The Complete Horowitz Horror

by Anthony Horowitz

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Bath Night

  Killer Camera

  Light Moves

  The Night Bus

  Harriet’s Horrible Dream

  Scared

  A Career in Computer Games

  The Man with the Yellow Face

  The Monkey’s Ear

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.

  Published by The Penguin Group.

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.). Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

  First published in Great Britain by Orchard Books Ltd, 1999.

  Copyright © 1999 by Anthony Horowitz

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Horowitz, Anthony, 1955- Horowitz horror / Anthony Horowitz.—1st American ed.

  p. cm. Summary: Nine horror stories set in England focus on everyday items that

  have sinister qualities. Contents: Bath night—Killer camera—Light moves—The

  night bus—Harriet’s horrible dream—Scared—A career in computer games—The

  man with the yellow face—The monkey’s ear. 1. Horror tales, English. 2. Children’s

  stories, English. [1. Horror stories. 2. Short stories.] I. Title. PZ7.H7875 Hor 2006

  [Fic]—dc22 2005058609

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17739-6

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Bath Night

  She didn’t like the bathtub from the start.

  Isabel was at home the Saturday they delivered it and wondered how the fat, metal beast was ever going to make it up one flight of stairs, around the corner, and into the bathroom. The two scrawny workmen didn’t seem to have much idea either. Thirty minutes, four gashed knuckles, and a hundred swearwords later, it seemed to be hopelessly wedged, and it was only when Isabel’s father lent a hand that they were able to free it. But then one of the stubby legs caught the wallpaper and tore it and that led to another argument right in front of the workmen, her mother and father blaming each other like they always did.

  “I told you to measure it.”

  “I did measure it.”

  “Yes. But you said the legs came off.”

  “No. That’s what you said.”

  It was so typical of her parents to buy that tub, Isabel thought. Anyone else would have been off to the West End to one of the upscale department stores. Pick something out of the showroom. Out with the credit card. Delivery and free installation in six weeks and thank you very much.

  But Jeremy and Susan Martin weren’t like that. Ever since they had bought their small, turn-of-the-century house in Muswell Hill, North London, they had devoted their holidays to getting it just right. And since they were both teachers—he at a private school, she in a local elementary—their holidays were frequent and long.

  And so, the dining-room table had come from an antiques shop in Hungerford, the chairs that surrounded it from a house sale in Hove. The kitchen cupboards had been rescued from a skip in Macclesfield. And their double bed had been a rusting, tangled heap when they had found it in the barn of a French farm-house outside Boulogne. So many weekends. So many hours spent searching, measuring, imagining, haggling, and arguing.

  That was the worst of it. As far as Isabel could see, her parents didn’t seem to get any pleasure out of all these antiques. They argued constantly—in the shops, in the marketplaces, even at the auctions. Once her father had gotten so heated, he had actually broken the Victorian chamber pot they had been fighting about and of course he’d had to buy it anyway. It was in the hall now, glued back together again, the all-too-visible cracks an unpleasant image of their twelve-year-old marriage.

  The bathtub was Victorian, too. Isabel had not been with her parents when they bought it—at an antiques shop in West London.

  “End of the last century,” the dealer had told them. “A real beauty. It’s still got its own taps . . .”

  It certainly didn’t look beautiful as it squatted there on the stripped-pine floor, surrounded by stops and washers and twisting lengths of pipe. It reminded Isabel of a pregnant cow, its great white belly hanging only inches off the ground. Its metal feet curved outward, splayed, as if unable to bear the weight. And, of course, it had been decapitated. There was a single round hole where the taps would be and beneath it an ugly yellow stain in the white enamel where the water had trickled down for perhaps a hundred years, on its way to the plug hole below. Isabel glanced at the taps, lying next to the sink, a tangle of mottled brass that looked too big for the tub they were meant to sit on. There were two handles, marked hot and cold on faded ivory discs. Isabel imagined the water thundering in. It would need to. The bathtub was very deep.

  But nobody used the bath that night. Jeremy had said he would be able to connect it up himself, but in the end he had found it was beyond him. Nothing fit. It would have to be soldered. Unfortunately he wouldn’t be able to get a plumber until Monday, and of course it would add another forty dollars to the bill, and when he told Susan, that led to another argument. They ate their dinner in front of the television that night, letting the shallow laughter of a sitcom cover the chill silence in the room.

  And then it was nine o’clock. “You’d better go to bed early, darling. School tomorrow,” Susan said.

  “Yes, Mom.” Isabel was twelve, but her mother sometimes treated her as if she were much younger. Maybe it came from teaching in a elementary school. Although her father was a tutor at Highgate School, Isabel went to an ordinary public school and she was glad of it. They didn’t allow girls at Highgate and she had always found the boys altogether too prim and proper. They were probably all gay, too.

  Isabel undressed and washed quickly—hands, face, neck, teeth, in that order. The face that gazed out at her from the gilded mirror above the sink wasn’t an unattractive one, she thought, except for the annoying pimple on her nose . . . a punishment for the Mars Bar ice cream she’d eaten the day before. Long brown hair and blue eyes (her mother’s), a thin face with narrow cheek-bones and chin (her father ’s). She had been fat until she was nine, but now she was getting herself in shape. She’d never be a supermodel. She was too fond of ice cream for that. But no fatty either, not like Belinda Price, her best friend at school, who was doomed to a life of hopeless diets and baggy clothes.

  The shape of the tub, over her shoulder, caught her eye and she realized suddenly that from the moment she had come into the bathroom she had been trying to avoid looking at it. Why? She put her toothbrush down, turned around, and examined it. She didn’t like it. Her first impression had been right. It was so big and ugly with its dull enamel and dribbling stain over the plug hole. And it seemed—it was a stupid thought, but now that it was there she couldn’t make it go away—it seemed to be waiting for her. She half smiled at her own foolishness. And then she noticed something else.

  There was a small puddle of water in the bottom of t
he bathtub. As she moved her head, it caught the light and she saw it clearly. Isabel’s first thought was to look up at the ceiling. There had to be a leak, somewhere upstairs, in the attic. How else could water have gotten into a bath whose taps were lying on their side next to the sink? But there was no leak. Isabel leaned forward and ran her third finger along the bottom of the tub. The water was warm.

  I must have splashed it in there myself, she thought. As I was washing my face . . .

  She flicked the light off and left the room, crossing the landing to her bedroom on the other side of her parents’. Somewhere in her mind she knew that it wasn’t true, that she could never have splashed water from the sink into the bathtub. But it wasn’t an important question. In fact, it was ridiculous. She curled up in bed and closed her eyes.

  But an hour later her thumb was still rubbing circles against her third finger and it was a long, long time before she slept.

  “Bath night!” her father said when she got home from school the next day. He was in a good mood, smiling broadly as he shuffled together the ingredients for that night’s dinner.

  “So you got it plumbed in, then?”

  “Yes.” He looked up. “It cost fifty dollars—don’t tell your mother. The plumber was here for two hours.” He smiled and blinked several times and Isabel was reminded of something she had once been told by the brother of a friend who went to the school where he taught. At school, her father’s nickname was Mouse. Why did boys have to be so cruel?

  She reached out and squeezed his arm. “That’s great, Dad,” she said. “I’ll have a bath after dinner. What are you making?”

  “Lasagne. Your mom’s gone out to get some wine.”

  It was a pleasant evening. Isabel had gotten a part in her school play—Lady Montague in Romeo and Juliet. Susan had found a ten-dollar bill in the pocket of a jacket she hadn’t worn for years. Jeremy had been asked to take a group of boys to Paris at the end of the term. Good news oiled the machinery of the family and for once everything turned smoothly. After dinner, Isabel did half an hour’s homework, then kissed her parents good night and went upstairs.

  To the bathroom.

  The bath was ready now. Installed. Permanent. The taps with the black hot and cold protruded over the rim with the curve of a vulture’s neck. A silver plug on a heavy chain slanted into the plug hole. Her father had polished the brasswork, giving it a new gleam. He had put the towels back on the rail and a green bath mat on the floor. Everything back to normal. And yet the room, the towels, the bath mat, seemed to have shrunk. The tub was too big. And it was waiting for her. She still couldn’t get the thought out of her mind.

  “Isabel. Stop being silly . . . !”

  What’s the first sign of madness? Talking to yourself. And the second sign? Answering back. Isabel let out a great sigh of breath and went over to the bathtub. She leaned in and pushed the plug into the hole. Downstairs, she could hear the television: World in Action, one of her father’s favorite programs. She reached out and turned on the hot tap, the metal squeaking slightly under her hand. Without pausing, she gave the cold tap a quarter turn. Now let’s see if that plumber was worth his fifty bucks.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then, deep down underneath the floor, something rumbled. There was a rattling in the pipe that grew louder and louder as it rose up, but still no water. Then the tap coughed, the cough of an old man, of a heavy smoker. A bubble of something like saliva appeared at its lips. It coughed again and spat it out. Isabel looked down in dismay.

  Whatever had been spat into the bathtub was an ugly red, the color of rust. The taps spluttered again and coughed out more of the thick, treacly stuff. It bounced off the bottom of the bath and splattered against the sides. Isabel was beginning to feel sick, and before the taps could deliver a third load of—whatever it was—into the tub, she seized hold of them and locked them both shut. She could feel the pipes rattling beneath her hands, but then it was done. The shuddering stopped. The rest of the liquid was swallowed back into the network of pipes.

  But still it wasn’t over. The bottom of the bath was coated with the liquid. It slid unwillingly toward the plug hole, which swallowed it greedily. Isabel looked more closely. Was she going mad or was there something inside the plug hole? Isabel was sure she had the plug in, but now it was half in and half out of the hole and she could see below.

  There was something. It was like a white ball, turning slowly, collapsing in on itself, glistening wet and alive. And it was rising, making for the surface . . .

  Isabel cried out. At the same time she leaned over and jammed the plug back into the hole. Her hand touched the red liquid and she recoiled, feeling it, warm and clinging, against her skin.

  And that was enough. She reeled back, yanked a towel off the rail, and rubbed it against her hand so hard that it hurt. Then she threw open the bathroom door and ran downstairs.

  Her parents were still watching television.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Jeremy asked.

  Isabel explained what had happened, the words tumbling over one another in their hurry to get out, but it was as if her father wasn’t listening. “There’s always a bit of rust with a new bath,” he went on. “It’s in the pipes. Run the water for a few minutes and it’ll go.”

  “It wasn’t rust,” Isabel said.

  “Maybe the boiler’s acting up again,” Susan muttered.

  “It’s not the boiler.” Jeremy frowned. He had bought it secondhand and it had always been a sore point—particularly when it broke down.

  “It was horrible,” Isabel insisted. “It was like . . .” What had it been like? Of course, she had known all along. “Well, it was like blood. It was just like blood. And there was something else. Inside the plug.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Jeremy was irritated now, missing his program.

  “Come on! I’ll come up with you . . .” Susan pushed a pile of Sunday newspapers off the sofa—she was still reading them even though this was Monday evening—and got to her feet.

  “Where’s the TV control?” Jeremy found it in the corner of his armchair and turned the volume up.

  Isabel and her mother went upstairs, back into the bathroom. Isabel looked at the towel lying crumpled where she had left it. A white towel. She had wiped her hands on it. She was surprised to see there was no trace of a stain.

  “What a lot of fuss over a teaspoon of rust!” Susan was leaning over the bath. Isabel stepped forward and peered in nervously. But it was true. There was a shallow puddle of water in the middle and a few grains of reddish rust. “You know there’s always a little rust in the system,” her mother went on. “It’s that stupid boiler of your father ’s.” She pulled out the plug. “Nothing in there either!” Finally, she turned on the tap. Clean, ordinary water gushed out in a reassuring torrent. No rattling. No gurgles. Nothing. “There you are. It’s sorted itself out.”

  Isabel hung back, leaning miserably against the sink. Her mother sighed. “You were making it all up, weren’t you?” she said—but her voice was affectionate, not angry.

  “No, Mom.”

  “It seems a long way to go to get out of having a bath.”

  “I wasn’t . . . !”

  “Never mind, now. Brush your teeth and go to bed.” Susan kissed her. “Good night, dear. Sleep well.”

  But that night Isabel didn’t sleep at all.

  She didn’t have a bath the following night either. Jeremy Martin was out—there was a staff meeting at the school—and Susan was trying out a new Martha Stewart recipe for a dinner party the following weekend. She spent the whole evening in the kitchen.

  Nor did Isabel have a bath on Wednesday. That was three days in a row and she was beginning to feel more than uncomfortable. She liked to be clean. That was her nature, and as much as she tried washing herself using the sink, it wasn’t the same. And it didn’t help that her father had used the bath on Tuesday morning and her mother on Tuesday and Wednesday, and neither of them had noticed any
thing wrong. It just made her feel more guilty—and dirtier.

  Then on Thursday morning someone made a joke at school—something about rotten eggs—and as her cheeks burned, Isabel decided enough was enough. What was she so afraid of anyway? A sprinkling of rust that her imagination had turned into . . . something else. Susan Martin was out that evening—she was at her Italian evening class—so Isabel and her father sat down together to eat the Martha Stewart crab cakes, which hadn’t quite worked because they had all fallen to pieces in the pan.

  At nine o’clock they went their separate ways—he to the news, she upstairs.

  “Good night, Dad.”

  “Good night, Is.”

  It had been a nice, companionable evening.

  And there was the bath, waiting for her. Yes. It was waiting, as if to receive her. But this time Isabel didn’t hesitate. If she was as brisk and as businesslike as possible, she had decided, then nothing would happen. She simply wouldn’t give her imagination time to play tricks on her. So without even thinking about it, she slipped the plug into the hole, turned on the taps, and added a squirt of Body Shop avocado bubble bath for good measure. She undressed (her clothes were a useful mask, stopping her from seeing the water as it filled) and only when she was quite naked did she turn around and look at the bath. It was fine. She could just see the water, pale green beneath a thick layer of foam. She stretched out her hand and felt the temperature. It was perfect: hot enough to steam up the mirror but not so hot as to scald. She turned off the taps. They dripped as loudly as she remembered. Then she went over to lock the door.

  Yet still she hesitated. She was suddenly aware of her nakedness. It was as if she were in a room full of people. She shivered. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. But the question hung in the air along with the steam from the water. It was like a nasty, unfunny riddle.

  When are you at your most defenseless?