Year's Best Horror Stories XVIII Part 11

We went down together in a heap on the landing, and then he clutched my arm as a cry split the air.

The very shape of that cry was wrong -- no human throat could have given it voice. There was hunger in it, and fury, and hatred, and nothing at all of defeat.

Silvana came clattering down the stairs, her face white as ice, and the camera dangling from one hand. I groped for my specs, found them with one lens shattered. Too bad. I'd just have to walk around with fuzzy vision until I could get them replaced.

"Are you all right?" she demanded in an anguished whisper.

"I think so," I whispered back, getting unsteadily to my feet, as Enrico did the same. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure," Silvana admitted. "I felt something cold -- chilly air, but moving -- so I fired off the camera -- I certainly don't want to hear anything like that... noise... ever again."

"Or see it," I said. "Those teeth -- " I shut my eyes. "We didn't see it," said Enrico. "All we saw was you -- and when you fell."

"Can you make it back upstairs?" Silvana asked me. I was holding myself upright by the railing. "Or the neighbors are going to start emerging. Your head -- ?".

"Hurts," I replied. "But I'll live."

"I'll take the film," said Silvana, and disappeared down the stairs. My legs didn't want to support me, so Enrico helped me back up to the apartment. Fumbling with his keys, he asked, "Has the creature gone, do you think?"

"I don't think so," I replied. "We may have burned its fingers (if it has fingers) but I don't think we've got rid of it."

Enrico unlocked the door. "I think food and rest, and some more wine," he said. "Then, Harry, we'll get back to the grimoire."

In the hall I caught sight of myself in a mirror. There was a lump the size of a golf-ball on my forehead and a line of bruises across my left cheekbone. I prodded it gingerly. That was where I'd felt the icy touch of my pursuer. If it was the mark of its claw, it had not broken the skin, but the place was chill and numb.

"You'll have a lovely shiner in the morning," said Enrico.

Dangerous. It was dangerous, and none of us had really realized. And none of us had the least idea what to do next. Enrico and I went back to the books, but their advice was at worst incomprehensible and at best conflicting. The business about the image, for instance: I still thought it might work, but couldn't make out whether it had to be an exact likeness, a painted figure, or a reflection in a mirror, and I couldn't really keep on and on baiting it until we got it right. We had to have a certain solution.

"I wish we could have filmed it," observed Silvana.

"Well we didn't," I said. "I didn't expect it to disappear from the wall."

"The wall..." she mused. Then her face suddenly lit up. "Harry! I've got it!"

"Got what?"

"I've cracked it, I think. If the photos come out."

"What've you thought of, Silvana?" asked her father. "We project the image onto the wall! Life-size!"

Enrico looked thunderstruck, then grinned. "I hope those photos come out.

Did Paolo say what time he'd get them in?"

"About half-past ten, I think. Can you borrow a slide projector?"

"I'll find one," Enrico said grimly. But it was late before he managed it.

I got through the day: even when the worst happens, you somehow keep going; giving up isn't the way to manage life. The dread I succeeded in tamping down to a vague sickness, which only surged up occasionally, but I was starting to get really twitchy by the time the four of us were crammed into Enrico's Fiat once more. Although I was convinced that Silvana's idea would work: the paint had become creature, and its image would be true. And the old magician's book implied that this would be enough.

The slides were clearer than any of us had hoped, showing in fine detail the cloak's folds (or were they the creases of bat-like wings?), the slug-track gleam of it, the humping inhuman outline.

We crept into the church like fugitives. The few candles burning here and there only accentuated the darkness, leaf-shaped flames making refugee afterimages in one's eyes. Windows were reduced to gray shapes on black, admitting no light. Enrico turned on his torch, and I was struck by how harsh its beam was, cold and contrasty.

"Here comes the bait," I said, swallowing bile, which had sneaked into my throat. Silvana squeezed my hand.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "It'll work."

Enrico pushed open the door of the chapel. If I go in there, I thought, will I ever come out again? My legs felt boneless. We crowded in; the torch picked out a trestle table with a slide projector sitting on top of it.

"How long?" murmured Enrico.

"Not long," I replied. I was certain of that, if of nothing else. It was homing in on me like a beacon: I was brighter than a lighthouse to it, and as difficult to extinguish; and it had marked me, too.

Then the door slammed shut. Enrico told me later that it had wrenched itself out of his grasp and all but crushed the foot he'd positioned in the doorway. Someone drew in a sharp breath.

"Oh G.o.d," I whispered, as a great wave of freezing, foetid air broke past me.

Light burst on the opposite wall like a sun: Enrico had turned on the projector; I was transfixed, seeing shadow and darkness boil and coalesce into a vast looming shape. The wall itself seemed to flow into it, giving it substance: horned it was now, grown great in malice, and it wanted me to look directly at it, and lose my mind; or have it taken over. I felt it smile, and that was almost too much to bear, felt it beckon -- and were there words on its noisome breath, insidious, inviting words? I could see the folds of its robe, its palpable shadow. The moment stretched to impossible length, and the force was becoming irresistible. I lifted my head, unable to prevent myself.

"Painter, look away," called a voice inside my brain, speaking strangely accented Italian. It broke the spell; but in the split second before it succeeded, I saw what I had struggled not to see in all its terrible beauty. Saw, but with my short sight, not clearly: I did not succ.u.mb.

Yes, it was homed: yes, it was fanged, and clawed. But the face of a fallen angel which the creature wore, or inhabited, was the most perilous thing I have ever seen, for temptation, for risking your soul: for wanting to risk that much, and more. Then suddenly superimposed on its form was its veiled likeness, precise as the photograph it was, molded onto it. Once more came its cry, drilling through our heads, and we all clamped hands to our ears as it shrank into itself, into its image, dwindling even as the shriek died away, becoming paint once more, paint which flaked from the wall into the finest of colored dust on the floor.

My legs gave way altogether. I sagged against the wall and slid gently down it, like a drunk: the others, when they could move, helped me up and I consumed most of the contents of Enrico's hip flask before I stopped shaking.

"Thank you," I muttered, but whether I meant the two of them or the voice, which had brought me out of my dreadful compulsion, I don't know. They had not heard that voice, nor seen the chiseled perfection of the creature's beauty; but at the last had seen the thing collapsing in upon itself, finally confined by its image.

"The accent was strange," I said to Enrico, "archaic perhaps?"

His thought was the same as mine: "So it came back to Bruno della Torre, in the end."

"Or," Silvana said, "he came back to it. To finish what he began." "It's a strong obligation," I said quietly. "Nearly six hundred and fifty years."

"Requiescat in pace," said Enrico. "There'll be no trace left in those photographs, I'll be willing to bet."

But when we looked at them I wasn't so sure. They were all faded to white, or gone to black; but faintly, so faintly I couldn't make it out with any certainty, I thought the outline of the pursuer remained.

Unless, as Silvana thinks, it was an outline imprinted on my own eyes, like a negative itself. If she is right, that too seems to have faded over the years; but I still sometimes wonder which of the images Bruno della Torre threw himself into the Arno in order to escape.

Lord Of Infinite.

Diversions.

by t. Winter-Damon.

t. Winter-Damon is a demented poet from Tucson, Arizona whose work has been described as Neo-Baudelarian-Cyber-Sade. His work has been widely published around the lunatic-fringe world of the small press and experimental magazines. In addition to his poetry, he writes a monthly review column on the surreal/experimental/underground publishing scene for Scavenger's Newsletter. Just lately Winter-Damon has decided to try his hand at writing a novel, and, in collaboration with Randy Chandler, the two have completed Duet for the Devil, first volume of The Books of the Beast trilogy -- excerpts of which have already appeared in various small press publications. No, this is not another of those fairyland-fantasy trilogies.

Lord of Infinite Diversions.

(kount hymn 2 aiming thee phallen).

green jade, green jade the womb of this throne room cavern, the prince is poised magnificently upon his throne, he is a fair & well-formed youth, a youth perhaps of fifteen summers, ringlets of golden hair entwine about the beautiful cruelty of his face. Beautiful, almost effeminate his haughty decadence, his eyes compel, his eyes that are faceted chunks of amber lit from within, to stare into those eyes is entrapment eternal, certain, witness the human insects frozen deep therein... the prince is naked, not merely unclothed but naked in his perfect sin.

naked as the marbling of veins & arteries & musculature laid bare for his inspection, the flayed female slaves displayed indecently upon his rack, his phallus is a rearing serpent, his wings of bone & leather tremble like the leaves of aspen at the first faint breath of winter, his excitement is so delicately understated, like the fire that dances deep within the opal, like the gilded satin of a b.u.t.terfly's wing, a huge fly like a jewel is set into the ring upon his left hand, emerald & amethyst glitter upon his middle finger...

grey, all dove grey the tailored garments of the dandy, the dandy in his carefully pressed trousers & his vest & waistcoat & top hat. a ruff of lace at throat & wrists betrays the hint of white white foam, the golden fob. the golden chain, the golden timepiece, exposed, a symmetry that evokes some secret symbolism suddenly made manifest. (& as if this were surely not enough!) his face his hidden, masked as an albatross in ivory, smooth & sensuous each perfectly carved curve, the grey man. the dandy, they are one. one who ravishes his slain lover's corpse, a woman in torn vestiges of black lace & net stockings ornamented with gold clocks, her hair is panthers' fur & jungle midnights, a black-bearded dwarf clasps her severed head between his naked thighs...

restless sea. restless sea of slowly rolling waves, sea of violet, sea of scarlet, sea of crimson...

& in the timevault the throbbing brain of Donatien Frangois drifts in its womb of gla.s.s, laved in its broth of hemoglobin & of soma. (skull of gla.s.s, hallucinating death dreams into infinity... dreams slowly rolling in a sea of blood & the p.i.s.s of pirate priests & fly agaric...).

restless sea.

Rail Rider.

by Wayne Alien Sallee.

Born in Chicago, Illinois on September 19, 1959, Wayne Alien Sallee still rules there as Resident Mad Writer. To date he has had published over 800 poems and stories, most of these in experimental small press magazines with very strange t.i.tles. This past year Sallee has begun to hit the Big Time, with a couple of story sales to Penthouse. In addition, Mark Ziesing Books has bought Sallee's first two books -- a 22-story collection, Running Inside My Skin, and a novel, The Holy Terror. Sallee is currently at work on a new novel, Brotherhood of the Disfigured.

"Rail Rider" originally appeared in J.N. Williamson's Masques III, a fine series of general horror fiction anthologies that does much to replace the loss of the Whispers and Shadow series from Doubleday. There the story had the non sequitur t.i.tle, "Third Rail." Sallee explained: " 'Rail Rider' was changed to 'Third Rail' because the anthor's editor felt the new t.i.tle would reflect the character's s.e.xual arousal, i.e., his having an erection." I'm not sure I got that one, but here's the story under its original t.i.tle.

Clohessy watched Raine's blue Civic head back toward the Kennedy on- ramp; then he turned, zippering his jacket as he took the down escalator steps two at a time to the concourse leading to the El train. The Kennedy overpa.s.s was deserted and he stood for several minutes staring out at the eight lanes of weekend traffic -- four on each side of the Jefferson Park/Congress/Douglas rapid transit line.

Then he noticed the girl.

Before looking back at her a second time, Clohessy -- time-scheduled commuter that he was -- glanced north, saw that the train was nowhere near arriving at the terminal. He had been chilled crossing the parking lot, yet the girl below him was wearing only a pair of jeans and a white sweater that clung tight to her waist. A loose gilded belt completed the image. Cliched as it was, she looked as if her body had been poured into her clothing. The sweater was pushed up around her elbows. Maybe he'd offer her his gloves after he'd handled business.

Clohessy walked briskly down the gla.s.s-and-stainless-steel corridor to those stairs leading to the El platform. It was after 10 P.M.; the ticket agent's booth was closed. He'd have to pay on the train and took a second to make certain he had small bills. The conductor wouldn't be able to break a twenty. Clohessy never carried a comb, so he ran a hand through his thin blond hair (not that it would matter in the sharp late-September wind), pushed through the gate and took the down escalator. Halfway to the platform, he caught a flash of the girl's sweater, a creamy slice of arm. As cold as it was, and my, how the hair on her arms danced...

Clohessy had been disappointed to leave Raine's place so early, but he'd had a two-hour trek on public transportation to the Southwest Side ahead of him; he enjoyed Raine and Peg's company and likely wouldn't see them again until Lilah Chaney's party in Virginia next February. Yet seeing the girl on the platform made him momentarily forget the last few hours.

As Clohessy's shoes clacked onto the concrete, she turned to look at him. He met her gaze and she glanced quickly away. She did not seem concerned about whether the train was coming; she didn't seem impatient in her movements, and, after the first five minutes Clohessy had watched her from the corner of his eye, she hadn't once leaned out, over the tracks (as most people -- himself included -- usually did).

He looked at the digital clock on the Northern Trust Bank across the Kennedy: 53 at 11:09. If he was ever going to strike up a conversation with the girl, he'd have to do it now; the train would be there by quarter after.

Walking the ten or so steps to where she was standing, Clohessy jammed his fists into his pockets, realizing just as he neared her that he was wearing his spring jacket and that he'd sound pretty d.a.m.n stupid offering her his gloves when he'd left them on his coat rack back in his apartment! Embarra.s.sed, he swung away.

The platform rumbled; he turned to stare north. It was only a plane leaving from O'Hare, a mile away. Clohessy whistled tunelessly, rubbernecked. The sign above him read BOARD HERE FOR TRAINS TO LOOP & WEST SIDE. The dull white neon lines flickered. The clock at the bank now said: 52 at 11:11. A huge tanker truck obscured the red neon Mona Koni restaurant sign as it made a wide turn into the parking lot of Dominick's.

Sighing, Clohessy began watching for signs of life in one of the lighted upper floors of an office building to the far side of I-90's left lanes. When he turned again, the girl was gone. Clohessy glanced up at the escalators. From where he stood, he saw the bottom fifteen steps of the two stairwells, with the escalator in the middle, before they disappeared out of sight behind the overhead ads for Camel Filters and Salem Lights. He was still surprised by how well kept and graffiti-free the El station was. Clohessy saw a blurred flash of color. The girl was riding the rails on the up escalator. He smiled, amazed. Slipping back into sight from above, she'd slide down nearly to the bottom before stopping, and then glide back up. Clohessy watched her straddle the moving stairwell a half dozen times, saw her ride up in a kind of swimming sidestroke. She was gorgeous.

Her sweater had hiked up over her hip, exposing more flesh. Her hair fell across her face.

She turned to stare at Clohessy, winked. He touched his collar, glanced away at the bank clock again, and too fl.u.s.tered even to notice the time. He looked back; again she was gone from sight.

Clohessy heard whistling and catcalls from above. Male voices. The voices came nearer, accompanied by the sound of sneakers on the concrete stairs.

Clohessy calculated four separate voices, fretted for the girl. All four men wore slicked-back hair, he saw when they reached bottom; all wore lime-green fall windbreakers. Each carried a bag of some kind. They walked closer. Behind them, the girl slid back down the rail. She stared at the men, but with boredom.

Once they had reached the glare of the sodium lamps, Clohessy realized why the girl wasn't afraid of them, and, for what seemed like the twelfth time that night, he felt extremely stupid. They weren't gang members. The jackets advertised Szostak's Tavern.

The four guys were a Polish bowling team.

Within minutes, the southbound train pulled in. The bowlers got on, heading toward Milwaukee Avenue; Clohessy was certain. He glanced at the time. 11:18.

Still plenty of time to catch the Archer bus downtown. He'd wait around to see what the girl was going to do. She seemed in no hurry to leave. Maybe she was waiting for Clohessy to make his move.

The southbound train was now far in the distance. The girl hadn't come back down the escalator since the train was in the station. Clohessy, inching closer to the stairwell and her, heard a shuffling sound from the concourse above. Probably her boyfriend showing -- He saw something white, lying flat on one of the escalator steps lowering to the platform. White with splashes of red.

Descending.

Red nails on a girl's hand. Red veins at the wrist.

Descending. Catching on the edge of the platform grille and flipping up. Her hand, severed at the wrist, hideous in the green glow seeping up from the escalator's bowels. Creating a ghastly cast of shadows from her dead veins and finger joints.

Then her corpse followed, riding the rail down, lines of blood sprayed across the chrome. Her eyes, forever open, still had the bored look she had given the bowlers.

Then, also riding the rail down, toward Clohessy the man with the knife.

Archway.

by Nicholas Royle.