Read Online The Spectral Book of Horror Stories by Mark Morris (Editor) - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Morris (Editor)
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of the can opener had bit into the polish and begun to cut through the sealant. Of course the old woman hadn’t been able to make much more of a mark. Nora had seen her with the can of beans. She’d barely been able to punch through a flimsy piece of tin, it was ridiculous!
“I can’t help you,” Nora said faintly. “I can’t. Please.” But Mrs Moreland was close behind her, that powdery lavender smell filling up her nostrils. She was nauseated, drowsy. A giddy numbness was climbing up her spine.
“But you understand, don’t you?” Mrs Moreland said. “I knew that the moment I saw you. You know what loneliness is, don’t you, Miss Higgins? You know what it means to have been alone for a very long time?”
“No,” said Nora.
“You do, I can see it about you. It doesn’t even matter that you aren’t family. Kitty wanted to help, she was so close to him, you see, but she didn’t understand properly. You’re a kindred spirit, aren’t you?”
“No,” said Nora again.
But then she hesitated. Because she did understand, didn’t she? She did understand—better than Kitty, better than anyone, what it was like to feel that lonely. To crave loneliness, and to hate it as well, to want to be touched, to fear to be touched. Nora felt the can opener moving in her hand, as if by accident, as if the motion was automatic. And at first it was automatic, like she had no control at all, but then she was leaning in close to the coffin. She was digging the teeth into the metal.
“I know what it’s like for your type, I’ve housed so many of you! All of you squirreling away in your rooms, scribbling away in those dark libraries! You’re all the same, as quiet as little mice!”
The can opener was moving, moving, and turning ever so slowly. And it was hard. The metal stubbornly resisted. Nora had to work at it. She had to shove her weight behind it. She was gasping, panting with the effort. Her fingers cramped and twitched. There was blood on her wrist from where the jagged metal of the coffin bit into her skin. And perhaps it took hours, it felt like it was hours, but she turned the screw, and she turned it again, and she turned it again until she could see the trail it left behind, the way the lips of the coffin were opening up to her like an enormous mouth.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Mrs Moreland asked. Her voice was kind, she was really a very sweet old lady. And Nora couldn’t help but find herself nodding along.
“Do you feel tired, Miss Higgins?”
“I do feel tired,” she said. Her hands were heavy and bruised. Her Mount of Venus ached from the imprint of the handle. Nora stared at the coffin, stared at the reflection of herself in it. The black line cut across the surface, like it had been gnawed by teeth. Like it had been cut open by a lobster claw. And wasn’t that a strange thought! Nora wanted to laugh.
“I know you feel tired, Miss Higgins. You must. But it’s all right, dear. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Good,” Nora said. There was blood running down her wrist, dripping off her index finger. “Thank you. That’s really very kind.”
And the lid was lifting up very slowly. Mrs Moreland was huffing and puffing, throwing all of her tiny, fragile frame into the effort of opening that lid. Then—there, it was open! And inside it wasn’t black at all, it was white, a pure white satin.
And, of course, there lay Sean, nestled cosily on the pillows. He had been a handsome boy, Mrs Moreland was right. And perhaps he looked like Kitty, but he was so much cleaner than Kitty was. He had a broad forehead, and such pink lips. So lifelike, even now. Like they might tremble and open.
And Nora felt tired. Her eyelids drifted. Opening them took quite a lot of work. It was a Herculean task, but she did it. And there was Sean again. Handsome Sean.
“You don’t want to be alone, do you, Miss Higgins?” Mrs Moreland asked. “Not such a pretty girl as you?”
“No,” she
“I can’t help you,” Nora said faintly. “I can’t. Please.” But Mrs Moreland was close behind her, that powdery lavender smell filling up her nostrils. She was nauseated, drowsy. A giddy numbness was climbing up her spine.
“But you understand, don’t you?” Mrs Moreland said. “I knew that the moment I saw you. You know what loneliness is, don’t you, Miss Higgins? You know what it means to have been alone for a very long time?”
“No,” said Nora.
“You do, I can see it about you. It doesn’t even matter that you aren’t family. Kitty wanted to help, she was so close to him, you see, but she didn’t understand properly. You’re a kindred spirit, aren’t you?”
“No,” said Nora again.
But then she hesitated. Because she did understand, didn’t she? She did understand—better than Kitty, better than anyone, what it was like to feel that lonely. To crave loneliness, and to hate it as well, to want to be touched, to fear to be touched. Nora felt the can opener moving in her hand, as if by accident, as if the motion was automatic. And at first it was automatic, like she had no control at all, but then she was leaning in close to the coffin. She was digging the teeth into the metal.
“I know what it’s like for your type, I’ve housed so many of you! All of you squirreling away in your rooms, scribbling away in those dark libraries! You’re all the same, as quiet as little mice!”
The can opener was moving, moving, and turning ever so slowly. And it was hard. The metal stubbornly resisted. Nora had to work at it. She had to shove her weight behind it. She was gasping, panting with the effort. Her fingers cramped and twitched. There was blood on her wrist from where the jagged metal of the coffin bit into her skin. And perhaps it took hours, it felt like it was hours, but she turned the screw, and she turned it again, and she turned it again until she could see the trail it left behind, the way the lips of the coffin were opening up to her like an enormous mouth.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Mrs Moreland asked. Her voice was kind, she was really a very sweet old lady. And Nora couldn’t help but find herself nodding along.
“Do you feel tired, Miss Higgins?”
“I do feel tired,” she said. Her hands were heavy and bruised. Her Mount of Venus ached from the imprint of the handle. Nora stared at the coffin, stared at the reflection of herself in it. The black line cut across the surface, like it had been gnawed by teeth. Like it had been cut open by a lobster claw. And wasn’t that a strange thought! Nora wanted to laugh.
“I know you feel tired, Miss Higgins. You must. But it’s all right, dear. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Good,” Nora said. There was blood running down her wrist, dripping off her index finger. “Thank you. That’s really very kind.”
And the lid was lifting up very slowly. Mrs Moreland was huffing and puffing, throwing all of her tiny, fragile frame into the effort of opening that lid. Then—there, it was open! And inside it wasn’t black at all, it was white, a pure white satin.
And, of course, there lay Sean, nestled cosily on the pillows. He had been a handsome boy, Mrs Moreland was right. And perhaps he looked like Kitty, but he was so much cleaner than Kitty was. He had a broad forehead, and such pink lips. So lifelike, even now. Like they might tremble and open.
And Nora felt tired. Her eyelids drifted. Opening them took quite a lot of work. It was a Herculean task, but she did it. And there was Sean again. Handsome Sean.
“You don’t want to be alone, do you, Miss Higgins?” Mrs Moreland asked. “Not such a pretty girl as you?”
“No,” she
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