The Year's Best Horror Stories 16 Part 14

"G.o.d rest you, merry gentlemen, may nothing you dismay!"

They cl.u.s.tered round the headmaster; instead of receiving a suitable tip they were presenting him with some object, they were giving him-of all things!-a Christmas cracker. "Happy Christmas!" I cried, tossing down my contribution.

Layton stepped back and gazed up at me with the most extraordinary expression on his face; really, one would have said the man was frightened. Yet he knew I was there! As I watched, trying to make sense of his reaction, Mrs. Layton trotted down the steps, noticed the cracker in his hand and seized it. Her voice shrilled up through the cold air-a cracker, how delightful, why, they had not had crackers for years; how clever of the visitors to guess there was a child in the house! At this the carol singers backed away down the path laughing uncontrollably, Mrs. Layton squealed that she found the cold quite unendurable and retreated into the house taking the cracker with her. She waved it gaily as she went.

As for Layton ... He stood there; and if he had seen young Harley's monk he could not have looked more shaken.

A curious scene. I shut the window and went back to bed.

Whatever their financial difficulties, Mrs. Layton had made a most determined effort to provide Christmas fare and an atmosphere of Yuletide jollity. We sat down that night to goose and plum pudding, the room had been decked with sprigs of evergreen and a pile of crackers occupied the center of the table, where they were in imminent danger of being set alight by the candles. Red crinkly paper, silver foil-she must have decided to supplement the gift; one cracker would have looked distinctly odd. Young Harley had evidently been forgiven; still, he seemed downcast, he concentrated on his food and made no attempt to respond to Mrs. Layton's playful jokes, while Layton, I regret to say, concentrated on the wine and was drinking altogether too much of it. From time to time he eyed the center decoration. I confess to a certain interest myself; one of them might indeed be the cracker handed in at the door, impossible to say which. So Layton drank and Mrs. Layton prattled, the boy ate and the crucifix winked on the sideboard. It had been polished to great advantage.

The meal commenced at half past six; by eight o'clock my host appeared slightly drunk, his wife's hair was coming down while Harley looked sick, no doubt from an excess of sugar plums. The maid Gladys served coffee. Mrs. Layton suddenly made a little grab at the heap crying "Crackers! Crackers!" Her action scattered the things in all directions, I noticed her husband fumbling through them with a shaking hand, and if he could identify that one particular cracker it was more than I could do. Courtesy demanded I join in the gaiety; we pulled crackers, we read appalling jokes to each other and laughed quite immoderately. There were snaps and mottoes and paper hats which perched uneasily upon our adult heads. I gathered this performance was for the benefit of the boy, who was most certainly not enjoying it. He leaned forward obediently, urged on by Mrs. Layton. As the snap exploded with a small "plop" and the red casing tore apart, something fell to the table between them. Arthur Layton s.n.a.t.c.hed it up.

"That's mine!" protested Harley.

"Arthur, don't be naughty, that was our cracker!"

He continued to stare at the sc.r.a.p of paper in his hand.

"Arthur? Is it a joke? Oh, do tell us, what have you got there, a motto or a riddle? I love riddles, don't you love riddles, Dr. James?"

I nodded. The puzzle occupying my mind at that moment was why the headmaster should look so inexplicably alarmed. He recovered almost instantly, muttering words to the effect that the contents were unsuitable for juvenile ears; he stuffed the paper into his pocket and reached for the wine decanter. For some time after, he sat in a morose silence and kept glancing at the clock. Presently, and possibly because she had noticed the direction of his eyes, Mrs. Layton turned to Harley and cried merrily, "Bedtime! Bedtime!"

I began to rise from the table myself; and was astonished to hear Layton exclaim: "NO!".

He pushed the chair back. His eyes were quite unnaturally bright and his manner really very odd. It occurred to me that the man had had far too much to drink.

"We must celebrate!" He leaned on the chair for support. "We have an honored guest, we have Dr. James with us; he is an authority-an authority on Medievalism." He stumbled over the word. "He wants to see the Abbey. Come along, come along, we must show him the Abbey."

"Not at this time of night, Arthur!"

Her wail was echoed by my own protest; I had no desire to be dragged out into the winter air, I am subject to colds. He ignored us both, and staggered toward the door, both arms flailing.

"Tomorrow we might be snowed up. It won't do. Tomorrow will be too late."

We chased after him, raising every sensible objection; the whole idea of visiting the ruins was ludicrous, out of the question ... But he was already in the hall shouting for the staff, calling for lanterns, and urging us to put on warm overcoats. I drew Mrs. Layton aside and begged her to get her husband to bed. She was in tears and totally ineffective, she clutched at my arm and entreated me not to leave them; the scene grew further confused as young Harley shot out of the dining room shrieking that the Abbey was haunted and he wouldn't go. So far from helping the situation, this goaded Layton into further and even more grotesque action; he vanished from the hall and reappeared carrying the crucifix, he shouted defiance: the Abbey was not haunted, there were no ghosts, and he would not suffer his school to be destroyed by vicious rumors and malicious invention!

In the end we wrapped ourselves in outer clothing and trailed after him; he had succeeded by now in raising the entire household. We crossed the gra.s.s in ragged procession, clinging on to one another to avoid slipping on the frozen ground. I have never seen a more absurd undertaking. Arriving among the ruins it became apparent that Mr. Layton (who did not believe in ghosts) had come there with the intention of exorcising them. He placed the crucifix on a ledge and began to intone prayers of doubtful authenticity and quite horrid ferocity, calling on the Lord to strike his enemies dead; he insisted on our small group-Mrs. Layton, the boy, the maid Gladys, the cook-responding to his exhortations. And very strange we must have looked, gathered together in the shadow of the north transept, the lantern flickering in the wind. I listened: among Layton's outbursts I managed to identify lines from the terrible 109th Psalm. "Destroy mine enemy! Set thou a wicked man over him and let Satan stand at his right hand!" Something pressed against my side; I became conscious of Harley cowering up against me and realized that he was listening too.

But for something else.

"Can you hear them?" he whispered.

I feigned ignorance; one should not needlessly alarm the young, and besides I could hear nothing save Layton's voice raised in prayer, our own mumbled Amens, and a rustling ...

A whispering?

A dry murmur from beyond the arch.

At that moment Layton shouted to heaven for justice, Mrs. Layton squealed, the cook jumped sideways, knocked over the lantern and the light went out. There was a certain amount of confused scuffling in the dark; by some malign chance the moon took that moment to vanish behind a surge of billowing cloud.

I became conscious of a strong smell of burning.

And then beyond all hope of pretense or concealment I heard them-they came from the chapter house, they rushed upon us through the shattered pillars of the nave, and the chorus grew and swelled and became a monstrous roar.

Save-us-save-us-save-us-save-us-save-us!

Save-us-save-us-save-us-save-us-save-us!

SAVE-US-SAVE-US-SAVE-US!.

On a sleepless night it can haunt me still. There arose from the ruins a kind of spiraling vapor, a mist that wavered and took form and swept along the north transept; the most appalling stench hit our nostrils, we scattered and fled in all directions and still the Thing swept on. My last impression was of a series of gaping mouths set in folds of dirty linen.

It lasted perhaps ten seconds. It ended, leaving only a faint murmur beyond the columns, the noise of Gladys weeping, and an all-pervading reek of decay. We calmed the women to the best of our ability, Mrs. Layton's terror subsiding quite fast into a shrill abuse. We discovered the path and thought at first the moon must have reappeared, for the horizon seemed flooded with light. But Harley cried that the whole sky was changing color, and as we turned the reason became dreadfully apparent.

The school was on fire.

Round blobs erupted from the roof, they sprouted like so many black toadstools from the gable and rose and spread in puff-ball smoke. Lurid streaks of flame shot up between them and flared and sank again. The maid Gladys screamed "Oh my G.o.d," Layton stood as if nailed to the ground, his wife called out-absurdly, ludicrously!-"Help, help, help!" Then we all began to run.

I have nothing but praise for the fire service. They arrived within forty minutes, they struggled with great courage to control the blaze; but the fact remains that there had been a fatal delay owing to the number of emergencies over the Christmas holiday, the dangerous state of the roads due to the weather, and our own failure to alert them at once. I have a confused memory of ladders, hose pipes, men clambering along the parapet and a solitary figure which appeared at a window and threw a tiger-skin rug onto the lawn, where it lay grinning among the debris. As for the rest-Why-shouts, screaming, the hiss of water and the crash of falling masonry. At one point I came upon Layton staring wild-eyed at the chaos.

"I fear they have come too late," I said.

"Yes," he replied. "They can do nothing now."

Next day the cold swept back, refreezing the snow which had melted in the heat, forming strange patterns on the ground, twisting curves and lines and rivulets of ice between the blackened walls. And so I left them side by side: the ancient ruin of the Abbey and the present wreck of Medborough Academy For Young Gentlemen.

Two months after the disaster, Arthur Layton called on me at Cambridge. He seemed in low spirits, understandably. He sat drinking whiskey and bewailing his fate; he had moved his family into lodgings, he had written to the parents of one hundred children, and had arranged for some distant cousin to collect the luckless Harley. Life held nothing but misery and confusion. I offered conventional sympathy and more whiskey; the fellow appeared positively distraught, pacing backward and forward, and waving his arms in the old remembered semaphoring gesture. I had to stop him sitting down again upon my cat. Presently he leaned forward and whispered: "James. I am in serious difficulties."

Well, yes. One would have supposed as much, given the facts. Moreover I could not imagine why the man was whispering; we were quite alone and the door to my chambers shut. He glanced at it, then at the window, then he dropped his voice even lower and said: "The insurance company have refused to pay me."

Certain rather horrid suspicions began to form in my mind.

"Oh dear me."

"A minor problem! Of no significance! They seem to find it odd that everybody had left the building before it went up in flames. Now, you and I know, Dr. James, we were playing a harmless Christmas game! Amusing the staff! Why, anything might start a fire at Christmas time-candles falling from the tree, a log rolling out onto the carpet, I can think of a dozen reasons."

I felt reasonably sure he could.

"It's utterly monstrous to suggest ... James, James, you were there! You can bear witness that we went to the Abbey because we had celebrated rather too well; we were merry, we needed fresh air, we decided to take a walk. The maids came with us because it was the festive season, peace to all men; I believe in a democratic society!" cried Layton. "We are brothers under the skin!"

He had certainly made sure everybody got out. On my first arrival at Medborough Abbey I had been indignant, I had resented his suggestion that I might advertise his college; it seemed to me I was being manipulated. My feelings then were as nothing to my emotions now.

"Layton. Are you telling me you are suspected of having started the fire yourself?"

The cat got up and prudently removed itself to a distance.

"It's ludicrous! Absurd! Not that I blame them, no, no, obviously they have to be cautious. But I must have the money, James! I must! If you will just speak for me-explain the situation-a man of your reputation and standing should have no trouble persuading them."

"I see."

Alas, I did see, and all too clearly.

"Could you oblige me? If you would be so very kind and write a suitable letter to the insurance company?"

"No," I said. I might have had more sympathy for the man but for his blatant attempt to use me, to exploit an early acquaintance.

"But Dr. James ..."

I opened the door. Embarra.s.sment, distress, and a degree of justifiable annoyance gave too much edge to my voice.

"I am very sorry. I fear I must absolutely decline to have any part in this business."

Do you blame me? It was fraud: plain, clumsy and criminal.

He stood, the color flooding into his cheeks; then he gathered up his coat and left without looking at me. I could hear the bells ringing across the court as he went.

I never saw Arthur Layton again. He wrote to me once; a wild incoherent epistle concerning Medborough Abbey. The monks' treasure, wrote Layton; when they fired the Abbey where did they hide the treasure? The crucifix. I did remember the crucifix; in the general alarm of that night the crucifix had vanished, but was it possible, did I not think it probable the crucifix had formed part of their horde? And surely, surely if there had been one object there might be others: a chalice, candelabra, gold or silver plate; now where in my considered opinion would such valuables have been concealed? Where should he start digging?

I had no opinion on the subject. My view of the thing had been altogether too brief; in any event it struck me as infinitely more likely that the monks' possessions were scattered throughout England, and as for the folly of digging through the Medborough ruins-I replied in terms of gentle discouragement.

He never answered. I opened my newspaper one morning to read the unhappy news that the schoolmaster had been found dead near Medborough Abbey, apparently of a heart attack. I would have written to his wife but was quite unable to discover her address. Whether the man had indeed been engaged on some frantic treasure hunt, whether he met again the whispering brothers and saw again their gaping faces, we shall never know.

VISITORS.

by Jack Dann.

Born in Johnson City, New York on February 15, 1945, Jack Dann presently lives with his wife in Binghamton, New York in "an old Greek Revival, which could fit the Third Regiment." Dann has written or edited more than twenty-one books to date, some of them in collaboration with Gardner Dozois. Recent books include his mainstream novel, Counting Coup, and an anthology of stories concerned with the Vietnam War, In the Fields of Fire, edited with his wife, Jeanne Van Buren Dann.

Jack Dann's stories often exemplify what Charles L. Grant calls "quiet horror"-a sense of melancholy and unease devoid of b.l.o.o.d.y chainsaws and exploding heads. Noted fantasy critic, E. F. Bleiler, commenting on Dann's story, "Tattoos," in The Year's Best Horror Stories: Series XV, wrote that it "has suggestions of Chagall and Isaac Bashevis Singer." Not bad company for a writer.

After Mr. Benjamin died, he came back to Charlie's room for a visit. He was a tall man, taken down to the bone by cancer. His face had a grayish cast; and his thick white hair, of which he had been so obviously proud, had thinned. But he was still handsome even as he stood before Charlie's bed. He was sharp-featured, although his mouth was full, which softened the effect of his piercing, pale blue eyes; he wore white silk pajamas and a turquoise robe, and was as poised and stiff as an ancient emperor.

"They closed all the doors again," Charlie said to Mr. Benjamin-they always closed the doors to the patients' rooms when they had to wheel a corpse through the hallway.

"I guess they did," Mr. Benjamin said, and he sat down in the cushioned chair beside Charlie's bed. He usually came for a visit before bedtime; it was part of his nightly ritual.

But here he was, and it was mid-afternoon.

Sunlight flooded through a tripart.i.te window into the large high-ceilinged room, magnifying the swirling dust motes that filled the room like snow in a crystal Christmas scene paperweight. The slate-gray ceiling above was barrel-vaulted and although cracked and broken and discolored, the plaster was worked into intricate patterns of entwined tendrils. A marble fireplace was closed off with a sheet of metal, and there was an ancient mahogany grandfather clock ticking in the corner. The hospital had once been a manor, built in the eighteen hundreds by the wealthiest man in the state; its style was Irish gothic, and every room contained the doric columns and scrolled foliage that was a trademark of the house.

"I wonder who died?" Charlie asked.

Mr. Benjamin smiled sadly and stretched his long legs out under Charlie's bed.

Charlie was fifteen and had had an erection before Mr. Benjamin came into the room, for he was thinking about the nurses, imagining how they would look undressed. Although Charlie's best friend had been laid, Charlie was still a virgin; but he looked older than he was and had even convinced his best friend that he, too, had popped the cork. He had been feeling a bit better these last few days. He had not even been able to think about s.e.x before; there was only pain and drugs, and even with the drugs he could feel the pain. All the drugs did were let him investigate its shape; Charlie had discovered that pain had shape and color; it was like an animal that lived and moved inside him.

"How are you feeling today?" Mr. Benjamin asked.

"Pretty good," Charlie said, although the pain was returning and he was due for another shot. "How about you?"

Mr. Benjamin laughed. Then he asked. "Where's Rosie?" Rosie was Charlie's private nurse. Charlie's father was well-to-do and had insisted on round-the-clock private nurses for his son. But Charlie didn't want private nurses or a private room; in fact, he would have preferred a regular double-room and a roommate, which would have been much less expensive; and if Charlie had another setback, his roommate would be able to call for a nurse for him. Charlie had been deathly ill: he had developed peritonitis from a simple appendectomy, and his stomach was still hugely distended. Drainage tubes were sunk deeply into his incisions, and they smelled putrid. He had lost over thirty pounds.

Charlie seemed to be slipping in and out of a dream; it was just the Demerol working through his system.

"Rosie's off today," he said after a long pause. He had been dreaming of whiteness, but he could hear clearly through the dream. He came fully awake and said, "I love her, but it's such a relief not to have her banging everything around and dropping things to make sure I don't fall asleep. The regular nurses have been in a lot, and I got two backrubs." He grinned at Mr. Benjamin. It was a game he played with Mr. Benjamin: who could win the most points in wooing the nurses. One night, when Charlie had been well enough to walk across the hall and visit Mr. Benjamin, he found him in bed with two nurses. Mr. Benjamin had a grin on his face, as if he had just won the game forevermore. The nurses, of course, were just playing along.

Mr. Benjamin leaned back in the chair. It was a bright, sunny day, and the light hurt Charlie's eyes when he stared out the window for too long. Perhaps it was an effect of the Demerol, but Mr. Benjamin just seemed ... not quite defined, as if his long fingers and strong face were made out of the same dustmotes that filled the air and the room.

"Is your wife coming over today?" Charlie asked. "It's Wednesday." Charlie was in on Mr. Benjamin's secret: two women came to visit him religiously. His mistress, a beautiful young woman with long red hair, on Tuesdays and Thursdays; and his wife, who wasn't beautiful, but who must have been once, and who was about the same age as Mr. Benjamin, came every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. His friends came to see him on Sat.u.r.day, but not his women.

"No, not today," Mr. Benjamin said.

"That's too bad."

And just then one of the nurses came into the room. She was one of the old hands, and she said h.e.l.lo to Charlie, fluffed up his pillow, took his temperature, and gave him a shot all the while she talked, but it was small-talk. The nurse ignored Mr. Benjamin, as she tore away the bandages that covered the drainage tubes in Charlie's stomach. Then she pulled out the tubes, which didn't hurt Charlie, and cleaned them. After she had reinserted the tubes-two into the right side of his abdomen, one into the left-and replaced the bandages, she hung another clear plastic bag of saline solution on the metal pole beside the bed and adjusted the rate of fluid that dripped into the vein in Charlie's right wrist.

"Who died?" Charlie asked her, wishing one of the pretty nurses'-aides had been sent in, or had at least accompanied her.

She sat down on the bed and rubbed Charlie's legs. He had lost so much weight that they were the size his arms had once been. This nurse was one of Charlie's favorites, even though she was old-she could have been fifty or sixty-five, it was difficult to tell. She had a wide, fleshy face, a small nose, and perfect, capped teeth. "You'll have to know anyway," she said without looking up at him. "It was Mr. Benjamin. I know how close you felt to him, and I'm so very sorry, but as you know he was in a lot of pain. This is the best thing for the poor man, you've got to try to believe that. He's in a happier place now."

Charlie was going to tell her she was crazy, that he was right here, and had a mistress and a wife and an architect job to go back to and that it was all bulls.h.i.t about a happier place, but he just nodded and turned toward Mr. Benjamin. She made a fuss over Charlie, who was ignoring her, and finally left. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" she asked.

Charlie nodded. His mouth felt dry; the Demerol would soon kick in. "Yeah, I'll be fine." Then, turning back to Mr. Benjamin, he asked, "Are you really dead?"

Mr. Benjamin nodded. "I suppose I am."

"You don't look dead."

"I don't feel dead. My G.o.dd.a.m.n legs are still aching and itching like h.e.l.l."

Charlie's face felt numb. "Why are you in here if you're dead?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know. There are worse places I can think of. I just got out of bed and walked in here, same way as I always do."

"Are you going to stay?"

"For a while. Do you mind?"

Charlie just shook his head and took comfort, as he always did, in Mr. Benjamin's presence. But then the man in the next room started screaming again, praying to G.o.d to relieve him of his pain, begging and whining and whimpering and waking up the other patients.

It was difficult to rest with all that commotion going on.