Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

Dr Nis looked unhappy. “I must apologize – obviously my experiment is not yet perfected for public viewing. And so we come to our final offering this evening. You all know, if only in a vague way, that before men inhabited this world, the reptiles ruled for millions of years. They were the true Lords of the Earth. Science maintains that they died out before men appeared, but science has been wrong before. There was interbreeding . . .”

The creature that slithered into the ring was about five feet long. It had the general appearance of a man on all fours, but its skin was scaly and iridescent. The hands were clawed, the head narrowed and thrust forward, and a forked tongue hung from the mouth.

An attendant brought a plastic bag and released from it a cloud of flies. The creature reared up, long tongue flickering like forked lightning, catching the flies and swallowing them.

A sick show, Bragg decided; an outrage to perform this sort of thing before children. The catch-phrases of popular journalism ran through his head – “This Show Must Be Banned!”

Pipe music played again, a falling scale. Dr Nis bowed and left the ring. Families rose and filed quietly out, their offspring subdued.

Bragg vaulted into the ring, crossed the sawdust and left by the aisle exit. As he hurried towards the caravans, he saw Dr Nis entering one of them.

The door was just closing when Bragg arrived and leaned on it. Dr Nis turned to peer at him.

“Ah, Mr Bragg, I was half-expecting you. You are, after all, well known in your trade.”

Bragg pushed his way into the caravan and felt like a giant in a doll’s house; everything seemed smaller, neat and tidy in its appointed place.

“Then you’ll know the paper I work for and the sort of thing I write.” He couldn’t be bothered to turn on the charm. “Tell me – tell the Herald’s millions of readers – how do you justify your show? Horror for adults – okay, we’ll go along with that. But the kids?’

Dr Nis made a small deprecating motion with his hands. “Horror, Mr Bragg? I deplore the term. My life is spent trying to keep alive a faith, a faith in the mystery of Nature. Strange things happen. If a man who believes sees a ghost, is he frightened? Yet a man who disbelieves and comes face to face with one may well die of shock. So perhaps my show serves a useful purpose . . . as for children, what better time to develop a sense of wonder?”

“That’s your story – now let’s have the low-down on howyour gimmicks work.”

“Gimmicks?” Dr Nis regarded him calmly. “I assure you I do not deal in trickery. Consider this: who knows you are here? And aren’t you just a little bit frightened?”

Bragg flinched. “Who, me? Of a bunch of freaks?” But his voice was edged with doubt.

Dr Nis said, “I do not want the kind of publicity you have in mind, Mr Bragg. I don’t think it would serve my purpose.” He smiled suddenly, and his smile was not for his visitor.

Arnold Bragg turned. Freaks crowded the door of the caravan: the vampire, the werewolf and the lizard-man. The resurrected man was conspicuously absent.

“I think it would be best if Mr Bragg disappeared,” Dr Nis said quietly. “But don’t damage his head, please.” He looked again at Bragg, his eyes bright and hard.

“You see, Mr Bragg, I believe I have a use for it.”

OVER SEVEN MILLION COPIES of F. Paul Wilson’s books are in print around the world and he is the author of such best-selling novels as The Keep (filmed in 1983) and The Tomb. In 1998 he resurrected his popular anti-hero Repairman Jack and recently published the latest volumes in the series, Gateways and Crisscross. Beacon Films is presently developing Jack into a franchise character.

In 2003, Midnight Mass was a micro-budget independent movie adaptation of his vampire story of the same title (with a cameo by the author), released straight to video by Lions Gate Films. More recently he combined the tale with its two prequels, “The Lord’s Work” and “Good Friday”, and expanded them into a full-length novel.

“In many cases I have no idea where a story comes from,” reveals Wilson. “Not so with ‘Foet’. It arrived intact while I lay awake after an argument with a woman friend over her fur coat. (Such a deal, she’d bought two.) She wasn’t the least bit fazed that anal electrocution is the method of choice for killing minks. Her attitude was: animals are here for our use, to do with as we please. Another woman present agreed.

“My wife Mary squeezed my thigh under the table – her oftused technique for warning me to think before igniting my flame-thrower. (Some nights I’m limping by the time we get home.) I realized then that you cannot have a serious conversation with some women – not all women, but too many, as evidenced by the ongoing popularity of fur – about the humane treatment of animals if vanity or fashion are part of the equation. (I hear the cries of ’sexist!’ but I speak from experience.) Fashion and vanity create an ethical blind spot in these women.

“I remember my closing remark before the conversation fled to more neutral ground: ‘You’d probably wear human skin if it was in vogue!’

“And thus, the story.”

DENISE DIDN’T MIND THE January breeze blowing against her back down Fifth Avenue as she crossed Fifty-seventh Street. Her favorite place in the world was Manhattan, her favorite pastime was shopping, and when she was shopping in midtown – heaven.

At the curb she stopped and turned to stare at the pert blonde who’d just passed. She couldn’t believe it.

“Helene? Helene Ryder, is that you?”

The blonde turned. Her eyes lit with recognition.

“Ohmigod, Denise! Imagine meeting you here! How long has it been?”

They hugged and air kissed.

“Oh, I don’t know. Six months?”

“At least! What are you doing in the city?”

“Just shopping. Accessory hunting.”

“Me, too. Where were you headed?”

“Actually, I was looking for a place to get off my feet and have a bite to eat. I skipped lunch and I’m famished.”

“That sounds good.” Helene glanced at her watch. A diamond Piaget, Denise noticed. “It’s tea time at the Waldorf. Why don’t we go there?”

“Wonderful!”

During the bouncy cab ride down Park Avenue, Denise gave Helene a thorough twice-over and was impressed. Her blonde hair was short and fashionably tousled; her merino wool topcoat, camel’s-hair sweater, and short wool and cashmere skirt reeked of Barney’s and Bergdorf s.

Amazing what could happen when your husband got a big promotion. You could move from Fairfield to Greenwich, and you could buy any little thing your heart desired.

Not that Helene hadn’t always had style. It was just that now she could afford to dress in the manner to which she and Denise had always hoped to become accustomed.

Denise was still waiting to become accustomed. Her Brian didn’t have quite the drive of Helene’s Harry. He still liked to get involved in local causes and in church functions. And that was good in a way. It allowed him more time at home with her and the twins. The downside, though, was that she didn’t have the budget to buy what she needed when she needed it. As a result, Denise had honed her shopping skills to the black-belt level. By keeping her eyes and ears ever open, buying judiciously, and timing her purchases to the minute – like now, for instance, in the post-holiday retail slump – she managed to keep herself looking nearly as in style as someone with a pocketbook as deep as Helene’s.