The Future of Horror

by Jonathan Oliver

  He came to the gates of the house, but almost passed them by. Since his last visit, a mass of ivy and other creeping plants had grown across the twisted railings. Rick briefly thought that this was not the right place, that it was another entrance, perhaps one that led to an abandoned or derelict house, but he squinted across at the satnav, where confirmation of his destination was shown. He slammed on the brakes immediately, causing the painted trailer behind the Volvo to skid on the muddy surface, swinging around to the side.

  He left the car where it had halted and pushed open the gate. He walked up the waterlogged drive, stepping over several fallen small branches. On each side of the drive the bushes and plants were overgrown and drooping, with weeds springing up all over the surface of the driveway. To one side, what looked as if it had once been a lawn with surrounding flowerbeds was a riot of tumultuous weeds, mostly bare and brown in the winter air.

  The house, which he could see ahead, did not look ruinous, but it was clearly in need of urgent repair work. Some of the bricks were loose, with many gaps in the mortar, the painted doors and window frames were peeling, and several slates were missing from the roof. The windows were dull, as if they had not been washed in years. One was broken and had been roughly repaired with cardboard.

  There was no sign of a doorbell, so he hammered on the door with his fist. After a long pause the door eased open. Someone peered at him through the crack, then scraped the door wide open.

  It was a woman, wearing a woollen pullover, blue jeans and a tweed cap.

  “I have come to see Madame de Morganet,” Rick said. “I was told she has a package for me.”

  “And you are – ?”

  “Rick. Just say it is Rick.”

  “May I have your surname?”

  “Rick will do. She knows who I am.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  The woman turned away and bent down, and almost immediately came back holding a valise, which Rick recognized as being Dennis’s.

  “Madame de Morganet is resting and is not receiving visitors today,” she said. “But she has instructed me to tell you that the bag contains everything Mr O’Leary brought with him, as well as what was agreed. You will have to sign for it.”

  “That’s all right.”

  She handed over a pen and a blank scrap of paper, on which Rick dutifully tried to scribble, resting the paper against the peeling wall of the wooden porch.

  “Madame has asked me to convey her sincere thanks to you, Rick,” the woman said while he was still trying to get the pen to write. “She was pleased and satisfied with your arrangements.”

  “Is Dennis here?” he said, as he handed the pen and paper back to her.

  “Mr O’Leary left the house during the night.” She stared at him noncommittally.

  “Left? Where did he go?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It’s a matter for Monsieur and Madame.”

  He hefted the valise on to his shoulder. “Look, should Dennis turn up, would you ask him to phone me as soon as possible?”

  But the door was already closing, the warped old wood scraping against the stone flags. He heard her say, just as the door closed with a double push from inside, “Mr O’Leary’s phone is inside the bag.”

  Rick set off down the drive. As he walked, he eased open the top cover of the valise, and reached inside. He felt the hard weight of the laptop, the plastic case of the mobile phone, clothes and a bathroom bag. He groped deeper and found what he was seeking: many neatly packed wads of banknotes, satisfyingly crisp, down at the bottom of the bag.

  He walked past Madame de Morganet’s display board, but did not glance at it. He opened the passenger door of the Volvo, put the valise on the front seat, then went back to look.

  Unlike the untidy, weed-filled state of the garden, the sign looked clean and cared for, the glass shining in the wintry sunlight. He read her claimed list of ‘atchievements,’ then noticed the final line:

  ...Actuarial Calculations, Tax Returns, Law of Probate, Law of Property, Law of Torts, Illusionism and Prestidigitation...

  There was a blank area near the bottom, as if to leave room for more skills to be added, then a telephone number.

  Rick climbed back inside the car, started the engine and waited for the heater to warm him up. He reached deep into the valise, tossing Dennis’s possessions on the car floor, then removed all the wads of notes and counted them. Each one contained £1,000 in mixed notes, and there were thirty of them in all.

  He put the money away, out of sight, and sat in the car, thinking. He inspected the laptop, which booted normally when he tried. The mobile phone’s battery was low, but nevertheless the handset switched on. There were no text messages for Dennis, he had no missed calls.

  Finally, he climbed out of the car and took all Dennis’s clothes and personal possessions and placed them inside the trailer. He folded the royal-blue suit neatly. He then locked the trailer, unhooked it from the car and left it where it was, askew across the muddy lane. He put the old Volvo in gear and drove away slowly along the lane, past the weed-filled grounds of the house, beneath the winter-bare trees, against the rising green shoulders of the South Downs, under a brightening sky.

  THE DOLL’S HOUSE

  JONATHAN GREEN

  Some of you may know Jonathan Green better as the mild-mannered author of Abaddon’s long-running steampunk series, Pax Britannia, but within this gentlemen of words beats a dark heart. ‘The Doll’s House’ is in the tradition of the more gruesome stories found in the old Pan Book of Horror series, but while there is most certainly a shock here of the most gruesome kind, this is also a meticulously crafted piece of horror fiction; one that will draw you quickly into its dark influence.

  THE HOUSE IS an unremarkable, mid-terrace, Edwardian build that the estate agents described as “a spacious and skilfully extended, four bed period property in a central location.” In truth the kitchen is smaller than Jen would have liked, there’s no off-street parking, the Tube is a good fifteen minutes’ walk away, and the fourth bedroom is little more than a box room.

  But it’s nice enough, in need of a little repainting – and most of that’s upstairs, the previous owners having given the downstairs a sprucing up to get people through the door – but nothing major, and it’s a step up from the two-bed maisonette they moved into before Toby was born. The box room will be big enough for the new baby, when it arrives, and hopefully they won’t have to think about moving again for a good few years.

  And so they sign on the dotted line and after a fretful few weeks they’re finally standing in the hallway of their new home, keys in hand, idiot smiles on their faces, their arms around each other. Toby’s already out doing laps of the postage stamp of grass that passes for a garden, squealing with delight.

  Chris turns to her, looking like the excited twenty-something she first met at Uni all those years ago. “We’ve done it!” he says, a boyish twinkle in his eyes again. “We’ve really done it! I can’t believe it’s ours!”

  He pulls her close, taking care not to squeeze her too tight now that her bump’s showing, and they kiss.

  They only stop kissing when there is the sharp rap at the front door and a burly shadow appears through the glass panels. The removal men are here.

  IT’S THE ISOLATION she finds hardest to cope with.

  Toby goes to Nursery three mornings a week and is keen to help her with the re-decorating whenever she’ll let him. And although his efforts can only be described as patchy at best, his indefatigable enthusiasm encourages her to keep at it herself.

  The two of them paint his room first, choosing the colour scheme together. She even braves IKEA one afternoon, while Chris is at work – he hates IKEA at the best of times – but with Toby in tow, picking out his first big boy’s bed and putting it together that same day. When Chris gets in that evening, Jen’s just putting on the new dinosaur duvet cover and matching pillow case, while Toby’s having his bath.

  “Dad
a! Dada!” Toby shouts, hearing the door go downstairs.

  “Alright, buddy?” Chris’s voice comes from the hallway below.

  Jen smiles, straightening the corners of the duvet cover as she lays it on the new bed.

  She hears the thud of Chris’s bag on the polished floorboards and the clatter of him kicking off his shoes before he bounds up the stairs to see his son.

  “Dada! Dada! I’ve got a big boy’s bed!”

  “Have you, Toby?” she hears Chris say over the excited splash of bathwater. “So did you and Mummy go shopping today?”

  “Yeah. We went to the big yellow shop.”

  “IKEA?”

  “Yeah. High-KEA. An’ I got a big boy’s bed and went on the slide.”

  “You went on a slide?”

  And then he’s there, slipping his arms around her bulging belly, making her jump. She hadn’t heard him come into Toby’s bedroom behind her.

  “And did Mummy have fun at IKEA?” he asks, kissing the back of her neck.

  “Hello,” she says, struggling to turn around within his embrace, kissing him on the lips. The aroma of his aftershave still lingers upon him but she can also taste the chocolate muffin he’s obviously enjoyed on the way home. “Good day?”

  “Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Could’ve been worse. But enough about me. I want to hear all about your adventures at IKEA.”

  “It wasn’t that exciting.” She smiles.

  “You don’t say. Looks good,” he says, releasing her at last and running a discerning hand over the white laminated chipboard.

  And then he turns back to face her, concern written large on his face. “You didn’t overdo it, did you? Lugging this up here?” he says, eyeing the pile of flat-packed cardboard and broken polystyrene in the middle of floor.

  “No, of course not. I’m fine. Anyway, Toby helped me.”

  “But just the same.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Besides, you know me. I can’t stand sitting around here doing nothing.”

  He grins again. “You can’t stand sitting…?”

  “You know what I mean,” she says, slapping him playfully on the arm.

  “So, what have you got planned for tomorrow? Painting the Forth Bridge?”

  “The baby’s room.”

  “Okay, but there is such a thing as doing too much. You don’t want to go getting overtired.”

  “And I won’t. In fact I was going to cook us some supper while you put your son to bed, and then I thought I might have an early night.”

  “Oh, yeah?” her husband says, an excited teenager smile on his face, encircling her in his arms once again.

  “Yes, while you go through all those reports, or whatever it is you’ve brought home with you.”

  “Oh. Really?” He looks at her with what he clearly thinks are appealing, puppy dog eyes.

  “Really. You know you’ll be annoyed if you have to take them back again tomorrow unlooked at.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And besides, you don’t want me getting overtired, do you?”

  “Dada! Dada!” Toby shouts from the bathroom. “Watch this!”

  “Come on, let me go. Your son wants you.”

  SO MUCH MORE aware is she, now, of the impact the new baby with have on their lives, that she makes the most of that glorious phase between being virtually crippled by morning sickness – with Toby miming vomiting every time he walks past the loo – and being so big she can’t even see her own feet to tie her shoelaces.

  She and Toby paint the baby’s room between them and the three-year-old seems very pleased to have played his part, even if more paint ended up on him than the walls. But by the time the two of them have finished, the box room has been transformed into a vision of soft lavender, finished with cuddly animal-themed detailing.

  The last room to see a fresh lick of paint is the master bedroom. The guest room that was put in the attic by the previous owners will have to wait, just as will the clean white canvas that they’ve inherited on the ground floor.

  And then that time is gone in the blink of an eye, or so it seems, and she’s feeling like a bloated whale again, the water retention making her curse the celebs that adorn her glossy weeklies with their personal-trainer-and-nanny-bought perfect post-baby bodies.

  She can’t see her feet anymore and resigns herself to several weeks of back ache, haemorrhoids and half a dozen trips to the bathroom during the night.

  THE BABY, WHEN it comes, is almost two weeks late. The labour itself isn’t half as gruelling as it was with Toby, and the birth leaves her with a feeling of optimistic euphoria and utter joy. She now has a daughter as well as a son. A matching set.

  Chris brings Toby in to see the baby the next day, having had a chance to go home, get some sleep and freshen up the night before while Jen and Emilia – Emmie for short – spent their first night together in hospital.

  Toby looks so angelic, with his curly blond locks, and as he kisses his baby sister gently on the forehead, Jen is overwhelmed by emotion.

  After only a couple of trauma-free days in hospital – made more comfortable by Chris stumping up for a private room – they’re pulling up outside the house to be greeted by a gaggle of curious neighbours, Chris’s mum and dad beaming at them from the doorstep.

  Toby helped make the banner that’s been pinned to the cornicing in the sitting room. It reads ‘Welcome Home Emmie’ in big bold day-glow letters. Seeing it makes Jen start to cry all over again.

  “SO, HOW ARE things?” her mother asks several weeks later.

  She’s looking well. Jen wishes she could say the same about herself. Her mum’s lost weight and has a glorious tan that her white sleeveless top shows off to good effect. But then a six week cruise of the Caribbean will do that.

  Jen carefully puts down her coffee on the kitchen counter and takes a deep breath before answering.

  “I told you, Mum, everything’s fine.”

  “Are you sure, dear? Only you sounded a little – how shall I put this? – a little stressed when we spoke on the phone.”

  “Oh you know how it is. Toby had jam all over his face and I didn’t want him getting any of it on the new sofa.”

  “Why you chose a white sofa with a little one around and a new baby in the house, I’ll never know.”

  “It’s champagne.”

  “What is?”

  “The colour of the sofa. It’s champagne, not white.”

  Her mother huffs in irritation. “I don’t know. Why do they have to make up all these ridiculous names for things these days? What’s wrong with ‘white’?”

  “Because it isn’t white.”

  “Cream, then.”

  “I told you,” Jen says with forced calm, “in the brochure it’s classed as champagne.”

  “Still a silly colour to choose when you’ve got little ones, no matter what you call it,” her mother mutters into her coffee.

  Jen takes a deep breath before counting to ten. “Anyway,” she says with a sigh, “moving on…”

  “Are you sure you’re alright?”

  “Look, I told you, I’m fine.”

  “Only you look tired.”

  “Of course I’m tired!” Jen suddenly snaps. “What did you expect? I spend all day running around after an active three year-old and a six week-old baby. There’s shopping, laundry and cleaning to be done, and don’t even mention the ironing. I’m more fully employed than Chris is at work! And now Toby’s started playing up...” Jen lets out her pent-up frustrations in a loud sigh, her shoulders sagging. “The honeymoon period’s definitely over.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I think he’s jealous. And he’s getting rather naughty.”

  “Not my little boy, surely? Anyway, I thought he was going to Nursery five mornings a week.”

  At that moment, heralded by the rattle of keys, the front door bangs open and Toby charges down the hall and into the kitchen.

  “Nana!” he exclaims i
n delight, throwing his arms around his grandmother’s legs.

  In response, Jen’s mother bundles him up in her arms, giving him a huge bear-hug.

  “And how’s my little sausage?” she asks, kissing him noisily on the cheek and provoking a flurry of giggles.

  “Nana, we’ve been to the park!” the toddler manages to tell her at last, once he’s got his breath back. “And I went on the swings and the slide and the see-saw two times. And me and Dada played football!”

  “Goodness me, you have been busy boys.”

  “Hi, Julia, how are you?” Chris asks, entering the kitchen laden down with Toby’s scooter and the football. Putting an arm around his mother-in-law’s shoulders he plants a kiss on her cheek. “You’re looking well!”

  “Yeah, well six weeks in the Caribbean will do that to you,” Jen mutters under her breath.

  “It’s great to see you. How was the holiday? Have you been here long? Have you met Emmie yet?”

  “No, not yet,” Jen’s mother says, looking pointedly at her daughter. “Apparently her ladyship is having a nap and Jennifer didn’t want to wake her.”

  “Well you know how grisly she was in the night,” Jen jumps in, looking from the baby monitor on the counter to her husband and giving him an imploring look, “and if she doesn’t catch up on her sleep now, she’ll be grisly all afternoon too, and I couldn’t bear that. Besides, it was just for an hour while I caught up with the ironing.”

  “It’s alright,” Chris says, squeezing her arm and giving her a peck on the cheek too. “No one’s judging you,” he adds quietly in her ear.

  “You sure about that?” she mutters back.

  They hear the baby’s cries through the crackle of static on the baby monitor – the green and red LEDs arcing in response – and echoing down the stairs at the same time.

  “Well, sounds like someone’s awake now,” her mother says.