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

I was shaking as I sipped, watching her slip off her gloves, so’s I could see her hands clear for the first time ever: Black like Miz Farwander’s, from tips to wrist. Exactly like.

They knit their four black hands together tight and rocked together, like they was almost about to cry. And I saw—

— I realised—

— remembering those sisters of Hers, who lived forever and took on Her ugliness, who made monsters of ’emselves even though they didn’t have to, just so’s She’d never have to be alone—

— that all their fingers were nails, and all those nails were claws. That their tongues were equal long and sharp, just as their teeth (metal or no) were fangs. That their hair was snakes too, come seeking out now from under cap and scarves alike, to say hello to mine.

For it was like Miz Farwander’d told my no-’count Pa, that ranting lightning-strike voice lost behind the thunder: We was all the same again, all three, at long last. Just like ’fore my head was cut off, and my spilt blood birthed out a horse with wings, in and amongst so many other equal-awful creatures.

I wear the Mask of Fear at all times now, shows notwithstanding, and am worn in turn: She is my face, I her body. To even try taking it off would rip us both apart and force the two Mizes to start over — something I could never countenance, even for my own comfort; I owe them so much, after all. And thus together we hold pride of place while Miz Forza sets at my right hand, Miz Farwander at my left, looking up at me with a swoony mutual love that I can’t feel, startling-keen as any knife slid fast and sure ’tween the ribs.

We eat well, and plenty. I freeze ’em in their tracks, they knock ’em down. And the caravan moves on, moves on, through this new world with its ancient tides, the ebb and flow of inhumanity. Dustbowl’s just a word to most, near nine decades gone, all but forgotten. Yet you only fool yourselves to think it’s over, for though hunger may be better-hid, it is never far behind.

That’s why cooch still plays, now as ever. Like it always did.

I take the stage nightly, hard and proud and cold, a dead light shining from my rigid face; I live always in company but always alone, obdurate, untouched, imperturbable. As though I too was turned to stone that night, so long past — me, Persia Leitner, who am now called by many other names: Sister, Dread Lady, Queen of Snakes, Mask of Fear. Poseidon’s whore, Athena’s injustice, Perseus’ victim. Zeus’ bane .

Medusa .

Next show starts right soon, rubes. C’mon inside, look up. Look hard. No, harder .

And now.

let me show you somethin’.

JOEL LANE’S PUBLICATION IN the supernatural horror genre include three short story collections: The Earth Wire, The Lost District and The Terrible Changes , while a collection of his supernatural crime stories, Where Furnaces Burn , is forthcoming.

He is also the author of two mainstream novels, From Blue to Black and The Blue Mask ; three poetry collections, The Edge of the Screen, Trouble in the Heartland and The Autumn Myth ; a chapbook, Black Country ; a booklet of crime stories, Do Not Pass Go , and a pamphlet of erotic poems, Instinct . His articles on great weird fiction writers have appeared in Wormwood and elsewhere.

Current projects include a collection of ghost stories, The Anniversary of Never .

“‘Midnight Flight’ was written for The Horror Anthology of Horror Anthologies , edited by D. F. Lewis,” explains Lane. “It’s a tribute to the classic weird fiction anthologies I read before my teens, and to the libraries — now shut down or severely depleted — where I found them.

“That led naturally into a story about the loss of memory, and how memory might not want to be lost.”

PAUL COOKSEY REMEMBERED the book’s title on the same day that he forgot where he lived. As his bus neared the Hockley Flyover and the tall buildings on either side receded, he had a momentary sensation of flying on wings of concrete. Night was falling, but the street-lamps hadn’t yet come on. Cars streamed past on the outside lane. He closed his eyes, and a name he’d been trying to recall for months came back to him as naturally as if he’d never lost it. Midnight Flight .

The editor’s name continued to elude him, and it wasn’t any of the usual suspects. The book had been in the school library, quite battered when he’d read it in. 1956 it must have been, when he was twelve. The first book of horror stories he’d read, unless you counted the children’s versions of Norse and Greek myths and Beowulf , which you probably should.

As the bus crawled through heavy traffic on the Soho Road, the teenagers shouting into their mobiles and headphones leaking beats drove the book from his mind. But now he’d remembered the title, maybe he’d be able to track down a copy. It might even have the original cover. He couldn’t see through the murky windows to identify his stop, and the chanting around him was getting louder as if the reception was better at this point. Paul rose to his feet and cautiously pushed his thin body past the standing youngsters. Nobody moved to let him through.

Midnight Flight . There was a story about a lonely boy who collected moths and was drained of blood by a vengeful giant moth with skulls on its wings. And a story about a dead lake haunted by a terrible black moth. There were other kinds of winged creature in the book, including one that could only fly in utter darkness because it came from outer space, but it was the moth ones he remembered most clearly. For years he’d dreamt of flying through the night on fragile wings.

“Get out the fucking way!” A boy on a racing bike narrowly missed him on the pavement. The cold air transmitted the near-impact. Paul looked around in confusion. He must have taken a wrong turning: there were no familiar landmarks in sight. A woman with a pram was approaching; he’d better ask her.

“Excuse me,” he said as she drew level with him. “Do you know the way to. ” What was the name of the road? He shook his head. “Shit.”

“Even my daughter knows that.” The woman smiled. “Where are you trying to get to?”

“My flat. Just can’t. ” Blood rose to his face, silencing him.

“Have you got a bus pass?”

“I can walk, it’s not far.” Though he was no longer sure of that.

The woman touched his arm. “For your address.”

Doubtful, Paul pulled out his wallet and checked. His address in Victoria Road was there. He’d never been good with women’s names. “Thank you,” he said, breathless with relief.

“No worries.” He watched her continue up the road, weaving to negotiate the shattered paving stones. The sky overhead was fully dark; a helicopter’s light moved slowly above the rooftops. Paul replaced his wallet and buttoned up his coat. He wasn’t convinced the face in the bus pass photo was him, but you couldn’t be sure of everything.

Three days later, he remembered the editor’s name. It happened in the Black Eagle, while he was trying to read the new menu. The lines were too close together, blurring like ripples on still water. He folded the card and put it down, trying to recall what he’d last eaten here. At the next table, a middle-aged man with a beard was being tugged from side to side by headphones plugged into some round, black device that looked about to crawl away. He raised his arms above his head. Paul looked back down at the menu card and immediately saw the words: Thom Creighton Parr . He adjusted his glasses and read: Torn chicken pasta . But he was sure it was the right name. When he closed his eyes he could see it under the book’s title, superimposed on an image of blurred wings against the night. Black on dark blue.