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

Charity leveled a plump forefinger. “You, on the other hand, have clearly seen or heard or felt something. You had to have something more than this big dark living-room to get the psychics in, and you had it. Tell us.”

The horror writer produced a sharply bent briar that showed signs of years of use. “Will this trouble anyone? I rarely smoke in here, but if we’re going to have a good long chat – well, a pipe may make things go more smoothly. Would anyone care for a drink?”

Charity was quickly equipped with white wine, Dan with Johnnie-Walker-and-water, and Robbie with cola. “A lot of the kids drink beer at IVY Tech,” Kiara announced in a tone that indicated she was one of them. “I don’t, though.”

“Not until you’re twenty-one,” Dan said firmly.

“You see?” She pouted.

The horror writer nodded. “I do indeed. One of the things I see is that you have good parents, parents who care about you and are zealous for your welfare.” He slipped Kiara a scarcely perceptible wink. “What about a plain soda? I always find soda water over ice refreshing, myself.”

Charity said, “That would be fine, if she wants it.”

Kiara said she did, and he became busy behind the bar.

Robbie had been watching the dark upper corners of the old, high-ceilinged room. “I thought I saw one.”

“A ghost?” The horror writer looked up, his blue eyes twinkling.

“A bat. Maybe we can catch it.”

Dan said, “There’s probably a belfry, too.”

“I’m afraid not. Perhaps I’ll add one once I get the new stucco on.”

“You need one. As I’ve told my wife a dozen times, anybody who believes in ghosts has bats in his belfry.”

“It’s better, perhaps,” Charity murmured, “if living things breathe and move up there. Better than just bells, rotting ropes, and dust. Tell us more about this place, please.”

“It was a country house originally.” With the air of one who performed a sacrament, the horror writer poured club soda into a tall frosted glass that already contained five ice cubes and (wholly concealed by his fingers) a generous two inches of vodka. “A quiet place in which a wealthy family could get away from the heat and stench of city summers. The family was ruined somehow – I don’t recall the details. I know it’s usually the man who kills in murder-suicides, but in this house it was the woman. She shot her husband and her stepdaughters, and killed herself.”

Charity said, “I could never bring myself to do that. I could never kill Dan. Or his children. I suppose I might kill myself. That’s conceivable. But not the rest.”

Straight-faced, the horror writer handed his frosted glass to Kiara. “I couldn’t kill myself,” he told her. “I like myself too much. Other people? Who can say?”

Robbie banged down his cola. “You’re trying to scare us!”

“Of course I am. It’s my trade.”

Dan asked, “They all died? That’s good shooting.”

The horror writer resumed his chair and picked up his briar. “No. As a matter of fact they didn’t. One of the three stepdaughters survived. She had been shot in the head at close range, yet she lived.”

Dan said, “Happens sometime.”

“It does. It did in this case. Her name was Maude Parkhurst. Maude was a popular name back around 1900, which is when her parents and sisters died. Ever hear of her?”

Dan shook his head.

“She was left penniless and scarred for life. It seems to have disordered her thinking. Or perhaps the bullet did it. In any event, she founded her own church and was its pope and prophetess. It was called – maybe it’s still called, since it may still be around for all I know – the Unionists of Heaven and Earth.”

Charity said, “I’ve heard of it. It sounded innocent enough.”

The horror writer shrugged. “Today? Perhaps it is. Back then, I would say no. Decidedly no. It was, in its own fantastic fashion, about as repellent as a cult can be. May I call it a cult?”

Kiara grinned prettily over her glass. “Go right ahead. I won’t object.”

“A friend of mine, another Dan, once defined a cult for me. He said that if the leader gets all the women, it’s a cult.”

Dan nodded. “Good man. There’s a lot to that.”

“There is, but in the case of the UHE, as it was called, it didn’t apply. Maude Parkhurst didn’t want the women, or the men either. The way to get to Heaven, she told her followers, was to live like angels here on earth.”

Dan snorted.

“Exactly. Any sensible person would have told them that they were not angels. That it was natural and right for angels to live like angels, but that men and women should live like human beings.”

“We really know almost nothing about angels.” Charity looked pensive. “Just that they carry the Lord’s messages. It’s Saint Paul, I think, who says that each of us has an angel who acts as our advocate in Heaven. So we know that, too. But it’s really very little.”

“This is about sex,” Kiara said. “I smell it coming.”

The horror writer nodded. “You’re exactly right, and I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not the most intelligent person here. It is indeed. Members of the UHE were to refrain from all forms of sexual activity. If unmarried, they were not to marry. If married, they were to separate and remain separated.”

“The University of Heaven at Elysium. On a T-shirt. I can see it now.”

Charity coughed, the sound of it scarcely audible in the large, dark room. “Well, Kiara, I don’t see anything wrong with that if it was voluntary.”

“Neither do I,” the horror writer said, “but there’s more. Those wishing to join underwent an initiation period of a year. At the end of that time, there was a midnight ceremony. If they had children, those children had to attend, all of them. There they watched their parents commit suicide – or that’s how it looked. I don’t know the details, but I know that at the end of the service they were carried out of the church, apparently lifeless and covered with blood.”

Charity whispered, “Good God . . .”

“When the congregation had gone home,” the horror writer continued, “the children were brought here. They were told that it was an orphanage, and it was operated like one. Before long it actually was one. Apparently there was some sort of tax advantage, so it was registered with the state as a church-run foundation, and from time to time the authorities sent actual orphans here. It was the age of orphanages, as you may know. Few children, if any, were put in foster homes. Normally, it was the orphanage for any child without parents or close relatives.”

Dan said, “There used to be a comic strip about it, Little Orphan Annie .”

The horror writer nodded. “Based upon a popular poem of the nineteenth century.“ ‘Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up,an’ brush the crumbs away,An’ shoo the chickens off the porch,an’ dust the hearth an’ sweep,An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread,an’ earn her board an’ keep.An’ all us other children,when the supper things is done,We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest funA-list’nin’ to the witch tales ’at Annie tells about,An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gets youEf youDon’tWatchOut!’

“You see,” the horror writer finished, smiling, “in those days you could get an orphan girl from such an orphanage as this to be your maid of all work and baby-sitter. You fed and clothed her, gave her a place to sleep, and paid her nothing at all. Despite being showered with that sort of kindness, those girls picked up enough of the monstrosity and lonely emptiness of the universe to become the first practitioners of my art, the oral recounters of horrific tales whose efforts preceded all horror writing.”