Karl Wagner - The Year's Best Horror Stories XXII

No, he was imagining things. The only irrefutable fact was the cold. Feeling his way carefully in the darkness, Andy unlaced his boots, barely noticed that his socks were encrusted with snow. Gingerly he inserted one foot into the mouth of the bag, praying he’d feel nothing unusual.

The walls of the bag felt smooth and, moments later, warm. Too warm. Surely, though, it was just the warmth of his own body.

He pushed both legs in further, then slipped his feet all the way to the bottom. Lying in the darkness, listening to the sound of Willie’s breathing, he could feel the bag press itself against his ankles and legs, clinging to them with a weight that seemed, for goosedown, a shade too heavy. Yet the feeling was not unpleasant. He willed himself to relax.

It occurred to him, as he waited uneasily for sleep, what a clever disguise a bag like this would make for a creature that fed on human flesh. Like a spider feasting upon flies that had blundered into its web, such a creature might gorge contentedly on human beings stupid enough to disregard its warning: One size eats all … Imagine, prey that literally pushed itself into the predator’s mouth!

Human stomach acid, he’d read, was capable of eating through a razor blade; and surely this creature’s would be worse. He pictured the thing dissolving bones, draining the very life-blood from its victim, leaving a corpse sucked dry of fluids, like the withered husk a spider leaves behind…

Suddenly he froze. He felt something damp—no, wet —at the bottom of the bag. Wet like saliva. Or worse.

Kicking his feet, he wriggled free of the bag. Maybe what he’d felt was simply the melted snow from his socks, but in the darkness he was he was taking no chances. Feeling for his boots, he laced them back on and curled up on top of the bag, shivering beneath his coat.

Willie’s voice woke him.

“Andy? Are you okay?”

Andy opened his eyes. It was light out. He had survived the night.

“Why were you sleeping like that?” said Willie. “You must be frozen.”

“I was afraid to get back in the bag. It felt… weird.”

Willie smiled. “It was just your imagination, Andy. That’s not even your bag.”

“Huh?” Andy peered down at the bag. A label near the top said Arctic Explorer. “But how—”

“I switched your bag with Jack’s when the two of you were starting for the summit,” said Willie. “I meant to tell you, but I fell asleep”

“Jack’ll be furious,” said Andy. “He’ll kill me for this!”

Trembling with cold and fear, he crawled stiffly from the tent. It was early morning; a chilly sun hung in the pale blue sky. He dashed to Jack’s tent and yanked back the flaps, already composing an apology.

The tent was empty. The sleeping bag, his bag, lay dark and swollen on the floor. There seemed to be no one inside.

Or almost no one; for emerging from the top was what appeared to be a deflated basketball—only this one had red hair and a human face.

Part of the crop of younger writers who are beginning to appear in The Year’s Best Horror Stories , Adam Meyer explains: “Born St. Patrick’s Day 1972, I have not an ounce of Irish blood in my body. Though my native county is Queens, New York, I now live in Washington, D.C. with my fiancée, two cats, and enough books to fill the Grand Canyon. A graduate of SUNY Albany, I’m now studying for my Master’s in film production at the American University.”

Meyer’s short fiction has been published in the small press, as have his interviews and reviews; he currently has three novels seeking a publisher. Meyer made a film of “Resurrection” for a video class, and he threatens to send me a copy. Meyer wrote, directed, and edited the film, which starred his former roommate and his current fiancée. Good luck, kids.

I watch Donna as she sleeps the sleep of the dead, dreams the dreams of eternity. I glance at my watch, see it’s 12:18 A.M., do the arithmetic, and realize that it’s been over four hours since I killed her.

If the old witch’s chant works, it shouldn’t be long. I’ll give it another hour, I think. If nothing’s happened by then… what? Go back to the rundown apartment downtown, where the walls reek of cat urine and death? What will I say to her? Demand my money back? Kill her, too?

I am not a murderer, I tell myself. I care about life, not death.

I sit in a chair at Donna’s bedside and watch, wait, hope. Her black hair fans out across the pillow, her ice-blue eyes peer out from a face as white as marble, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her hands lay palm down at her sides. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but I think I can see the faintest trace of a smile on her blood-red lips.

I get up from the chair, begin to pace. Time check: 12:32. She isn’t going to wake up, I think, and rage fills me. For two hundred bucks, I expect to get a resurrection chant that works. Then I think that maybe it’s better if Donna doesn’t get up. Maybe it’s best if I slip away into the night and forget this whole crazy plan.

I wonder what Donna will be like when she returns to life. The old woman said there’d be virtually no change in her personality (except for a little post-resurrection shock), she’d be as lucid and sane after death as before. Still, I wonder. I’ve seen the movies, everything from Frankenstein to Re-Animator. I know what can happen when you interfere with the processes of life and death. But, God, I’ve got to know. I must.

So I wait.

The phone rings, and I jump. I don’t dare answer it.

12:56 A.M. Another half-hour, I vow.

I remember the scene when Boris Karloff, the Frankenstein monster, hurls that little girl into the lake with as much thought as he’d tossed flowers a few seconds before.

In my mind’s eye I imagine a zombie-Donna with cruel soulless eyes hurling me through the window to a death awaiting me twelve stories below.

That’s crazy, I tell myself. But I can’t help wondering.

By 1:14 A.M., I’m furious. That old witch is a phony. She doesn’t know a thing about magic, let alone raising the dead.

And then I hear the sound of labored breathing from the bed.

I look up, eyes wide, heart fluttering like a trapped moth.

Donna coughs, lifts her hands experimentally, curling the fingers, raises her head from the pillow, and looks at me. Her blue eyes appear very dark in the lamp light; she seems disoriented at first. I’m positive she doesn’t recognize me, and that the only thing on her mind is devouring my flesh.

She opens her mouth, but no words come out for several seconds. Finally she manages to say, “Jay? What—” I watch her expression as the realization comes to her.

“I was dead,” she says with an expression not unlike awe. She sits up and swings her legs off the bed. Her hands go to her back, reaching for the gaping wound between her shoulder blades. When her hands reappear, they’re covered with sticky, half-dried blood. “I was dead. Wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were. But I brought you back.”

Donna’s eyes narrow suddenly. “Jay, you murdered me.” She says that word like an obscenity, comprehending for the first time the magnitude of what has happened.

“I know, Donna. I know. How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Any pain?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Dizziness?”

“No.”

“How’s your memory?”

“Okay, I guess. Jay, you…” She stands up and begins to sob. I expect to see tears, but there are none. I suppose they’ve dried up.

“Jay,” she wails, “I was dead, DEAD, and I… how did you, I, what—”