The Year's Best Horror Stories 22 Read online

  OPEN THE CREAKING DOOR OF TERROR AND ENTER A WORLD WHERE FEAR IS YOUR ONLY COMPANION ...

  A kid’s camping supplies turn out to be not quite what the catalog advertised ...

  A pulp writer’s imagination really gets the better of him ...

  A suburban dog-run turns out to be an exercise in terror ...

  A juror’s identification with a convicted murderer becomes more than simple sympathy ...

  TRAVEL INTO REALMS WHERE NIGHTMARES LURK AT EVERY CORNER. THE ONLY TOUR-GUIDE YOU’LL NEED IS ...

  THE YEAR’S BEST HORROR: XXII

  Copyright © 1994 by DAW Books, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Les Edwards

  DAW Book Collectors No. 968

  If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  First Printing, November 1994

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  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  Wickerman eBooks

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Ripper’s Tune by Gregory Nicoll. Copyright © 1993 by Gregory Nicoll for Kinesis, March 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  One Size Eats All by T.E.D. Klein. Copyright © 1993 by T.E.D. Klein for Outside Kids, Summer 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Resurrection by Adam Meyer. Copyright © 1993 by Adam Meyer for Not One of Us #10. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  I Live to Wash Her by Joey Froehlich. Copyright © 1993 by Joey Froehlich for Space and Time, Spring 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  A Little-Known Side of Elvis (published originally as The Dog Park) by Dennis Etchison. Copyright © 1993 by Dennis Etchison for Dark Voices 5. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Perfect Days by Chet Williamson. Copyright © 1993 by Chet Williamson for After the Darkness. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  See How They Run (published originally as For You to Judge) by Ramsey Campbell. Copyright © 1993 by Waking Nightmares Ltd. for Monsters in Our Midst. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Shots Downed, Officer Fired by Wayne Allen Sallee. Copyright © 1993 by Wayne Allen Sallee for Vicious Circle, Fall 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  David by Sean Doolittle. Copyright © 1993 by Sean Doolittle for Deathrealm #19. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Portrait of a Pulp Writer by F.A. McMahan. Copyright © 1993 by F.A. McMahan for ComputorEdge, April 16, 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Fish Harbor by Paul Pinn. Copyright © 1993 by Paul Pinn for Xenos #17. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Ridi Bobo by Robert Devereaux, Copyright © 1993 by Robert Devereaux for Weird Tales, Spring 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Adroitly Wrapped by Mark McLaughlin. Copyright © 1993 by Mark McLaughlin for Gaslight, August 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Thicker Than Water by Joel Lane. Copyright © 1993 by Joel Lane for Panurge 18. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Memento Mori by Scott Thomas. Copyright © 1993 by Scott Thomas for Haunts, Spring 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Blitz Spirit by Kim Newman. Copyright © 1993 by Kim Newman for The Time Out Book of London Short Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Companions by Del Stone Jr. Copyright © 1993 by Del Stone Jr. for Crossroads, April 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Masquerade by Lillian Csernica. Copyright © 1993 by Lillian Csernica for Midnight Zoo, Volume 3, Issue 6. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Price of the Flames by Deidra Cox. Copyright © 1993 by Deidra Cox for Deathrealm, Winter 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Bone Garden by Conrad Williams. Copyright © 1993 by Conrad Williams for Northern Stories 4. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Ice Cream and Tombstones by Nina Kiriki Hoffman. Copyright © 1993 by Nina Kiriki Hoffman for Figment, Summer 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Salt Snake by Simon Clark. Copyright © 1993 by Simon Clark for Peeping Tom Issue Twelve. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Lady’s Portrait, Executed in Archaic Colors by Charles M. Saplak. Copyright © 1993 by Charles M. Saplak for Writers of the Future Volume IX. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Lost Alleys by Jeffrey Thomas. Copyright © 1993 by Jeffrey Thomas for The End Vol. I. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Salustrade by D.F. Lewis. Copyright © 1993 by D.F. Lewis for Alternaties #13. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Power of One by Nancy Kilpatrick. Copyright © 1993 by Nancy Kilpatrick for Sinistre. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Lions in the Desert by David Langford. Copyright © 1993 by David Langford for The Weerde II: The Book of the Ancients. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Turning Thirty by Lisa Tuttle. Copyright © 1993 by Lisa Tuttle for The Time Out Book of London Short Stories, edited by Maria Lexton and published by Penguin Books. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Bloodletting by Kim Antieau. Copyright © 1993 by Kim Antieau for Carnage Hall #4. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Flying Into Naples by Nicholas Royle. Copyright © 1993 by Nicholas Royle for Interzone, November 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Under the Crust by Terry Lamsley. Copyright © 1993 by Terry Lamsley for Under the Crust. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  To Richard O’Brien

  It’s just a jump to the left—

  INTRODUCTION: BUT IS IT HORRIFIC?

  So, then. What is a horror story?

  You’re about to find out, inasmuch as you’re holding thirty-one of them in your hand right now.

  The fact that you’ve picked up this book, The Year’s Best Horror Stones: XXII, would indicate that you are a fan of horror fiction or at least just curious. Could be that you have a complete set of signed Arkham House books (well ...), or that you’ve just watched Halloween Nightmare on Friday the 13th for the sixth time and are torn between buying this book or another chainsaw. Regardless. Take this book home with you. Remember to pay for it; you don’t want thirty-one horror writers coming round for their missing commissions. That would be a horror story.

  Which goes back to our question.

  Not a new question, of course. Your dauntless editor has sat in on many panels and discussions where this question received the attention of lots of writers and editors. I’ve brought it up before in earlier volumes of The Year’s Best Horror Stories. Why bring it up again? Because the times they are a-changing. Perhaps.

  Once upon a time horror stories were easy to categorize. Look for haunted ruins, creepy old houses, ghostly figures, bloodthirsty monsters, forbidden old tomes, eccentric scholars, teenagers misbehaving, teenagers dismembered—and a chainsaw-wielding vampire and a flesh-eating zombie or two, and you’ve got your genre defined from Gothic to gore.

  Not that easy anymore.

  This past autumn I showed one of my own stories to Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell, editors of the Best New Horror series. Steve commented that the story was good, but not horrific. Ramsey wrote back that it was “very powerful, not to say bleak,” and recommended it. As it turned out, they both agreed to reprint the story and I put down the sawed-off shotgun, but I found their reactions interesting. The story, “Passages,” was in pa
rt autobiographical and was nonfantasy. I found it horrifying, but I may have been too close. I wondered at their differing reactions. Obviously no two editors respond the same way to the same story. Otherwise all of the current year’s-best anthologies would have identical contents (when, in fact, there is virtually no overlap), and we’d all be bored.

  Later, over a pint or two, Steve and I were comparing notes concerning the year’s catch in horror stories. I mentioned a story I meant to reprint here (It’s in here, but I forget which one—really!), and Steve said again that it was a good story but not horrific. All right by me, mate, since I’m competing for space in your book. But it got me wondering.

  What is horror?

  Lisa Tuttle, whose story, “Turning Thirty,” appears in this book, wrote back: “Well, of all the stories I thought might at some time be chosen for The Year’s Best Horror Stories, “Turning Thirty” was certainly not one. Not that I’m unaware of the horror implicit in the story, but ...”

  Again, nonfantasy—but when I described her story to science-fiction writer David Drake and to a knowledgeable woman fan of the genre, both of them shivered. Open-mouthed. Horrific?

  Joel Lane, whose story, “Thicker Than Water,” also appears in this volume, observed regarding The Year’s Best Horror Stories: XXI from last year: “This seemed a more downbeat and atmospheric collection of stories than usual; I wondered if you had deliberately made it that way, or if that is simply the direction in which short horror fiction is heading.”

  Right the second time, Joel.

  After fifteen years as editor of The Year’s Best Horror Stories, I’m seeing a change in the wind. (Read a few thousand horror stories during the year, and you’re sure to start seeing things.) To wit:

  The enormous proliferation of small press publications has fostered a whole new generation of horror writers.

  Those writers who were good got better with experience; some of them now rank among the best in the horror genre.

  The axis of horror is shifting with that maturity, and with that shift comes a new concept of horror fiction.

  True. There are still tons of stories to be read each year about the never-learning massacred teenagers, the ever-flowing body fluids, the ever-hungry vampire/zombie/monsters, the ever-slashing serial killer. Some of these stories are damn good, and you’ll discover a few of them here. However, the same-old-same-old, if not in retreat, seems increasingly to be passed over by many writers in favor of exploring new and forbidding themes.

  Once again. What is horror?

  In trying to categorize the stories in The Year’s Best Horror Stories: XXII, your fearless editor is finally at a loss for words. Most of these defy definition. Some are straightforward straight-to-the-heart horror; many I can only warn you are strange and disturbing. Best label I can do.

  Edward Bryant, in his review of last year’s The Year’s Best Horror Stories in Locus, remarked: “The spectrum of Wagner’s selections is tonally wide” and recommends the book for “the catholicism of the contents.” It would seem that Ed would agree that horror fiction is a much more diverse genre today than in the past. Maybe it’s turning mainstream. Maybe it’s a river running over its banks. A river of blood. A tide of fear.

  Whatever your tastes and theories, slash or shiver, here are thirty-one of the best horror stories from 1993. As usual, over one-third of the authors here are appearing in the series for the first time. Growth and development. New voices. New definitions. New hands and new ways to twist the knife.

  But is it horrific?

  You’re about to find out.

  Welcome to The Year’s Best Horror Stories: XXII.

  —Karl Edward Wagner

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina

  THE RIPPER’S TUNE by Gregory Nicoll

  Born in Concord, New Hampshire on April 22, 1958, Gregory Nicoll has since settled down in Atlanta, Georgia, where he pursues his interests in Sam Peckinpah films, dark beer, hot chili, splatter films, rock music, and Volkswagens. Weird Mix. His fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies as well as in the small press, and he has written extensively for the film magazines, Fangoria and Gorezone. Nicoll also serves proudly as a charter member on the Foreign Films Committee of Joe Bob Briggs’ Drive-In Board of Experts.

  In his last appearance in The Year’s Best Horror Stories, Nicoll had returned his contract with a photo of his beloved Volkswagen Rabbit pickup truck, badly damaged from a close encounter with a six-point whitetail buck. This year his contract came back with a photo of the same pickup, repaired in the interim and recently with a smashed fender. Writes Nicoll: “Do I have to crash that truck every year to get into your anthology? (I’ll do it till hell freezes over, or you say different.)” Wonder what he ran into this time.

  “Well,” said Dark Annie, “what do you think of it, Liz?”

  Long Liz ran her hand appreciatively up the length of the bass guitar’s neck. Its body was shaped like a screaming skull, the fretboard an extended arm. The peghead was a twisted skeletal hand, its irregularly spaced tuning pegs sculpted as heavy-gauge nails.

  “In-fucking-credible!” Long Liz gasped. She shook her head disbelievingly. Her short red hair bobbed and the little skeleton earrings she wore in both ears rattled. “Where’d ya get it?”

  Dark Annie (nee Joan Thomas) brushed back the errant shock of purple hair which continually spilled over her forehead. “The shop where Karl works,” she said, “and if it hadn’t been for that last check from Moonlight, there’s no way I could’ve afforded it.”

  Long Liz (nee Pamela Elizabeth Jones) passed the guitar back to her. “Just think of all the great gear we can score once we sign to a big label.”

  The dressing room door banged open, admitting a blast of cold air and the sound of a stirring crowd. Jackie Slash (nee Tammy Mills) leaned in, smiling. Her long blonde hair was fluffed up magnificently and her wide blue eyes gleamed. “Are you cunts ready to rock’n’roll?”

  It was something of a sore point with Jackie and the Rippers that Gary, their manager, had held them back from the public for so long. “You need more time to develop,” he explained patiently, month after month. “When you make your debut you’ve got to be the greatest band this city has ever seen!” He’d not even let them do a video. “The promo photos are all they need to see for now. Let’s keep the suspense building.”

  Meanwhile their single on the tiny Moonlight Records label had gone back for six re-pressings, made the dance-rock and alternative/college radio charts for 32 straight weeks, had been voted Single of the Year in both The Village Voice and Rolling Stone’s critics’ polls, and had been licensed for inclusion in no less than three compilation albums. A remixed 12-inch edition of the single (featuring a different and even more provocative cover photo) was due out in three weeks. The only thing keeping Jackie and the Rippers from being the hottest group in the country—and from getting signed to a major label—was one simple technicality.

  They had never, ever played a live concert.

  Until now.

  Sure, they were only the support group—the Wandering Jews were the nominal headliners tonight—but it was common street talk that better than half the audience had come only to see them. Jackie and the Rippers. Hard rock that scraped the cutting edge like a whetstone, and that stung like a razor.

  Karl handed Jackie her red Gibson Firebird. “I changed the high E string for you. Hope a gauge nine will do.”

  She grinned, nodded, and slung the axe around her arm.

  Gary leaned out onstage and signaled the sound and lights crew. Immediately the house lights dimmed. The crowd screamed.

  “We want the Rippers! We want the Rippers!” they chanted.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” roared the emcee. “Presenting ... for the first time anywhere ...”

  They sprinted onstage, capes flowing out behind them. Jackie and Annie plugged in their guitars while Liz took her seat behind the drum kit and found her sticks. In the darkness it wasn’t easy.

 
“... Jackie and the Rippers!”

  A single spotlight winked on, framing Jackie’s face in a disc of light.

  “ ’Ello, dearies!” she shouted.

  The crowd came totally unglued. They shrieked, yelled, whistled. More than 150 different voices shouted the titles of the two songs on their single. One young man with a mohawk haircut scrambled up onto stage and lunged toward Jackie, his hands outstretched. Gary and Karl ran interference.

  Jackie beamed. She was basking in it, eating it with a spoon, and loving every sweet precious fleeting sound. “We’re Jackie and the Rippers,” she said, “and tonight, we’re gonna smash you!”

  Liz pounded both sticks on her floor toms and laid down a machinegun beat. Annie joined her on the bass, setting up a propulsive rhythm. As the stage lights came up full, Jackie leaped into the air and ripped a savage chord from her Gibson with a windmill stroke delivered while her feet were still high off the stage.

  The song was “Smash You,” the fastest number in their repertoire. And it sounded good.

  The second tune was even better—a killer cover of the old Blondie song “Sex Offender.” Jackie’s voice had been likened to Debbie Harry’s by some critics, although a more accurate comparison would have been Patsy Cline’s. Patsy Cline, however, never sang anything like this.

  And so it went through the set: “Bend Me, Shape Me,” “Let’s Have a War,” “Gotta Keep A-Rockin’,” “I Love a Man in a Uniform,” “Walkin’ the Beat,” “Venus in Furs,” “Slaughter on Tenth Avenue,” “In the Past,” and “Streets of London.” They played hard enough to splinter three drumsticks, snap two guitar strings (something about Jackie and high E just didn’t agree), and pop one string on Annie’s skeleton bass. They played fast enough to keep the crowd in a continuous frenzy. And they played loose and raw enough to make Beethoven roll over.