Peter Straub - Magic Terror

Grateful acknowledgement is made to Georges Borchardt, Inc., for permission to reprint six lines from ‘Down by the Station, Early in the Morning’, from A Wave , by John Ashbery (New York: Viking, 1984). Copyright © 1981, 1982, 1983, 1984 by John Ashbery. Reprinted by permission of Georges Borchardt, Inc., for the author.

All of the pieces in this work have been previously published: ‘Ashputtle’ was originally published in Black Thorn, White Rose , edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (William Morrow, 1994); ‘Isn’t It Romantic?’ was originally published in Murder on the Run , by the Adams Round Table (Berkley, 1998); ‘The Ghost Village’ was originally published in The Mists from Beyond , edited by Robert Weinberg, Stefan R. Dziemianowicz, and Martin H. Greenberg (ROC, 1993); ‘Porkpie Hat’ was originally published in Murder for Halloween , edited by Michele Slung and Roland Hartman (Mysterious Press, 1994); ‘Bunny Is Good Bread’ was originally published, under the title ‘Fee’, in Borderlands 4 , edited by Elizabeth E. Monteleone and Thomas F. Monteleone (Borderlands Press, 1994); ‘Hunger, an Introduction’ was originally published in Ghosts , edited by Peter Straub (Borderlands Press, 1995); and ‘Mr Clubb and ‘Mr Cuff was originally published in Murder for Revenge , edited by Otto Penzler (Delacorte Press, 1998).

HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperColIins Publishers 2001

First published in the USA by Random House 2000

Copyright © Peter Straub 2000

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN; 9780007109906

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780007401574

Version: 2016-08-10

For Lawrence Block

The result is magic, then terror, then pity at the emptiness, Then air gradually bathing and filling the emptiness as it leaks, Emoting all over something that is probably mere reportage. But nevertheless likes being emoted on.

… the light

From the lighthouse that protects us as it pushes us away.

‘ Down by the Station, Early in the Morning.’ JOHN ASHBERY

Cover

Title Page Peter Straub MAGIC TERROR [7 tales]

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Ashputtle

Isn’t It Romantic?

The Ghost Village

Bunny Is Good Bread

Porkpie Hat

Hunger, an Introduction

Mr Clubb and Mr Cuff

About the Author

Also by Peter Straub

Praise

About the Publisher

People think that teaching little children has something to do with helping other people, something to do with service. People think that if you teach little children, you must love them. People get what they need from thoughts like this.

People think that if you happen to be very fat and are a person who acts happy and cheerful all the time, you are probably pretending to be that way in order to make them forget how fat you are, or cause them to forgive you for being so fat. They make this assumption, thinking you are so stupid that you imagine that you’re getting away with this charade. From this assumption, they get confidence in the superiority of their intelligence over yours, and they get to pity you, too.

Those figments, those stepsisters, came to me and said, Don’t you know that we want to help you? They came to me and said, Can you tell us what your life is like?

These moronic questions they asked over and over: Are you all right? Is anything happening to you? Can you talk to us now, darling? Can you tell us about your life?

I stared straight ahead, not looking at their pretty hair or pretty eyes or pretty mouths. I looked over their shoulders at the pattern on the wallpaper and tried not to blink until they stood up and went away.

What my life was like? What was happening to me?

Nothing was happening to me. I was all right.

They smiled briefly, like a twitch in their eyes and mouths, before they stood up and left me alone. I sat still on my chair and looked at the wallpaper while they talked to Zena.

The wallpaper was yellow, with white lines going up and down through it. The lines never touched – just when they were about to run into each other, they broke, and the fat thick yellow kept them apart.

I liked seeing the white lines hanging in the fat yellow, each one separate.

When the figments called me darling , ice and snow stormed into my mouth and went pushing down my throat into my stomach, freezing everything. They didn’t know I was nothing, that I would never be like them, they didn’t know that the only part of me that was not nothing was a small hard stone right at the center of me.

That stone has a name. MOTHER.

If you are a female kindergarten teacher in her fifties who happens to be very fat, people imagine that you must be truly dedicated to their children, because you cannot possibly have any sort of private life. If they are the parents of the children in your kindergarten class, they are almost grateful that you are so grotesque, because it means that you must really care about their children. After all, even though you couldn’t possibly get any other sort of job, you can’t be in it for the money, can you? Because what do people know about your salary? They know that garbage men make more money than kindergarten teachers. So at least you didn’t decide to take care of their delightful, wonderful, lovable little children just because you thought you’d get rich, no no.

Therefore, even though they disbelieve all your smiles, all your pretty ways, even though they really do think of you with a mixture of pity and contempt, a little gratitude gets in there.