Christopher Fowler - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 10

Silas was in every way amazed. His stomach ached and rumbled as he consulted the pile of unread newspapers on the reading desk. There it was: MYSTERY GROWS AROUND “DEVIL’S HEAD”. Silas hardly remembered running down the hall, but he remembered some one running down the hall, and fumbling with the key in the lock of the outer door. One good look showed him the cabinet whose lock had been jimmied open, and the tiny note saying APRIL FOOL. Was there anything he could do which would be of the least help and comfort to him? Selby Silas knew well that there was nothing he could do.

As for the Mustee, Larraby grilled him until he was scorched on both sides. He told Larraby that he could handle the Red men and he could handle the Black men and Paper-Men, but he could not handle the New York Police men. This was perhaps the truth, though certainly not the whole truth; but then the Mustee wasn’t under oath.

“You owe me a head,” said Larraby.

What else could he have said?

Edward Bagnell unfolded his morning paper, and was jolted fully awake. There was the Paper-Man’s head. the Devil’s head. Ephraim Mackilwhit’s head gazing at him slyly. Bagnell realized that the dreadful secret, so long concealed, had begun to escape from its dreadfully long concealment.

Professor Vlad Smith was not reading the newspapers.

Jack Stewart had said that they were close to his home, and he wanted to spend a few days with his family, who hadn’t seen him since winter vacation. So Vlad dropped him off and continued alone.

Later he phoned his own family and, to his pleasure and surprise, Elsa answered the phone. “Bella is a little better, thank God. She’s seeing a psychiatrist, who has her on a low dose of medication, but I wish she wasn’t so listless!” Elsa said.

This last word, with its tone of emotion, however unhappy, gave Vlad hope that Elsa was starting to feel again — and that eventually her feelings might again include him.

Vlad recalled that one of the names Wabershaw had mentioned as part of the secretive committee was Zimmerman, and he guessed that this was Claire Zimmerman, a woman he had often enjoyed meeting at folklore conferences. She lived nearby and perhaps she could help him. “Hello, Claire.”

“Why. Vlad Smith!” A big hug.

“Excuse the abrupt appearance at this hour. I tried three times to phone you, but the line. ”

“I just made fresh coffee, and have a slice of cake.” She handed him coffee and cake, and their hands brushed. Vlad had never before noticed how soft her hands were, or how her sleek dark hair framed her round and downy cheeks. Better to stop noticing. “I’m researching that old legend, the Paper-Man or Boss in the Wall. ”

“Oh, I suppose you saw the picture in the paper. Ghastly thing.” She handed him a folded newspaper, and this time he didn’t even notice that their hands brushed. Vlad stared with startled blue-gray eyes at the newspaper photo of the “Devil’s Head,” while Claire rattled on with just a slight nervous edge in her voice.

“You had seen it, hadn’t you? I mean, I assumed that’s what you came to talk about, because of my research project with old news clippings and all. Well, that photo is startling, but nothing new, really, nothing new at all. Here, let me show you some examples.” She pulled a file of photocopies off a shelf. “Look at this one, from the New Orleans Daily Picayune, dated March 12, 1871. Right next to an ad for Ayer’s medicinal Sarsaparilla, and another ad for a hot spring cure for opium habits; the headline is ‘Kneeling Down to Idols.’ It says, ‘In a dark row of tenements on Dumaine Street, is a very old building with crumbling walls overgrown with wild creepers. Rain drops fall through the roof without restraint. A low, heavy doorway admits the visitor to a gloomy cell with a hard earthen floor. In one corner of the room is a bundle of rags, and on the wretched pallet reposes a half-naked Voudon doctor, beneath the idol of some heathenish divinity. ’ It goes on like that for quite a while, but you see this sort of thing is not new, Vlad, not at all.”

Vlad impulsively cupped her round and warm cheeks in his two long hands. “The legends aren’t new, Claire. What’s new is that the legends are real, and you know it and the committee knows it, and I need to know what’s going on!”

Vlad told her all that had happened, and when he finished she sipped her coffee silently for a moment, then said in a soft voice, “I didn’t know Vlad, I’m so sorry this happened to your family, and to you, because I’ve always liked you. You’re great at puncturing stuffed shirts at conferences. Oh hell, take this memo. It has the date and location of the next committee meeting — and tell ‘em Claire sent you.”

Vlad thanked her. Then he thanked her again. Then he said it was getting late and started towards the door. Then he turned and thanked her again, and took her hand. Then their lips brushed, and her open mouth was soft and warm.

Later that night, Vlad read from the Interim Committee Report:

“It is said that the Gullahs of the Georgia coast sometimes refer to them as Thunder People, because of the belief that they are seen more often during thunderstorms. Dr Allbright suggests that they may seize upon these deafening noises to cover their own well-known and well-feared sounds. Or perhaps the Boss in the Wall is discomfited by the falling of the barometer, and is impelled to move and to stir about.

“In certain border states, the obscure term Hyett is found, which may be related to a little-known tale. There was a banker named Williams who had a wife named Dorcas and a daughter named Mary Martha. The family was prosperous, and Dorcas always liked to see a good plate of victuals on the table, and had a closet full of good black silk dresses. After Williams died of consumption, it was discovered that most of the bank’s assets had been invested in beautifully engraved, but worthless bonds. In all the excitement and tumult which followed, nobody gave much thought to the Widow Williams and her daughter.

“During the next few months, six babies were reported missing from sharecroppers’ shacks in the vicinity. Perhaps the number was more, for the poor sometimes counted their blessings in the way of children, and concluded that they had been overblessed. The word Gypsies was mentioned, and many a mother threw up her hands in horror.

“Constable Stebbins was sent to investigate, a rough but kindly man. It occurred to him that Mrs and Miss Williams had not been seen lately, and he went to inquire if they had been bothered by any frightening strangers. He went to the back of the house, and its neglected condition made him feel uneasy. But Miss Mary Williams assured him that she and her mother were quite all right, and that they had seen no suspicious characters or small children around. Her complexion was very pale, and there was a slight smile on her lips.

“Then the Constable noted something red beneath the edge of a large towel in the kitchen, and he recalled that one of the missing children had been wearing a red dress. He lifted the towel — and found a basket full of babies’ clothes. Then Miss Mary Williams looked at him with her small little smile, and said, ‘Mother was very hungry.’

“No such shocking event had ever occurred in the county, as the news that Mary Williams had drowned at least six small children, and carried them home in her shawl to be eaten. The people screamed for her blood. How much did old Mrs Williams know? All she said was, ‘Nobody cared about me and my baby.’ Mary Williams was sentenced to be hanged, and her mother was sent to a lunatic asylum for life. Miss Williams’ last words were, ‘Will they feed mother good there?’