The Best New Horror 5

by Ramsay Campbell

  “You’ll do well if you ever decide to sell, Ian,” says your brother-in-law. “A lot of people would kill for a house in a place like this.”

  “I suppose so; but then I’ve always lived here, so perhaps I don’t appreciate it as much as I should.”

  “Just goes to show that what I’ve always said is true.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That beautiful countryside is wasted on the local yokels. It’s the yuppie refugees who pay through the nose that really appreciate it. The indigenous bumpkin is just as happy on an urban council estate. So long as he’s got double glazing and satellite telly he thinks he’s going up in the world.” He bellows with laughter; and in the confined interior of the car the sound is raucous and nerve-shredding. Your ears are still ringing as you turn into your driveway. Neville is out of the car even before you have freed your car keys from the ignition’s stubborn grip, and he presses the bell-push beside the front door repeatedly. He is a remarkable man, you decide. You collected him from the station less than half an hour ago, and already he has thoroughly pissed you off.

  The breeze murmurs in your ears. There are words there, but you cannot make them out. Vaguely musical, they tease your consciousness offering seductive glimpses of hidden meanings. There is something familiar in the wind-borne incantation and, although you have never heard the sound before, you know its source. You look around to where Bokovan towers above the roof-tops at the end of the village; he smiles serenely, but his gaze is directed elsewhere. Again you turn, this time to face the more distant form of Bokovan’s twin. Yusenoi also smiles, but he is looking straight at you – and his is a smile full of malice.

  Something in your memory is trying to fight its way to the surface. Something from your childhood; something relevant to this strange and sinister song in the wind.

  Alison opens the door. “Hello,” she smiles, and kisses you on the cheek. She flashes a grin at Neville, then shows you into the house and through to the lounge. It all seems somehow familiar, but you say nothing.

  “How was the journey down?” Alison asks.

  “About the same as I thought it would be. How are you, Allie?”

  “Great, never better.”

  You look around the room, still with the feeling that you know it well.

  “Anything wrong?” Neville says.

  You realise that you are frowning and, with an effort, you wipe the expression from your face, replacing it with a smile. “No, no,” you say. “Just a bit of train-lag. I could use a paracetamol though.”

  “No problem.” Neville vanishes for a moment, then returns with a pill and a glass of water.

  “Thanks.”

  “How’s Melanie?” Alison asks.

  “Okay. Working too hard as usual, but then she’s ambitious. Besides, she seems to thrive on hard graft.” As you speak a strange disorientation grips you. Your words come readily enough, almost reflexively, in answer to the questions you are asked, but your memory is hazy. You can retrieve little that is coherent from the murk in your head. It seems that details of your identity and your life only present themselves as required and cued by enquiries from your hosts. It is an unsettling feeling, and you wonder briefly if you are ill – a stroke perhaps, or some other failing in the convolutions of your brain; but apart from the clouding of your memory and the slight headache you feel quite well. You decide to say nothing; to wait and see if your head clears when you’ve rested a while.

  “No thought of starting a family yet?” Alison asks.

  “Hmm? Not yet, we’re both too busy. There’ll be plenty of time for that in a couple of years or so. We’re still young, there’s no rush.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “How about you two?” you ask.

  “Oh, I dare say we’ll produce a couple of kids eventually,” says Neville, strolling over to the patio doors and peering out. “We’ve certainly got the garden for it, and I suppose it’s either that or plastic gnomes.”

  You move to his side to take a look yourself. “Lovely,” you nod.

  “Are you a gardening man, Ian?”

  Are you? “Not really. I think DIY is perhaps more my sort of thing: I’m not a great outdoor activist.”

  “Well before we get you putting up shelves or building an extension maybe we’d better get you settled in,” says Alison.

  “Good idea,” you say. “It’s very good of you to put me up at such short notice. I hope it’s not too much of a nuisance.”

  “No bother at all. Isn’t that right Neville?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Where exactly did you say this seminar of yours is taking place?”

  “At the Royale in Telleridge, from Monday until Thursday.”

  “Very posh. You’ll do okay on the food front then. Always a good spread laid on at that sort of do, eh?”

  “So I’ve heard,” you say.

  “Anyway, young man.” Neville moves to the door and waits, obviously expecting you to follow. “I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping, then you can rest up or whatever. After a couple of hours on the train you’re probably a bit knackered. Caught the rush hour near the end, did you?”

  “Did I ever. I never knew you could fit so many people into such a small space.”

  “How’s the headache?”

  “Not so bad, thanks.”

  The guest room is comfortable and contains everything you need. Neville neglects to show you which drawers and cupboards are vacant for your use, but you know anyway. Kicking off your shoes and lying on the bed, your eyes instinctively know where to find the smiling face in the cracked ice ceiling tiles.

  In your dream time is a malleable thing, a variable that can be defined by your will, and thus you can dip into it as the whim takes you, retrieving images, events and experiences.

  Here is your wedding day. Alison radiant in white; you restless in your hired morning suit and ill-fitting hat. There is her brother, Neville; ever the centre of attention, he is pestering the photographer with opinions and suggestions about how the man should arrange his subjects to the best effect. Then he begins to herd the wedding party into their positions for the group photo.

  “This geezer is getting on my nerves,” mutters your best man. “If I get a few beers inside me later on, he could well be in for a stiff talking-to.”

  “Be my guest,” you murmur. “Just wait until Alison and I are on our way, okay.”

  “But of course. I wouldn’t want to upset the bride.”

  “There’s a good chap.”

  Neville whistles and waves to get your attention. “Ian, if you and your friend are ready I think we can get the group now. Oh, and get him to straighten his tie, will you.”

  “Unbelievable,” breathes the best man. “I hate to think what your mother-in-law’s like.”

  “I’ll introduce you,” you grin as you move to stand beside your bride.

  “Happy?” she asks.

  “Very.” You smile through gritted teeth as Neville shoulders past you to take his position in the group.

  The next day they take you to Crainham Ridge.

  “Visitors always want to see the Ridge,” says Neville as he ushers you into the Saab. “An area of outstanding natural beauty and all that.”

  You really couldn’t care less; this excursion was his idea, not yours.

  “They say natural beauty,” grumbles Neville, “but the copse just below the picnic area is far from natural.”

  “Not artificial trees, surely.” Your innocent, wide-eyed expression of amazement disguises the sarcasm in your words. You see Neville glance at your face in his rear view mirror. He looks at you for a moment through narrowed eyes, then returns his attention to the road ahead, apparently deciding that you are some kind of idiot.

  “No,” he says, “but they were planted there by men, not by nature. They say it’s one of the earliest known areas of cultivated forestation in Europe.”

  What the hell is he talking about?

  “Really?”

>   “Actually,” Alison smiles, “every time I go up to the Ridge it reminds me of the downs at Neighwick where we used to do our courting.” She giggles and Neville’s ears redden.

  Conversation dies as the scenery becomes progressively more spectacular. By the time each new and dramatic feature of the terrain is revealed, you already have a detailed picture of it in your mind. The end of the journey brings profound relief, and you climb from the car breathing deeply of the fresh, slightly damp air.

  Alison and Neville stand in front of the car, gazing out over the valley; her arm is around his waist, and one of his hands rests upon her buttock. As you look he squeezes her behind and glances over his shoulder to grin at you. You hate him without really knowing why. There is something more than just his overall obnoxiousness, but somehow you just can’t –

  Alison is chattering away happily. “. . . just like it, the way the whole world seems to be set out before you. We really must come up more often. If anything, the view here is even prettier than at Neighwick.”

  “Not that we ever spent too much time looking at the sights,” Neville leers, nudging her as if the coarse suggestiveness of his remark needs further emphasis.

  Alison’s embarrassed scolding fades into the background.

  Once again there is music in the wind. You are helpless, utterly at the mercy of the wandering zephyr that blows you tumbling across the miles and years.

  You are on Neighwick Down, lying on your back in the rippling grass, gazing at the cotton wisps that litter the otherwise immaculate blue of the summer sky. Alison’s head is upon your chest, and the vibrations from her voice tickle you when she speaks.

  “When are we going to do it?”

  “What?”

  “The wedding; when are we going to do it?”

  You sigh. “As soon as you like.”

  “Don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

  “Sorry. I just wish it was all over and we were already married. I can’t pretend I’m looking forward to all that fuss and carry-on. I would rather it was over so we could be on our own.”

  Her hand strays mischievously across your thigh. “We are on our own,” she giggles. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You’re just shy, Ian. That’s what it is; you’re scared of having to stand up in front of all those people to make a speech.”

  “Next month.”

  “What? Next month what?”

  “The wedding. I’ve got some vacation due. Give me time to get the honeymoon booked and we’ll see whether I’m scared or not.”

  “Really?” She sits up and faces you with wide eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “Come here.” You slip a hand under her tee shirt and pull her down on top of you. “And I’ll show you how serious I am.”

  “Ian?”

  “Mmm? Oh . . . I beg your pardon.”

  “Neville said we’d better go. Look . . .” Alison points up at the grey cloud that has crept from behind the hills. You can feel the first hint of rain in the breeze; each tiny droplet makes you flinch as if you had a nervous twitch.

  “What a shame, we’ve only just arrived.”

  “Well we’ve had ten minutes, so it could have been worse. At least you got a look at the view before the weather spoiled.”

  Ten minutes? Surely not. You must have been daydreaming.

  Perhaps you should abandon your plans to attend the seminar. The disorientation is worsening, and with it the fear that there might be something seriously wrong with you. You find yourself unable to broach the subject with Alison and her husband: you feel unaccountably embarrassed by the ailment. But it is only the search for an adequate excuse that keeps you from returning home and consulting your own physician. As it is, you plead migraine again, and retire early for the second time.

  You wake in darkness, for a moment totally confused as to where you are. The onset of panic is halted by a sound that emerges from the night, giving you something to focus on. Equilibrium and orientation come slowly: you are in your sister’s house; you are in bed. Thumbing the backlight button on your watch restores your sense of location in time and space.

  The sounds from the night continue. You strain your ears trying to identify the source, and recognise with a shock the sounds of lovemaking from beyond the wall at your head. Vocal and mechanical, the rhythm is unmistakable. Your cheeks burn with shame at this accidental intrusion upon your hosts’ privacy. The covers you pull up around your ears do little to obscure the sound. Now you know its origin it is somehow inescapable: it continues to grow in both volume and abandon despite your efforts to block it out with hands and bed linen. The world is filled with the tumultuous noise of fucking.

  In an attempt to escape, you go downstairs and into the cool of the garden. You sit on the bench there, resting an elbow on the heavy black iron arm. Light from nearby street lamps and from the curtained windows of neighbourhood insomniacs spills onto the lawn, casting pale shadows on the paler ground. Looking up at the faint blue-grey-black sky, you think you can make out a shape standing out against the heavens. The shape is indistinct in the poor light, but there is something familiar about that huge and vague form. At last all becomes silent, except for the whispering breeze.

  The night is cool rather than chill, and it isn’t long before your eyelids start to feel heavy. How can you be certain whether it is reality or dream when the wind becomes stronger, and begins to carry snatches of deep, mocking laughter to you.

  Your father’s face is stern; you know that what he has to say must be important. As the two of you sit in the conservatory, you try hard to keep your attention from straying into the lounge where your brother David sits watching Blue Peter. You push all thoughts of John Noakes’s parachute jump from your mind: if your father catches you thinking about television while he’s talking you’ll get a hiding.

  “We have a good life here,” he says. “We are well looked after, and we want for little. You must learn to be properly grateful – we all have to learn.”

  “You mean like saying prayers?”

  His smile encourages you; you said the right thing.

  “Sort of, Ian, yes. But it’s not just God we have to thank for what we have here in Galham.” He gazes up at the figure atop the distant rostrum which can be glimpsed between the houses at the end of your garden.

  “Bokovan and Yusenoi . . .”

  “Yes, son. Or in our case, just Bokovan.”

  It is no longer an effort to keep your attention on the conversation – your mind hums with activity; it has become an efficient production line, manufacturing questions at the rate of one a second. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about them,” you say.

  “Well, no. But the brothers allow a certain amount of discretion in these things.” He hesitates; the lull is agonising. You ache with the need to know about Bokovan and Yusenoi.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “There’s really not much to know – not much we’re allowed to know. For the things they give us: long life, health, success in the outside world and all the rest, they expect little in return. However, nothing under the sun comes totally free, and the brothers’ gifts are no exception.”

  Can there be something in his tone that, despite the words, suggests resentment?

  “People who come here from outside – even the ones who stay – do not see Bokovan and Yusenoi. That’s why those of us who do see them must watch our tongues.”

  “So secrecy is what we have to give in return,” you say.

  “It’s called discretion – but you’ve got it right. The other part of the price is something that each of us has to go through, but only once in our lifetime.”

  “What is it?”

  “The form it takes is always different. One day something unusual, probably bad, will happen. What you must remember is that if you endure it and still retain your gratitude and faith in Bokovan, all will turn out well in the end. Even if it seems that your world is coming apart,
everything will be all right, if you trust him and endure the test.”

  Despite your questions that spill out, he says little more, just asks you to repeat what he has told you until he is satisfied that you have taken it in.

  He pauses just long enough to answer a couple more questions.

  “Why do they test us like that?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. A slight smile grows around his mouth. “Your grandfather once said he thought the brothers must have a bet going on who will pass and who will crack.” He sees your bewildered expression and chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a real reason for it.” His smile fades, and he murmurs: “There has to be . . .” He gets up and opens the door to the garden.

  “Dad.”

  “Yes?”

  “What happens to the people who don’t make it?”

  “They leave Galham,” he says over his shoulder.

  Something occurs to him as he steps out into the sunshine, and he turns back to face you; but his words are drowned out by the wind that springs up from nowhere . . .

  . . . The wind that wakes you with the same laughter that hounded you into sleep. And then it is gone; faded in the time it took you to sit upright on the bench. It is after dawn, and now you feel the cold.

  With the return of consciousness comes realisation, the beginnings of understanding.

  The feeling of relief that you feel as you wave goodbye to Neville is almost overwhelming. You stand at the end of your driveway with an arm around your wife’s shoulders. The taxi recedes until a bend in the road obliterates both it and your brother-in-law from your life. Alison smiles up at you.

  “Nice to have the place to ourselves again, even if he is my brother.”

  “Absolutely. That’s the nice thing about visitors; they bugger off sooner or later.”

  “Oh, Ian!” She slaps you, but at the same time hugs you with the arm that holds your waist.

  As she breaks away from you to go indoors, you pause and look up at the great, towering shape of Bokovan. He is smiling serenely down upon you. There is more than just gratitude and relief in the cocktail of emotions that seethes within you – there is also smugness that you survived your testing.