The Year's Best Horror Stories 9

by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed. )

  Bateman looked at Pierre, reflecting that it was probably that same repressed, unimaginative quality which had allowed him to survive that trying period, to say nothing of the last twelve, lonely years. He saw the tail of a cat disappear behind a tree. “I wonder what the cats eat?” he asked. “Do you suppose someone feeds them?”

  Pierre laughed in that muffled way of his, a kind of tightlipped bobbing of the head, from which no sound of mirth came out. His eyes kept their eternal sad expression but there was, for once, a twinkle of animation. He said, “I was talking to one of the men who work in the crematorium before you came. I asked how things were with the ovens and so on.”

  “What do you mean?” Bateman asked.

  “DeLaye did an overhaul on the brick linings,” said Pierre. DeLaye was Alicia’s maiden name and the name of her father’s company, for which Pierre still worked.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “The bricks must be replaced every four years or so. It wasn’t a very big job.”

  “My God, look at the size of that cat!” Bateman said. “He must weigh a good ten kilos.”

  Pierre looked at the tabby cat. “He’s a big one, all right,” he said. “The fellow told me a funny story about the cats. I don’t know whether or not to believe it.”

  “What was that?” The tabby cat was gazing at Bateman with that manic expression they acquire when they are hungry.

  “The ovens have gas burners,” said Pierre. “They reach twelve hundred degrees, but gas is so expensive these days that they try to economize by reducing the time between cremations, so the ovens don’t have a chance to cool down.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Yes, except it means they must remove the previous corpse sooner. Often, with a large body, especially one that has been frozen, the bones aren’t completely reduced to ashes.”

  “You’re joking,” Bateman said. “What do they do then?”

  “Well, generally, they break the bones with the raclette.”

  “A raclette? Like the bakers use?”

  “More or less. But that’s not the worst of it. The skull and brain are a bigger problem.”

  “The brain?”

  “Oh, yes. You can imagine. It’s enclosed and surrounded by fluid. It’s very difficult to burn. And, you know, in summer, the bodies must be kept frozen. It takes much longer to burn a frozen corpse.”

  “I do see what you mean,” said Bateman, a vague nausea beginning in his chest.

  “At any rate, the fellow was saying . . .” Pierre fell silent as they rounded the corner. They had come to a section of the graves covered by graffiti, much of it obscene. “I want to fuck you, Jim,” “The Snake,” “Patrick, Harley Davidson, 1984,” and, finally, sprayed in day-glo colors across an unmarked granite slab, the explanation: “Jim Morrison, The Doors.”

  They stood staring at the hundreds of chalked, painted and scratched inscriptions. Some had been there for years but others seemed quite fresh. It was appalling to Bateman. They seemed mindless. He was ashamed of his own country, even after all that time away.

  There was a small group of bicyclists relaxing at this curve in the path. The bicycle was a nice way to see the cemetery. The paths were smooth and free of traffic but one couldn’t wander among the stones. They had left their bikes locked together and gone off a little way among the weedstrewn graves. Bateman and Pierre could hear their laughter as they examined the old-fashioned inscriptions. The bicyclists came toward them speaking English, two boys and two girls walking straight across the graves without regard for the path between. Bateman looked away. The sun went behind a cloud and he thought to look at his watch. Five-thirty already? It was getting late. He walked a little way down the path, not wanting to see the desecrations performed here to commemorate an American rock star. Pierre remained at the spot, reading the names and comments. A few minutes later Bateman looked back to see Pierre kneeling by the bicycles, talking to one of the boys, no doubt about the machines.

  Bateman could see the plaza of the Crematorium and across from it the Columbarium, where the urns of ashes were installed. His eyes were caught by a strange scene. In the middle of the plaza a large German shepherd dog stood motionless. Even at that distance he could see the bared fangs and the tail lowered between the dog’s legs. Surrounding the dog were about a dozen large cats. One of them advanced on the dog, and the ring of cats contracted toward him. The closest cat swatted at the dog and it appeared they were on the point of attacking him en masse when a man came out of the Crematorium and brandished a long stick at the crouching cats. They backed off and watched the man pull the dog away.

  There were sounds of laughter and some sort of a tussle among the boys and girls at the bend in the path. He wasn’t paying them much attention. Pierre was still back there. Bateman knew that the sepulcher which held the ashes of Victor Hugo was somewhere in this area. A little farther down he could find Rothschild and Gertrude Stein.

  The sepulchers were quaint. Some were furnished with a sort of low chair with a padded backrest, designed for kneeling in prayer, called a prie-dieu. A few had hooks on the walls for hanging wreaths. Though most of the vaults were securely locked, many were open, and he peered into the shadows of one which had been used as a shelter by generations of winos, to judge from the amount of green bottle glass on the floor. Curled on the faded seat of the ancient prie-dieu was a large gray cat with yellow eyes.

  Was it his imagination or was that cat staring at him with a particularly feral look? He had never been fond of cats. When they open their mouths, showing the tips of their tongues, their eyes glazed over in some humanly unimaginable feline ecstasy, he found them positively loathsome. He wanted to be out of the place. He looked at his watch again. Nearly six! He really had to be going. He turned around to call to Pierre and found himself staring into his face. He covered his shock with a nervous laugh. “Oh, so there you are!” Bateman said. “I thought you had bicycled off with them.”

  “No,” said Pierre, frowning.

  “I really must be getting along,” Bateman said. “I told my wife we’d go out to dinner tonight.” For the moment he had forgotten to whom he was speaking. But it was too late to recover gracefully. “Of course, I mean Alicia,” he said.

  “Of course,” said Pierre. “Myself as well. I’ve . . . I’ve some work to do.”

  “Look, Pierre,” said Bateman. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” asked Pierre, his eyes flaring suddenly. He was angry, Bateman realized. Bateman was quite taken aback. It was the first time he had seen Pierre show his temper. Pierre had something, a bit of metal, in his hand, and he was worrying at it with his fingers.

  In tense silence they walked a shortcut between the rows of decrepit graves and thick foliage. The shadows were lengthening and Bateman felt uncomfortable walking ahead of Pierre. There was a tingling in his scalp. Was he afraid that Pierre might, after all these years, take some sort of physical revenge? He had never uttered a word against Bateman, never hung up a telephone, never left a message go untransmitted. As cuckolds went, Bateman thought, he had been as cooperative as could be imagined. Bateman regretted this thought immediately. Pierre was ten times more generous than he was. He deserved his sympathy, his help, not derision. “You were telling me something before,” said Bateman turning around.

  Pierre was walking with his eyes downcast, his hands clasped behind, and Bateman was even more regretful of his unspoken mockery. Pierre looked up slowly. It seemed Bateman had disturbed an interior monologue. “Yes,” he said, “but I don’t believe it myself. Still, I suppose it would be interesting to know the truth.”

  “I’m not following you,” said Bateman.

  “The cats,” he said. “You asked how they had gotten so fat. You would expect them to be starving. And there are so many.”

  “Yes.”

  “Still, I expect you are right,” he said. “Someone else probably feeds them. Though the man in the Crematorium seemed serious.”

  �
�Pierre,” he said, “you are talking in circles. I wish you would just come out and say what you mean.”

  “The way you do?” asked Pierre.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said.

  “Never mind. Come on. Maybe I can show you what the cats eat.”

  They had come, via the back way, to the Columbarium. It was nothing more than a wall of niches in which the urns were placed. A plaque engraved with the name and dates was fixed in each place. Some were empty and were marked “Reservee.” They strode across the broad courtyard fronting the Crematorium, the massive building now backlit by the reddening sunset.

  They left the plaza and continued toward the exit through an older section of graves, terraced to several levels. This was now a “low-rent” district, with many more abandoned graves and fewer splendid, well-kept ones.

  “He said he put it somewhere around here,” said Pierre, scaling an incline to reach a higher level. They were among large trees which blocked the sun. Twice, Bateman stumbled on creepers as he tried to trace Pierre’s footsteps.

  “Incredible,” he heard Pierre say, “the guy was telling the truth!”

  Bateman emerged into an overgrown area nearly hidden from the main grounds. There was a small cluster of ancient family sepulchers, with doors of rusty iron grillwork. Pierre was kneeling on the worn cushion of the prayer stool in one of the vaults, examining the contents of a small dish. He gingerly backed out of the small stone structure.

  “Take a look,” he said. “Watch out, there’s cat shit all over.”

  “I don’t wonder,” said Bateman. “Look over there.” There were no fewer than twenty-five large cats congregated around the doorway of another sepulcher. He shuddered and peered into the gloom of the vault, trying to make out what was in the small ceramic dish. He had no desire to dirty his pants on that floor.

  “You won’t be able to see it from here,” said Pierre. “It’s too dark in there.”

  Bateman stooped into the confined darkness. There was a withered wreath and plastic cross suspended from hooks on his right. He had to kneel on the prie-dieu to get a look at what was in the dish. He recognized it immediately. Nothing looks quite like brain tissue, with its twisting convolutions. But he had never seen a brain this large before, and it had already been partially consumed, by the cats, he assumed.

  He was violently startled by a spider crawling across his hand. He crushed it against the stone wall with the back of his hand. There was a gentle thump and the rustling of leaves above him as something landed on the roof, a large cat, no doubt. Someone blew a whistle. It was closing time. He started to rise from the prie-dieu and heard a loud creak. He felt the tomb door close against his shoe soles. That was no accident. There was a loud, metallic click. He turned around, difficult in the confined space. He looked down at the door latch and saw the glint of a sturdy combination lock, the kind used with bicycle chains. It had to be Pierre, but he could see no one.

  He shouted, “Open it up, Pierre!”

  There was no reply. He was sure Pierre was still nearby. He remembered him kneeling with the boys at Jim Morrison’s grave. After they had gone he had a bit of shiny metal in his hand.

  “Mrkgnao,” he heard, along with the muted thuds of several pairs of padded paws. The huge face of a cat appeared in the window grating opposite the locked door, its insane eyes glowing gold in the dying light.

  He threw all of his two hundred pounds against the iron grating. It looked as though it would shatter with one lunge, but did not. Again he heaved into it with his shoulder. It was no use. He couldn’t back up enough to get up momentum. The cat in the window jumped down beside him. The faces of two others appeared in its place.

  The huge cat on the floor took a swat at his ankle, cocking his head as though curious to see his reaction. He felt a sharp pain and kicked out at the cat. It arched its back and hissed, sounding very loud in the tiny space. What if they all attacked him at once, as they had been about to do in the plaza? He wouldn’t be able to hold them off in the claustrophobic space. He could barely move his arms and legs.

  “Pierre!” he screamed. “For God’s sake!”

  There were several loud thuds. Three cats were suddenly on the floor with him. Another, a huge black one, was in the window. It leaped at him. He felt the stab of claws in the back of his neck and a forepaw raked his right eye. With all his strength, ignoring the claws, sharp as needles, he wrenched the animal off and hurled it against the wall, while kicking out at the others, which had begun to attack his legs.

  “Help, anyone!” he screamed. Then he saw Pierre a few meters away from the grating, wearing on his face his mournful expression which almost never changed. Bateman was quite hysterical. “They’re attacking me!” he shouted. “Please, open this thing!”

  “They’re only cats,” Pierre said. “Besides, I don’t know the combination.” There was the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes remained pitying.

  One of the cats nipped Bateman’s ankle and he winced in pain.

  Pierre turned and started down the path toward the exit.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Bateman screamed. “Think of Alicia!”

  Pierre’s steps slowed. He appeared to be reconsidering.

  Bateman gripped the rusty bars of his cage, watching Pierre disappear from sight and he heard, “Don’t worry Bateman. I’ll tell her you’ll be late for dinner.”

  THE PROPERT BEQUEST by Basil A. Smith

  It may seem at first a contradiction for a best-of-the-year anthology to include a story by an author who has been dead for a number of years. However, 1980 saw the first publication of an important collection of supernatural stories by Basil A. Smith, The Scallion Stone, from Whispers Press. Although Smith died in 1969, only the title story had previously been published, and the story behind all this seems itself a bit like the start of an M. R. James ghost story.

  Basil A. Smith was an English clergyman, for many years Rector of Holy Trinity, Micklegate, York. The rectory grounds covered the graveyard of a medieval priory, and monks’ bones were forever surfacing in the Smiths’ garden. The church itself, with its twelfth-century nave, was reputedly haunted by apparitions whose silhouettes passed against a great stained-glass window. A scholar and antiquary as well, Smith was author of Dean Church: the Anglican Response to Newman (Oxford University Press: 1958) and was active in numerous drives to preserve York’s rich architectural heritage. At the time of his death he was Canon Treasurer of York Minster. Smith was also interested in ghost stories, and he tried his hand at writing several himself—evidently for his own amusement alone. Fortunately he showed his manuscripts to his friend, Russell Kirk, the noted author and critic, who rescued them from oblivion after Smith’s death. These came to the attention of editor Stuart David Schiff, who published “The Scallion Stone” in Whispers (Doubleday: 1977), and then collected all of Smith’s stories in a beautifully produced hardcover volume with an introduction by Russell Kirk and illustrations by Stephen Fabian. Although structurally Smith’s stories immediately call to mind the English ghost story tradition of M. R. James, Smith was no slavish pasticheur. Indeed, “The Propert Bequest” is a masterpiece in its own right, and makes one wish Smith had had a bit more time to indulge his hobby.

  I

  As a typical English estate Peryford Priory would be difficult to surpass. The house, designed by Carr in his best manner amid a majestic grouping of beech trees, is well placed to dominate the wide expanse of park which sweeps gently away southwestward with its formal plantations and cattle browsing in the pasture. The way from the outer world into this haven of tranquility is by a gravel drive curving leisurely for half a mile and terminating in a balustraded terrace before the hall itself.

  It was from the vantage point of this terrace that Courtleigh, accompanied by Mr. Sanderton, the Rector of Peryford, looked across the park one pleasant evening in the summer of 18—. The rectory, where they had recently dined, adjoined the priory gr
ounds and there was access by a private walk beside the kitchen gardens. This was a very convenient arrangement as Dr. Propert, the owner of Peryford, and Mr. Sanderton were on terms of constant intercourse.

  Courtleigh, who had only arrived a little before dinner, was to spend the night with his clerical friend and then resume his journey to London. Legal business had called him away from the academic routine of Durham, and he had taken the opportunity of breaking his journey at York and driving out to Peryford which was about ten miles away. He had long wanted to know more about this secluded place that his friend had tumbled into. And now at last he was here to see for himself the priory and parish.

  It was indeed well worth seeing, and the evening was perfect. The monastic ruins (which gave the name “Priory” to the modern residence) lay in a corner of the park beyond the cypress walk. Birds were trilling sleepily among the mossy stonework of the dilapidated columns and archways, and a sluggish brook was glinting in the willows beyond, as the two friends left the ornamental seat and resumed their stroll.

  “You’ve got an eye for landscape in these parts,” murmured the professor, drinking in the mellow scene. “There’s quite a last-century tone about it—except perhaps that chapel yonder looks a bit out of period!”

  “Yes,” assented Sanderton, “that’s the library I told you about in my letter. Originally it was part of the old Peryford Priory—the monks’ frater, in fact. Then it was the family chapel. Rather magnificent, too, though I grant you it’s been over-restored. Some of your enthusiasts for the mediaeval are nothing if not drastic. Still, like some of the ladies of the parish, it may not be much to look at—but it’s full of good works within!”