The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2013

by Angela Slatter

  We’re sitting in our flat in the almost-dark, my stepmother, my stepsisters and me. Our torch batteries are flat, Susie’s lighter is used up and we’ve managed to run out of both matches and candles. It’s nearly dusk outside and the heater’s gone off along with everything else electrical, so it’ll soon be icy in here. But I know better than to suggest early bed. Susie wants our projects finished tonight, so she can get them in the mail first thing. Since it’s already too dim in here for us to see our work, one of us will have to fetch light. It’s not going to be Sophie or Miranda, because they’re Susie’s own daughters, her flesh and blood, and she never makes them go downstairs in the dark. I am my mother’s daughter, and my mother is dead.

  “Won’t the shop be shut by now?” I say, hating the way my voice shakes. “I think they close at five on a Thurs—”

  Before I can finish I’m hauled up onto my feet with Susie’s fingernails pressing into the soft flesh of my arm. I sink my teeth into my lip; I won’t give her the satisfaction of hearing me cry out. My heart’s thumping hard.

  “You think I’m stupid or something?” Her hand tightens.

  “You’ll have to go to the basement,” Sophie says.

  “Better hurry, Lissa,” puts in Miranda. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  There’s a silence. I feel the weight of their gaze, the three of them, and I hear them thinking: Go. Now. Before we make you.

  “That concierge woman’s supposed to have everything,” Susie says, and the hold on my arm slackens slightly. “You know, what’s-her-name, the one they all talk about. Go down and ask her for candles and a lighter.”

  We haven’t been at Woodland Gardens long. Susie got word that Dad’s deployment was extended another six months, and almost straight away she sold the house that had been my home for all of my fifteen years. Home and haven. The house where my mother gave birth to me, her only child. The house where, only a year and a half ago, she gave me a gift, then died. Susie moved us so fast there was no time to ask questions. There wasn’t even time to cry. It felt as if I blinked, then opened my eyes to find everything gone.

  This flat is small. Two bedrooms: one for her, the other one for the three of us, with me on a trundle bed. Apart from my clothes, I got to bring one book—Grimm’s Fairy Tales, which she had to let me keep because it was a Christmas present from Dad—and Mimi, who didn’t get given to the Salvos because she was hidden in my pocket.

  Susie had Wilmot put down. For that, I can never forgive her. She didn’t have to choose a place with a no pets policy. She didn’t have to move us at all. I thought I was going back to school at the end of the holidays and instead here we are in a completely different neighbourhood. When I asked about school—the kids at Woodland Gardens go to Westmoreland High—she said some stuff that frightened me so much I never asked again. Stuff about how screwed up in the head I was, and how much worse it would get if I was around people. Stuff about what she’d do to me if I told anyone what she’d said, ever. Miranda and Sophie never finished high school and now I have an idea why.

  “Her name’s Barbara,” says Sophie, reminding me sharply of what’s ahead.

  None of us has ever been down to the basement. None of us has ever met Barbara the concierge in the flesh. But we’ve heard about her. Everyone at Woodland Gardens talks about her in the same way, hushed and scared like an olden-days person speaking of a witch. She’s supposed to have lots of stuff down there, not only candles but old-fashioned oil lamps, fuses, all kinds of tools, probably matches and firelighters too. And weird stuff, so Kye told me. Kye is the only kid I’ve spoken to since we moved in here. Susie doesn’t like letting us out, and we’re not supposed to talk to anyone. Her reason is, the building’s full of druggies and perverts. But doing the washing is one of my jobs, and that gets me as far as the communal laundry along the end of Oak Level. When I’m there I hear people talking. And I see Kye sometimes, not washing, just hanging around. He told me people go into Barbara’s basement and never come out again. He told me she has a human bone for a door knocker. He said his uncle told him Barbara came from some country where they do voodoo, black magic, and that weird people are always visiting her to get spells. If that was true, if magic was real, I’d ask her for a spell myself. I’d get one to bring my father home right now. He probably thought he was doing the right thing when he married Susie so soon after Mum died. He must have thought I needed a mother, since we have no other family and he’s away so much. And Susie wasn’t so bad back then. Dad couldn’t have known she’d turn into a monster the moment he was gone.

  I’ve thought of asking Kye if I can make a phone call from his place, to . . . I don’t know who, but there are welfare people who are supposed to help the families during a deployment, and I could look up their number. Or I could call my old school, speak to Mr Turner or Mrs Moss. I’ve thought of giving Kye a letter to post to Dad, because I suspect Susie rips them up, or Dad would have sent some back the way he always used to. Only Susie’s so good at lying, and she’s his wife now. She’d tell the welfare people I’m emotional and confused, and say she’s getting professional help for me. And then she’d punish me. She’s good at punishments. I have lots of bruises, the kind that show on my body and the kind that are deep inside where nobody can see.

  “Off you go, Lissa,” she says now. “Don’t take too long about it. You’re way behind with the orders; at this rate you’ll be up all night getting that one finished.” What we make, Susie sells online. Sophie’s fine shawls; Miranda’s Aran sweaters; my one-of-a-kind dolls. I make a lot of dolls, so I guess they’re popular. Susie won’t let us use the internet, so I don’t see the customer feedback. No internet means no email either. Dad could be on another planet. He’s been gone eight months, and in those eight months my whole world has changed.

  “What are you waiting for?” Susie snaps. “Pitch darkness? Go! Now!”

  There’s no refusing. And with Susie standing over me, there’s no getting a coat or gloves even though it’ll be freezing in the stairwell. At least I have Mimi. She’s about all I do have these days.

  Susie locks the flat door behind me. Locks me out. When I get back with the candles I’m supposed to knock on the door three times, count to five, then knock three times again and wait for her to let me in. The two times three knocks are so she won’t open up to some kind of crazy person. Though that’s what she told me I was: crazy. A crazy girl can’t go to school, but it’s OK for her to sit at home making dolls for her stepmother to sell. I hope my dolls go to better homes than mine, homes where people love them and look after them and whisper secrets in their woollen ears.

  The hallways in Woodside Gardens are long and grey. At this time of day all the doors are shut. There’s still enough light from the tall windows down the end for me to see my way to the lift, and beside it the stair door. This door’s broken, falling off its hinges. I step through and start down the twelve flights.

  The stairwell stinks of wee. I’m hoping not to meet the perverts and junkies Susie talks about, though the shadowy landings seem like places where bad stuff might happen. I reach Willow Level, Aspen Level, Juniper Level, and the light’s almost gone. I have to slow down or I might fall. There’ll be no sympathy from Susie if I break my ankle, only a reprimand for being clumsy and costing her money for a trip to the doctor. I wonder if the doctor would believe me if I told the truth about my stepmother? For a moment it seems almost worth breaking my ankle to find out. I sit down on the top step of Juniper Level to stop myself from jumping. I take Mimi from my pocket and put her on my knee. There’s just enough light left to make out her little face, her dark beady eyes, her snub nose, her mouth that’s not smiling and not frowning but something in between. Her black embroidery-silk hair; her moss stitch gown in my favourite purple.

  “I’m scared, Mimi. Scared of Susie and scared of myself. Scared of going down to the basement.”

  Give me a kiss, says Mimi.

  I oblige with a peck on her knitted lips.

>   Give me a hug.

  I press her against my cheek. My mother’s last gift was teaching me how to knit. How to put love and hope and courage into every doll I make, so the person who gets that doll will have a true friend in good times and in bad. Mimi was the first doll I ever made, and knitted into her body is a strand of hair my mother cut from her own head as she lay dying. “When you are sad, Lissa, when you are lonely, when you are at your wits’ end, she will help you,” she told me. And it was true. I don’t think Mimi is truly magic—how can she be, when I made her myself with wool and needles?—but when I speak to her in the right way, I can hear her speaking back to me.

  Now let me fly!

  I toss Mimi up in the air. She performs a triple somersault and I catch her on the way down, setting her upright on my knee again. She’s only a little doll, ten centimetres from the top of her head to the soles of her knitted shoes. In the dim light it seems to me she’s looking quite pleased with herself.

  Why are we going downstairs in the dark?

  “To visit Barbara in the basement. To ask her for light.”

  Mm-hm. Mimi seems to be considering this. We’ll need that if we’re to find our way back up. Did you say you were scared?

  “I’m scared of Susie because she hurts me and I never know when she’s going to be angry. And I’m scared of Barbara the concierge because everyone else is.”

  Mimi appears to be waiting for more.

  “And I’m scared of myself. A moment ago I was going to throw myself down these stairs and hurt myself on purpose, and that would make what Susie says about me true. I wasn’t crazy before she came, Mimi. I’m sure I wasn’t.”

  Was your mother ever afraid of anything? Even at the end?

  I remember Mum lying on the bed, hooked up to a drip, a skeleton with a fine layer of white silk for skin. Her eyes huge; her mouth stretched in a terrifying smile. Speaking words of hope. I shake my head.

  You are your mother’s daughter, Mimi says. Get up, walk down, fetch light. I will help you.

  We go on down. Poplar Level, Cypress Level, Eucalyptus Level. I can hardly see the steps now. Ash Level, Elm Level. Somewhere below me a door clangs open, and I hear someone charging up the stairs toward me. I shrink back against the wall, stuffing Mimi into my pocket for safety. My heart’s in my throat. A drug deal gone wrong, someone being chased with a knife, someone desperate . . . The person reaches the landing below me and comes straight on up. Don’t see me, I beg. Just go on past, please, please . . .

  It’s a man dressed all in black, leather pants, hoodie, chunky Doc Marten-style boots. He hurtles past me. Either he’s a top athlete or he’s terrified of what’s coming after him. His face is as dark as his clothes; there’s a hint of gleaming eyes, and he’s gone. I wait, making myself remember to breathe. Wait for whatever is coming next. I count up to fifty but nobody comes. Mimi says nothing, but I imagine her thinking, What are we waiting for? As well she might, because since the man ran past me, it’s gone so dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face. I pray that Barbara the concierge is home, and that she does give me light.

  The lower levels, I navigate by touch. One hand on the iron railing, the other stretched out toward the concrete wall of the stairwell, I go down foot by cautious foot, hoping there are no broken steps, no missing stretches of rail. The dark’s like a presence pushing at me, weighing me down. I feel as if I’m deep underground, though I think this is only Yew Level, third from the bottom. There’s no reading the signs anymore, so I start counting the steps, counting the turns in the stairs. This stairwell comes out on the ground floor; I’ve been down here in the day time, when Susie took a risk and sent me to the shop on my own. Back then, I thought of running away, asking the shopkeeper if I could use the phone, asking someone, anyone, for help. I didn’t. Susie’s got a long reach. As I go down the last flight of steps to ground level, I start wondering if she actually doesn’t want me to come back tonight. She might be hoping I run into a murderer so she can get rid of me with a neat explanation for Dad. It’s not as if my dolls are making Susie a fortune, or we wouldn’t be living here in Woodside Gardens. I wonder what’s happened to Dad’s Navy pay. What if he’s sick or even dead and she hasn’t told me? But that couldn’t happen. Could it?

  The stairs come to an end. I stand still, trying to get a sense of direction. Somewhere in front of me I know there’s a door that leads out to the so-called plaza, where kids ride skateboards and do graffiti during the day and adults shout and smash bottles at night. Between me and that door there’s utter darkness. I can’t even see a line of light around the doorway, though surely there’s at least one street light working out there. I creep forward with my hands outstretched, hoping I’m not about to fall down a flight of steps I’ve forgotten about. My heart’s jumping around like crazy.

  My hands touch the concrete wall. I work my way around till I find the door and pull on the handle. It’s locked.

  For a bit I just stand there, thinking of the long way back in the dark, imagining myself telling Susie I failed, guessing what might happen then. Susie making me stand in a cold shower till I’m blue and shivering. Susie making me stand out on the balcony in my underwear. Susie shoving my head into the wall. Susie has a great imagination.

  I sink down onto the floor and get Mimi out of my pocket. I sit her on my knee. “I don’t think I can go on,” I mutter.

  I can’t see her face in the dark, but I hear her familiar voice.

  Give me a kiss.

  I touch my lips to her face.

  Give me a hug.

  I hold her to my cheek and find that I am actually crying a bit.

  Now let me fly!

  I flip Mimi up into the air and manage to catch her, blind.

  So, we’re down here in the dark. And you’re curled up in a ball crying.

  “I do try to be brave.” I scrub a hand across my cheek. “But sometimes it’s too hard.”

  There is a light to be found in every darkness. You are your mother’s daughter. Find it.

  “But—” I fall silent, because it seems Mimi’s right. The blanketing dark has lightened just enough for me to see that there is another set of steps, leading not up but down, and from somewhere below a faint glow is coming. I thought you could only reach the basement by the lift or a flight of outside steps. But maybe there’s a third way.

  With Mimi in my hand I creep across to the steps, which don’t have any kind of guard rail. We go down. The dim light gets a bit brighter. There are only seven steps, and here we are at another level, with a short landing and one door at the end. The door is painted in blood-red gloss, and on a shelf beside it is the source of the glow: a lamp made from what looks like a real human skull, with a tea-light candle inside. It makes weird flickering shadows all over the stairwell walls. And there, dangling beside the door, is that knocker Kye told me about. If it’s not a human shin-bone I don’t know what it is. Now I’m really cold.

  There’s a little brass plate on the red door, and on it is some lettering, only it’s not the letters I know, but a foreign alphabet of some kind. It might say anything from ‘Concierge’ to ‘Visitors will be eaten alive.” I gather my courage, put my hand around the leg bone and rap on the door.

  I wait. It feels as if getting downstairs took a long time, far longer than it should have done, and I wonder if Barbara has gone to bed already, in which case she won’t be well pleased if I go on knocking. Maybe she’s out. Maybe Mimi’s instincts are wrong for the first time ever.

  After a while I knock again, not too hard. I call out, “Is anyone home?”

  The door opens so suddenly I yelp with fright. There’s a woman in the doorway, long straggledy white hair falling out of a bun, little bright eyes, skin with a million wrinkles. She’s wearing a knitted garment in exactly the same purple I used for Mimi’s dress, and in her arms she’s holding this humungous ginger cat. It is the biggest cat I’ve ever seen in my life and it has a mean look in its eye. I know cats, though. I see righ
t through this one.

  Barbara—who else could this be?—hasn’t said a word, so I speak up before things get embarrassing.

  “Sorry to disturb you. I’m—”

  “Lissa from 1205. You’ll be wanting light, yes?”

  I gape, but only for a moment. Behind her the room looks dark and bright at the same time, full of changing light that shows me rich colours and elaborate patterns. Unlike ours, Barbara’s place is full of interesting stuff.

  “Come in,” she says as if reading my mind, and steps back to let me go past her.

  There are bones everywhere. Skulls with lights in them, their glowing eyes following me as I move cautiously across the room. Leg bones and arm bones and goodness-knows-what bones hanging from the ceiling like mobiles. Colourful pottery bowls full of tiny bones that must be from shrews or voles or something. There’s a smell like incense, a lot better than the stink in the stairwell. I start to feel a bit dizzy and have to remind myself why I’m here.

  “Our power’s off,” I say as Barbara puts the huge cat down on an overstuffed sofa. It settles on an embroidered cushion, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “My stepmother sent me to ask you for candles and a lighter. Please.”

  She just stands there examining me, her arms folded. I can’t think of anything else to say, so I crouch down beside the cat and put my hand carefully out where he or she can smell it and decide to be friends or not. “Beautiful one,” I whisper, remembering Winslow with his silky hair and lovely blue eyes. “Aren’t you a fine cat, then?”