Stephen Jones: The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Vol 15

The Wicked Witch took off on her broom. Smoke billowed like a tumor in her wake. No trapdoors this time; my position offered an excellent view behind the cabin. Her flight left a rough scar across the sky that traced the road’s path toward the Emerald City and beyond to the land of the Winkies.

“I wonder how many she’ll kill when she gets home?”

I jumped from my crouch. The Scarecrow stood beside me. Dorothy and the Tin Man remained in the road. Instead of the concern I’d seen earlier, they appeared curious.

“What are you doing?” I glanced toward the trees. The hanged man swung from his rope, as solid as a mirage, flirting with the shadows. I turned back to the Scarecrow. “You’re supposed to be on your way to the Emerald City.”

The Scarecrow, who looked less and less like Bolger, dropped his gaze and shrugged. The simple gesture produced a sound reminiscent of dead leaves. “I’m not supposed to tell you,” he said, his words more rustle than speech.

Dorothy and the Tin Man, poor doubles for Garland and Haley, edged towards the bend. “We have to go, Scarecrow,” the not-Garland said. “There’s not much time left and we’re expected.”

The Scarecrow joined them. “I’m not supposed to tell you, Michael,” he repeated. “Talk to Stan.” He glanced towards the trees one last time as he and his companions moved away. “Stay away from the Hanged Man.”

I woke drenched with sweat. I don’t know what happened after the three left. Maybe they found the Cowardly Lion, became a quartet, maybe not. Stay away from the Hanged Man.

Even the memory of those words hurt.

Talk to Stan.

What was I involved in here? Were my dreams random subconscious processes? Talk to Stan? I didn’t even know his last name. Denise introduced him by his first name. I only knew Denise’s — Fleming — because the apartment glued labels to the lobby mailboxes. When we met, we exchanged greetings and first names. Surnames never came into it because right from the start we were always personal.

Hours remained until dawn. I left the apartment and hit Kroger. The big grocery on Carpenter stayed open all night — and its video selection included The Wizard of Oz.

I wanted a copy because… because I wanted privacy. I’d need Denise soon enough to find Stan, if I gathered the courage necessary to broach the subject. The hanged man was a drug and I was a junkie. If I had my own copy, I might control the addiction. I’d first seen him with Denise and everything stemmed from that. I’d entered one of Silva’s infinite worlds; privacy might let me create a new perspective.

The shadowed streets looked different than they did during the day. The late-night wind didn’t touch the trees. Each moved on its own, apple hoarders, ready for a rematch.

“Just wait,” a voice rasped beside me. “It gets worse.”

I shouted and slammed the brakes. My car swerved, shuddered to a halt and stalled. I turned and found myself facing the Scarecrow.

“What do you … what do you want?” I tried sounding angry, but my voice shook.

My Scarecrow smiled and the maw formed by his mouth — old burlap, leather, and rotting hay — made my stomach turn. “I won’t hurt you, Michael.” He nodded toward the back. “But I can’t speak for her.”

I twisted in my seat and craned to look. A shape huddled there, its outline weird and broken by too many angles. I fumbled to turn on the overhead dome light, but the person in the back actually cackled and I leaped from the car and into the deserted street.

I tripped before I’d gone half a dozen steps. Scrambling up, I looked over my shoulder, expecting pursuit — and saw nothing. The car door was open and the dome light revealed the empty interior. The only sound was the chime that signaled the keys were still in the ignition.

This isn’t happening, I told myself. The Scarecrow was in the passenger seat and the Witch — yes, the Witch — was in the back.

A soft noise broke the breathless silence. I saw something slowly swinging in the tree shadows across the way. I knew the noise was a rope creaking under the strain of a dead man’s weight. I retreated to my car, more scared of what hid outside than of my elusive passengers.

The residential speed limit was twenty-five. I did at least fifty and ran every red light getting home.

Two hours more till dawn.

I shredded the box wrap and popped the tape into my VCR. My head throbbed with too many ideas, as if I’d overdosed on coffee and Tylenol. I let it play and tried to clear my mind. I tried to tell myself there was no place like Oz. And this time the scene ran the same as I remembered it from my childhood.

The Tin Man stumbled and landed on the tree stump. Dorothy and the Scarecrow ran over to help. The Wicked Witch made her threats, threw her fireball, bolted in a puff of smoke. The three adventurers danced off down the road.

There wasn’t any sign of the Hanged Man.

There was movement among the trees, but I could see it was a long-necked bird moving one of its wings. Was there something different on Denise’s tape? I didn’t consider myself gullible. Because I didn’t trust my eyes. I rewound the tape and played it again, cursing myself for doing that.

The Tin Man collapsed on the tree stump. But he didn’t resemble Haley. His fingers and hat were burned, warped by some tremendous heat, even though the fireball lay moments in the future. Dorothy and the Scarecrow ran to help him. But she looked middle-aged and the Scarecrow was the rotting bag from my car. Once, all three stared at me. The screen thinned to gauze as thin as the dust coating its surface.

And the Wicked Witch screamed to life on the roof — a gangrenous, misshapen version of Denise.

I stopped the tape.

I waited in my car for two hours before Denise left the apartment. I didn’t want to meet her in the hall. She had started the avalanche of fear that had buried my senses, and I wasn’t ready for a confrontation.

Stay away from the Hanged Man.

Talk to Stan…

I stayed at least a block behind her. She worked at a department store in the mall and liked to arrive early. I parked in the side lot. She was inside by the time I walked to the front entrance. I hung around there, wondering if I was too late. Entering the store wasn’t an option. If Denise caught me inside, I didn’t have any excuses. She’d know I’d followed her. Besides, I worked at a union job shop, creating ads on a computer, and I caught hell when I missed a shift.

Ten minutes later, Stan entered the lot.

I ran over and hovered as he locked his car. I’m not sure what I expected from him.

“I need help,” I said.

“What are you doing here, Michael? Don’t you have to work?”

“I’m taking a sick day.”

Stan nodded, lit up a cigarette. I could blame my imagination, but I thought his hands shook. “So? What are you doing here?” he asked again. He didn’t seem in any hurry to get to work.

“The Scarecrow told me to talk to you.”

Stan didn’t laugh. His mouth twitched, though.

“You know about it.”

He shoved past me. “You’re crazy,” he said, walking briskly towards the store.

I followed, grabbed his arm. I glanced around the lot to see if anyone was watching. No one was close.

“Don’t call me crazy,” I said. “The Scarecrow popped in and out of my car like a damned ghost and he brought the Wicked Witch along for the ride and I’m scared. This is all Denise’s fault and you know something. You asked me about the movie. Don’t dare tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Stan jabbed his lit cigarette against my hand as I held his arm. I jerked it away, hissed with pain, put my mouth over the burn. Stan backed up and pinned a sneer on his pale face.