The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 17

by Stephen Jones

  Here? Sam’s mind was so fogged, his head aching so bad, that it took him several moments to remember walking into the saloon and drinking the saspa . . . sarsa . . . His mind couldn’t form the word.

  But that had been around six o’clock. The sun had still been strong. So how the hell did it get to be sunset so fast? he wondered in a panic. And what are you doing on the ground?

  The scorpion remained poised on his hand. A terrible taste in Sam’s mouth made him start to retch. No! Don’t move! Don’t scare it!

  The heat of the sunset was against his back. As the blood-tinted light dimmed, he stifled the urge to be sick and stared breathlessly at the scorpion’s stinger, which wavered, rose, and seemed about to dart toward his skin. But instead of jabbing him, the scorpion eased forward. One by one, its tickling legs shifted toward the sand.

  The instant it was gone, Sam rolled violently in the opposite direction, came to his knees, vomited, and frantically realized that there might be other scorpions around him. Scrambling to his feet, he swatted at his clothes and felt something hard fly off him. Jesus, did it sting you? He stared at his hands but saw no swelling and felt no fire. Trembling, he wiped mucus from his lips but couldn’t free the terrible taste from his mouth. Like rotten potatoes. He vomited again, rubbed more mucus from his mouth, and stared around in frightened confusion.

  The town had vanished. No, not completely, he realized. In the swiftly paling sunset, he saw a few charred boards projecting from the sand. Part of a wagon wheel lay among rocks. The ribcage of what might have been a horse was partially exposed next to a mound that could have been collapsed mud-and-straw bricks from a chimney.

  What the hell happened? he thought. Continuing to turn, scanning his surroundings, he whimpered with relief when he saw his Explorer. Then the air became grey, and he stumbled toward his car, desperately hurrying despite stiff legs, lest he lose his way if darkness suddenly overcame him.

  When he opened the driver’s door, the heat in the car shoved him, prompting another attack of dry heaves. He grabbed a bottle of water from next to his briefcase, rinsed his mouth, spat, couldn’t get rid of the taste of rotten potatoes, waited for the spasms to stop, and sipped. Abruptly, he was so thirsty that he finished the bottle before he knew what he’d done. Apprehensive, he waited for his stomach to spew it out. Seconds passed. Slowly, he relaxed.

  After he managed to buckle his seat belt, he had an irrational fear that the car wouldn’t start. But a twist of the ignition key instantly engaged the engine. He turned on the headlights. Ahead, he saw sand, rocks, and diseased cactuses, their limbs drooping. But only the tips of charred boards, along with the few other things he’d noticed, gave any indication of where the town had been.

  Damn it, what happened? he thought. Immediately, he grasped at a possible answer. Maybe this isn’t the same place. Maybe you collapsed, and somebody moved you.

  But that didn’t make sense, either. Why would anybody have moved him? He stared out the windshield toward the shadowy outline of a hill that resembled the hill behind which the town had been situated. On each side of the hill, in the distance, tiny lights drifted through the darkness. In pairs. Headlights. The highway. More evidence that this was the same place where the town had been.

  But it couldn’t be. His head pounded. Nothing made sense. Having wondered if someone had moved him, he now recalled the solitary dust cloud that had followed him along the road. Surely, whoever was in the car would have found him. After all, the road went directly past where the Explorer was parked. Anyone following couldn’t possibly have failed to notice it and the town.

  At once, Sam shivered as he realized that, among the rocks, sand, diseased cactuses, and occasional tips of charred boards, the one thing his headlights didn’t show was the road. That’s impossible! he thought, shivering so hard now that he worried he might have a fever. It wasn’t much of a road, but you couldn’t miss it. Damn it, the road was here!

  Debbie, he thought. Lori. They expect you to be home soon. He pulled his cell phone from its case on his belt, pressed the “start” button, and moaned when it failed to respond. He tried again. Nothing happened. That’s all you need, he thought. You left it on too long. The battery’s dead.

  Debbie, he thought. He put the car in gear. As his headlights pierced the darkness, he navigated around rocks and cactuses. Passing the hill, he lurched over bumps toward the headlights of smoothly moving traffic on I–10. Then he stopped and felt sick again as he came to a dirt road that ran parallel to the highway. It had to be the same road he’d followed. Heading in this direction, he’d seen only one. The map had indicated there was only one. But how in God’s name could the road now be in front of the hill instead of veering behind it?

  The house was dark when he got there. Good, Sam thought. They didn’t stay up, waiting for you. He’d done his best to get home quickly, but several times, he felt sick again and pulled to the side of the highway until he felt better. Now the time was shortly after midnight. His head pounding worse, he reached to press the garage-door opener but quickly changed his mind. The garage was under Lori’s bedroom. The rumble might waken her. Then Lori might waken Debbie, and he didn’t know how to tell them what had happened. Hell, if he didn’t understand it, how could they? Feeling hungover, straining to think clearly, he parked in the driveway, remembered to take his briefcase, walked past murky bushes, and fumbled to unlock the front door.

  Shadows revealed stairs leading up to the bedroom area. On the right was the large living room that they hardly ever used. On the left was the family area with a big-screen TV. In back was the kitchen. Sam made his way in that direction, setting his briefcase on a counter. He turned on the lights, poured a glass of water, finished it in three gulps, and noticed the dried vomit on his shirt. In fact, he smelled it. Jesus, if Debbie saw him like this . . .

  He yanked off his shirt and hurried into the bathroom next to the kitchen. There wasn’t a tub or a shower. But at least he could fill the sink and wipe a soapy washcloth over his face, then rinse his mouth and cheeks with warm water. Toweling himself, feeling almost human, he returned to the kitchen and faltered when he saw Lori.

  Her hair was in pig tails. She wore her Winnie the Pooh pajamas and her fuzzy, bunny slippers. She rubbed her sleepy eyes.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “Sorry if I woke you. Are you thirsty? I’ll get you a glass of water while you tell me about the party.”

  She screamed and raced into the family room.

  “Lori?”

  Screaming louder, she scrambled up the stairs.

  “Lori, it’s me.” He ran after her. “It’s Dad. What’s wrong? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  A door banged open, followed by loud voices and urgent footsteps.

  “Lori?”

  Stair lights came on. A muscular man in boxer shorts lunged into view at the top of the stairs.

  “Who the hell are you?” Sam asked.

  “No,” the man growled, charging down the stairs. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? How’d you get in?”

  Behind the man, Debbie appeared. She wore a hastily put-on housecoat open at the middle, showing the panties and tee-shirt she liked to sleep in. Her red hair was silhouetted by the light up there as she held Lori.

  “Debbie?” Sam asked. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Call the police!” the man yelled.

  “Debbie, what’s –”

  The man reached the bottom of the stairs and punched Sam’s stomach, knocking him to the floor.

  Landing hard, Sam groaned and fought to catch his breath. He tried to explain, but the man kicked his side, making him roll against an end table that crashed in the shadows. At once, the man stumbled back, hopping, holding a bare foot that he’d injured when he’d kicked Sam. The man knocked a lamp over.

  “Hurry!” Debbie blurted into a phone. “He’s trying to kill my husband!”

  Lori screamed again.

  Sam struggled to his feet. He
saw the man lower his injured foot and pick up the broken lamp to throw at him. He saw Debbie pleading into the phone and Lori screaming. He yanked the front door open and raced into the darkness.

  What the hell is . . .

  Although the confusion of Sam’s emotions made him sweat, his shirtless back felt cold against the driver’s seat. Speeding from the neighborhood, he heard approaching sirens. He tried to judge the direction from which they came, but no matter which street he took, the sirens wailed nearer, prompting him to steer into a driveway, turn off the engine and the headlights, and slide down out of sight. Fifteen seconds later, flashing lights sped past.

  The moment he couldn’t see them, he restarted the car and backed onto the street, moving in the opposite direction. Jesus, you’re losing your mind, he thought.

  “Debbie, it’s Sam,” he said anxiously into the pay phone.

  “Who?”

  “Quit kidding around. Who is that guy? Why did you and Lori pretend you don’t know me?”

  “We don’t! We’ve never seen you before! For Gods sake, stop this! Leave us alone!”

  “I’m serious. Are you punishing me for missing Lori’s party, for not being home enough, is that it? If you’re trying to scare me—”

  The phone made bumping noises. A gruff voice came on the line. “This is Sgt Malone of the Phoenix police department. The penalty for stalking—”

  Sam broke the connection.

  “No non-smoking rooms,” the motel clerk said.

  Sam’s stomach ached where he’d been punched. Nauseous again, too exhausted to try anywhere else, he murmured, “Whatever you’ve got.” His sport coat had been in the Explorer. He wore it buttoned and held the lapels together, concealing his bare chest.

  “Fill out this form. All I need is your credit card.”

  Sam gave it to him, then finished the form. But when he glanced up, the clerk was frowning.

  “Something wrong?” Sam asked.

  “The credit-card company won’t accept this card.”

  “What?”

  “I tried twice.”

  “Try again. There’s got to be a mistake. Maybe your scanning machine’s broken.”

  “Worked ten minutes ago.” The clerk slid the card through the scanner and studied an indicator on the machine. “Nope. Still won’t take it.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “If you say so, but I can’t rent you a room without a card.”

  “Cash. You still take cash, don’t you?”

  “As long as you don’t use the phone or charge incidentals. Eighty-five dollars.”

  Sam reached into his pocket and came out with two fives.

  SHEPERTON ENTERPRISES.

  The Explorer’s headlights blazed across the large, empty parking lot. At two in the morning, most of the windows in the two-story glass-and-metal building were dark. Exterior lights compensated, so harsh that they aggravated Sam’s headache. Barely able to keep his eyes open, he almost parked in the executive area, but then he realized that this was the first place the police would look.

  Trembling, he drove from the building and stopped at an apartment complex a block away. Staying in shadows as much as possible, he walked back to Sheperton Enterprises, where he couldn’t avoid the lights as he unlocked the side door and entered the building. Before closing the door, he glanced behind him. No flashing lights sped across the parking lot. No one had seen him.

  On his left, an intrusion detector gave off a warning beep that stopped as he tapped in the security code. He headed up echoing stairs toward the executive offices and their view of a nearby golf course. He unlocked his office, went inside, and kept the lights off as he relocked the door. Huge windows had blinds that he shut. He always kept a shaving kit and a change of clothes here. Tomorrow morning, he could make himself presentable in the washroom down the hall. For now, all he cared about was lying down, trying to understand, trying to make his head stop pounding.

  Feeling his way to the couch, he told himself, Sleep. That’s all you need. If you can get some sleep, you’ll be able to figure this out.

  Voices woke him. He struggled to rouse himself from the darkest sleep he’d ever known. As the voices grew louder, he jerked his eyes open, bolted up from the couch, and found two security guards scowling at him while several men and women stood behind them.

  “Buddy, how’d you get in here?” a guard asked.

  “How’d I . . .? I work here. This is my office.”

  “Not likely, friend,” the other guard said. “Not when it belongs to Ms Taylor.” He pointed over his shoulder toward a slender, blond woman.

  “Ms Taylor? Who on earth is . . .? Look, I’m Sam Wentworth and—”

  “Never heard of you.” The second guard turned toward the people behind him. “Anybody here heard of somebody named Sam Wentworth?”

  Puzzled murmurs of “no”. Several people shook their head from side to side.

  “Never heard of me?”

  “Take it easy, buddy.”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve worked here nine years! I’ve been Joe’s vice-president since he started the business! Who the hell are those people?”

  “I said, take it easy, buddy. Don’t make this worse. The police’ll be here soon. You can sort this out at the police station.”

  “If I didn’t work here, how did I get in? How did I get the keys to this building and my office?”

  “You tell me,” the first guard said. “What did you do, steal them and have copies made? Hand them over.”

  “Where’s Joe? Ask Joe! He’ll tell you I work for him! He’ll tell you I’m his vice-president!”

  “We would, except that if you’re as close to him as you claim, you’d know he’s in Europe.”

  “On my desk! There’s a photo of me and my wife and little girl!” Sam hurried over to show them. But what he saw was a photo of the slender, blond woman behind the guards. She had a geeky-looking man on her right and two children – twin girls – on her left.

  He screamed.

  “Your name’s Sam Wentworth,” the detective said.

  “Yes.”

  “Your wife’s name is Debbie, and your daughter’s name is Lori, both of whom live in the house your broke into last night.”

  “I didn’t break in! I had a key!”

  “And how did you get the key?”

  “I’ve always had the key!”

  “The same as you always had the keys to Sheperton Enterprises.”

  “Yes! As long as I’ve worked there! For the past nine years! And the house is new for us! We’ve only owned it eight months! That’s how long I’ve had the key! Look, I can prove I work for Sheperton Enterprises! Check the documents in the briefcase I left at my house!”

  “We’ll get to the briefcase in a second. For now, apart from the unlawful entry charges, the ID you gave us is fake.”

  “What?”

  “Your social security number belongs to a man named Walter Barry.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Who lives in Seattle. The birth place and date you gave us don’t pan out, either.”

  “My briefcase! Look in my briefcase!”

  “I already did. It’s empty.”

  “. . . name’s Sam Wentworth.”

  “Debbie. I’ve been married eleven years. My daughter’s name is . . .”

  “Joe Sheperton. I’ve been his vice-president for . . .”

  Mystery Man Still Not Identified

  PHOENIX, AZ (May 14)–Authorities continue to be baffled about the identity of a man who broke into a home a year ago and was subsequently discovered sleeping in an office in the real-estate development firm of Sheperton Enterprises.

  “He claims to be my vice-president, but I’ve never laid eyes on the guy,” Joe Sheperton said.

  “He says he’s my husband,” Debbie Bolan told reporters, “but I’ve been happily married to my husband Ward for the past eleven years. To the best of my knowledge, I’ve never met this Sam Wentworth.
I have no idea why he’s fixated on me and my daughter. He scares me. I don’t know what I’m going to do if they let him go.”

  “I’ve never encountered a situation like this,” Dr Philip Kincaid, chief of staff for the Maricopa Mental Health Facility, explained. “After a year, we still haven’t been able to identify the man who calls himself Sam Wentworth. The FBI has no record of his fingerprints. Neither do any branches of the US military. There haven’t been any DNA matches. The social security number he insists on using doesn’t belong to him. There’s no record that he was born when and where he claims. Nor is there any record of the man and woman he insists are his parents. He claims he has a business degree from UCLA. There’s no record of that, either. It’s as if he spontaneously appeared with no ties to the past. But of course that’s not possible. At first, we classified him as an amnesiac. But he keeps insisting that something happened to him in a town in the desert, a town that doesn’t exist we found out, so we’re now treating him as delusional, as a schizophrenic with catatonic tendencies. All he does is murmur to himself and read history books.”

  . . . which brings us to one of the least known and most fascinating puzzles of southern Arizona in the nineteenth century: the fate of the town of Meridian. Located along the old stage-coach route between Tucson and Phoenix, Meridian was founded in 1882 by the religious zealot Ebenezer Cartwright, who led a band of pilgrims from Rhode Island in search of what he called the Land of Salvation. After two years of wandering, Cartwright finally settled in the Arizona desert because, as he told a passing stage-coach driver, “its heat will perpetually remind us of the flames and peril of everlasting Hell.” His statement turned out to be prophetic inasmuch as, exactly one year after Meridian came into existence, it was destroyed in a fire. Cartwright chose the town’s name, he said, to describe “the highest point of the burning sun, which encourages us to strive for the highest points of human endeavor.” Whatever his intentions, the reverse turned out to be the case, for during Meridian’s brief existence, stage-coach drivers reached Tucson and Phoenix with rumors about a hell town in the desert in which debauchery and drunkenness knew no bounds. Since no one survived the fire, we can only conjecture about Meridian’s fate. Perhaps Ebenezer Cartwright’s only purpose was to isolate his devoted followers in the middle of nowhere and use them for his own twisted ends. Or perhaps the relentless heat of the desert drove the community insane. After a stage-coach driver reached Phoenix, claiming a false name as well as a home, a wife, and a son that weren’t his (delusions that were no doubt the consequence of heat stroke), other drivers avoided the ruins. “Old Cartwright’s still out there, trying to suck out our souls,” one of them said. Only the desert, which shows a few scorched boards and remnants of wagons and walls of the ghost town, knows the truth.