The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories

by Michael McDowell

  ‘Should we not do this,’ says the native, ‘should we refrain from shouting with our voices, the spirits would descend, draw us away, and bear us to the land of the unmelting snow; for spirits­ drink the blood of mortals.’

  Wild thoughts such as these coursed through my brain as I lay in a half somnolent state. The luminous clouds were descending with steady movements. They appeared larger, and a fire might now be perceived burning within the heart of each. Down, still down, nearer and closer, until my blinking eyes discovered long attenuated limbs, loosely robed, with hooked, blood-­stained extremities working towards their prey. Still down, and the cloak fell aside. Hideous faces peered forth, malignant eyes revolving like red-­hot wheels, huge mouths with gruesome fangs gnashing for a victim. But no other features, except ears, long and pointed, held erect for sounds of human life. I struggled to free myself, but an unseen power held me chained. It was the devil’s hunt, and these were his hounds. They were in full cry and we were the quarry. But which was it to be? It must be the one who failed to send the cry ringing forth into the night.

  Again I struggled, still the hand crushed me to the icy ground. MacDonald was bending over me, a pitying smile upon his face, on his lips the words:

  ‘So, you are the chosen. Well, I am sorry; but I warned you against the death lights. You see, they have proved too strong, after all.’

  There my dream was broken by a cry. I started up with dry throat, my body shivering with cold and the horror of the vision. As I dragged myself up, those grim lights darted swiftly away, and the next second were hurrying across the heavens, whispering in triumph, as though they had succeeded in their quest and were not returning empty-­handed.

  I heard MacDonald’s voice, but when I turned, my fear came back.

  ‘What is it, Mac? Did I scare you?’

  ‘You!’ he cried, in a high-­pitched voice. ‘How could ye scare any one, lying dead asleep?’

  ‘Didn’t I cry out?’

  ‘You never made a sound. He did. He shouted one word.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mascha – go away! A nice thing to say with his last breath.’

  ‘His last breath?’

  ‘Man, look at him!’ he cried fiercely. ‘Don’t lie there. Go and look at the boy.’

  I rose, though my knees shook. I made my way to the side of the sleigh, through a ring of snoring dogs. I bent over the side, and looked upon the brown face which stared up surrounded by a frost-­covered pile of furs.

  Sinapis was dead.

  Morning came at last, the sun glittered upon the snow plains, dispelling the unnatural colours of the night. As the day was only of a few hours’ duration we had to make the most of it. When it was time for departure, we came to a disagreement concerning the disposal of the body. We had stripped away the furs, applying them to our own use, and the figure lay beneath the pines, stretched out straight and stiff, frozen by the inexorable cold into a mass as solid as a block of marble. I had touched the dark face with the tip of an unprotected finger, scraping away a line of ice-­crystals, and in doing so froze the skin with that contact against the inanimate stone – I could not call it flesh.

  MacDonald, superstitious to the end of his nails, though brave enough now that it was day, averred that he would not travel in such ghastly company. On the other side, I declared it would be an act of wickedness to leave the body behind, seeing that Sinapis had been a Christian, and therefore deserved a proper burial. There happened to be a priest near the fort, and as the body would keep for ever in that temperature, I argued that it was our duty to take it back. But MacDonald waxed wrathful.

  ‘Plant him in the snow right here, and have done with it.’

  ‘What’s left of Sinapis is going back with us, if only for the sake of satisfying Armstrong. So it’s no good you talking,’ I said firmly.

  At length, being Britishers, we compromised. The body was to follow us, lashed upon a little sleigh, which we improvised out of pine branches and attached to the back of our own. Even so MacDonald was uncomfortable, and continually glanced over his shoulder to satisfy himself that the body was, as he expressed it, ‘keeping dead.’

  During that short day we travelled swiftly over the dusty snow, approaching our journey’s limit. Still we saw scarcely any game, although wolves and foxes grew more plentiful; nor could we discover any mark of moccasin, no trellis-­work pattern where the snowshoe had pressed, no parallel grooves where runners had passed. Onward we swept towards the endless ice-­fields, swifter as afternoon grew, for the bed was solid; and along our trail bounded the stone-­like image of the frozen man.

  That night we encamped in the open. At least, there were banks of firs on all sides as wind breaks, but we made our fire in a space at the bottom of a slight dip, which we found to be natural and not a freak of the snow. The first thing was to isolate ourselves from our companion, so we unlashed the figure, dragged it over the ridge, and left it stiffly stretched upon its bier of pine branches in the valley beyond, out of sight, yet not more than seventy-­five yards away. We had supper, commenced our tobacco and conversation, the latter of which did not continue long, since we had little of a pleasant nature to talk about, and were both tired.

  A more beautiful sight I have rarely witnessed than the calm splendour of that night. White light poured over the dark summits of the pines, making their silvery tresses flash like a woman’s­ hair with diamonds in it. When the great moon appeared, with a stately movement, the snow plains looked as soft and warm as a bed of feathers, and, opposite, the shivering arch of the aurora was a thing of beauty, not, as on the former night, a thing of horror. Silver streamers darted from the arch, illumining the sky with narrow bands; and countless spindles, dwindling away to nothingness, moved slowly, lengthening and shortening, one springing from the side of another.

  I lay in a fine drowsy comfort, wrapped up to the eyes, in the sleigh. I heard the dogs snarling. I could see MacDonald endeavouring to clear the stem of his pipe, which was blocked, and smiled lazily when I perceived his lips moving, as he silently cursed his best friend. I watched the frost crystals dancing joyously everywhere. I followed the course of sparks carried from the keenly burning fire, and regretfully considered that I might have to bestir myself in an hour or so to haul in more fuel. There was not a breath of wind. I watched the tops of the pines for ten minutes together, in the hope of seeing some motion, but I could not declare I ever saw one stir an inch. I might have been gazing upon a panorama.

  My brain was active, and passed rapidly from one subject to another. I wondered how many men in the course of the world’s history had crossed the spot where we then rested. I tried to imagine the surroundings when this inhospitable land was a tropical country, infested by monsters now nothing more than skeletons, and tried to guess what the next change would be, when men had dug up all the vegetation of the coal period. My next idea was to guess at the nearest human beings. There would be Esquimaux along the bay, perhaps two hundred miles east by north, but closer might probably be found a wandering band of Swampy Crees. Finally I spared a thought for the silent figure in the valley. I had trusted Sinapis, for he was somewhat of an exception to the rule that a Christian Indian is sure to be an unprincipled rogue. He was an excellent hunter, and more than once had led me along the fresh trail of the moose; he was a good servant, rarely shirking his duties unless liquor came in his way. Now he had finished his life in the remote north, very far from cities and learning: he had been dragged into the vortex of the unknown: perhaps at that moment he knew of more mysteries than the wisest of us have ever dared to guess at.

  It was not wonderful, in such a place, at such a time, that my last thoughts should turn towards sentiment, as I sank imperceptibly into slumber, but I am certain this insensibility was of short duration, and of the nature of a dog sleep, for my senses were active, and alive to every sound or motion.

  So I became presently convinced that I had for some little time been listening to a scuffling noise, pr
obably at no great distance, although in that abnormally clear atmosphere a sound would travel for miles. The moon was well up in the heavens, and looked down upon us coldly. An unearthly cry certainly rang in my ears; then a shadow fell upon the snow. I looked up and saw a tawny owl, with big horns and round eyes. He wheeled down, flapped his great wings, and glided away.

  I was half awake only, yet there surely were sounds in the valley adjoining. Bodies in motion, pattering of feet upon crisp snow, stealthy glidings and whisperings. I pulled myself upright to listen more intently. And, as I did so, an awful cry burst forth, rending the still night air like a trumpet blast, every syllable of the message beating with accompanying echo in my ears:

  ‘Siphaytay! mascha!’

  The silence that followed was worse than the voice. I shook like a man with ague, my teeth went chattering together, my heart thumped furiously. I heard a gasp, as though some one was choking. Then I managed to look round at MacDonald.

  His face was all manner of colours, and his hands were beating together in a fashion that might have been ludicrous at any other time. I could no longer doubt that those words had been spoken, or rather shouted, in appeal to us; and who could have given them utterance except the grim figure of the frozen man?

  It was no use trembling there, waiting for the cry to be repeated; but it is a curious fact that when a man is really frightened he imagines himself safer while he remains quiescent. The act of motion suggests a challenging of unseen powers. However, I spoke, though there was a tremor in my voice which had a savour of cowardice.

  ‘You heard, Mac?’

  It was a foolish remark, but it opened a way between us.

  He came shambling towards me, on hands and knees, grabbing hold of my arm when he reached the side of the sleigh.

  ‘I told ye ’twould be bad travelling wi’ that. I knew the boy wouldn’t rest. He’ll be running now, running round and round.’

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’

  ‘How can a body frozen through and through scream out? ’Twas his voice, but scared and crazy. Mascha was his last word. He said it because he was afraid to die.’

  ‘His body is in danger.’ I tumbled out of the sleigh. ‘Come, Mac, we must see what he wants. He was calling to us. He was telling them to leave his body alone.’

  ‘Telling who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s not dead. Perhaps the frost is keeping his – what do you papists call it?’

  ‘His soul from departing.’

  ‘Aye, something that way.’

  ‘We must go and look.’

  ‘Let’s keep hold of your arm. The fear isn’t so bad when you halve it up wi’ another. The Lord only knows what devilry the boy may be up to.’

  We ascended the incline with slow steps, both of us dreading to look down from the top of the ridge.

  ‘ ’Twas his own voice. Just the voice he used when he was scared,’ muttered MacDonald, nearly pulling me down with his weight.

  We neared the summit, a few more steps and the ridge would have been surmounted; when, without a note of warning, the cry darted out into the night, and we both sank upon our knees to the ground, shivering, awe-­struck:

  ‘Siphaytay! mascha!’

  ‘Come away!’ wailed MacDonald, catching at my legs as I tottered up, and bringing me down again. ‘There are things we can’t look at. Come back and hitch up the dogs, and let’s get away. He’s running – I know he’s running.’

  I fought with my breath, which was like a flame of fire. ‘We can stand it now, Mac. We’re ready for it. Another two steps and we shall see.’

  I pulled him up, but he didn’t hang to my arm. He clapped both hands to his ears. In this fashion we crossed the ridge, but when I looked down on the valley my courage returned, while the same word fell from the lips of us both:

  ‘Wolves!’

  A score or so round the motionless figure of the frozen man, hungrily struggling to tear that marble flesh. One part of the mystery was explained.

  ‘Come away down, Mac,’ I cried. ‘There’s nothing to fear.’

  My companion recovered wonderfully when he perceived that the dead man was not running. He raised his great voice, bellowed lustily, and we floundered into the valley, while the animals sullenly dispersed.

  Sinapis lay just as we had left him, upon his back, the face, covered with glittering frost, gazing up at the white moon, the scanty garments torn into shreds by the fangs of the wolves. There was nothing to tell us how that cry had been uttered. We could only wonder, as so many had done before us, trying in vain to tear away the veil which hangs between us and the mystery of death.

  Each of us took an end of rope, and we retraced our steps to the camp fire dragging the bier and left it not far behind us in a position of safety away from the heat. This task accomplished, we settled in the sleigh, tucked ourselves up, and presently MacDonald said, ‘We’ll make for home first thing, and we won’t take him with us.’

  I had weakened in my resolution. ‘Perhaps we’d best leave him. We’ll bury him as decently as we can.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. Then there was silence again.

  ‘I’m not religious, though I quote Scripture,’ MacDonald confessed. ‘ ’Tis a habit merely. I’d like to understand it. ’Twould help a man.’

  ‘It’s beyond us, Mac. Folks used to say the soul of a dead man couldn’t rest unless the body was properly buried. If the wolves had torn Sinapis to pieces, the funeral would never have taken place. They would say that the spirit, which must have been looking after the body, used the power of human speech for the purpose of appealing to us.’

  ‘He never did – not us. He was calling out to any one.’

  ‘Well, it came to the same thing. It told us the body required help, and we were the only ones who could give it.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ he said. ‘Anyway, ’tis no use my dis­agreeing, for I’ve not your education.’

  This from MacDonald was a great concession.

  ‘There’s nothing to keep us out longer,’ I observed.

  ‘We’ll start back in the morning, first thing. Armstrong can do all the talking he likes. The furs have left this district, and as for those trappers, they never did have any existence outside of a lie – ’

  ‘Siphaytay! mascha!’

  We sprang up with a yell, for this shock was worse than the first. The voice was so close, the tones were so distinct and agonised. During that first moment I felt sure the body must have moved, and, when I turned, gave a gasp of relief at not seeing the awful face of the frozen man at my shoulder. As for MacDonald, I was afraid he had gone off his head, for he danced in front of me, gesticulating wildly.

  ‘O Lord! O Lord! It cut all round me like a whip.’

  The scuffling noise came again, but this time accompanied by angry barks and snarls.

  Again we found a partial explanation. Now it was the dogs who had made an attack upon the frozen body. As I reached out my hand for the whip, I saw one of the leaders, a tremendous brute, standing upon the dead man’s chest, licking the icy face with his great tongue. The next moment he sprang back with a howl as the thong struck him across the head. A few more strokes, and the rest of the ravenous pack were driven off.

  I pulled the frozen man to the side of the sleigh and tumbled him in, unassisted by MacDonald, who refused to approach the mysterious remains. Then I sat down beside it and watched until morning. Better a loss of sleep than any repetition of that horrible cry.

  And in the raw red light of the dawn we buried him. Hitching up the dogs, we drove to a thick bluff, south of our encampment. Here we found a snow hill, crested by a lofty dome like a miniature cathedral, with dark rounded columns of pines stretching away in a kind of religious darkness. With our axes we cut a deep hole, laid the frozen man in his resting-­place, a strange dark figure in the midst of perfect whiteness, then piled the snow, like inodorous flowers, upon the unquiet body.

  Before leaving
, I felt it my duty to commend the dead Indian to the safe keeping of Providence as best I could, although I was well aware MacDonald was eyeing me askant and often grunting. When I concluded he muttered, ‘Man, I can beat that,’ flopped down upon the snow, and began to pour forth a long recitation, which, as far as I could make out, was nothing but a rebuke to me and others of my creed, until I became very cold and weary. At length he rose, and said to me proudly, ‘Never repeated myself. I could have gone on for half an hour.’

  We turned from that quiet pine bluff and the dome of snow which protected the remains of Sinapis. Again we glided over the plains to the music of the sleigh bells, but now we were on the homeward trail, travelling at full speed over the dazzling plain, with a cold sun above and loneliness on every side. Home! The word had a pleasant sound after what we had undergone. Even though it was nothing better than a solitary log-­built fort in the centre of a frozen land.

  CALIFORNIA BURNING by Michael Blumlein

  The output of short fiction by Michael Blumlein, a physician by profession, has not been vast, but it has been of unvarying and exceptional quality. He first gained widespread notice with the collection The Brains of Rats (1989), which was nominated for a World Fantasy Award and earned lavish praise both from mainstream critics and from leading writers in the horror community. More recently a new collection from Blumlein, What the Doctor Ordered, appeared from Centipede Press, and he is at work on a new novel. ‘California Burning’ first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction in August 2009. Like most of Blumlein’s fiction – and like some of the other tales in this book – it is not a traditional ‘horror story’, but this story of a corpse that refuses to be cremated is certainly macabre and features a dose of dark humor that makes a nice contrast with some of the more grimly serious tales.

  The guy at the crematorium said it would take about three hours. A little less if he was lean, a little more if he was fat, as fat burns slower. ‘Which is why it’s so hard to get rid of,’ he added, patting his ample belly. He was a congenial man, of a different congeniality than the people at the mortuary, who were hushed, respectful, reserved, sedate, watchful, and preternaturally composed. The sort of people whose every mannerism and facial expression assured you it was perfectly all right to get emotional, to rend your clothes, pound your fists, sob till your throat was raw. They were all for showing your grief. And if you didn’t, you felt a little embarrassed, as if you hadn’t performed up to par. And if you did, you also felt embarrassed, for making such a fuss. The difference being that in the latter case you felt you’d done the right thing.