Stephen Jones (ed) Read online

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  STEPHEN JONES

  THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF ZOMBIES

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  1 - Clive Barker - Sex, Death and Starshine

  2 - Ramsey Campbell - Rising Generation

  3 - Manly Wade Wellman - The Song of the Slaves

  4 - R. Chetwynd-Hayes - The Ghouls

  5 - Edgar Allan Poe - The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar

  6 - Karl Edward Wagner - Sticks

  7 - Charles L. Grant - Quietly Now

  8 - Basil Copper - The Grey House

  9 - M. R. James - A Warning to the Curious

  10 - Nicholas Royle - The Crucian Pit

  11 - Brian Lumley - The Disapproval of Jeremy Cleave

  12 - H. P. Lovecraft - Herbert West - Reanimator

  13 - Lisa Tuttle - Treading the Maze

  14 - David Riley - Out of Corruption

  15 - Graham Masterton - The Taking of Mr Bill

  16 - J. Sheridan Le Fanu - Schalken the Painter

  17 - David Sutton - Clinically Dead

  18 - Les Daniels - They're Coming for You

  19 - Hugh B. Cave - Mission to Margal

  20 - Michael Marshall Smith - Later

  21 - Peter Tremayne - Marbh Bheo

  22 - Dennis Etchison - The Blood Kiss

  23 - Christopher Fowler - Night After Night of the Living Dead

  24 - Robert Bloch - The Dead Don't Die!

  25 - Kim Newman - Patricia's Profession

  26 - Joe R. Lansdale On the Far Side of the Cadillac Desert with Dead Folks

  Introduction

  The Dead That Walk

  Zombies… or Zombis,… the Walking Dead… soulless automatons risen from the grave to do the bidding of their masters. They have their factual basis in the voodoo ceremonies of Haiti and other Caribbean islands, and accounts of the real-life phenomenon range from William Seabrook's 1929 study The Magic Island to Wade Davis' modern bestseller The Serpent and the Rainbow.

  However, despite blending many of horror fiction's major thematic archetypes - witchcraft, a mindless monster, the living dead - the zombie has rarely made a successful transition to the novel form (in the same way as, say, the vampire has). Although there are, of course, a number of exceptions (Breer, the appalling Razor-Eater in Clive Barker's The Damnation Game and Hugh, the reanimated lover of Gordon Honeycombe's Neither the Sea Nor the Sand come to mind), the true home of the zombie has always been the movies.

  Ever since Bela Lugosi's sinister "Murder" Legendre ordered the revived corpses of his plantation workers to shamble across the screen in White Zombie (1932), it has been the cinema which has most influenced our perception of the walking dead. From Bob Hope's comedic capers in The Ghost Breakers (1940) and producer Val Lewton's atmospheric reworking of Jane Eyre, I Walked With a Zombie (1943), through to George Romero's epic dystopian trilogy (Night of the Living Dead [1969], Dawn of the Dead [1978] and Day of the Dead [1985]) and the numerous European rip-offs, the zombie has reached a level of identification in the horror pantheon equal to that of its generic companions: the vampire, the Frankenstein monster, the werewolf, and the mummy. Yet, despite these and other memorable titles, the walking (dancing?) dead probably reached a commercial pinnacle in 1983 with Michael Jackson's Thriller video.

  An area in which the zombie still continues to thrive is the short story, with several all-new anthologies devoted to the theme in recent years. The Mammoth Book of Zombies brings together twenty-six stories ranging from traditional Haitian rituals to futuristic science as a means of reviving the dead. Within these pages you'll discover such classic tales of the macabre as Edgar Allan Poe's "The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar", M. R. James' "A Warning to the Curious" and J. Sheridan Le Fanu's "Schalken the Painter", plus memorable stories from the pulp magazines by Manly Wade Wellman ("The Song of the Slaves"), H. P. Lovecraft and Robert Bloch (with their respective novellas "Herbert West - Reanimator" and "The Dead Don't Die!", both the basis for movie adaptations).

  Also collected together for the first time are stories from such established masters as Clive Barker, Ramsey Campbell, Brian Lumley, Karl Edward Wagner, Dennis Etchison, Lisa Tuttle, Les Daniels, Charles L. Grant, R. Chetwynd-Hayes, Basil Copper, Kim Newman and Joe R. Lansdale, plus original fiction by Graham Masterton, Christopher Fowler, Peter Tremayne, Nicholas Royle, Michael Marshall Smith, David Sutton, and new novellas by David Riley and Hugh B. Cave.

  As with my other Mammoth volumes, The Mammoth Book of Terror and The Mammoth Book of Vampires, the main criteria for choosing these stories is because they are particular favourites of mine. However, they also present the discerning reader with a unique gamut of zombies, ranging from the traditional to the outre.

  So listen to the sound of ragged nails scraping against hard wood, while cold fingers claw up through the damp earth and mist-shrouded graveyards once more give up their long-silent tenants. As Bela Lugosi gleefully explained to one hapless victim back in 1932, "For you, my friend, they are the Angels of Death …"

  Stephen Jones, London, England

  1 - Clive Barker - Sex, Death and Starshine

  Diane ran her scented fingers through the two days' growth of ginger stubble on Terry's chin.

  "I love it," she said, "even the grey bits."

  She loved everything about him, or at least that's what she claimed.

  When he kissed her: I love it.

  When he undressed her: I love it.

  When he slid his briefs off: I love it, I love it, I love it.

  She'd go down on him with such unalloyed enthusiasm, all he could do was watch the top of her ash-blonde head bobbing at his groin, and hope to God nobody chanced to walk into the dressing room. She was a married woman, after all, even if she was an actress. He had a wife himself, somewhere. This tete-a-tete would make some juicy copy for one of the local rags, and here he was trying to garner a reputation as a serious-minded director; no gimmicks, no gossip; just art.

  Then, even thoughts of ambition would be dissolved on her tongue, as she played havoc with his nerve-endings. She wasn't much of an actress, but by God she was quite a performer. Faultless technique; immaculate timing: she knew either by instinct or by rehearsal just when to pick up the rhythm and bring the whole scene to a satisfying conclusion.

  When she'd finished milking the moment dry, he almost wanted to applaud.

  The whole cast of Calloway's production of Twelfth Night knew about the affair, of course. There'd be the occasional snide comment passed if actress and director were both late for rehearsals, or if she arrived looking full, and he flushed. He tried to persuade her to control the cat-with-the-cream look that crept over her face, but she just wasn't that good a deceiver. Which was rich, considering her profession.

  But then La Duvall, as Edward insisted on calling her, didn't need to be a great player, she was famous. So what if she spoke Shakespeare like it was Hiawatha, dum de dum de dum de dum? So what if her grasp of psychology was dubious, her logic faulty, her projection inadequate? So what if she had as much sense of poetry as she did propriety? She was a star, and that meant business.

  There was no taking that away from her: her name was money.

  The Elysium Theatre publicity announced her claim to fame in three inch Roman Bold, black on yellow:

  "Diane Duvall: star of The Love Child."

  The Love Child. Possibly the worst soap opera to cavort across the screens of the nation in the history of that genre, two solid hours a week of under-written characters and mind-numbing dialogue, as a result of which it consistently drew high ratings, and its performers became, almost overnight, brilliant stars in television's rhinestone heaven. Glittering there, the brightest of
the bright, was Diane Duvall.

  Maybe she wasn't born to play the classics, but Jesus was she good box-office. And in this day and age, with theatres deserted, all that mattered was the number of punters on seats.

  Calloway had resigned himself to the fact that this would not be the definitive Twelfth Night, but if the production were successful, and with Diane in the role of Viola it had every chance, it might open a few doors to him in the West End. Besides, working with the ever-adoring, ever-demanding Miss D. Duvall had its compensations.

  Calloway pulled up his serge trousers, and looked down at her. She was giving him that winsome smile of hers, the one she used in the letter scene. Expression Five in the Duvall repertoire, somewhere between Virginal and Motherly.

  He acknowledged the smile with one from his own stock, a small, loving look that passed for genuine at a yard's distance. Then he consulted his watch.

  "God, we're late, sweetie."

  She licked her lips. Did she really like the taste that much?

  "I'd better fix my hair," she said, standing up and glancing in the long mirror beside the shower.

  "Yes."

  "Are you OK?"

  "Couldn't be better," he replied. He kissed her lightly on the nose and left her to her teasing.

  On his way to the stage he ducked into the Men's Dressing Room to adjust his clothing, and dowse his burning cheeks with cold water. Sex always induced a giveaway mottling on his face and upper chest. Bending to splash water on himself Calloway studied his features critically in the mirror over the sink. After thirty-six years of holding the signs of age at bay, he was beginning to look the part. He was no more the juvenile lead. There was an indisputable puffiness beneath his eyes, which was nothing to do with sleeplessness and there were lines too, on his forehead, and round his mouth. He didn't look the wunderkind any longer; the secrets of his debauchery were written all over his face. The excess of sex, booze and ambition, the frustration of aspiring and just missing the main chance so many times. What would he look like now, he thought bitterly, if he'd been content to be some unenterprising nobody working in a minor rep, guaranteed a house of ten aficionados every night, and devoted to Brecht? Face as smooth as a baby's bottom probably, most of the people in the socially-committed theatre had that look. Vacant and content, poor cows.

  "Well, you pays your money and you takes your choice," he told himself. He took one last look at the haggard cherub in the mirror, reflecting that, crow's feet or not, women still couldn't resist him, and went out to face the trials and tribulations of Act III.

  On stage there was a heated debate in progress. The carpenter, his name was Jake, had built two hedges for Olivia's garden. They still had to be covered with leaves, but they looked quite impressive, running the depth of the stage to the cyclorama, where the rest of the garden would be painted. None of this symbolic stuff. A garden was a garden: green grass, blue sky. That's the way the audience liked it North of Birmingham, and Terry had some sympathy for their plain tastes.

  "Terry, love."

  Eddie Cunningham had him by the hand and elbow, escorting him into the fray.

  "What's the problem?"

  "Terry, love, you cannot be serious about these fucking (it came trippingly off the tongue: fuck-ing) hedges. Tell Uncle Eddie you're not serious before I throw a fit." Eddie pointed towards the offending hedges. "I mean look at them." As he spoke a thin plume of spittle fizzed in the air.

  "What's the problem?" Terry asked again.

  "Problem? Blocking, love, blocking. Think about it. We've rehearsed this whole scene with me bobbing up and down like a March hare. Up right, down left - but it doesn't work if I haven't got access round the back. And look! These fucking things are flush with the backdrop."

  "Well they have to be, for the illusion, Eddie."

  "I can't get round though, Terry. You must see my point."

  He appealed to the few others on stage: the carpenters, two technicians, three actors.

  "I mean - there's just not enough time."

  "Eddie, we'll re-block."

  "Oh."

  That took the wind out of his sails.

  "No?"

  "Urn."

  "I mean it seems easiest, doesn't it?"

  "Yes… I just liked…"

  "I know."

  "Well. Needs must. What about the croquet?"

  "We'll cut that too."

  "All that business with the croquet mallets? The bawdy stuff?"

  "It'll all have to go. I'm sorry, I haven't thought this through. I wasn't thinking straight."

  Eddie flounced.

  "That's all you ever do, love, think straight…"

  Titters. Terry let it pass. Eddie had a genuine point of criticism; he had failed to consider the problems of the hedge-design.

  "I'm sorry about the business; but there's no way we can accommodate it."

  "You won't be cutting anybody else's business, I'm sure," said Eddie. He threw a glance over Calloway's shoulder at Diane, then headed for the dressing room. Exit enraged actor, stage left. Calloway made no attempt to stop him. It would have worsened the situation considerably to spoil his departure. He just breathed out a quiet "oh Jesus", and dragged a wide hand down over his face. That was the fatal flaw of this profession: actors.

  "Will somebody fetch him back?" he said.

  Silence.

  "Where's Ryan?"

  The Stage Manager showed his bespectacled face over the offending hedge.

  "Sorry?"

  "Ryan, love - will you please take a cup of coffee to Eddie and coax him back into the bosom of the family?"

  Ryan pulled a face that said: you offended him, you fetch him. But Calloway had passed this particular buck before: he was a past master at it. He just stared at Ryan, defying him to contradict his request, until the other man dropped his eyes and nodded his acquiescence.

  "Sure," he said glumly.

  "Good man."

  Ryan cast him an accusatory look, and disappeared in pursuit of Ed Cunningham.

  "No show without Belch," said Calloway, trying to warm up the atmosphere a little. Someone grunted: and the small half-circle of onlookers began to disperse. Show over.

  "OK, OK," said Calloway, picking up the pieces, "let's get to work. We'll run through from the top of the scene. Diane, are you ready?"

  "Yes."

  "OK. Shall we run it?"

  He turned away from Olivia's garden and the waiting actors just to gather his thoughts. Only the stage working lights were on, the auditorium was in darkness. It yawned at him insolently, row upon row of empty seats, defying him to entertain them. Ah, the loneliness of the long-distance director. There were days in this business when the thought of life as an accountant seemed a consummation devoutly to be wished, to paraphrase the Prince of Denmark.

  In the Gods of the Elysium, somebody moved. Calloway looked up from his doubts and stared through the swarthy air. Had Eddie taken residence on the very back row? No, surely not. For one thing, he hadn't had time to get all the way up there.

  "Eddie?" Calloway ventured, capping his hand over his eyes. "Is that you?"

  He could just make the figure out. No, not a figure, figures. Two people, edging their way along the back row, making for the exit. Whoever it was, it certainly wasn't Eddie.

  "That isn't Eddie, is it?" said Calloway, turning back into the fake garden.

  "No," someone replied.

  It was Eddie speaking. He was back on stage, leaning on one of the hedges, cigarette clamped between his lips.

  "Eddie…"

  "It's all right," said the actor good-humouredly, "don't grovel; I can't bear to see a pretty man grovel."

  "We'll see if we can slot the mallet-business in somewhere," said Calloway, eager to be conciliatory.

  Eddie shook his head, and flicked ash off his cigarette.

  "No need."

  "Really

  "It didn't work too well anyhow."

  The Grand Circle door creaked a little as
it closed behind the visitors. Calloway didn't bother to look round. They'd gone, whoever they were.

  * * *

  "There was somebody in the house this afternoon."

  Hammersmith looked up from the sheets of figures he was poring over.

  "Oh?" his eyebrows were eruptions of wire-thick hair that seemed ambitious beyond their calling. They were raised high above Hammersmith's tiny eyes in patently fake surprise. He plucked at his bottom lip with nicotine stained fingers.

  "Any idea who it was?"

  He plucked on, still staring up at the younger man; undisguised contempt on his face.

  "Is it a problem?"

  "I just want to know who was in looking at the rehearsal that's all. I think I've got a perfect right to ask."

  "Perfect right," said Hammersmith, nodding slightly and making his lips into a pale bow.

  "There was talk of somebody coming up from the National," said Calloway. "My agents were arranging something. I just don't want somebody coming in without me knowing about it. Especially if they're important."

  Hammersmith was already studying the figures again. His voice was tired.

  "Terry: if there's someone in from the South Bank to look your opus over, I promise you, you'll be the first to be informed. All right?"

  The inflexion was so bloody rude. So run-along-little-boy. Calloway itched to hit him.

  "I don't want people watching rehearsals unless I authorize it, Hammersmith. Hear me? And I want to know who was in today."

  The Manager sighed heavily.

  "Believe me, Terry," he said, "I don't know myself. I suggest you ask Tallulah - she was front of house this afternoon. If somebody came in, presumably she saw them."

  He sighed again.

  "All right… Terry?"

  Calloway left it at that. He had his suspicions about Hammersmith. The man couldn't give a shit about theatre, he never failed to make that absolutely plain; he affected an exhausted tone whenever anything but money was mentioned, as though matters of aesthetics were beneath his notice. And he had a word, loudly administered, for actors and directors alike: butterflies. One day wonders. In Hammersmith's world only money was forever, and the Elysium Theatre stood on prime land, land a wise man could turn a tidy profit on if he played his cards right.