Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 4

They went. There was a clearing, its bed layered with muck and spoiled leaves. Unholy symbols were gouged into the trees; brands so old they’d fossilized. It was a killing ground of antiquity and Scobie had prepared it well. He’d improvised several torches to light the shallow basin with a ghastly, reddish glare.

Scobie took several steps and uttered an inarticulate cry, a glottal exclamation held over from his ancestors. He half turned to beckon and his face was transformed by shock when Luke Honey smashed the butt of his rifle into his hip, and sent him stumbling into the middle of the clearing.

Luke Honey’s eyes blurred with grief, and Michael’s shade materialized there, his trusting smile disintegrating into bewilderment, then inertness. The cruelness of the memory drained Luke Honey of his fear. He said with dispassion, “My hell is to testify. Don’t you understand? He doesn’t want me. He took me years ago.”

Brush snapped. The stag shambled forth from the outer darkness. It loomed above Scobie, its fur rank and steaming. Black blood oozed from gashes along its flanks. Beneath a great jagged crown of antlers its eyes were black, its teeth yellow and broken. Scobie fell to his knees, palms raised in supplication. The stag nuzzled his matted hair and its long tongue lapped at the muddy tears and the streaks of drying blood upon the man’s upturned face. Its muzzle unhinged. The teeth closed and there was a sound like a ripe cabbage cracking apart.

Luke Honey slumped against the bole of the oak, the rifle a dead, useless weight across his knees, and watched.

I met her on the beach.

It was one of Len’s parties — one of the last he threw, before he had to stop. You were there too. But we didn’t speak. I remember watching you talking with Jonathan on the deck, an absurdly large tumbler for such a small splash of Merlot wedged at your elbow as you nodded, eyes fixed on his so as not to meet mine. If you noticed me, I hope you also noticed I didn’t linger.

Instead, I took my own wineglass, filled it up properly, climbed down that treacherous wooden staircase, and kicked off my shoes. It was early enough that the sand was still warm from the sun — late enough that the sun was just dabs of pink on the dark ocean and I could tell myself I had the beach to myself.

She was, I’m sure, telling herself the same thing. She had brought a pipe and a lighter with her in her jeans, and was perched on a picnic table, surreptitiously puffing away. The pipe disappeared as I neared her. It came back soon enough, when she saw my wineglass, maybe recognized me from the party.

I didn’t recognize her. She was a small woman, but wide across the shoulders and the tiniest bit chubby. Hair was dark, pulled back into a ponytail. Pretty, but not pretty enough; she would fade at a party like Len’s.

“Yeah, I agree,” she said to me and I paused on my slow gambol to the surf.

“It’s too bright,” she said, and as I took a long pull from my wine, watching her curiously, she added, “look at him.”

“Look at me,” I said, and she laughed.

“You on the phone?” I asked, and she dropped her head in extravagant mea culpa .

“No,” she said. “Just…”

“Don’t fret. What’s the point of insanity if you can’t enjoy a little conversation?”

Oh, I am smooth. She laughed again, and motioned me over, and waved the pipe and asked if I’d like to share.

Sure I said, and she scooted aside to make room on the table. Her name was Lucy. Lucille, actually, was how she introduced herself but she said Lucy was fine. I introduced myself. “Tom’s a nice name,” she said.

The night grew. Lungs filled with smoke and mouths with wine; questions asked, questions answered. How do you know Len? What do you do? What brings you to the beach when so much is going on inside ? It went both ways.

Lucy knew Len scarcely at all. They’d met through a friend who worked at Len’s firm. Through the usual convolutions of dinners and pubs and excursions, she’d insinuated herself onto the cc list of the ur -mail by which Len advertised his parties. She worked cash at a bookstore chain in town and didn’t really have a lot of ambition past that right now. Which tended to make her feel seriously out of her weight class at Len’s parties or so she said; the beach, therefore, was an attractive option.

She finished my wine for me, and we walked. I’d been on my way to the water’s edge and Lucy thought that was a fine idea. The sun was all gone by now and stars were peeking out. One of the things I liked about Len’s place — it was just far enough away from town you could make out stars at night. Not like the deep woods, or the mountains. But constellations weren’t just theoretical there.

“Hey Tom,” she said as the surf touched our toes, “want to go for a swim? I know we don’t have suits, but…”

Why not? As you might remember, I’ve a weakness for the midnight dunk. We both did, as I recall.

I stepped back a few yards to where the sand was dry, set down my glass and stripped off my shirt, my trousers. Lucy unbuttoned her blouse, the top button of her jeans. I cast off my briefs. “Well?” I said, standing in flagrante delicto in front of her.

“Get in,” she said, “I’ll be right behind you.”

It didn’t occur to me that this might be a trick until I was well out at sea. Wouldn’t it be the simplest thing, I thought, as I dove under a breaking wave, to wait until I was out far enough, gather my trousers, find the wallet and the mobile phone, toss the clothes into the surf and run to a waiting car? I’m developing my suspicious mind, really, my dearest — but it still has a time delay on it, even after everything…

I came up, broke my stroke, and turned to look back at the beach.

She waved at me. I was pleased — and relieved — to see that she was naked too. My valuables were safe as they could be. And Lucy had quite a nice figure, as it turned out: fine full breasts — wide, muscular hips — a small bulge at the tummy, true… but taken with the whole, far from offensive.

I waved back, took a deep breath and dove again, this time deep enough to touch bottom. My fingers brushed sea-rounded rock and stirred up sand, and I turned and kicked and broke out to the moonless night, and only then it occurred to me — how clearly I’d seen her on the beach, two dozen yards off, maybe further.

There lay the problem. There wasn’t enough light. I shouldn’t have seen anything.

I treaded water, thinking back at how I’d seen her… glistening, flickering, with tiny points of red, of green… winking in and out… like stars themselves? Spread across not sky, but flesh?

I began to wonder: Had I seen her at all?

There was no sign of her now. The beach was a line of black, crowned with the lights from Len’s place, and above that… the stars.

How much had I smoked? I wondered. What had I smoked, for that matter? I hadn’t had a lot of wine — I’d quaffed a glass at Len’s before venturing outside, and I’d shared the second glass with Lucy. Not even two glasses…

But it was Len’s wine.

I’d made up my mind to start back in when she emerged from the waves — literally in front of my face.

“You look lost,” Lucy said, and splashed me, and dove again. Two feet came up, and scissored, and vanished. Some part of her brushed against my hip.

I took it as my cue and ducked.

The ocean was nearly a perfect black. I dove and turned and dove again, reaching wide in my strokes, fingers spreading in a curious, and yes, hungry grasp. I turned, and came near enough the surface that I felt my foot break it, splashing down again, and spun—