The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 19 Page 22

  Pumpkin Night

  GARY MCMAHON LIVES, works and writes in West Yorkshire, England, where he shares a home with an understanding wife and their weird and wonderful boy-child. McMahon’s fiction and non-fiction has appeared or is scheduled to appear in countless magazines in the UK and US, as well as such anthologies as Poe’s Progeny, At Ease with the Dead, The Black Book of Horror, The Humdrumming Book of Horror Stories and The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror.

  McMahon is the author of the British Fantasy Award-nominated novella Rough Cut, and his other books include All Your Gods Are Dead, and a collection of short fiction, Dirty Prayers. A novel, Rain Dogs, is published by Humdrumming, Different Skins is a double-novella collection from Screaming Dreams, and he has edited an anthology of novelettes called We Fade to Grey.

  “It has always been my belief that horror fiction has the potential to be the most serious type of literature of all,” explains the author, “and that it should be used to examine the most serious themes, ideas and issues.

  “Because of its confrontational nature, and by way of an armoury of outlandish metaphor, horror stories are well suited to staring into the mirror of society and reporting back on what is found there, twisting away into darkness.

  “ ‘Pumpkin Night’ was written in belated response to the tragic events that occurred in Soham, Cambridgeshire, in 2002. A school caretaker was arrested for the brutal murders of two ten year-old girls and his live-in girlfriend was accused of covering up evidence of the crimes by repeatedly lying about his movements at the time of the deaths – she was eventually j ailed for three-and-a-half years for conspiring to pervert the course of justice; he got forty years for the murders.

  “It seems that the woman’s loyalty blinded her to the fact that her lover had committed these terrible acts, and only when she was arrested did she allow herself to confront the reality of what he had done.

  “I was unable to get this terrible and misplaced act of love out of my head, and the story is my attempt to look at the potential extremes of such a situation, through the lens of a horror story. My heart breaks for every child killed, and for the families left behind to cope with the fall-out. The loss of a son or a daughter is surely a horror of the very worst kind, one that, sadly, never goes away.”

  “Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark;

  and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales,

  so is the other.”

  —Sir Francis Bacon, “Of Death”

  Essays (1625)

  THE PUMPKIN, FACELESS AND EYELESS, yet nonetheless intimidating, glared up at Baxter as he sat down opposite with the knife.

  He had cleared a space on the kitchen table earlier in the day, putting away the old photographs, train tickets, and receipts from restaurants they had dined at over the years. Katy had kept these items in a large cigar box under their bed, and he had always mocked her for the unlikely sentimentality of the act. But now that she was dead, he silently thanked her for having such forethought.

  He fingered the creased, leathery surface of the big pumpkin, imagining how it might look when he was done. Every Halloween Katy had insisted upon the ritual, something begun in her family when she was a little girl. A carved pumpkin, the task undertaken by the man of the house; the seeds and pithy insides scooped out into a bowl and used for soup the next day. Katy had always loved Halloween, but not in a pathetic Goth-girl kind of way. She always said that it was the only time of the year she felt part of something, and rather than ghosts and goblins she felt the presence of human wrongdoing near at hand.

  He placed the knife on the table, felt empty tears welling behind his eyes.

  Rain spat at the windows, thunder rumbled overhead. The weather had taken a turn for the worse only yesterday, as if gearing up for a night of spooks. Outside, someone screamed. Laughter. The sound of light footsteps running past his garden gate but not stopping, never stopping here.

  The festivities had already started. If he was not careful, Baxter would miss all the fun.

  The first cut was the deepest, shearing off the top of the pumpkin to reveal the substantial material at its core. He sliced around the inner perimeter, levering loose the bulk of the meat. With great care and dedication, he managed to transfer it to the glass bowl. Juices spilled onto the tablecloth, and Baxter was careful not to think about fresh blood dripping onto creased school uniforms.

  Fifteen minutes later he had the hollowed-out pumpkin before him, waiting for a face. He recalled her features perfectly, his memory having never failed to retain the finer details of her scrunched-up nose, the freckles across her forehead, the way her mouth tilted to one side when she smiled. Such a pretty face, one that fooled everyone; and hiding behind it were such unconventional desires.

  Hesitantly, he began to cut.

  The eyeholes came first, allowing her to see as he carried out the rest of the work. Then there was the mouth, a long, graceful gouge at the base of the skull. She smiled. He blinked, taken by surprise. In his dreams, it had never been so easy.

  Hands working like those of an Italian Master, he finished the sculpture. The rain intensified, threatening to break the glass of the large kitchen window. More children capered by in the night, their catcalls and yells of “Trick or treat!” like music to his ears.

  The pumpkin did not speak. It was simply a vegetable with wounds for a face. But it smiled, and it waited, a noble and intimidating presence inhabiting it.

  “I love you,” said Baxter, standing and leaning towards the pumpkin. He caressed it with steady hands, his fingers finding the furrows and crinkles that felt nothing like Katy’s smooth, smooth face. But it would do, this copy, this effigy. It would serve a purpose far greater than himself.

  Picking up the pumpkin, he carried it to the door. Undid the locks. Opened it to let in the night. Voices carried on the busy air, promising a night of carnival, and the sky lowered to meet him as he walked outside and placed Katy’s pumpkin on the porch handrail, the low flat roof protecting it from the rain.

  He returned inside for the candle. When he placed it inside the carved head, his hands at last began to shake. Lighting the wick was difficult, but he persevered. He had no choice. Her hold on him, even now, was too strong to deny. For years he had covered-up her crimes, until he had fallen in line with her and joined in the games she played with the lost children, the ones who nobody ever missed.

  Before long, he loved it as much as she did, and his old way of life had become nothing but a rumour of normality.

  The candle flame flickered, teased by the wind, but the rain could not reach it. Baxter watched in awe as it flared, licking out of the eyeholes to lightly singe the side of the face. The pumpkin smiled again, and then its mouth twisted into a parody of laughter.

  Still, there were no sounds, but he was almost glad of that. To hear Katy’s voice emerging from the pumpkin might be too much. Reality had warped enough for now; anything more might push him over the edge into the waiting abyss.

  The pumpkin swivelled on its base to stare at him, the combination of lambent candlelight and darkness lending it an obscene expression, as if it were filled with hatred. Or lust.

  Baxter turned away and went inside. He left the door unlocked and sat back down at the kitchen table, resting his head in his hands.

  Shortly, he turned on the radio. The DJ was playing spooky tunes to celebrate the occasion. “Werewolves of London”, “Bela Lugosi’s Dead”, “Red Right Hand” . . . songs about monsters and madmen. Baxter listened for a while, then turned off the music, went to the sink, and filled the kettle. He thought about Katy as he waited for the water to boil. The way her last days had been like some ridiculous horror film, with her bedridden and coughing up blood – her thin face transforming into a monstrous image of Death.

  She had not allowed him to send for a doctor, or even call for an ambulance at the last. She was far too afraid of what they might find in the cellar, under the shallow layer of dirt. Evidence of
the things they had done together, the games they had played, must never be allowed into the public domain. Schoolteacher and school caretaker, lovers, comrades in darkness, prisoners of their own desires. Their deeds, she always told him, must remain secret.

  He sipped his tea and thought of better days, bloody nights, the slashed and screaming faces of the children she had loved – the ones nobody else cared for, so were easy to lure here, out of the way, to the house on the street where nobody went. Not until Halloween, when all the streets of Scarbridge, and all the towns beyond, were filled with the delicious screaming of children.

  There was a sound from out on the porch, a wild thrumming, as if Katy’s pumpkin was vibrating, energy building inside, the blood lust rising, rising, ready to burst in a display of savagery like nothing he had ever seen before. The pumpkin was absorbing the power of this special night, drinking in the desires of small children, the thrill of proud parents, the very idea of spectres abroad in the darkness.

  It was time.

  He went upstairs and into the bedroom, where she lay on the bed, waiting for him to come and fetch her. He picked her up off the old, worn quilt and carried her downstairs, being careful not to damage her further as he negotiated the narrow staircase.

  When he sat her down in the chair, she tipped to one side, unsupported. The polythene rustled, but it remained in place.

  Baxter went and got the pumpkin, making sure that the flame did not go out. But it never would, he knew that now. The flame would burn forever, drawing into its hungry form whatever darkness stalked the night. It was like a magnet, that flame, pulling towards itself all of human evil. It might be Halloween, but there were no such things as monsters. Just people, and the things they did to each other.

  He placed the pumpkin in the sink. Then, rolling up his sleeves, he set to work on her body. He had tied the polythene bag tightly around the stump of her neck, sealing off the wound. The head had gone into the ice-filled bath, along with . . .the other things, the things he could not yet bring himself to think about.

  The smell hit him as soon as he removed the bag, a heavy meaty odour that was not at all unpleasant. Just different from what he was used to.

  Discarding the carrier bag, he reclaimed the pumpkin from the sink, oh-so careful not to drop it on the concrete floor. He reached out and placed it on the stub of Katy’s neck, pressing down so that the tiny nubbin of spine that still peeked above the sheared cartilage of her throat entered the body of the vegetable. Grabbing it firmly on either side, a hand on each cheek, he twisted and pressed, pressed and twisted, until the pumpkin sat neatly between Katy’s shoulders, locked tightly in place by the jutting few inches of bone.

  The flame burned yellow, blazing eyes that tracked his movements as he stood back to inspect his work.

  Something shifted, the sound carrying across the silent room – an arm moving, a shoulder shrugging, a hand flexing. Then Katy tilted her new head from side to side, as if adjusting to the fit.

  Baxter walked around the table and stood beside her, just as he always had, hands by his sides, eyes wide and aching. He watched as she shook off the webs of her long sleep and slowly began to stand.

  Baxter stood his ground when she leaned forward to embrace him, fumbling her loose arms around his shoulders, that great carved head looming large in his vision, blotting out the rest of the room. She smelled sickly-sweet; her breath was tainted. Her long, thin fingers raked at his shoulder blades, seeking purchase, looking for the familiar gaps in his armour, the chinks and crevices she had so painstakingly crafted during the years they had spent together.

  When at last she pulled away, taking a short shuffling step back towards the chair, her mouth was agape. The candle burned within, lighting up the orange-dark interior of her new head. She vomited an orangey pulp onto his chest, staining him. The pumpkin seeds followed – hundreds of them, rotten and oversized and surging from between her knife-cut lips to spatter on the floor in a long shiver of putrescence. And finally, there was blood. So much blood.

  When the stagnant cascade came to an end, he took her by the arm and led her to the door, guiding her outside and onto the woodendecked porch, where he sat her in the ratty wicker chair she loved so much. He left her there, staring out into the silvery veil of the rain, breathing in the shadows and the things that hid within them. Was that a chuckle he heard, squeezing from her still-wet mouth?

  Maybe, for a moment, but then it was drowned out by the sound of trick-or-treaters sprinting past in the drizzly lane.

  He left the door ajar, so that he might keep an eye on her. Then, still shaking slightly, he opened the refrigerator door. On the middle shelf, sitting in a shallow bowl, were the other pumpkins, the smaller ones, each the size of a tennis ball. He took one in each hand, unconsciously weighing them, and headed for the hall, climbing the stairs at an even pace, his hands becoming steady once more.

  In the small room at the back of the house, on a chipboard cabinet beneath the shuttered window, there sat a large plastic dish. Standing over it, eyes cast downward and unable to lift his gaze to look inside, Baxter heard the faint rustle of polythene. He straightened and listened, his eyes glazed with tears not of sorrow but of loss, of grief, and so much more than he could even begin to fathom.

  Katy had died in childbirth. Now that she was back, the twins would want to join their mother, and the games they would play together promised to be spectacular.

  SIMON STRANTZAS

  The Other Village

  SIMON STRANTZAS WAS BORN in the dead of the Canadian winter and has lived in Toronto for nearly forty years. He has sold more than twenty short stories to various periodicals and anthologies, including At Ease with the Dead, Strange Tales Volume II and Bound for Evil, as well as the World Fantasy Award-winning Cemetery Dance magazine.

  His first collection of short fiction, Beneath the Surface, is now available from Humdrumming, and he is currently compiling another. One thing he has not written yet is a novel, due in no small part to his intense lack of interest in doing so. This fact baffles every writer he has ever known.

  “The origins of The Other Village’ are a bit of a mystery, even to me,” admits Strantzas. “I wrote the story during the summer of 2007, while juggling at least five other tales. Even my past blog entries reveal no notes towards its origins.

  “I know it was inspired by a quite enjoyable cruise my mother and sister once took together, and was then combined with stories of other not-so-enjoyable vacations my friends have shared with me over the years. Once I put my two ladies into their exotic locale, they managed to find the rest of the story on their own without my help.

  “I do remember one thing, however – my immense pleasure at how the ending worked itself out. Whenever I re-read it a shiver still creeps down my spine.”

  “SOMETHING DIFFERENT, you want?”

  The man spoke to Monica, but kept his eye on the tour guide, not wanting to be overheard. His skin was dark, the colour of slick black olives, and his yellow shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing the ring of tiny deep-brown stones that lay in relief around his neck. A few dozen similar necklaces of a lighter shade were lined up on the table before him.

  “God, yes,” said Jessica. “This has been the worst vacation ever. We want to see something different, don’t we Monica?”

  But Monica knew Jessica didn’t really care what she had to say, and hadn’t since they left Toronto three days earlier. Going away together proved to be a huge mistake, and Monica wished there were some way she could step back in time and correct it. She closed her eyes and prayed, but when she opened them again she was still in the hot Mediterranean bazaar, and the dark-skinned merchant was looking straight at her.

  “I know place. Not like here. This place, not so many people come see. Like real place.” There was a sense of pride when he said that, yet it felt as though he were selling the experience. Monica suspected this happened a lot – everyone trying to poach the members of tour groups to ex
tract money from them. It was probably why he didn’t want anyone hearing his offer. Jessica, though, didn’t seem concerned.

  “Listen, buddy. If you can tell us where to go where there’s less people like us and more like you, I’m sold.”

  He smiled large and nodded quickly, like some wind-up toy, and Monica felt uneasy. She whispered into Jessica’s ear. The larger woman exploded.

  “Who cares if we already paid them? They aren’t showing us anything we couldn’t see on television. Besides, this guy says we’ll be back tonight. There’s plenty of time to join up again with all the old ladies tomorrow. I’m tired of walking between the ropes; let’s go behind the scenes!”

  Jessica was starting to sweat with excitement, her doughy skin flushed. The merchant continued to smile, and waved a young man to his side.

  “My friend. He will take you,” he said, then turned and spoke something fast and guttural. The young man smiled as well, and nodded. He looked at Monica, and she stepped back into the sun.

  “You give this,” the merchant said, and handed Jessica a piece of paper. Then he picked one of the necklaces from his table. “You buy necklace now?”

  Jessica laughed. “Not me. But Monica, you do it. It’s not like you can’t afford it.”

  Monica, resigned in irritation, opened her pocketbook again.

  They followed the young man for what seemed like an hour, and the more distance they put between them and their tour group, the deeper Monica’s dread became.

  “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

  “Stop being a baby. It’s going to be fine. You wanted an interesting trip. I’m just finally making it happen.”

  “An interesting trip, yes,” she said quietly, hoping the dark-skinned man in front of them couldn’t hear, “but not a dangerous trip. Haven’t you heard about what happens? About people being kidnapped and sold as slaves?”

  Jessica snorted. “Have you looked at yourself? No one’s going to buy you.” She laughed, and their guide turned for a moment and laughed, too. Monica hoped he hadn’t understood the joke.