“I’m sorry,” said Andrew. “So, you’ve no one to spend Christmas with?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.” And he felt an urge to invite her home, she could stay with his family, she could be his family, he felt it rise up inside him, if he had been breathing more freely then it might even have popped out.
She stared out at the night. He stared at it too. And it seemed to him they were hurtling through a void, they were nowhere at all, nowhere, that the tracks would end and the train would fall into the void deeper and deeper and they would be lost, it seemed to him this may have already happened.
“Are you seeing your family for Christmas?” she asked.
And he told her.
He told her of the presents he had for them in his suitcase. For his daughter he had some dolls bought specially in Boston, all of them famous figures from the American Revolution, she wouldn’t find them anywhere else! And for his wife he’d picked up some perfume at Duty Free. But now these gifts felt a bit paltry. What would his daughter want with a figurine of Paul Revere? But little girls were so good at playing games, weren’t they, he had seen her have hours of fun with a cardboard box, she had pretended it was a car, and a dinosaur, and a spaceship, and she’d said to Andrew, play with me, pretend with me – but Andrew wasn’t very good at pretending, when his daughter shot him with her fingers and Andrew fell over he always tried a bit too hard and he was sure she was embarrassed by his efforts; she had taken that cardboard box, pretended it was a time machine, and a zoo, and a father, he’d come home once and she’d got a box and was pretending it was him. He didn’t know what to do with his own daughter, and each time she’d grown, and aged, and changed. And what would his wife want with perfume? But he had a better present for them, something he couldn’t wrap, should he tell? He’d be coming home for good. For good. No, not this time, but soon, very soon. Because for the last year and a half he’d been doing these trips to the States, and his wife had said to him, you’re missing out on your daughter’s childhood! and he had said, but it’s my job, I have to go where they tell me, do you think I have any choice? But now he was coming home for good, by April he’d be back in Britain, they said some time in the spring, it’d be May at the latest. He’d be home, and his wife had said, you’re not only running out on her childhood, you’re running out on me – and she wouldn’t be able to say that any more. She wouldn’t be able to complain about a bloody thing. And when he told them both, and he’d tell them on Christmas morning, he’d keep it as a proper present, how happy they would be! Because his wife was wrong, he wasn’t trying to avoid her, that was ridiculous, he loved her, he was pretty sure he loved her, being at home with her again would take some adjustment but it would be worth it. He was scared. Of course he was scared. He couldn’t remember his wife’s name. How odd. The jet-lag. His own wife’s name, and he was fairly certain she’d had one. He couldn’t remember his daughter’s name. He wondered whether he might have written them down somewhere, maybe they were on his mobile phone, along with the names of his bosses and his secretarial staff and all his clients, but no – no – he’d call them now, he’d ask – but there was still no signal, the phone said it couldn’t find a network provider. And he was scared, because he knew when he got home there would be that conversation, because that conversation always happened when he got back, sooner or later. And when he’d tried calling his wife recently she’d been so curt with him, she sounded so very far away – and when he told her he’d be home for Christmas for a whole two weeks she sounded almost sarcastic – “Great,” she’d said – that was all – “Great.” And she never let his daughter come to the phone any more, she was too busy being asleep in bed or playing with cardboard boxes or being dead. And he knew then. Oh God, he knew then. His wife didn’t love him. Not any more. She had once. Not any more. And his daughter. His daughter, his daughter was dead. She was dead. And his wife hadn’t even told him! She hadn’t told him, because he was in Boston, what good would it do? She hadn’t told him because she was angry with him, she’d had a daughter, and she’d slipped through his fingers, she’d got lost in the blackness of the night. Though, to be fair, maybe she had told him, didn’t he remember that time – wasn’t there a phone call – wasn’t there a conversation, and a lot of tears, and he’d had to go to a meeting, they were waiting for him, he wasn’t going to listen to this shit, “Bastard!” she’d said, she’d screamed her tears out, he hadn’t realised you could scream tears out like that, “now, now,” he’d said, “I’ll be home for Christmas, we can talk about it properly then.” “Great,” she’d said. Oh God. Oh God. He’d had a daughter, and she was lost, and he was lost too.
The woman who had never been a mother and had never had a daughter took his hand. She smiled. She asked if he would like that cup of tea now. He said yes.
“Wipe away your tears,” she said.
“Yes.”
She poured him a cup. It was steaming hot. It tasted bitter.
“You get some sleep,” she said. “Don’t you worry. I’ll wake you when you get home.”
“Yes. Thank you. Yes.”
He settled back in his seat. It felt so soft suddenly, and it was peaceful, there wasn’t a sound. And the train rocked from side to side as it sped down the void, it made him feel like a baby, it made him feel drowsy.
“Can I keep the presents?” she asked. He didn’t know what she meant for a moment. “The crayons?” He gave them to her. She put them in her pocket. She smiled again, took his hand again, squeezed it. She let him sleep.
It wasn’t the woman who woke him up. It was a station guard, shaking his shoulder gently. “Come on, mate, end of the line,” he said. There was no one else in the compartment, and the lights were on full. “Come on, some of us have Christmas to get home to!”
Andrew fetched his luggage from the rack. It felt lighter than he remembered. He stepped out on to the platform. Edinburgh was icy, and wet, and right, and home, and he breathed the air in, and felt awake.
He caught a taxi. The taxi driver was playing a medley of Christmas songs. Andrew didn’t mind.
He couldn’t find his keys. He hammered at the front door. “Let me in!” he cried. And then, to take the desperation out of his voice, “Let me in, it’s Santa Claus!”
And his wife opened up. There she was. Oh, there she was.
“Do you love me?” he said, and he could see that she did, her eyes shone with it, he hadn’t realised how very obvious love could look. “I love you,” he told her, “I love you,” and decided not to add that he couldn’t remember her name.
“Where is our daughter?” he said. “Is she all right? Is she alive?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, he ran up the stairs, ran to the bedroom. His daughter was in bed, and stirred at his noise. “Daddy?” she said. She rubbed at her eyes. “Daddy? Is it really you?”
“Yes,” he said, “yes, darling, I’m home, I’m home, and I’m never leaving again!” He wouldn’t leave, sod the job, sod Boston, he’d found something he thought had been lost, he wouldn’t let go. And she was better than he remembered, she’d reached the age at last where he would never feel uncomfortable with her, or anxious, she was perfect, she was shiny, what luck.
He pulled her out of bed, right by the shoulders, held her, hugged her, and he kissed her head and he kissed her hair. And he knew her name, it was all right. She smelled to him of earth, and mud, and dead leaves, but it was all right. He rocked her in his arms. And after a while he stopped, but the rocking just kept on going, and he didn’t know what it was.
MICHAEL KELLY
October Dreams
MICHAEL KELLY is a Canadian author, editor, and publisher. Two of his short stories were reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror Volume 21. His fiction has also appeared in a number of other publications, including All Hallows, Black Static, Dark Horizons, PostScripts, Shadows Edge and Supernatural Tales, and is collected in Scratching the Surface and Undertow and Other Laments.
More recent fiction appears in Imaginarium 2013: The Best Canadian Speculative Fiction, The Grimscribe’s Puppets and The Weird Fiction Review. Kelly is a Shirley Jackson Award and British Fantasy Award finalist, and he edits and publishes Shadows & Tall Trees.
His latest book is Chilling Tales: In Words, Alas, Drown I, while the sixth volume of Shadows & Tall Trees, due in 2014, sees the periodical change to an annual anthology.
“Perhaps unsurprisingly, ‘October Dreams’ was written in October,” reveals the author, “shortly after I’d re-read Ray Bradbury’s The October Country, a book I revisit every autumn. The story was written in a relatively short amount of time – less than half an hour, if I recall – and was my attempt at a simple, short Hallowe’en shiver.”
HER DREAMS WERE October dreams.
The girl was at that strange, carefree, happy age of dreaming and longing where one doesn’t realise that they are unlikely to ever be that happy again. She dreamed of damp earth, crackling leaves, and wood smoke; warm spiced cider and cool winds; candied apples, and capering ghosts; grinning pumpkins and the boundless night.
The girl dreamed orange and black.
Then the girl grew older. She excelled in high school. And her dreams changed. They were filled with boyish grins, twining limbs, and soft smiles. She went to University. She found a job.
The world grew serious.
And still she dreamed, but she dreamed less, because now she wasn’t a girl, but a woman, all grown up. And grownups, she knew, rarely dreamt. Grown-ups weren’t expected to dream.
She fell in love and got married. And he wasn’t the man of her dreams – who could be? – but he was good and kind and loved her. What dreams she still had she put on hold, and had a child, a girl, beautiful beyond words. She named her Autumn. And the woman who was once a girl was happy, yes, but it was a different happy. It wasn’t the wild exuberance of infinite possibilities. It wasn’t orange and black. It was contentment. And she was content to be content.
And life, as it does, passed.
The woman who was once a girl grew old. Her daughter Autumn dreamed too, but they were different dreams. Autumn found a good job, got married, moved away, and had children of her own. The woman’s husband, who never knew of her dreams, grew infirm and passed away.
The woman who was once a girl wept quietly.
She grew older. She grew lonely.
She dreamed, again, of leering jack-o’-lanterns, burning leaves, fresh-baked harvest pies, wet sidewalks, and pumpkin-scented winds. She dreamed of witches, demons, ghouls and zombies.
She dreamed of darkest night.
She dreamed of the dead.
Time passed. The world quietened. The woman quietened. She waited . . . waited, and dreamed her October dreams. She could smell the season, the slow rot. Still she waited. And finally there came a knock on the door, and she could hear them outside, chuckling, shuffling, rustling like orange leaves in a damp wind, tiny feet stomping, nervous and excited chatter.
The old woman who was once a young girl with dreams smiled, eased herself painfully from her chair, and moved to the door. She pulled some candy from a bowl, opened the door, wishing – hoping – for a trick, a child-like prank. She stood there, grinning. And all the children turned, scampered and skittered away, shrieking, as if they’d seen a ghost.
Or something worse.
ALISON LITTLEWOOD
The Eyes of Water
ALISON LITTLEWOOD lives near Wakefield, West Yorkshire, with her partner Fergus. As well as appearing in The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, her short stories have been selected for The Best Horror of the Year, The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, The Best British Fantasy 2013 and The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10. Other credits include the anthologies Terror Tales of the Cotswolds, Resurrection Engines, A Carnivàle of Horror, Magic, Where Are We Going? and the charity anthology Never Again.
About her second exotic story in this volume, she explains: “I’m often inspired to put pen to paper after visiting places that are particularly atmospheric, or simply different from those I’m used to. There’s something about being somewhere new that makes you alert to the things that make a place unique.
“The most intriguing places I visited in Mexico were the cenotés – half-immersed caves dotted around the Yucatan Peninsula. Some were quite bare, while others were lined with tree roots and others lit up like some magical grotto. What was just as fascinating, though, was their history. The Yucatan is a dry place, and the cenotés were a source, not just of mystery, but of life. That is reflected in their significance in the beliefs and religious practices of the area. It was impossible not to write about a place with such a rich heritage.
“I’ve heard theories saying that caves in fiction represent our unconscious minds, or the mysterious part of ourselves we cannot understand. I wouldn’t be surprised, as I seem to have a natural fascination with them – my story in last year’s Best New Horror was also set in a cave.
“When this story was originally published as a Spectral Press chapbook, I envisaged Alex as male. It was the editor of this volume who suggested changing her to female, and I’m really happy with how it turned out!”
THE WORLD ABOVE and the world below were divided by a few feet of earth, but out here, it seemed impossible the other could exist. Above, market stalls; brilliant sunshine; a car park surfaced in dust; an ever-present circle of Mexican girls, no more than five or six years old, holding out handfuls of embroidered handkerchiefs. No one wanted handkerchiefs, but they bought them anyway at the sight of the downturned mouths that said, “I’ll cry if you don’t.”
I passed stalls selling lace and dresses, brilliantly coloured pottery and carvings. When I didn’t stop the women pointed the way to the cave, being helpful. They called out, “Maybe later.” I knew this was so they could catch me on the way back, claiming a prior arrangement, but I nodded anyway. It was my first trip to a cenoté – one of the many flooded caverns that fractured the Yucatan Peninsula – and I was already half-immersed.
The narrow path led away from the stalls and towards a dark hole in the ground. As I approached I saw that steps had been cut into the stone; the steeper sections were bridged with wooden treads. There was a rope in place of a handrail and a sign bearing the caution, WET STONE ARE SLEPERING. I wondered if Rick had noticed it. He’d be down there already – I’d seen his battered pick-up in the car park – a sign that he belonged, if only in part, while I was merely a tourist.
The sign was right, it was slippery, and I clutched at the rope. I couldn’t see anything for a few steps, then caught a glimpse of the palest blue below; I went on, careful where I placed my feet, until I reached the bottom. I looked up and saw the cave. The water was spot-lit, creating a turquoise glow that darkened to indigo at the edges. Stalactites hung everywhere, save for a brilliant white spot where light speared through a hole in the ceiling. There were vines too, slender and dark, threading down to touch the water; then I realised they were the roots of trees growing above, outside in some other world.
The cenoté was beautiful. It was also empty: no Rick, no tourists. I wondered what it would be like to be here alone in the dark, and shuddered.
A splashing sound: there was someone down here after all. A shape spun out of the brilliant white place where the beam of sunlight hit the water. The shape turned into arms, elbows, a head. It shook itself and the spray sent shockwaves across the water.
“Get in here, Alex,” Rick called out. “It’s sweet. Wash the sweat off.”
I was wearing a swimsuit under my shirt, so I slipped it off as I headed for the pool. The water was clear, and small black fish were swimming in it. I wanted to dip my head into the cold, to dive down and see what lay beneath. I wanted to swim into the circle of light and see what happened.
Rick laughed, his voice echoing. It was too loud, too brash – too male perhaps, or just too foreign. I didn’t like it, and for a split-second, I wished him gone; then saw his grin
and found myself grinning back. We swam. He told me about his projects, what it was like to really explore, to dive the cenotés, passing from one cave into another. How they had discovered a whole new system. It was infectious, his enthusiasm, always had been. I envied him. His smile was the same as ever: clean, white, broad. His skin was smooth then, and his body was whole.
* * *
My mobile rang as I dropped off the dive tanks, and I dug for it in my rucksack. I had been out with a group off Cozumel Island. I hadn’t seen much apart from the underwater sculpture just offshore, Christ with his head thrown back towards the light, feet anchored to the seabed. Apparently it was lucky to touch the figure; I wasn’t a churchgoer but did it anyway, knowing it was pointless. I could breathe all the time, while the free-divers around me struggled to attain sufficient depth. At least their moment of contact had cost them something.
I found my mobile. I didn’t recognise the number and I didn’t recognise the voice, bubbly and distorted, as though coming up from the deep.
“It’s Kath,” she said, and I frowned; I didn’t know anyone called Kath, but couldn’t say so because she was crying and I couldn’t stop her long enough to speak.
Then I caught the word “sister”, and my stomach lurched because I did know who it was, after all. I remembered a broad, stocky girl of twelve or thirteen, her hair tied back in plaits that Rick liked to tug when his mother wasn’t looking. We had been friends back then, though I had always preferred to run with the boys.
Kath must be in her twenties now, a couple of years younger than Rick. I swallowed and stared out across the beach, the waves whipped into white-tops by the steady breeze, and I wondered when I had managed to swallow sand.
“Are you there?” she asked, and “Are you hearing me?” and she sounded so desperate I wanted to shout down the phone that no, she wasn’t alone, I was there. Instead I just croaked, “Yes?”
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