The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories

by Jeff Vandermeer; Ann Vandermeer

  Last of all, Thelma Dunn gave Dan Hollis the record she had found.

  Dan’s eyes misted even before he opened the package. He knew it was a record.

  ‘Gosh,’ he said softly. ‘What one is it? I’m almost afraid to look…’

  ‘You haven’t got it, darling,’ Ethel Hollis smiled. ‘Don’t you remember, I asked about You Are My Sunshine?’

  ‘Oh, gosh,’ Dan said again. Carefully he removed the wrapping and stood there fondling the record, running his big hands over the worn grooves with their tiny, dulling crosswise scratches. He looked around the room, eyes shining, and they all smiled back, knowing how delighted he was.

  ‘Happy birthday, darling!’ Ethel said, throwing her arms around him and kissing him.

  He clutched the record in both hands, holding it off to one side as she pressed against him. ‘Hey,’ he laughed, pulling back his head. ‘Be careful…I’m holding a priceless object!’ He looked around again, over his wife’s arms, which were still around his neck. His eyes were hungry. ‘Look…do you think we could play it? Lord, what I’d give to hear some new music…just the first part, the orchestra part, before Como sings?’

  Faces sobered. After a minute, John Sipich said, ‘I don’t think we’d better, Dan. After all, we don’t know just where the singer comes in – it’d be taking too much of a chance. Better wait till you get home.’

  Dan Hollis reluctantly put the record on the buffet with all his other presents. ‘It’s good,’ he said automatically, but disappointedly, ‘that I can’t play it here.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Sipich. ‘It’s good.’ To compensate for Dan’s disappointed tone, he repeated. ‘It’s good.’

  They ate dinner, the candles lighting their smiling faces, and ate it all right down to the last delicious drop of gravy. They complimented Mom and Aunt Amy on the roast beef, and the peas and carrots, and the tender corn on the cob. The corn hadn’t come from the Fremont’s cornfield, naturally – everybody knew what was out there; and the field was going to weeds.

  Then they polished off the dessert – homemade ice cream and cookies And then they sat back, in the flickering light of the candles, and chatted waiting for television.

  There never was a lot of mumbling on television night – everybody came and had a good dinner at the Fremonts’, and that was nice, and afterwards there was television and nobody really thought much about that – it just had to be put up with. So it was a pleasant enough get-together, aside from your having to watch what you said just as carefully as you always did everyplace. If a dangerous thought came into your mind, you just started mumbling, even right in the middle of a sentence. When you did that, the others just ignored you until you felt happier again and stopped.

  Anthony liked television night. He had done only two or three awful things on television night in the whole past year.

  Mom had put a bottle of brandy on the table, and they each had a tiny glass of it. Liquor was even more precious than tobacco. The villagers could make wine, but the grapes weren’t right, and certainly the techniques weren’t, and it wasn’t very good wine. There were only a few bottles of real liquor left in the village – four rye, three Scotch, three brandy, nine real wine and half a bottle of Drambuie belonging to old McIntyre (only for marriages) – and when those were gone, that was it.

  Afterward, everybody wished that the brandy hadn’t been brought out because Dan Hollis drank more of it than he should have, and mixed it with a lot of the homemade wine. Nobody thought anything about it at first, because he didn’t show it much outside, and it was his birthday party and a happy party, and Anthony liked these get-togethers and shouldn’t see any reason to do anything even if he was listening.

  But Dan Hollis got high, and did a fool thing. If they’d seen it coming, they’d have taken him outside and walked him around.

  The first thing they knew, Dan stopped laughing right in the middle of the story about how Thelma Dunn had found the Perry Como record and dropped it and it hadn’t broken because she’d moved faster than she ever had before in her life and caught it. He was fondling the record again, and looking longingly at the Fremonts’ gramophone over in the corner, and suddenly he stopped laughing and his face got slack, and then it got ugly, and he said, ‘Oh, Christ!’

  Immediately the room was still. So still they could hear the whirring movement of the grandfather’s clock out in the hall. Pat Reilly had been playing the piano, softly. He stopped, his hands poised over the yellowed keys.

  The candles on the dining-room table flickered in a cool breeze that blew through the lace curtains over the bay window.

  ‘Keep playing, Pat,’ Anthony’s father said softly.

  Pat started again. He played Night and Day, but his eyes were sidewise on Dan Hollis, and he missed notes.

  Dan stood in the middle of the room, holding the record. In his other hand he held a glass of brandy so hard his hand shook.

  They were all looking at him.

  ‘Christ,’ he said again, and he made it sound like a dirty word. Reverend Younger, who had been talking with Mom and Aunt Amy by the dining-room door, said ‘Christ’ too – but he was using it in a prayer. His hands were clasped, and his eyes were closed.

  John Sipich moved forward. ‘Now, Dan…it’s good for you to talk that way. But you don’t want to talk too much, you know.’

  Dan shook off the hand Sipich put on his arm.

  ‘Can’t even play my record,’ he said loudly. He looked down at the record, and then around at their faces. ‘Oh, my God…’

  He threw the glassful of brandy against the wall. It splattered and ran down the wallpaper in streaks.

  Some of the women gasped.

  ‘Dan,’ Sipich said in a whisper. ‘Dan, cut it out–’

  Pat Reilly was playing Night and Day louder, to cover up the sounds of the talk. It wouldn’t do any good, though, if Anthony was listening.

  Dan Hollis went over to the piano and stood by Pat’s shoulder, swaying a little.

  ‘Pat,’ he said. ‘Don’t play that. Play this.’ And he began to sing. Softly, hoarsely, miserably: ‘Happy birthday to me…Happy birthday to me…’

  ‘Dan!’ Ethel Hollis screamed. She tried to run across the room to him. Mary Sipich grabbed her arm and held her back. ‘Dan.’ Ethel screamed again. ‘Stop–’

  ‘My God, be quiet!’ hissed Mary Sipich, and pushed her toward one of the men, who put his hand over her mouth and held her still.

  ‘– Happy birthday, dear Danny,’ Dan sang. ‘Happy birthday to me!’ He stopped and looked down at Pat Reilly. ‘Play it, Pat. Play it, so I can sing right…you know I can’t carry a tune unless somebody plays it!’

  Pat Reilly put his hand on the keys and began Lover – in a slow waltz tempo, the way Anthony liked it. Pat’s face was white. His hands fumbled.

  Dan Hollis stared over at the dining-room door. At Anthony’s mother, and at Anthony’s father, who had gone to join her.

  ‘You had him,’ he said. Tears gleamed on his cheeks as the candlelight caught them. ‘You had to go and have him…’

  He closed his eyes, and the tears squeezed out. He sang loudly, ‘You are my sunshine…my only sunshine…you make me happy…when I am blue…’

  Anthony came into the room.

  Pat stopped playing. He froze. Everybody froze. The breeze rippled the curtains. Ethel Hollis couldn’t even try to scream; she had fainted.

  ‘Please don’t take my sunshine…away…’ Dan’s voice faltered into silence. His eyes widened. He put both hands out in front of him, the empty glass in one, the record in the other. He hiccupped and said, ‘No–’

  ‘Bad man,’ Anthony said, and thought Dan Hollis into something like nothing anyone would have believed possible, and then he thought the thing into a grave deep, deep in the cornfield.

  The glass and record thumped on the rug. Neither broke.

  Anthony’s purple gaze went around the room.

  Some of the people began mumbling. They all t
ried to smile. The sound of mumbling filled the room like a far-off approval. Out of the murmuring came one or two clear voices:

  ‘Oh, it’s a very good thing,’ said John Sipich.

  ‘A good thing,’ said Anthony’s father, smiling. He’d had more practice in smiling than most of them. ‘A wonderful thing.’

  ‘It’s swell, just swell,’ said Pat Reilly, tears leaking from eyes and nose, and he began to play the piano again, softly, his trembling hands feeling for Night and Day.

  Anthony climbed up on top of the piano, and Pat played for two hours.

  Afterward, they watched television. They all went into the front room, and lit just a few candles, and pulled up chairs around the set. It was a small-screen set, and they couldn’t all sit close enough to it to see, but that didn’t matter. They didn’t even turn the set on. It wouldn’t have worked anyway, there being no electricity in Peaksville.

  They just sat silently, and watched the twisting, writhing shapes on the screen, and listened to the sounds that came out of the speaker, and none of them had any idea of what it was all about. They never did. It was always the same.

  ‘It’s real nice,’ Aunt Amy said once, her pale eyes on meaningless flickers and shadows. ‘But I liked it a little better when there were cities outside and we could get real–’

  ‘Why, Amy!’ said Mom. ‘It’s good for you to say such a thing. Very good. But how can you mean it? Why, this television is much better than anything we ever used to get!’

  ‘Yes,’ chimed in John Sipich. ‘It’s fine. It’s the best show we’ve ever seen!’

  He sat on the couch, with two other men, holding Ethel Hollis flat against the cushions, holding her arms and legs and putting their hands over her mouth, so she couldn’t start screaming again.

  ‘It’s really good!’ he said again.

  Mom looked out of the front window, across the darkened road, across Henderson’s darkened wheatfield to the vast, endless, gray nothingness in which the little village of Peaksville floated like a soul – the huge nothingness that was evident at night, when Anthony’s brassy day had gone.

  It did no good to wonder where they were…no good at all. Peaksville was just someplace. Someplace away from the world. It was wherever it had been since that day three years ago when Anthony had crept from her womb and old Doc Bates – God rest him – had screamed and dropped him and tried to kill him, and Anthony had whined and done the thing. He had taken the village someplace. Or had destroyed the world and left only the village, nobody knew which.

  It did no good to wonder about it. Nothing at all did any good – except to live as they must live. Must always, always live, if Anthony would let them.

  These thoughts were dangerous, she thought.

  She began to mumble. The others started mumbling too. They had all been thinking, evidently.

  The men on the couch whispered and whispered to Ethel Hollis, and when they took their hands away, she mumbled too.

  While Anthony sat on top of the set and made television, they sat around and mumbled and watched the meaningless, flickering shapes far into the night.

  Next day it snowed, and killed off half the crops – but it was a good day.

  Mister Taylor

  Augusto Monterroso

  Translated into English by Larry Nolen

  Augusto Monterroso (1921–2003) was a Guatemalan writer known for his short stories. Indeed, he is credited with writing the shortest story ever: ‘When she awoke, the dinosaur was still there.’ Monterroso is considered a central figure in the Latin American Boom generation, recognized alongside such canonical authors as Julio Cortázar and Gabriel García Márquez. Monterroso often used the weird and grotesque to create incisive contemporary fables, as in his most famous story, ‘Mister Taylor’ (1954). The story’s mixture of weird imagery with social commentary on US imperialism has made it one of the most popular Latin American short stories of the mid-twentieth century. This new translation by Larry Nolen conveys the absurdity and strangeness of the original in equal measure.

  ‘Less strange, although without a doubt more exemplary,’ the other man then said, ‘is the story of Mr. Percy Taylor, headhunter in the Amazon jungle.

  ‘It is known that in 1937 he left Boston, Massachusetts, where he had refined his spirit to the point of becoming penniless. In 1944 he appears for the first time in South America, in the region of the Amazon, living with the natives of a tribe whose name there is no need to remember.

  ‘Due to his dark circles and famished aspect, he soon became known there as “the poor gringo,” and the schoolchildren even pointed at him and threw stones when he passed by, his beard shining under the golden tropical sun. But this did not distress the humble character of Mr. Taylor, because he had read in the first volume of The Complete Works of William G. Knight that if he did not feel envious of the rich, poverty would not dishonor him.

  ‘In a few weeks the natives became accustomed to him and his extravagant dress. In addition, as he had blue eyes and a vague foreign accent, the President and Minister of Foreign Relations treated him with singular respect, fearful of provoking international incidents.

  ‘So poor and miserable was he, that one day he went inland into the jungle in search of herbs to eat. He had walked several meters without daring to turn his head, when by pure chance he saw through the weeds two Indian eyes, which observed him intently. A huge shiver ran down the sensitive spine of Mr. Taylor. But Mr. Taylor, intrepid, confronted the danger and continued on his way whistling as if nothing had happened.

  ‘With a jump (which ought not be called feline), the Indian got in front of him and exclaimed: “Buy head? Money, money.”

  ‘Although the native’s English could not be any worse, Mr. Taylor, somewhat indisposed, realized that the native offered him in sale a man’s head, curiously reduced, which he was carrying in his hand.

  ‘It is unnecessary to say that Mr. Taylor was in no position to buy it; but as apparently he didn’t understand this, the Indian felt terribly embarrassed due to not speaking English well, and he gave Mr. Taylor the head as a gift, seeking pardon.

  ‘Great was Mr. Taylor’s joy as he returned to his hut. That night, lying on his back on a precarious palm mat which served as his bed, interrupted only by the buzzing of the aroused flies that flew around him making love obscenely, Mr. Taylor contemplated with delight for a long time his curious acquisition. He took the greatest aesthetic pleasure from counting, one by one, the hairs of the beard and moustache and looking straight into the pair of half-ironic eyes that seemed to smile at him, pleased by his deference.

  ‘A man of immense culture, Mr. Taylor was accustomed to abandoning himself to contemplation, but his time he immediately grew bored with his philosophical reflections and he arranged to give the head to his uncle, Mr. Rolston, a New York resident, who from his most tender infancy had shown a strong interest in the cultural manifestations of the Latin American peoples.

  ‘A few days later, Mr. Taylor’s uncle wrote to ask him (after inquiring about the state of his precious health) to please gratify him with five more. Mr. Taylor acceded with pleasure to Mr. Rolston’s caprice and – no one knows how – by return mail he “was very pleased to satisfy your desires.” Very grateful, Mr. Rolston sought another ten. Mr. Taylor felt “pleased to be able to serve you.” But when a month passed and he was asked to send twenty, Mr. Taylor, a simple and bearded man but of refined artistic sensibility, had the presentiment that his mother’s brother was making a profit off of him.

  ‘Well, if you want to know, so it was. With total frankness, Mr. Rolston made him understand it in an inspired letter whose resolutely businesslike terms made the strings of Mr. Taylor’s sensitive spirit vibrate like never before.

  ‘They immediately set up a corporation in which Mr. Taylor promised to obtain and ship human heads shrunken on an industrial scale while Mr. Rolston would sell them the best he could in his country.

  ‘In the early days there were some annoying d
ifficulties with certain local types. But Mr. Taylor, who in Boston had received the best grades on an essay on Joseph Henry Silliman, showed himself to be a politician and obtained not only the necessary export permit, but, in addition, an exclusive concession for 99 years. It took little effort for him to convince the Executive warrior and the Legislative witch doctors that such a patriotic act in a short time would enrich the community and that then afterward all the thirsty aborigines would be able to drink (each time they paused in the collection of heads) a cold soft drink, whose magic formula he himself would supply.

  ‘When the members of the Chamber, after a brief but luminous intellectual effort, understood these advantages, their love of country boiled over and in three days they promulgated a decree demanding that the people accelerate the production of shrunken heads.

  ‘A few months later, in Mr. Taylor’s country, the heads reached that popularity which we all remember. In the beginning, they were the privilege of the wealthiest families, but democracy is democracy and, no one is going to deny it, in a matter of weeks even schoolteachers themselves could acquire them.

  ‘A home without its corresponding head was seen as a failed home. Soon came the collectors and with them, contradictions: to possess 17 heads came to be considered bad taste, but it was distinguished to have 11. They became so common that the truly elegant people were losing interest and now only by exception would they acquire one, if it possessed some peculiarity that saved it from vulgarity. One, very rare, with Prussian moustaches, which in life belonged to a highly decorated general, was bequeathed to the Danfeller Institute, which in turn gave, like a bolt from the blue, 3.5 million dollars in order to further development of that cultural manifestation, so excellent, of the Latin American peoples.

  ‘Meanwhile, the tribe had progressed in such a way that they already had a pathway around the Legislative Palace. On Sundays and Independence Day, members of Congress went along on that happy trail, clearing their throats, displaying their feathers, laughing very seriously, on the bicycles that the Company had given them.