Short Stories

by F. Paul Wilson

  Martha gripped his hand and nodded for him to go on.

  “After a while, it got so there was nothing else in Mom’s life. She wouldn’t leave Annie. Family trips became a thing of the past. Christ, if she and Dad went out to a movie, I had to stay with Annie. No babysitter was trustworthy enough. Our whole lives seemed to centre around that freak in the back bedroom. And me? I was forgotten.

  “After a while I began to hate my sister.”

  “Kevin, you don’t have to-“

  “Yes, I do! I’ve got to tell you how it was! By the time I was fourteen-just about Tommy Baker’s age when he bought it-I thought I was going to go crazy. I was getting all B’s in school but did that matter? Hell, no! ‘Annie rolled halfway over today. Isn’t that wonderful?’ Big deal! She was five years old, for Christ sake! I was starting point guard on the high school junior varsity basketball team as a goddamn freshman, but did anyone come to my games? Hell no!

  “I tell you, Martha, after five years of caring for Annie, our house was a powder-keg. Looking back now I can see it was my mother’s fault for becoming so obsessed. But back then, at age fourteen, I blamed it all on Annie. I really hated her for being born a freak.”

  He paused before going on. This was the really hard part.

  “One night, when my dad had managed to drag my mother out to some company banquet that he had to attend, I was left alone to babysit Annie. On those rare occasions, my mother would always tell me to keep Annie company-you know, read her stories and such. But I never did. I’d let her lie back there alone with our old black and white TV while I sat in the living room watching the family set. This time, however, I went into her room.”

  He remembered the sight of her, lying there with the covers half way up her fat little tuna body that couldn’t have been much more than a yard in length. It was winter, like now, and his mother had dressed her in a flannel nightshirt. The coarse hair that grew off the back of her head had been wound into two braids and fastened with pink bows.

  “Annie’s eyes brightened as I came into the room. She had never spoken. Couldn’t, it seemed. Her face could do virtually nothing in the way of expression, and her flipper-like arms weren’t good for much, either. You had to read her eyes, and that wasn’t easy. None of us knew how much of a brain Annie had, or how much she understood of what was going on around her. My mother said she was bright, but I think Mom was a little whacko on the subject of Annie.

  “Anyway, I stood over her crib and started shouting at her. She quivered at the sound. I called her every dirty name in the book. And as I said each one, I poked her with my fingers-not enough to leave a bruise, but enough to let out some of the violence in me. I called her a lousy goddamn tunafish with feet. I told her how much I hated her and how I wished she had never been born. I told her everybody hated her and the only thing she was good for was a freak show. Then I said, ‘I wish you were dead! Why don’t you die? You were supposed to die years ago! Why don’t you do everyone a favour and do it now!

  “When I ran out of breath, she looked at me with those big eyes of hers and I could see the tears in them and I knew she had understood me. She rolled over and faced the wall. I ran from the room.

  “I cried myself to sleep that night. I’d thought I’d feel good telling her off, but all I kept seeing in my mind’s eye was this fourteen-year-old bully shouting at a helpless five-year-old. I felt awful. I promised myself that the first opportunity I had to be alone with her the next day I’d apologise, tell her I really didn’t mean the hateful things I’d said, promise to read to her and be her best friend, anything to make it up to her.

  “I awoke the next morning to the sound of my mother screaming. Annie was dead.”

  “Oh, my God!” Martha said, her fingers digging into his arm.

  “Naturally, I blamed myself.”

  “But you said she had a heart defect!”

  “Yeah. I know. And the autopsy showed that’s what killed her-her heart finally gave out. But I’ve never been able to get it out of my head that my words were what made her heart give up. Sounds sappy and melodramatic, I know, but I’ve always felt that she was just hanging on to life by the slimmest margin and that I pushed her over the edge.”

  “Kevin, you shouldn’t have to carry that around with you! Nobody should!”

  The old grief and guilt were like a slowly expanding balloon in his chest. It was getting hard to breathe.

  “In my coolest, calmest, most dispassionate moments I convince myself that it was all a terrible coincidence, that she would have died that night anyway and that I had nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s probably true, so-“

  “But that doesn’t change the fact that the last memory of her life was of her big brother-the guy she probably thought was the neatest kid on earth, who could run and play basketball, one of the three human beings who made up her whole world, who should have been her champion, her defender against a world that could only greet her with revulsion and rejection-standing over her crib telling her how much he hated her and how he wished she was dead!”

  He felt the sobs begin to quake in his chest. He hadn’t cried in over a dozen years and he had no intention of allowing himself to start now, but there didn’t seem to be any stopping it. It was like running down hill at top speed-if he tried to stop before he reached bottom, he’d go head over heels and break his neck.

  “Kevin, you were only fourteen,” Martha said soothingly.

  “Yeah, I know. But if I could go back in time for just a few seconds, I’d go back to that night and rap that rotten hateful fourteen-year-old in the mouth before he got a chance to say a single word. But I can’t. I can’t even say I’m sorry to Annie! I never got a chance to take it back, Martha! I never got a chance to make it up to her!”

  And then he was blubbering like a goddamn wimp, letting loose half a lifetime’s worth of grief and guilt, and Martha’s arms were around him and she was telling him everything would be all right, all right, all right...

  The Detective Harrison understand. Can tell. Want to go kill another face now. Must not. The Detective Harrison not like. Must stop. The Detective Harrison help stop. «

  Stop for good.

  Best way. Only one way stop for good. Not jail. No chain, no little window. Not ever again. Never!

  Only one way stop for good. The Detective Harrison will know. Will understand. Will do.

  Must call. Call now. Before dark. Before pretty faces come out in night.

  Harrison had pulled himself together by the time the kids came home from school. He felt buoyant inside, like he’d been purged in some way. Maybe all those shrinks were right after all: sharing old hurts did help.

  He played with the kids for a while, then went into the kitchen to see if Martha needed any help with slicing and dicing. He felt as close to her now as he ever had.

  “You okay?” she said with a smile.

  “Fine.”

  She had just started slicing a red pepper for the salad. He took over for her.

  “Have you decided what to do?” she asked.

  He had been thinking about it a lot, and had come to a decision.

  “Well, I’ve got to inform the department about Carly Baker, but I’m going to keep her out of the papers for a while.”

  “Why? I’d think if she’s that freakish looking, the publicity might turn up someone who’s seen her.”

  “Possibly it will come to that. But this case is sensational enough without tabloids like the Post and The Light turning it into a circus. Besides, I’m afraid of panic leading to some poor deformed innocent getting lynched. I think I can bring her in. She wants to come in.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “She so much as told me so. Besides, I can sense it in her.” He saw Martha giving him a dubious look. “I’m serious. We’re somehow connected, like there’s an invisible wire between us. Maybe it’s because the same thing that deformed her and those other kids deformed Annie, too. And Annie was my s
ister. Maybe that link is why I volunteered for this case in the first place.”

  He finished slicing the pepper, then moved on to the mushrooms.

  “And after I bring her in, I’m going to track down her mother and start prying into what went on in Monroe in February and March of sixty-eight to cause that so-called ‘cluster’ of freaks nine months later.”

  He would do that for Annie. It would be his way of saying goodbye and I’m sorry to his sister.

  “But why does she take their faces?” Martha said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe because theirs were beautiful and hers is no doubt hideous.”

  “But what does she do with them?”

  “Who knows? I’m not all that sure I want to know. But right now-“

  The phone rang. Even before he picked it up, he had an inkling of who it was. The first sibilant syllable left no doubt.

  “Ish thish the Detective Harrison?”

  “Yes.”

  Harrison stretched the coiled cord around the corner from the kitchen into the dining room, out of Martha’s hearing.

  “Will you shtop me tonight?”

  “You want to give yourself up?”

  “Yesh. Pleashe, yesh.”

  “Can you meet me at the precinct house?”

  “No!”

  “Okay! Okay!” God, he didn’t want to spook her now. “Where? Anywhere you say.”

  “Jusht you.”

  “All right.”

  “Midnight. Plashe where lasht fashe took. Bring gun but not more cop.”

  “All right.”

  He was automatically agreeing to everything. He’d work out the details later.

  “You undershtand, Detective Harrishon?”

  “Oh, Carly, Carly, I understand more than you know!”

  There was a sharp intake of breath and then silence at the other end of the line. Finally:

  “You know Carly?”

  “Yes, Carly. I know you.” The sadness welled up in him again and it was all he could do to keep his voice from breaking. “I had a sister like you once. And you... you had a brother like me.”

  “Yesh,” said that soft, breathy voice. “You undershtand. Come tonight, Detective Harrishon.”

  The line went dead.

  Wait in shadows. The Detective Harrison will come. Will bring lots cop. Always see on TV show. Always bring lots. Protect him. Many guns.

  No need. Only one gun. The Detective Harrison’s gun. Him’s will shoot. Stop kills. Stop forever.

  The Detective Harrison must do. No one else. The Carly can not. Must be the Detective Harrison. Smart. Know the Carly. Understand.

  After stop, no more ugly Carly. No more sick-scared look. Bad face will go away. Forever and ever.

  Harrison had decided to go it alone.

  Not completely alone. He had a van waiting a block and a half away on Seventh Avenue and a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, but he hadn’t told anyone who he was meeting or why. He knew if he did, they’d swarm all over the area and scare Carly off completely. So he had told Jacobi he was meeting an informant and that the van was just a safety measure.

  He was on his own here and wanted it that way. Carly Baker wanted to surrender to him and him alone. He understood that. It was part of that strange tenuous bond between them. No one else would do. After he had cuffed her, he would call in the wagon.

  After that he would be a hero for a while. He didn’t want to be a hero. All he wanted was to end this thing, end the nightmare for the city and for poor Carly Baker. She’d get help, the kind she needed, and he’d use the publicity to springboard an investigation into what had made Annie and Carly and the others in their ‘cluster’ what they were.

  It’s all going to work out fine, he told himself as he entered the alley.

  He walked half its length and stood in the darkness. The brick walls of the buildings on either side soared up into the night. The ceaseless roar of the city echoed dimly behind him. The alley itself was quiet-no sound, no movement. He took out his flashlight and flicked it on.

  “Carly?”

  No answer.

  “Carly Baker-are you here?”

  More silence, then, ahead to his left, the sound of a garbage can scraping along the stony floor of the alley. He swung the light that way, and gasped.

  A looming figure stood a dozen feet in front of him. It could only be Carly Baker. She stood easily as tall as hea good six foot two-and looked like a homeless street person, one of those animated rag-piles that live on subway grates in the winter. Her head was wrapped in a dirty scarf, leaving only her glittery dark eyes showing. The rest of her was muffled in a huge, shapeless overcoat, baggy old polyester slacks with dragging cuffs, and torn sneakers.

  “Where the Detective Harrishon’s gun?” said the voice.

  Harrison’s mouth was dry but he managed to get his tongue working.

  “In its holster.”

  “Take out. Pleashe.”

  Harrison didn’t argue with her. The grip of his heavy Chief Special felt damn good in his hand.

  The figure spread its arms; within the folds of her coat those arms seem to bend the wrong way. And were those black hooked claws protruding from the cuffs of the sleeves?

  She said, “Shoot.”

  Harrison gaped in shock.

  The Detective Harrison not shoot. Eyes wide. Hands with gun and light shake.

  Say again: “Shoot!”

  “Carly, no! I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to take you in, just as we agreed.”

  “No!”

  Wrong! The Detective Harrison not understand! Must shoot the Carly! Kill the Carly!

  “Not jail! Shoot! Shtop the kills! Shtop the Carly!”

  “No! I can get you help, Carly. Really, I can! You’ll go to a place where no one will hurt you. You’ll get medicine to make you feel better!”

  Thought him understand! Not understand! Move closer. Put claw out. Him back way. Back to wall.

  “Shoot! Kill! Now!”

  “No, Annie, please!”

  “Not Annie! Carly! Carly!”

  “Right. Carly! Don’t make me do this!”

  Only inches way now. Still not shoot. Other cops hiding not shoot. Why not protect?

  “Shoot!” Pull scarf off face. Point claw at face. “End! End! Pleashe!”

  The Detective Harrison face go white. Mouth hang open. Say, “Oh, my God!”

  Get sick-scared look. Hate that look! Thought him understand! Say he know the Carly! Not! Stop look! Stop!

  Not think. Claw go out. Rip throat of the Detective Harrison. Blood fly just like others.

  No-No-No! Not want hurt!

  The Detective Harrison gurgle. Drop gun and light. Fall. Stare.

  Wait other cops shoot. Please kill the Carly. Wait.

  No shoot. Then know. No cops. Only the poor Detective Harrison. Cry for the Detective Harrison. Then run. Run and climb. Up and down. Back to new home with the Old Jessi.

  The Jessi glad hear Carly come. The Jessi try talk. Carly go sit tub. Close door. Cry for the Detective Harrison. Cry long time. Break mirror million piece. Not see face again. Not ever. Never.

  The Jessi say, “Carly, I want my bath. Will you scrub my back?”

  Stop cry. Do the Old Jessi’s black back. Comb the Jessi’s hair.

  Feel very sad. None ever comb the Carly’s hair. Ever.

  Buckets

  by F. Paul Wilson

  "Buckets" marks F. Paul Wilson's first appearance in The Year's Best Horror Stories. Always a pleasure to extend professional courtesy to a fellow MD. Born in New Jersey on May 17, 1946, Wilson blames his misspent youth there on E. C. horror comics, monster films, and rock and roll. He began selling short fiction while a first-year medical student and has been writing fiction and practicing medicine ever since. His best-selling horror novels include The Keep, The Tomb, The Touch, Black Wind, and the recently published Reborn -- the first of three interrelated horror novels forming an extended sequel to The Keep. He is curren
tly at work on the second of this series.

  Soft & Others, a collection of short fiction from Wilson's first twenty years as a writer, was published by Tor in 1989. "Buckets," originally written for the aborted anthology, Halloween Horrors II, first appeared in Wilson's well-regarded collection, "sort of buried among the reprints." Makes me wonder what the rest of the stories slated for Halloween Horrors II are like.

  "My, aren't you an early bird!"

  Dr. Edward Cantrell looked down at the doe-eyed child in the five-and-dime Princess Leia costume on his front doorstep and tried to guess her age. A beau­tiful child of about seven or eight, with flaxen hair and scrawny little shoulders drawn up as if she were afraid of him, as if he might bite her. It occurred to him that today was Wednesday and it was not yet noon. Why wasn't she in school? Never mind. It was Halloween and it was none of his business why she was getting a jump on the rest of the kids in the trick-or-treat routine.

  "Are you looking for a treat?" he asked her.

  She nodded slowly, shyly.

  "Okay! You got it!" He went to the bowl behind him on the hall table and picked out a big Snickers. Then he added a dime to the package. It had become a Halloween tradition over the years that Dr. Cantrell's place was where you got dimes when you trick-or-treated.

  He thrust his hand through the open space where the screen used to be. He liked to remove the storm door screen on Halloween; it saved him the inconvenience of repeatedly opening the door against the kids pressing against it for their treats; and besides, he worried about one of the little ones being pushed backward off the front steps. A lawsuit could easily follow something like that.

  The little girl lifted her silver bucket.

  He took a closer look. No, not silver -- shiny stainless steel, reflecting the dull gray overcast sky. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't place it at the moment. Strange sort of thing to be collecting Halloween treats in. Probably some new fad. Whatever became of the old pillowcase or the shopping bag, or even the plastic jack-o'-lantern?