She mustn’t have switched off her mobile. His muffled voice was more fragmented than ever, and quite devoid of consonants. She wanted to finish whatever needed to be done, and so she hurried upstairs almost fast enough to outdistance a shiver, gripping the banister that felt cold and slippery enough for metal. “Where?” she called.
She gained the upper floor without hearing any answer. All the doors off the landing were open. While the bathroom appeared to be clear of snow, icicles glimmered beneath the taps. Next was a room so cold that its darkness put her in mind of black ice. Around the door she caught sight of the foot of a bed. She was hoping that he didn’t plan to entice her in that direction when his crumbling voice said “Not there, here.”
That could only apply to one room. As she stepped over the threshold she saw the town draped in pallor under a sky of brass flawed with stars. Russell’s desk must overlook the view, but the desk was buried in a snowdrift. All the same, a form was slumped or crouched in the snowbound chair in front of it. Kerry hurried forward, angry as much as dismayed. “Russell, what have you—”
She was falling towards the chair. She regained her footing barely in time not to clutch at the chair and swing it around or worse. Whatever she’d slipped on, it wasn’t ice. She blinked at the floor and tried not to believe what she was seeing. It was scattered with paper – with pages. The empty objects scattered among them were bindings, and she recognized the covers. He’d torn up all his books.
Had he done it for her to find? She wasn’t going to feel guilty, but her eyes grew wet and unfocused as she leaned over the chair. “Russell, what did you think—”
She almost planted an unwary hand on the object in the chair for support as she began to make it out. She could only assume he’d ensured for some reason that he couldn’t sit at his desk. He’d built his version of a snowman, which was near to collapsing. The lump on top contained more holes than a head should, while the body had thawed and refrozen into such contortions it reminded her of a dead spider. The items like pale glistening sticks that appeared to be exposed here and there must be ice. She started to blink before deciding that she’d seen enough. She turned away hastily and picked her way over the waste of paper.
There was only the bedroom now. She was tempted to walk past and out of the house, but she was too anxious for him. She would have worried about anybody in the state of which she’d seen so much evidence. She pushed the door wide and strode into the room. “Russell, I’ve had—”
She didn’t even manage to utter all of that. For a moment – far too brief – she thought he’d wrapped a heavy quilt around him as he sat propped up against the pillows on the bed under the open window. It was snow, which filled his open mouth. His eyes were doughy wads. He looked no thinner than when she’d last seen him – and then she understood that he owed much of his substance to snow. The little she could distinguish of him was naked, and was that a withered icicle protruding from his fist between his legs? She was trying desperately to grasp how recently he must have lost the power of speech when she heard him. “Not that,” he said.
Though each word was in shreds, the voice wasn’t on her mobile. She didn’t know where it was, and so she almost couldn’t move. A shudder helped release her, and she staggered out of the frozen room. “Don’t go,” Russell said.
His voice was emerging from one of the rooms, and not only his voice. She was nearly at the stairs when whatever was behind her touched the back of her neck. Its grasp was so icy that although it almost instantly disintegrated, the feeling of it lingered like a brand. She would have fallen headlong if she hadn’t seized the banister. She fled downstairs and along the unlit hall, and heard a whisper at her back that might have been an attempt to speak or the best her pursuer could do in the way of footsteps. She groped at the latch and dragged the door open and slammed it behind her so hard that it dislodged snow from the roof. She skidded along the path and slithered downhill, clinging to the rail, as fast as carelessness would take her. She wasn’t out of sight of Russell’s house when her mobile rang.
She had to force herself to halt and dig in her handbag, though the sound of any of her friends would be reassuring. She couldn’t identify the unfinished digits that appeared to be struggling into view. “Jason,” she almost hoped aloud, but the dogged incomplete voice wasn’t his. “You tried,” it said. “My turn.”
BRIAN KEENE
“The King”, in: Yellow
BRIAN KEENE IS A two-time Bram Stoker Award-winning author. His books include The Rising, Terminal, City of the Dead, Fear of Gravity and the upcoming Earthworm Gods, The Rutting Season and War Pigs (co-written with Tim Lebbon). Many of Keene’s novels and short stories are slated for film, comic book, and video game adaptations.
About the following story, which would have fitted perfectly into Karl Edward Wagner’s late and lamented Year’s Best Horror Stories series, he recalls: “I got the idea while walking around Fell’s Point in Baltimore, after a budding young horror writer told me he’d never read Robert W. Chambers’ ‘The King in Yellow’.
“My story is, of course, a tribute to that classic tale. But you already knew this because you’ve read the original, right? If not, you need to correct that. Horror fiction has a rich history, and it is your heritage as a fan, a reader, and especially if you’re a writer. Seek it out. Learn from it. Machen. Hodgson. Dunsany. Blackwood. Bierce. Clark Ashton Smith. Edward Lucas White. Read them. You’ll be glad you did . . .”
THE MAN STOOD ROTTING on the corner. Frayed rags hung from his skeletal frame and ulcerated sores covered his exposed flesh, weeping blood and pus. He stank. Sweat. Infection. Excrement.
Despair.
Finley considered going the long way around him, but Kathryn waved impatiently from across the street. He shouldered by; head down, eyes fixed on the pavement. Invisible.
He can’t see me if I can’t see him.
“Yo ’zup,” the rotting man mumbled over the traffic. “Kin you help a brutha’ out wit’ a quarta’?”
Finley tried ignoring him, then relented. He didn’t have the heart to be so cold, although Kathryn’s yuppie friends (they were supposed to be his friends too, but he never thought of them that way) would have mocked him for it. He raised his head, actually looking at the bum, meeting his watery eyes.
They shone.
Finley glanced across the street. Kathryn’s expression was incredulous.
“Sorry, man.” Finley held his hands out in a pretence of sympathy. “I’m taking my girl to dinner.” Feeling like an idiot, he pointed at Kathryn, as if proving he spoke the truth. “Need to stop at an ATM.”
“S’cool,” the vagrant smiled. “Ya’ll kin hit me on da way back.”
“Okay, we’ll do that.”
Finley stepped off the curb. The man darted forward, grasping his shoulder. Dirty fingernails clawed at his suit jacket.
“Hey!” Finley protested.
“Listen,” the bum croaked. “Have ya’ll seen Yellow?”
“N-no, I don’t think so,” Finley stammered, clueless.
“Afta’ ya’ eat, take yo’ lady t’ see it.”
Cackling, the homeless man shambled off toward the waterfront. Finley crossed the street.
Kathryn shook her head. “So you met the Human Scab?”
“Only in Baltimore,” he grinned.
“Fucking wildlife,” she spat, taking his arm. “That’s why I take my smoke breaks in the parking garage. I don’t know what’s worse – the seagulls dive-bombing me, or the homeless dive-bombing me.”
“The seagulls,” Finley replied. “How was your day?”
“Don’t try to change the subject, Roger. Christ, you’ve become so liberal. What happened to the conservative I fell in love with?” She paused and let go of his arm, lighting a cigarette. In the early darkness, the flame lit her face, reminding Finley why he’d fallen in love with her. “But since you asked, it sucked. How was yours?”
“Okay, I guess. Pet Search’s web site c
rashed, so I had to un-fuck that. Fed-Ex dropped off my new back-up server. On Days of Our Lives, John is still trying to find Stefano and Bo found out about Hope’s baby.”
“Wish I could work from home and watch soap operas all day. But one of us has to make money.”
“Well isn’t that why we’re going out to dinner? To celebrate your big bonus?”
They crossed Albemarle Street in silence. Ahead, the bright lights of the Inner Harbour beckoned with its fancy restaurants and posh shops. The National Aquarium overlooked the water like an ancient monolith.
Kathryn’s brow furrowed.
“Beautiful night,” Finley said, tugging his collar against the cold air blowing in across the water. “You can almost see the stars.”
Kathryn didn’t reply.
“What’s wrong?”
She sighed, her breath forming mist in the air. “I feel – I don’t know – old. We used to do fun things all the time. Now it’s dinner on the couch and whatever’s on satellite. Maybe a game of Scrabble if we’re feeling energetic.”
Finley stared out across the harbour. “I thought you liked coming home every evening with dinner made, and spending a quiet night around the house.”
She took his hand.
“I do, Roger. I’m sorry. It’s just – we’re both thirty now. When was the last time we did something really fun?”
“When we were twenty-one and you puked on me during the Depeche Mode concert?”
Kathryn finally laughed, and they walked on, approaching Victor’s.
“So why did your day suck?”
“Oh, the lender won’t approve the loan on the Spring Grove project because the inspector found black mould in some of the properties. Of course, Ned told him we were going to rip out the tiles during the remodelling phase, but he—”
Finley tuned her out, still nodding and expressing acknowledgement where applicable. After ten years, he’d gotten good at it. When was the last time they’d really done something fun? He tried to remember. Didn’t this count? Going out to dinner? Probably not. He tried to pinpoint exactly when they’d settled into this comfortable zone of domestic familiarity. By mutual agreement, they didn’t go to the club anymore. Too many ghetto fabulous suburbanites barely out of college. They didn’t go to the movies because she hated the cramped seating and symphony of babies crying and cell phones ringing.
“—so I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Kathryn finished.
“You’ll be fine.” Finley squeezed her hand. “You can handle it.”
She smiled, squeezing back.
The line outside Victor’s snaked around the restaurant. Finley manoeuvred them through it; thankful he’d had the foresight to make reservations.
The maitre d’ approached them, waving a manicured hand.
“Hello, Ms Kathryn,” he said, clasping her hand. “I’m delighted you could join us.”
“Hello, Franklin,” she curtsied, smiling as the older man kissed both her cheeks. “This is my boyfriend, Roger.”
The maitre d’ winked. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I’ve heard much about you.”
Finley grinned, unsure of how to reply.
“Give them a good view,” Franklin told the hostess, and turned back to them. “Sheila will seat you. Enjoy your meal.”
“I come here a lot for lunch,” Kathryn explained as they followed Sheila to their table. “I told Franklin we’d be coming in tonight. He’s a nice old guy; a real charmer.”
“Yes, he does seem nice,” Finley mumbled, distracted. Not for the first time, he found himself surprised by how little he knew about Kathryn’s life outside their relationship. He’d never thought to wonder where she spent her lunches.
In many ways, they were different. Strangers making up a whole. She was the consummate twenty-first century yuppie – a corporate lioness intent upon her career and nothing else. He was the epitome of the Generation X slacker, running a home-based web-hosting business. They’d been together almost ten years, but at times, it seemed to him as if they were just coasting. The subjects of marriage and children had been broached several times, and usually deflected them both. He needed to devote time to developing his business. She wasn’t where she wanted to be in her career.
Despite that, he thought they were happy. So why the disquiet? Maybe Kathryn was right. Maybe they needed to do something fun, something different.
“—at night, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “What’d you say hon?”
“I said the harbour really is beautiful at night.” They were seated in front of a large window, looking out towards the Chesapeake Bay. The lights of the city twinkled in the darkness.
“Yeah, it sure is.”
“What were you thinking about, Roger?”
“Honestly? That you’re right. We should do something fun. How about we take a trip down to the ocean this weekend? Check out the wild horses, maybe do a little beach combing?”
“That sounds great,” she sighed. “But I can’t this weekend. I’ve got to come in on Saturday and crunch numbers for the Vermont deal. We close on that next week.”
“Well then, how about we do something Sunday? Maybe take a drive up to Pennsylvania and visit some of the flea markets, see the Amish, or stop at a produce stand?”
“That’s a possibility. Let’s play it by ear, okay?”
They studied their menus, basking in the comfortable silence that only long-time partners share.
That was when Roger noticed the woman.
She and her companion sat at the next table. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on her sallow face. She was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
Heroin, he wondered, or maybe Anorexia? She obviously came from money. That much was apparent from her jewellery and shoes. Her companion looked wealthy, too. Maybe she was a prostitute? No, they seemed too familiar with each other for that.
What caught Finley’s attention next was the blood trickling down her leg. Her conversation was animated, and while she gestured excitedly with one hand, the other was beneath the table, clenching her leg. Her fingernails clawed deep into the flesh of her thigh, hard enough to draw blood. She didn’t seem to care. In fact, judging by the look in her eye, she enjoyed the sensation.
Finley glanced at Kathryn, but she was absorbed with the menu. He turned back to the couple, and focused on what the woman was saying.
“And then, the King appears. It’s such a powerful moment, you can’t breathe. I’ve been to Vegas, and I’ve seen impersonators, but this guy is the real thing!”
Her companion’s response was muffled, and Finley strained to hear.
“I’m serious, Reginald! It’s like he’s channelling Elvis! The King playing the King! The whole cast is like that. There’s a woman who looks and sounds just like Janis Joplin playing the Queen, and a very passable John Lennon as Thale. The best though, next to the King of course, is the guy they cast to play the Pallid Mask. I swear to you Reginald, he’s Kurt Cobain! You can’t tell the difference. It’s all so realistically clever! Actors playing rock stars playing roles. A play within a musical within a play.”
Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and Finley leaned towards them.
“The special effects are amazing. When the Queen has the Pallid Mask tortured, you can actually see little pieces of brain in Cobain’s hair. And they have audience participation, too. It’s different every night. We each had to reveal a secret that we’d never told anyone. That’s why Stephanie left Christopher. Apparently, he revealed a tryst he’d had with a dog when he was ten. She left him after the performance. Tonight, I hear they’ll be having the audience unmask along with the actors, during the masquerade scene.”
Finley jumped as Kathryn’s fingertips brushed his hand.
“Stop eavesdropping,” she hissed. “It’s not polite.”
“Sorry, dear. Have you decided what you’re going to have?”
/> “Mmmm-hmmm,” she purred. “I’m going with the crab cakes. How about you?”
“I think I’ll have the filet mignon. Rare. And a big baked potato with lots of sour cream and butter.”
Her eyes widened. “Why Roger, you haven’t had that since your last visit to the doctor. What happened to eating healthy, so that you don’t end up like your father?”
“The hell with my hereditary heart disease and cholesterol!” He closed the menu with a snap. “You said we need to start having more fun. Red meat and starch is a good start!”
She laughed, and the lights of the bay reflected in her eyes. Underneath the table, she slid her foot against his leg.
“I love you, Kathryn.”
“I love you, too.”
The woman at the other table stood up, knocking her chair backward, and screamed.
Kathryn jumped. “I think somebody has had too much wine.”
Silence, then hushed murmurs as the woman tottered back and forth on her heels. Her companion scooted his chair back, cleared his throat in embarrassment, and reached for her. She slapped his hand away with a shriek.
“Have you seen the Yellow Sign?” she sang. “Have you found the Yellow Sign? Have you seen the Yellow Sign?”
She continued the chorus, spinning round and round. Her flailing arms sent a wine glass crashing to the floor. Her date lunged for her. She side-stepped, and in one quick movement, snatched her steak knife from the table and plunged it into his side. He sank to his knees, pulling the tablecloth and their meals down with him. Screaming, several patrons dashed for the exit, but no one moved to stop her.
Finley felt frozen in place, transfixed by what occurred next.
Still singing, the woman bent over and plucked up her soup spoon from the mess on the floor, then used it to gouge out her eyes. Red and white pulp dribbled down her face.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 16 Page 16
