The Future of Horror

by Jonathan Oliver

  IT WAS IN just such a theatre that the Great Zinkiewicz had first seen the darkness. It had not been a good show. The audience weren’t attentive, he thought some of them were drunk. And Lucy was talking too much again, in spite of what he’d said to her the night before: it was all in the rhythm, he kept explaining to her, gently, the act only could work in a very exact rhythm. “I just feel there’s more I can offer,” she’d said. “I just stand about looking decorative, and getting sawn in half, and stuff. I’m worth more than that.” And he had promised he’d try to find a better way to include her in the show, and they’d kissed, and then made love. And, do you know, he thought he’d probably even meant it.

  As they’d trudged towards the grand finalé, he’d given her the signal, and she’d nodded, gone into the wings. And out she had wheeled the Cabinet of Vanishments.

  “Behold,” said Zinkiewicz. “The Cabinet of Vanishments! Now, my wife will vanish before your eyes. When she gets locked up in my special box, and I tap upon the door, and say the magic word – yes, you all know it, abracadabra! I don’t know what it means, no one knows what it means, if we knew it wouldn’t be magic – I’ll say the word, and my wife will be gone!”

  He’d felt at last a flutter of interest from the audience.

  His wife had said, perkily, whilst wagging her finger at him, “And just you make sure I get back in time for tea!” Audience death once more. Jesus.

  He closed the door on her, and he felt a relief that she was out of sight. And a sense of something else, deep inside, some new confidence. Or power.

  He tapped on the door three times with his wand. “Abracadabra,” he said.

  He opened the door. She’d gone. There was some half-hearted applause.

  He closed the door again. “Now to bring her back,” he said. “I suppose!” And there was some laughter at that, and he thought to himself, you see, Lucy, one can improvise comedy, but only if one’s a professional.

  “Abracadabra,” he said. He opened the door. The cabinet was empty.

  He closed the door. He turned to the audience, smiled, but he felt it was a sick smile, and he could feel himself beginning to sweat.

  “I’ll try again,” he promised them. “Abracadabra!”

  Still nothing – but no, really nothing – and this time it seemed to Zinkiewicz the cabinet was not merely empty, it somehow seemed to have no inside at all. Black, just black, a darkness. That would spill out into the world unless... unless he slammed the door shut.

  He did. He held the door closed. He felt it, he felt something beat against it, thrum against his fingers. He didn’t dare let go. He didn’t dare hold on either, he didn’t dare stand so close, because he knew that for all its fancy design and name the cabinet was just a bit of plywood a few inches thick, it wouldn’t be enough to contain what was growing within. And at the thought of it he pulled away, as if he had been burned – and for a moment he thought he had, and he stared down at his fingers, expecting them to be charred and black. They weren’t. They weren’t, but he stared at them anyway – and for too long, he could hear behind his back the audience stir from stultified silence and begin to heckle.

  He turned back to them. He didn’t know what to say. His tongue felt heavy, sick, and yes, his fingers, they still burned. “I’m sorry,” is what he came out with. “I’m sorry.”

  And behind him he heard it, and he knew now he wasn’t imagining it, there was a knocking from within the cabinet, something impatient to be released. And then there was a voice to it – “Hey!” Muffled, but still sounding perky, so annoyingly perky. “Hey, let me out! Is it time for my tea yet?”

  There was some polite laughter, they thought it was part of the act. He opened the door. There was Lucy. He took her hand to help her out, she had to bow so her feather head dress wouldn’t get caught, and her sequins sparkled as they came out from the dark. They made their bows together. They went for two bows, although the applause didn’t really warrant it.

  That night in their digs they had argued. She told him this wasn’t what she had expected from their marriage. It wasn’t just the act any more, it was the entire marriage. She was bored with the constant travelling. It wasn’t as exciting as she’d expected. She thought they’d be on television by now. “Do you still love me?” he’d asked. She’d thought about it. “I don’t know,” she’d replied.

  She turned away from him in the bed, and he wanted to reach out towards her, but he was too proud, or too frightened he’d be rebuffed. And he lay there in the darkness, and it seemed to him that it was a darkness so profound, and he wished they’d left the bathroom light on, or had the curtains open, anything, the darkness was beginning to hurt his eyes. And he felt that surge of power inside him again, and he knew she was right, he should be better than this, it was all supposed to be better.

  He didn’t know her any more. He didn’t know her. Their magic was gone.

  And he realised all the darkness in the room was her, it was her, it was coming from her. He could feel it now, it was pouring out of her. With every breath she made she was spitting more of it out, and it lay heavy on her, and it lay heavy on him, and it was going to suffocate him unless he stopped it. He’d lost her. He’d lost her. She’d been swallowed up whole.

  He got up. She didn’t stir.

  He packed the truck with all the props he needed for his magic act, his costume, the takings from the last three weeks of performance. He drove off into the night.

  Within a few days the truck ran out of petrol. There hadn’t been a petrol station. There was barely even a road any more. He abandoned the truck. He found a horse cart amongst the rubble that lay about, so much rubble, things thrown away and no longer wanted. He loaded the cart. He picked up the handle. It was so heavy. He had to be strong. He walked.

  The world was cracked, and the darkness was pursuing him, and he had to outrun it. And in some towns there was talk of war.

  He did a few tricks for coins and food. Most of his tricks didn’t work without an assistant.

  Some nights, if the ground was dry, he slept underneath the cart. He could pull the canvas covering down for added warmth or shelter. One morning he woke to find a little girl was curled up, at his feet, like a dozing cat.

  “Oi!” he said. “Wake up!” The girl did, stretched, looked at him without shame or curiosity. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Where have you come from?”

  She didn’t answer.

  And he didn’t ask again, because he felt somehow if he did she would go away.

  When he pulled the cart along, she walked beside him. And the next town he reached, he played his act, and she was there. She knew the tricks just as well as he did. And she had her own sequined dress, it fitted perfectly.

  The distance between towns seemed greater and greater. Sometimes they’d walk for weeks before they’d reach a new one. And when they did, the people were hostile, or hid from them altogether. The paths were hard to walk, the ground rough, chewed up even, and no matter how much it rained the mud beneath their feet seemed so hard and sharp and unyielding. “I can’t go on,” he’d say to the girl, “I don’t see why we’re going on,” and he might cry, and then the girl wouldn’t look at him, as if she were embarrassed. One day he dropped the handle of the cart. “I’ve had enough,” he said, “if we must walk, I’m not carrying this any more!” Without missing a beat she went to the cart, tried to lift it herself, tried to drag it behind her. She was such a little thing, but she managed it; he could see her grit her teeth with the effort, and then force one foot on in front of the other, so slowly, too slow – she was going to pull the cart no matter how long it took. Shamed, he went back, relieved her. She smiled at him then, just a little smile, and it was of triumph, but it was not unkind. On he walked. On she walked, always keeping pace.

  He called her Lucy, it was what it said on the posters. And sometimes as she slept beside him he thought he could see something of his wife in her face. Sometimes he liked to pretend this was his wife, bu
t small, and silent, from the years before he’d met her. And sometimes he didn’t need to pretend, he knew it was true.

  “GIVE US A good trick, magic man. And maybe we’ll spare your life. You, and that brat of yours.”

  He tried his best. But the cards kept slipping through fingers damp with sweat.

  “Haven’t you got anything better?”

  He pulled a rabbit out of his hat. He pulled a hat out of a rabbit.

  “Last chance, magic man.”

  He didn’t know what to do. He looked at Lucy for help.

  Lucy didn’t seem afraid. She seemed as blandly unaffected by this as she was by everything else. And for a second the man rather envied her. And for a second he was rather frightened of her too.

  She held his gaze for a moment, then turned, and left the stage.

  He thought she’d abandoned him. And he couldn’t blame her.

  But she came back, and when she did, she was wheeling on the Cabinet of Vanishments.

  “No,” he said to her. “No.”

  She shook her head at that. She set it down centre stage. She presented it to the audience. And so, he went on with the act. He cleared his throat.

  “I shall say the magic word, abracadabra. I... I don’t know what it means. No one does. What it means, I.” His voice cracked. “Maybe that’s why it’s magic.”

  There was laughter. Real laughter, or were they mocking him?

  He opened the cabinet. There was no darkness in there, the darkness had all got out long ago.

  And Lucy gestured that he should step inside.

  “No, I’m the magician,” he said.

  She ignored that. With a bow, with a flourish, she once more waved him towards the box.

  “No,” he said. And this time he was quite firm.

  She stared him down for a little while. Then she leaned forward, and he thought she was going to speak at last, he thought she was going to whisper something in his ear. He bent down to listen. She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  “Get on with it,” came the voice from the audience.

  They got on with it. Lucy climbed inside the cabinet. She looked so tiny there suddenly, you could have fitted five Lucys inside, more maybe. He closed the doors on her. One didn’t shut properly, the rain water, the warping – and there was laughter again, and this time they were definitely mocking him. He had to hold the door to keep it flush.

  “Goodbye,” he said to her. And he liked to imagine that inside she mouthed a goodbye to him too.

  He tapped on the box three times with his wand. “Abracadabra,” he said. He stepped away from the box, the warped door swung open and revealed that the cabinet was now empty.

  “Can you bring her back?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Bring her back.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not bringing her back. Not to this place.”

  They came up on to the stage then, and took him by his arms, and bent him over backwards so his spine hurt, and held him tight. He saw that they were demons and angels, both – that they had little lumps for horns, and lapsed haloes, both.

  “Bring her back,” they said.

  And he felt such a power surging through him, the magic was back, even in a world as cracked as this. And he thanked them, sincerely – he thanked them that they had helped him give his best performance, that they had made his act at last mean something. The fear had gone. The fear had gone forever, and they could now do what they liked to him.

  THEY BIT HIM, and punched him, and pulled at his skin and hair. And he didn’t cry out, he laughed, he barely felt a thing, he was so full of magic now, he was invincible. This enraged them still further. They shut him inside his box, and they set fire to it, and he didn’t cry out, not once, and he looked deep into the flames and fancied he saw in them what Lucy had found so fascinating, and it didn’t hurt, not very much, right up until the end.

  AND LUCY TURNED about, and opened her eyes, and there was noise, and people, and the buildings stood intact, and the smell in the air may not have been clean but at least it wasn’t sulphur.

  Her sequined dress was ripped, and spattered with mud.

  There was a pack of playing cards in her hand.

  There was a tongue in her head.

  She began to speak, and the more she said the better she got, and the better she got the louder she became.

  She fanned out the playing cards to the world.

  “Roll up, roll up,” she said. “Prepare to be dazzled by the Great Zinkiewicz!”

  For a while no one paid any attention. But then, even in a world so cracked, the magic began to hold.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Dan Abnett is a multiple New York Times bestselling author and an award-winning comic book writer. He has written more than forty novels, including the acclaimed Gaunt’s Ghosts series, the Eisenhorn and Ravenor trilogies, volumes of the million-selling Horus Heresy series, The Silent Stars Go By (the 2011 Christmas Doctor Who novel), Triumff: Her Majesty’s Hero, and Embedded. In comics, he is known for his work on The Legion of Super-Heroes, Nova, the Guardians of the Galaxy and the Vertigo series The New Deadwardians. A regular contributor to 2000 AD, he is the creator of series including Grey Area, Kingdom and the classic Sinister Dexter. He has also written Insurrection, Durham Red, Judge Dredd, The VCs and Rogue Trooper. He lives and works in Maidstone, Kent. Dan’s blog and website can be found at www.danabnett.com and you can follow him on Twitter @VincentAbnett.

  Storm Constantine is the author of over 30 books, both fiction and non-fiction, as well as numerous short stories. Her fiction titles include the best selling Wraeththu trilogies and stand-alone novels, Hermetech, Thin Air, and the Grigori Trilogy. Her esoteric non-fiction works include Sekhem Heka and Grimoire Dehara: Kaimana. Storm lives in the Midlands of the UK with her husband and four cats.

  Award-winning horror author Gemma Files is currently best-known for her Hexslinger novel series (A Book of Tongues, A Rope of Thorns and A Tree of Bones, all from ChiZine Publications), but has also published two collections of short fiction (Kissing Carrion and The Worm in Every Heart, both from Wildside Press) and two chapbooks of poetry. Five of her stories were adapted by The Hunger, an erotic anthology TV series co-produced by Tony and Ridley Scott’s Scott Free Productions. She lives in Toronto, Canada with her husband and son.

  Christopher Fowler is the multi-award-winning author of over thirty novels and twelve short story collections including Roofworld, Spanky, Psychoville, Calabash, Hell Train and ten Bryant & May mystery novels. He recently wrote Red Gloves, 25 new stories to mark his first 25 years in print, the War of the Worlds videogame for Paramount with Sir Patrick Stewart, and won the Green Carnation prize for his memoir Paperboy. He currently writes a weekly column in the Independent on Sunday and reviews for the Financial Times.

  Will Hill is the author of the critically-acclaimed Department 19 series, which have been translated into eight languages and sold in more than fifteen countries around the world. The first book in the series was the best-selling YA debut hardback of 2011. He grew up in the north east of England, and now lives in east London with his girlfriend.

  Alison Littlewood is the author of A Cold Season, published by Jo Fletcher Books, an imprint of Quercus. The novel was selected for the Richard and Judy Book Club, where it was described as “perfect reading for a dark winter’s night.” Alison’s short stories have been picked for the Best Horror of the Year and Mammoth Book of Best New Horror anthologies for 2012, as well as featuring in genre magazines Black Static, Crimewave and Dark Horizons. Other publication credits include the anthologies Terror Tales of the Cotswolds, Where Are We Going? and Never Again. Visit her at www.alisonlittlewood.co.uk.

  Sarah Lotz is a screenwriter and pulp fiction novelist with a fondness for the macabre and fake names. Among other things, she writes urban horror novels under the name S.L. Grey with author Louis Greenberg and a YA zombie series with her daughter, Savannah, under the name Lily Herne. She lives in
Cape Town with her family and other animals. She can be found at slgrey.bookslive.co.za, deadlandszombies.com and sarahlotz.com.

  Gail Z. Martin’s newest series, The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga (Orbit Books) debuts with Ice Forged in 2013. In addition to Ice Forged, she is the author of The Chronicles of The Necromancer series (The Summoner, The Blood King, Dark Haven and Dark Lady’s Chosen) from Solaris Books and TheFallen Kings Cycle from Orbit Books (Book One: The Sworn and Book Two: The Dread). For book updates, tour information and contact details, visit www.AscendantKingdoms.com.

  Sophia McDougall is a novelist, playwright, artist and poet. She is the author of the bestselling Romanitas trilogy (twice shortlisted for the Sidewise Award for Alternate History) set in a contemporary world where the Roman Empire never fell. Beside modern Romans, she has also been known to write about fish robots and ghost Nazis. You can find her at sophiamcdougall.com.

  Born in Wales in the UK, Lou Morgan studied medieval literature at UCL and now lives in the south of England with her husband, son and obligatory cat. Her first novel, Blood and Feathers, was published by Solaris Books in August 2012, and her short stories have appeared in several anthologies. She has a weakness for pizza, and for cathedrals (but probably not at the same time) and can be found on Twitter at @LouMorgan... usually when she’s supposed to be doing something else.

  Audrey Niffenegger is a writer and artist who lives and works in Chicago. When she was a child she was convinced (due to an unfortunate encounter with a faux biography) that Sherlock Holmes was a real person. Years later she was perplexed to realise that his creator, Arthur Conan Doyle, believed that fairies were real. Some years after that she discovered The Doyle Diary by Charles Altamont Doyle, Arthur’s father; it is a sketchbook he kept while he was an inmate at an insane asylum. ‘The Wong Fairy’ owes a great deal to The Doyle Diary’s introduction and detective work by Michael Baker. It is always gratifying when reality is stranger than fiction; many thanks to Mr. Baker for inspiring this story.