A Book of Horrors

by Stephen King

Only then did I realise what I had done.

  Before I had time to close my eyes or grab hold of the crowbar again, another small body hurled itself onto my back. I bent over and the child in pyjamas leapt up and seized me around the neck, burying its fingers just above my shoulder blades.

  The body on my back ran its hands over my forehead, and then I felt jagged nails moving over my eyelids. I screamed as the sharp edges penetrated the skin on either side of the top of my nose, and blood ran down into my mouth. The child let out a single sharp hiss, then jerked its hands outwards.

  Both my eyeballs were ripped out of my skull, and the last thing I heard before I lost consciousness was the viscous, moist sound of the optical nerves tearing, then a grunting, smacking noise as the children chewed on my eyes.

  I don’t know how long I was out. When I came round I could no longer see any light, and I had no idea of the sun’s progress across the sky. There were empty holes in my head where my eyes had been, and my cheeks were sticky with the remains of my eyelids and optical nerves. The pain was like a series of nails being hammered into my face.

  I pulled myself up onto my knees. Total darkness. And silence. The synthesiser’s batteries had given up. I fumbled around and found the crowbar, traced the surface of the rock until I reached the edge of the hollow, and was rewarded with the only sound that was of any importance now.

  ‘Dad … Dad …’

  I crawled down to Robin. I bit through the tape around his wrists and ankles. I tore off my jacket and shirt and wrapped them around him. I wept without being able to shed any tears, and I fumbled in the darkness until he took my hand and led me back to the house.

  Then he made a call. I couldn’t use the phone, and had forgotten every number. I was frightened when he spoke to someone whose voice I couldn’t hear. I groped my way to bed and sought refuge beneath the covers. That’s where they found me.

  They say I’m on the road to recovery. I will never regain my sight, but my sanity has begun to return. They say I will be allowed out of here. That I will learn to adapt.

  Robin comes to see me less and less often. He says he’s happy with his foster family. He says they’re nice. He says he doesn’t spend so much time playing games these days. He’s stopped talking about how things will be when I get out.

  And I don’t think I will get out, because I don’t want to leave.

  Food at fixed times and a bed that is made every day. I move blindly through the stations of each day. I have my routines, and the days pass. No, I shouldn’t be let out.

  Because when I sit in the silence of my room or lie in my bed at night, I can hear the notes. My fingers extend in empty space, moving over an invisible keyboard, and I dream of playing.

  Of replaying everything. Getting Annelie to visit me again and embracing her in the darkness, paying no heed to which doors are open or what might emerge through them.

  There are no musical instruments in the unit.

  JOHN AJVIDE LINDQVIST was born 1968 and is probably the only Swedish person who makes his living from writing horror. His first novel, Let the Right One In, has sold over half a million copies in a country with nine million inhabitants. The book has been published in thirty countries and been made into two movies, one Swedish and one American (under the title Let Me In).

  His other novels include Handling the Undead and Harbour, both of which are in the process of being turned into films. His most recent book, Little Star, was recently published by Quercus.

  The following novella is the author’s first story written specifically for an English-language market and, as Lindqvist explains: ‘The idea for “The Music of Bengt Karlsson, Murderer” came to me four years ago, when my son was ten years old and started taking piano lessons.

  ‘The disjointed, unharmonic notes coming from his room gave me the thought, What if he would accidentally hit on a series of notes that … summoned something? I wrote down the idea and waited for that critical second idea that could turn it into a story. It never came by itself, so the original idea just lay slumbering in that special file on my computer.

  ‘When the editor asked me for a contribution to this anthology, I opened the file, shook life into the notes-that-summon-idea and examined it more closely. Originally I had a vague plan of some Cthulhuesque monster being attracted by the music, but that didn’t work out. Then the idea of a father and son being alone and isolated clicked together with the image of mylingar, the ghosts of murdered children … and the rest was the usual sweat and tears to forge those images into a story.

  ‘It might be the one story I have written that has scared me the most. It plays deeply on my own fears of losing all I love. Especially towards the end, I wrote on in a state of mild but constant horror.

  ‘It was a relief when it was over.’

  Getting it Wrong

  —RAMSEY CAMPBELL—

  EDGEWORTH WAS LISTENING to a reminiscence of the bus ride in Hitchcock’s Lucky Jim when the phone rang. He switched off the deluxe anniversary special collector’s edition of Family Plot and raised the back of his armchair to vertical. As he grabbed the receiver he saw the time on his watch jerk even closer to midnight. ‘Hello?’ he said and in less than a second ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is this Mr Edgeworth?’

  He didn’t recognise the woman’s voice, not that he knew any women he could imagine ringing him. ‘That’s who you’ve got,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Eric Edgeworth?’

  ‘You’re not wrong yet.’

  ‘Have you a few minutes, Mr Edgeworth?’

  ‘I don’t want anybody fixing my computer. I haven’t had an accident at work or anywhere else either. I’m not buying anything and I’m not going to tell you where I shop or what I shop for. My politics are my affair and so’s the rest of what I think right now. I’ve never won a competition, so don’t bother saying I have. I don’t go on holiday abroad, so you needn’t try to sell me anything over there. I don’t go away here either, not that it’s any of your business. Anything else you want to know?’

  ‘That isn’t why we’re calling, Mr Edgeworth.’ In the same brisk efficient tone she said ‘Will you be a friend of Mary Barton?’

  At first Edgeworth couldn’t place the name, and then it brought him an image from work – a woman heaping cardboard tubs of popcorn while she kept up a smile no doubt designed to look bright but more symptomatic of bravery. ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ he said, although the call had engaged his interest now: it might be the police. ‘Is she in trouble?’

  ‘She’s in inquisition.’ This might well have meant yes until the woman added ‘She’d like you to be her expert friend.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’ Having deduced that they were talking about a quiz show, Edgeworth said ‘Why me?’

  ‘She says she’s never met anyone who knows so much about films.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she has at that.’ All the same, he was growing suspicious. Could this be a joke played by some of his workmates? ‘When’s she going to want me?’ Edgeworth said.

  ‘Immediately, if you’re agreeable.’

  ‘Pretty late for a quiz, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not a show for children, Mr Edgeworth.’

  ‘Aren’t I supposed to be asked first?’

  ‘We’re doing that now.’

  If all this was indeed a joke, he’d turn it on them. ‘Fair enough, put her on,’ he said as he stood up, retrieving his dinner container and its equally plastic fork from beside the chair.

  ‘Please stay on the line.’

  As Edgeworth used his elbow to switch on the light in the boxy kitchen off the main room of the apartment, a man spoke in his ear. ‘Eric? Good to have you on. Terry Rice of Inquisition here.’

  He sounded smug and amused, and Edgeworth had no doubt he was a fake. The kitchen bin released a stagnant tang of last night’s Chinese takeaway while Edgeworth shoved the new container down hard enough to splinter it and snap the fork in half. ‘Mary’s hoping you’ll give her an edge,
’ the man said. ‘Do you know the rules?’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘There’s only one you should bother about. You’re allowed to get three answers wrong.’

  ‘If we’re talking about films I’m not bothered at all.’

  ‘You don’t need any more from me, then. Mary, talk to your friend.’

  ‘Eric? I’m sorry to trouble you like this so late. I couldn’t think of anybody else.’

  That was a laugh when she’d hardly ever spoken to him. It was the first time she’d even used his name, at least to him. From her tone he could tell she was wearing her plucky smile. ‘What channel are you on?’ he said.

  He was hoping to throw her, but she barely hesitated. ‘Night Owl.’

  The hoaxers must have thought this up in advance. Edgeworth would have asked how he could watch the channel, but he didn’t want to end the game too soon. He’d begun to enjoy pretending to be fooled, and so he said ‘What have you brought me on for?’

  ‘Because I don’t know what a film is.’

  He thought this was true of just about all his workmates – a good film, at any rate. He’d imagined a job in a cinema would mean working with people who loved films as much as he did. Had she tried to put a tremble in her voice just now? She’d got that wrong; contestants on quiz shows weren’t supposed to sound like that. ‘Give me a go, then,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the film where James Dean has a milkshake?’

  Edgeworth waited, but that was all. She ought to be telling him how little time he had, and shouldn’t there be some kind of urgent music? ‘East of Eden,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a twist,’ said whoever was calling himself Terry Rice.

  ‘Mr Rice is saying you’re not right, Eric.’

  It was a funny way of saying so, even by the standards of a prank. Perhaps that was why she sounded nervous. ‘Then it’ll be Rebel without a Cause,’ Edgeworth said with a grin but no mirth.

  ‘That’s another.’

  ‘Mr Rice says that’s not right either.’

  She sounded close to desperation. However far they took the pretence, Edgeworth could go further. ‘It’s Giant for sure, then,’ he said. ‘They’re the only films he starred in.’

  ‘That’s one more.’

  Did Edgeworth hear a faint suppressed shriek? Perhaps one of Mary Barton’s accomplices had poked her to prompt her to speak. ‘That can’t be right, Eric,’ she said high enough to irritate his ear.

  ‘Give up,’ the supposed quizmaster said or asked, though Edgeworth wasn’t sure who was being addressed. ‘Eric can’t have heard of Has Anybody Seen My Gal?’

  ‘Of course I have. I’ve seen it. James Dean has a milkshake at the soda fountain.’ In case this failed to restore his own reputation Edgeworth added ‘I knew it was the answer.’

  ‘Were you fancying a bit of fun? You should play seriously even if you think it’s just a game.’ To Edgeworth’s disbelief, this sounded like a rebuke. ‘I expect your friend has something to say about it,’ the man said.

  ‘She’s not my friend and none of you are.’ Edgeworth confined himself to mouthing this, if only to hear what comment she would have to manufacture. He heard her draw an unsteady breath and say ‘Thanks for coming on, Eric. I wish—’

  ‘No point in wishing here. You know that isn’t how we play. Thank you for entering into the spirit, Eric,’ the man said and, along with Mary and the girl who’d called, was gone.

  Surely his last words contradicted his rebuke, which had to mean he couldn’t even keep the hoax up. Of course the number he’d called from had been withheld. It was too late for Edgeworth to go back to the commentary on the disc, and he returned the film to the shelf before tramping to the bathroom and then to bed.

  With all his films he didn’t need to dream. In the morning he ate off a tray in front of Third Time Sucky, a Stooges short just the right length for breakfast. ‘I wish I knew what to wish for.’ ‘I wish I had one of your wishes.’ ‘I wish you two would shut up,’ Moe retorted, the effects of which made Edgeworth splutter a mouthful of Sticky Rotters over his dressing-gown. He showered and donned his uniform, which said Frugotomovies on the sweater, and headed for the Frugoplex.

  The cinema was an extensive concrete block that resembled the one where he lived. The February sky was just as flat and white. He’d chosen the apartment because he could walk to the cinema, but there were increasingly fewer new films that he wanted to watch; he hardly used his free pass any more. At least he didn’t have to enthuse about them to the public. He was gazing with disfavour at the titles outside when the manager let him in. ‘Any problem?’ Mr Gittins said, and his plump smooth face displayed a smile too swift and sketchy to be identified as such. ‘I hope you can leave it at home.’

  Rather than retort that some of his workmates were to blame, Edgeworth made for the anonymous concrete staffroom. Soon the rest of the staff began to show up, some of them not far from late. Without exception they were decades younger than he was. As he took his place behind a ticket desk Larry Rivers came over. ‘What were you watching last night, Eric?’ Larry said with a grin as scrawny as his face.

  Had he called himself Terry Rice last night? His name was similar, and he liked quizzing Edgeworth, who said ‘I was listening.’

  ‘What were you listening to, Eric?’

  He was using the name like a quizmaster. Edgeworth was tempted to confront him, but perhaps that was exactly what he and the rest of them wanted. ‘The man who wrote North by Northwest,’ Edgeworth said.

  ‘Don’t know it. Is it a film?’

  Edgeworth suspected this wasn’t even meant as a joke. ‘Cary Grant,’ he said. ‘James Mason.’

  ‘Don’t know them either.’

  ‘Hitch, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Is that the film with Will Smith?’ one of the girls seemed to feel it would be helpful to suggest.

  ‘Hitchcock, love.’

  ‘Sounds a bit mucky to me.’

  ‘Sounds a bit like sexual harassment,’ another girl warned Edgeworth.

  ‘Alfred Hitchcock,’ he said in desperation. ‘Psycho.’

  ‘Was that the one with Vince Vaughn?’ Larry said.

  Did they all think the past – anything older than them – was a joke? No wonder Timeless Video had failed when there were so many people like them. Edgeworth had lost all the money he’d sunk in the video library, which was why he’d been glad of the job at the Frugoplex. Some old things wouldn’t go away, not least him. He was about to say at least some of this when Mr Gittins opened the door once again. ‘Only just in time,’ he said like a head teacher at a school gate.

  Mary Barton ducked as if her apologetic smile had dragged her head down. Did she glance at Edgeworth or just towards all the staff around the ticket counter? She seemed wary of being seen to look. She hurried to the staffroom and scampered back to the lobby as Mr Gittins addressed the staff. ‘Let’s keep the public happy and coming back for more.’

  Edgeworth might have wished to be a projectionist if the job wouldn’t have involved watching too many films that bored him if not worse. He was reduced to noticing which film attracted the most customers, a dispiriting observation. Today it was the latest 3-D film, Get Outta My Face. Whenever there was a lull he watched Mary Barton at the refreshments counter opposite. Had her left little finger been bandaged yesterday? It looked significantly bigger than its twin. Her smile was if possible braver than ever, especially if she caught him watching, though then he stared at her until her eyes flinched aside. At times he thought her thin prematurely lined face was trying to look even older than it was, almost as old as him. He wasn’t going to accuse her and give everyone a chance to scoff at him; he wouldn’t put it past them to accuse him of harassing her. Instead he made sure she never had an opportunity to speak to him away from the public – she clearly didn’t have the courage or the gall to approach him in front of anyone who wasn’t privy to last night’s witless joke.

  When he left for home she
was besieged by a queue, but as she filled a popcorn tub that she was holding gingerly with her left hand she sent him an apologetic look. If they’d been alone it might well have goaded him to respond. He had to be content with stalking next door to Pieca Pizza, where he bought a Massive Mighty Meat that would do for tomorrow’s dinner as well.

  He downed two slices in the kitchen and took another three into the main room, one for each version of Touch of Evil. He was halfway through Orson Welles’ preferred cut when the phone rang. He paused the manic gangling hotel clerk and prepared to say a very few short words to the uninvited caller. ‘It’s that time again, Eric,’ said a voice he could hardly believe he was hearing.

  ‘My God, you’re worse than a joke.’ Edgeworth almost cut him off, but he wanted to learn how long they could keep up the pretence. ‘Can’t you even get your own rules right?’ he jeered.

  ‘Which rules are those, Eric?’

  ‘Three mistakes and I was supposed to be out of your game.’

  ‘You haven’t quite got it, my friend. Last night was just one question you couldn’t answer.’

  ‘Trust me, I could. I was having a laugh just like you.’

  ‘Please don’t, Eric.’

  Mary Barton sounded so apologetic it was painful, which he hoped it was for her. He could almost have thought she’d been forced against her will to participate in the hoax, but any sympathy he might have felt she lost by adding ‘Don’t make any more mistakes. It’s serious.’

  ‘He sounds it.’

  ‘We get this problem sometimes.’ The man’s amusement was still plain. ‘Listen to your friend,’ he said. ‘See how she sounds.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry to be pestering you again, Eric. Hand on heart, you’re my only hope.’

  Edgeworth didn’t know which of them angered him more. Her pathetic attempt to convince him she was desperate made her sound as though she was trying to suppress the emotion, and he was provoked to demand ‘Where are you on the television? I want to watch.’

  ‘We’re on the radio.’ With a giggle all the more unpleasant because it had to be affected the man said ‘You wouldn’t want to, trust me.’