Read Online The Year's Best Horror Stories 9 by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed.) - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karl Edward Wagner (Ed.)
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opened the front door, they were just emerging from the car. David’s coat buttons displayed various colors of thread. Next came his wife Dottie: her real name was Carla, but they felt that Dave and Dottie looked a more attractive combination on book covers—a notion with which millions of readers seemed to agree. She looked like a cartoonist’s American tourist: trousers bulging like sausages, carefully silvered hair. Sometimes Tate wished that his writer’s eye could be less oppressively alert to telling details.
Dewhurst gestured at his car like a conjuror unveiling an astonishment. “And here are our friends that we promised you.”
Had it been a promise? It had seemed more a side effect of inviting the Dewhursts. And when had their friend turned plural? Still, Tate was unable to feel much resentment; he was too full of having completed his witchcraft novel.
The young man’s aggressive bony face was topped with hair short as turf; the girl’s face was almost the color and texture of chalk. “This is Don Skelton,” Dewhurst said. “Don, Lionel Tate. You two should have plenty to talk about, you’re in the same field. And this is Don’s friend, er—” Skelton stared at the large old villa as if he couldn’t believe he was meant to be impressed.
He let the girl drag his case upstairs; she refused to yield it to Tate when he protested. “This is your room,” he told Skelton, and felt like a disapproving landlady. “I had no idea you wouldn’t be alone.”
“Don’t worry, there’ll be room for her.”
If the girl had been more attractive, if her tangled hair had been less inert and her face less hungry, mightn’t he have envied Skelton? “There’ll be cocktails before dinner, if that’s your scene,” he said to the closed door.
The jigsaw helped him relax. Evening eased into the house, shadows deepened within the large windows. The table glowed darkly through the last gap, then he snapped the piece home. Was that an echo of the snap behind him? He turned, but nobody was watching him.
As he shaved in one of the bathrooms he heard someone go downstairs. Good Lord, he wasn’t a very efficient host. He hurried down, achieving the bow of his tie just as he reached the lounge, but idling within were only Skelton and the girl. At least she now wore something like an evening dress; the top of her pale chest was spattered with freckles. “We generally change before going out for dinner,” Tate said.
Skelton shrugged his crumpled shoulders. “Go ahead.”
Alcohol made Skelton more talkative. “I’ll have somewhere like this,” he said, glancing at the Victorian carved mahogany suite. After a calculated pause he added, “But better.”
Tate made a last effort to reach him. “I’m afraid I haven’t read anything of yours.”
“There won’t be many people who’ll be able to say that.” It sounded oddly threatening. He reached in his briefcase for a book. “I’ll give you something to keep.”
Tate glimpsed carved boxes, a camera, a small round gleam that twinged him with indefinable apprehension before the case snapped shut. Silver letters shone on the paperback, which was glossy as coal: The Black Road.
A virgin was being mutilated, gloated over by the elegant prose. Tate searched for a question that wouldn’t sound insulting. At last he managed “What are your themes?”
“Autobiography.” Perhaps Skelton was one of those writers of the macabre who needed to joke defensively about their work, for the Dewhursts were laughing.
Dinner at the inn was nerve-racking. Candlelight made food hop restlessly on plates, waiters loomed beneath the low beams and flung their vague shadows over the tables. The Dewhursts grew merry, but couldn’t draw the girl into the conversation. When a waiter gave Skelton’s clothes a withering glance he demanded of Tate, “Do you believe in witchcraft?”
“Well, I had to do a lot of research for my book. Some of the things I read made me
Dewhurst gestured at his car like a conjuror unveiling an astonishment. “And here are our friends that we promised you.”
Had it been a promise? It had seemed more a side effect of inviting the Dewhursts. And when had their friend turned plural? Still, Tate was unable to feel much resentment; he was too full of having completed his witchcraft novel.
The young man’s aggressive bony face was topped with hair short as turf; the girl’s face was almost the color and texture of chalk. “This is Don Skelton,” Dewhurst said. “Don, Lionel Tate. You two should have plenty to talk about, you’re in the same field. And this is Don’s friend, er—” Skelton stared at the large old villa as if he couldn’t believe he was meant to be impressed.
He let the girl drag his case upstairs; she refused to yield it to Tate when he protested. “This is your room,” he told Skelton, and felt like a disapproving landlady. “I had no idea you wouldn’t be alone.”
“Don’t worry, there’ll be room for her.”
If the girl had been more attractive, if her tangled hair had been less inert and her face less hungry, mightn’t he have envied Skelton? “There’ll be cocktails before dinner, if that’s your scene,” he said to the closed door.
The jigsaw helped him relax. Evening eased into the house, shadows deepened within the large windows. The table glowed darkly through the last gap, then he snapped the piece home. Was that an echo of the snap behind him? He turned, but nobody was watching him.
As he shaved in one of the bathrooms he heard someone go downstairs. Good Lord, he wasn’t a very efficient host. He hurried down, achieving the bow of his tie just as he reached the lounge, but idling within were only Skelton and the girl. At least she now wore something like an evening dress; the top of her pale chest was spattered with freckles. “We generally change before going out for dinner,” Tate said.
Skelton shrugged his crumpled shoulders. “Go ahead.”
Alcohol made Skelton more talkative. “I’ll have somewhere like this,” he said, glancing at the Victorian carved mahogany suite. After a calculated pause he added, “But better.”
Tate made a last effort to reach him. “I’m afraid I haven’t read anything of yours.”
“There won’t be many people who’ll be able to say that.” It sounded oddly threatening. He reached in his briefcase for a book. “I’ll give you something to keep.”
Tate glimpsed carved boxes, a camera, a small round gleam that twinged him with indefinable apprehension before the case snapped shut. Silver letters shone on the paperback, which was glossy as coal: The Black Road.
A virgin was being mutilated, gloated over by the elegant prose. Tate searched for a question that wouldn’t sound insulting. At last he managed “What are your themes?”
“Autobiography.” Perhaps Skelton was one of those writers of the macabre who needed to joke defensively about their work, for the Dewhursts were laughing.
Dinner at the inn was nerve-racking. Candlelight made food hop restlessly on plates, waiters loomed beneath the low beams and flung their vague shadows over the tables. The Dewhursts grew merry, but couldn’t draw the girl into the conversation. When a waiter gave Skelton’s clothes a withering glance he demanded of Tate, “Do you believe in witchcraft?”
“Well, I had to do a lot of research for my book. Some of the things I read made me
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