The Year's Best Horror Stories 12

by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed. )

  His most recent books include a collection of his own stories (Dark Companions), an anthology of scary horror stories for young readers (The Gruesome Book), a major novel (Incarnate), a restored reissue of an important early novel (The Face That Must Die), and a novel under a pseudonym (Night of the Claw, as by Jay Ramsey). He currently makes his home in Merseyside—perhaps to escape the horrors he has continually evoked from Liverpool—and is working on a new novel, For the Rest of Their Lives, and on a collection of his early Lovecraftian stories, The Revelations of Glaaki—this to be published by Scream/Press as a deluxe companion volume to The Face That Must Die. Campbell’s next project will be “a novel of out-and-out supernatural terror, tentatively called Blind Dark.”

  Fifty years later he went back. He’d been through school and university, he’d begun to write a novel at the end of a year spent searching for jobs, and it had been hailed as one of the greatest books ever written about childhood, had never been out of print since. He’d been married and divorced before they had flown him to Hollywood to write the screenplay of his novel, he’d had a stormy affair with an actress whose boyfriend had sent a limousine and two large monosyllabic men in grey suits to see him off home to England when the screenplay had been taken over by two members of the Writers Guild. He’d written two more books which had been respectfully received and had sold moderately well, he’d once spent a night in a Cornish hotel room with twin teenage girls, and increasingly none of this mattered: nothing stayed with him except, more and more vividly, that day in the forest fifty years ago.

  There were few cars parked on the forest road today, and none in the parking areas. He parked near the start of the signposted walk, then sat in the car. He had never really looked at a road before, never noticed how much the camber curved; it looked like a huge pipe almost buried in the earth, its surface bare as the trees, not a soul or a vehicle in sight. The wintry air seeped into the car and set him shivering. He made himself get out, the gold weighing down the pockets of his heavy coat, and step onto the sandstone path.

  It sloped down at once. A bird flew clattering out of a tree, then the silence closed in. Branches gleamed against the pale blue, cloudless sky, lingering raindrops glittered on the grass that bordered the path. A lorry rumbled by above him, its sound already muffled. When he looked back he could no longer see his car.

  The path curved, curved again. The ingots dragged at his pockets, bruised his hips. He hadn’t realized gold weighed so much, or, he thought wryly, that it would be so complicated to purchase. He could only trust his instinct that it would help.

  His feet and legs were aching. Hollywood and his Cornish night seemed less than words. Sunlight streaked through dazzling branches and broke raindrops into rainbows, shone in the mud of trails that looked like paths between the trees. He would have to follow one of those trails, if he could remember which, but how would he be able to keep his footing in all that mud? He made himself limp onward, searching for landmarks.

  Soon he was deep in the forest. If there was traffic on the road, it was beyond his hearing. Everywhere trails led into darkness that was a maze of trees. The sound of wind in the trees felt like sleep. Now he was trudging in search of somewhere to sit down, and so he almost missed the tree that looked like an arch.

  It must have looked more like an arch when he was ten years old and could hide in the arched hollow of the trunk. For a moment he felt as if the recognition would be too much for his heart. He stooped and peered in, then he squeezed himself into the hollow, his bones creaking.

  It was slippery under his hands, and smelled of moss and moist wood. The ingots swung his pockets and thumped the wooden shell. He couldn’t stand upright, couldn’t turn. He hadn’t turned then, either—he’d stood with his face to the cool woody dimness and listened to his parents passing by. He hadn’t been wishing anything, he told himself fiercely; he had simply been pretending he was alone in the forest, just to make the forest into an adventure for a few minutes. Now, as he struggled to stoop out of the hollow, he could hear them calling to him. “Don’t lag, Ian,” his father shouted, so loud that someone in the forest called “Hello?”, and his mother called more gently, “We don’t want you getting lost.”

  It was midsummer. The sun stood directly over the path, however much the path curved; he could smell the sandstone baking. The masses of foliage blazed so brightly that, whatever their tree, they seemed to be a single incandescent shade of green. His feet were aching, then and now. “Can’t we have our picnic yet?” he pleaded as he ran to his parents, bruising his soles. “Can’t I have a drink?”

  “We’re all thirsty, not just you.” His father frowned a warning not to argue; sweat sparkled in his bristly moustache. “I’m not unpacking until we get to the picnic area. Your mother wants to sit down.”

  Ian’s mother flapped a handful of her summer dress, through which he could see the lacy outlines of her underwear, to cool herself. “I don’t mind sitting on the grass if you want a rest, Ian,” she said.

  “Good God, you’d think we’d been walking all day,” his father said, which Ian thought they had. “Rest and drink when we get to the tables. I never asked for a rest when I was his age, and I know what I’d have got if I had.”

  “It’s the school holidays,” she said, that rusty edge to her voice. “You aren’t teaching now.”

  “I’m always teaching, and don’t you forget it.”

  Ian wondered which of them that was meant for, especially when his mother said under her breath, “I wish he could just have a normal upbringing, how I wish ...” He held hands with both of them and marched along for a few hundred yards. Had he grown bored then, or had he felt their tension passing back and forth through him? He remembered only running ahead until his father called, “Hang on, old fellow. Let’s find your mother some shade.”

  Ian turned from the path that seemed to curve away in the wrong direction forever. His father was pointing into the trees. “The tables should be along here,” he said.

  “Don’t get us lost on my account,” Ian’s mother protested.

  His father hitched up his knapsack and nodded curtly at it over his shoulder. “I could do with some shade myself.”

  “I’ll carry something if you like. I did make the picnic, you know.”

  His father turned his back on that and strode onto the path between the trees, his shorts flapping, the black hairs on his legs glinting as the sunlight caught them a last time at the edge of the shade. As soon as Ian followed his mother under the trees, he realized he had already been hearing the stream.

  He could hear it now. The sandstone path that was supposed to lead back to its starting point curved away in the wrong direction ahead, not forever but as far as the eye could see, and there on the left was the path his father had taken. It looked dark and cold and treacherous, shifty with dim shadows. He listened while the wind and the trees grew still. There was no sound at all in the woods, not a bird’s or a footstep. He had to take a breath that made his head swim before he could step between the trees.

  “We can’t get lost so long as we can hear the stream,” his father said, as if that should be obvious. His path had followed the stream until the sandstone path was well out of sight and hearing, and then it had turned into a maze of trails, which looked like paths for long enough to be confusing. Ian sensed his mother’s nervousness as they strayed away from the stream, among trees that made it seem there were no paths at all. “Isn’t that the picnic place?” he said suddenly, and ran ahead, dodging trees and undergrowth. The muffled light beneath the leaves was growing dimmer, so that he was in the glade and almost at the standing shape before he realized it was not a table. “Watch out, Ian!” his mother cried.

  He could hear her voice now, in the midst of his laborious breathing. He wasn’t sure if this was the glade. Despite the bareness of the trees, it seemed shadowy and chill as he stepped out beneath the patch of blue sky. He was shivering violently, even though the glade looked much like any
other: a dip in the ground strewn with fallen leaves and a few scraps of rubble—and then he saw the word that was crudely carved in one of the stones, almost obscured by dripping moss: FEED.

  It was enough—too much. The other words must be among the rubble that had been used to stuff up the hole. He fumbled hastily in his pockets and dropped the ingots beside the word, then he squeezed his eyes shut and wished. He kept them closed as long as he dared, until he had to glance at the trees. They looked even thinner than he remembered: how could they conceal anything? He made himself lower his gaze, hoping, almost giving in to the temptation to risk a second wish. The ingots were still there.

  He’d done what he could. He shouldn’t have expected proof, not yet, perhaps not while he was alive. A branch creaked, or a footfall, one of many, the only one that had made a sound. He glanced round wildly and hurried back the way he’d come, while he still remembered which way that was. He mustn’t hesitate now, mustn’t think until he was on the sandstone path.

  He didn’t know what made him look back as he reached the edge of the glade: certainly nothing he’d heard. He blinked, he drew a shuddering breath, he seized a tree twice the width of his hand, and peered until his eyes stung. He could see the rubble, the mossy word and even the droplets of water gleaming in it—but the gold was gone.

  He clung to the tree with both hands for support. So it was all true: everything he’d tried for fifty years to dismiss as a nightmare, a childish version of what he’d grown to hope had happened, was true after all. He struggled not to think as he waited to be able to retreat, fought not to wonder what might be under the leaves, down there in the dark.

  It was a well. He’d realized that before his mother caught his arm to save him from falling in, as if he would have been so babyish. He read the words chipped out of stones that were part of the crumbling circular rim: FEED ME A WISH. “They must mean ‘feed me and wish,’ ” his mother said, though Ian didn’t think there was space for any more letters. “You’re supposed to throw some money in.”

  He leaned over the rim as she held onto his arm. Someone must have made a wish already, for there were several round gleams far down in the dark that smelled of cold and decay, too far for even the sunlight poking through the leaves overhead to reach. She pulled him back and took out her knitted purse. “Here you are,” she said, giving him a tarnished penny. “Make a wish.”

  “I’ll reimburse you when we get back to the car,” his father told her, joining them as Ian craned over the rim. He couldn’t see the round gleams now. His mother gripped the back of his trousers as he stretched his arm out and let go of the coin, then closed his eyes at once.

  He didn’t want anything for himself except for his parents to stop fighting, but he didn’t know what to wish in order to bring that about. He thought of asking that they should have their deepest wishes, but wouldn’t that be at least two? He tried to make up his mind who deserved a wish more or whose wish would be more helpful, then he wondered if he’d already had his wish while he was thinking. He opened his eyes, as if that might help, and thought he saw the coin still falling, within reach if he craned over the rim, still available to be taken back. His mother pulled at him, and the coin had gone. He heard a plop like breath rising to the surface of water or mud.

  “Step out now, we must be nearly there,” his father said, taking his mother’s arm, and frowned back at Ian. “I’ve told you once about lagging. Don’t try my patience, I’m warning you.”

  Ian ran after them before he’d had time to make sure whether the stones with the words were as loose as they looked, whether they could be placed along the rim in a different order. He wasn’t sure now, as he shoved himself away from the glade where the ingots no longer were; he didn’t want to be. He was suddenly terrified that he had already lost his way, that he would wander through the winter forest until he strayed onto the path he’d taken that day with his parents, until he ended up where it led, as the short day grew dark. He couldn’t shake off his terror even when he stumbled back onto the sandstone path, not until he was in the car, gripping the wheel that his hands were shaking, sitting and praying he would regain control of himself in time to be able to drive out of the forest before nightfall. He mustn’t wonder if the gold had brought his wish. He mightn’t know until he died, and perhaps not even then.

  His father never looked back, not even when the trail he was following out of the glade forked. He chose the left-hand path, which was wider. It continued to be wider until Ian’s mother began to glance about as if she could see something besides trees, or wished she could. “Keep up,” she said sharply to Ian, and to his father, “I’m cold.”

  “We must be near the stream, that’s all.” His father spoke as though he could see the stream among the crowding trees, which were so close now that whenever you moved it seemed that someone was moving with you, from tree to tree. When Ian looked back he couldn’t see where the path had been wider. He didn’t want his mother to notice that; it would only make her more nervous and start another argument. He struggled through a tangle of undergrowth and ran ahead. “Where do you think you’re—” his father demanded. “All right. Stay there.”

  His change of tone made Ian peer ahead. He’d almost reached another glade, but that was no reason for his father to sound as if he’d meant to come here all along; there was nothing in the glade but several heaps of dead branches. He took a few steps forward to clear his eyes of sunlight, and saw that he must have been mistaken. There were several picnic tables and benches, and no heaps of branches after all.

  He cried out, for his father had caught up with him silently and was digging his fingers into Ian’s shoulder, bruising it. “I told you to stay where you were.”

  His mother winced and took Ian’s hand to lead him to a table. “I won’t let him do that again,” she murmured. “He may do it to his pupils at school but I won’t have him doing it to you.”

  Ian didn’t quite believe she would be able to stop his father, especially not when his father dumped the knapsack on the table in front of her and sat down, folding his arms. Ian could feel an argument threatening. He moved away to see what was beyond the glade.

  There was another picnic area. He could just see a family at a table in the distance: a boy and a girl and their parents, he thought. Perhaps he could play with the children later. He was wondering why their picnic table looked more like one than his, when his father shouted, “Come back here and sit down. You have made enough fuss about wanting a drink.”

  Ian dawdled toward the table, for the argument was starting: it made the glade seem smaller. “You expect to be waited on, do you?” his mother was saying.

  “I did the carrying, didn’t I?” his father retorted. Both of them stared at the knapsack, until at last his mother sighed and undid the straps to take out the cups and the bottle of lemonade. She sipped hers as his father emptied his cup in four equal swallows punctuated by deep breaths. Ian gulped his and gasped. “Please, may I have some more?”

  His mother shared what was left in the bottle between the three cups and reached in the knapsack, then stared in. “I’m afraid that’s all we have to drink,” she said, as if she couldn’t believe it herself.

  “You could have fooled me.” His father squirmed his shoulders ostentatiously. “What the devil have I been carrying?”

  She began to unpack the containers of food, cold chicken and salad and coleslaw. Ian realized what was odd about the table: it was too clean for an outdoor table, it looked like ... His mother was peering into the knapsack. “We’ll have to eat with our fingers,” she said. “I didn’t bring the plates and cutlery.”

  “What do you think we are, savages?” His father glared about at the trees, as if someone might see him eating that way. “How can we eat coleslaw with our fingers? I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life.”

  “I’m surprised I packed anything at all,” she cried, “you’ve got me so distracted.”

  It was like a table in a cafe, Ian
thought, and looked up as someone came into the glade. At least now his parents wouldn’t be able to argue; they never did in front of people. For a moment, until he blinked and sat aside out of the sunlight, he had the impression that the eyes of the two figures were perfectly circular.

  The two men were heading straight for the table, purposefully. They were dressed from head to foot in black. At first he thought they were some kind of police, coming to tell his parents they weren’t supposed to sit here, and then he almost laughed, realizing what their black uniform meant. His father had realized, too. “I’m afraid we’ve brought our own food,” he said brusquely.

  The first waiter shrugged and smiled. His lips in his pale thin face were almost white, and very wide. He made a gesture at the table, and the other waiter went away, returning almost at once with cutlery and plates. He was coming from the direction of the well, where the trees were thickest and the stray beam of sunlight had dazzled Ian. Ian wondered what else he’d failed to notice in passing.

  The waiter who’d shrugged opened the containers of food and served it onto the plates. Ian glimpsed a pattern on the china, but the plates were covered before he could make out what it was. “This is more like it,” his father said, and his mother pursed her lips.