Richard Davis (ed) - [Year's Best Horror Stories 02] Read online

  He shuddered more with memory than with cold and asked himself how he got where he was-and for that matter, where he was. He had no ready answer for himself.

  He began searching for his clothes. The cabinets that lined the room were filled with instruments, suggestive of a hospital. But despite the room's overall surgical appearance, it did not seem to be a hospital room. He would not be left on an operating table unattended. But what was this place, if not a hospital?

  He did not find his clothes. The room was windowless and there was only one door. He opened it, a heavy well balanced door of metal covered with wood veneer, and went into the next room. There it was warmer and there was more light. There were two windows in one wall and the grey haze of night filtered through them. The room was medium size and unfurnished except for cabinets and a table-no, a closer look told Coleman that it was a crudely made workbench-along one wall.

  But in the centre of the room, resting on special frames, were three coffins.

  Coleman realized where he was.

  It was no wonder his clothes weren't in the room. He was in a funeral parlour probably awaiting embalmment. Cole-man gave a small, nervous laugh.

  Across the room he saw light streaming under a double door. He hesitated-might there be mourners on the other side of the doors? He could imagine the uproar if he just walked in on them. But he couldn't stay here, even though it was certain someone would come. He just couldn't take that. He went back into the cold room and wrapped the discarded sheet around himself, then went back and opened the double doors cautiously. But beyond he found only a narrow hall leading to the front of the building. There was a light on in a small room down the hallway from where he stood. His bare feet making an indecisive padding sound on the cold tile floor, Coleman walked to the open door of the small room and said to the man seated at a small desk, "I think there's been some kind of mistake."

  The man glanced up, his face set in an odd but mildly surprised look. Abruptly the man's features contorted into a look of surprise that was anything but mild. "What the hell -Good God!" he said, with a start that sent his desk chair against the wall of the closet sized room.

  "I'm looking for my clothes," Coleman said, his voice weak. "There's been a mistake. I'd like to go now."

  The man let air out of his lungs with a heavy sigh. "God, I've never had a scare like that before," he said rising to his feet. He reached out and grabbed Coleman's forearm, his fingers digging in with too much pressure as if to reassure himself the arm was real. "You better sit down here, buddy. A man can't be too well if people mistake him for dead."

  Coleman managed an unenthusiastic laugh as he seated himself in the wooden desk chair. It was an old chair: wooden, with swivel socket and castors that made it easy to navigate between the desk and filing cabinet in the small office. And it was very comfortable.

  The attendant was dialling a number on the phone. A cigarette lay forgotten in the ashtray, its smoke curling lazily up to a brownish stain on the ceiling. "I don't really know what happened," Coleman said.

  The attendant said, "The sheriff found you out by Over-hill this morning. You're lucky. If today wasn't Saturday we'd have had a doctor in to look at you and-unless he could tell you were alive-you'd be embalmed and out front by now."

  "What about my clothes?" Coleman asked.

  The man started to answer, then hesitated as if someone were picking up the phone on the other end. "Hello? Clete? This is Asa West, down at Fyfe's. Look, there's been a mistake on that Sam Coleman case…"

  A moment later Asa West hung up the phone. "A deputy's coming over," he said.

  "Can I have my clothes now?" Coleman said meekly.

  "Oh, yeah," West said. He turned and left, to return several minutes later with a pair of overalls which he handed Coleman. "These ain't yours," he said, "but they'll have to do. Your clothes are over at the Sheriff's. These belong to one of the guys who works here. They should fit. You get dressed and I'll get you something to eat."

  A few minutes later, Coleman was dressed and West returned with a ham and lettuce sandwich and a cup of dark hot coffee. Coleman didn't feel like eating. He just sat, staring blankly while West stood nervously in the corner of the office. Moments later, the deputy arrived. But the events of the attack were hazy in Coleman's mind and he couldn't answer the questions with much authority.

  Finally, the deputy closed his notebook and slipped it and his pen into his shirt pocket. "I'm sorry about these questions, Mr. Coleman. I should have waited until you feel better, but we're pretty anxious to find this person who attacked you. You finish your sandwich and I'll get a doctor."

  "I don't need a doctor," Coleman said. He could tell that both the deputy and the attendant were a little embarrassed that they had been too flustered to call one right off, but he didn't want one. "I-I want to go home. Has Grace been called?"

  The deputy looked sheepish. "No," he admitted. "I didn't know what West was talking about until I got here. I'll call her now."

  Moments later, the deputy had Grace on the phone. He handed the phone to Coleman, but all Coleman could manage to say was, "I'm all right Grace. I'll come straight home."

  The sandwich forgotten, Coleman insisted on the ride home. The deputy was worried about the wound on his neck but Coleman refused to see a doctor. So the deputy gave in. It was only eight o'clock, about an hour after sundown, when they left the funeral home and went to the sheriff's car in the hedge-sheltered driveway.

  The instant he stepped out of the funeral home, Coleman felt uneasy. At first he thought it was the heat in contrast to the room in which he had been-stored-for so long. But it didn't satisfy him as an answer. He did not feel nauseous- he did not at all feel physically sick.

  He felt fear.

  Or dread. It was a feeling that increased and intensified with malignant insistence as he approached the car. He stopped dead in his tracks with the realization that what he feared was the car. The metal of the car. It was like a bright, burning flame, ready to consume him; to inflict him with pain and injury should he touch it. The feeling was irrational-yet the strength of it assured him that what he felt was so.

  "You feel all right Mr. Coleman?"

  Coleman started at the sound of the deputy's voice. "I'm fine," he managed to say. But his voice was weak and he knew it lacked conviction.

  The deputy held the door to the car. Coleman slid in squeamishly and rode silently next to the deputy who drove. Coleman was thankful for the plastic seat covers and the rubber floormat that protected him from metal-but why he needed protection, he/ couldn't say. Finally, the car pulled from the highway onto the gravel drive that led towards the small house where Coleman and his family lived. It was set well back from the highway. The truth was, it was built just shortly before the highway was put in by the state. Coleman was always glad the highway had not been closer to the house. Noises from it seldom reached the small house and there was little need to worry about the children playing too close to the traffic.

  Coleman wanted out of the car as soon as it came to a stop but he dared not touch the metal doorhandle. The deputy came around and opened the door for him and he got out of the car with an embarrassed smile. Perhaps he was sicker than he thought-perhaps he should see a doctor. Eventually he would. The police and the insurance people would see to it. But within him, something deep and dark whispered that under no circumstances must he permit himself to be medically examined. It was painful not to know why.

  The back light came on and the door slammed once and then twice more. Coleman heard the overjoyed cries of his two oldest boys but the sounds seemed somehow alien and frightful. But he wanted to see them and he went to meet them, kneeling down so that little Sam, the oldest could jump into his arms while his younger brother Reece was running so fast he kept falling down. The baby, Duane, wasn't old enough to walk yet and Grace stood holding him while Coleman stood, holding the two older boys.

  With a boy in each arm, Coleman walked to where Grace stood waiti
ng. He managed a little smile that was intended to say more than any smile could. "Ain't it past their bedtime?" he asked.

  Grace returned the smile but there was evidence of strain in her version. "I guess it won't hurt them none," she said.

  The deputy came up behind Goleman and introduced himself.

  'You're the one who called me?" Grace asked.

  "That's right. We've contacted a doctor who's coming out to see your husband-"

  "I don't want a doctor," Coleman said furiously. He was suddenly angry; so angry that the boys grabbed him tightly around the neck as if in fear they would be dropped.

  The deputy seemed almost upset. "That's a bad wound, there-"

  Coleman's reaction baffled him. It wasn't sensible. He cleared his throat and said, apologetically, "I didn't mean that like it sounded."

  No one spoke. With some embarrassment, Coleman added, "I mean I'm fine. I just want a good night's sleep. I need rest. I can see the doctor tomorrow."

  "I understand," the deputy said, his self possession regained. "I'll see if I can reach the doctor and have him wait until morning."

  Coleman caught the look of worry in Grace's taut face but he said, "That'll be real nice of you."

  "Someone will be out tomorrow to ask you some more questions, of course," the deputy said. "Probably be after church. If you need any help of any sort between now and then, don't hesitate to call us."

  As the deputy drove off, Coleman and his family entered the house. There were two women in the kitchen-neighbour women whose names Coleman couldn't recall, although he had known them all his life: stout farmer's wives with shrill, masculinely nasal voices. Whenever anyone was sick or died in the neighbourhood it seemed that these two women would come in to cook and clean house and ostensibly to comfort the bereaved. And it seemed to Coleman that their ideas of comforting the bereaved did not include cheering or taking a person's mind from the tragedy. He knew he should be grateful to them for coming but he could not find it in himself to be grateful: only polite. He remembered that their husbands were small, seemingly always worried men, hopelessly lost and inexplicably frightened.

  Those thoughts gave Coleman an impalpable feeling of guilt. The ladies had come to help at a time when help was needed. The guilt produced the truant gratitude and as the ladies departed, Coleman was almost ebullient in thanking them. By that time, Grace had the boys in bed although the night's excitement insured that the children would be wide awake. Grace went into the kitchen while Goleman stood at the living room door, staring out at the night. He could hear her stirring around, quietly fixing something.

  When Grace came into the living room, moments later, Coleman was seated in a corner chair. The lights were turned off. Just for a moment, Grace stood in the doorway.

  "Sam?" she said in her quiet, haunted voice.

  "I'm over here, Honey."

  She came over to the chair and seated herself on the arm. "I was worried," she said, trying to make it a joke. "With all the lights off, I thought you might have gone outside again."

  "I'm right here, Grace."

  "I know. I just didn't know what to think, at first." She reached for a lamp but Coleman grabbed her arm before she could turn the switch.

  "Sam!"

  Coleman released the pressure. "I'm-I'm sorry. But the light hurts my eyes, Grace. I'd rather not have any light…"

  Her laugh was nervous. Her arm went around his neck and she bent forward to hug him. "I'm so glad you're back," she said. "When I thought you were-well, it was awful. The news that you were all right was like a miracle sraight from Heaven."

  "I'm fine now," he said. "I'll take a few days rest and then go out and find a good job when this neck is healed up."

  She kissed his forehead. "You'll find work," she said. "I know you will. Good work where you get good treatment and you won't have to quit like you did before."

  He looked up at her. Even in the dark he could see her easily. He had married a young, beautiful woman and she was still young and beautiful. But her face was beginning to reflect tension that should not show up for years yet, if ever; and her hair was only combed, not fixed up the way she used to fix it up when he and she were first married. Stray wisps of hair just seemed to hang down over her forehead. Her hair was still pretty, but not nearly so pretty as it was when they had married. In just years-She smiled and regarded him closely, squinting as if to force light into her eyes that she might see him better. "Sam," she said, "You're looking at me so funny…"

  Coleman continued to stare, saying nothing. He let his gaze drop from her hair, to her face, to her throat. Her throat was still smooth and firm-a beautiful throat. He could see the tracing of the vein at the side of the neck and-

  His hand involuntarily touched his own neck, where the wound was.

  "Does it hurt?" Grace asked with sudden concern. "It should be bandaged."

  "No," he said in protest. "I-"

  But Grace was on her feet, saying, "Let me do something for you Sam. I'll get some gauze." There was a pleading tone in her voice.

  He reached out and took her hand. "It doesn't hurt me. Anyway, there'll be a doctor in the morning."

  "Well," she said with a frown. "If you really want it like that." For a moment she stood before him, her hand in his, looking down at him, her frown showing deep concern although she could not see his features plainly in the darkness-despite the fact he could see hers. Then the frown was replaced by a half smile. "There's soup on the table," she said. "Minestrone. Mrs. Flint brought it with her. She said the ladies at the church made it. Wasn't that nice?"

  Coleman nodded. "I hope you thanked her… I'm not very hungry…"

  "Sam, don't be silly. Of course you're hungry. Did you eat anything in town?"

  "No."

  Her expression was one of alarm. "Then you haven't eaten since yesterday! You've just got to eat. That place on your neck must be making you feel bad. It's costing you your appetite."

  "It doesn't hurt-you're just being silly," Coleman said. He didn't really know what he should say. He couldn't explain to her that the thought of food was actually repulsive to him. He couldn't explain it to himself. "It's close and stuffy in here," he said. "I'm going outside for some air."

  "Doesn't your neck hurt at all?"

  "I said it doesn't," he said snappishly. "I just need air. I can't breath in-"

  "Your windpipe could be hurt," Grace said. Coleman was on his feet now and he pushed past her to the door. He threw it open, avoiding touching the screen or spring. Outside it was dark and still. There were no sounds, even of night birds.

  "I'll drive you to town," Grace said. "To the doctor."

  "There's no one to leave the kids with."

  "Mrs. Flint won't mind. You've got to see a doctor now, Sam."

  Coleman turned to face her. "I just needed a breath of fresh air. Calm down, Grace. Don't worry about me…" He reached out and caressed her throat softly.

  "Sam," she pleaded. "Sam, for my sake."

  But Coleman said nothing. He was feeling the round smoothness of her neck against his palm, his fingers. He was staring at the tracing of vein that he should not be able to see in this darkness. There was a strange alien stirring inside of him and he realized that, without reason, sweat had broken out on his forehead and face. Maybe he should see a doctor. No, he answered himself quickly. Let it wait until morning-

  Morning?

  Oh, God, no! He was gripped in fear at the thought of morning.

  But why? Even as he experienced the sensation it seemed to him to be completely irrational. Why should he fear anything?

  Why should he fear his thoughts and feelings as he stared at his wife's throat?

  He cried out. His cry alarmed Grace and she jumped back, pressing against the doorway. Coleman could hear Duane crying, inside. His gaze was fixed on his wife's throat and his feelings were strange and overpowering. He turned and ran from the house as if he were pursued by a demon. He was sobbing as he reached the woods, huge, dr
y, quivering sobs. He tore through thick underbrush with neither heed nor coherent thought. Only his own fearful, unworded emotions drove him on. And they drove relentlessly.

  He ran like that until his body screamed for air and his lungs burned and his whole body shook with the exertion. He ran into trees and bushes and when he fell or was knocked down, he picked himself up and continued running. He ran until he should have dropped. But still he ran and continued to run, long after that.

  And all that time a thirst was in him, holding furiously to his senses, driving him and causing him to remember his wife's soft, curving throat; and the blood that ran beneath the skin of that throat.

  As abruptly as he began, he ceased running.

  The word blood reformed in his mind. Blood? What was it about blood? He thought back to the previous night and the attack and what the man who attacked him had done-. The thirst was growing and Coleman was incapable of concentration except on the thirst. It was unbearable. It seemed as if it could kill him.

  He sat on the ground and tried to think. He had to do something about the thirst. It must be quenched-drowned like a fire. A voice spoke within him, warning him to cunning and stealth. He would have to be cunning to satisfy this thirst of his…

  For that matter, the word "cunning" itself seemed to relieve the thirst some. He began careful thought. There was game in these woods. He would find some of this game-a rabbit or raccoon or oppossum. That would satisfy his thirst.

  And something seemed to tell him exactly where to look…

  It was like a sixth sense or perhaps like being possessed by something or… someone else. Coleman knew where to find what he was looking for. He crept through the underbrush until he knew he was at the right spot. He waited motionlessly.

  And presently his waiting was rewarded: a rabbit moved cautiously into view, quite close; then stopped. It did not move as he approached it. The rabbit waited absolutely still, probably hoping that it would not be seen. But it was wrong. And Coleman was cunning and driven by the thirst.