The Mammoth Book of Terror

CHARLES L. GRANT’S CAREER has spanned more than thirty-five years and during that time he has won, among other honours, three World Fantasy Awards and two Nebulas from the Science Fiction-Fantasy Writers Association. A recipient of the British Fantasy Society’s Special Award and the Horror Writers Association’s Lifetime Achievement Award, he was also named Grand Master at the 2002 World Horror Convention.

A prolific short story writer and novelist, he has cultivated his unique style of “quiet horror” in many novels and collections, including The Curse, The Hour of the Oxrun Dead, The Sound of Midnight, The Grave, The Bloodwind, The Soft Whisper of the Dead, The Nestling, The Tea Party, The Orchard, The Pet, For Fear of the Night, In a Dark Dream, Dialing the Wind, Stunts, Something Stirs, Jackals, The Black Carousel, Tales from the Nightside, A Glow of Candles and Nightmare Seasons. More recent titles include the first two X Files novelizations, Goblin and Whirlwind, the “Millennium Quartet” inspired by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and the “Black Oak” series about a security team of paranormal investigators. Grant has also published a number of books under the pseudonyms “Geoffrey Marsh” and “Lionel Fenn”.

As an editor he is responsible for two dozen anthologies, including the influential Shadows series (twelve volumes) along with Nightmares, Midnight, Greystone Bay, The Dodd Mead Gallery of Horror and Gothic Ghosts (with Wendy Webb).

With his wife, editor and novelist Kathryn Ptacek, Grant lives in a century-old haunted Victorian house in Sussex County, New Jersey.

“I also write and edit books like this one,” explains the author, “ones that if all goes well will give their readers a good dose of the chills, the shudders, and the outright shrieks now and then. After all, if the truth be known, we haven’t grown up all that much; the fears we have now aren’t the same as they were when we were children, but they’re fears just the same. They make our palms sweat, they give us nightmares, and they’re sometimes powerful enough to alter our characters.”

IN A LIVING ROOM, sparse and battered furniture had been formed into a square so that, in her darkness, the old woman could find them, avoid them without the tap of her probing white-tipped cane. There were neither rugs on the floors nor pictures on the walls, and only a single shadeless lamp. No matter the day or the weather, she always wore the same dress, an oddly shapeless garment whose colors seemed dead for centuries. Her hair was decades long, braided and coikd into a silver basket round the top of her head, and her face and arms and thin-strong legs were shadowed with ancient wrinkles.

But as she sat at her piano, her hands glided out from long, laced sleeves, and they were beautiful.

Eric sat quietly on the family-room floor, his short legs pulled up tight in awkward Indian fashion, his back resting stiffly against the dark oak paneling that covered the walls to the ceiling. His hands, as pinkly puffed as the rest of him, were folded in his lap, and for a moment he smiled, thinking of how his teacher would approve. Caren lay on the overstuffed couch, her white-blonde hair sifting down over her face. One hand dangled almost to the floor, and when, in her sleep, she whimpered once it jerked up to her cheek, touched, and fell again. He was tempted to wake her but didn’t want to move, didn’t want to whisper. The slightest sound might spoil the battle, might make him miss the music, and then it would be too late.

He stared instead at the walls and the pictures there of his father’s favorite game birds. Then he tried to count the floor’s black-and-white tiles, but his eyes blurred and he had to shake his head to clear his vision. A fly, perhaps the last of the year, darted across the room, swerved toward him, and made him duck. Automatically, his hands unclenched, remembered, and settled again. His knees ached where he had scraped them the day before. Caren sighed.

Through the two windows above the couch he could see the brown-edged leaves of a ribbon of flowers his mother had planted along the front of the house. They had been green once, like all the others in the neighborhood; watered, dusted with aerosol sprays, and caressed with eyes that loved and appreciated them. By stretching very slightly he could see beyond the single row of faded bricks that separated the garden from the lawn. The grass was hidden, but he knew it was dying anyway, a perfect camouflage for the leaves that sailed from the elms and willows.

I wish I knew what I was doing, he thought as he lowered his gaze to Caren again. I never killed no one before. But I guess it’s got to be done or she’ll kill us all first. I know it. I know she will.

Visions of his parents, of Caren’s, of all the others, lying in the street like so much discarded trash.

Visions of television shows, of movies, of twisted evil women burning at the stake and laughing, having their heads cut off and their mouths stuffed with garlic, fading to corpse-grey dust at the first touch of daylight.

Visions, and it was all supposed to be make-believe, and the witch/vampire/werewolf wounds just makeup that washed off with soap.

A strong gust of wind drummed twigs against the windows, and Caren moaned softly in her sleep. As she rolled over onto her back, Eric wondered if he should have talked to some of the others. But he knew most of them would have been too frightened to do anything but call for their mothers. In fact, Caren was the only one who believed all that he said, and was the only one who was willing to join in the fight.

Maybe, he thought, we’re both a little nuts. Even in the stories, vampires only drink blood.

But his father, he recalled, had been complaining about something called deterioration, depreciation, and plummeting values just before he had been hospitalized, and perhaps if Eric understood it more he might be convinced that this was what was killing the street, and all the other streets in all the other towns. He frowned, scratched at his chin, and rhythmically, lightly, thumped his head back against the wall. Maybe. And maybe his father was so involved in just being an adult that he couldn’t see what was real anymore. That’s what Caren had said after her spaniel puppy had been killed by a driver who hadn’t even bothered to stop to say he was sorry.

Murder.

The word popped into his mind unbidden.

“Eric,” Caren had said that afternoon, “we can’tjust break into the house and kill her. How can you kill her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we can find a gun somewhere, knock her out, and I don’t know, cut off her head or something.”

“You’re being silly.”

“Kids kill people all the time. I see it on the news at night.&iuot;

“Big kids,” she said, pulling nervously at her hair. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll think of something.”

He shifted to ease the discomfort creeping up his back, then rubbed his palms against his thighs. The sun went down unwatched, and the windows went briefly black before reflecting the single light from the floor lamp near the steps. He stretched his legs straight out ahead of him, and his heels squeaked on the tiles. Caren jumped, swung her legs to the floor, and sat up.

“It’s okay,” he said, grateful for the chance to get to his feet. “Nothing’s happened yet. Do you want to sleep some more?”

“No,” and her voice was younger, smaller than the size of her dozen years. “Do you think she’ll do it tonight? It hasn’t been regular for a long time.”

Eric shrugged, stretched up to his toes so he could see the house across the street. “Her light is still on.”

“It always is. Even in the day.”

“You want something to drink? I think Mom left some soda in the kitchen for us.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to leave her, not yet. Maybe we should call Jackie and see if she can come over, too.”

“She’s always crying, Caren. She can’t help. Besides, she’s too young to understand. We have to do it alone.” He placed his hands on his hips, a gesture his father used to indicate finality. “Do you think you can remember enough good things?”

Caren nodded, rubbing at her eyes, then began swinging her legs. The room seemed large with shadows in the corners, but neither of them made a move to turn on the lights embedded in the white ceiling. Instead, they stared at the backless clock on the far wall, and willed the hands to sweep to nine.

Caren marked the seconds by tapping a nail against her palm.

Eric wondered why no one else knew.

The fingers that rested on the keys were like ten wings of five sleeping humming birds, and they were sknder and long. They hesitated, as if undecided about waking up and what to do when they did. The ivory was yellowed in blotches and stains, but the velvet-coated hammers were young and deep blue. The old woman breathed deeply to draw in what she felt, assimilated it and translated it to the language of the wings that fluttered now, darted and glided, a polka and waltz, and from the depths of the piano the music came back.

Hawthorne Street was a community unto itself, and no one who lived there would have had it any other way. Along its entire length, all families were neighbors and all children friends. The seasons were shared with garden-hose batons, snow-blower basso; pets roamed free, and every yard but one had a hole in its hedge for the passing of gossip. Tree houses sprouted, sidewalks were chalked, but the unofficial leader was Eric because his home faced the unlucky Number 136. Of all the houses on the street, only this one could not keep a family; three in less than two years, not because it was haunted, but because the people were not able to penetrate the tightly meshed lives of everyone else.

Then, Eric remembered, came last September and the smallest moving van he had ever seen pulled into the ragged blacktop driveway and unloaded: one odd-angled piano a disturbingly deep black, one polished cedar hope chest that took three men to carry, one greying wicker chair slightly unstrung, and a bench of burnished copper. He and Caren had loitered on the curb waiting for signs of children or pets, but there was nothing else in the van, and after one of the men had relocked the front door, it pulled away and did not return.

A week passed, and suddenly Caren had pounded on the front door, dragged Eric into the street. In Number 136, in the dirtstreaked picture window, were wine-red curtains. A light glowed behind them, and no one ever saw it go off. Four days more to a Saturday waiting for autumn, and an old, very old woman appeared on the front lawn. She sat like a weathered totem in the wicker chair, her head covered by a sun hat whose brim dropped to her shoulders. She did nothing but sit. Watch. And sit until dark. Repeated every day until November’s cold drove her inside.

One by one, or in reassuring groups, the children passed by, waving, and receiving no response. Eric had been the only one with nerve enough to call her a greeting, but only a breeze moved.

“I think she’s blind,” he said to Caren on the way to school just before the Thanksgiving holiday.

“Deaf, too,” she said, grinning, receiving a grin in return.

And though they pestered their parents daily, they could get no satisfactory answers about the odd woman’s origins, her designs, why she never invited anyone in for tea or cookies and soda.

She became, simply, the Old Lady, and a superstition instantly born prevented any of the younger children from passing her house on her side of the street.

And then, one cold and snow-ready night, when Hawthorne Street stayed home and huddled, richly, in front of fieldstone fireplaces and gleaming Franklin stoves, the music began. Precisely at nine o’clock the November chill was warmed by glittering sparks that sifted through the windows and doors and startled the people who heard.

Hey, a circus, Eric thought, running to the living room to look up and down the street.

Hey, Mom, Caren had called, there’s one of those guys with the monkey and the thing that you turn.

There was a lullaby, a love song, memories of dance bands, carnivals, and boardwalk calliopes on a hot August night.

For thirty minutes to the second before it stopped, and the notes fell like powdered snow to vanish into the ground.

“Eric?”

He spun around, blinking, then glaring at Caren’s silent laugh.

“What’s the matter, did I scare you?”

“Not me,” he said. “You kind of just snuck up on me, that’s all. What’s the matter? You need something, or something?”

“I was thinking about the time she came,” and she shivered an exaggerated chill, making him laugh. “Remember the time we tried to sneak a look through the back window and Jackie started sneezing because of her hay fever and we didn’t stop running until we must have got all the way to the park?”

“I wasn’t scared then, either.”

“I didn’t say you were, silly.”

“Then why’d you have to say all that? Don’t we have enough troubles?”

“I was just trying to remember, Eric, that’s all.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but you’d better save it. I think I can feel it coming.”

Remember, he thought in disgust. Just like a girl to waste her time remembering when we got things to do more important. And what good would it do asking for things to be the way they were anyway?

Throughout that winter, it seemed as if what rainbows there were had all spilled into a vast shimmering pot called Hawthorne Street, and all on the heels of the music.

Caren’s brother was accepted into a European university with full scholarship honors; Eric discovered he had a natural talent for musical instruments, and horns in particular, and his teacher told him in all honesty that he would someday be famous; Jackie Potter’s family won a state lottery and planned a trip across the country during Easter vacation; and there seemed nothing at all wrong in standing by the front window and listening to the piano drawing them closer, stirring their emotions while it accompanied snow onto the lawns, ice into puddles, and guided the wind to cradle dead leaves softly into the gutters. The snowmen were bigger, the snow forts more elaborate, and Eric’s father came home twice with promotions and once with a car big enough to hold thousands.

Eric scrubbed his cheeks dryly. It was no good remembering things like that because it wasn’t that way anymore, and it was all because of a vampire witch who sucked them dry with her music.

It was April when the weekly concerts stopped, and while most of the people worried for a while, no one thought to visit the old woman to see if there was anything wrong. It was as if the children’s superstition had been universally accepted, and when Eric suggested they try again to sneak a look into the Old Lady’s house, Caren became angry and told him to leave the poor thing alone.

In May a fire destroyed the oldest house on the street, Caren’s brother was arrested for possession of drugs and assault with a deadly weapon, and Eric’s grandfather died in the guest room, in his sleep. New grass was planted, was washed away during three consecutive storms that knocked out power for three days, flooded every waterproof cellar, and uprooted a maple that was reputed to have been planted by the town’s original settlers.

Caren’s puppy died.

Eric’s father was forced out of work and into a hospital bed by a series of massive heart attacks.

The elms rotted from the inside, and the willows crawled with worms that soon stopped their weeping.

The music came again, at odd hours for nearly a week, stopped just as abruptly, and what grass was left began dying in the middle of a shower.

All the houses needed painting, gardens weeding, and red brick shaded to brown.

Something had been taken away, something was missing, but few people cared, fewer still knew.

“Hey, listen, if you’re going to sleep, I’m going home.”

Eric grinned stupidly. He was sitting against the wall again, and his head felt stuffed with cotton like a baby’s toy.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to be thinking yet.”

“Okay, I’m sorry again,” he said, crossing the room to sit with her on the couch. “I just can’t help it.”

“I know what you mean. Do you . . . do you think we can fight her?”

He looked at her carefully before nodding.

“What if we’re wrong?”

“We’re not, I told you.”

“Then let’s get going.”

The music. It came at them through the dead leaves and grass and age-bent trees. The melody varied, wavered, changed.

“Maybe we should put cotton in our ears or something.”

“Eric, I’m frightened.”

There was a sliver of a tear in the corner of her eye, and he looked away to avoid seeing it slither down her satin cheek. “Don’t be,” he said. “Just remember that time we put the snake in Mrs Green’s desk.”

“That was dumb.”

“It was funny, remember?” He turned back, insistent, a hand reaching to grab her shoulder before it pulled away. “It was funny,” he repeated slowly, and took a breath to laugh.

“Sort of,” she said, hinting a smile, “but not as much as the picnic we went on with the Potters. Remember how you kept falling on your fat face in that sack race thing? I thought you were going to start digging holes with your nose.”

The music, searching for crevices in their conversation, cracks in their memories.

Eric giggled, clamped a hand over his mouth, then leaned back and filled the room with high-pitched laughter.

“You –” he said, gulping for air, “you on that stupid pony. You should have seen your face when the saddle fell off.”

Caren winced. “Well, it hurt, dope. Hey, remember the Christmas your father made me that doll? And your mother made all her clothes? I still have it, you know. Of course, I’m too old to play with it, but I like to look at it now and then.”

“Good,” Eric said, jumping onto the couch to look out the window. “Hey,” he shouted, “what about the time we found the bird in the yard.”

“Robin.”

“Right. Remember how we used the eyedropper to feed it until it learned to fly?”

“A cat could have eaten it,” Caren said, shuddering.

“Yeah, but we saved it!”

Eric clambered to the floor and improvised an impatient dance while he slapped at his sides to jog loose more memories, anything at all he could throw at the music.

“Wait a minute,” Caren said. “What about the time we went to the beach that summer? You won me an elephant at the stand.”

He stopped, almost choking in his desperation to find more words. “Nothing to it,” he said finally. “Them bottles is easy to knock down.”

Her hands stopped and she pushed herself away from the keyboard. Carefully, with the measured steps of the practiced blind, she crossed the bare floor to the old chest and opened it. With deliberate care she pulled out what was once a large black square of satin. It was covered, now, except for one small corner, with colors that danced, sang in harmony, and laughed; never blending capturing light, repelling a tear.

“Eric—”

“Hey, remember—”

“Eric, it’s finished!”

He blinked, listened, heard nothing, and let his small chest sag in relief.

“Hey,” he said proudly, “we ain’t so little, are we?”

She sat on the bench facing the red curtains. Methodically she arranged the satin across her knees, touching each thread line that led to the corner. A needle sharp with use glinted in her right hand, and a single web of many lights dropped from its eye into a plain brown sack at her feet. Then her eyes seemed to clear and she waited, poised, humming arcane tunes to herself and the chest that was filled to the brim with bright on dark.

“You probably think you’re pretty smart,” Caren said.

“Sure am. It was my idea, wasn’t it? I put it all together and figured out that the Old Lady was taking away all our happiness with that music we was hearing, didn’t I? And that’s what was making all the bad things happen, right?”

“Well—”

“—and didn’t I say that we had to show her that we were still doing all right anyway? And now that we did, she’ll move away and never come back because we were too much for her. We beat the music.”

“Well, it’s done now,” she said, and grinned.

“Sure is,” he said, grinning, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

The needle shimmered, dipped, ready to extend the rainbow.

“When’s your mother coming home from the hospital?”

“I don’t know. She said she was going to look in on someone, I don’t know who, on her way back.”

They stared at each other across the room, then gathered in air and screeched it out in a victory yell that shattered all their doubts. Eric fetched two cans of soda, opening one and immediately pouring it over Caren’s head.

“I told you I was right, and I was, right?”

Caren grabbed for the other can, but he ducked away. “So what?” she said, laughing. “Nobody’s going to believe us. They don’t know she was some kind of a witch thing.”

“What do you care?” he shouted, leaping onto the couch to avoid her grasp. “We’re still heroes. And everything will be all right, you’ll see.”

The needle darted.

“One of these days,” he said, “I’m going to be the world’s best trumpet player, and you can come to my opening and tell everyone you know me.”

“No thanks,” she said. “You look like an elephant with that horn in your mouth.”

He laughed, leaped over the arm. But he wasn’t fast enough to escape Caren’s hand, and in a minute the second container of soda was emptied over his head, and Caren, for good measure, rubbed it in like shampoo.

“I don’t care,” he shouted. “I don’t care.”

The corner was nearly finished. She hummed, knowing her fingers would stop in just a minute. Then tie. Bite. And she gathered the cloth to her chest and breathed deeply the musty mausoleum odor of the house. Then she dropped the spectrumed satin into the chest with the others. One day, she thought, she would sew herself a new dress of a thousand colors and be young again. But there was one more town . . .

She locked the chest with a pass of her hand.

And the light went out.

“Hey, we’d better clean this up before your mother gets home.”

Eric looked at the still bubbling soda spilled all over the tiles, and he nodded. His arms felt leaden, his legs began to stiffen, and the stuffing in his head wouldn’t go away. Caren prodded him again, and he ran toward the stairs, didn’t hear her warning yell until it was too late. His foot slid in one of the puddles and, in trying to wave his arms to keep his balance, pitched face forward into the corner with the lamp.

Caren paled when he finally turned around, groaning, and she screamed when he dropped his hands from his face and smeared the blood that ran from his lips.