Year's Best Horror Stories XVIII Part 10

"Well," she observed, "it's when 'it's here' that we really need to worry."

"That's a really nice thought. Thanks, Silvana."

Enrico was out when we got back, as he frequently seemed to be; it wasn't so easy to forget about elementals and things, which hid in cloaks, however. I got a real attack of the creeps that night, the worst I'd had since I was a child, suddenly turning cold all over in inexplicable panic. " 'Non e qui,' " I told myself, firmly.

Then I switched the light on. The window was shuttered and the thin yellow curtain inside drawn, the bed turned down. But there were dark things in the corners of my eyes. They slid away when I tried to look at them. My hands were shaking.

I hadn't expected to sleep, but the lights were still on when I woke up, not as bright as the pencil-lines of daylight outlining the shutters. I opened them before switching off the lights: the walls nearby were already festooned with washing strung from every little balcony, though the air was still chill with mist drifting from the Arno. The city smelled old and salty-sweet.

Silvana was up already, and eager to go. She scribbled a note for her father, and practically dragged me out of the apartment. True to her word, she charmed permission to take photographs, and spent the morning doing so: I sat outside sketching and wondering about things you see in your peripheral vision. We had lunch in the one tiny trattoria in the town, and after that Silvana insisted on going to check up on the chapel.

I heard her indrawn breath first.

"It's gone, Harry," she hissed.

"My G.o.d, it must have got out," I whispered back, looking at the blank bare wall.

Where the hooded figure had been, the plaster had flaked away entirely. Patches of damp, or lichen, were stuck on the gray wall, as if many centuries had elapsed since the painting had vanished; neither was there any trace of dust or fragments of plaster on the floor. A wash of something very chill ran down my back.

"I've got to get the pictures developed," Silvana said. "Because it was there this morning."

"Silvana, my dear," I said to her, "I know this seems like a nice little puzzle for you, but do you seriously think this thing is dangerous? Because I don't mind admitting that it's beginning to get to me."

"Have you seen it again?"

"I don't know. I've reached a stage when I don't know whether I'm imagining it or not."

"Let's go outside."

"What for?"

"To see if you can see anything." I looked reluctant. "Don't worry," she added, probably a bit too blithely. "I don't think it can do anything to you -- I think all it can do is just scare you."

"It's doing that all right."

But before we could get outside, someone else came in.

"Harry? Harry Denham? Silvana, are you there?" called a familiar voice. It was Enrico, and I was suddenly very glad to see him.

"Silvana's note -- garbled as it was -- reminded me of something," he said before either of us could begin to explain, and produced an ancient-looking book from somewhere within his clothing.

"Chiesi di Toscana" said the cover. There was a paper marking a page: I opened the book and read "La leggenda del pittore Bruno della Tone." Silvana and I deciphered the blurred print together.

"High on a hillside outside Florence lies the ancient town of San Donatus di Fiesole, named for the church which is still its dominant building. This town has probably been the site of a settlement for at least as long as nearby Fiesole, but it lacks the spectacular Roman remains of its neighbor. "It is notable only for its church, which contains, or contained, a series of remarkable frescoes. Unfortunately, the ravages of time have all but destroyed most of the detail -- "

"Hidden," hissed Silvana, jabbing the page with her linger.

" -- but what remains indicates work of a high quality and quite remarkable beauty. Little is known of the artist, Bruno della Torre, save for a curious local legend which has him pursued to his death -- " I looked at Enrico, appalled.

"Pursued to his death by an evil spirit called out of the earth. Apparently Bruno's skill was such that it provoked the malevolent spirit, which existed for the purpose of corrupting anything of beauty, into haunting him. The nameless one was not appeased until had achieved his death: it is a matter of record that della Torre died by drowning in the year 1341." I turned the page: there was no more.

"I need to do some more research," Enrico said. "Come back to the apartment, you two: you can help."

Pursued to his death. I felt my scalp p.r.i.c.kle, and then the shudder darted all the way down my back. Something would be awaiting me outside, something old and clawed and malefic. A creeping dread sluiced over me, so strong I felt suddenly ill and weak. It was a physical thing, fiercer than any childhood terror, paralyzing powerful: I didn't know how to cope with it. I don't get stage fright now, because I'm confident in what I'm doing -- but this was terrifyingly different. It wasn't simply that I didn't want to step outside the sanctuary of the church -- I didn't think I could.

"Are you coming?" Enrico asked me.

"Yes," I replied, and my voice sounded normal enough, much to my surprise, "I want to get a jacket -- it's getting a bit chilly." And I stepped out of the church door. To this day I don't know how I did it. I could feel my hands shaking inside my pockets, and I had to grit my teeth to stop them from chattering. But I kept going. The other two followed; and so too did a shadow, which rested only in my own peripheral vision and never let itself be seen. Now, though, it seemed closer to me, as if each day it was somehow entrenching itself deeper into my existence like some sort of parasite. Soon I might touch it; soon, even, it might try to make me see it. But that was something I would not do. If will had anything to do with the matter.

"Wait here, I'll get my car," said Enrico. I looked at Silvana again, wondering whether she could see how scared I was. I tried to slow my breathing, but something was shouting inside me to get away, to run, anywhere, but hurry! A bus pulled up opposite, and it was all I could do to restrain myself from dashing across the road and jumping on it. My mind framed the suggestion "let's get the bus" and I even opened my mouth to say it; and then a small red Fiat appeared and Enrico opened the pa.s.senger door.

As soon as Silvana shut the door the horror disappeared as abruptly as a thread snapping: I breathed out, suddenly aware of cold sweat on my face.

Enrico displayed admirable restraint in not asking any questions until we got upstairs, and then, having poured wine for all of us, looked at me enquiringly. I took a deep breath.

"Let me tell you what seems to be happening," I said, and explained as best I could.

"Extraordinary," said Enrico when I'd finished. "Remarkable. Let's see what we can find." He headed for the bookshelves.

"Have you ever seen a ghost before?" Silvana asked me. I shook my head.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," I said, "and anyway, it's not a ghost, according to that book. It's some kind of spirit. Out of the earth."

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

"I don't think so. I read ghost stories -- but I read science fiction too, so that doesn't prove anything."

"Actually I write ghost stories," said Silvana, "so I was just curious. It wasn't meant to be the third degree."

"Here's something," interrupted Enrico, handing me an ancient-looking tome. "This must be the source of the story in the book you've seen."

It was quite impossible to make out. I handed it back to him. "It's mediaeval -- isn't it? I can't make sense of it."

"It's -- ah -- fifteenth century. What it says -- mm. The painter called Bruno della Torre died in the year 1341, drowned in the Arno. A spirit out of the earth, of the kind we read of in the De Mysteriis of Andrea Verdecchio -- ' I have that, Silvana, can you find it for me? -- made sport to hound -- to dog his footsteps.

Malevolent as Satan, its purpose was to chastise him for his art and to make corrupt what he had painted. Paintings in the church of San Donatus it corrupted, but could not corrupt the Christ. Della Torre tried to halt its progress by -- ' I think this means something like 'imprisoning it in paint'? Does that make sense to you, Harry?"

"Well, it could," I said slowly. "If it means by painting the creature."

"I see what you mean.' -- But even his skill was not sufficient. Only his death would return it whence it came.' "

"It seems a bit unfair on poor old della Torre," I said.

"Have you found that book, Silvana?"

"Here," she replied, handing him an even older-looking book, curiously bound.

"In such disgraceful Latin, too," commented Enrico. "This will take a little time. Let's have some more wine."

"Is that -- I don't know the Italian -- a 'grimoire'?" I asked. "May I see?"

"Here; I don't know the word you use."

"Magic would be nigromancia... Libro nero?"

"Black book?" repeated Enrico.

"A magician's book? A book of spells?" I recalled the Latin word.

"Grimorium?"

"Ah, I know. Yes, for summoning spirits and so on."

" 'I can call spirits from the vasty deep,' " said Silvana surprisingly, in English. I had to respond.

" 'But will they come -- ' Trouble is, one has, but we didn't call it," I added, looking over Enrico's shoulder. "Crikey, talk about dog Latin."

"Can you read it, Harry?"

"Can I h.e.l.l," I said. "Maybe."

"Have you found something?" Silvana enquired.

"I don't know yet." I looked up, out of the window, probably hoping not to see anything. It was getting dark outside, still, jeweled with lights. Silvana got to her feet at the same moment, and closed the shutters. Then she busied herself with the record player, and presently we got Trovatore. Verdi's music filled the room's corners. It seemed to me then that the pursuer could only threaten me out of doors; that sanctuary was to be found inside s.p.a.ces.

"Here -- something," exclaimed Enrico. I went to look over his shoulder: he pointed to a pa.s.sage in the book.

"What have you found?" asked Silvana.

"Something, yes. 'The creatures from the deep,' it says."

"From the deep? Sounds like some particularly lurid fiction."

"No, it's real enough, alas! This book was written by an old Italian magician in -- when, Enrico?"

"Oh, 1410 or around that time. Andrea Verdecchio, he was said to have the power of flying, like your Roger Bacon, Michael Scot."

"What does it say?" Silvana asked.

"It says," replied her father, "as far as I can make out, because this is the most execrable Latin I've ever seen, 'There are beings, creatures, call them spirits if you will, which reside in the earth, fiends of the earth, they who walk in deep places; there is much power in them but they are capricious and do not bend willingly to a man's rule.' Then I think it tells you how to summon them, but I don't think we'll read that bit -- "

"Power in the words," observed Silvana.

"But does it tell us how to get rid of them?" I asked. "To be more to the point."

"It's infuriatingly obtuse. In one place it says, um, 'Some of these spirits will not abide the sound of bells' and then it says the 'spirits of ill-favor' -- hang on, this might be it -- 'will not abide if they can be absorbed by their own image.' "

"Isn't that what Bruno tried?" asked Silvana.

"It must be," I said, "but the painting's gone -- "

"But your photos are still -- " "My G.o.d -- -in the camera. I've got to send them off."

"Send them off?"

"They're slides, they have to -- "

"Never mind that," interrupted Enrico. "Phone Paolo Rossi -- his number's in the book -- he'll get them rushed through somewhere." Silvana went to the telephone.

"Do you think it'll come out on film?" I asked. "Would a picture of a picture work?"

"Perhaps we can trap it with a flashbulb," Enrico suggested. "Let me go and dig some out."

"He says to bring them round," Silvana said, putting down the phone. "He knows a lab. Shall I go?"

"We'll all go," her father said.

You never remember fear. Or -- that's not quite right -- you can't recall it accurately. Oh, I can remember all the physical sensations quite vividly, the purely automatic reactions my body was making to being under threat: heartbeat up, rapid breathing, dry mouth, stomach cramps, nausea, sweat; "sick with fear" is dead accurate. But I can't recreate the actual straining horror and dread of the unknown, terror of what lay unseen within the dark hood: the sure and utter conviction that there are things which can drive a man insane just by seeing them, even a thirty- five-year-old, pragmatic, highly educated inhabitant of the twentieth century.

That's horror. That's what panic is, wanting to run and run from the impossible to a.s.similate. I didn't know what it could do -- suck the flesh from my bones, the soul from my body, leave me voiceless. I didn't know. That was the worst thing of all.

Not knowing what I was going to face.

The stairwell was dark. Some of the lights had blown and not been replaced.

Dim glows were discernible, but only made the shadows between them all the darker.

On rubbery legs I started down the stairs. The iron rail was cold to the touch.

I reached the landing below, which was pitch black. "All clear," I called hoa.r.s.ely, and heard the footsteps of the others.

"Wait," called Silvana. "One of us should go in front of you." "I'll go first," volunteered Enrico. "I know the stairs."

We set off again, Enrico first, then myself, and then Silvana with the camera.

My foot slipped, and I grabbed at the railing, heart lurching.

"You OK?" hissed Silvana.

"Yes," I whispered back, lying. Still, the next landing was lit. We halted again. Out of the shadows a cat yelled, making us all jump. (Why do all the cats in Tuscany seem to have such loud voices?) "That cat will sing soprano if I get hold of it," I growled when we'd pulled ourselves together.

"It does already," said Enrico over his shoulder. "It's a female."

Halfway down the next flight I felt its presence. I started to turn, stopped myself in time, caught a dreadful glimpse in the flash of the camera of a grinning mouth with pale lips surrounding impossibly many teeth -- then something dreadfully cold, cold as starlight, raked across my face, knocking me off balance and sending my specs flying: I fell with a shout of alarm.

I tried to stop myself, but you can't halt a fall downstairs -- it just doesn't work; I hit my head a glancing blow on the railings, and then Enrico broke my fall.