Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 23

Look, it’s like the lantern’s laughing now, isn’t it?

You think this pub has endured more than its fair share of tragedy? I knew them all, and I’m still here. I sit here drinking while the tragedies of others unfold around me, and I can do nothing for them, any more than they can change me. And which of us is the main character in the story? Perhaps we only ever belong at the edges of someone else’s tale. We suffer, we cry, we die unnoticed, and the people we consider unimportant fail to sense our suffering because to them we are merely background colours, minor characters in their story.

Of course, I could add my own story to the list of peripheral tales. I could tell you about the bizarre death of my wife, and what happened when the newspapers discovered where I had buried — oh, but that was so long ago.

Who am I? They call me Lantern Jack. I suppose I’m the pub mascot. Only here one night a year. And only ever seen by special people.

What’s that? You can see me?

Yes dear, and I’ll tell you why.

Come closer.

Closer.

Let me whisper in your ear.

It means you join me tonight .

Well, I should let you get on. I shouldn’t have taken up so much of your time. I’m sure you must have many important things to do before midnight.

Cheers!

PAUL KANE is an award-winning writer and editor based in Derbyshire, England. His short story collections are Alone (In the Dark), Touching the Flame, FunnyBones, Peripheral Visions, Shadow Writer, The Adventures of Dalton Quayle and The Butterfly Man and Other Stories .

He is the author of such novellas as Signs of Life, The Lazarus Condition, RED and Pain Cages , and his novels include Of Darkness and Light, The Gemini Factor, Lunar and the bestselling “Arrowhead” trilogy ( Arrowhead, Broken Arrow and Arrowland ).

With his wife Marie O’Regan, Kane is co-editor of the anthologies Hellbound Hearts (stories based around the Clive Barker mythology that spawned Hellraiser ) and The Mammoth Book of Body Horror . He is also co-editor (with Charles Prepolec) of the forthcoming Beyond Rue Morgue from Titan Books.

His non-fiction volumes are The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy and Voices in the Dark , while his zombie story “Dead Time” was turned into an episode of the NBC-TV series Fear Itself .

“The Rag and Bone man’s cry was a familiar one to me growing up on a council estate in the 1970s and 1980s,” recalls the author, “but for some reason they stopped coming around when I was in my teens.

“Then I was visiting my parents a few years ago, and I heard it again. Looking out of the window, I saw a scrap truck rather than the original wagon, but it set me thinking about how a profession like that has been going for so long and will never really die out.

“I’m also one of those people who likes to find out the origins of words and names, so I did a little digging into the history of Rag and Bone men — the results of which are included in the story.

“I was also very consciously trying to create my own bogeyman, having been influenced by the likes of Michael, Freddy, Jason, Pinhead and Candyman over the years. Hopefully I succeeded, or at the very least caused some readers a few sleepless nights.”

WHEN TED OPENED his eyes, he realised he was hanging in a room, surrounded by corpses.

Not hanging, as in hanging out — but in the literal sense. Suspended by the wrists, feet dangling with no sense of the floor below them. It was quite dark, and he was only able to see the dead people because of the moonlight, filtering in from a small grilled window to the left. The angle of that moon told him he was underground.

Ted blinked a few times, taking in the shapes of the suspended bodies. They were hung, just as he was, like meat in a freezer. He could see the wounds that had been inflicted on some of them: cuts, savage and unforgiving — the blood now dried in the slits. Some were naked, some wore scraps of clothing, torn away during whatever struggle had ensued before their deaths, or perhaps even afterwards? Some had been so brutally attacked, that he could see bone poking through in places: at the knee in one case, the forearm in another, ribs in a third.

Ted squinted, attempting to make out more, but it was impossible. Some had their backs to him, some were further away, some in corners. The ones closest appeared to be female, that much he could tell. One’s shapely legs were in view, and another’s breasts were exposed — were it not for the fact they both had jagged slashes across them, he might have been quite aroused by the sight.

Jesus , he told himself, not now, and definitely not here . Wherever “here” was. But he couldn’t help himself. It had always been his weakness. If the average man thought about sex every seven seconds, then Ted was so far above average it was ridiculous. It was a wonder he could concentrate on work half the time.

Concentrate now, though. Try to figure out what you’re doing here. Or, more importantly, how to escape .

He struggled to pull himself up, maybe try and work his wrists free of the bonds holding him, but it was too difficult. For one thing he didn’t feel like he had any energy, perhaps an effect of being in this position for too long? A torturer’s potential victim. Because he’d seen this pose before in TV shows and movies, hadn’t he. They always did this to the people they’d captured, usually questioning them for information in thrillers. Was that it, was this work related? Some old business enemy, of which admittedly there were many.

That didn’t make sense. Why all the others? Maybe he was the subject of a serial killer. They did the same thing sometimes, stringing up folk like animals, cutting off skin to use for God knows what purposes. It would certainly fit with the corpses who had been mutilated. He tried not to think about it.

Ted attempted again to pull free. Maybe he was still feeling the after-effects of whatever drug had been used to incapacitate him?

He remembered that much: whoever had done this had come up behind him in the car park, silent and deadly. By the time he’d known there was someone there, it was already too late — he’d felt the prick of a needle in his neck and it was all over. Blackness, that’s all he could remember. until this. And part of him now wished he was still unconscious.

He closed his eyes, perhaps to pretend, but all he could see were those cuts. Ted could imagine the pain, putting himself in the dead people’s places — could feel what he was surely about to experience, when whoever had done this returned.

Ted heard a sound and snapped himself out of his thoughts. A voice. Dear Christ, the killer was coming back already, before he’d even had a chance to formulate a plan of action. But no, it wasn’t that at all. Someone was speaking, yes, but it wasn’t in the assured voice of a murderer. Someone in control of the situation, without compassion — someone who could do the things that had been done in this slaughterhouse.

This was more like a whimper, a groan. “Help me,” it said. Then there was movement. One of the “corpses” nearest to him shifted position, spinning round on the rope that was holding it. her. Because as Ted could see, this was a woman too; the blouse and skirt, as ragged as they were, gave it away. Her face caught the light from the moon and he almost gasped in horror at what had been done to it. Part of the woman’s cheek had been ripped away, a large flap of skin peeled off, revealing cheekbone and teeth. The edge of her lip had been torn as well, leaving her with a permanent frown on one side — like a person who’d suffered a severe stroke. No wonder she was having trouble speaking.