Read Online Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories by Clive Barker, Neil Gaiman, Ramsey Campbell, Paul Tremblay, Mercedes M. Yardley, Richard Thomas, Damien Angelica Walters, Kevin Lucia - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Clive Barker, Neil Gaiman, Ramsey Campbell, Paul Tremblay, Mercedes M. Yardley, Richard Thomas, Damien Angelica Walters, Kevin Lucia
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house and the woman was standing in the doorway, looking out, at Hannah.
She retreated inside, but the door hung open behind her.
Hannah, Mason called, come back here.
Hannah forced her legs to move toward the woman’s house.
Both their headlamps were pointed at it: the rightmost bungalow, its windows boarded, its siding dark—at first Hannah wondered, Why would someone paint their house black? But then she saw: the house had burned.
That couldn’t be, though, because behind a picture window was a lit dining room, and the woman too—she was setting down a plate of food, smiling, in front of the blond man, but something was wrong with him, in the hunch of his shoulders, the muscles working in his jaw. Quick as a snake he caught hold of the woman’s wrist, and her eyes touched Hannah’s through the glass.
Somewhere behind them Kyle hooted, and then Mason’s arm was rough and muscled around her waist. Jesus, you’re fucked up, he said. The owl settled on a tree branch in front of the woman’s house, its eyes tracking them, yellow and translucent, like hard lemon candies.
Mason turned her, held her cheeks in between his hands. Hannah , he said.
He’d done this last night, too, after, when she’d been crying, not wanting to look him in the eyes. He’d held her head like this and kissed her.
Her body broke free from his grip and she ran toward the open door of the house, and the woman she could see inside of it, drifting back from the doorway, beautiful and kind and terrified, inviting her in.
***
The ruined door pushed gently open at her touch, and with it came sunlight; it threw her shadow ahead of her, swinging it across the room as if on a hinge.
What a lovely house! Directly ahead, narrow stairs climbed into shadow. The living room, just to her left, was already furnished. Nick had shipped out a couch and two matching armchairs and a coffee table; they were arranged neatly on the thick brown carpet. There was no television, but he’d warned her about that: he could afford one, sure, but this far out you couldn’t get a signal. To her right was the dining room; in its center was a long table and six chairs with high backs. She would have friends, she would have people over, she would entertain .
She could live in a place like this. The dining room window looked out over the cheerful cul-de-sac, and while the trees the mine had planted were only saplings, now, they’d grow in, and before long they’d provide shade, and she wouldn’t see the mountain on the horizon while cooking. This house would be like any house back in the city. And Nick was standing in the kitchen, smiling at her—but his eyes bore into her, gave her that feeling she could not put a word to, a fear and a pride and a quickening in her breath, and she went to him and he kissed her, he was grabbing at her dress, and then it was dark out and he was standing over her, and her cheek was burning, and Hannah was gasping in the cold, she’d tripped over the torn old linoleum of the kitchen floor, and her head swum and her nostrils stung with mold and soot and her breath clouded in the beam of her headlamp and outside Mason called, Hannah, what the fuck are you doing ?
The woman stood on the other side of the kitchen, smiling down. She was holding a can of gasoline.
Then she drifted away, into the hallway behind her.
Hannah climbed to her feet. She crossed the kitchen. Where the woman had stood the air smelled of smoke, of the dry dust that blew up from the pages of old books.
Hannah! Mason called. He was angry, now, she could hear it; she remembered him in the tent, the fear and the pain, and her heart pounded.
She wanted to tell the woman, We can’t let him in.
The woman was entering a dark doorway, halfway down the hall.
Hannah crept to the door and looked through it after her. In the beam of her headlamp was a four-poster bed. The woman lay beneath the man, her face tilted toward the door. He was naked; thrusting; the
She retreated inside, but the door hung open behind her.
Hannah, Mason called, come back here.
Hannah forced her legs to move toward the woman’s house.
Both their headlamps were pointed at it: the rightmost bungalow, its windows boarded, its siding dark—at first Hannah wondered, Why would someone paint their house black? But then she saw: the house had burned.
That couldn’t be, though, because behind a picture window was a lit dining room, and the woman too—she was setting down a plate of food, smiling, in front of the blond man, but something was wrong with him, in the hunch of his shoulders, the muscles working in his jaw. Quick as a snake he caught hold of the woman’s wrist, and her eyes touched Hannah’s through the glass.
Somewhere behind them Kyle hooted, and then Mason’s arm was rough and muscled around her waist. Jesus, you’re fucked up, he said. The owl settled on a tree branch in front of the woman’s house, its eyes tracking them, yellow and translucent, like hard lemon candies.
Mason turned her, held her cheeks in between his hands. Hannah , he said.
He’d done this last night, too, after, when she’d been crying, not wanting to look him in the eyes. He’d held her head like this and kissed her.
Her body broke free from his grip and she ran toward the open door of the house, and the woman she could see inside of it, drifting back from the doorway, beautiful and kind and terrified, inviting her in.
***
The ruined door pushed gently open at her touch, and with it came sunlight; it threw her shadow ahead of her, swinging it across the room as if on a hinge.
What a lovely house! Directly ahead, narrow stairs climbed into shadow. The living room, just to her left, was already furnished. Nick had shipped out a couch and two matching armchairs and a coffee table; they were arranged neatly on the thick brown carpet. There was no television, but he’d warned her about that: he could afford one, sure, but this far out you couldn’t get a signal. To her right was the dining room; in its center was a long table and six chairs with high backs. She would have friends, she would have people over, she would entertain .
She could live in a place like this. The dining room window looked out over the cheerful cul-de-sac, and while the trees the mine had planted were only saplings, now, they’d grow in, and before long they’d provide shade, and she wouldn’t see the mountain on the horizon while cooking. This house would be like any house back in the city. And Nick was standing in the kitchen, smiling at her—but his eyes bore into her, gave her that feeling she could not put a word to, a fear and a pride and a quickening in her breath, and she went to him and he kissed her, he was grabbing at her dress, and then it was dark out and he was standing over her, and her cheek was burning, and Hannah was gasping in the cold, she’d tripped over the torn old linoleum of the kitchen floor, and her head swum and her nostrils stung with mold and soot and her breath clouded in the beam of her headlamp and outside Mason called, Hannah, what the fuck are you doing ?
The woman stood on the other side of the kitchen, smiling down. She was holding a can of gasoline.
Then she drifted away, into the hallway behind her.
Hannah climbed to her feet. She crossed the kitchen. Where the woman had stood the air smelled of smoke, of the dry dust that blew up from the pages of old books.
Hannah! Mason called. He was angry, now, she could hear it; she remembered him in the tent, the fear and the pain, and her heart pounded.
She wanted to tell the woman, We can’t let him in.
The woman was entering a dark doorway, halfway down the hall.
Hannah crept to the door and looked through it after her. In the beam of her headlamp was a four-poster bed. The woman lay beneath the man, her face tilted toward the door. He was naked; thrusting; the
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