ted klein

by Unknown

  One Size Eats All

  (from The Best New Horror, ed. Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell)

  T.E.D. Klein is a native New Yorker who has been described as “one of the finest stylists among modern horror writers.” After discovering the works of H.P. Lovecraft while studying at Brown University, his acclaimed story “The Events at Poroth Farm” appeared in The Year’s Best Horror Stories: Series II in 1974.

  The story was expanded to novel-length in the American bestseller The Ceremonies (winner of the British Fantasy Award), and the author followed it with Dark Gods (collecting three novellas, “Petey”, “Black Man With a Horn”, the World Fantasy Award-winning “Nadelman’s God”, and the short novel “Children of the Kingdom”).

  For five years Klein was the editor of the successful Rod Serling׳s Twilight Zone Magazine, he edited the now defunct true-crime monthly CrimeBeat, and more recently put together the first edition of Sci-Fi Entertainment before resigning. He also scripted Dario Argento’s movie Trauma (which he describes as “easily the worst film he ever made”), and he is still working on a new novel, entitled Nighttown.

  It should be pointed out that the following story was originally written for children. The new outdoors magazine Outside/Kids (a companion to the popular adult publication Outside) asked the author for a “campfire chiller”. “One Size Eats All” certainly fits that criterion, no matter what the age of the reader...

  The words had been emblazoned on the plastic wrapper of Andy’s new sleeping bag, in letters that were fat and pink and somewhat crudely printed. Andy had read them aloud as he unwrapped the bag on Christmas morning.

  “‘One size eats all.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jack, his older brother, had laughed. “Maybe it’s not really a sleeping bag. Maybe it’s a feed bag!”

  Andy’s gaze had darted to the grotesquely large metal zipper that ran along the edge of the bag in rows of gleaming teeth. He’d felt a momentary touch of dread.

  “It’s obviously a mistake,” Andy’s father had said. “Or else a bad translation. They must have meant ‘One size fits all.’”

  He was sure that his father was right. Still, the words on the wrapper had left him perplexed and uneasy. He’d slept in plenty of sleeping bags before, but he knew he didn’t want to sleep in this one.

  And now, as he sat huddled in his tent halfway up Wendigo Mountain, about to slip his feet into the bag, he was even more uneasy. What if it wasn’t a mistake?

  He and Jack had been planning the trip for months; it was the reason they’d ordered the sleeping bags. Jack, who was bigger and more athletic and who’d already started to shave, had picked an expensive Arctic Explorer model from the catalogue. Nothing but the best for Jack. Andy, though, had hoped that if he chose an obscure brand manufactured overseas, and thereby saved his parents money, maybe they’d raise his allowance.

  But they hadn’t even noticed. The truth was, they’d always been somewhat inattentive where Andy was concerned. They barely seemed to notice how Jack bullied him.

  Jack did bully him — in a brotherly way, of course. His bright red hair seemed to go with his fiery temper, and he wasn’t slow to use his fists. He seemed to best the younger boy in just about everything, from basketball to campfire-building.

  Which was why, just before they’d set out for Wendigo Mountain, Andy had invited his friend Willie along. Willie was small, pale, and even less athletic than Andy. His head seemed much too big for his body. On a strenuous overnight hike like this one, Andy thought, it was nice to have somebody slower and weaker than he was.

  * * *

  True to form, Willie lagged behind the two brothers as they trudged single-file up the trail, winding their way among the tall trees that covered the base of the mountain, keeping their eyes peeled for the occasional dark green trail-markers painted on the trunks. It was a sunny morning, and the air had begun to lose some of the previous night’s chill.

  By the time Willie caught up, winded and sweating beneath his down jacket, Andy and Jack had taken off their backpacks and stopped for a rest.

  “It’s your tough luck,” Jack was telling him. “You’ve heard the old saying, ‘You made your bed, now lie in it’?”

  Andy nodded glumly.

  “Well, it’s the same thing,” said Jack. “You wanted the damn bag, so tonight you’re just gonna have to lie in it.”

  All morning, that’s exactly what Andy had been worrying about. He eyed the pack at his feet, with the puffy brown shape strapped beneath it, and wished the night would never come. You made your bed, he told himself. Now die in it.

  “Andy, for God’s sake, stop obsessing about that bag!” said Willie. “You’re letting your fears get the best of you. Honest, it’s a perfectly ordinary piece of camping gear.”

  “Willie’s right,” said Jack. Hoisting his backpack onto his shoulders, he grinned and added cruelly, “And the people it eats are perfectly ordinary too!”

  As they continued up the trail, the trees grew smaller and began to thin; the air grew cooler. Andy could feel the weight of the thing on his back, heavier than a sleeping bag ought to be and pressing against him with, he sensed, a primitive desire - a creature impatient for its dinner.

  Ahead of him, Jack turned. “Hey, Willie,” he yelled. “Did Andy tell you where his bag is from?”

  “No,” said Willie, far behind them. “Where?”

  Jack laughed delightedly. “Hungary!”

  They made camp at a level clearing halfway up the mountain. Andy and Willie would be sharing a tent that night; Jack had one to himself. Late afternoon sunlight gleamed from patches of snow among the surrounding rocks.

  The three unrolled their sleeping bags inside the tents. Andy paused before joining the others outside. In the dim light his bag lay brown and bloated, a living coffin waiting for an occupant. Andy reminded himself that it was, in fact, a fairly normal-looking bag — not very different, in truth, from Jack’s new Arctic Explorer. Still, he wished he had a sleeping bag like Willie’s, a comfortable old thing that had been in the family for years.

  Willie lagged behind again as the brothers left camp and returned to the trail. They waited until he’d caught up. Both younger boys were tired and would have preferred to stay near the tents for the rest of the day, but Jack, impatient, wanted to press on toward the summit while it was still light.

  The three took turns carrying a day pack with their compasses, flashlights, emergency food, and a map. The slope was steeper here, strewn with massive boulders, and the exertion made them warm again. Maybe, thought Andy, he wouldn’t even need the bag tonight.

  The terrain became increasingly difficult as they neared Wendigo’s peak, where the trail was blanketed by snow. They were exhausted by the time they reached the top — too exhausted to appreciate the sweeping view, the stunted pines, and the small mounds of stones piled in odd patterns across the rock face.

  They raised a feeble shout of triumph, rested briefly, then started down. Andy sensed that they would have to hurry; standing on the summit, he’d been unnerved at how low the sun lay in the sky.

  The air was colder now, and shadows were lengthening across the snow. Before they’d gotten very far, the sun had sunk below the other side of the mountain.

  They’d been traveling in shadow for what seemed nearly an hour, Jack leading the way, when the older boy paused and asked to see the map. Andy and Willie looked at one another and realized, with horror, that they had left the day pack at the top of the mountain, somewhere among the cairns and twisted trees.

  “I thought you had it,” said Andy, aghast at the smaller boy’s carelessness.

  “I thought you did,” said Willie.

  No matter; it was Andy that Jack swore at and smacked on the side of the head. Willie
looked pained, as if he, too, had been hit.

  Jack glanced up the slope, then turned and angrily continued down the trail. “Let’s go!” he snapped over his shoulder. “Too late to go back for it now.”

  They got lost twice coming down, squeezing between boulders, clambering over jagged rocks, and slipping on patches of ice. But just as night had settled on the mountain, and Andy could no longer make out his brother’s red hair or his friend’s pale face, they all felt the familiar hard-packed earth of the trail beneath their boots.

  They were dog-tired and aching by the time they stumbled into camp. They had no flashlights and were too fatigued to try to build a fire. Poor Willie, weariest of all, felt his way to the tent and crawled inside. Andy hung back. In the darkness he heard Jack yawn and slip into the other tent.

  He was alone now, with no light but the stars and a sliver of moon, like a great curved mouth. The night was chilly; he knew he couldn’t stay out here. With a sigh, he pushed through the tent flaps, trying not to think about what waited for him inside.

  The interior of the tent was pitch black and as cold as outdoors. Willie was already asleep. The air, once crisp, seemed heavy with an alien smell; when he lifted the flap of his sleeping bag, the smell grew stronger. Did all new bags smell like this? He recognized the odors of canvas and rubber, but beneath them lurked a hint of something else; fur, maybe, or the breath of an animal.

  No, he was imagining things. The only irrefutable fact was the cold. Feeling his way carefully in the darkness, Andy unlaced his boots, barely noticing that his socks were encrusted with snow. Gingerly he inserted one foot into the mouth of the bag, praying he’d feel nothing unusual.

  The walls of the bag felt smooth and, moments later, warm. Too warm. Surely, though, it was just the warmth of his own body.

  He pushed both legs in further, then slipped his feet all the way to the bottom. Lying in the darkness, listening to the sound of Willie’s breathing, he could feel the bag press itself against his ankles and legs, clinging to them with a weight that seemed, for goosedown, a shade too heavy. Yet the feeling was not unpleasant. He willed himself to relax.

  It occurred to him, as he waited uneasily for sleep, what a clever disguise a bag like this would make for a creature that fed on human flesh. Like a spider feasting upon flies that had blundered into its web, such a creature might gorge contentedly on human beings stupid enough to disregard its warning: One size eats all... Imagine, prey that literally pushed itself into the predator’s mouth!

  Human stomach acid, he’d read, was capable of eating through a razor blade; and surely this creature’s would be worse. He pictured the thing dissolving bones, draining the very life-blood from its victim, leaving a corpse sucked dry of fluids, like the withered husk a spider leaves behind...

  Suddenly he froze. He felt something damp — no, wet — at the bottom of the bag. Wet like saliva. Or worse.

  Kicking his feet, he wriggled free of the bag. Maybe what he’d felt was simply the melted snow from his socks, but in the darkness he was taking no chances. Feeling for his boots, he laced them back on and curled up on top of the bag, shivering beneath his coat.

  Willie’s voice woke him.

  “Andy? Are you okay?”

  Andy opened his eyes. It was light out. He had survived the night.

  “Why were you sleeping like that?” said Willie. “You must be frozen.”

  “I was afraid to get back in the bag. It felt... weird.”

  Willie smiled. “It was just your imagination, Andy. That’s not even your bag.”

  “Huh?” Andy peered down at the bag. A label near the top said Arctic Explorer.

  “But how — ”

  “I switched your bag with Jack’s when the two of you were starting for the summit,” said Willie. “I meant to tell you, but I fell asleep.”

  “Jack’ll be furious,” said Andy. “He’ll kill me for this!”

  Trembling with cold and fear, he crawled stiffly from the tent. It was early morning; a chilly sun hung in the pale blue sky. He dashed to Jack’s tent and yanked back the flaps, already composing an apology.

  The tent was empty. The sleeping bag, his bag, lay dark and swollen on the floor. There seemed to be no one inside.

  Or almost no one; for emerging from the top was what appeared to be a deflated basketball — only this one had red hair and a human face.

  Curtains for Nat Crumley

  (from Gahan Wilson׳s The Ultimate Haunted House)

  He heard the creak of ancient floorboards, the scurrying of rats, and the squeak of hand-forged hinges as a massive oak door was slammed shut. From somewhere below came the crackle of flames and the clanking of metal on rock. Footfalls echoed from a monstrous stone staircase and reverberated through the gloomy halls.

  Which was odd, on the face of it, since he was living in a studio apartment.

  All journeys, it is said, start with a single step. This one had started when Nathan “Nat” Crumley stepped unsteadily out of his bathtub, wearing nothing but a frown.

  It was October in the city, and just beginning to grow dark. Crumley, raised on the principle of a clean mind in a clean body and still a believer in the latter, had been taking a long, luxuriant shower.

  It was an unusual time for a shower, a time when most of his neighbors in the building had either just returned from work, had settled down to dinner, or had already parked themselves in front of the TV; but Nat Crumley knew from nearly thirty years’ experience that it was the best time to bathe. The building was an old one, just seven stories high, and the water heater in the basement was in frequent need of repair; if you waited until bedtime, or chose to shower in the morning when tenants in the other apartments were preparing for work, you might well find yourself without hot water.

  But he had a more important reason for showering now. He was planning to drop over to the Social Center this evening—its full name, the West Side Seniors’ Resource Center, sounded too depressingly geriatric—and he wanted to look his best, especially because a curvaceous blond widow named Estelle Gitlitz might be there, playing canasta with her friends.

  He had seen Estelle just last night, for a pair of mocha decafs at one of the many small coffee bars that had sprung up in the neighborhood. It had taken him months to work up the courage to ask her out. Their date had not gone well—Estelle had not seemed entertained by his reminiscences of thirty years in the collection department of a local printing plant, where he’d methodically arranged payment schedules for small impoverished publishers who would otherwise have faced legal action—and after half an hour she had excused herself and left; she hadn’t even asked him to walk her home. But maybe she would call. He hoped she would.

  Or maybe she’d be at the Social Center tonight. It was the only place he had for meeting women lately, now that he’d stopped working; it was damned near the only place he could afford. There’d been women at the office that he’d flirted with, some he had dated, and two he’d even slept with, briefly. But all that was behind him; he hadn’t set foot in the office for nearly a year. Ever since he’d accepted early retirement, electing to live frugally on his pension and his buyout money (for he was still too young for Social Security, thank God), he had looked to the Center for female companionship.

  Running a hand over his chin, as he stood there in the tub with the water coursing down his sparse hair, bony shoulders, and legs that might normally be called spindly (except that spindles are more graceful and sturdy), Crumley realized that he needed a shave. He was meticulous about being clean-shaven and well-groomed—so meticulous that he tended to spend more time preparing for a date than on the date itself. In fact, he was meticulous in all things, maybe too much so; he’d been told more than once that he was not an easy man to live with. He was quick to find fault with other people’s work, behavior, and appearance, though equally quick to apologize. He was prone to tiny, unexpected bursts of rage—unexpected even to him—though never directed at anything other than typewriter
s, toasters, and other inanimate objects. His wife had divorced him decades ago, after just three years of marriage; his grown-up daughter had moved across the country and telephoned only on holidays.

  He reached for the razor, a throwaway plastic thing, in its customary place on a corner of the flat rim of the tub. It wasn’t there. For one confused moment he was startled, then frightened, then actually furious at the loss—he was, above all else, a creature of habit—but suddenly he remembered: he had put it away yesterday in the medicine cabinet. He had hoped, at the time, that Estelle might possibly come over, after their coffee date, for some late-night TV and maybe something more; just in case, he’d spent an hour cleaning the apartment. It had not been an unpleasant task; he liked cleaning up, and he believed that he liked playing host, rare though it was that he had guests. It had turned out, this time, that he’d cleaned up for no one but himself.

  The tub in which he was showering took up one wall, end to end, of the tiny windowless bathroom. The medicine cabinet, concealed behind a large hinged mirror, was attached to the same wall as the showerhead, with the bathroom sink projecting just below it. Because of the sink’s bulk and its closeness to the bathtub, one was all but prevented from stepping in or out of the tub at that end. Invariably, therefore, Crumley would open the shower curtain from the opposite end, farthest from the spray of water. The curtain itself was of faded cream-colored plastic with vertical yellow stripes, like the bars of an old-fashioned jail cell; he left it spread wide and unwrinkled even when he wasn’t showering, in an effort to keep mildew at bay. He was conscientious about things like that.

  This October evening, with a touch of cold in the air, Crumley broke with habit; he needed the razor, and wasn’t about to step dripping from the tub to retrieve it. Directing the flow of water so that it wouldn’t spray on the floor, he opened the curtain from the showerhead side, the side that normally remained closed. All too aware that half of all household accidents happen in bathrooms, he grasped the end of the round metal curtain rod with one hand where it was attached by screws to the wall, then placed a foot cautiously onto the edge of the tub. With his other foot still inside the tub, up to its ankle in warm water, he stretched precariously toward the medicine cabinet with his free hand and slowly swung its mirrored door toward him. Reaching beneath it, he groped blindly along the cabinet’s bottom shelf, fingers searching for the razor among bottles of tranquilizers and vitamin pills.