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

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

  "Hmmm. Would you mind waiting in the reception room, Mr. Fielding?"

  Paul obediently walked back out past the reception counter and perched on one of the wrought iron and vinyl chairs. He picked a magazine from the low table beside him and turned the pages one at a time without seeing them.

  "Mr. Fielding."

  "Yes?" Paul jumped to his feet when the girl spoke his name.

  "Doctor would like to speak to you. He's in his office, that's straight down the little hall."

  "Thank you."

  Dr. Goldman's office was furnished in comfortable brown leather that didn't match the gleaming modernity of the other rooms. The doctor was seated behind a massive desk.

  "Please sit down, Mr. Fielding."

  Paul took a chair across the desk from the doctor. He searched the older man's face.

  "Is there any history of epilepsy in your wife's family?"

  "No, not that I know of. No, I'm sure there couldn't be."

  "Has she ever been subject to any kind of seizures or fits?"

  "Certainly not. What are you getting at?"

  "I suspect that those wounds, those bite marks on your wife's body are self-inflicted."

  Paul sprang out of his chair. "Are you crazy? Are you telling me Claire bit herself until blood came? On the stomach ?"

  The doctor stood and faced Paul. "Take it easy, Mr. Fielding. Look at it this way-Did you do that to her?"

  "Of course I didn't!"

  "All right. Was there any other person present when the bites occurred?"

  "No, no other person, but-"

  "I think you see the only explanation that leaves, don't you?" The doctor walked around his desk and eased Paul through the door. "I put some ointment on the contusions and lacerations and gave her a mild sedative. Here, take this card. I've written down the name of a very good man in the psychiatric field."

  "You mean you think there is something wrong with my wife's mind?"

  '"That isn't my field, but it couldn't do any harm for you to take her in to see this man."

  Paul nodded and walked out in a daze to where Claire stood waiting for him.

  The drive home was quiet. Calmed by the sedative, Claire settled into her seat, half-listening to the snick-snick of the windshield wipers and the sluice of the tyres along the wet tarmac. Paul switched on the headlights against the gathering gloom and tried to get some order into his thoughts. He had to admit that the doctor's explanation was the only one that made any sense. He shied from the idea that Claire might be, well, insane. True, she might not be the most stable of the neighbourhood wives, but her bubbling involvement with horoscopes and seances and sensitivity groups had never been anything more than a mild eccentricity, not the self-destructive madness suggested by Dr. Goldman. Trying to imagine Claire tearing at her own flesh with her teeth made Paul shudder, and he erased the picture from his mind. Maybe the psychiatrist was the best idea. Claire might even go for it as a new kick. It could replace that class in witchcraft she was hung up with now. That certainly wasn't doing her any good. He spent the rest of the drive home rehearsing how he would propose it to her.

  When they reached home Claire changed immediately into red mandarin lounging pyjamas. Paul noted that the high collar with the long sleeves and legs hid the teeth marks. He mixed a hot toddy, heavy on the bourbon, for each of them and put Chopin on the hi-fi. When he was satisfied that Claire was comfortable and composed he began, "Dear, the doctor thinks-"

  He never told her what the doctor thought, because at that moment Claire's eyes popped wide, seeming to strain at their sockets. Her jaw dropped and there was a long piercing wail from her straining throat. Paul leaped back reflexively and saw on her upper thigh a stain of darker red than the silky material spreading rapidly in an uneven circle. With numbed hands he tore the pyjamas away and cried out. A piece of the skin seemed to be trying to rip itself from her leg. As he watched the flap of skin was torn loose, as though by invisible jaws, and vanished, leaving a gaping strip of raw flesh.

  Claire's unearthly moan thinned to silence and she slumped to one side. Paul ran for the bathroom medicine cabinet, returning with disinfectant and bandages. Forcing his hands to steady, he cleaned and wrapped the wound. Claire regained consciousness and threw her arms about his neck, holding on with all her strength.

  "Claire," he whispered, "listen to me. That woman, the one who teaches your class, the one who says she's a witch… Can she help you?"

  Claire drew back so she could look at him. A flicker of hope showed in her pain-glazed eyes. "Aurelia Cord? I don't know… maybe… yes, maybe she can. Oh, Paul, let's go to her."

  Trying to keep his mind intent on physical motions, Paul tore a woolly blanket from their bed and wrapped Claire in it completely so that only her face was visible. He picked her up like a baby and carried her to the door. On their way out, he dipped in front of the coffee table and picked up the green book.

  With Claire giving directions in a tiny voice, they were at the house of Aurelia Cord in fifteen minutes. It was a small guest cottage out behind a larger, vacant looking house. Carrying Claire again, Paul kicked his toe against the bottom panel of the door and waited while the rain lashed at him and his burden. As he drew back his foot to kick again, the door opened.

  Paul's voice caught in his throat when he saw the woman who stood there. Her high-cheekboned face was framed in a cataract of burnished copper hair that fell in heavy waves past her shoulders. Immense green eyes, luminous in their depths, were tinted by unutterable sadness. She looked from Paul's face to the bundle in his arms. "Why, it's Claire. Are you her husband?"

  Paul nodded.

  "Come in." The small living room was a carnival of oranges, reds, and purples. A nubby sofa of the kind that pulls out into a bed and a wicker chair were the only recognizable pieces of furniture. Cushions of all shapes and sizes littered the floor. The woman pointed a tapering finger at the sofa. "Put her over there."

  A huge orange cat was curled into a pumpkin-sized ball in the exact centre of the sofa. His golden eyes glared at Paul's approach. "You'll have to move, Boris," the woman said quietly. The cat stood up deliberately, stretching out his forefeet and yawning until his eyes squinched shut. Then, as though it had been his intention all along, he thumped down from the sofa and sauntered into another room.

  "What's the matter with Claire?"

  Paul found his voice. "I'll tell you the truth, I feel like a damn fool coming here, but you're just about my last hope." Gently, he unwrapped the blanket. While Claire stared up at them without expression he eased her pyjama coat down from one shoulder. "Look at that. And there are more of those all over her body."

  Aurelia Cord bit her lip. "How did it happen?"

  Paul looked down at the book he was still holding. "Miss Cord, I know that my wife has been taking a class from you in, uh, witchcraft, and… well…"

  A flicker of compassion showed in the deep green eyes. "You can pass up the preliminaries, Mr. Fielding. I am indeed a witch, if that is what you are trying to get at. I have never denied it. I must assume that you do not completely disbelieve, or you would not be here asking for my help. Now, please go on."

  Paul sighed, relieved. "Thanks." He handed the book to Aurelia Cord. "Yesterday when I came home from work I found Claire reading aloud from this book, words I couldn't understand. She said it was supposed to call up a demon or something. I'm afraid I didn't pay too much attention. Claire is always doing some kinky thing or other."

  "Like taking a class in witchcraft?"

  "Forgive me, but yes, like taking a class in witchcraft. Anyway, last night and again today something has been chewing at her skin. You saw what the marks look like. I saw one while it was happening. It was horrible… as though jaws that I couldn't see were taking a bite right out of her leg."

  Aurelia Cord turned the book over slowly in her hands. "Where did Claire get this?"

  "She said she found it in a book store somewhere off Ventura.".

 
; The woman shook her head slowly, making the dark red hair sway. "I thought all of these had been destroyed long ago." She looked up at Paul. "Mr. Fielding, as certain people do, your wife has an intense affinity for the supernatural. I sensed it when she first came here. Were she to apply herself, she could very likely function as a medium or become most proficient in one or more forms of ESP. Her interest in the subject was, however, merely superficial. There is nothing wrong with that, you understand. In fact, it is probably better that way for her peace of mind. To devote your life to the practice of the occult calls for many sacrifices. Few women are willing to make them. But my little class is quite harmless. I teach bored housewives a little bit about love philtres, a little bit about charms, and a little of the history of witchcraft. Then they can go home and call their bridge club a coven and really feel that they are doing something, well, 'kinky' was your word. This book, though, is something else again. It con-, tains black knowledge that should never have been made available to people like your wife. It was written and printed by an unspeakably foul man. Fewer than two hundred copies were ever released, and they were hunted down and destroyed by those of my kind who knew the horror they contained. Somehow, this copy survived and your wife found it, probably not coincidentally. She may have been drawn to it."

  "Then the book is for real," Paul said.

  "As real as the teeth marks on her flesh. Apparently she followed the instructions given here and summoned this monster into being. That is when it stopped being a kinky game." Aurelia Cord passed a slender hand across her eyes. "What people cannot seem to realize is that there is always a price. Given the proper circumstances, it isn't terribly difficult to summon a demon. But for every demon there is a price. Your wife is paying hers now."

  Paul's voice quavered. "But, is there nothing you Can do?"

  The woman looked at him levelly. The bottomless eyes seemed to draw him in. "Yes, there is something I can do. One thing. A demon can be defeated by another, more powerful demon. I can call one."

  Paul gripped the woman's slim wrist. "Miss Cord, do it. Please do it. I can't stand to see Claire in agony any more."

  "Mr. Fielding, didn't you hear what I said about there always being a price?"

  "Anything! Anything at all! Name your figure. Here, I'll write you a cheque now."

  She held up a hand. "No, Mr. Fielding, not my price. I would charge you nothing. But you will pay. You must understand that."

  "Listen, I don't care what the price is or who comes to collect it. I can't watch my wife being eaten alive. Whatever you can do, I'm begging you to do it. Now!"

  "Very well, Mr. Fielding. Will you please sit over there? This will take a little time."

  Paul sat back in one corner of the room as directed, and watched Aurelia Cord, intently at first, then with a growing lassitude. The red-haired woman stacked all the cushions against one wall, baring the black tile floor underneath. On this she traced a number of designs with a trail of yellow powder. Within several of the figures she placed black candles which burned with a pale, sputtering flame. Near the centre of the floor she set a small metal censer. Into this she sifted a handful of crushed leaves and dry, withered berries. She touched a flame to this and it flared, releasing a thin cloud of acrid yellow smoke.

  Paul closed his eyes against the fumes and must have dozed, for when he looked again, the smoke had cleared, the cushions were back covering the floor, and Aurelia Cord was sitting on the sofa talking to a smiling Claire.

  "Darling," Claire called to him, "it's gone, it really is. My, what a simply delicious feeling to be free at last from that ghastly thing with the teeth."

  Paul got to his feet and walked over to the sofa. He looked closely into the clear, untroubled eyes of his wife, then turned to the other woman. "Miss Cord, I don't know how I can ever thank you."

  Aurelia Cord turned away. "Mr. Fielding, I deserve no thanks. Now, if you don't mind, I am quite tired."

  "Of course. If there is ever anything I can do…" Paul held out his hand, but the woman did not respond. "Come, let's go, Claire."

  The rain had stopped outside but the glowering clouds remained. As they drove home Claire carried on an animated chatter in her old manner, but Paul was not listening to her. Did a cold, slippery thing touch his face just then? It had to be imagination. But no, there it was again, inside his shirt now. Paul hoped he would have time to get the car home before he had to pay.

  4: Basil Copper - The Knocker At The Portico

  I discovered the following papers in the form of a manuscript while going through some old documents. I append them here. They read as follows.

  1

  I woke again last night after that hideous dream. I sat up in the bed in my dark chamber and listened in fearful suspense but there was no sound apart from the faint moan of the wind in the chimney piece. And yet I heard it. I am convinced of that. It was the fifth time I have heard the knocking. And it is getting worse. I intend to leave this record so that those who come after may know my fate, will realise the manner of it and may be thereby warned.

  My name is Edward Rayner. I was born, the third son of a third son, in the ancient city of Salzburg, of an English father and a German mother. My father held for some years a position as Professor of Philosophy at the University there and when he accepted a similar post in London, the family followed after a few months. I was privately educated and being much younger than my two brothers grew up a solitary, introspective child, much given to walking through the little-known suburbs and odd corners of the city which still linger in such an ancient metropolis as London.

  My family does not much concern this history, apart from establishing the background and circumstances from which I sprung; indeed, my parents were long dead and my brothers and I separated before the events with which this narrative is concerned began. I had followed my father into scholarship but the generous terms of his will and judicious investments allowed me to pursue my own inclinations; I refrained from any paid employment and preferred the retiring, almost monastic life of a scholar and an aesthete to the boisterous debate and what I regarded as the distracting clamour of university life.

  I was, then, settled in a large house in St John's Wood, comfortably off, with few but loyal friends and with sufficient funds to enable me to continue the researches dear to my heart. So it came as a considerable surprise to friends and acquaintances alike when I married, at the confirmed bachelor's age of forty-five, a young and beautiful girl of twenty-four. Jane had been my assistant for several years and thus we were necessarily thrown together for long hours of conversation and study.

  I had found it convenient, for the work on which I was engaged involved much tedious searching and quotation from the library of five thousand volumes I had assembled, to engage professional help and Jane had been recommended by one of my oldest friends. She settled in and my scholastic life was soon running more smoothly than I had thought possible. Gradually, she began to encroach more on my private time in the evenings. Within a year she was indispensable to my scholarly career; within three years I could not have imagined life without her.

  We were married in a quiet ceremony, spent our honeymoon touring the Middle East, and on our return to London resumed a style of placid, uninterrupted happiness which lasted for more than two years. So bringing me to the heart of an affair which has introduced darkness to what was hitherto all sunshine and pleasure, albeit of a somewhat gentle and intellectual sort.

  It is difficult to recollect, at this stage in time and under the present distressing circumstances, exactly when it all began. I had been sleeping badly; I was at a crucial phase in my line of investigation and long poring over the crabbed Hebraic texts had wrought me up to a high pitch of tension, which even my wife had been powerless to prevent.

  Usually, I followed Jane's sensible advice in all things, but the work on which I was at present engaged, and which had occupied my attention and thoughts for more than four years, could no longer be thrust in the back
ground; my publishers were clamouring for delivery and as the volume had been announced I had no alternative but to press ahead.

  The library in which I worked was a pleasant room and one well suited to my particular vocation; I had all the latest mechanical aids, including the new type of sliding rack, so that the selection of the more bulky volumes was a pleasure. But though I used glasses and occasionally a powerful magnifying lens, my eyes were troubling me.

  This was no doubt due to the flickering quality of the pressure-lamps I had had installed. These were not yet at a stage of perfection which they might later attain, and long hours of perusing manuscript, coupled with the minute concentration needed for the use of the glass, had made black dots spin in front of my eyes. Every half an hour I was compelled to cease my labours and a turn about the library, followed by a short rest in my chair, eyes closed, brought me once again ready for my sojourn under the lamps.

  But it was gruelling, difficult labour of a kind which exacted much from a frame never robust and a constitution perpetually delicate, so that I often felt I was undermining my health on processes of research which might never come to fruition. In fact had it not been for the urgent remonstrations of a publisher who had long been a friend and for whom publication augured much, I might well have put the work aside until the following year. Which would have, in my case, meant quite a different history from the dark byways into which my life has strayed.

  The urgency of my work, the irregularity of my hours and the long periods of labour in the library had at first engaged Jane as enthusiastically as myself but as month succeeded month her ardour diminished and she began to excuse herself more and more frequently from the daily sessions. I felt myself growing pale and haggard under the incessant demands of my self-imposed labours but I could not give up a task which had exacted a great deal and which promised to yield so much in distinction and satisfaction when published. So, as Jane absented herself with ever-increasing frequency, I worked later and later into the small hours of the night.