Stephen (ed.) - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

He was on the verge of taking out his frustration by smashing the receiver against the smugly indifferent display screen when he remembered that emergency calls were free. Unable to prevent the escape of a triumphant whoop that he found hard to equate to himself, he jabbed thrice at the nine, and was only able to quell his eagerness to do it again by clenching his fist.

A phone burred once, then was interrupted by a barely audible click. Meacher was framing his lips to say hello into the expectant pause that followed when the screaming began.

It was a child’s voice, shrill and bubbling with terror. Its words were running together, to form a plea that it seemed would never end. “ Nodaddynodaddynopleasedon’tpleasestopdaddynopleaseno— ” Meacher slammed the phone into its cradle, then slid, as if boneless, to the floor. He wrapped his arms around his head and began to keen.

The child’s voice had had a devastating effect on him, not only because it had been distressing to hear, but because it had awakened what felt like a memory he couldn’t grasp. He knew the child, he was sure of that, but he couldn’t put a name or face to it. He clenched his hands into fists and began to pound the top of his head, punishing his brain for failing to yield its secrets. With each blow he grew angrier at himself and his situation, until his rage reached such a peak that he scrambled to his feet, shoved open the door of the telephone box and charged, teeth bared, towards the hooded statue.

The base of the statue was a rectangular block of stone six feet high and inset with panels, each of which contained an elaborate carving of interweaving vines. Meacher threw himself at it, scraping a layer of skin off his arms as he hauled himself up beside the horse and its rider. The statue was slightly larger than life-size, the rider’s covered head now eight or ten feet above him. As Meacher placed his left foot on the horse’s raised foreleg and grasped a loop of stone rein to heave himself closer to the sack which he intended to tear from the rider’s head in an act of manic defiance, he heard the rattling thump of a door opening on the opposite side of the square.

Excited, fearful, and even a little abashed at the prospect of being discovered in such an uncompromising position, Meacher strained to see which of the many doors had opened and who had opened it. However he hadn’t raised himself quite high enough to lift his gaze above the horse’s frozen mane, and so had to clamber down from his perch and peer between its motionlessly galloping legs, feeling not unlike a child engaged in a game of hide and seek.

What he saw bewildered him for no more than a second before cold, harsh fear stabbed at the base of his throat, then cascaded through his body, lodging in his stomach like broken glass. On the far side of the square, the door of a pub, the fleur-de-lis, had opened and four men had emerged from it. Dressed in jeans and shirts and boots, they looked perfectly normal except for one thing. Like the mannequins in the clothes stores and the stone rider atop its horse, each of them wore a sack-like hood over their head.

The two thoughts that sped through Meacher’s mind were more like sharp, bright flashes of despair than anything else. The first thought was an instinctive one that Meacher would have found curious had he had time to ponder it. He thought that if only he had removed the sack from the statue’s head and placed it over his own, he would have been safe. His second thought was perhaps equally intriguing, but more fundamental: he knew with absolute conviction that he had to get away before the men caught sight of him.

Even as he jumped sprawlingly from the statue’s plinth and tried to use its blocky mass to cover his retreat, however, he knew he was already too late. The men did not cry out, but even through their makeshift hoods it was obvious they were aware of his presence. They moved towards him with a purpose both remorseless and terrifying, and when he began to run, his terror making him feel as though he was wearing lead boots, their pursuit became more purposeful still.

The subsequent chase through the unknown town’s deserted streets was as surreally terrifying as any nightmare. Meacher’s terror made him stumble and stagger and skid. Within moments his body was greasy with sweat, which flowed from his hair and into his eyes, blinding him. His heart hammered, his lungs toiled, and his breath felt like a length of barbed wire that he couldn’t dislodge from his throat. Whenever he glanced back, his pursuers were the same distance behind him, which may have been encouraging if not for the fact that they appeared to be marching rather than running, their movements effortless, machine-like, full of deadly intent.

They were toying with him, Meacher knew. They were wearing him down prior to closing in for the kill. Meacher wished he could see their faces, and yet at the same time dreaded the disclosure of whatever might be concealed within those sack-cloth hoods. In fact, in some ways the prospect of finding out was what terrified him more than anything else.

The streets were getting narrower, danker. Sooner or later he would come to a dead end and then that would be that. If he couldn’t outrun his pursuers he had to escape them in some other way. The only viable alternative was to evade them for long enough to find a hiding place. At best that would be a short-term solution, but at least it would give him time to think, to plan his next move.

He rounded a corner, his hand slapping the brick to steady himself as he changed direction, and – as though he had willed it to appear – saw an aperture between two buildings on his right, so narrow it could barely even be termed an alleyway. He plunged down it, and was immediately doused in a gloom cold enough to make him feel he was underwater. Above him the tops of the buildings on either side of the rat-run appeared to be craning to touch one another. Certainly they gave the impression that they were squeezing the thin white stripe of sky that separated them still thinner. So dark did this make the alleyway that from his present position Meacher couldn’t see its end.

It was too late to change his mind, though. If he emerged from the alleyway now his pursuers would be on to him in an instant. He began to trot forward, stepping as lightly as he could in the hope that those behind him might plough straight past the slit-like entrance, oblivious. How much could they see through those hoods? How much could they hear? How much could they smell ?

This last thought came unbidden, and disturbed him the most. He thought of sniffer dogs, attuned not to the scent of food or drugs, but to fear. He quickened his pace. Was the alleyway getting narrower still? If he stretched out both arms like a child pretending to fly, he reckoned he might just about be able to touch the buildings on either side.

As he passed them, he barely glanced at the individual establishments embedded within the grey stone edifices. On a subconscious level he registered that each of them was a cramped shop unit, comprising of a door and a narrow display window with a sign above it. However there was not one that wasn’t coated in a layer of dust and grime so thick that it both obscured the name on the sign and made it impossible to tell what the shop sold, or once had. This, combined with a deepening murk that felt like twilight’s closing fist, made him fail to notice that one of the shop doors was ajar until it creaked as it widened further.

Meacher’s senses were so attuned to danger that his instinctive leftward spring was balletic. His landing, however, was not so graceful. His ankle turned on the pitted tarmac and he all but shoulder-charged the door opposite the one which had opened. As he fought to regain his senses and his balance, he saw a grey-shrouded figure materialise from the gloom beyond the open door and extend a beckoning hand. The figure’s face was concealed within a triangle of shadow so black it seemed impenetrable, but its words were clear enough.