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

“Her father, naturally.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Call it instinct, or a good judge of character, whatever you like. Miss Appleby, have you ever been in love?”

She swallowed uncomfortably. “Once, yes.”

“Then you understand it would be impossible for Tobias to kill Charlotte. They were sweethearts. It carried on for months in secret but the silly girl read too many novels, Wuthering Heights in particular. She was dazzled by romantic notions and grew complacent, visiting him at the quarry for all the men to see. They were planning to marry, to run away together. Crane found out, followed her up there and, after beating Tobias to within an inch of his life, strangled his own daughter. You see, for her to marry a boy of lower class would have brought shame on the Crane family. Such a proud, cruel man, her death was simply about honour over public disgrace.”

The bedroom was very dark and cold as I stepped barefoot across the floorboards. I lit the lamp then dressed, my shadow jerking in the half-light. When ready, I knocked on Miss Appleby’s door.

She shovelled coal in the grate, ignited twists of newspaper, then dragged the strongbox nearer the warmth. “Each time I prepare, I am reminded of that darkest period of my life, and the moment I first laid eyes on the surrogate. I shall never forget. In that sense, I feel I should warn you.”

“Oh?”

“The experience you are about to witness is most distressing.”

“Then why do it? What made you want to continue your father’s work? I’m interested to know what motivates you.”

She seemed annoyed by my questions. “Duty, Mr. Creswell, Papa’s final wishes. Can you understand that?”

“To some degree I suppose, but not if—”

“He was lying in his casket in the living room, only hours after he was lynched. The family solicitor paid us a visit. He handed me bundles of papers and a modified oak strongbox. There were detailed instructions for the apparatus, and a recipe for the feed. The final instruction I found most difficult to undertake. But I managed to bring him back for half a minute.”

“You brought your father back?”

She nodded, tearful now. “He groaned pitifully, but was unable to speak. I wept, tried reassuring him that what had happened wasn’t his fault. I didn’t know it then, Mr. Creswell, but the newer the corpse means the less work for the surrogate. The surrogate is merely a means to recall rather than a tool for sustaining the process. A returnee to a fresh body attempts instinctively to use their own damaged organs and not the surrogate’s, their larynx instead of the brass horn. Yet, despite my ignorance at that time, it was obvious Papa’s vocal tract had been crushed by the rope. Still, his lips kept puckering until finally I understood what he was trying to communicate and placed a pen in his cold fingers. Naturally it was not the neatest handwriting, but I could make out the words he scrawled.”

“Which were?”

“Save them , Mr. Creswell. My father implored me to save them. And you ask what motivates me?”

Soon after we were outside in the freezing night air. A growing dread was pressing on my heart, and I soon grew fatigued from carrying the strongbox along the dark streets to the chapel. On arrival, I placed it on a patch of grass and leaned against the cold wall, grateful for the rest, yet feeling that I had no control over what I was venturing into. The chapel, a drab building with a single domed window at the front, stood on a sharp gradient like everything else in that town. A hazy sliver of moon cast little light, and my eyes strained to see the silhouetted figure trudging slowly up the hill towards us, past the terraces then the workingmen’s club on the corner.

“I fail to see why you employed his services,” the doctor said to Miss Appleby, watching the lumbering figure also. “He cannot be trusted.”

“I’m not cut out for manual labour and neither are you and Mr. Creswell by the look of it. Sometimes one has to take risks.”

Pugh complained about the late hour and the cold, but when the doctor handed over several pound notes, he quieted. We entered through black gates then trod over frosty turf around the headstones until we arrived at the Crane family plot, conspicuous by the pale imposing edifices looming in the darkness. One statue was clean and new, a winged angel sculpted from white marble. Miss Appleby laid the wreaths to one side then Pugh went to work hacking at the icy crust with the spade edge.

We waited in silence; the only sounds Pugh’s laboured breathing, the scrape of the spade and the wind rushing through the spindly trees that bordered the perimeter. Fortunately, beneath the hard surface, the soil was softer otherwise it might have taken the gaoler half the night to complete his trench. When his tool struck hollow wood, Miss Appleby jumped down to help lift the casket lid. Pugh crossed himself as the stink wafted up. I stood at the edge of the trench. It was too dark to see anything. Miss Appleby lit an oil lamp and placed it low inside to conceal the glow. Now I was able to see Charlotte’s condition. The skin had begun to bloat, ripening to dark coppery tones, a grotesque contrast to the pretty white bonnet and the frock with bows and frills.

“I’m not confident,” Miss Appleby muttered to me. “The longer a corpse is laid to rest the harder it is to recall, and the more painful for those brought back if successful. It also means the surrogate will have to work hard, dangerously so, which worries me.”

Quickly, she unpacked the box, unravelled wires and tubes and connected them to the cadaver, including a copper disc which she tucked inside the dress’s buttons and placed against the heart. She yanked a brass lever. A soft beating sounded, to which Charlotte’s body began to gently spasm in rhythm. Pugh, standing in the trench still, muttered a prayer as milky serum sluiced through the catheters and into Charlotte’s decayed circulatory system.

“An electrical battery cell powers the false heartbeat,” Miss Appleby said. “Anti-coagulants thin the clogged routes.”

“Is that what brings her back?” I asked.

“No. It’s merely a deception designed to fool her into thinking her body is healthy again. It helps filter unwanted guests , shall we say. She will re-enter. Then, after realising her body is useless, she will hopefully answer the surrogate’s call and join him in his body.”

Pugh cried out. He must have noticed the surrogate nestled amongst the apparatus’s rods, wires, and glassware.

“Calm yourself, man,” she told him. “If the sight offends, then avert your eyes.”

Once again, like last night, I heard the far-off murmuring of voices through the horn. Charlotte’s mouth jerked wide open, remaining fixed that way as though an invisible dental clamp were holding it in place. A woeful groan emitted from her, suggesting extreme discomfort. As this cattle-like bellow grew in volume, Pugh cowered, terrified.

“Can’t you stop that?” asked the doctor. “Somebody is sure to hear. The entire town will awaken.”

“It’s too late now,” she said. “We must wait for her to pass to the surrogate. At the moment she is confused, struggling inside her own wasted body. Don’t worry. This is normal.”

“Normal? I disagree most strongly, madam. You have obviously developed immunity to this vile sacrilege. If I had only known …”

“If you remember, Doctor, I offered sufficient warning. I must remind you of our agreement.”