Richard Davis (ed) - [Year's Best Horror Stories 02]

by The Year's Best Horror Stories II (epub)

  On the fifth morning, having almost given up hope of ever seeing the curious creature again, David went down to the pool as usual. Planny was back, and much bigger! Not only had he put on a lot of weight but his capacity for learning had picked up too. The little dog had gone down (or rather in!) almost without a burp, and Planny's very efficient digestive system had proved only slightly superior to his "natural" talent for, well, picking brains…

  But while the animal's hidden abilities were not so obvious, his growth assuredly was!

  David gaped at the creature's size-almost two feet in diameter now-as it came sliding out of the reed-patch with the top three inches of its spongy, greyish-white bulk sticking up out of the water. The eyes were just below the surface, peering out liquidly at the boy on the bank. It is not difficult to guess what was going on in Planny's composite knowledge-cells… or brain… or ganglia… or whatever! The way he had been hiding in the reeds and the way he carefully came out of them undoubtedly high-lighted a left-over characteristic from his earlier, minnow period; the gleam in his peculiar eyes (of which David was innocently unaware) was suspiciously like that glassiness, intense and snide, seen in the eyes of doggies as they creep up on the backsides of postmen; and there was also something of a very real and greedy intent in there somewhere. Need we mention the pike?

  Up into the shallows Planny came, flattening a little as his body edged up out of the water, losing something of its buoyancy; and David-innocent David-mistakenly saw the creature's approach as nothing if not natural. After all, had he not saved the poor thing's life?-and might he not therefore expect Planny to display friendship and even loyalty and gratitude? Instinctively he reached out his hand…

  Now dogs are usually loyal only to their rightful masters -and minnows are rarely loyal at all, except perhaps to other minnows. But pike? Why the pike is a notoriously unfriendly fish, showing never a trace of gratitude or loyalty to anyone…,

  * * *

  Approximately one hundred and thirty yards away and half an hour later, Professor Lees and his wife rose up from their bed and proceeded to the kitchen where they always had breakfast. A rather pungent, stale-water smell had seemingly invaded the house; so that the scientist's wife, preceding her husband, sniffed suspiciously at the air, dabbing at her nose with the hem of her dressing-gown as she opened the kitchen door and went in.

  Her throbbing scream of horror and disbelief brought her husband in at the run through the open kitchen door a few seconds later. There was his wife, crouched defensively in a corner, fending off a hideously wobbly something with her bleeding, oddly dissolved and pulpy hands.

  David's father did not stop to ponder what or why, fortunately he was a man of action. Having seen at a glance the destructive properties of Planny's weird acid make-up, he jumped forward, snatching the patterned cloth from the table as he went. Flinging the table-cloth over the bobbing, roughly globular thing on the floor, he hoisted it bodily into the air. Fortunately for the professor, Planny had lost much of his bulk in moisture-seepage during his journey from the pool, but even so the creature was heavy. Three quick steps took the scientist to the kitchen's great, old-fashioned all-night fire. Already feeling the acid's sting through the thin linen, he kicked open the heavy iron fire-door and bundled his wobbly, madly pulsating armful-table-cloth and all- straight in atop the glowing coals, slamming the door shut on it. Behind him his wife screamed out something ridiculous and fainted, and almost immediately-even though he had put his slippered foot against it-the door burst open and an awfully wounded Planny leapt forth in a hissing cloud of poisonous steam. Slimy and dripping, shrunken and mephitic, the creature wobbled drunkenly, dementedly about the floor; only to be bundled up again in the space of a few seconds, this time in the scientist's sacrificed dressing gown, and hurled once more to the fire. And this time, so as to be absolutely sure, David's father put his hands to the hot iron door, holding it firmly shut. He threw all his weight into the job, staying his ground until his fingers and palms, already blistered through contact with Planny's singular juices, blackened and cracked. Only then. and when the pressures from within ceased, did he snatch his steaming, monstrously damaged hands away…

  It was only in some kind of blurred daze that Professor Lees managed to set the wheels of action in motion from that time onwards. Once the immediate panic had subsided a sort of shocked lethargy crept over him; but in spite of this he cleaned up his unconscious wife's bubbly hands as best he could, and his own-though that proved so painful he almost fainted himself-and then, somehow, he phoned for the doctor and the police.

  Then, after a further minute or so, still dazed but remembering something of the strange things his wife had screamed before she fainted, David's father's went upstairs to look for his son. When he found the boy's room empty he became once more galvanised into frantic activity. He began rushing about the house calling David's name before remembering his son's odd habit of the last month or so- how he would get up early in the morning and go off down to the pool before school.

  As he left the house a police car was just pulling up on the drive outside. He shouted out to the two constables, telling them they would find his wife in the house… would they look after her? Then, despite the fact that they called out after him for an explanation, he hurried off towards the copse.

  At first the policemen were appalled by the loathsome stench issuing undiluted from the house; then, fighting back their nausea, they went in and began doing what they could to improve Mrs. Lees' lot. The doctor arrived only a moment later. He could see instantly what was wrong-there had been some sort of accident with acid. Relieved at the arrival of this sure-handed professional, the bewildered policemen followed the scientist's tracks to the pool.

  There they found him sitting at the pool-side with his head in his tattily bandaged hands. He had seen the slide on the stone in the pool; and, in a dazed sort of fashion, he had noted the peculiar, flattened track in the grass between the house and the copse. And then, being clever, totalling up these fragile facts, he had finally arrived at the impossible solution…

  It all hinged, of course, on those mad things his wife had screamed before fainting. Now, thinking back on those things, David's father could see the connections. He remembered now that there had been a slide missing from his set. He recalled the way in which David had declared the flat-worm-the planarian worm-on a certain slide to be alive.

  Quite suddenly he took one hand from his face and shoved it into his mouth right up to the bandaged knuckles. Just for a moment his eyes opened up very wide; and then he let both his hands fall and turned his face up to the patient policemen.

  "God… God… God-oh-God!" he said then. "My wife! She said… she said…"

  "Yes, sir-" one of the officers prompted him, "what did she say?"

  Aimlessly the professor got to his feet. "She said that- that it was sitting at the breakfast table-sitting there in David's chair-and she said it called her mummy !"

  3: Gary Brandner - The Price Of A Demon

  Paul Fielding pushed open the door of his Encino home, then stood for a moment listening to the undulating drone of strange syllables. Smiling privately, he walked through the comfortable house to the patio-pool area out in back. There, kneeling on the bricks in a loose-fitting white and gold dress, was his wife, Claire. She was reading in her clear contralto from a slim green book that lay open before her. The words, if they were words, made no sense to Paul. He scuffled his feet so that Claire glanced up and saw him. She flashed him a quick smile and held up one hand without breaking the rhythm of her chant. Paul waited with folded arms until she finished and closed the book. Claire stayed where she was for a moment with her head bowed. Paul smiled: how like a little girl she looked with her fine hair floating in a yellow cloud around her head.

  Abruptly, she jumped to her feet and ran over to him. "Hi, love, I've just had the most marvellous psychic experience."

  "That's nice. I don't suppose we could experience some dinner, I'm
starved."

  Claire rolled her wide blue eyes to the sky. "Oh, Lord, I've done it again. I completely forgot to take the roast out of the freezer. Please don't beat me."

  Paul patted her fluffy hair. "Never mind, we can have it tomorrow. How about some macaroni and cheese or_some-thing like that?"

  Tucking her head under Paul's chin, Claire hugged him tightly. "Darling, you're so understanding with your poor scatter-brained wife." She pirouetted back to where she had left the book lying on the bricks. "You wouldn't believe, you simply wouldn't believe the astonishing book I found today in the quaintest little bookstore just off Ventura Boulevard."

  "If that's where you got that gibberish you were reciting a minute ago, you're right-I don't believe it."

  He took the book from her hand. The stained cloth binding was frayed at the corners. Black roman lettering stamped into the cover read: Daemonic Spelles. Paul riffled the pages. "I suppose this is part of that witchcraft class you're taking."

  "No, no, my sweet. Oh, Aurelia Cord, our teacher, has shown us some absolutely precious things-she is a real witch, you know-but this book was purely your own little wife's personal discovery. I can't wait to tell the class about it next week. The others will be so jealous."

  Paul flipped back to the flyleaf. "I see it was printed in 1931. Does that qualify it as the wisdom of the ancients?"

  "Darling, what possible difference can it make when the book was printed?"

  "None, I guess. What is it you were doing with it, anyway?"

  "Listen to this-I was calling up a demon."

  "Why?"

  "Why? Why? For heaven's sake, why do people climb mountains? Why do you spend your days chasing those little electrons around?"

  Paul grinned and hooked an arm around his wife's supple waist. "Don't get mad, honey, I wouldn't want you to put a curse on me." He nodded toward a series of crooked figures scrawled on the patio floor. "I suppose that graffiti is required."

  "Oh, yes, those are ancient Druid symbols, or as near as I could come to them. Don't worry, it's only chalk and will wash right off. The demon I was calling was one the Druids used to summon to save their crops or kill their enemies or something like that."

  Paul squinted his eyes and peered around. "Looks like he didn't show up. Maybe demons don't like macaroni and cheese."

  A tiny frown shadowed Claire's brow. "I might not have done everything just exactly right. But you know, for just a moment there I had a feeling that something was here… that something had answered."

  A shiver went through her body and Paul gave her a playful spank. "Something was here. Me." He led her back inside by the hand, tossing the book onto the square coffee table. "Come on, I'll see if I can summon up a martini to whet our appetites for that macaroni roast."

  The scream jolted Paul awake. The glowing dial of the alarm clock read three a.m. He fumbled for the lamp button and snapped on the light. Claire was sitting upright rubbing her shoulder.

  "Really, darling," she said, "what a strange time for you to get passionate. And so fiercely."

  Paul knuckled his eyelids. "What are you talking about? What's the matter?"

  Claire pushed up the lacy sleeve of her shortie nightgown. "When did you start biting, anyway? Who's been giving you lessons?"

  "You've been dreaming. Go back to sleep, will you, I have to get up in three more hours."

  "Dreaming, hell! Take a look at this."

  Paul sat up and focused on his wife's pale shoulder. Two curving indentations marked the skin like broken red parentheses. "Hey, that looks sore. The skin isn't broken, though."

  "It hurts," Claire sniffed.

  "If I did it, it must have been in my sleep. But I apologize anyway." Paul pulled his wife close to him and looked closely at the marks on her shoulder. "My mouth isn't that big."

  Claire began to cry softly, and Paul reached back to douse the light. "Go to sleep now, honey," he said. "It'll be all right in the morning."

  Lying in her husband's arms, Claire's sobs quieted and deepened into the regular breathing of sleep. Paul still lay awake staring at the darkened ceiling. Did he hear a soft sliding sound along the far wall? Was it only the shrubbery outside moving in the wind? He fell into a shallow sleep.

  The irritable buzz of the alarm jerked Paul out of an uneasy dream. He reached back over his head and punched the clock into silence. It was Thursday by the calendar, but the weather outside was meant for Monday. Blasts of chill wind swashed a dismal rain against the glass of the window. With a groan, Paul swung up into a sitting position and stared glumly at his feet. When he leaned over to kiss the still sleeping Claire he saw the ugly bruise on her shoulder and frowned.

  As though she could feel his eyes on her, Claire came suddenly awake. She smiled and reached out for him, but drew back with a wince ot pain. Both of them stared at me purpled marks.

  "Wow, whatever got into you last night?" she asked.

  "I didn't-" Paul began, but he stopped in mid-sentence and shrugged. "Must have been an erotic dream, I guess."

  Claire touched her shoulder gingerly. "I sure don't mind you getting sexy now and then, but that really hurts."

  "It looks like it does. Why don't you call Dr. Goldman today and see if he can recommend something to put on it."

  "If it keeps hurting I'll do that."

  "Never mind getting up today, honey, I'll just get a doughnut and coffee off the catering truck at work."

  "Well, if you don't mind too much. It looks like a simply horrid day out. I may just stay right here under the covers until you get home tonight."

  "Fine. You just take it easy."

  Paul dressed hurriedly and left for work fifteen minutes earlier than usual. He knew the freeway would be bad; they always were when it rained. Funny, he thought, that a foot of snow in the Midwest didn't foul traffic up the way a small rainstorm did in Southern California.

  By ten o'clock Paul had pushed the unsettling events of the night to the back of his mind, immersing himself in the familiar routine of his work. On his desk the telephone rang.

  Paul depressed the lighted button and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Fielding speaking."

  "Paul, please come and help me!" Claire's voice was brittle with hysteria. "It's biting on me!"

  "What is it? Claire, what's wrong?"

  "Please just come home now, before… oh, no, it's starting again!" There was a squeal of pain and the line went dead. Paul started to dial, then changed his mind and slammed the receiver down, grabbed his plastic raincoat and dashed out of the building.

  Freeway traffic had thinned by that hour and Paul never slowed down; the car sprouted wings of spray. He jammed to a stop in his driveway and ran across the mushy lawn. The slate coloured clouds brooded low over the rooftops. A steady wind now dashed the icy rain at a sharp angle.

  He found Claire hugging herself with her knees drawn up in a pink, bat-winged chair. She had on a quilted robe and was moaning in a high-pitched voice. Paul ran to her and took her head in his hands. "Claire, what is it? Look at me!"

  She reached out and seized the front of his coat. "Make it stop, Paul, please make it stop!"

  The robe fell away from his wife's body. Paul recoiled at what he saw. On her arms, her breasts, and her stomach were a dozen angry red marks-unmistakably bites. "Oh, my God," he breathed.

  Claire began to sob freely. "I can't make it stop. It's going to eat me!"

  With an effort, Paul made his voice calm. "Gome on, Claire, let's get you dressed and we'll go and see Dr. Goldman." He led her, still whimpering, into their bedroom where he helped her dress. He had to fight off a shudder each time his fingers touched her bruised flesh.

  Claire quieted in the car and sat without speaking while Paul drove through the rain to the low, modern building where Dr. Goldman had his office. The glossy receptionist pouted at their lack of an appointment, but after vanishing briefly from behind her counter, returned to announce that the doctor would see them in a few minutes.

 
They sat close together on the low, uncomfortable couch in the waiting room. Claire's head was down, her eyes on the floor. "I saw it, you know. Not distinctly, but it was clear enough."

  "What? What did you see?"

  "The demon. The one I summoned. Believe me, Paul, I didn't know what I was doing. I thought it would be just kicks, you know, like astrology. Or a Ouija board."

  "You say you actually saw this… this demon? When was that?"

  "This morning, before I called you. I had gone into the bathroom and was putting some salve on the place where it bit me last night. Then, without any warning, I felt the teeth clamp onto me here, on my breast. The pain was unbelievable. I screamed and ran into the bedroom. I must have fallen, because I was on the floor and it was biting me again and again, chewing at me. It was while I was there on the floor that I saw it. It was very faint, like a double exposure in a photograph. It left me alone then, and I ran to call you." Claire's body jerked convulsively. "Paul, it was all hair and teeth, and it was… it was eating me!"

  "Doctor will see you now."

  Paul started at the sound of the receptionist's voice. He took Claire's trembling hand and they followed the girl back to one of the examination cubicles.

  Within a few minutes Dr. Goldman entered, a smiling, white-haired man with a warm voice. "Well now, what's the emergency here?"

  "It's kind of hard to explain it to you, Doctor. It might be best if you just took a look at my wife."

  Claire unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it down off one shoulder. The doctor bent to examine the bruises. His professional smile faded. "How were these caused?"

  A tear slid down Claire's cheek. Paul said, "That's the trouble, we just don't know. There are more of them."