The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories

by Michael McDowell

  His large, tanned hands looked very dark against the white of the paper. It was the hair on them. Thick and black, it made his hands look larger than they were. It was probably a turn-­on for some women, she thought. Not to herself, though; not now – if it had ever been . . . It was to Norma Russell, though, she was quite certain. Norma, with her model’s 35 x 25 x 36 figure, her high cheek bones and sleek blonde hair. Paul’s hirsute body would be just the thing to appeal to her.

  If it came to looks, she reflected, it was quite obvious that she herself couldn’t compete with anyone like Norma. Oh, once she’d been pretty in a vague, mousey kind of way, but not for years now. Well, she hadn’t made any effort, had she? And why should she try, now, when there was no point?

  And there was no point anymore. More than that, in her eyes it would have seemed the height of stupidity to go to the bother of dressing up, when practically the only man who ever looked at you was your husband – and even when he did he didn’t even see you. Yes, pointless, to say the least.

  Paul, on the other hand, seemed to have grown sleeker and better-looking in an over­fed kind of way over the years. Success showed clearly on him; in his clothes and his body – and his women. Yes, he did look better. That, she supposed, was what contentment and complacency did. She shot him a look of hatred as he lounged, protected by the shield of his paper. Then she turned and went upstairs.

  This place, too, was a sign of his success. Set apart in this tiny Yorkshire village of Tallowford, the house was huge and rambling, exquisitely furnished; further testimony to the years of effort he’d put into his engineering company, now one of the most profitable small businesses in nearby Bradford.

  In her study Sylvia sat down at her elegant desk, Louis XIV, genuine. Opening her diary she looked again at the date of the meeting. The 21st. No mistake. Then she checked over the Women’s Circle committee list. There would be six of them. On the past three occasions there’d been only five of them – Pamela Horley, Jill Marks, Janet True, and Mary Hanley. This time, though, there’d be six again. A replacement had been found for Lilly Sloane who had moved away – a replacement proposed by her and voted in unanimously by the others: Norma Russell.

  Norma, of course, had so eagerly accepted the offered place on the committee. ‘Well, if you really want me and you think I can be of help,’ she’d said. But she hadn’t fooled Sylvia for one minute. Sylvia knew quite well that Norma’s eagerness stemmed from the fact that as every third meeting was held at the Gunns’ house it could only lead to more encounters between herself and Paul. . .

  Methodically Sylvia went through the list, telephoning the members to check that each was okay for the 21st. All except Norma. Her number was engaged. Not that Sylvia needed to worry; if there was one member she knew she could count on, that one was Norma.

  Pushing her papers away from her she turned in her chair and looked around her. No expense had been spared in this room. The rest of the furniture was as elegant as the desk on which her elbow rested, as elegant as that in the bedroom next door – the bedroom in which she slept alone – except on those nights when Paul would come to her and use her for the release of frustrations . . .

  That’s how it had gone on. That’s how it would go on – unless something was done to stop it. Oh, she was safe enough, she knew; secure enough in the continuing of her material comforts. As much as Paul would like to see the back of her he’d never divorce her – or even leave her. He knew which side his bread was buttered, all right. Hence the comfort in which he kept her. And that, surely, was partly the reason for his resentment of her – the fact that he knew that they were irrevocably tied – in sickness and in health, for as long as they both should live – by his dependence upon her.

  And why, she sometimes asked herself, didn’t she leave him? But what would she do if she did? Paul wouldn’t support her, and she’d been trained for no particular occupation. For the past twenty-­five years she’d known only this life – marriage to a man whose gratitude for her understanding had in no time worn threadbare.

  But for all of that, she thought, she could have put up with it – had it not been for his affairs. One after the other they had punctuated the years of their married life. And for that she was resentful – not just because of his infidelity and his rejection of her, but because he gave to those other women what he never gave, never had given, to her – not after the first few months of their courtship, anyway. Those other women – they were allowed to see only the best side of him – the cheerfulness, the gentlemanliness, the solicitousness. She, through her near-­total acceptance of the real person, the person they never saw, was doomed to live with it, warts and all.

  She got up from the desk and stood there in the silent room. It couldn’t go on, though. And it wouldn’t. No, after the 21st it wouldn’t be the same. Come the 21st there’d be some changes made. Norma Russell would be the last, she’d make sure of that. After Norma there wouldn’t be any more affairs.

  When she got downstairs she found Paul on the phone. He started slightly when she suddenly appeared before him, and said shakily into the receiver, voice thick with guile and not a little guilt:

  ‘Well, Frank, I think we ought to leave it until our meeting next week . . . we can discuss it fully then . . .’ And Sylvia smiled to herself as she went by him, realizing why Norma’s telephone had been engaged, and at the realization that they thought she was so easily fooled. Not she. Frank, indeed. She was a lot smarter than they dreamed. Certainly a damn sight smarter than that vacuous, simpering Norma with her Gucci shoes, Charlie perfume, and Dior sunglasses. Norma Russell, with her sophisticated approach and smug, know-­it-­all manner didn’t know it all by any means.

  Not yet. She would in time.

  Paul left his office early that Friday, came into the house and flopped down onto the sofa saying he had a headache. From past experience Sylvia guessed well enough how he was feeling, but any sympathy she once might have felt for him had long ago vanished.

  They ate an early dinner and as soon as it was over he went upstairs to the attic. Sylvia followed after a while, and quietly opened the door and looked in. He was sound asleep. Backing out again, she turned the key and softly pushed home the heavy bolts. For a second she listened, her ear to door, but no sound came to her through the thick, heavy oak. After a moment she turned and went back downstairs to get ready for the meeting.

  The women all arrived within a few minutes of each other around eight o’clock, and with the coffee already made they got down fairly quickly to the business of the evening. That business was the forthcoming summer fête and the Women’s Circle’s part in it. The discussion went smoothly, and so it should have, for each of them – with the exception of Norma – had helped organize a dozen similar events in the past.

  Finally, after much discussion and note-­taking it was seemed to be all sorted out. Sylvia summed up the results of their discussion.

  ‘All right, then,’ she said, ‘I think that’s it. So you, Pam, and you, Janet, will get together and organize the refreshments and the baking competition. And you, Jill and Mary, will work on the jumble. And you all know your individual tasks.’ Smiling at Norma, who returned the smile, she went on: ‘And that leaves Norma and me to take care of the Fancy Goods and the white elephant stall. Is that okay?’

  The next forty minutes were spent in drinking more coffee and generally talking over the finer points of their various tasks. There was much talk of ‘willing hands’ and ‘helpers’ and ‘generous donors’; various names were bandied about, and there were the endlessly expressed hopes that on the day the weather would be kind to them. Sylvia began to get the feeling that the meeting would never end; never before had the conversation of her friends seemed quite so meaningless. But there, never before had she herself had quite such serious matters on her mind.

  At last, though, it was nine-­forty-­five, and the meeting was over. As they all got up to go, chattering their goodnights, Sylvia caught at Norma’s sleeve,
saying, ‘Oh, Norma – are you in a particular hurry to get away?’

  Norma’s eager-­to-­please expression didn’t fool Sylvia for one moment. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Why? Is there something else I can do?’ Now she was like the cat that had found the cream; not only had she been voted onto the committee but she had furthermore been chosen to work closely with Sylvia. From now on she’d have a cast-­iron excuse for phoning or calling at the house at practically any time.

  Sylvia smiled as sweetly and as naturally as she could under the circumstances. ‘I was just wondering whether you’d care to stay behind for a little while so that we can go over – in more detail – a few of the things that you and I will be looking after . . .’

  ‘Of course, I’d be glad to. Anytime at all, Sylvia. You just let me know.’ She’d picked up her bag but now she set it down again at the side of the sofa.

  ‘Fine,’ said Sylvia. ‘I’ll just see the other girls out, then we can talk.’

  When the other members had all gone out into the night Sylvia came back into the sitting room. As she sat down, Norma said to her: ‘I suppose Paul hates being around when these – these hen parties are in session, doesn’t he?’

  Sylvia nodded. ‘Oh, loathes it, my dear. Absolutely.’

  ‘Does he – er – get back late . . . ?’

  Oh, thought Sylvia, so obviously Norma had told Paul that she’d be coming to the meeting – and it was equally obvious that he’d told her he’d be out somewhere. Well, that was understandable. ‘I’m sorry?’ Sylvia said, ‘ – what did you ask me?’

  ‘Paul – does he usually stay out late when you have your meetings here?’

  ‘Oh, yes, usually he does. Not tonight, though.’ That, Sylvia thought, should get her going. It did.

  ‘Oh,’ said Norma, ‘ – is there something different about tonight?’ She sounded very casual.

  Sylvia thought, Yes, you could say that. Then she said aloud, ‘The poor love didn’t go out this evening. He can’t.’

  ‘Oh – you mean he’s still in the house?’

  ‘Yes. He couldn’t go out. He’s just not up to it, poor man.’ Sylvia eyed Norma’s expression, seeing the look of concern that briefly clouded Norma’s green eyes.

  ‘Is he ill?’ Norma asked.

  ‘Well, not exactly ill,’ Sylvia replied. ‘He’s just – well, just a little out of sorts.’

  ‘Oh, dear, what a shame.’ Norma sighed. ‘Perhaps you should have phoned and cancelled the meeting. Won’t he have been disturbed by all our chatter?’

  Sylvia shook her head. ‘Oh, no, don’t worry about that. He won’t have heard a thing. He’s up in the attic.’

  ‘In the attic?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sylvia’s smile was indulgent. ‘It’s his little den, as he calls it. His little retreat. He’s got a bed up there – well away from it all. It’s much the best place for him at a time like this, when he’s not himself. Anyway . . .’ She pulled her notepad towards her as if to signify that it was time for them to get on with their work, then, suddenly, with a look of dismay, she dropped her pencil and clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God!’ she said.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Norma stared at her in surprise. Her concern looked genuine.

  ‘I think I’m losing my mind,’ Sylvia said. ‘It’s going, I swear it’s going. My memory. Oh, dear.’

  ‘What is it? What’s up?’

  ‘I promised faithfully that I’d drop a few little things over to Mrs Harrison this afternoon. Poor old lady – she can’t get out, what with her bad leg, and she’s got her daughter coming for lunch tomorrow. I did all her shopping for her this afternoon – and it’s still out there in the kitchen.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Just ten o’clock. I’ll bet she’s been expecting me all day. How dreadful.’ She sat as if pondering for a moment, then said: ‘I know she doesn’t go to bed till quite late. I think I’ll just give her a ring and then take the stuff round to her. I shan’t get a chance in the morning, I know . . .’

  Even as she finished speaking she was opening her address book and looking up Mrs Harrison’s number. She dialled it and Mrs Harrison answered almost immediately. She sounded so pleased to hear Sylvia’s voice. No, she said, she wasn’t been in bed; she was watching the telly darts championship – adding with a little giggle that she quite liked big men. Sylvia, refusing to take no for an answer, then said that she was going to get straight on her bike and bring the groceries round. After all, it was only a couple of miles and no one ever came to harm in Tallowford.

  The call at an end, Sylvia had put on her coat and was picking up the shopping basket before she seemed to remember that Norma was still there.

  ‘Oh, Norma, my dear,’ she said. ‘After asking you to stay behind I now go rushing off like this. I do apologise. Whatever must you think of me?’

  ‘I think you’re a very kind person,’ Norma simpered. ‘That’s what I think.’

  And Sylvia, in spite of her loathing for the creature, found herself thinking, How very true.

  She hitched the handle of the basket more securely over her arm. ‘My bike’s just round the side,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to go dashing off like this, but I’ve got to go.’ She paused. ‘You don’t mind letting yourself out, do you?’

  ‘Of course not. Not at all.’

  ‘Oh, bless you. And I wonder, would you be an angel and make sure that I’ve turned off the gas under the kettle and see that there are no cigarettes burning anywhere . . . Oh, and if Paul should by any chance call out, just tell him I’ll be back in an hour or so – or maybe a little longer. Would you mind?’ She moved to the door. ‘You can let yourself out, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much. Goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Hardly hearing Norma’s reply, Sylvia opened the front door and went to her bicycle in the garage. After carefully securing the basket, she got on and pedalled away. The night was so bright as she sped down the lonely country road that she really had hardly any need of her bicycle lamp at all.

  From the window Norma watched the red glow of Sylvia’s tail light till it disappeared. Then she made a lightning check of the gas taps and the ashtrays. Everything was fine.

  Yes, everything was fine. Everything was perfect.

  In the hall she stood quite still and looked up the stairs. Then, after a second or two, she began to climb. She didn’t put on the lights; she didn’t want to take the chance of being seen through a window by some passing villager.

  So Paul was in the attic, Sylvia had said. Norma continued up the stairs, past the first floor and on up the next flight – narrower now and turning. At the top she came to a stop, hesitated a moment and then softly called out:

  ‘Paul – ?’

  Silence. And then she heard a sound. It came from the door a few yards to her right. Moving towards it she saw to her horror that there were two heavy bolts pulled across. Sylvia had locked him in! How could she?!

  There was a key in the lock too. She turned it, releasing the lock. How could Sylvia have done such a thing? Some people! She turned her attention then to the bolts, and with an effort slid them back. It was done. Then, turning the handle, she opened the door a fraction.

  From the faint glow filtering in from the landing she could see that there was no light in the room, and none coming in from the small, uncurtained window. ‘Paul – ?’ She whispered his name. She could hear him breathing, heavily, as if he was in a very deep sleep, or . . .

  Opening the door wider, she stepped into the room and closed the heavy door behind her.

  Now in deep darkness she whispered his name again. ‘Paul?’ There came no answer. ‘Paul,’ she said, a little louder now, ‘ – are you there? It’s me – Norma. I’ve come to pay you a little surprise visit.’

  The room was swallowed up in shadow. She could see nothing. She could hear nothing but the breathing.

  ‘Paul – darling, is that you?’ she said. She list
ened. The breathing – somehow it didn’t sound like him. It didn’t sound quite – right. ‘Paul,’ she said, ‘Sylvia told me you weren’t quite yourself tonight – so I’ve come to cheer you up a bit – if I can!’ She laughed lightly, nervously into the dark. The sound of his breathing was growing louder, coming a little nearer. ‘Paul,’ she said, ‘ – oh, come on, darling. Don’t fool about . . .’

  Suddenly the moon, the full moon, was no longer obscured by the clouds. Suddenly the room was bathed in light. And she saw the bars at the window – thick, metal bars. She noticed, too, the complete absence of furniture. There was only straw on the floor. She became aware, too, of the strong, rank animal smell that permeated the air around her.

  And then she saw Paul coming towards her.

  In the brilliant silver light of the full moon he lunged towards her and she felt him reach out with one huge clawed paw, felt herself wrenched forward, towards the great snout, the great fangs that opened wide, dripping in anticipation. She heard the guttural sound from deep in his throat.

  The sound that came from her own throat, a small, pleading cry of terror, was cut off before she’d hardly had a chance to utter it.

  At Mrs Harrison’s, Sylvia looked at her watch. It was almost eleven. She put down her cup, got to her feet and took up her empty basket. It had been so nice, she said, but she really must get back. There’d be a lot of cleaning up to do. Besides, Paul might start to wonder where she was. He didn’t usually worry, but he could get very funny when he was out of sorts. There was just no telling.

  ‘It’s probably the full moon,’ Mrs Harrison said with a little chuckle. ‘Did you notice there’s a full moon tonight? I swear it makes a difference to some people. You might not believe this, but I’m sure it used to affect my Ralph. He used to go right off his food. Wouldn’t eat a thing. No appetite at all.’

  Sylvia looked out of the window at the moon’s big, white, smiling face. ‘Oh,’ she said with a little smile, ‘I can’t say it takes Paul like that. Just the opposite in fact. When he’s not his usual self, like today – a bit out of sorts – he gets absolutely ravenous. Such an appetite you wouldn’t believe! Like he hasn’t eaten in a month.’