At the World Fantasy Convention in Seattle later the same month Peter Straub received the World Fantasy Award for Best Novel of 1988 (Koko); George R.R. Martin’s “The Skin Trade” was judged to be the Best Novella and John M. Ford’s poem “Winter Solstice, Camelot Station” the Best Short Story; The Year’s Best Fantasy First Annual Collection edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling was found to be the Best Anthology. Harlan Ellison (Angry Candy) and Gene Wolfe (Storeys from the Old Hotel) tied in the Best Collection category, and Robert Weinberg and Terri Windling for the Special Professional Award. Edward Gorey was chosen as Best Artist, while Pulphouse publishers Kristine Katherine Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith won in the Special Non-Professional category. Evangeline Walton received the Life Achievement Award.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the 1989 Collectors Award issued by science fiction and fantasy bookseller Barry R. Levin went to Salman Rushdie as The Most Collectable Author of the Year—and that was surely the year’s most frightening horror story.
1989 saw mixed fortunes for the horror genre. In America it looks as if the boom of recent years is on the wane, while in Britain—where trends in publishing tend to follow a year or two later—horror is still big business, and translations into european and oriental languages are multiplying. It remains to be seen if there is enough of a market to sustain the sheer volume of written and filmed material being produced—much of it patently sub-standard and aimed at a short shelf life between the covers of exploitative publishers or beneath the garish label of a quick-buck video.
To survive, the horror genre must move out of the mid-list category and, following the example set by a few of its best-known practioners, into the ranks of the bestseller or of recognised literature. As we head into the 1990s, with more new talent emerging within the ranks of the genre than ever before, we look set to see a true renaissance in this much-maligned field. We hope Best New Horror will reflect this.
THE EDITORS
APRIL, 1990
ROBERT R. McCAMMON
Pin
ROBERT R. McCAMMON was born in Birmingham, Alabama, where he lives with his wife Sally. He was just 26 years old when his first novel, Baal, was published. Since then he has produced a consistent string of best-selling horror novels, including Bethany’s Sin, The Nightboat, They Thirst, Mystery Walk, Usher’s Passing, Swan Song, Stinger, Wolf’s Hour and Mine, as well as the collection Blue World.
“Pin” is a harrowing tale of psychological terror that pushes its point home with a vengeance.
I’M GOING TO DO IT.
Yes. I am.
I hold the pin in my hand, and tonight I’m going to peer into the inner sun.
Then, when I’m filled up with all that glare and heat and my brain is on fire like a four-alarm blaze I’m going to take my Winchester rifle down to the McDonald’s on the corner and we’ll see who says what to who when.
There you go, talking to yourself. Well, there’s nobody else around is there so who am I supposed to talk to? No, no; my friend’s here. Right here, in my hand. You know. Pin.
I have a small sharp friend. Oh, look at that little point gleam. It hypnotizes you, Pin does. It says look at me look long and hard and in me you will see your future. It is a very sharp future, and there is pain in it. Pin is better than God, because I can hold Pin. God frets and moans in silence, somewhere . . . up there, somewhere. Way above the ceiling. Damn, I didn’t know that crack was there. No wonder this bitching place leaks.
Now Johnny’s an okay guy. I mean, I wouldn’t shoot him. He’s okay. The others at the shop—bam bam bam, dead in two seconds flat. I don’t like the way they clam up when I walk past, like they’ve got secrets I’m not supposed to know anything about. Like you have secrets when you work on cars all day and fix tyres and brake shoes and get that gunk under your fingernails that won’t ever wash out? Some secrets. Now Pin . . . Pin does have secrets. Tonight I’m going to learn them, and I’m going to share my knowledge with those people down on the corner eating their hamburgers in the safe safe world. I’ll bet that damn roof doesn’t leak I’ll make it leak I’ll put a bullet right through it so there.
I’m sweating. Hot in here. Summer night, so what else is new?
Pin, you’re so pretty you make me want to cry.
The trick, I think, is not to blink. I’ve heard about people who did this before. They saw the inner sun, and they went out radiant. It’s always dark in here. It’s always dark in this town. I think they need a little sunlight, don’t you?
Who’re you talking to, anyway? Me myself and I. Pin makes four. Hell, I could play bridge if I wanted to. Lucas liked to play bridge, liked to cheat and call you names and what else did you have to do in that place anyway? Oh, those white white walls. I think white is Satan’s colour, because it has no face. I saw that Baptist preacher on tv and he had on a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He said come down the aisle come on come on while you can and I’ll show you the door to Heaven.
It’s a big white door, he said. And he smiled when he said it and the way he smiled oh I knew I just knew he was really saying you’re watching me aren’t you, Joey? He was really saying, Joey you know all about big white doors don’t you, and how when they swing shut you hear the latch fall and the key rattle and that big white door won’t open again until somebody comes and opens it. There was always a long time between the closing and the opening.
I’ve always wanted to be a star. Like on tv or movies, somebody important with a lot of people nodding around you and saying you make a lot of sense. People like that always look like they know where they’re going and they’re always in a hurry to get there. Well, I know where I’m going now. Right down to the corner, where the golden arches are. Look out my window, I can see it. There goes a car turning in. Going to be full up on a Saturday night. Full up. My Winchester has a seven-shot magazine. Checkered American walnut. Satin finish. Rubber buttplate. It weighs seven pounds, a good weight. I have more bullets, too. Full up on a Saturday night. Date night, oh yes I hope she’s there that girl you know the one she drives a blue Camaro and she has long blond hair and eyes like diamonds. Diamonds are hard, but you hit one with a bullet and it’s not so hard anymore.
Pin, we won’t think about her will we? Nope! If she’s there it’s Fate. Maybe I won’t shoot her, and she’ll see I’m a nice guy.
Hold Pin close. Closer. Closer still. Up against the right eye. I’ve thought a long time about this. It was a tough decision. Left or right? I’m right-handed, so it makes sense to use my right eye. I can already see the sun sparkle on the end of Pin, like a promise.
Oh, what I could do with a machine-gun. Eliot Ness, Untouchables, tommygun type thing. I sure could send a lot of people behind that big white door, couldn’t I? See, the funny thing, I mean really funny thing is that everybody wants to go to Heaven but everybody’s scared to die. That’s what I’m going to say when the lights come on and that news guy sticks a microphone in my face. I need to shave first. I need to wear a tie. No, they won’t know me with a tie on. I need to wear my grey uniform grey now there’s a man’s colour. Pick you up good on tv in grey.
Speak to me, Pin. Say it won’t hurt.
Oh, you lying little bitch.
It has to be in the centre. In that black part. It has to go in deep. Real deep, and you have to keep pushing it in until you see the inner sun. You know, I’ll bet that part’s dead anyway. I’ll bet you can’t even feel any pain in the black part. Just push it in and keep pushing, and you’ll see that sunburst and then you can go down and have a hamburger when it’s all said and done.
Sweating. Hot night. That fan’s not worth a damn it just makes a racket.
Are you ready?
Closer, Pin. Closer. I never knew the point could look so big. Closer. Almost touching. Don’t blink! Cowards blink nobody can ever say Joey Shatterly’s a coward no sir!
Wait. Wait. I think I need a mirror for this.
I smell under my arms. Ban Roll-On. You don’t want to smell
when they turn the lights on you what if it’s not the guy but the girl who does the late news the one with big boobs and a smile like frostbite?
No, I don’t need to shave I look fine. Oh hell I’m out of Ban. Old Spice that’ll do. My dad used to use Old Spice everybody’s dads did. Now that was a good day, when we saw the Reds play the Pirates and he bought me a bag of peanuts and said he was proud of me. That was a good day. Well, he was a fruitcake though a real Marine oh sure. I remember that Iwo Jima crap when he got crazy and drank all the time Iwo Jima Iwo Jima all the time I mean he lived it in his mind a million times. You got sick of hearing who all died at Iwo Jima and how come you ought to be proud to be an American and how things weren’t how they used to be. Nothing is, is it? Except Old Spice. They still sell it, and the bottle’s still the same. Iwo Jima Iwo Jima. And then he went and did it put the rope up in the garage and stepped off the ladder and me coming in to get my bike and that grin on his face that said Iwo Jima.
Oh Ma, I didn’t mean to find him. Why didn’t you go in there so you could hate yourself?
Now that was a good day, when we saw the Reds play the Pirates and he bought me a bag of peanuts and said he was proud of me. He was a real Marine.
The black part looks small in the mirror small as a dot. But Pin’s smaller. Sharp as truth. My Winchester holds seven bullets. Magnificent seven I always liked Steve McQueen with that little sawed-off shotgun he died of cancer I think.
Pin, you’re so beautiful. I want to learn things. I want to know secrets. In the glare of the inner sun I will walk tall and proud like a Marine on the hot sands of Iwo Jima. Closer, Pin. Closer still. Almost there. Close against the black part, the unblinking black. Look in the mirror, don’t look at Pin. Don’t blink! Closer. Steady, steady. Don’t . . .
Dropped. Don’t go down the sink! Get Pin, get it! Don’t let it go . . .
There you are. Sweet Pin, sweet friend. My fingers are sweating. Wipe them off nice and neat on a towel. Holiday Inn. When did I stay at a Holiday Inn? When I went and visited Ma oh yes that’s right. Somebody else lived in the old house a man and woman I never knew their names and Ma she just sat in that place with the rocking chairs and talked about Dad. She said Leo came to see her and I said Leo is in California and she said you hate Leo don’t you? I don’t hate Leo. Leo takes good care of Ma sends her money and keeps her in that place but I miss the old house. Nothing’s how it used to be the whole world is turning faster and faster and sometimes I hold onto my bed because I’m scared the world is going to throw me off like an old shoe. So I hang on and my knuckles get white and pretty soon I can stand up and walk again. Baby steps.
Who blew that horn? Camaro, wasn’t it? Blond girl at the wheel? Seven bullets. I’ll make a lot of horns blow.
How straight and strong Pin is, like a little silver arrow. How were you made, and who made you? There are millions and millions of pins, but there is only one Pin. My friend, my key to light and truth. You shine and wink, and you say look into the inner sun and take your Winchester to the golden arches where Marines fear to tread.
I’m going to do it.
Yes. I am.
Closer. Closer.
Right up against the black. Shining silver, full of truth. Pin, my friend.
Look at the mirror. Don’t blink. Oh . . . sweating . . . sweating. Don’t blink!
Closer. Almost there. Silver, filling up the black. Almost. Almost.
You will not blink. No. You will not. Pin will take care of you. Pin will lead you. You. Will. Not. Blink.
Think about something else. Think about . . . Iwo Jima.
Closer. Almost.
One jab. Quick.
Quick.
There.
Ow.
Ow. Don’t. Don’t. DON’T BLINK. Don’t okay? Yes. Got it now. Ow. Hurts. Little bit. Pin, my friend. All silver. Hurts like truth. Yes it does. Another jab. Quick.
OH, JESUS. Deeper. Little bit deeper. Oh don’t blink please please don’t blink. Look right there there yes in the mirror push it deeper I was wrong the black part isn’t dead.
Deeper.
Oh. Oh. Okay. Oh. GET IT OUT! No. Deeper. Got to see the inner sun I’m sweating Joey Shatterly’s no coward no sir no sir. Deeper. Easy. easy. Oh. Streak of light that time. Blue light. Not a sunburst, a cold moon. Push it in. Oh. Oh. Hurting. Oh, it hurts. Blue light. Please don’t blink push it in oh oh Dad where’s my bike?
OH GOD GET IT OUT GET IT OUT OH IT HURTS GET IT . . .
No. Deeper.
My face. Twitching. Pain. Cold pain. Twitching. Seven bullets. Down to the golden arches and deeper still where is the inner s . . .
Oh . . . it . . . hurts . . . so . . . good . . .
Pin, sliding in. Slow. Cold steel. I love you, Dad. Pin show me the truth show me show me show . . .
Deeper. Through the pulse. Centre of the unblinking black. White’s turned red. Seven bullets, seven names. Deeper, to the centre of the inner sun.
Oh! There! I saw it! See! Right there! I saw a flash of it push it deeper into the brain where the inner sun is right there! A flash of light! Pin, take me there. Pin . . . take me there . . .
Please.
Deeper. Past pain. Cold. Inner sun burning. Makes you smile. Almost there.
Push it in. Using all of Pin up. A mighty pain.
White light. Flashbulb. Hi, Ma! Oh . . . there . . . right . . . there . . .
Pin, sing to me.
Deeper.
I love you Dad Ma I’m so sorry I had to find him I didn’t mean to I didn’t . . .
One more push. A little one. Pin is almost gone. My eye is heavy, freighted with sight . . .
Pin, sing to me.
Dee
CHERRY WILDER
The House on Cemetery Street
CHERRY WILDER, a New Zealander, has confused biographers by living for years in Australia before moving to West Germany. Her strange stories have appeared in Issac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Interzone, New Terrors, Dark Voices 2 and other international anthologies.
Her novels include Second Nature (1982), the fantasy trilogy which began with A Princess of the Chameln (1984) and Cruel Designs (1988), a horror novel set in West Germany.
Although originally published in a science fiction magazine, the following story is a powerful and chilling memory of the Holocaust.
THE TWO YOUNGEST CHILDREN of the German author, August Fuller, spent eight years in California. After the war, their mother Vicki, his second wife, flew back as soon as ever she could to her husband’s side. But there was no point in bringing the children back to Germany just yet . . . the country was flattened and there was nothing to eat. So they stayed on until the end of 1947 with the family of Vicki’s school friend, Estelle Bart O’Brien, and went back when Lucy had done her freshman year in college and Jo had completed the eighth grade.
They had left as Luisa and Joachim; they flew back in as Lucy and Jo. They were a couple of good-looking kids, but a little hard to place, bound to be exotics wherever they went. Jo at thirteen was short and slight with a smooth pre-adolescent beauty, large dark eyes, a mop of curly hair. Lucy at nearly eighteen was tall and slender, not built for sweaters. Her face was delicate, rather bony, her brown hair naturally-waved; her eyes were grey. She had had just enough dates to get along, but she knew that in certain circles she was classed as a dog.
It had taken an enormous amount of wire-pulling for them to fly at all. They were used to this hint of privilege and special treatment, and knew that it had to do with their father who worked miracles. Why, he had kept up a marvelous flow of letters throughout the war, postmarked Portugal at first, then U.S. Field Post. The children had received jointly over fifty letters—written in German, of course, but in the more readable English script. Vicki had set the letters carefully aside for future publication. Now it was getting on towards Christmas and they were sitting on the plane with a bunch of Air Force wives. They tried to brief each other on their lost childhood in the old country.
“Do you remember Christmas?” asked Lucy. “Do you remember the house at Christmas?”
It was something she herself could never forget. The northern Christmas, the cold, the delicious warmth, the suspense, the candlelight, had all sunk into her soul.
“The whole house smelled of cookies,” said Jo. “There were green branches on the stairs. We were allowed to cut out Christmas cookies down in the kitchen. Aunt Helga sat at the corner of a huge table covered with oilcloth and ground Papa’s coffee by hand.”
“Did she?” said Lucy, surprised. “I remember the hall was too narrow, especially in winter with the coats and boots. There was a hallstand that Papa called ‘the Bulgarian atrocity.’ I thought it was rather pretty because of the lady painted on the mirror. Name six rooms that you truly remember and put someone you truly remember in each one.”
“Papa in the study,” said Jo, “that’s easy. He let me sharpen pencils and spin the globe. Was the study upstairs?”
“It was on the landing, the mezzanine; it had a wreath on the door at Christmas.”
“Okay. I remember Mom ringing the little silver bell in the room downstairs with blue curtains where they always had the tree. I remember Aunt Helga in the dining room carving the goose. Now we go upstairs. It’s getting kind of foggy. Hey . . . Harald in a bedroom on the dark side of the house. I stood at the window looking out at a bunch of people in black, carrying flowers. He said ‘It’s a funeral, someone is being buried.’ I really didn’t know.”
“I slept alone,” said Lucy, “because poor Roswitha had gone away to University. I had the bedroom all to myself. It was across the corridor from the bedroom you shared with Harald.”
Roswitha, their half-sister, had married the “decadent” painter Hans Molbe and had died in Paris, in exile, in 1940. Harald Fuller, their half-brother, had been in prison for his left-wing leanings; now he was working to build a democratic newspaper in the American zone.
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