The Seventh Pan Book of Horror Stories Part 8

She kept her smile, but it hardened angrily. Spinning, she glided - she walks with the stealth of a cat - out the door toward the swimming pool. I went to the window and watched her stoop at the edge of the water and pick something up. Then she came back into the house and went up to the spare room. As she pa.s.sed me I couldn't see what she carried in her hand; the object was too small. It wasn't until just a few hours ago now that I understood it must have been her knife.

Then though, the curiosity of what she had picked up at the pool took me into her room later. She was sitting in front of a window, a half-filled gla.s.s of whiskey beside her, staring out into the dark. I can 'see' her expression now; how can I ever forget it? Her ironic smile was at its ultimate in cruelty - an expression of a mad G.o.ddess.

But for the first time her smile and stare were of secondary importance to me. A tapestry hung down one wall, I had seen it many times, but as I came into the room that night I saw that one edge of it, about halfway down, was indented. It was caught on a key that stuck out of a Yale lock. Too, I could see a few inches of an almost imperceptible line of a doorway in the wall. In her drunkenness and anger, she had either forgotten to take the key out of the lock or had purposely left it there for me to see. There was a secret room behind that wall, a hidden closet.

She seemed not to notice that I had seen the doorway. She focused her smile and stare on me. Her anger was now either gone or under control. Very carefully, very slowly, very calmly, her words coming in the quiet between the falling of ocean waves nearby, her voice filled with pride and power, she said: I killed Victor.'

And then, her cool proud voice cutting me as if She were carving her words out of my skin, she told me, for the first time, the story of leading Victor to the hole on the island of Hydra. And again - this part of the story I had heard so often - told me of his nightmare eyes - eyes like her first husband's, eyes she feared.

'I killed him too,' she said, meaning her first husband, the one before Victor, her voice singing with power now. 'He drowned,' she chuckled. 'All my husbands drown. None know how to swim.' She took a long drink.

'Go look in the mirror,' she said. 'Go look at your own eyes, you'll see what I mean. You're just like Victor and the other one. You're after me, you want to kill me too. I can see it in your eyes.' Her voice had lifted into a knot, as if it wanted to scream. It's in your eyes too!'

I went back to my room on jelly legs. I locked the door. I tried to sleep. I felt Mareta's stare, I saw her smile; in my mind I heard her insane words, over and over. I felt her fingers on my eyes - through the bedroom wall.

I got up and snapped on the light. Pwent to a mirror.

As I looked into the gla.s.s and saw my eyes, I at first felt shock and fear. But the longer I looked, the calmer I became and the more I understood. Mareta had made fear grow in the eyes of Victor and her first husband. As the men gradually saw her for what she was, fear grew. Mareta, seeing the fear and realising theyknew her, translated their knowledge into a threat to her security - her power. And, thus, she destroyed Victor and her first husband.

I understood this because, gazing into the mirror, in my own eyes I saw the surge of living fear.

The next morning I saw a lawyer about getting a divorce. I planned to move out of the house as soon as I could find a place to live.

But I had waited too long.

As soon as I got inside the house that evening, Mareta came down from upstairs, silently, her smile so strong it seemed to be a being itself. Her stare pried into my eyes before she went out the door, the knife in her hand. I watched her walk across the lawn toward the beach, then I went up to her bedroom.

I suppose I should have known she would come back to the house immediately. If I had thought, I would have realised that she had left the house simply to give me an opportunity to get into her secret closet - especially when, going into the bedroom, I found the tapestry pulled back and the hidden door left open a crack.

Inside the closet I found the bottles. Two of them. Discarded olive bottles, washed and sealed. They were neatly lined up on a shelf, a stool in front of them. Mareta must have sat for hours staring at them and the photographs behind. The three pictures, propped up against the wall, were of her first husband and Victor - and me. A sharp device - a knife? - had been thrust through the eyes of each man.

My mind, of course, at first refused to believe what I saw in the bottles, even though I had come to know Mareta for what she was. The sight I saw in them will stay with me forever, though I've tried with all my being to shut it out these last few days. The sight haunts me. My only consolation is that I know I will never see, actually, such a nightmare again. It is an impossiblity.

While I stood in the closet, trying to accept psychologically the horror of what I saw in the bottles, Mareta came silently into the bedroom behind me. I did not hear her until she was almost on me. I turned in time to see her plunge the knife at me, silently, her smile bursting with pride, her stare like a G.o.ddess. We struggled. She had the advantage of surprise, and I was hurt. She struck again and again before I managed to get the knife from her and, wildly, blindly, stab it into her, blood streaming down my face.

She was dead by the time they got her - and me - to the hospital. They buried her yesterday. I wasn't there. I was in the hospital, where I am now. I'm glad she's dead. I'm glad I killed her. I wish she had been destroyed years ago, before she had had time to kill.

My only consolation, as I've said, is that now, blinded by the knife thrusts of Mareta (she had aimed the blade at my eyes only), I'll never again see those bottles, those olive jars containing the pickled eyes of Victor and husband number one, eyes she had cut out with her knife as the men lay at the bottom of the sea.

I'LL NEVER LEAVE YOU - EVER.

By Rene Morris.

Is death the end of our existence, or is there another life that we can know nothing of? Perhaps the story that I am about to tell will convince you that there are stronger ties to the living than one might at first suppose; and that love, most of all, springs eternal.

The sky had turned its back on daylight, and storm clouds were gathering like heavy grey blankets across the hills. An eerie blue half-light dimmed the mountains, and the sudden streak of lightning slid to earth in a blinding flash of fury, only to die amid another tumultuous roll of thunder.

In the shelter of the barn, Moragh stood silently, her long black hair flying in the wind. She watched with quiet exultation the tangled, mis-shapen trees, as they fought defiantly against the wind; a wind running wild and free, that sang through her body and washed away the aching hopelessness that was imprisoned within her.

'Moragh. Little Moragh. Come inside, you're getting wet.'

She did not hear her lover's voice, only the plaintive wail of a gull as it winged away over the croft, and was lost in the darkness. A shiver went through her as, pulling the woollen shawl closely around the slimness of her shoulders, she stepped inside the door and closed it upon the night.

Ianto took her gently by the hand and led her quietly in the darkness. His breath felt warm upon her cheek, and in the sanctuary of the barn his kisses and soft words gave her a kind of peace; as if his body poured a sweet strength into her veins, drowning her in his own desire. She lay in Ianto's arms listening to the rain beating down upon the roof; but the sound was melting away, and there was only Ianto, sweet Ianto, and a quiet peace all around her.

It had stopped raining. No longer did the stormbeat play upon the roof, only the drip, drip, drip of water, falling steadily from the rainpipe, kissing the sodden earth. Moragh lay in the sweet smelling hay watching Ianto as he delicately filled his pipe, its aromatic fragrance permeating the air with a deeper richness. Through the window, broken and barred, a thin shaft of pale moonlight cast a narrow path across the floor, and somewhere a rat scurried noisily out of sight.

'Moragh?'

Tm here Ianto,' she whispered.

'Won't he wonder where you are?'

I don't care. I hate him. His love is like a prison, it suffocates me. Since his illness he has grown worse. He watches me all the time. Oh, Ianto, why does he cling to life so? Why doesn't he die?'

He held her close to him, stroking her long silken hair and rocking gently, trying to comfort her. She felt small, and warm, like a child that needed rea.s.suring.

'Hush little Moragh. The Collector will call in his own good time. Not even Owen can last forever. And when life's done with him, what then?'

'I'll give everything to you Ianto. The land is rich, and come Spring we'll have more than fifty sheep. I shall need your help then. Will you come?'

Til come.'

'Ianto, I love you so.' She kissed him tenderly. When shall I see you again?'

'When I see the lamp burning in the window, I will come. Now you must go little Moragh.'

They walked to the barn door, and before opening it he wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and kissed her once more.

Till then.'

Till then my darling Ianto.'

Their hands touched for a moment, and then he was swinging away into the darkness, and soon his tall figure could no longer be seen. She wanted to cry out, to call his name, but the words would not come. Her throat felt tight and dry, paralysed by the words that she could not utter; words that could span the gulf between them like a chain, but the link was broken, and with it, she realised Ianto had gone.

Her skirts trailed heavily on the wet and muddy earth as she made her way back to the croft. She stood for a moment in the doorway, her hand upon the latch looking back down into the valley. But the moon had gone, leaving behind only a dark void of emptiness, and shiveriftg, she went inside and latched the door.

The wind had dropped, and a deathly hush hung about the croft. She felt suspended in time; entombed, without the sense of living, for without Ianto life was nothing. She merely existed until his arms were about her again, pouring back the sweetness of life, that was Ianto.

The light from the lamp spilled out, it's warm glow filling the room with dancing shadows. Owen heard the soft rustle of her skirts and turned his eyes to watch as she set the lamp down upon the table. She did not look at him, but busied herself at the fire, afraid to turn her face until the pain she felt could no longer be seen by those searching eyes. Eyes that forever gazed upon her with the sickness of love, devouring her every movement, her very being, until her soul lay bare with no fragment unseen.

'Moragh.'

She turned, but could not yet bring her eyes to meet his.

'Where have you been? I've missed you.'

'The storm had torn the door from the henroost. I had to make safe for fear of losing the little ones.'

'Dear Moragh. Your hair is tangled, bring the brush and sit by me.'

The evening ordeal had started. In health, he had antic.i.p.ated her every wish. Never had she had to ask for something to be done, without finding that Owen had read her mind, and the job done. This nightly hair brushing was the only thing left for him to do, and in doing it, he felt that in some small way he could still show his love for her, and the need he had to be of some service even still.

Moragh sat stiffly on the edge of the cot, the sickly, sweet smell of his breath enveloping her like suffocating rain. He cupped her chin in his hand and turned her face toward him. She felt the tight knot in her stomach as her eyes looked upon the face of the man that once she had loved. The once strong face that was now a wasted shadow, a memory of yesterday. He gazed at her, his eyes deep concavities in a waste of snow. There was a blue transparency about the temples, each vein a dark line, reaching upward and outward, as if to break the shrinking prison that tightened across it. She felt nauseated, and the cold repulsion crept over her skin and broke out in tiny beads of sweat on her forehead. The brush ran limply through her hair, pausing now and then so that his hand could fondle the long black strength of it. He pressed the soft falling waves gently into place with a hand that was thin and white, his long fingers were cold upon her face, like the kiss of death. She wanted to tear herself away, to scream out the repulsion she felt for him, but his hand had dropped, and the brush scuttered noisily across the floor.

'That will have to do for tonight Moragh. I'm tired, but it looks well enough.'

She stooped to retrieve the brush, and as she pa.s.sed, he caught her hand in his.

I love you so Moragh. It grieves me that I cannot do more for you, but I shall get well, you'll see. You must have faith in me Moragh, for how could I leave you? I could not leave you, ever.'

'Hush. I know. Now you must sleep.'

'Kiss me Moragh.'

She closed her eyes so that he would not see the revulsion she felt, and prayed that he would not hear the hammering of her heartbeats. Her lips met the cold shrunken forehead but briefly. Before she could escape his arms went round her, dragging her down to him, and his lips were crushing hers with all the hunger of the love he had for her. Her brain seemed to snap; and when he let her go she swayed dizzily wiping the kiss from her mouth, and stifling a cry she quickly left the room. Closing the door behind her, Moragh stumbled outside into the cold night air, the sickness welling up in her throat like a great tide that could not be quelled. All the loathing, all the disgust that was in her poured forth in an unending torrent. Her body shook with the violence of it. Hot tremulous waves rose up her spine, and the acrid taste filled her nose and mouth until she felt submerged in sickness.

When at last the violence ceased,Moragh went wearily to the stream, and cupping the water in shaking hands, let its coldness run down her burning cheeks. Despair was heavy in her heart, and she knew a great loneliness. The tears welled up, and she knelt by the stream weeping bitterly. But from despair there came anger. No more. There must be an end to this misery. She was young and strong, and there was so much that life could offer: so much love to give, and the sweetness of giving all to Ianto. Owen lay dying. But when? He clung to life like a leech, draining it of all the pleasures that were rightfully hers. And so it seemed logical... that Owen must die.

Moragh stood watching the old woman's gnarled hands as they deftly whittled away at the soft white wood. Behind her, through the open door, Moragh could see the row of small, headless dolls. Every finger had a perfect nail, and every toe so delicately carved and balanced on its tapering foot.

'Well?'

The old woman spat impatiently, wiping her thin mouth on the back of her hand.

I was admiring your work. You are well known in these parts.'

The old woman was not impressed and continued to whittle, her weathered face a mask of wrinkled indifference.

'You want a doll?'

'Yes.'

'What do you offer for my service?'

'Whatever you wish. You have but to name it.'

The old woman nodded, the lines on her face tightening into a toothless grin. She rose stiffly from her seat and went inside. When she emerged she held a round ball of wood and a headless doll in her hand.

'Male, or female?'

'Male.'

'Describe him to me. Leave out nothing, for the likeness must be perfect.'

Moragh described Owen in slow detail, and watched the small round ball shrink as the tiny pieces fell to the floor. The old woman worked skilfully at the tiny head, stopping occasionally for Moragh's approval. Under the old woman's hand, the sallow face of Owen slowly emerged. It seemed almost alive, and the bark-paint gave to the eyes a sense of seeing. They stared at her with an intensity that was uncanny. She half expected to see the lids blink in the strong sunlight, so real were they fashioned. When the old woman had finished, the head was forced upon its spindly neck, and the effigy was complete. Moragh stared at it in disbelief - she was looking at Owen.

'Well?'

'It is a perfect likeness. And your price, old woman?'

'Two spring lambs. If I do not receive them, things will not go well with you. You understand?'

'I understand. You shall have two fine spring lambs, this I promise.'

The old woman seemed satisfied and placed the doll in Moragh's hands. It was done. She turned away down the path that led into the valley, and as she stepped lightly over the springy turf she felt almost happy. The sun was warm upon her back as she started up the col, the light breeze playing with her hair. It had been so easy, so very easy. She looked at the small effigy and smiled, the key to freedom lay in the palm of her hand.

Upon reaching the croft, Moragh placed the doll upon the rough wooden table and started to prepare, a meal. She felt uneasy and had the strange feeling that she was being watched. It was not logical, and she tried to shrug it off, and yet the feeling persisted. She felt impelled to turn round, to make sure that she was alone. The effigy lay upon the table where she had left it; but its head had turned, and the tiny, lifelike eyes watched her every movement, a demonic smile on its upturned face. Its gaze held hers, and there was something familiar in the way it looked at her, something compelling about those eyes that made her feel afraid. An intangible fear that filled her with coldness as she stared at the shrunken face. Walking stiffly to the table, her hand reached out and grasped the doll, and turning its gaze from her she opened the flour sack and threw it inside.

'Moragh.' The word rent the air with a fearful urgency.

Opening the adjoining door Moragh stood half in, half out, her mind unable to think, yet knowing that she must answer his call. He was sitting up in the cot, his face was wild and desperate and his thin, white hands clutched the woollen blanket, white bony knuckles swollen and strained.

'Moragh. Where are you. My eyes, I cannot see.'

Somewhere, deep inside her, she suddenly felt pity for him. His poor, wasted frame had lain there upon the cot for months. It was only love for her that had kept his will to live so strong, and seeing him so helpless, Moragh went to him.

'Dear G.o.d, I am blind. I can see nothing but darkness. I am afraid Moragh. I am so afraid. Hold me, hold me...'

'You are dreaming Owen. Be still, be still. I will fetch you some water.'

Moragh eased his hands from her and hurried from the room. The slow realisation of what had happened dawned on her. Opening the flour sack, she felt inside and took out the doll. Brushing away the flour from it, she placed it in the window with its face turned away from her. The old woman had done well, and Moragh marvelled at the doll's sensitivity. This small effigy possessed the power of life and death, and it was then that Moragh decided not to wait any longer for Owen's death. It would be a kindness to end his misery as well as her own. As soon as he slept this night she would take the doll and burn it. Owen would feel nothing. The fire would be hot, and the doll would burn quickly: a small piece of human wood, in a large, hot fire.

After Owen had drunk the clear, cold water, his head sank back on the pillows and he felt calmer. His sight returning, he lay blinking in the strong, yellow sunlight that poured in at the window. The nightmarish dream that had seemed so real had pa.s.sed, but the shock of it had tired him, leaving him weak and spent. His eyes rested on his beloved Moragh, and through a mist of thankful tears, he watched the graceful movement of her body as she smoothed down the crumpled blanket, the sunlight playing on her hair. The sight of her so close to him was comforting, and soon his lids felt heavy and sleep overcame him like a gentle tide, washing away all pain and fear in oblivion.

Moragh stood by the window, a strange excitement mounting inside her as she watched the setting sun growing paler beyond the mountains. The criss-cross pattern of grey stone walls fell away into the valley, and the nocturnal outlines of trees and rocks stood out in sharp contrast on the skyline. Above, the vastness of the heavens dimmed to blue velvet and the stars peeped down, twinkling eyes in the darkness of night.

The croft was hushed and still. Moragh knelt by the stone fireplace carefully piling the logs on the smouldering ashes. Soon, the flames licked hungrily at the dry wood, curling round and upward, consuming all in its eager growth. The room danced with flickering shadows, as though Satan's infernal spirits had gathered in force to watch the sacrifice. The fire was ready, its yellow, tapering tongues hungry for wood.

Taking the doll from the window, Moragh looked upon its face for the last time, then, with pounding heart, threw it into the fire.

The stillness was broken by a sudden cry that rent the air, an agony of searing pain that lingered in her ears like the clamour of bells. Moragh covered her face with her hands, praying for the sound to die away, but it lingered still. Taking her hands from her face, she looked into the flames, hoping desperately that the doll had burned away, its figure consumed; but still it lay upon the red logs, twisting and turning in the heat of the fire, its small face staring at her with devilish hate. Owen's terrible screams grew louder, she could hear his tortured body threshing about in an agony of unspeakable pain. Dear G.o.d, it was too much to bear. Her voice broke from trembling Hps, 'Die. For G.o.d's sake why don't you die?'

But the screaming continued, the sounds filling her with terror as they seeped into her brain like an avalanche of overwhelming avulsion.

Taking the bellows from the wall, she knelt before the fire, pumping frantically until the flames leapt high in the chimney, the heat unbearable. Crackling and spitting, the logs suddenly gave way and the effigy tipped out among the burning cinders that lay in the hearth. It lay black and charred in its cot of fiery ashes, the smell of burning human flesh violating her nostrils. The eyes had gone, their small black sockets stared up from the ashes like sullen pits of pertused ebony. Seeing the horrible, distorted figure, she sprang back, covering her eyes to blot out the terrible thing before her, but the picture was imprinted in the darkness of her mind forever.

White and shaken, convulsed with fear, her trembling hands covered her ears in an effort to deaden the sound of those terrible screams, but they sang thinly inside her head, spinning her senses until she felt bereft and numb. 'The doll. Get rid of the doll.' The words echoed round and round inside her head. It lay in the ashes, a thin spiral of smoke rising up from its twisted body. She must get rid of it or go out of her mind. Urged on by desperation, and hardly aware of her actions, she scooped the charred thing up in her ap.r.o.n and ran wildly into the night. Running blindly on without thought of direction, her feet slipping and sliding over the wet gra.s.ses, she at last found herself unable to run any farther, and by some strange chance, found that her panic had brought her to the old slate quarry. The black pit swam before her eyes, and standing breathlessly and dangerously near to its edge, she flung out her ap.r.o.n and the doll sped outward and over, disappearing into the inky depths below.

A thin scream rose on the night air as if carried by the wind, then all was still. She stood for a while staring after it down into the blackness of the quarry, her ears straining; but there was no sound except for the wind in the trees, and her heart beating wildly within her breast. The screams that had torn at her heart were still, and in the strange quietness of the night, she knew at last that... Owen was dead.