The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories Read online

  THE VALANCOURT BOOK OF HORROR STORIES

  edited by

  James D. Jenkins & Ryan Cagle

  VALANCOURT BOOKS

  Richmond, Virginia

  2016

  The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories

  First published October 2016

  This compilation copyright © 2016 by Valancourt Books, LLC

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the copying, scanning, uploading, and/or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.

  Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginia

  http://www.valancourtbooks.com

  Cover by M. S. Corley

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Editors acknowledge with thanks permission to include the following stories:

  ‘Aunty Green’ © 1977 by John Blackburn. Originally published in Cold Fear. Reprinted by permission of The Estate of John Blackburn.

  ‘Miss Mack’ © 1986 by Michael McDowell. Originally published in Halloween Horrors. Reprinted by permission of The Otte Company and The Estate of Michael McDowell.

  ‘School Crossing’ © 1979 by Francis King. Originally published in The 20th Pan Book of Horror Stories. Reprinted by permission of A. M. Heath, Ltd., and The Estate of Francis King.

  ‘The Progress of John Arthur Crabbe’ © 1982 by Stephen Gregory. Originally published in Illustrated London News. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  ‘California Burning’ © 2009 by Michael Blumlein. Originally published in Asimov’s Science Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  ‘Out of Sorts’ © 1983 by Bernard Taylor. Originally published in The Dodd, Mead Gallery of Horror. Reprinted by permission of A. M. Heath, Ltd., and the author.

  ‘The Head and the Hand’ © 1972 by Christopher Priest. Originally published in New Worlds Quarterly 3. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  ‘The Terror on Tobit’ © 1933 by Charles Birkin. Originally published in Terrors. Reprinted by permission of The Estate of Charles Birkin.

  ‘Furnished Apartments’ © 2016 by The Estate of Forrest Reid. Published by permission of Queen’s University Belfast and Johnson & Alcock, Ltd.

  ‘Something Happened’ © 2016 by Hugh Fleetwood. Published by permission of the author.

  EDITORS’ FOREWORD

  Since 2005, Valancourt Books has made available almost 400 neglected classics by dozens of authors, most of them out of print for decades, sometimes even for a century or two. Our catalogue includes Gothic novels from the late 1700s and early 1800s, Victorian ‘penny dreadfuls’ and ‘sensation’ novels, vintage mystery and horror fiction from the 1920s, ’30s and ’40s, rediscovered gay interest fiction from the mid-20th century, and more recent horror and science fiction from the 1970s, ’80s and ’90s. The idea behind this anthology was, “What if we distilled the best of each part of our catalogue into a single volume? What would a horror anthology spanning two centuries, and featuring only Valancourt authors, look like?”

  This book has something for fans of each section of our catalogue. Those who have enjoyed our Gothic Classics series will surely find Matthew Gregory Lewis’s rare ghost story in verse, ‘The Grim White Woman’, to their liking. If, like us, you love a good, old-fashioned Victorian horror story, you’ll relish the creepy tales we’ve included by authors hugely popular in their day but now little known, like Florence Marryat, Richard Marsh and Mary Cholmondeley. Readers who have appreciated our efforts to rediscover lost gay fiction will be pleased to find contributions from authors such as Forrest Reid, Hugh Walpole and Francis King in this volume. Of course, no horror anthology would be complete without stories from some of the great contemporary masters of horror like Michael McDowell, Bernard Taylor and Stephen Gregory. But perhaps the biggest surprise for some readers will be the excellent tales by writers not normally thought of as ‘horror authors’, like Christopher Priest, Michael Blumlein and Francis King.

  In choosing the stories for this book, our foremost goal was, of course, to select ones that are well-written and fun to read. However, we have for the most part tried to avoid stories that are widely available in other anthologies, as well as ones included in other Valancourt volumes. Of the seventeen stories in this book, two have never been published before anywhere and five others are reprinted here for the first time outside the collections in which they originally appeared. The others, we think, are uncommon enough that they should prove new to most readers.

  Drawing on our deep catalogue and showcasing the talents of a number of fine writers we’ve had the honor to publish over the last twelve years, this anthology is a Halloween treat dedicated to all of you who have supported our publishing projects over the years, and we hope you will enjoy reading it as much as we have enjoyed putting it together.

  James D. Jenkins & Ryan Cagle

  Publishers, Valancourt Books

  August 2016

  AUNTY GREEN by John Blackburn

  Undeservedly neglected in recent years, John Blackburn (1923-1993) was a key figure in British horror in the 1960s and ’70s, drawing upon his work as an antiquarian bookseller and his knowledge of medieval folk tales and myths, which he updated in innovative ways in his fiction. Though his novels were often horrific, it is difficult to label Blackburn as solely a ‘horror’ novelist: generally, his works featured an unclassifiable mix of horror, science fiction, thriller, and mystery. Much of his early fiction tends toward the genre of the Cold War thriller, but by the late 1960s Blackburn had more fully embraced horror in his novels, turning out a stream of successes, including Children of the Night (1966), Bury Him Darkly (1969), Devil Daddy (1972), and Our Lady of Pain (1974). Though his reputation waned after his death, during his lifetime he was recognized by the Times Literary Supplement as ‘today’s master of horror’ and by the Penguin Encyclopedia of Horror and the Supernatural as ‘certainly the best British novelist in his field’. Fifteen of Blackburn’s novels are available from Valancourt. ‘Aunty Green’ first appeared in Hugh Lamb’s anthology Cold Fear (1977) and is reprinted here for the first time.

  ‘Slow down, Smith. I told you my appointment’s not till eight and I don’t want to arrive early.’ It was a lovely evening. The hills gay under the setting sun, a waterfall foaming at the head of the valley and trees swaying in the breeze blowing from the sea. Very beautiful, but Sir James Crampton did not appreciate scenic beauty and he scowled through the rear window of a Rolls Corniche. He had once known the district much better than he knew the back of his own hand and he hated it. Every hill, every tree, every stream and field and farmhouse sickened him.

  ‘Fork left at the church when we get to the village, Smith.’ Sir James spoke with authority because he was a knowledgeable, auth­oritative man, and he owned things. Since leaving the orphanage all he touched had turned to gold and his current assets included a prosperous civil engineering firm, a fleet of lorries, a large number of flats, houses and office blocks, and over three million U.S. dollars earning tax-­free interest in a Swiss bank account. He also owned the Rolls Royce and its driver, William Smith, who was his slave; body, soul and mind.

  Good, loyal Bill Smith, who’d better remain loyal, or the police would hear about his sexual habits. Crampton had paid off the last prostitute Smith roughed up, but he’d taped a recording of her complaints and the tape could set Bill up . . . up in a dock at the Central Criminal Court – the Old Bailey.

  Yes, Sir James
Crampton, K.C.M.G. (awarded for services to the export drive) had many enviable chattels: machines and money, men and women, bricks and mortar, but there were other possessions no one would envy. An army of malignant cells was consuming his lungs and liver and emotion had already consumed his soul. Anger directed against an old, frail woman he hadn’t seen for thirty-­five years.

  ‘Turn right at the next crossing and then fork left again, Smith.’ Crampton’s voice rasped the orders, but the voice of memory was far louder and more domineering. ‘Turn round and face me, Jimmy . . . Bend over and take your punishment, Jimmy . . . Fetch me the fork, you deceitful little swine.

  ‘Aye, that hurt didn’t it, but evil children should suffer and there’s a line of poetry to describe you, Jim Crampton. “He must be wicked to deserve such pain.” ’

  The fork stabbing his arms and thighs, the whip slashing his but­tocks, the woman’s expression while she pressed his fingers against the portable oil stove. Worst of all, the creatures swimming under the cupboard. ‘ “He must be wicked to deserve such pain.” ’

  Why had Aunty Green (she’d told him to call her that after the council appointed her and Uncle his foster parents) believed he was wicked? Had her dislike made him imagine he was a murderer, and had he talked in his sleep? If so, he’d talked nonsense. He had not wanted to kill his own parents, though he wasn’t sorry when he regained consciousness in the hospital and a nurse told him they were dead.

  ‘Bang, you’re dead.’ The Rolls was passing a public house and Sir James thought of another car and another pub. An old, rusty Ford parked outside the Jolly Gardeners and a lonely boy waiting; Mum and Dad had promised they were only stopping for a quickie, but they were staggering when they finally came out and he must have waited two hours for them; trying to read a comic under the interior light and playing with his toy pistol. There was only one cap left in the pistol and surely its tiny report couldn’t have caused Dad to lose control of the car and swerve into the bus? The long wait had made him angry, but he didn’t really mean to harm Mum and Dad. He was joking when he pointed the muzzle against Dad’s ear and shouted, ‘Bang, you’re dead.’

  Just a bitter, childish joke and nobody had criticised him. The police and the magistrates were sure that alcohol and a faulty steer­ing system were responsible for the crash. The nurses and the doctor and the lady from the Children’s Care Department were all sorry for him. Everyone was sympathetic and kind . . . Everyone except Aunty . . . Aunty Green, the witch of his nightmares.

  ‘I know you are glad to be rid of your parents, Jimmy, and I don’t dislike you for that. I don’t even blame you if you did kill ’em, because drunken sots are no loss to the world. But bad people breed bad children and I can recognise a bad child. You’re a bringer of evil, Jim. You fooled me at first, but I’ve rumbled you now. I sensed your badness the moment you stepped into this house.’ Aunty had tilted his face towards her own and he saw her eyes penetrating the flesh and bone and probing the mind behind them. ‘Aye, I know you, James Crampton. You’re a Jonah and a born hater, but you’ll bring no bad luck here. Not if I can help it.’

  Was he bad – was Aunty telepathic, Sir James wondered? She certainly seemed able to read his thoughts and the ability cowed him even more than the physical tortures which started after bad luck did come and Uncle died.

  ‘You hate us, don’t you, Jimmy? You’d like to do me a mischief. To take everything away from us and leave me with nothing.’

  Partially true statements, though it was unfair to say that he’d planned Uncle’s death. Uncle Green was a boorish lout, but he hadn’t really resented him. Not his fault that Uncle had tripped over a ball he’d left lying on the landing, fallen down the stairs and broken his neck. Careless, short-­sighted Uncle . . . Careless, tormented Jimmy.

  ‘You did it on purpose, Jim. You killed my husband deliberately, and now you’ll pay for him. The oil stove’s nice and hot, so let’s go into the kitchen and have a feel of it.’

  He’d paid all right. Sir James flexed his fingers. He had paid in full, and been too frightened to tell the teachers or the Child Care Officer what Aunty Green did to him. She was a witch who could read his thoughts and sear his brain as well as his body. He’d suffered patiently until breaking point came and knowledge came too. The realisation that, though Aunty dominated him mentally, he was physically stronger. That wonderful day when she failed to force his fingers against the paraffin heater. He picked the heater up and threw it at her.

  Aunty Green survived the fire which scarred her face and turned Wildmere Cottage into a blackened ruin, but she didn’t dare to say how the fire had started. Silly, cruel Aunty went quietly to hospital. Wicked, lucky Jimmy remained quiet at the orphanage. Mrs Green was virtually a pauper. Sir James Crampton was a knight of the realm and a multi-­millionaire.

  ‘We’re still early and you’re driving too fast, man.’ They had crossed a bridge. Sir James consulted his watch and growled at the chauffeur again. Smith was eager to complete the journey because he’d been promised a reward at journey’s end. The harlot’s tape-recording which could put him behind bars.

  Prison bars – an unpleasant cage, but nothing compared to the cage he had experienced himself. The dark walls of the cupboard above the disused well. The creaking floorboards screening the shaft of the well, though not the smell of the water. Sour, stagnant water with sour things in it; soft slimy things though they had jaws and claws and tentacles. He knew they were there – Aunty Green had described them to him. She had also told him that the floor was weak and rotten. If he fell through the floor, those things would have him.

  But he hadn’t fallen and he never would. Somebody else would go screaming down the well shaft. Somebody else would plummet into the sour water, and there was another poem as appropriate as Aunty’s: a poem concerning execution. ‘He shall hear the stroke of eight and not the stroke of nine.’ That was why time was important. The grandfather clock which was Aunty’s pride and joy, had been chiming eight when she first shut him in the cupboard and neither of them would hear nine strike this evening. The miles and minutes were creeping on and the place of execution was in sight.

  Wildmere Cottage! He’d almost forgotten the place till current pain revived early anguish. He hadn’t thought about Aunty for years till the specialist diagnosed cancer and he suddenly knew what must be done before he died. But as soon as he did know, his minions had received their orders and carried them out. An agent established that the ruined cottage had remained unoccupied and the land was for sale. He paid far more for that land than it was worth, but to hell with money. What did a few thousand pounds matter to a doomed millionaire with a single mission to accom­plish? Michael Gallagher, his chief foreman and another loyal retainer, had restored and renovated the cottage to his exact specifi­cations; new roof, new plaster, new doors and floorboards. But no floorboards covered the shaft of the well and Tom had fitted the cupboard door rather tightly. Far too tightly for a frail old woman to loosen. He would have to open the door for Aunty him­self, and he’d laugh while he watched her go through it.

  The trap had been baited and set. He’d even provided replicas of the original furnishings as far as he could remember them, and there was a grandfather clock in the hall and a portable oil stove in the kitchen. All the trap lacked was a victim. If Aunty had died he’d be deprived of revenge and his preparations and hopes would come to nothing. That anxiety had persisted for weeks and months, but he needn’t have worried. The private detective agency traced her to an old people’s home in South London. His solicitor called on her.

  Old homes . . . old people! The second hand of his watch seemed to be racing now and, despite his tension, James Crampton smiled. The old are supposed to have long memories, but Aunty Green was an exception. She had forgotten the fear and misery her sadism had caused him. She believed he’d forgiven her and wept tears of joy when the lawyer told her that he’d purchased the cottage and the dear old home was at her disposal. Foolish Aunty would weep
less joyful tears when she toppled down to the things under the cupboard.

  Mike Gallagher had reported that the well was empty apart from a few feet of water at the base of the shaft, but Mike was wrong. The things were there and they were hiding in the slime; waiting for Aunty . . . waiting to clutch and claw and savage her!

  A horrible way to die, but after she died he’d be able to die him­self; die painlessly. A child’s cap pistol had destroyed his parents, but there was nothing childish about the pistol in his overcoat pocket. One bullet from the revolver would end pain and give him peace. How much better than the lingering Golgotha of cancer.

  ‘Stop by that gate on the left, Smith, and then you can go home and relax. I’ll not be needing you, or this any longer.’ Crampton continued to smile as the Rolls stopped and he handed his chauffeur the incriminating cassette recording, but his smiles vanished after the man opened the door for him and he stepped out.

  ‘Open the door and go into the cupboard, Jimmy,’ said the voice of torment. ‘Naughty boys must be locked up alone in the dark, and I wonder how long I’ll keep you locked up, an hour, a day . . . maybe for­ever? But, however long, you’d better not try to escape, Jim Crampton. If you move a muscle the floor will collapse and down you’ll go. Down to them that’s waiting.’ Them – the dark – alone – forever. ‘He must be wicked to deserve such pain.’ Dusk was gathering, the tail lights of his car were tiny specks on the horizon, and far off in the distance he heard a church clock strike the hour.

  ‘The stroke of eight and not the stroke of nine.’ He’d kept his appointment to the minute and he would not be alone for long. Though the path ahead of him was dark, the cottage windows were brightly lit. Aunty was at home and he was going home. A home he dreaded, but the place where he’d find peace, and the heavy revolver swung comfortingly against his thigh while he strode forward to obey destiny. Aunty – the well – then the bullet. No more anger, pain or bitterness . . . No more nightmares. Only a void; dreamless sleep and tranquillity.