The Year's Best Horror Stories 14 Read online

  FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE THEY COME ...

  For a kingpin in the Underworld, death is no excuse for missing a final payoff ...

  FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA, TERROR RISES ...

  Even an abandoned ship can hold an unsuspecting sea captain’s doom ...

  IN THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR, HORROR HAS COME TO CALL ...

  When an Army experiment goes awry Willy is afraid to meet his neighbors face to face ...

  THE YEAR’S BEST HORROR STORIES: XIV

  Nineteen tales of exquisite terror. Be wary if you read them after the sun goes down!

  Copyright ©, 1986 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. 688.

  First Printing, October 1986

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  PRINTED IN U.S.A.

  Wickerman eBooks

  To Dave Carson

  ... and there are certain persons—artists twisted and corroded by their genius—of whom it truly may be said: Here is one who would rather blow out a candle than curse the light.

  —Kent Allard

  The Futility of Awareness

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Penny Daye by Charles L. Grant. Copyright © 1985 by Charles L. Grant for Fantasycon X Programme Booklet. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Dwindling by David B. Silva. Copyright © 1985 by Wonder Press for Spectrum Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Dead Men’s Fingers by Phillip C. Heath. Copyright © 1985 by Artimus Publications for Borderland No. 2. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Dead Week by Leonard Carpenter. Copyright © 1984 by L.P. Carpenter for Dark Lessons. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Sneering by Ramsey Campbell. Copyright © 1985 by Fantasy Tales for Fantasy Tales, Summer 1985. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Bunny Didn’t Tell Us by David J. Schow. Copyright © 1985 by TZ Publications for Night Cry, Winter 1985. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Pinewood by Tanith Lee. Copyright © 1984 by Stuart David Schiff for Whispers 21/22. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Night People by Michael Reaves. Copyright © 1985 by TZ Publications for Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, October 1985. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Ceremony by William F. Nolan. Copyright © 1985 by William F. Nolan for Midnight. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Woman in Black by Dennis Etchison. Copyright © 1984 by Dennis Etchison for Whispers 21/22. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  ... Beside the Seaside, Beside the Sea ... by Simon Clark. Copyright © 1985 by Chris Reed for Back Brain Recluse 4. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Mother’s Day by Stephen F. Wilcox. Copyright © 1984 by TZ Publications for Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, July/August 1985. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Lava Tears by Vincent McHardy. Copyright © 1985 by Vincent McHardy for Darkness on the Edge of Town. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Rapid Transit by Wayne Allen Sallee. Copyright © 1985 by Grue Magazine for Grue Magazine No. 1. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  The Weight of Zero by John Alfred Taylor. Copyright © 1984 by TZ Publications for Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, January/February 1985. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  John’s Return to Liverpool by Christopher Burns. Copyright © 1984 by Interzone for Interzone, Winter 1984/85. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  In Late December, Before the Storm by Paul M. Sammon. Copyright © 1984 by TZ Publications for Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, January/February 1985. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Red Christmas by David S. Garnett (originally published as Red Xmas and under the pseudonym David Almandine). Copyright © 1985 by Fisk Publishing Co., Ltd. for Mayfair, December 1985. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Too Far Behind Gradina by Steve Sneyd. Copyright © 1985 by Steve Sneyd for SF Spectrum Publications, Ltd. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  INTRODUCTION: Nurturing Nightmares

  Welcome to The Year’s Best Horror Stories: Series XIV.

  For some of you this may be your first look at the series; some of you have been readers since the first. A complete set of all fourteen DAW Books editions will fill about nine inches of your shelf and furnish you with enough concentrated shivers to push 10 on the Richter scale. It will also provide an outstanding cross section of the best in horror short fiction over the past fifteen years.

  But here, however, you have the best horror stories from the past year—the pick of several hundreds of stories published here and abroad during 1985. As always, I have attempted to select these with regard only to overall excellence. There are no taboos, no obligatory Big Names, no restrictions as to any particular type, theme or sub-genre of horror fiction. These are the nineteen stories from 1985 that best succeeded in creating a moment of fear—whether at intellectual or at gut level.

  I think you will be intrigued by this year’s blend: seventeen short stories, a novelette, and a novella. There are the familiar names as well as new ones—for more than half of the writers here, this is their first appearance in The Year’s Best Horror Stories. Twelve of the writers are American, six are British, and one is Canadian. A bit over half of the selections are from small press sources, the rest from newsstand magazines or anthologies. In technique, these stories range from the traditional to the experimental, from creepy-crawly nasties to psychological terrors. Some embody a macabre sense of humor, others may pull at your heart—and some may tear it right out. In arranging my notes, I realized that three of the authors here are widely published poets; their prose techniques are dissimilar, yet each story is touched by fire.

  The stories here represent the best of horror fiction at the midpoint of the 1980s. I was somewhat surprised to note that only two of these nineteen writers were born before World War II. Such selection was certainly not intentional, and I suspect it represents the renewed energy that has marked the horror genre over the past decade or so. It’s interesting that both of the pre-War-generation writers have turned to horror fiction only in recent years.

  In the early years of the pulps, science fiction writers began their careers after having been influenced by The Classics—meaning Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, or perhaps that American newcomer, Edgar Rice Burroughs. Horror writers of that day looked back to Edgar Allan Poe as The Master, and a later generation was inspired by H. P. Lovecraft or M. R. James. Just as today’s science fiction writers march to different drums, the new generation of horror writers has been inspired by a later hierarchy of classics. Several of the authors here have mentioned the names of others of the authors in The Year’s Best Horror Stories: Series XIV as representing particular influences or inspirations for their own writing. We seem to propagate like vampires.

  A dozen years ago your editor attended the First World Fantasy Convention and was on a panel entitled “New Voices in Fantasy.” Other panel members were such unknown newcomers as Ramsey Campbell, Charles L. Grant, and David Drake. I suppose some will now consider us to be the The Old Guard.

  Or soon will. The horror genre is vital, changing—and constantly attracting new writers with new ideas and new techniques.

  Maybe you’re one of them.

  How’s that bite on your neck?

  —Karl Edward Wagner

  PENNY DAYE by Charles L. Grant


  The recent boom in horror fiction spawned a host of thirty-day wonders and a legion of instantly forgettable books. The best that can be said of the boom is that it also delivered from obscurity a number of outstanding horror writers whose talents hitherto had been stuffed beneath a bushel basket. I’m certain that Charles L. Grant would have continued to write superior horror fiction until they found him frozen over his typewriter in some unheated garret. Poetic, no doubt—but nicer to see excellence recognized.

  Born in New Jersey in 1942, Grant began writing successfully in the late 1960s, and since 1975 he has been able to devote full time to this career. To date he has written or edited some forty books, in addition to another twenty or so under various pseudonyms. His newest novel is The Pet, while his latest anthologies are Midnight from Tor Books and Shadows 9 from Doubleday. Grant recently was Guest of Honour at Fantasycon IX and then Master of Ceremonies at Fantasycon X—England’s predecessor to the World Fantasy Convention. “Penny Daye” was written for the Fantasycon X Programme Booklet and reflects Grant’s affection for England—and his finely tuned awareness of the darker side of existence.

  I was well on my way to being drunk when I first saw Penny Daye, and there have been moments since when I think that perhaps I should have finished the journey. It would not have spared me grief, and it would not have brought me absent luck, but had I done so, I am almost sure I would not have seen the stones, or the Plain, and I would not have heard the wind and the voices it carries.

  Almost.

  Not quite.

  Though I had a number of what I had thought at the time were perfectly good excuses for that onset of inebriation, there were no real reasons were honesty forced upon me. That I was alone, and in a strange country, low on funds and lower still on spirit, should not by themselves have tempted me into the Salisbury pub; but in concert with an afternoon more grey than light, more winter than fall, I was an easy prey for self-induced depression, easier prey still for the dark bitter stout that was my substitution for lunch.

  I suppose I didn’t make a very good impression on my English cousins that afternoon, but I rationalized it by reminding myself that I was actually a Scot and therefore need not apologize for any discomfort I caused the oppressors.

  That I was American born and bred made no difference to my by then somewhat befuddled mind; that day I was a Scot, and made my silent toast across the water.

  It was well over an hour, I think, before I finally realized that if I didn’t move soon, if I didn’t get some fresh air and something solid in my stomach, I’d probably have to be carried to my train. The potential embarrassment stirred me, ancestral pride be damned, and I paid my bill and did my best not to stagger outside.

  The air was damp, too chilled by the wind for my light jacket and sweater, and I decided to head directly back to the station and punish my stupidity by sitting on a hard and cold British Rail bench, fully exposed to the elements while I waited for transport back to London.

  I didn’t, however, have all that far to go.

  The pub was just around the corner and down a gentle slope from my destination, and as I made my way upward, stifling a few belches and grimacing at the sour aftertaste, I decided there had to be something hitched to my fate that was preventing me from seeing Stonehenge, only a few miles away. This was the second time I had made the journey, and the second time circumstance had prevented me from completing the not-very-long trip out to the stones.

  The first occasion was just over a year ago, when I was here with a companion who, on my more charitable days, I might have called my fiancée. She was not, if the truth be known, all that interested in places of possible human sacrifice if she couldn’t at least see a bit of dried blood, and she talked me at the last into a sidetrip to what she called a quaint, authentic market in the centre of town, near the cathedral, where most of our allotted funds for the day were spent, and soon forgotten. We barely did make the last train.

  She is long gone now, coping in California with a budding screenwriter, and though I had kidded myself about actually wanting to visit the ruins this time, I think it was merely one more way to flay myself for losing her, and to hate myself for not having the courage to do anything about it.

  Slowly then, with hands deep in my trouser pockets, I made my way morosely to the red-brick stationhouse, found the right track, and sat down.

  And saw her.

  She was on the platform opposite, silently standing apart from a group of young people in varying shades of leather, and those whose hair had been dyed several unnatural but undeniably attractive colours. They were singing boisterously. She was holding her hands in front of her, ignoring them and staring at me.

  At least, I thought she was staring at me.

  Her coat was camel’s hair, her scarf burgundy, her hat a black tam prettily cocked on deep black hair. Though I leaned forward a bit and stared, I could not quite make out her features; it was as if the area had recently been swept through by a faint, disorienting fog. But I knew she was lovely, could see her well enough to make out the pinches of red at her full round cheeks.

  It was the drink that made me bold enough to smile.

  It must have been the drink that made me think she smiled back and nodded.

  Then one of those high-speed monsters blasted through the station, scattering dust and scraps of paper and forcing my eyes closed. The noise one of those trains makes is not unlike the prolonged clap of the sound barrier being shattered, and when it was gone and my eyes were open again, the place where she stood was empty.

  I got to my feet at once and moved towards the tracks.

  The kids were still there, but she was gone.

  I turned then toward the stairs, thinking rather hopefully that she had been attracted to me and had decided to join me, shaking my head at the conceited notion, yet straightening myself up all the same.

  She didn’t come.

  And had not my own train arrived at just that moment, I think I would have gone in search of her. But there were meetings in the city I had to attend, business partners to appease for my recent lack of success, and ruffled feathers to be oiled down with flagrant promises and white lies.

  I needn’t have worried.

  I saw her again, one month later.

  It was one week from the end of my trip, and I didn’t want to go back. I had seen enough of London, enough of the country, to realize that the legendary British reserve was no more a fact than the so-called cold indifference of New Yorkers. My business, if not my self-esteem, had been temporarily salvaged, my interest in history reawakened simply by walking through so much of it so well preserved, and I was, at the last, almost calling it home, even to the point of feeling disgusted whenever I saw American tourists making boors of themselves.

  I was no longer a tourist, you see; I was fitting in, and I liked it.

  So I decided that I would, by god and damn the torpedoes, get back to Salisbury and see those damned stones.

  So I took the train, walked down the hill and decided to have a pint to warm me up before catching the bus.

  Which I did, though it was more than one, and though it took me near to an hour before I started out again.

  And thus I was encased in a mellow, autumnal glow when I caught the bus, sat on the upper deck on the bench seat in front, and watched the town and countryside lurch past me as we headed for Salisbury Plain. I dozed a little; the bus’ interior was quite warm. I listened to an elderly woman chiding her husband for forgetting something at the market; her voice was strident, and we were the only ones up there. And I began to think that perhaps I wouldn’t go home after all. To be honest, there wasn’t much there for me to go back to—an apartment, an office, the infrequent evening excursion to dinner and to bed.

  It all seemed, suddenly, awfully bleak and weary.

  Then the bus ground gears over the crest of a low hill, and I leaned forward in my front seat, and saw them.

  My first reaction was one of disappointment. In th
e movies, and on the postcards, the monoliths appeared to be hundreds of feet high; they weren’t. And the circle they described was considerably smaller than I had imagined. But as the roadway dipped and we approached the turnoff to the parking lot on our right, I felt it. Even on the clattering, fume-filled bus I felt it quite strongly—a sense of age, a sense of melancholy, and I swear that a chill momentarily prickled along my arms.

  I couldn’t wait to get off, and did so immediately the bus pulled over. There were a number of tourist coaches filling, and several cars pulling out. The ringstones were on the other side of the highway, and one had to purchase a ticket here, then walk through a tunnel under the road, to a ramp that led up to the monuments themselves.

  I stared dumbly at the ticket window.

  “Closed?” I said. “How the hell can Stonehenge be closed, for god’s sake?”

  The woman behind the glass smiled sadly and shrugged. Rules, she told me, were rules, and she couldn’t let me pass.