New Fears II--Brand New Horror Stories by Masters of the Macabre

by Mark Morris

  “In which case, why is everyone here a man? And old? And white?”

  Tuck shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know. You should ask all those young negro girls. I’m sure we don’t discriminate.”

  “I think I would like to go now.”

  “Your father wanted you to see this. Why do you think that was?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The thumb,” said J. C. Tuck, “is the most remarkable part of the human body, you know.”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure it isn’t.”

  “It’s the thumb which separates man from the animals,” said Tuck. “The opposable digit, which allows us to wield tools, to make something better of ourselves. Without our thumbs we would be nothing. The thumb is the greatest gift God gave us. And just because he loves us so, he gave us a second one, on the other hand, as a spare!”

  “I don’t really believe in God.”

  “I can see you’re not a man who believes in things.” He smiled at me, to show he wasn’t blaming me for this—if anything, he pitied me. “You’re an individual, yes? But what gives you the key to your individuality? The thumb. You know your fingerprints are unique. And the thumbprint is that uniqueness writ large. Thicker and wider and prouder than any mere finger.” He leaned into me, and I wanted to back away, but I didn’t dare somehow, and his voice was now so calm and gentle. “Do you know why babies like to suck their thumbs?”

  “Um. To feel secure?”

  “Because they know. Because at the very core of us, before civilisation moulds us and corrupts us, when we’re still pure and newly born, we know. The thumb is sacred. They tuck it away into their mouths to mother it, to comfort it and keep it safe. Why else would you think God designed the tongue so that it would fit so exactly around it?”

  I looked down at my thumb. I didn’t want to. I felt compelled to.

  “When did you last suck your thumb?” J. C. Tuck asked me.

  “I don’t know.”

  “So long ago,” whispered Tuck. “A time of comfort, so far away.” I don’t know why, but I felt my eyes begin to prick with tears. “It’s all right,” said Tuck. “Bring your thumb home. Suck your thumb for me now.”

  I put my thumb in my mouth. It didn’t feel especially comfortable; it certainly didn’t feel like it had been brought home. My tongue lolled around the intruder awkwardly; it wasn’t really sure what to do with it.

  “Not like that,” said Tuck. “Let me show you.”

  And his gloved hand reached for mine, he drew it away from my lips and towards his. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t bite.” And he opened his mouth and pulled my thumb inside.

  The first thing I noticed was how warm his mouth was, warm like a bed on a frosty morning, warm that was cosy and nice. And it was such a big mouth—mine had been all teeth and tongue, and half-chewed food most probably, there was barely room for my thumb at all—but in Tuck’s mouth the thumb could roam wide and free, the plains were vast and empty and my thumb for the taking. Tuck clamped my thumb gently to his soft palate with his tongue. The soft palate yielded like a sponge, the tongue was firm and it knew its business and it brooked no argument, it kept me pressed there and then it stroked me—it didn’t lick, it was nothing so uncouth, it flexed and flexed again, it seemed to pulsate.

  And then, so soon, it was over. He pulled me out of his mouth, his lips pressed hard so they slid against my skin.

  “Was that all right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “And now then. Maybe you would do a little something for me.” He began to tug off his glove.

  “You want me to suck your thumb?” I asked.

  “No, as I say, my tastes have changed.” And he lifted up his hand.

  There, on the end, was now just a stump. It cut off abruptly above the knuckle. There were tooth marks, some fresh too, there were still traces of blood—I saw little specks of bone.

  “I like to chew,” he said.

  He brought it up to my face, that stub of raw meat, and I wasn’t going to open my mouth, I wasn’t, but I had to breathe, and I felt my lips part. “Share the bounty.”

  “Let him go,” said my father.

  J. C. Tuck didn’t take his eyes off me for a moment, his face now so close to me I could taste that warm breath once more. The warmth that was so cosy. “Get back inside,” he said genially enough. “You’ll get wet.” And it was only then I realised that it was now raining very hard indeed.

  “Let him go.” Father sounded frightened. He sounded as if he would run away at any second. “He’s my son. I brought him here to know me better. To understand. I…” I thought he had stopped, so did Tuck, who gave his attention back to me.

  “He’s my son,” said my father one last time.

  Tuck didn’t move for a moment. Then he looked down at the ground, and he stepped back from me. “Then go home,” he said softly. “Both of you.” And he went indoors.

  Father and I held back in the garden for a minute, we didn’t dare follow. I went to my father and I smiled. He smiled back weakly. There was a line of guacamole on his chin.

  * * *

  It was raining heavily as we walked to the tube station, but Father was in no hurry, and I didn’t feel I could rush him. I took his hand. He held on to me, but there was no grip to it. I looked down at him, and thought once more how old he was.

  “What am I going to do now?” he said at last.

  “There’s still cricket,” I said. “There’s still Wodehouse.”

  We reached the station. And he looked so sad, and I opened my arms wide for him and took him in a hug. I kissed him. I kissed him on the top of the head, and then I kissed him on the cheek.

  “I’ll call you,” I said.

  He nodded, and he turned, and he went.

  * * *

  When I got back home, Peggy was watching television. I settled down on the sofa next to her. When the commercials came on, she spoke to me. “Your Dad all right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did you have steak?”

  I realised I hadn’t eaten all evening. I wasn’t hungry. “Yes,” I said.

  We watched the programme together. And I suddenly felt a rage inside me, that this was what our lives had become, that the love I knew we still had for each other had become so passionless. There was a time we could barely keep our hands to ourselves, and now—this, just this. And I wasn’t sure whether the rage was at her, or at myself. And then it passed.

  I took her hand. She held on to it happily enough.

  A few minutes later, I raised her hand to my lips. She let me do so. It was a dead weight. It had no will of its own. I kissed it gently. I put the hand back.

  I waited until the commercial break. And then I raised her hand to my lips again. But this time I took her thumb inside my mouth. And it filled my mouth. I had never realised how large my wife’s thumb was.

  At last I released her. And I lowered her hand gently back to her side. She didn’t say a word, she seemed a world away, a world of washing powder and furniture discount sales.

  The programme ended. “Shall we watch another?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.” So we did.

  BULB

  Gemma Files

  Dedicated to Stephen J. Barringer

  Lucas Brennan 1:41 PM (4 hours ago)

  to me ▼

  Ian,

  I wish you’d told me to listen to your recordings first, because I just wasted ninety fucking minutes on editing your intro script. There’s absolutely no way we can use this interview, Ian—this isn’t what we’re about, it isn’t what our listeners want, and it isn’t what we sold anyone on or what our advertisers want to be connected with! I hate being the heavy here, but you’ve put the rest of us in a truly bad position—I can either pull Jen and Oshi off the May 17 episode to try putting together a half-assed substitute or we can screw over our listeners with a rerun, and either way we’re almost certa
inly gonna lose audience clicks, which means we lose ad clicks which means we all lose revenue.

  I’ll let you know which way we go. In the interim I’d do yourself a favour and stay off line for a day or two. I’m not the only person on the team who’s pissed about this.

  --L.

  Sent from my iPhone

  Ian Dossimer Apr 20 (1 day ago)

  to Lucas ▼

  Hey Luke,

  I’ve enclosed the first whack at the intro script for the May 3 episode. Sorry it’s a little late but I think we’ve still got time, especially given how little editing I think the interview portion’s going to need. Text me or call me with any questions!—Doss

  “GRIDLOST” -- EPISODE 22 MAY 3 2018

  Proposed Title: “Leaving the Light Behind”

  Intro Script

  Good morning, afternoon or evening, everybody, whenever you’re listening. I’m your host Ian Dossimer and welcome to another episode of “GridLost”, the podcast where we interview the new pioneers of the 21st century, people looking for ways to build themselves a space of privacy and safety in an increasingly technology-polluted world. We’ve got something of exceptional interest today, so I hope everybody has time to sit down and listen straight through, because, I can promise you, this story isn’t like anything you’ve heard on “GridLost” before. It isn’t like anything we’ve done on “GridLost” before.

  The first and most important thing I have to tell you today is about our guest. Because her name is... not something we know, in fact. That’s right, for the first time in our show’s history we’re conducting an anonymous interview. The only contact information I have for this woman is an Internet forum handle and a phone number that I was assured belongs to a burner phone she plans to discard pretty much the moment she hangs up on us. Some of our more devoted fans may recognize this handle if they frequent the right websites: she goes by the alias “Harmony6893”, and she’s posted on Prepperforums.net and Survivalistboards.com, among others.

  If you do recognize that alias, you’ll also probably know why this is something of a coup for us: unlike a lot of our subjects, Harmony6893 hasn’t just disconnected from the central North American power network, she has (so she claims) completely abandoned the use of any kind of electrical technology or telecommunications device. She has no cable, no Wi-Fi, no smartphone, no solar panels, batteries or wind turbines, not even an emergency generator—in fact, she only posts to the Net every two weeks when she visits a not-exactly-nearby town to use their Internet cafe. More controversially, some say dangerously, she’s doing this all completely alone; she has no family or housemates in her property, wherever it is. If there is an ultimate off-the-grid story, this woman is it.

  The next thing I have to warn you about is the nature of Harmony6893’s story. As you’ll know from our other episodes, the reasons people choose to unplug are as varied as the people themselves. Some want to recapture a childhood that modern technology is destroying, some are preparing for an EMP attack or any of half a dozen other kinds of disaster, some want to help bring about political decentralization by creating the infrastructure for social decentralization. But in my first phone call, when I asked Harmony6893 to explain the reasons for her self-imposed isolation, she told me that it wasn’t any of that. Rather it was something utterly unique to her, something she was utterly sure nobody else would understand or believe. And after listening to what she has to say… well, I’m not sure she’s wrong. But I do think it’s something that our listeners deserve the chance to make up their own minds about.

  Harmony is, in fact, so cautious that during our interview, she was obviously using some sort of commercial sound distorter on her phone to disguise her voice—just to explain why it sounds so odd. Please don’t blame our tech guys! Without further ado, then, let us introduce you… to Harmony6893.

  harmony-interview-apr-18.mp3

  * * *

  INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT

  Q: I. DOSSIMER, “GRIDLOST”, 2018-04-18

  A: “HARMONY6893”

  Q: I want to thank you again for being willing to take the time to do this.

  A: (PAUSE) “Willing” might be a strong word. “Attack of conscience” is probably more accurate.

  Q: Well, that sounds ominous.

  A: If you’re not going to take this seriously, I’m hanging up.

  Q: No, yes, of course, you’re right, I do apologize. Let’s begin with the standard introduction: So… you’re currently known only as Harmony6893 on a number of Internet forums.

  A: You already know that.

  Q: And your real name is…?

  A: None of your business.

  Q: Well, that creates just a bit of a problem for us, especially in terms of, you know, fact-checking whatever it is you’re going to—

  A: Mmm-hmh, yeah, I don’t care. If that’s some kind of deal-breaker for you, then I guess we’re…

  Q: No, no, it’s okay, it’s all right! How would you prefer we refer to you, then?

  A: Um. (PAUSES) Bronwyn, that’s always been a name I liked. Call me that.

  Q: All right, Bronwyn. How long have you been off the grid, at this point?

  A: Almost a year and four months. Since January of last year.

  Q: And you’ve gone completely non-technological? Like, back to the nineteenth century?

  A: Hardly. When I need to buy tools and supplies, I buy modern machine-shop versions. I don’t hand-carve my own butter churns. (BEAT) But I do have a butter churn. (CHUCKLES) That’s one of the reasons I started posting to prepper sites in the first place—I had to learn a lot of the old techniques just to stay afloat, and people in the survivalist community put big value on skill-sharing.

  Q: And yet you also live completely by yourself as well, we hear. One thing a lot of our other interviewees have said is that total isolation is actually dangerous—not just in case you find yourself hurt and without help, but because humans aren’t really meant to live that way. Community’s a key part of sanity. Why forgo it?

  A: (PAUSE) I’d have to call that a matter of conscience as well.

  Q: Meaning you don’t want to tell us? It’s all right if you don’t. We always respect the defined spaces of our guests’ privacy.

  A: No, I’m going to tell you. It’s just that explaining it is going to take a while. And enough of your listeners are going to think I’m a psycho by the end of this anyway.

  Q: You might be surprised. We’re pretty open-minded around here.

  A: We’ll see.

  (PAUSE)

  Q: So we may as well start from the beginning. Had you always been interested in disconnection as a lifestyle, or was it a sudden change?

  A: You could call it “sudden”.

  (BEAT)

  A: The truth is, up until last January, you would probably have pegged me as the last person you’d have imagined doing this. I was a stockbroker—or, as I liked to tell people I thought would think it was charming, I tricked suckers into throwing away their money trying to cheat the system out of more for a living. I was one of those people you see power walking along Bay Street with a Bluetooth in her ear and her nose in her smartphone, checking on Bloomberg and the TSE1 for the latest buying and selling movements. That’s how it all started, in fact—I got a promotion and a pay raise that meant I’d finally be able to live downtown on my own salary, so I started looking around for a condo within walking distance of my office. And in December, I thought I’d finally found it.

  It wasn’t a new unit, just a one-bedroom plus den job belonging to a guy who flew back and forth every week between Hong Kong and… and where I used to live, so when his job suddenly changed and he didn’t need to be there any more, he was more interested in unloading it fast than in gauging potential buyers. Not a lot of room, but all the space I needed for my office, plus a lot of shelving and a really nice northern view with lots of natural light. And there was this beautiful line of track-lighting in the main room, one of the best I’d ever seen—bright bulbs, und
erstated fixtures, on a dimmer switch. I remember looking up at it while the realtor was nattering on and thinking, “Wow, that’s really nice.”

  Q: So what you’re saying is, it was really nice.

  A: Yeah, well, I think ultimately, that lighting might’ve been the primary reason I agreed to buy the place. So I go through all the paperwork, wait for buddy to move out and head back to Hong Kong, and I move in three weeks later and… the lighting is gone. He took it with him.

  Q: You mean he actually removed the entire fixture? Not just took out the bulbs?

  A: Yeah, that’s what I mean. There wasn’t anything left in the ceiling except this S-shaped row of plastic nodules where it must have been attached. I don’t mind telling you I was really pissed off about that, especially when the realtor said she couldn’t do anything—if the guy put it in he had the right to take it out.

  Q: Was this some kind of unique hand-made brand or something? I wouldn’t think it’d be that impossible to replace a set of lights.

  A: You wouldn’t, right? But no. I mean… getting a new track and bulbs wasn’t the problem—didn’t look exactly like what’d been there before, but at this point, I was willing to settle. The problem was when I got the lighting tech in to hook everything up, and he just couldn’t get it to work.

  Q: How do you mean?

  A: I mean he couldn’t get a current out of any of the wires running into those sockets. And even weirder? He couldn’t even find the goddam switch that worked that particular fixture. The dimmer and all that shit? Well, my realtor couldn’t remember where it was supposed to be, and neither I nor the lighting guy could find anything like it. Sure, there was a switch inside the door for the hall light, one for the kitchen—guy-o didn’t take that. A switch inside the john, for the vanity lights above the sink. But no switches anywhere else except right next to the en-suite washer-dryer unit built-in, and you know what that turned out to run?

  Q: The washer-dryer?

  A: Got it in one.

  Q: Okay, I admit it, that’s a little weird… You’re sure you saw these lights actually working when you were first looking at the apartment? When the realtor was there?