at her: the dog. That wouldn’t frighten her, however hard it tried.

  She trudged upstairs. Her handbag hung from her elbow; her hand on the banister still held the knife. Before she returned to bed she would put that knife in her bag. The heat loomed at her, grey. It muffled her footsteps again as she entered her room.

  But heat didn’t do that.

  It could pretend to be presences, but it never played with sounds like that. Only a real presence could do so: the presence of someone standing absolutely still in her room, someone who’d been standing still ever since she’d awakened, waiting for her beyond the grey. She froze, but her foot had touched something.

  It hadn’t been there before. She stooped; the heat bent menacingly toward her, at her back. She brandished the knife at it. The object on the floor was sharp-edged, square, glass. The photograph—no, a pane of glass with a handhold of putty stuck to it. It could only have come from the back door. There had been no breeze to show her the gap. He had put the pane there to let her know how he had got in.

  “What do you want?” she demanded. She wouldn’t let him frighten her.

  His voice came from beyond the grey, against the wall; he made no other sound. “The letter my mother wrote you,” he said.

  She recognized his voice now, its coldness, lack of feeling; it had sounded like that when he had told her he was leaving. He’d disguised it when he had come with the writer. “You want that to remember your mother by, do you?” she said. “To remind you of your birth, eh? Try and get it, then. Just try!”

  “I already have.”

  “You don’t even know where it is,” she sneered.

  “It was in your handbag.”

  He was only guessing, only trying to make her betray herself. But she was already feeling in her handbag, searching, scrabbling; one of her nails cracked. The letter was gone.

  “You’d take that as well, would you, you thief?” she screamed. “You monster, you devil! God help you!” She launched herself at the place where his voice had been, lashing out with the knife.

  He hadn’t moved. She felt the knife slice his arm, like butter, like a maggot. In a moment he had knocked the knife from her hand. At once she knew he had been waiting for her attack, to give him an excuse to kill her.

  She heard him switch on the radio. Pop music spilled out, jangling and thumping. That was to drown her screams. Well, they wouldn’t be drowned so easily. She opened her mouth to draw breath. But she had made no sound when the music came rushing toward her face, and the corner of the radio smashed her mouth.

  She fell heavily. Her lips began to swell around the hideous pain. Her mouth no longer felt like a mouth; it felt and tasted like broken rusty stone. She could feel nothing else. She heard the music raised high in the air above her, distorting and blurring; then it came rushing down at her. God help me, she thought through the pain.

  She knew that killing was only the start of what he planned for her.

  __Dear Chris,

  Just a hasty one before the post!

  I’ve found out about the black magician. His name was John Strong (John Strong! Incredible, isn’t it? He sounds more like a wrestler. But I read some of his book in the library, and that’s actually very nasty, you can believe anything about him. Help, I can’t get out of these brackets) and he lived at 21 Amberley Street, just off Mulgrave. Will you phone me if you’re going to look, so I can go too? I’m not doing anything on Wednesday, the day you should get this.

  Now I’m running to the post. See you!

  Love,

  Clare

  XXX__

  He hadn’t intended to kill Clare.

  On Monday he’d realized he was trapping himself. He should leave Liverpool at once. To wait for Clare to go to the house on Mulgrave Street, or even to lure her there, would only be wasting time. He should escape while she was keeping quiet about him.

  He’d zipped some clothes into a bag and had hurried out, running for a bus. Each minute seemed longer. Red lights snapped into place at intersections; the bus dawdled for passengers to board. His nails had torn at the seat beneath him.

  At Lime Street Station he’d found he had left his purse in the flat. He would have tried for the London train with a platform ticket, but nobody would give him change for the ticket machine. The tail of the train had been drawn away leisurely. Half the walk back to his flat had been steeply uphill. The heavy heat had paced him. It had felt more intolerable than his endless trip on hash cake.

  He was on the bus again before he’d noticed he had left his bag in the flat. He’d run back, all his body prickling with heat and rage. There was something else that he’d forgotten. He’d searched for half an hour, then with a snarl of rage had wrenched himself away. But he’d walked down Princes Road slowly, more slowly, halting. He couldn’t leave until— He couldn’t leave. Gazing across at Mulgrave Street, he’d known why. The knowledge had lain dully on his mind.

  The worst thing was, he no longer felt free—less so than in his childhood. He’d had little sleep that night. He lay beneath the house, waiting; the earth was full of crawling babies. His grandmother must have told him the story the doctor had told George; he’d forgotten, that was all.

  On Tuesday he’d had to get out of the flat. He had walked in the parks. He’d dozed on benches, but children were chattering, birds were babbling. In Sefton Park the light on the lake attacked his eyes jaggedly; in Otterspool Park the path sank among trees, alive with the sound of traffic above on the main road. He had been trying to edge away from Mulgrave Street, pretending he was only strolling. He’d had nothing but his purse and the clothes he was wearing, but that didn’t matter: he was only strolling. But he couldn’t pretend to himself, and the clearer his purpose had become, the more certain he’d been that he would fail. He was only strolling, and time gathered on him like thick wax, more suffocating than the heat.

  When at last he’d returned to his flat, defeated, the landlady was waiting. “Mr. Barrow, I think somebody’s been in your flat. I haven’t been able to check. Have you had a new lock put on?”

  “Yeah, right.” In his confusion he’d neglected to lock the window, and someone had got in. Maggie? The police?

  “You know very well you should have asked me. Will you check your flat now, please?”

  She’d come in with him, blocking the door as he’d made to close her out; she stared suspiciously at his eyes—looking for evidence of acid, no doubt. His clothes had been moved. His bed had been disturbed. Nothing had been taken—but someone had torn his poster. They’d wanted him to know they had got in.

  “Miss Fraser says someone was asking for you. A short girl, a brunette. Not much more than five feet tall. She was here shortly before I heard the intruder.”

  “Yeah, I know her. It was her in here.”

  “Please tell her it was still burglary, even if she is a friend of yours. For her own sake she had better not do it again. Please let me have a copy of your key tomorrow. And for
heaven’s sake, Mr. Barrow,” she’d said from the door, “tidy up this flat. I’ve been meaning to tell you for weeks.”

  Which meant she’d been getting in too. He had suspected as much; that was why he’d bought the lock. It didn’t matter now. His flat wasn’t safe any more. He wasn’t safe. Clare must be in league with Edmund, after all.

  He needed to gain an advantage before he was trapped. He needed the address on Mulgrave Street. It was in his mother’s letter; his grandmother had shown him once, then she’d snatched it away, and he couldn’t recall it. He didn’t dare let the pull lead him to the house. Knowing where it was would give him an advantage. He’d hurried out to buy a glass-cutter and putty. Once he knew where the house was, he would know what to do.

  But killing his grandmother had made him less free. In her house he’d felt the pull grasp him, through the walls. Now the killing was something else to flee; it would strengthen the hunt for him. Back at his flat he had tried to sleep, but the sheets had felt unfamiliar. Whenever he’d touched sleep he had felt surrounded by earth that threatened to collapse and suffocate him.

  His eyes were gritty embers. Sounds crawled on him. The shallow knife slash on his forearm throbbed beneath plaster. He felt as if the daylight weren’t reaching him. The landlady would be here soon, for her key. He was preparing dully to go to the house, hoping that would show him why he needed to go, when Clare’s letter arrived.

  He gazed at it. She had been trying to drive him into confusion; now she expected him to betray himself by refusing to go to the house. Or perhaps she thought his performance would break down in the house, with Edmund and George in the wings, waiting to pounce. She was sure the house was crucial to him. And suddenly he knew she was right. Suddenly he saw what he must do.

  Something about the house was trapping him in Liverpool. He must destroy the house. Now, in daylight. That was why he’d needed the address, the advantage. The house, or what remained of its influence from his childhood, had been confusing him.