The Mammoth Book of Terror

AFTER WORKING AS A journalist and editor of a local newspaper, Basil Copper became a full-time writer in 1970. His first story in the horror field, “The Spider”, was published in 1964 in The Fifth Pan Book of Horror Stories, since when his short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, been extensively adapted for radio and television, and collected in Not After Nightfall, Here Be Daemons, From Evil’s Pillow, And Afterward the Dark, Voices of Doom, When Footsteps Echo, Whispers in the Night and Cold Hand on My Shoulder.

Along with two non-fiction studies of the vampire and werewolf legends, his other books include the novels The Great White Space, The Curse of the Fleers, Necropolis, The Black Death and The House of the Wolf Copper has also written more than fifty hardboiled thrillers about Los Angeles private detective Mike Faraday, and has continued the adventures of August Derleth’s Sherlock Holmes-like consulting detective Solar Pons in several volumes of short stories and the novel Solar Pons versus The Devil’s Claw (actually written in 1980, but not published until 2004 by Sarob Press with an Introduction by the late Richard Lancelyn Green).

The Hallowe’en story that follows has not been reprinted since its original appearance twenty years ago . . .

I

“IT’S HALLOWE’EN TOMORROW,” Kathy said.

Her father looked at her sharply. The little girl sat in the window seat watching the cold October wind send leaves whirling and scraping down the sidewalk beyond the broad strip of lawn which separated the house from the street.

Kathy was ten now, small for her age, but with a rather strange, intense little face below the shock of blonde hair. Her eyes were the most extraordinary thing about her, Martin felt. They were a vivid violet colour which seemed to penetrate deep within one; in fact, even though he was her father, she gave him an uneasy feeling sometimes. It was almost as though she could sense his thoughts.

And that would never do, he felt, turning back to his work at the desk, answering the question with some banality, uneasily aware of Charlotte moving about somewhere upstairs in one of the cavernous rooms of the big, old frame house.

Martin signed the cheque with a brittle scratching of the pen which seemed to echo unnaturally loudly above the soft crackle of the log fire which burned in the brick Colonial fireplace. He was again aware of the little girl’s murmured remarks in the background.

“What was that?” he remarked irritably, clipping the cheque to the account and sealing it in the envelope.

Kathy still sat with her cheek pressed against the pane, watching the dusky street outside with rapt intensity.

“I’m going to have a nice skull,” she said firmly. “With a candle inside it. Better than the other children on the block.”

Martin bit back his first startled remark. He remembered then she had been talking about Hallowe’en. Tomorrow was the 31st.

He supposed she would dress up in sheets and wear a scary mask like the other youngsters and make the round of the neighbourhood houses on a trick or treat expedition. How tiresome it all seemed, though once, many years ago, he had enjoyed it. Now he had other preoccupations.

“That will be nice, dear,” he said absently.

The little girl turned to him and gave a smile of great sweetness.

“A beautiful skull,” she said dreamily. “A skull for Hallowe’en.”

Martin bit back his rising irritation. He again turned to the desk, keeping his nerves under control with difficulty. There was something strange about the child; he hesitated to use the term, even within the secret recesses of his own heart, but supernatural was not too strong a description. The child was an odd and unlikely fruit of a union such as his and Charlotte’s; the only thing that had kept them together in twenty years of a lacerating marriage.

But it was all over. He would lose Janet if he hesitated any longer. He had everything planned. He stared down at the green leather surface of the desk, clasping his hands to prevent them trembling, biting his lips until the blood came. There was no other way. He had decided to murder his wife.

II

He had thought it all out extremely carefully. It wanted only the necessary resolve on his part. Janet had given him that. With her delicate, esoteric beauty and warmth, her vibrant personality, and smouldering sensuality, she epitomised everything Charlotte should have been and wasn’t. Charlotte was cold, bitter and revengeful; she suspected his affair with Janet even if she didn’t actually know.

That suspicion had merely sharpened the knife and given a little extra venom to the barbs of her conversation; the war had gone on for long years, festering beneath the surface even when it did not blaze into open resentment. It was time to end it all.

Martin glanced over at the innocent figure of his daughter, who had now turned her face to the window again. He was a clever man; a brilliant chemist with a multi-national corporation who had an almost limitless future. But that future was now threatened. Janet was fifteen years younger than he. She would not wait for ever. She had hinted as much. One of these evenings she might even come to the house.

Martin saw her three nights a week; it was a situation which might have continued for a long time in his case. It was not good enough for Janet. She had put the germ of the idea in Martin’s mind, innocently enough. If only Charlotte would disappear, she had said. From that one remark had grown Martin’s plan. And he had not breathed a word of his scheme, even to Janet.

He knew how to make people disappear; chemically, at least. He had a fully equipped workroom in the cellar with laboratory facilities. Discreetly, late at night, he had been moving in drums of chemicals, carried from the city in the boot of his car. They had been purchased through his corporation and, due to the manipulation of invoices between one company and another, would now be untraceable.

He had asked Charlotte to come down there before dinner, to discuss something important with him; he often worked at home. The suite of rooms below was warm and well equipped; there would be nothing to arouse her suspicion. They often talked – or rather argued – there.

Martin caught a bitter smile on his mouth in the gracious oval mirror opposite; was conscious at the same moment that Kathy’s strange violet eyes were watching him. It was almost as though every evil thought in his head was exposed to that candid gaze. He changed his expression to normal, waited until the child had turned away again.

Kathy was the problem. She and her mother were very close. She would be immediately suspicious at Charlotte’s disappearance. She would be at school early in the morning of course; the housekeeper usually got her breakfast and saw her to the bus. Charlotte always slept late and she and Martin had long occupied separate rooms.

Kathy would be in bed before nine o’clock tonight. After tomorrow Kathy would not matter. She might be suspicious but she was a mere child and in no position to prove anything. Janet would not want her custody; that was for certain. Perhaps his brother-in-law and his wife would take her. That was a problem best left for the future.

He glanced at his watch surreptitiously; his nerves were raw and it would not do to let the child see his rising agitation. Children missed nothing; she might persuade her mother not to come down below this evening. That would throw out the whole timetable. He had spent six months screwing himself to this point. He could not go through it again.

The steel tank had been filled that morning. He could not keep its contents there indefinitely. The vapour given off would start to corrode material in the workshop. It had to be this evening. He would have an hour at least. The housekeeper had gone to the cinema and would not be back until at least ten-thirty.

Martin shifted violently in his chair as a faint screaming came from the boulevard. An open tourer drifted by, its rear seats filled with weirdly attired teenagers. Kathy was kneeling up excitedly on the window seat now.

“Hallowe’en! Hallowe’en!” she chanted.

Martin swallowed, fighting to control his nerves. The child got up and came toward him. Her eyes seemed to fill the whole immensity of the room and he felt dizzy for a moment. He was becoming overwrought. He must watch his nerves. Especially in the difficult days to come. There were bound to be police inquiries; there always were in the case of missing persons.

Martin had a plausible story prepared; Charlotte would be visiting relatives, which would give him time enough. Time to drain the contents of the tank; he would not make the mistake of emptying it into the drains. He would convey the sludge in the original drums to a garbage tip at the edge of the city and empty it out gallon by gallon, making sure there were no identifiable remains. He had thought it through very carefully.

He frowned at the child, who watched him with those large accusing eyes. Martin was vaguely aware that she had never liked him. He did not care for her if the truth were known; she was too much like Charlotte in her nature. Vindictive and spiteful; even a child could show these traits in a dozen ways without displaying open hostility. Kathy was a strange, deceitful child. Martin would have to watch her. Someone with her alertness and gift for being in the wrong place at the wrong time could upset all his plans.

She leaned toward him, her head on one side.

“It will soon be Hallowe’en!” she breathed.

The man was startled by the sudden staccato beat of footsteps at the side of the house. The child had heard them too and glanced quickly at a shadow passing the window.

“You’d better hurry! Mummy is going down to the workroom!”

III

Martin went down the steps hurriedly, his heart thumping irregularly in his chest, a dull rage against the child in his heart. He had sent her to bed quickly. The plan was not working. It might even have to be postponed. Firstly, Kathy had seen her mother on her way to the outside steps. Perhaps Charlotte had gone out without him knowing.

And she was almost an hour early. Everything was falling apart and his nerves were ragged as he got to the shadowy corridor at the foot of the stairway. He had left the lights off. For his own purposes, of course. But one had to be careful here; the steps branched off to the old wood-store at the right.

There was a sheer drop to concrete here which was dangerous. He had been meaning to have it railed off for years but had never gotten around to it. It would have been the ideal solution to his problems but Charlotte would never come this way to the cellar; she always went around to the side of the house and down the shallow flight of steps to the outside door there.

He hoped she would not go through into the main laboratory; then he remembered he had kept it locked. He suddenly felt giddy again. He leaned against the wall for a moment. He recalled Kathy’s eyes. Their strange, violet gaze seemed to haunt him. He pulled himself together, descending the remaining steps carefully. He was himself once more by the time he found his way to the room where he worked on his experimental theories.

The door was ajar and the small radio he kept there was playing dance music loudly. That was one of the things which irritated him about Charlotte. Even in small matters her habits made his nerves raw. But things could not have been more propitious this evening. Apart from the problem of Kathy. He looked in quickly. Charlotte was sitting at the desk with her back to him, going through some papers he kept there. He was committed now.

He had the iron bar from the bench. In two steps he was at her side. Before she could turn the heavy metal was descending. He caught her at the nape of the neck, as he had planned. She was already dead before he began dragging the body out to the laboratory. It was the work of a few moments to carefully immerse her, still fully clothed, in the tank, making sure none of its lethal contents slopped.

He did not stop but fled from the place, locking the door behind him. He did not know how he came there but presently he awoke to find himself at his desk in the living room. He was perspiring heavily, his pulse racing, his face white and curiously elongated in the mirror. He glanced at his watch, saw with a shock that only some two minutes had passed since he went to the cellar.

He held the dial to his ear. It had not stopped. Then he heard the brittle clatter of footsteps passing along the concrete path at the side of the house. His heart froze. Had he slept then and dreamed of the horrible event in the workroom below? Had he to go through it all again? He got to his feet, conscious of Kathy’s strange eyes boring into his own.

No, he had not been mistaken. His wife’s footsteps were real enough; the clock in the corner went on ticking gently. It showed the same time as his watch. He almost expected to see his daughter’s ethereal-looking form huddled in the window seat but there was nothing there. He remembered then she had gone to bed.

He crossed the room quickly, made his way to the door which led to the cellars, his brain confused and bewildered. Charlotte was dead; there was no doubt about that. There were cobwebs on the front of his suit where he had descended the steps some time ago. But it could not have taken less than two minutes. The thing was impossible.

He must have been mistaken about the footsteps. Perhaps some child on a Hallowe’en prank had passed on the sidewalk. That must have been it. He was halfway down the steps now, the light from the hall door above sending yellow beams down the wooden stairway. He had forgotten the light switch in his agitation.

“Martin! Martin. Where are you?”

His heart turned to stone in his chest. There was no mistaking Charlotte’s voice. His mind must be going. He knew her body was already dissolving within the tank. The blow alone would have killed her instantly.

The voice went on calling his name imperatively. He went down hurriedly, his nerves aflame as though the acid were eroding them too. He had to know whether he had been dreaming or something unexplainable had happened in the cellar. He ran down quickly, careless now, a great roaring in his ears.

Too late he realised he had mistaken his direction on the landing in the dark. His feet encountered empty space. He had time only for a mumbled cry as he descended into the darkness where the concrete floor awaited.

IV

“It’s Hallowe’en tonight,” Kathy said.

She sat on the floor in front of the window seat, busy with her preparations for the evening, intent on the contents of a big cardboard box. On the boulevard outside the dusk was falling almost imperceptibly on the facades of the houses opposite; the automobiles cutting red trails with their rear-lights in the gathering darkness.

Charlotte sat at her husband’s desk, uneasily conscious of her daughter’s strange violet eyes regarding her from beneath the mass of blonde hair.

“What did Daddy say?” she asked impatiently for perhaps the tenth time that day.

Martin’s inexplicable disappearance was only one of several things that were disturbing her thoughts. She had been through the wardrobe and none of his clothes or his suitcases were missing. When he was called away on urgent business he usually left a note or telephoned her from the office.

“Perhaps Daddy and Auntie Janet have run off together,” the child said maliciously.

Charlotte was shocked at the vehemence and the understanding in her daughter’s tones. It was evident that she knew a great deal more of what went on around her than her parents had ever guessed.

But she gave a bright, false smile that matched her daughter’s own.

“What an extraordinary thing to say! What makes you think that, dear.”

The child went on fiddling with something in the big cardboard box by her side. Around were spread the strange paraphernalia of the Hallowe’en ritual. White sheets that looked at though they had been taken from her narrow bed; some stumps of red wax candles; an old lantern from the garage that had been tied with string to the end of a broken-off tree-branch.

Charlotte looked on absently, her thoughts elsewhere. Her lips curved bitterly. It would solve a good many of her problems if Martin and Janet had run off somewhere. She had forgotten how many weary years the problems involved in his treachery had flourished like a rank weed in their marriage.

She again caught a faint thread in the child’s prattle, prompted by a band of youngsters passing the window, lanterns already lit. The blurred chant of “Trick or treat!” died off round the next corner, chopped into segments by the rising wind that gusted at the windows. The fire flickered, sending weird shadows over the furniture until she got up to switch on the ceiling lights.

All Hallows’ Eve. It was a strange custom, she reflected, her calm gaze fixed on her daughter’s deliberate and methodical actions. A small rose of fire came to life in the corner by the window seat, made a warm glow in which Kathy’s absorbed face was silhouetted against the darkening window panes. The child had lit one of the red candles in its metal holder.

“Be careful,” Charlotte warned.

Her daughter turned innocent eyes upon her and once again the mother was struck by the strange, almost baleful glance that had the power to draw even an adult up short.

There was an ethereal quality about Kathy sometimes that was a little unnerving. Charlotte’s interest aroused, she walked over from the light switch.

“What have you got there?”

Kathy smiled one of her sweetest smiles.

“A skull. I’m going to put a candle in it.”

Charlotte gave the girl an incredulous look.

“A skull! Where did you get it? Is it made of candy?”

Kathy ignored her questions. She was again absorbed in the cardboard box, her fingers rustling mysteriously among folded twists of paper. She held up the candle, dripping the burning tallow below the edge of the box.

Charlotte was held halfway across the room, her attention focused on the child’s intent activity. Kathy lifted the object now. Charlotte gave a gasp. The thing was certainly – she was going to say lifelike – but that was absurd under the circumstances. It was a small, beautiful, highly polished skull; delicately made and apparently that of a woman.

Charlotte waited breathlessly as the girl fixed the candle, manipulating it delicately through one of the eye-sockets.

“Don’t you think it looks like Auntie Janet?” the child said.

Charlotte was astonished; she supposed the exquisitely modelled artefact was made of spun sugar, probably purchased at some establishment which specialised in such macabre aspects of Hallowe’en. Her throat tightened and her breath came fast and shallow.

There was an amazing resemblance to Janet now that the child came to mention it. Janet had a small, delicate head, almost like some ancient Egyptian queen. There was one tiny blemish which would have revealed the absurdity of the suggestion, but Charlotte remained where she was; pinned there by some sudden, overmastering emotion.

Kathy had lit the candle again now, the skull a subtle shell of growing radiance through which the eye-sockets and the teeth gleamed eerily.

“It gives a lovely light!” the child piped excitedly.

Charlotte fought down her nervous qualms. She recalled Edna St Vincent Millay’s lines. It did give a lovely light.

Kathy had twisted the skull, so that the light gleaming from the jagged orifices threw uneven shadows on the wall. She cradled her soft cheek against the white bone, posing for her mother’s approval.

Charlotte stared at the candle in the skull, its small halo of orange flame making little fretwork patterns on the girl’s cheek, shimmering on the golden mass of hair.

“It’s Hallowe’en tonight!” Kathy said.