‘This way,’ she insisted.
They drove for hours, going in wobbly circles, stopping for a bite to eat, now and then, and to check out every pub they came across. It became apparent that Oona had no special destination in mind, but that was all right with Charley. He felt empty and somewhat detached.
‘I expected to feel more,’ he told her, when they were in a pub in Lehinch.
‘Everybody wants more,’ Oona said.
‘Or that it would be different,’ he amended.
‘I warned you about that the first time you came to see Roz. It’s never exactly what people want. But that’s okay, you’re all right now.’
‘Oh, am I?’ he said sarcastically.
‘You’ll see. You’re one of those who walk away.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘I have no idea.’
* * *
The Cliffs of Moher.
‘Moher…’ Oona stared at the sign, her hand on Charley’s arm. ‘Would you look at that name. I don’t believe it. We have to stop here for a while.’
‘If you want to see the cliffs, fine. They’re spectacular,’ Charley said. ‘But we ought to find a room for the night first. We might have to try a few places. We can always come back here in the morning.’
‘No, I want to see them now.’
‘Oona.’
‘We can watch the sun set. It’s a beautiful evening and it might be pouring with rain tomorrow.’
In Ireland that was a valid point. Charley sighed unhappily but swung the car round. He was tired again, and wanted only to crawl into a bed and sleep. Not yet. A little while later, they parked and hiked up the path to the cliffs.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Once, yes,’ he replied.
Quite a few people were visiting the scene, but they were widely spaced in small groups along the rim of the cliffs. Cameras clicking and arms pointing, the usual tourist gestures in evidence. Oona hurried the final stretch.
‘Oh – oh my—’
‘It’s something, isn’t it?’
Charley smiled and Oona gaped at the sight. The cliffs of Moher were so stark and dramatic that they almost defied any kind of perspective. Here Ireland ended at the Atlantic Ocean with a 600-foot drop down a virtually sheer rock-face, a huge geological relief map of the aeons before human life, maybe even life itself. At the bottom, the sea crashed against barren stone in a constant storm of churning, pounding waves. There was no beach, no line of earth or sand. Nothing but worn black rocks and the turmoil of the ocean. The cliffs stretched away to the north and south, roughly forming a half-moon arc.
‘What’s that?’ Oona asked, pointing at a ruined building off to the upper right.
‘It used to be a tea-house. For the gentry, I suppose. You wouldn’t want them to stand around like ordinary folk.’
Oona turned the other way. ‘Come on.’
Charley trudged along after her. Oona hiked nearly to the furthest point on the southern end of the cliffs, well beyond any other visitors. She sat down on the heavy grass a few yards from the edge, positioning herself so that she could look at the full range of the cliffs and also watch the sun in its descent. As ever, there was a fair breeze, but the air was mild and clean.
‘I’m done,’ Charley said, plopping down beside her.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
‘Oh, yes.’
They sat in silence for a few moments.
‘What does it make you think of?’ Oona asked him.
‘The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams.’
‘Is that a poem?’
‘A piece of music, but yes, very like a poem.’
‘Can you hum it for me?’
He laughed. ‘It wouldn’t be the same.’
‘Charley.’
‘What?’
‘I love you.’
He was going to smile and say something sweetly amusing but he saw how desperate and frightened she looked, and it startled him. The minute before she’d been fine.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I just wanted to tell you.’
‘Do you feel all right? You don’t look well.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘We ought to leave while it’s still light.’
‘Not yet.’
He kept an eye on her. Too pale, too tense.
‘Charley,’ she said, a few minutes later. ‘You’re not scared to be here with me.’
‘Why should I be?’
‘There were six people in that room, last session.’
She was breathing too fast, her chest heaving.
‘So what? Oona, let’s—’
‘Three of them are dead now. Your wife, Roz and Mr Spence. He killed Roz, but he’s gone too. I shouldn’t have told her. I should have kept quiet about it and gone myself. That’s what he wanted, but he had a different idea about me. Roz wanted to warn him off so he’d leave us be.’
‘Wait a sec,’ Charley interrupted. ‘Would you mind starting over again. I got lost in the credits.’
Oona smiled, but it disappeared quickly. ‘Never mind, it’s not important now. There’s other things I have to tell you. I want you to understand what it’s like for me. How people’s lives crash into my head. I see them and feel them and hear them. Not everybody and not all the time, but lots of them and most of the time. You know what it does to me, but that’s only the outside. It’s much worse inside, in my heart and in my head. It tears me to pieces and there’s no way I can avoid it, until it runs its course. Until the next time. The drink only helps a little bit, and only for a while, but it doesn’t hold. What I go through is real, Charley. You don’t have to believe me, you can think it’s an illness of some kind. But I’m telling you from inside it. It’s nothing anyone knows and it’s real.’
‘I believe you,’ he said.
‘How else would I find out you were a good in-fielder but a pretty lousy hitter when you were a kid? I don’t know the first thing about baseball, and I don’t even know what that means, but it’s right, isn’t it?’
He nodded again, his throat tightening. ‘Yes.’
‘Because I get to know things about a person,’ Oona went on. ‘I can’t control it, I can’t even find most of the things people want me to find in their lives, their past, their future. But it goes on and on and on, all the time and … and…’
She seemed lost for a moment.
‘Oona—’
‘I’m the window.’
‘What?’
‘I’m the voice.’
‘What voice?’
‘Lost – the lost.’
‘Oona, I’m sure—’
She shook her head and seemed to come out of it. She smiled weakly at him, but then her expression turned serious again.
‘Anyhow, the thing is, I have one other thing to tell you about.’ She frowned, glanced down at the grass, then back at him. ‘You asked me why.’
‘Why what?’
‘Why I killed Patty Prince.’ The wind fluffed her hair, and he didn’t notice the pencil-lines of blood that began to well up in her nostrils. ‘The little girl in Scotswood. That was where we were living. She was – oh, fuck me.’
The blood washed across her mouth. Charley reached for his handkerchief but Oona backed away from him on the ground, moving like a crab. Her eyes blinked and she shook her head while she wiped at the streaming blood. She sat up on her knees, legs wide apart, and stared at him with a wild urgency in her eyes. He had no idea what to do or how to help her.
‘She was a darling, a sweet little thing, and Roz loved her like she was her own, like she was Patty’s mam. I was afraid I’d lose Roz, and Roz was the only one I had, she looked after me and saved me time and again. Roz protected me and—’
She couldn’t talk for a moment, blood choking her, spraying out of her mouth, her face contorted, her hands fluttering vainly as her body was jarred with successive tremors.
‘Don’t say anything. Let me—’
Oona waved him off. ‘I could see it coming at me. That was the first time I saw ahead. I was going to lose Roz. I couldn’t bear the thought. So I did it. The only thing worse.’
Her eyes bulging, with the look of the blind – and streaked now with bright red lines.
‘Come on,’ Charley said. He felt dazed, unable to take in all he’d heard, but he knew he had to get her to a hospital. She needed help immediately. ‘I’ll take you.’
‘No—’ Oona backed away from him again, waving him off as she moved parallel to the line of the cliff. ‘I told you, let it run. It’s her in me. She’s strong, she’ll do me.’
‘Oona, please,’ Charley said pleadingly. ‘Let me hold you a while, until it passes. You’ll be all right, it’ll get better if you do. You know that.’
‘You’re – not – the – one.’
‘What one? Oona, please.’
‘You – can’t—’
‘Oona, let me…’
‘Save – anybody—’
Oona stood up, swaying like a scarecrow in a stormy breeze. Charley started to take a step towards her but froze. Blood seemed to be coming out of her eyes and ears, her nose and mouth, and it clung to her like a gauzy veil. Like the hazy image of a second person that floated an inch above her skin. Oona let out a barrage of ferocious animal grunts – similar to the noises Jan had made when giving birth to Fiona, Charley remembered absurdly.
He reached for her, but when his hand touched the bloody air around Oona it felt like fire. Filmy stuff that disintegrated as he brushed it on his shirt. He glanced up at her again, and she seemed to be fire itself, a brilliant red glow against the richer crimson of the massive sun. Fire disappearing in fire.
Charley suddenly felt empty, as if all the air had flown out of him and he couldn’t breathe. He moved stiffly, angling closer to the edge of the cliff. Oona? But he couldn’t speak, and the word died inside him. Oona was no longer there.
Charley looked down, desperate and alone, but all he saw was a boiling mist at the bottom of the cliffs, and the heaving ocean beyond.
Also by Thomas Tessier
Secret Strangers (1992)
Rapture (1987)
Finishing Touches (1986)
Shockwaves (1983)
Phantom (1982)
The Nightwalker (1979)
The Fates (1978)
“One of the most haunting, and haunted, books I’ve ever read … One of the unique powers of the book is that it can’t be categorized. The word that comes closest is haunting. The title page lists seven other Tessier novels. I plan to track down all of them.”
—Richard Fuller, Philadelphia Inquirer
“Easily Tessier’s best novel yet, a restrained account of a girl/woman with a wild talent for seeing into the beyond.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Tessier delivers what may be the scariest read of the year. Relying on atmosphere and emphasizing the emotional hauntings of one person by another, this is an elegant, deeply disquieting tale of the dead’s hold upon the living.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The most unusual occult novel I have ever read.”
—Peter Straub, author of Mr. X
“Fog Heart is compelling reading, and it’s frightening. It’s also graphic, nasty, and deeply disturbing. After reading hundreds of supernatural horror novels, I have found that Tessier is the only author who can consistently disturb me.… This is the scariest book I’ve read this year.”
—Mark Graham, Rocky Mountain News
“Apart from the sad and, eventually, terrifying events which form the plot, this is a novel about scepticism turning to belief and about very odd characters who are unable to love those who love them. It is a clever and subtle book, brilliant in parts.”
—Chris Morgan, Interzone
“A fiction that is disturbingly different and that, as we have come to expect from Tessier, pushes generic impulses in refreshing directions.”
—Douglas E. Winter, Fantasy & Science Fiction
“A brave and ambitious novel, well written, deeply felt, and full of a kind of intractable integrity.”
—Bill Sheehan, Cemetery Dance
“Fog Heart does something unusual for the genre—it takes a common horror trope and creates something fresh and beautiful through merely its writing.… Good show.”
—Ellen Datlow, The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror
“Thomas Tessier … knows exactly where to slide the blade so that it goes in quickly and straight to the heart.”
—Edward Bryant, Locus
“Novels like The Exorcist and Rosemary’s Baby had the power to captivate an entire generation and invigorate the horror genre. Fog Heart is such a book.… An extremely memorable read.”
—Joseph B. Mauceri, World of Fandom
“This is horror of the mind.”
—Diane McGinn, SFX magazine
“Tessier avoids the familiar path.… The result is a superb psychological suspense story with genuine supernatural content and an unexpected series of climaxes.”
—Don D’Ammassa, Science Fiction Chronicle
“First-rate work from a major talent. Tessier casts a dark spell through his gripping narrative—his characters live and breathe, the dialogue shines, and the atmosphere of dread he creates will unnerve even the most jaded reader. Fog Heart proves that horror is alive and well, demonstrating that a familiar premise can gain new life in the hands of a capable writer. If Tessier remains ‘horror fiction’s best-kept secret’ after this one, there is simply no justice.”
—Hank Wagner, Hellnotes
“Tessier, who writes in a succinct, clean style, lets characterization drive his plot forward. As more and more layers of his people are revealed, and their secrets come to light, events are set in motion that inevitably lead to tragedy and loss. It is the emotional hurt that Tessier inflicts on his characters … that is the most horrifying aspect of his story. Beyond that, however, there’s more than enough to satisfy fans of the supernatural.… With yet another powerful novel behind him, Tessier deserves some long overdue recognition.”
—Don Kaye, Fangoria
“Strongly atmospheric … This compelling novel overcomes any initial skepticism about psi powers and sucks the reader right in. Oona especially is a fascinating and complex character.”
—Marylaine Block, Library Journal (starred review)
“As in many great ghost stories, such as Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, the best effects are produced through implication and misdirection. The novel is frustratingly ambiguous, but there’s no denying the haunting power of Fog Heart.”
—Michael Berry, San Francisco Chronicle
“Tessier’s prose is both erudite and chilling.… The stuff nightmares are made of.”
—Eric Robbins, Booklist
“Tessier’s treatment of the paranormal is convincing because it is so matter-of-fact, describing bizarre events as if they were everyday occurrences. His handling of place and character is equally sophisticated, revealing his familiarity with the tradition of elegant horror writing as practised by Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur Machen, and others, to which his book pays homage.”
—The Times (London)
“Well crafted and very readable … A fast-packed shocker of the old school, combining elements of the paranormal with a strong eye for character.”
—Pete Whittaker, Tribune (London)
“Though a decidedly non-prolific writer, Thomas Tessier has garnered an enviable reputation within horror circles for both his novels and short stories. The high esteem in which he is held is likely to rise even further with the publication of Fog Heart, a complex and beautifully written modern ghost story.”
—Jay Russell, Tangled Web
FOG HEART. Copyright © 1997 by Thomas Tessier. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or rev
iews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
First published in Great Britain by Victor Gollancz, an imprint of the Cassell Group
First St. Martin’s Griffin Edition: March 2000
eISBN 9781466884540
First eBook edition: September 2014
Fog Heart Page 31
