Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year – Volume One

I listened to the radio for three days. I had the dial somewhere between stations. Sometimes one came in stronger, sometimes the other. I heard news, I heard a minister Bible-teaching, organ music, chants-when both stations grew weak I heard a murkier broadcast: two voices, disharmonious music, swamp-static. I'd ordered all my meals by delivery for the last few days. Greasy wax paper curled in on itself; half-eaten sandwiches, flat soda, Styrofoam. I spent the day in a leather arm chair. I slept there-I woke often to be sure that all my windows were fastened, that the bolts on the door had been shot-that I hadn't been careless after a delivery boy had come by, though, each time I closed the door on a delivery, I locked up, leaned against the door and double-checked the locks. I worried the skin around my fingers and smoked-I'd found a stale pack in my bedroom; not my brand, someone else's cigarettes, some woman I'd brought here had left her cigarettes. I tried to think of ways that I could have stopped what happened from happening, but there was nothing I could've done. I could've done little things differently-not waited so long to take Sarah away (not sent Prudence on her own). Yet, even these small acts seemed out of the realm of possibility to me-that I couldn't have behaved any way other than the way I behaved. My own personality, my own desires, took on monstrous shapes in my mind.

On the third day I remembered the book that I gave to Sarah-that slim collection of short stories. An image of that book popped into my head, completely unbidden. And once that image was there, I couldn't shake it-try as I might. As if the image of that book were being broadcast directly into my head. The book must still have been at Richard's house. I could picture it in each room: on the bar next to a clear, empty bottle; in the guest room on the couch; etc. The book, then the empty room all around it. My thoughts returned incessantly to the book. The book as object. The book as icon. The book as literature-how did those stories tie in with the events of that night? At times, just as sleep would come over me, the stories in that book would seem clearly prophetic-how could I, having read the book, not have known what was going to happen at Richard's party?

I left my apartment to retrieve the book. A small part of my brain screamed at me not to, pointed out that going anywhere near Richard's house was lunacy. I drove up the mountain, tapped the steering wheel, chewed on the end of an unlit cigarette and drove under the no trespassing sign to Richard's. I would get the book and leave. I would have the book. The sun was high and bright, there was nothing at all to going into Richard's house and getting the book and then leaving with it, set on the passenger seat or, perhaps, on my lap. Once I had the book, I would be able to settle back into my rational life.

Prudence's body wasn't in the driveway. I remembered the wall of corpses the man from the peak had made.

I was glad there was still a mess from the party-bottles, ash trays full of butts, objects displaced, leftover dip, etc. If the man from the peak had taken the time to clean the house-that might have made me crazy-if the house had looked as it did on the occasions I'd come to visit Sarah when Richard was away, I'd've been greatly disturbed. There had been a party. The man from the peak had come.

The moment I touched the book I knew that I hadn't come for it after all, and that I hadn't come of my own will.

The peak was a black spike surrounded by sun. I climbed toward the peak. I sweated heavily in my dark clothes-if someone had stood at Richard's front door, would they have been able to see me at all? Just shy of the boulders that crowned the mountain, I found the crevasse I knew was home to the man from the peak. "I live in the peak," he'd said.

I sat down at the edge of the crevasse. A jagged, open crescent in the side of the mountain, as if a sliver of the moon had burned its impression onto the side of the mountain. When I leaned over, I felt a gust of wet air, like breath; it reeked of ammonia and dirt. I'd smoke until my cigarettes were gone and by then there wouldn't be much light left. I didn't want to be here but I found that it was impossible to leave.

Except for the drip of distant water and the soft crying of the children, there is only silence.

Torches pick out brickwork, nearly two hundred years old and holding firm. Handmade bricks; nineteenth-century workmanship. Thank God for small mercies.

Ochre sludge clotted at the edges of the canal. The damp chill. The black, black water.

Jean's body presses close to mine in the small boat. We're well-wrapped. Thank God we're dressed for the winter; it's cold down here. Another small mercy. Despite that, I can feel her warmth, and something stirs in me; for the first time since I've known her, I think of her in a sexual way, what she might look like naked, and I feel sickened at myself.

Is she thinking of me the same way?

I think of Anya and force myself to concentrate on the tunnel ahead. The torches give us only a few yards visibility. I try not to think of how long they'll last.

We travel on down the canal. And the others follow.

And the only sound is the soft, occasional plash of our paddles in the water.

And the drip of water from the ceiling and the walls.

And the crying, the crying of the children.

My own is silent.

When the sirens wailed, I took charge.

I don't know why that was. I wasn't the newest member of staff, but still far from long-serving. I'd only been at the school about a year.

But I took charge nonetheless.

I knew what the Headmaster, Mr Makin, was thinking. He was in his sixties, due to retire next year. All the years spent caring for others' kids, and none of his own-unless you counted a son who lived in Australia and never called or wrote. All those years, and all he'd wanted was to spend the last few with his wife.

"Ethel… " I heard him breathe in the stricken hush of the staff room.

Jean was as stunned as the rest. She was the Deputy Head and should have said something, but for the first time I could remember, she was at a loss. No one could think of what to say or do. No one but me.

I'd never been in serious danger before. Nearly had a car accident three years ago, avoided a collision by a hair-hardly in the same league. But they say a crisis shows you who you really are. I'd always assumed I'd fall short, feared I'd be weak or frightened.

But, come the moment, I wasn't. Even when Makin said his wife's name and sent Anya's face fluttering round my head like a moth round a light, I made it go away. She worked in the city centre; with a terrible coldness I realised there was nothing I could do for her.

I wish I'd at least called her on her mobile, said I loved her, said goodbye-but, no, I can't see that happening, can you? Switchboards have to be manned, after all. I wonder if anyone kept on mechanically doing their duty as the last few minutes ticked by.

Four minutes. That was all we had.

That endless moment broke and I was on my feet.

"The kids," I said. "Jean?"

She blinked at me. Outside, the playground had fallen silent.

"Get in the playground," I said. "Any kids live in the next couple streets, get home. Otherwise, get them down the basement."

"Basement?" She blinked again. It was a filthy place, not even used for storage anymore.

"Best chance we've got." I clapped my hands. "Come on! Everyone! Go! Go!"

Where did it come from, the sudden authority? I ask myself again and again, and have no clue. And then I stop asking, because I mustn't. The ball is rolling now, and I have to stay like this. Responsibility. It's like a millstone round your neck.