The Mammoth Book of Nightmare Stories Page 5

  HOMECOMING

  SYDNEY J. BOUNDS

  Sydney J. Bounds (1920–2006) was a prolific British author who worked in many genres. He founded the science fiction fan group, the Cosmos Club, during World War II, and his early fiction appeared in the club’s fanzine, Cosmic Cuts. His first professional sale never appeared, but by the late 1940s he was contributing “spicy” stories to the monthly magazines published by Utopia Press.

  Writing under a number of pseudonyms, he became a regular contributor to such SF magazines as Tales of Tomorrow, Worlds of Fantasy, New Worlds Science Fiction, Other Worlds Science Stories, and Fantastic Universe, among other titles. When the magazine markets began to dry up, Bounds became a reliable contributor to various anthology series, including New Writings in SF, The Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories, The Fontana Book of Great Horror Stories, The Armada Monster Book, and The Armada Ghost Book.

  Some of the author’s best fiction was collected by editor Philip Harbottle in The Best of Sydney J. Bounds: Strange Portrait and Other Stories and The Best of Sydney J. Bounds: The Wayward Ship and Other Stories, while his short story “The Circus” was adapted by George A. Romero for a 1986 episode of the syndicated TV series Tales of the Darkside.

  “Sometimes,” revealed Bounds, “a story works because the author comes up with an original idea: this makes everyone happy. And sometimes an old theme can be updated for today’s readers; this, too, can work.

  “‘Homecoming’ is one of the latter—the Frankenstein theme is obvious—but this variation, I believe, is still effective.”

  HE WOKE AS though from a deep sleep, with a feeling of languor, and his first sensation was unpleasant: a smell of rotting flesh. He opened gummy eyes to a blur of faces. Mouths gaped and speech babbled in a meaningless stream. Then he felt the sting of a hypodermic and the fog began to clear.

  The blur resolved into two faces, both male and obviously excited. One was young with a straggle of beard, pimply where the skin was naked. The older had fish-eyes behind thick-lensed spectacles, devil’s eyebrows above. Each man wore a white gown and latex gloves.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Of course he could hear them. He wasn’t deaf, but the effort needed to reply was beyond him in his present condition. He lay flat on his back, facing a dead-white ceiling. The powerful glare from massed arc-lamps made him blink and look away, toward a blank wall where tubes drained into a stainless-steel tank. It was cold.

  “If you hear me, try to move your fingers.”

  He started to raise an arm which seemed weighted with a hand of lead. But when his hand came into focus, his arm froze. He stared at moldy flesh and sticks of protruding bone … his own hand? The sight brought him dismayingly to the here and now and a knowledge of the source of the smell: himself.

  Memory began to tickle through the cells of his brain. His name: Michael Wilde, called “Mickey” by his friends. He half-remembered a series of business failures: used car dealer, an antique shop, second-hand books. And a girl. He couldn’t recall her name now, only that he’d been crazy about her. That, and the black depression when she’d walked out on him. It seemed moments ago when he’d filled the bath and lay back in it; he tasted again the bitterness of sleeping tablets …

  He was still drowsy, but the cold cut into him, made him shiver.

  “Yes, I can hear you,” he croaked, and it felt as though his throat muscles had rusted.

  With creaking effort, he swung leaden legs off the tabletop and struggled to a sitting position. He was in a laboratory of some kind, with black boxes and cylinders and a panel studded with dials and switches.

  The two doctors looked pleased. “An unqualified success,” one commented.

  Unqualified? He could be feeling better than this. “Surely you can do something about the smell?”

  The young one squeezed an aerosol can, spraying perfume. It didn’t kill the sickly-sweet odor, but masked it to some extent.

  “That’s a bit better.” Wilde looked down at his naked body, saw bluish flesh peeling like the aftermath of some obscure disease. He swallowed. “Anyway, thanks for saving my life—guess you got to me barely in time? Don’t worry, I won’t suicide again.”

  The young man smiled. “We didn’t,” he said pleasantly. “You were truly dead—certified and in the grave for seven days. We dug you up secretly, at night, and Doctor Barnes tried out his revival technique on you. The experiment has succeeded beyond our best hopes.”

  Really dead then, and now resurrected. Uneasiness rumbled in his stomach like the onset of indigestion, his mind churned gruesome thoughts. “This technique of yours—”

  “Something quite new in medical history. The body flushed out and refilled with fresh blood, the cells stimulated by bio-electricity, the heart restarted. You’ve no idea the time and trouble we’ve spent on you.”

  Experiment. Fresh blood. A pulse beat in Wilde’s head. “Well, thanks again. I suppose you’ve some clothes that’ll fit me?”

  Barnes lifted devil’s eyebrows. “For the time being you will stay here. You are alive again—and that’s miracle enough—but by no means fully recovered. Brain tissue is quickly damaged when starved of oxygen.”

  “Besides, there’d be a dreadful row if it got about we’d been robbing graves,” the young doctor added. “We’ll keep you under observation for a bit—we’ve a lot more tests to make.”

  Under observation. Tests … the words jolted Michael Wilde. He’d never liked the idea of human guinea pigs, and didn’t intend to let them continue using him. He slid from the table, stood upright, swaying.

  “I feel fine. Nobody asked you to resurrect me—”

  “This is a secret experiment for the advancement of medical knowledge. We can’t expect the common people to understand.”

  Anger flared like a Very light. “It wasn’t for my benefit then? You don’t care what happens to me!”

  “Of course we do,” the young man said soothingly. “That’s why you should stay here and let us take care of you. Full recovery may be a long process.” He picked up another aerosol and carefully sprayed Wilde’s ribs as bluish flesh sloughed off. “After all, you’re our prize specimen.”

  It may have been the word “specimen” that triggered him off. Anger surged into berserk fury that pumped strength into his muscles. He lumbered forward, uttering a hoarse cry, glaring through a red haze. He’d never liked doctors anyway …

  His hand grasped a wrench lying on a bench. He swiped drunkenly, connecting with Barnes’s head. The doctor fell, blood spurting.

  The young one backed away, turned and fled. He tore open a door, bounded up steps three at a time.

  Wilde shuffled after him. At the top of the steps, he found another door leading on to the outside world. He saw open country and the doctor streaking across it in a Land Rover.

  The sun warmed him, birdsong thrilled him. He breathed deeply of blossom-scented air before returning inside. Searching, he found clothes that fitted him after a fashion, and a mirror.

  His hair, once brown and luxurious, was shedding, and he wore a bristle-like hog’s hair on his jaw; pus oozed from one ear. He probed with his tongue and worked out a loose tooth. Suppressing a shudder, he turned from the mirror and climbed the steps.

  Outside again, he walked down a lane, not recognizing where he was. He soon found it tiring to walk and, startlingly aware of the brittleness of his bones, lowered himself gently on to a grassy bank.

  While he rested, a small black-and-white terrier came weaving across the fields. “Good dog,” he called. “Here, boy!” The dog trotted toward him and stopped, wagging its tail. Then it sniffed with its sensitive nose and, tail between its legs, bolted, howling.

  Wilde felt his depression return. He forced himself to rise, and walked on. The landscape was bleak moorland, deserted, but the doctors would naturally pick a lonely spot for their experiment. An hour passed before he came on an isolated cottage.

  He limped up to the front door and knocked.
An old man opened it, stared and gulped an inarticulate sound.

  “Good afternoon,” Wilde said politely. “I wonder if—”

  He was slammed back against the doorframe as the old roan rushed past him, running down the lane. Swearing, he entered the cottage and helped himself to bread and cold sausage from the larder. He sat at the table, eating cautiously at first, then greedily. His stomach appeared to be in working order, and he felt stronger afterward.

  But what did he do now? Legally dead, he was damned if he was going to perform like a rat in a maze. That was definite. He needed help. It took only a couple of minutes to be sure there was no telephone in the cottage, so he set off again.

  The lane wound between hedgerows and, perhaps fifteen minutes later, he knew he had taken the same direction as the old man. The village was a small one and the street cleared quickly as he approached. Shutters closed; bolts slammed home. White faces peered from upstairs windows. He walked almost out of the village before he saw a telephone box.

  He pulled open the door and squeezed inside, searching through pockets for a coin. He located one that had slipped through a hole in the lining, and wondered who he should call. Pete? Yes, Pete would think of something. But he couldn’t remember the number …

  He glanced back at the village. There were men on the street, gathering in a compact group, and they had dogs, shotguns, hayforks. Wilde didn’t like the way the situation was developing. He shot out of the phone box, hurrying across a field, keeping close to the hedge for cover.

  The mob followed him. They didn’t seem anxious to catch up; perhaps they only wanted to drive him away. He was able to keep ahead of them, but they didn’t give up; still they came after him.

  He crossed another field and reached the outskirts of a wood. He was tiring again, heart pounding. There might be safety among the trees, somewhere to hide until dark.

  He limped on and saw a teenage girl coming toward him, and desire stirred in him. For the first time since his resurrection, he felt glad to be alive. But he didn’t want to scare her away …

  He waited behind the trunk of a tree till she came close. Then he stepped out, soft words on bloated lips; she gave a choked-off scream and collapsed at his feet.

  Cursing, he lifted her and stumbled into the wood, laid her down on a patch of grass. She was pretty, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with well-shaped legs—tactfully he straightened her mini-skirt. Small breasts heaved convulsively under a thin sweater. His desire mounted.

  After a few minutes she came to and looked up into his face. Her scream of terror pierced the sky, sending black rooks flapping.

  “Quiet,” he pleaded. “Don’t be scared—I need your help.”

  It was no good. Her face off-white, she stared at the ground, body shaking with silent sobs.

  Wilde stood angrily over her, realizing she was going to be no help. Then he heard dogs howling. He stumbled deeper into the wood, pushing through undergrowth till he came to a small stream. He waded in, hoping to throw them off the scent. Even to him the smell was getting so bad he could hardly stand it.

  He heard men threshing the bushes behind him. It began to rain, large warm drops. In the distance, thunder rolled. The sky darkened. Rain pelted down, soaking his clothes, turning the ground to mud.

  His feet dragged like heavy weights and pieces of decayed flesh dropped from hands and face, leaving a rancid trail he hoped the rain would destroy.

  The sound of the chase faded as the rain increased and depression returned, black as the sky. Resurrection hadn’t done him much good so far. Perhaps he should return to the laboratory before it was too late? His heartbeat seemed to be slowing and every step became an agony. A memory of Dr. Barnes nagged him …

  He veered through an arc, circling. The sky was dark, the rain a wet curtain obscuring vision. He slipped in the mud and it was too much effort to rise, so he crawled on hands and knees, wondering why he bothered—so much easier just to lie where he was. Another memory, of a man dying in the Arctic.

  He crawled on till he felt a rough stone wall, followed it to a gate. He pushed the gate open and crawled inside, imagining a house, medical aid.

  Unexpectedly, he fell into a hole. It was a deep hole and he lacked the energy to climb out. He turned over to lie on his back and look up at the sky, felt rain on his face.

  Lightning flashed, revealing the tops of bone-white headstones. The soil had the smell of newly dug earth. In a way, he supposed, it was a kind of homecoming—and he settled down to wait for death to catch up with him.

  FEEDERS AND EATERS

  NEIL GAIMAN

  Neil Gaiman is the author of the best-selling 2013 Book of the Year, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, the Carnegie Award–winning The Graveyard Book, as well as Coraline, Neverwhere, the essay collection The View from the Cheap Seats, and The Sandman series of graphic novels, among many other works.

  His fiction has received many awards, including the Carnegie and Newbery medals, and the Hugo, Nebula, World Fantasy, and Eisner awards.

  Originally from England, he now divides his time between the UK, where he recently turned Good Omens—originally a novel he wrote with Terry Pratchett—into a television series, and the US, where he is professor in the arts at Bard College.

  “This story started as a dream I had in 1984,” remembers Gaiman, “when I was living in Edgware, North London. I was, in the dream, both me and the man in the story. Normally dreams don’t make stories, but this one continued to haunt me, and in 1990-ish I wrote it as a comic for Mark Buckingham to draw. Not many people read it, and it was printed so dark that much of what was happening became almost impossible to make out.

  “When I was asked for a story of mine for this anthology, I remembered that one, and I got intrigued by the idea of taking an old horror story I wrote as a comic and rewriting it as prose. It’s an odd piece, like a collaboration between me age thirty and me age forty-one, yet I wondered how hard it would be to turn it from a comic into a short story.”

  As you will see, for a talented storyteller such as Gaiman, it was not hard at all …

  THIS IS A true story, pretty much. As far as that goes, and whatever good it does anybody.

  It was late one night, and I was cold, in a city where I had no right to be. Not at that time of night, anyway. I won’t tell you which city. I’d missed my last train, and I wasn’t sleepy, so I prowled the streets around the station until I found an all-night café. Somewhere warm to sit.

  You know the kind of place; you’ve been there: café’s name on a Pepsi sign above a dirty plate-glass window, dried egg residue between the tines of all their forks. I wasn’t hungry, but I bought a slice of toast and a mug of greasy tea, so they’d leave me alone.

  There were a couple of other people in there, sitting alone at their tables, derelicts and insomniacs huddled over their empty plates. Dirty coats and donkey jackets, each buttoned up to the neck.

  I was walking back from the counter, with my tray, when somebody said, “Hey.” It was a man’s voice. “You,” the voice said, and I knew he was talking to me, not to the room. “I know you. Come here. Sit over here.”

  I ignored it. You don’t want to get involved, not with anyone you’d run into in a place like that.

  Then he said my name, and I turned and looked at him. When someone knows your name, you don’t have any option.

  “I CAN ALREADY HEAR HER STARTING TO EAT.”

  “Don’t you know me?” he asked. I shook my head. I didn’t know anyone who looked like that. You don’t forget something like that. “It’s me,” he said, his voice a pleading whisper. “Eddie Barrow. Come on mate. You know me.”

  And when he said his name I did know him, more or less. I mean, I knew Eddie Barrow. We had worked on a building site together, ten years back, during my only real flirtation with manual work.

  Eddie Barrow was tall, and heavily muscled, with a movie star smile and lazy good looks. He was ex-police. Sometimes he’d tell me stories, true tales of
fitting-up and doing over, of punishment and crime. He had left the force after some trouble between him and one of the top brass. He said it was the Chief Superintendent’s wife forced him to leave. Eddie was always getting into trouble with women. They really liked him, women.

  When we were working together on the building site they’d hunt him down, give him sandwiches, little presents, whatever. He never seemed to do anything to make them like him; they just liked him. I used to watch him to see how he did it, but it didn’t seem to be anything he did. Eventually, I decided it was just the way he was: big, strong, not very bright, and terribly, terribly good-looking.

  But that was ten years ago.

  The man sitting at the Formica table wasn’t good-looking. His eyes were dull, and rimmed with red, and they stared down at the tabletop, without hope. His skin was gray. He was too thin, obscenely thin. I could see his scalp through his filthy hair. I said, “What happened to you?”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “You look a bit rough,” I said, although he looked worse than rough; he looked dead. Eddie Barrow had been a big guy. Now he’d collapsed in on himself. All bones and flaking skin.

  “Yeah,” he said. Or maybe “Yeah?” I couldn’t tell. Then, resigned, flatly, “Happens to us all in the end.”

  He gestured with his left hand, pointed at the seat opposite him. His right arm hung stiffly at his side, his right hand safe and hidden in the pocket of his coat.