The Spectral Book of Horror Stories Read online

  She began nodding her head rapidly, like a tic. “Of course. I hadn’t thought…”

  “Clearly not.”

  She gave him an anguished look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything—I wasn’t trying to—I’m sorry if I offended you. I was just so surprised, because, well… Cassius! He’s so real to me, I forgot. It’s just hard for me to remember, talking to you… that… even though you look like him, you’re not… not the same.”

  “I know,” he said, trying to be kind. But he didn’t know how anyone—except the very youngest, most ignorant, mentally-challenged and obsessive fan—could confuse the player with the part. And especially when it was a case of an educated, urbane Englishman who had played the part of a crafty, hillbilly monster years ago. And if she really thought he was anything like Cassius, what on earth was she thinking, to invite him to dinner?

  “It’s very flattering, truly, to think I created a character that seems so real and matters so much to you, but…” Light flashed, searingly, off the blade of a butter knife; he blinked and rubbed his temples, feeling the faint, insidious throbbing of an incipient migraine. “But… I have often thought fans, rather than seeking out actors they think they admire, should take advice from the Wizard of Oz—what were his words? ‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!’”

  “Oh, no! I don’t agree at all. It was such a thrill to meet you! Such a privilege! I hope I haven’t offended you. I could just shoot myself, honestly, what an idiot, so stupid. I don’t have anything against gays—I’m not like that—it was just such a shock, to think of Cassius as… as… I mean, you agree, don’t you, that Cassius is not homosexual?”

  It seemed to Anson that the fictional serial killer was driven by a lust for killing, not for what a normal person would categorise as sex, and that defining them by the gender of their victims was hardly significant, but he had no desire to argue the case with Elissa.

  “You can claim him for heterosexuality— it doesn’t make him normal.”

  “Oh, Anson!” She gazed at him reproachfully. “I’m not saying gay sex is abnormal! But Cassius is attracted to women. He doesn’t have sex with men, only women.”

  “Before he kills them.”

  She smiled. “But he didn’t kill every woman he slept with.” A major plot point had Cassius falling in love with a woman called Melinda Valentine, and then, after one night of passion, having to renounce her, as he struggled against his conflicting urges, to kill her, or to keep her safe. In the end, that love proved to be his weakness, as he was finally captured—his death was seen by fans as self-willed, a deliberate sacrifice to save the only woman he had ever truly loved. It was all a load of tosh; pernicious tosh, Anson sometimes thought, for it made no sense at all, morally or psychologically, and it had allowed the villain, a degraded, psychopathic monster, to become a romantic anti-hero in the eyes of many.

  “Of course. Melinda Valentine. Amazing what the right woman can do.” Anson spoke automatically, his thoughts preoccupied by the tension building in his head, and the spot like an after-image in his visual field (he called it ‘the solar flare’). He wondered if he could get home in time to ward off the worst of the migraine with a couple of tablets and two hours lying perfectly still in the dark. “I’m sorry about this, but I’m afraid I have to run.”

  “That’s all right—as long as you’ve forgiven my stupidity, and you’re still coming on Friday? Great! Seven o’clock? Here, my address and phone number. Give me a call if you need directions.”

  #

  The rental car had sat-nav, so Anson easily found Elissa’s house, although it was much farther away than he’d expected, more than an hour’s drive. Since he’d met her in a local cafe, he’d thought she lived in the neighbourhood.

  But even at a quarter to eight, he was the first to arrive. He felt a flare of suspicion, as Elissa, bare-legged in a dark blue slip-dress under a grey cashmere cardigan, led him into her candle-lit living room, Tom Waits’ gravelly voice from the speakers, the air redolent of a herby tomato sauce and melted cheese, but empty except for the two of them. He felt better when he saw the glass-topped table had been set with three places.

  “I was about to apologise for being late, but I see your other friend isn’t here yet.”

  She shrugged, smiling. “Never mind. He’ll be welcome whenever he turns up.”

  She took away the bottle of wine he’d brought, and returned from the kitchen bearing two large glasses of red.

  “Cheers.”

  They clinked glasses. He took a sip. It was not as good as the bottle he’d brought, but it was nice. Thinking of the long drive back, he resolved to be abstemious. Just the one.

  Elissa sat down on the couch and patted the cushion beside her. When he sat down she moved, shifting her legs so that her short skirt rode up, revealing her thighs, and his mouth dried at what he saw there. Inked in shades of grey was a portrait of Anson’s face as he’d looked portraying Cassius Crittenden.

  That was the moment when he should have leapt up and run screaming from the room.

  Without the benefit of hindsight, he took a big gulp of wine, repressed his natural horror, and said, “I hope that’s not permanent.”

  “Why?”

  “For your sake, dear. Hasn’t it occurred to you what a turn-off it would be for anyone… anyone you cared to take to bed?”

  She wet her lips, staring into his eyes. “Anyone… except Cassius.”

  “Especially Cassius. Unless you think he’s an absolute monster of narcissism.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “No, of course not. I thought it would be like… well, I didn’t think. It’s not a real tattoo.” She scrambled to her feet and hurried out of the room.

  He heard another door open and shut, and then the sound of running water. And that was his second chance—as he thought later—to make his escape, while that crazy woman was busy scrubbing Cassius’ visage from her inner thigh. But he wasn’t afraid, and he was hungry, the smells from the kitchen making his mouth water, and the wine she had poured for him tasting more delicious with every sip.

  When Elissa emerged from the bathroom she was flushed and slightly bedraggled looking, her left thigh red and moist from its scrubbing. She’d taken off the cardigan, and the slight, sleeveless dress, dampened with splashed water and her exertions, clung to her body. She didn’t seem to be wearing anything else, and it looked more than ever like an undergarment, not meant for public view.

  Anson jumped up, remembering his last film, set in the thirties, when gentlemen rose when a lady entered the room. He didn’t want her to snuggle up close, or reveal any other hidden secrets. Now that her arms were bared he saw she had a tattoo, maybe a heart, red and black, just below her shoulder on her right arm.

  “Perhaps you should give your friend a ring,” he said. “Find out what’s keeping him. I hate to think of your delicious lasagne drying to dust while we wait.”

  She stared for a moment as if not understanding, and then said flatly, “You’re right, we may as well eat now.”

  “But your friend?”

  “He’ll come when he comes.”

  She brought out the lasagne and a bowl of green salad, and refilled his glass before he could stop her.

  “I wonder… could I possibly trouble you for a glass of water?”

  She giggled.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh, but… you sound so different.”

  He guessed he’d been exaggeratedly, hyper-English—some Americans brought it out in him, especially when he’d been drinking. He looked again at his glass, to see how much he’d had, but of course he couldn’t tell, since she’d refilled it. Unnervingly, despite his resolve not to touch it, it looked not as full as a moment ago.

  She brought him a glass of sparkling water, and he gulped down half of it immediately.

  “Is the lasagne too salty?”

  “No, it’s delicious. Quite possibly, as you claimed, The. Best. Lasa
gne. Ever.”

  Light flashed off the rim of a glass, like a solar flare. He shut his eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. No. I get these headaches. I’ll be fine. It’s just the light.”

  But he wasn’t all right; he could barely stand. He didn’t understand how it could have come on so suddenly; it was never like this. Was he about to pass out? Surely he hadn’t had that much to drink.

  He didn’t want to go into her bedroom, but that’s where she led him, into the blessed darkness, and he collapsed onto the bed with a groan.

  “Please, leave me.”

  “Can’t I do something?”

  “Just leave.”

  #

  When he woke up, or came to, sun was shining through a gap in the curtains and he could hear birds cheeping monotonously outside. He had a dull, throbbing headache, but it was not a migraine. He was naked and alone in an unmade bed that reeked of sweat and sex—unmistakable.

  The last time he’d had sex with a woman—more than ten years ago—drugs had been involved, but that had been consensual, and he could remember it still today. Not like the events of last night.

  She must have put something in his wine.

  He groaned and shut his eyes, thinking of her reaction to his reaction to the painted face on her thigh, remembering how she had emerged from the bathroom, moist and pink, scrubbed clean… for him.

  Why? Was it a fan’s scalp-hunting… or something more sinister? Did she want his baby? Christ!

  Ignoring the pounding in his head, he rolled out of bed, stumbled to the bathroom, vomited, then showered, attacking himself energetically with a flannel and shower gel until every last snail-trail of her touch had been eradicated.

  Afterwards he prowled quickly and edgily through the house. It was obvious that she’d cleared out, knowing how angry he would be, but she might have left him a note. The dishes from last night’s dinner were still on the table, the food congealing on two plates, the third place setting pristine. Of course, there never had been a second guest invited.

  He felt a lust for revenge, considered doing something destructive while he had the chance: smashing the glassware, breaking the TV, cutting up her clothes, pissing on the carpet… but he could imagine too well how that could backfire. She might accuse him of rape; might even get him convicted of her crime. Nobody would believe what had really happened; he could hardly imagine it himself.

  At last he left, stopping along the way in a neighbourhood he didn’t know for breakfast at a fast-food outlet. He would never return to Blu Jam; he would change his habits for the few remaining days he’d be in this city. Although he had to go back to the apartment for his things, he decided to move into a hotel. At the thought that she might have discovered his address, might be waiting for him there, he went hot and cold, fury and horror combining in a toxic brew.

  But there was no one in the apartment, which appeared unchanged from when he had left it the previous evening. Nevertheless, he began to pack as soon as he had changed his clothes, and it was then, as he checked the pockets of his jacket before putting it away, that he found Elissa’s note.

  My darling

  You’re reading this, so things did not work out as I wished. I knew the risk and chose to take it. I did it for you. I like to think that if we’d had more time together you would have come to love me as I love you. But since that didn’t happen, take it as my gift. No regrets. I set you free. Now go and live your life as it was meant. Think of me kindly, if you can. The next woman

  He began to shake and tears of sheer rage blurred his vision before he could read to the end. He crumpled the note in his fist and tried to control his breathing. The bitch, the crazy, reactionary, intolerant, ignorant, vicious, mad bitch—how dare she? Dope him and force him to have sex with her, stupidly convinced it would set him free. And yet, although he couldn’t remember it, something had gone wrong; it wasn’t the happy experience she’d imagined, and she could only try to salvage her fantasy by running away, leaving this silly, deluded note.

  He tore it to shreds. He would have burned them, but for the lack of matches.

  It was nearly three o’clock in L.A. which meant it was 23:00 hours—eleven o’clock at night—in London; time for his regularly scheduled Skype with Harry. He washed his face and composed himself. Much as he longed for the comfort of his lover’s understanding, it was too strange and complicated a story to share now, when the distance of half a world still separated them. Better to wait until they were together, when he’d come to terms with what had happened, and knew how to tell the story.

  Harry, sitting at the breakfast bar with his laptop open, his mug with the London skyline close at hand, the unkillable spider plant visible over his left shoulder, the print of wild horses on the wall behind him—the cosy familiarity of it all, softened by lamplight, might have made him cry, if only Harry’s beloved face had not worn such a grim, unwelcoming expression.

  “All right, let’s hear it; make it good.”

  “What?”

  “Your explanation. Your apology, Anson, for that fuckwitted, demented phone call this morning.”

  “This morning?”

  “You’re going to pretend you don’t remember? I thought you were drunk, but really, that takes the biscuit. Time for the twelve steps if you’re having blackouts now…”

  Pain lanced through his temples; he put his hands on top of his head to keep it from splitting open. “Somebody drugged me. Put something in my drink. I can’t remember calling—when did I call you? What did I say?”

  Alarm warred with anger in his lover’s face. “Seriously? Christ! Are you all right?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it—after I’m home. When did I call?”

  “About nine—well after midnight your time—I was on my way out the door. You were doing a kind of Woody Harrelson shtick—it didn’t make a lot of sense, to be honest. I don’t really remember what you said, but I thought it was a shitty way of breaking up with me, if—”

  “No!”

  “Well, you seemed set on staying in California. Expressed your love for the golden state. I thought—reading between the lines—you’d been offered a part, open-ended, starting immediately, and you were too nervous to tell me honestly that you weren’t coming back, so you’d got drunk and let this backwoodsman break it to me.”

  “Nobody’s offered me anything. I’ve got a meeting on Monday, but even if he promises me the lead in Die Hard: The Musical I’m flying out of here the next day. I can’t wait to get home. I miss you.”

  “You look like shit.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Migraine?”

  Anson realised he was kneading his temples and squinting against a non-existent light. “Yeah. Quite a lot, recently. It’s the sun, I think.”

  “Well, stay out of it. Go lie down. Take care of yourself, all right?”

  #

  Anson didn’t lie down after talking to Harry, even though his head was pounding. He took his tablets with a glass of water, and finished packing, eager to get away to the anonymity of a hotel room. Maybe he’d try the airport, where he could feel he was already on his way home.

  The sun was low but still lancing painful beams of light off every reflective surface; each car in the small parking lot became an aggressor, and he all but closed his eyes as he shuffled towards his rental.

  Opening the lid of the trunk immediately cut off those painfully distracting shafts and blades of light, and he opened his eyes wide, shocked by what he saw inside.

  The woman’s body had been carefully placed, lying curled on one side. She wore only the dark blue slip of a dress, arms and legs bare. There was no blood visible, and the distortions and discolouration of her dead face was hidden by the same sweep of hair that covered the damage done to her neck. It was the way Cassius Crittenden always dealt with his victims; after sex, while they lay relaxed and unsuspecting beside him, he strangled the woman with a tie or a belt, then he washe
d and dressed her before laying her down, curled up so she looked at first glance as if she’d merely fallen asleep.

  His eyes were drawn to the tattoo on her upper arm; the tattoo he had glimpsed on Elissa’s bare arm the previous evening. It was a dark red love-heart, with lacy scalloped edges, and the initials M.V. in the centre. He had seen it before, but not on this woman. He’d known it previously as a fake tattoo, created to adorn the arm of the actress who played Melinda Valentine to his Cassius Crittenden.

  He heard the voice of Cassius as if it came from outside himself; knew it was impossible, but the drawling voice of an imaginary American psychopath was the last thing he heard in his final moments of knowing himself to be an English actor called Anson Barker.

  “Who did she think she was? Who did she think I was? Sorry, darlin’, but you didn’t know what you were messin’ with, and now you’ve paid the price.”

  THIS VIDEO DOES NOT EXIST

  Nicholas Royle

  I wake up two minutes before the alarm is due to go off. I cancel the alarm and lie still for a few moments, trying to remember my dreams, with limited success. All I can sense is a vague feeling of loss or nostalgia. In a moment my wife will stir and I will climb out of bed and open the curtains.

  “The Manchester skies are grey,” I say as I look outside. How many times have I said these words upon opening the curtains? When does a running joke become an annoying habit? I suspect I will not find out until one day, when, instead of sleepily murmuring some benign response, my wife will retort, “We made the decision together to leave London. You know that as well as I do,” or “It’s been three years now. Can you not leave it alone?”

  I forestall the possibility of this happening today by asking her, “Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes please,” says a voice from under the duvet.

  I leave the bedroom. I enter the bathroom and open the window blind. The Manchester skies are grey at the rear of the house as well. I wonder what the weather is like in London. I imagine a version of myself opening curtains and blinds in London right now and reporting to a version of my wife that the London skies are blue. I feel certain that if I check the weather online it will be two degrees cooler in Manchester than in London.