Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 6

But it is not. For a time came, and early, when we did know, and even then we did not, could not, stop. There was too much of fortune in it, and too much of pleasure as well, in giving yourself over to something larger than you had ever known, something sinewy and vast. Even from the start, Mr. Splitfoot ruled our hearts.

Mr. Splitfoot, Mr. Splitfoot—

— and here is a figure leaning over me, its face cast in shadow by the candle it holds aloft.

“Katie,” I cry, “Katie—”

But it’s only Emily, leaning over to smooth the hair from my brow.

“You were talking in your sleep, Mrs. Maggie.” So gentle-like. “What was it you were dreaming?” That hunger in her eyes.

But what shall I say? Some truths are better left unsaid. Sometimes the lie is kinder. “I miss Katie, dear”—taking her hand—“I miss her so much.”

And here is the truth inside the lie. I miss you, Kate. Every morning I wake afresh to find you gone away from me. Every morning I grieve you like the first. Gone, gone, gone — and who else to confide in here at the end of all days, about matters so fraught and fearsome?

“We all miss her, dear,” Emily says, withdrawing to her needlework, and after a time I’m not sure who it is I’m looking at anymore, time seems so slippy and uncertain. Only there is a chill in the room, a faraway rapping, and you’re sitting here beside me once again, your strong hand in my own, bony as a bird’s and heavy-veined. You were always so strong, and I the weak one. Why, see how old I’ve become, and still a sixteen-year-old in Hydesville in my heart, before it all began. Or so I could believe but for the whisper in my ears, but for my one true love and paramour, goading me, always goading me to blood and madness.

Blood and madness. For once it came to me, it never fully departed, that voice. It lingered, whispering, insinuating, urging me on to bloodshed and hatred. But only once did I succumb.

I begged you not to do it. How I begged you.

Nineteen, I was, and you just fifteen — mere girls with the petty jealousies of sisters, the thoughtless malice and spite. There in that lush hotel room, with the sounds of the street rising to us in a hushed murmur, muffled by the heavy velvet curtains that draped the windows. And the taps at first, the raps and knocks, the boom boom boom , so loud that floor itself seemed to rock, and I marveled that no one else could hear it. Those heavy curtains billowed out like the thinnest sheers. A great wind filled the room, like the rank breath of the dead, and in it the voice, such a voice it was, guttural and full of hate, and then worse — wheedling, insinuating, flattering. And promising. Yes, promising.

What was yours mine, your vast gift in exchange for my paltry one. You with your eyes rolled back, your legs crossed, your palms face up on your thighs, beneath your dress of robin’s-egg blue.

And that voice, whispering now, conniving and entreating. It drew me across the room to the loveseat, my arms outstretched, and how it thrilled me to take your neck between my hands, to feel my fingers dig into the soft, pale flesh beneath your high-necked dress, and squeeze . Squeeze and squeeze, nails biting, fingers gouging. Who knew then how thin and high it was, that neck, as delicately boned as a bird’s. Bones creaked beneath the pressure.

And then you were there again. Your eyes snapped open with dread of the terrible thing that was death, the cold of the grave and the voice that lived on the other side and the hatred everlasting. Your hands flew up to pry my hands away, weak, too weak. I had gifts of my own, you see: the strength of my hands and purpose, and that voice capering inside my head in joy.

You gasped.

“Maggie,” you croaked. “Maggs, Maggie, please—”

And then there were no words, just struggle. Your legs kicking. Your hands tearing at my own, your body heaving. Second by second, your strength left you. Your body fell still. Your hands fell away. Your body went limp. And gradually, gradually, your face took on a deepening blue cast.

You might have died then — the one true person I ever loved, and I would have exulted in it.

But the door flew open, and here was Leah, laden with packages, saying, “Oh, girls, you won’t believe such finery I got, and at a poor man’s cost—” Her voice breaking off like that. Hatboxes and shoeboxes and dresses on their woolen-cloaked hangers, fumbled from her hands.

She found her voice then, a rising note of panic, edged in hysteria.

“Maggs, Maggie! You let your sister go!”

And just that easily the spell was broken. I sagged, my hands as of their own accord unfolding from your neck, that terrible, alluring voice dwindling — but never fading — from my mind. I stumbled away in tears, retching as your own hands came up to your neck in wonder and dismay.

Silence reigned. Even Leah, gathering her packages, could find no words to speak. And as for Katie and me, we knew. No words were necessary. We knew what had happened — we had heard that hating voice — and though it remained with us for the rest of our days, never again would we speak of what had happened that afternoon, never again would we risk so deep a trance, never again surrender ourselves so wholly to the thing that lay in wait for us upon the other side.

Until now.

Emily sleeps over her needlework, the darkness deepens, the room grows cold. I hear a knocking in the distance, growing louder. And worse yet, a voice, guttural and full of hate, and growing louder.

Katie, I want to say, Katie, is that you.

But I know it is not. Mr. Splitfoot slouches toward us, battening upon half a century of belief and blood, waiting to be born.

My lifetime draws to a close. The year is 1893. A new era draws nigh.

We were girls. How could we know? Surely that is enough .

God forgive us both. God help us all.

What manner of doorway have we opened? What awful beast have we unleashed upon the world?

I foresee a century of blood.

The water makes her nightgown diaphanous, like the ghost of something, and she is naked underneath. Her breasts are full, her nipples large and pale, and her soft stomach, where he once loved to rest his head as he ran his hand through the soft tangle of hair between her legs, is stretched with the marks of age. He sits on the lid of the toilet, feeling a removed horror as his cock stirs beneath his robe. Her eyes are flat and shiny as dimes and she doesn’t blink as the water splashes over her face. Wispy clouds of blood drift through the water, obscuring his view of her. An empty prescription bottle lies beside the tub, a few bright pills scattered like candy on the floor.

He was not meant to see this, and he feels a minor spasm of guilt, as though he has caught her at something shameful and private. This woman with whom he had once shared all the shabby secrets of his life. The slice in her forearm is an open curtain, blood flowing out in billowing dark banners.

“You’re going to be okay, Katie,” he says. He has not called her Katie in ten years. He makes no move to save her.

Sean shifted his legs out of bed and pressed his bare feet onto the hardwood floor; it was cold, and his nerves jumped. A spike of life. A sign of movement in the blood. He sat there for a moment, his eyes closed, and concentrated on that. He slid his feet into his slippers and willed himself into a standing position.

He walked naked across the bedroom and fetched his robe from the closet. He threw it around himself and tied it closed. He walked by the vanity, with its alchemies of perfumes and eyeshadows, ignoring the mirror, and left the bedroom. Down the hallway, past the closed bathroom door with light still bleeding from underneath, descending the stairs to the sunlit order of his home.