The Year's Best Horror Stories 15 Read online

  THE MANY DIMENSIONS OF HORROR ...

  From a back roads bar where Death takes a permanent holiday ...

  to a seaside resort where a holiday romance can prove all too deadly ...

  to a country estate where a young girl discovers an ancient evil masked by the power of wealth ...

  to a carnival where a tattoo artist draws forth the most terrifying of truths ...

  journey to these and other fright-filled domains made all too chillingly real in—

  THE YEAR’S BEST HORROR STORIES: XV

  Copyright © 1987 by DAW Books, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Michael Whelan.

  For color prints of Michael Whelan paintings, please contact:

  Glass Onion Graphics

  P.O. Box 88

  Brookfield, CT 06804

  DAW Book Collectors No. 724

  First Printing, October 1987

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Wickerman eBooks

  To Peter Straub

  Remembering those fatal pints of bitter at Peter’s Bar on Southampton Row.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Yougoslaves by Robert Bloch. Copyright © by TZ Publications for Night Cry, Spring 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Tight Little Stitches in a Dead Man’s Back by Joe R. Lansdale. Copyright © 1986 by Joe R. Lansdale for Nukes. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Apples by Ramsey Campbell. Copyright © 1986 by Ramsey Campbell for Halloween Horrors. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Dead White Women by William F. Wu. Copyright © 1986 by William F. Wu for Eldritch Tales No. 12. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Crystal by Charles L. Grant. Copyright © 1986 by Mercury Press, Inc. for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, August 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Retirement by Ron Leming (originally published as Even Death Gets Tired). Copyright © 1985 by Outlaw Biker Enterprises, Inc. for Outlaw Biker, March 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Man Who Did Tricks With Glass by Ron Wolfe. Copyright © 1986 by Associates International Inc. for Stardate, April 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Bird in a Wrought Iron Cage by John Alfred Taylor. Copyright © 1986 by the Laurel Arts Foundation for The Chill Winds of October. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Olympic Runner by Dennis Etchison. Copyright © 1986 by Fantasy Tales for Fantasy Tales, Winter 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Take the “A” Train by Wayne Allen Sallee. Copyright © 1986 by Not One of Us for Not One of Us, October 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Foggy, Foggy Dew by Joel Lane. Copyright © 1986 by Joel Lane for The Foggy, Foggy Dew. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Godmother by Tina Rath. Copyright © 1986 by Rosemary Pardoe for Ghosts & Scholars 8. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Pale Trembling Youth” by W.H. Pugmire and Jessica Amanda Salmonson. Copyright © 1986 by W.H. Pugmire and Jessica Amanda Salmonson for Cutting Edge. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

  Red Light by David J. Schow. Copyright © 1986 by TZ Publications for Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, December 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  In the Hour Before Dawn by Brad Strickland. Copyright © by The Mercury Press, Inc. for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, August 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Necros by Brian Lumley. Copyright © 1986 by Brian Lumley for The Second Book of After Midnight Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, The Dorian Literary Agency.

  Tattoos by Jack Dann. Copyright © 1986 by Omni Publications International Ltd. for Omni, November 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Acquiring a Family by R. Chetwynd-Hayes. Copyright © 1986 by R. Chetwynd-Hayes for Tales from the Shadows. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  INTRODUCTION: What’s in a Name?

  There seems to be a great deal of hair-splitting and hair-pulling in recent years over definitions and distinctions throughout the various genres and subgenres of science fiction and fantasy. The term “horror” seems to offend some readers and writers. The word tends to conjure grotesque and overplayed images and concepts. Outdated and unsubtle. Time for something new, more upscale. (“No, dear—I don’t write horror. I write dark fantasy, don’t you know.”) Or maybe something with a harder edge to it. (“Piss off and die! I’m a New Wave writer!”)

  Maybe it’s because “horror” tends to conjure forth mindless splatterfilms and schlock novels about giant maggots, but more likely it’s because the term has always caused polite sniffs and raised eyebrows in polite society. Perhaps that’s why the American pulp tradition (Weird Tales, Terror Tales, Horror Stories) popularized the designation “horror,” while the English tradition favored the more genteel “ghost stories.” But then, let’s not forget that the “supernatural” story relies upon otherworldly forces, while the “terror” story depends upon direct physical threats. Of course, the “suspense” story has no fantastic element at all, and the “psychological” story relies upon all those submerged fears within our subconscious.

  Then there’s “contemporary horror”—never mind that Dracula was contemporary for its day. Or “New Wave horror”—forget that Frankenstein was avant-garde in 1818. As for new trends toward explicit sex and gore, Matthew Gregory Lewis was already grossing out his readers in 1796 with The Monk. H.P. Lovecraft was defying the Establishment by introducing concepts of totally nonhuman forces of evil into his writing in the 1920s.

  The point is that “horror” remains a convenient catch-all term for stories that, on one or more levels, create within us a sense of fear or unease. The props and orientation are not important, except as a matter of individual taste, so long as the overall effect upon the reader is a shiver—physically or emotionally, but best when there’s both.

  And so—welcome to Series XV of The Year’s Best Horror, Terror, Uncanny, Shocking, Chilling, Unnerving, Supernatural, Ghostly, New Wave, Dark Fantasy Stories.

  I’ve probably omitted a few labels there, but the truth is that we do have a diverse grouping with this year’s selections. Locus estimated that some 200 horror stories were published during 1986, but I can assure you that their estimate is far too low—primarily due to the common appearance of horror fiction in nongenre publications and to the sudden upsurge of new small press publications devoted to horror.

  I have edited the last eight volumes of The Year’s Best Horror Stories, and 1986 has certainly been the most prolific year for horror fiction to date. So. Here they are: Eighteen of the best of the hundreds of horror stories published this past year. For about half of the authors, this is their first appearance ever in The Year’s Best Horror Stories—a certain sign that the genre is anything but stagnant and incestuous. And there are some old hands here as well—some back after a long absence. Years of birth range from 1917 to 1963, with a number of writers turning up who were born in the 1950s. Another evidence that new blood is coming into the genre, but I’m not certain what to make of the high number of those with birthdays grouped in September.

  As always, stories are selected without regard to an author’s name or fame. There are no categories, taboos, or predetermined subgenres. Stories here include traditional and New Wave, ghostly and science fiction, psychological and gut-level, dark fantasy and loud fantasy—well, you get the idea.

  These are horror stories—and they’re the best.

  Labels don’t matter.

  After all, blood by any other name woul
d run as red.

  —Karl Edward Wagner

  THE YOUGOSLAVES by Robert Bloch

  “The Yougoslaves” marks a return to The Year’s Best Horror Stories by Robert Bloch after too long an absence. The positive side of that one is that Bloch has been too busy with screenplays and novels in recent years to find time to spare for short fiction. Hard to complain, since Bloch excels in all three of these disciplines—but a pleasure to see him active once again in the short story genre.

  Born in Chicago on April 5, 1917, Robert Bloch might have been America’s foremost stand-up comedian had he not been inspired by exposure to The Phantom of the Opera and Weird Tales to become the dean of modern horror writers. Bent twig or teenage prodigy, Bloch saw his first story, “Lilies,” published in the Winter 1934 issue of Marvel Tales, and the following year his stories began to appear in Weird Tales. Bloch’s early fiction was heavily influenced by H.P. Lovecraft, and each author used the other as the doomed protagonist in a pair of linked stories. While the young Bloch was arguably the best of that circle of writers who sat about Lovecraft’s throne, he quickly went on to develop his own concepts and directions within the horror genre. With the publication of his novel, The Scarf, in 1947, Bloch established himself as a master of psychological horror; his 1959 novel, Psycho, proved him to be The Master in this field. Bloch’s nerve-wracking explorations of the mind of the psychotic killer have made him the most widely imitated writer in modern horror fiction. The other side of Bloch’s writing is a macabre sense of humor, ranging from sardonic wit to horrendous puns. Humor and horror, he argues, are flip sides of the same coin—and it doesn’t pay to argue with Robert Bloch.

  Entering his sixth decade of writing, Bloch continues to be astonishingly prolific. Just as the new year begins, he is at work on a new novel; has just finished a new script for the television series, Tales from the Darkside; is awaiting publication shortly of two new collections, Lost in Time and Space with Lefty Feep and Midnight Pleasures; and is preparing two more collections and another novel or so. Regarding the following story, Bloch says: “It’s based on a real-life experience of mine in Paris. Part of it is fiction—but just which part will be up to the reader to decide.”

  I didn’t come to Paris for adventure.

  Long experience has taught me there are no Phantoms in the Opera, no bearded artists hobbling through Montmartre on stunted legs, no straw-hatted boulevardiers singing the praises of a funny little honey of a Mimi.

  The Paris of story and song, if it ever existed, is no more. Times have changed, and even the term “Gay Paree” now evokes what in theatrical parlance is called a bad laugh.

  A visitor learns to change habits accordingly, and my hotel choice was a case in point. On previous trips I’d stayed at the Crillon or the Ritz; now, after a lengthy absence, I put up at the George V.

  Let me repeat, I wasn’t seeking adventure. That first evening I left the hotel for a short stroll merely to satisfy my curiosity about the city.

  I had already discovered that some aspects of Paris remain immutable; the French still don’t seem to understand how to communicate by telephone, and they can’t make a good cup of coffee. But I had no need to use the phone and no craving for coffee, so these matters didn’t concern me.

  Nor was I greatly surprised to discover that April in Paris—Paris in the spring, tra-la-la-la—is apt to be cold and damp. Warmly-dressed for my little outing, I directed my footsteps to the archways of the Rue de Rivoli.

  At first glance Paris by night upheld its traditions. All of the tourist attractions remained in place; the steel skeleton of the Eiffel Tower, the gaping maw of the Arch of Triumph, the spurting fountains achieving their miraculous transubstantiation of water into blood with the aid of crimson light.

  But there were changes in the air—quite literally—the acrid odor of traffic fumes emanating from the exhausts of snarling sports cars and growling motor bikes racing along to the counter-point of police and ambulance sirens. Gershwin’s tinny taxi-horns would be lost in such din; I doubt if he’d approve, and I most certainly did not.

  My disapproval extended to the clothing of local pedestrians. Young Parisian males now mimicked the youths of other cities; bare-headed, leather-jacketed, and blue-jeaned, they would look equally at home in Times Square or on Hollywood Boulevard. As for their female companions, this seemed to be the year when every girl in France decided to don atrociously-wrinkled patent leather boots which turned shapely lower limbs into the legs of elephantiasis victims. The chic Parisienne had vanished, and above the traffic’s tumult I fancied I could detect a sound of rumbling dismay as Napoleon turned over in his tomb.

  I moved along under the arches, eyeing the lighted window displays of expensive jewelry mingled with cheap gimcracks. At least the Paris of tourism hadn’t altered; there would still be sex shops in the Pigalle, and somewhere in the deep darkness of the Louvre the Mona Lisa smiled enigmatically at the antics of those who came to the city searching for adventure.

  Again I say this was not my intention. Nonetheless, adventure sought me.

  Adventure came on the run, darting out of a dark and deserted portion of the arcade just ahead, charging straight at me on a dozen legs.

  It happened quickly. One moment I was alone; then suddenly and without warning, the children came. There were six of them, surrounding me like a small army—six dark-haired, swarthy-skinned urchins in dirty, disheveled garments, screeching and jabbering at me in a foreign tongue. Some of them clutched at my clothing, others jabbed me in the ribs. Encircling me they clamored for a beggar’s bounty, and as I fumbled for loose change one of them thrust a folded newspaper against my chest, another grabbed and kissed my free hand, yet another grasped my shoulder and whirled me around. Deafened by the din, dazed by their instant attack, I broke free.

  In seconds, they scattered swiftly and silently, scampering into the shadows. As they disappeared I stood alone again, stunned and shaken. Then, as my hand rose instinctively to press against my inner breast pocket, I realized that my wallet had disappeared too.

  My first reaction was shock. To think that I, a grown man, had been robbed on the public street by a band of little ragamuffins, less than ten years old!

  It was an outrage, and now I met it with rage of my own. The sheer audacity of their attack provoked anger, and the thought of the consequences fueled my fury. Losing the money in the wallet wasn’t important; he who steals my purse steals trash.

  But there was something else I cherished; something secret and irreplaceable. I carried it in a billfold compartment for a purpose; after completing my sightseeing jaunt I’d intended to seek another destination and make use of the other item my wallet contained.

  Now it was gone, and hope vanished with it.

  But not entirely. The sound of distant sirens in the night served as a strident reminder that I still had a chance. There was, I remembered, a police station near the Place Vendome. The inconspicuous office was not easy to locate on the darkened street beyond an open courtyard, but I managed.

  Once inside, I anticipated a conversation with an Inspecteur, a return to the scene of the affair in the company of sympathetic gendarmes who were knowledgeable concerning such offenses and alert in ferreting out the hiding place of my assailants.

  The young lady seated behind the window in the dingy outer office listened to my story without comment or a change of expression. Inserting forms and carbons in her typewriter, she took down a few vital statistics-my name, date of birth, place of origin, hotel address, and a short inventory of the stolen wallet’s contents.

  For reasons of my own I neglected to mention the one item that really mattered to me. I could be excused for omitting it in my excited state, and hoped to avoid the necessity of doing so unless the Inspecteur questioned me more closely.

  But there was no interview with an Inspecteur, and no uniformed officer appeared. Instead I was merely handed a carbon copy of the Recepisse de Declaration; if anything could be learned about
the fate of my wallet I would be notified at my hotel.

  Scarcely ten minutes after entering the station I found myself back on the street with nothing to show for my trouble but a buff-colored copy of the report. Down at the very bottom, on a line identified in print as Mode Operatoire—Precisons Complementaires, was a typed sentence reading “Vol commis dans la Rue par de jeunes enfant yougoslaves.”

  “Yougoslaves?”

  Back at the hotel I addressed the question to an elderly nightclerk. Sleepy eyes blinking into nervousness, he nodded knowingly.

  “Ah!” he said. “The gypsies!”

  “Gypsies? But these were only children—”

  He nodded again. “Exactly so.” And then he told me the story.

  Pickpockets and purse-snatchers had always been a common nuisance here, but within the past few years their presence had escalated.

  They came out of Eastern Europe, their exact origin unknown, but “yougoslaves” or “gypsies” served as a convenient label.

  Apparently they were smuggled in by skillful and enterprising adult criminals who specialized in educating children in the art of thievery, very much as Fagin trained his youngsters in the London of Dickens’ Oliver Twist.