The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories

by Jeff Vandermeer; Ann Vandermeer

  The vicar let me settle myself, and we talked about ordinary things, the autumn, elements of the country round about, and of London. At last, leaning forward, the old man peered at me through his glasses. ‘Are you quite well, Mr Martyce?’

  ‘Perfectly. Just a trifle tired. I haven’t slept well at the house.’

  He looked long at me and said, ‘I’m afraid people often don’t.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘In what way?’ I asked.

  ‘Your family, Mr Martyce, has been inclined to insomnia there. The domestics have never complained. Indeed, I never heard a servant from there that had anything but praise for the house and the family. Mrs Allen, the former cook, retired only when she was seventy-six and could no longer manage. She was loath to go.’

  ‘But my family – there has been a deal of illness.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid that is so. Your Grandfather – he was before my time, of course. And his wife. Your father was long from home, and his brother, Mr William, was sent out into the world at twenty…before there was any – problem at the house. The two brothers did not at first choose to come back. And your father, I think, not at all. He lived to a good age?’

  ‘He was nearly eighty. There was quite a gap between him and William – my Grandfather’s travels.’

  ‘Eighty – yes, that’s splendid. But poor William did not do so well. He was, as you know, only sixty-two when he succumbed. His wife was a mere fifty, and your Aunt in her forties. But, in later life, she had never been well.’

  I tried a laugh. It sounded hollow. ‘That house doesn’t seem very healthy for the Martyces.’

  Reverend Dale looked grave. ‘It does not.’

  ‘And what explanation do you have for that, sir?’

  ‘I fear that, although I am a man of God, and might be expected to incline to esoteric conclusions, I have none.’

  I said, flatly, ‘Do you think there is a malevolent ghost?’

  ‘I am not supposed to believe in ghosts,’ said the Reverend Dale. ‘However, I can’t quite rid myself of a belief in – influences.’

  A cold tremor passed up my back. I deduce I may have gone pale, for the vicar got up and went over to his cabinet, from which he produced some brandy. A glass of this he gave me – I really must put a stop to all this profligate drinking! I confess I downed it.

  ‘You must understand,’ he said, ‘I’m speaking not as a man of the cloth, but simply – as a witness. I’ve seen very clearly that, in the Martyce family, those who spend much or all of their time at the house, sicken. Some are more susceptible, they fail more swiftly. Some are stronger, and hold at bay or temporarily throw off the malaise, at first. Your Grandfather lived into his nineties, yet from his sixties he had hardly a day without severe illness. Perhaps, in a man of advancing years, that is not uncommon. And yet, before this time, he was one of the fittest men on record, apparently he put the local youth, who are hardy, to shame. Again, some who aren’t strong, also linger in a pathetic, sickly state – your Aunt was one of these. She succumbed only in her adult years, but then her life was a burden for her. One wondered how she bore with it. Even she, at length…’ he sighed. ‘Her end was a release, I am inclined to think. A satisfactory cause of death meanwhile has never been established. In your Grandfather’s case, necessarily it was put down to old age. As with his wife, since she died in her sixties. In the cases of others, death must be questionable. Or unreasonable. As with your Uncle’s two sons. They were fourteen and nineteen years.’

  ‘I assumed some childish malady –’

  ‘Not at all. Clemens was their doctor, then. I will reveal, he confided in me somewhat. He was baffled. The same symptoms – inertia, low pulse, some vertigo, headache, an inclination not to eat. But no fever, no malignancy, no defect. You will perhaps know, William’s health was poor enough to keep him out of the War. He was utterly refused.’

  I said, briskly, ‘Well, I’m leaving tonight.’

  ‘I am glad to hear that you are.’

  ‘But, I had intended to put the house up for sale –’

  ‘I think you need have no qualms, Mr Martyce. Remember, no one who has lived there, who is not a member of your family, has ever been ill. If anything, the reverse.’

  ‘A family curse,’ I said. I meant to sound humorous and ironic. I did not succeed.

  The Reverend Dale looked down upon his serviceable desk. ‘I shall tell you something, Mr Martyce. You are, evidently, a sensible man. I can’t guarantee my words, I’m afraid. The previous incumbent of the parish passed them on to me. But he was vicar in your Grandfather’s time. It seems your Grandfather, always a regular churchgoer when at home, asked for an interview. This was about three years after his final return from the East. He was getting on in years, and had recently had a debilitating bout of illness, but recovered, and no one was in any apprehension for him, at that time.’ The vicar paused.

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Your Grandfather it seems posed a question. He had heard, he said, of a belief among primitive peoples, that when a camera is used to take a photograph, the soul is caught inside the machine.’

  ‘I’ve heard of this,’ I said. ‘There is a lack of education among savages.’

  ‘Quite. But it appears your Grandfather asked my predecessor if he thought that such a thing were truly possible.’

  I sat in silence. I felt cold, and wanted another brandy, but instead I sipped my tepid tea.

  ‘What did he say, your predecessor?’

  ‘Naturally, that he did not credit such an idea.’

  ‘To which my Grandfather said what?’

  ‘It seems he wondered if, rather than catch a human soul, a camera might sometimes snare…something else. Something not human or corporeal. Some sort of spirit.’

  Before the eye of my mind, there passed the memory of how my Grandfather had photographed so many exotic things. And of the pictures taken inside the ancient and remarkable tomb. I am not given to fancies. I do not think it was a fancy. Like a detective, I strove to solve this puzzle.

  I stood up before I had meant to, I did not mean to be rude.

  The old man also rose, and the dog. Both looked at me kindly, yes, I would swear, even the dumb animal had an expression of compassion.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I have to hurry to be sure of my train.’

  ‘You’re not returning to the house?’ said the Reverend Dale.

  ‘No. It’s all locked up. The cleaning lady has been and gone. I promised her she’d be kept on until any new tenants take over. They must make their own arrangements.’

  ‘I think you have been very wise,’ said the vicar.

  He himself showed me to the door of the stone house. ‘It’s a lovely afternoon,’ he said. ‘You look rather exhausted. That cottage there, with the green door. Peter will drive you to the station. Just give him something towards the petrol.’

  I shook his hand, and like some callow youth, felt near to tears.

  In future I must take more exercise. It is not like me to be so flabby. Thank God, Peter was amenable.

  I have written all this down in the train. It has not been easy, with the jolting, and once I leaned back and fell fast asleep. I am better for that. I want to make an end of it here, and so return into London and my life, clear of it.

  No, I cannot say I know what has gone on. When I put the four photographs into the tureen and poured in the whisky, I thought myself, frankly, an imbecile.

  I had left them for perhaps twenty minutes, possibly a fraction longer. I approached the table with no sense of apprehension. Rather, I felt stupid.

  Looking in, I saw at once, but the brain needs sometimes an interim to catch up with the quirkiness of the eye. So I experienced a numbing, ghastly dread, but even so I took out the photographs one by one, and laid them on the newspaper I had left ready.

  The original had not altered. That is, the photograph, already damaged, of my Uncle by the tree. It had not changed, nor the mark, the yellow and red m
ark, that had the shape of a horned creature with forelegs and the hind body of a giant slug. There it still was, quite near to him but yet not close. There it was with its blind red dots of eyes, brilliant on the black and white surface of that simple scene.

  The other three images are quickly described, and I should like to be quick. The whisky had affected them all only in one place. And in that place, always a different one, exactly similarly. The demon was there. The same. Absolute.

  Where the two boys are playing as children, it is some way off, among the trees. It is coiled there, as if resting, watching them, like a pet cat.

  In the photograph of William and his wife and sister – my Aunt – the thing is much nearer, lying in the grass at their feet – again, again, like some awful pet.

  But it is the last picture, the most recent picture of my Uncle William’s younger son, it is that one – They are standing by the summer house. The boy is about thirteen, and the date on the back, that the whisky has blurred, gives evidence that this is so.

  They do not look so very unhappy. Only formal, straight and stone still. That is probably the very worst thing. They should be in turmoil – and the boy – the boy should be writhing, flailing, screaming –

  The demon is close as can be. It has hold of the boy’s leg. It is climbing up him. Its tail is coiled about his knee – Oh God, its head is lying on his thigh. The head has tilted. It gazes up at him. It has wrapped him in its grip. He does not – he does not know.

  I shall write no more now. I do not want to open this diary again. The lights of London will be coming soon, out of the autumn dusk. Smells of smoke, cooking, and unhygenic humanity. Thank God. Thank God I have got away. Thank God. Thank God.

  From a letter by Lucy Wright to her friend J.B.:

  1st November 195-:

  Your letter did cheer me up a bit, though I cried a bit after. Yes, I’d love to come for a visit, and it would help to get my mind off – this. Then, I feel guilty. But what can I do? I was totally in the dark. I didn’t know. He never confided in me. I don’t understand.

  I’d always known Gordon was a bit of an old stick-in-the-mud. But he was kind and hardworking, and I did hope he’d get round to popping the question one day. No one else has made any offers. And of course, he was well-off. Not that that was my main reason. But, well, I’ve never been rich, and it would be nice, not to worry all the time, where the rent’s coming from, or if you can afford a new pair of nylons.

  The funny thing was, when he came back from that house of his uncle’s in the country (and strangely he wouldn’t discuss that at all), he couldn’t see enough of me. We were out every night, like a couple of twenty-year-olds. The pictures, concerts, even dinners in a lovely little restaurant up West. And he made a real fuss of me. He even bought me roses. I thought, this is it. He’s going to ask me now. And I thought, I can change him, get him to brighten up a bit. But then – well it was a funny thing that happened. It was really silly and – nasty. Peculiar.

  It was my birthday – that was the time he gave me the roses – and one of my cousins, Bunty, well she sent me a really lovely present. It was a little camera. What do you expect – I wanted to use it. And one night when Gordon and I were in that nice restaurant, I was showing him the camera, and the manager, who knows Gordon, came up and said, ‘Let me take a picture of you, Mr Martyce, and your young lady.’ Well I was a bit giggly – we’d had some lovely wine – and I was all for it, but Gordon got really funny. No, I mean he got really angry, sort of well – frightened, red in the face – but the manager just laughed, and he took the photograph anyway, with me very nervous and Gordon all hard and angry and scared. The manager said Gordon would have to be less camera-shy, for the wedding.

  I thought, Gordon’s angry because he feels he’s being forced to think about that, about getting married. And he doesn’t want to. And that depressed me, because things had seemed to be going so well. So it ended up a miserable evening. And he took me home. And – well. That was the last time I saw him. I mean, the last time I saw him. Because I don’t count the funeral. How can I? They had to close the coffin. Anyway. He was dead then. I’m sorry. Look, a tear’s fallen in the ink. What a silly girl. Crying over a man that didn’t even want me.

  Of course, I did speak to him just once more, on the telephone. He rang me up about a week after the dinner, and he said he was going to collect the films – the photographs, you see. And I was glad he’d rung me, so I said yes. I was a bit embarrassed, because the rest of the film was all of my family, dad and mum, and Alice and the babies, and it was the first time I’d taken any photographs, and I was sure they’d be bad.

  But then I didn’t hear again, and the next thing was, the policeman coming round in the afternoon, just as I was trying to get money in that rotten meter that’s so stiff. My washing was everywhere – it was Saturday – but he didn’t look. He helped me with the meter and then he put me in a chair, and he told me. Gordon had gone out on the Northern Line and – well, you know. He’d fallen under a train. Well they said, he’d thrown himself under. People had seen him do it. But how can I believe that? I mean, Gordon. It must be a mistake. But then, where was he going? He doesn’t have any relatives, and no friends out that way. Didn’t have. Well.

  But I was so glad to get your kind letter. You see, I went round to Gordon’s flat this afternoon, they let me, because there were a few things of mine there, a couple of books I tried to get Gordon to read – I don’t think he did – and some gloves I’d left, little things – oh, and a casserole dish I’d bought him. It was a nice one. I thought I’d better have it, now.

  And on the table in his room, there were the photographs. The police had obviously been there, because things were a bit disturbed, not the way Gordon would have left them. But the odd thing was, these photographs were lying on a newspaper, and they’d stuck to it, so they must have got wet. And – there was a strong smell of whisky, as if he’d spilled some. Maybe he had. He’d been drinking more lately, more than I’d known him do. I remember he said something strange – something about using a spirit to show a spirit. But he was always too clever for me.

  Any way, I did look at the photographs, and I wondered if I could take them home, but I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t, though I can’t see that they’ll be any help to the police or anyone. Actually, I hadn’t done too badly for a beginner. The ones of the babies are really nice, though I’d made Alice look a bit fat, and she wouldn’t like that. The last one was the one the manager at the restaurant took of Gordon and me, and it was really a pity. I admit, it made me cry a bit. Because, it would have been nice to have a picture of him and me together, something to remember him by. It wasn’t just that we looked really daft – me all grinning and silly, and Gordon so puffed up and upset. No, there was this horrible big red and yellowish mark on the picture – I suppose something went wrong when it was taken, perhaps some light got in, or something, that can happen, can’t it?

  The funny thing is, I can’t explain this, but there was something – something really awful about this mark. It sounds crazy and you’ll think I’m a proper dope. You know what an imagination I’ve got. You see, it looked to me like a funny sort of animal – a sort of snake thing, with hands – and a face. And the oddest part of all, it was in just this place that it looked as if it was sitting square on Gordon’s shoulders, with its tail coming down his collar, and its arm-things round his throat, and its face pressed close to his, as if it loved him and would never let go.

  The Specialist’s Hat

  Kelly Link

  Kelly Link (1969–) is an influential American writer of hard-to-classify short fiction that has been described as fantasy, slipstream, or magic realism. Link has published three collections: Stranger Things Happen (2001), Magic for Beginners (2005), and Pretty Monsters (2008). Her stories have won the Nebula, Hugo, and World Fantasy Awards. Although not known as a writer of ‘weird tales’ per se, most of Link’s stories tend to be grounded in an underlying darkness. The
story reprinted here, ‘The Specialist’s Hat’ (1998), creeps up on the reader, slowly trading a sense of innocence for one of terror. The story is technically as perfect as Shirley Jackson’s ‘The Summer People’ and showcases the effortless complexity of Link’s fiction.

  ‘When you’re Dead,’ Samantha says, ‘you don’t have to brush your teeth…”

  ‘When you’re Dead,’ Claire says, ‘you live in a box, and it’s always dark, but you’re not ever afraid.’

  Claire and Samantha are identical twins. Their combined age is twenty years, four months, and six days. Claire is better at being Dead than Samantha.

  The babysitter yawns, covering up her mouth with a long white hand. ‘I said to brush your teeth and that it’s time for bed,’ she says. She sits crosslegged on the flowered bedspread between them. She has been teaching them a card game called Pounce, which involves three decks of cards, one for each of them. Samantha’s deck is missing the Jack of Spades and the Two of Hearts, and Claire keeps on cheating. The babysitter wins anyway. There are still flecks of dried shaving cream and toilet paper on her arms. It is hard to tell how old she is – at first they thought she must be a grownup, but now she hardly looks older than them. Samantha has forgotten the babysitter’s name.

  Claire’s face is stubborn. ‘When you’re Dead,’ she says, ‘you stay up all night long.’

  ‘When you’re Dead,’ the babysitter snaps, ‘it’s always very cold and damp, and you have to be very, very quiet or else the Specialist will get you.’

  ‘This house is haunted,’ Claire says.

  ‘I know it is,’ the babysitter says. ‘I used to live here.’

  Something is creeping up the stairs,

  Something is standing outside the door,

  Something is sobbing, sobbing in the dark;