Mammoth Book of Best New Horror (36 page)

    "Hugh!" said Mrs de Walter reproachfully, indicating my presence.

    "What about the Portuguese?" said my mother quickly, in an attempt to smother any further revelations about the Bulgarians. "You must like the Portuguese. We've found them to be absolutely charming."

    "Your
Portugoose
is not a bad fellow, I grant you," said de Walter rather more thoughtfully than before, "but he's a primitive. You've seen the folk around here - dark, squat little beggars, stunted by our standards. Well, there's a reason for that in my opinion. It's because they're the direct descendants of the original Iberian natives. There's been no intermingling with Aryan races, not even the Romans when they invaded, or the Moors for that matter. They're like another species. I call them the Children of the Earth."

    My parents did not know how to respond to this without either compromising themselves or causing offence, so there was a silence. It was broken by de Walter's suggestion that he take us on a tour of the house.

    The rooms were luxuriously furnished in an opulent Edwardian style with heavy brocades and potted palms. On side-tables of dark polished wood were ranged treasures of the kind that used to be called "curios" - ostrich eggs mounted in silver, meerschaum pipes whose bowls were shaped like mermaids or wicked bearded heads, little wild animals carved in green nephrite by Faberge. On a side-table was a gold cigarette case of exquisite workmanship with the letter "E" emblazoned in diamonds upon it. De Walter opened the case for us. Resting in its glittering interior was a charred and withered tube of white paper that might once have been a cigarette.

    "I'd blush to tell you how I got hold of this little item, or what I paid for it," he said. "This case once belonged to a very beautiful and tragic lady, the Empress Elizabeth of Austria. And that little scrap of paper was the last cigarette she ever smoked. I have the documents to prove it. She was assassinated, you know. Stabbed by an Italian anarchist in Switzerland of all places. Ghastly people, the Italians: blub over a bambino while holding a knife to your guts under the table."

    The books that lined the whole of one wall of what he called his "saloon" were nearly all leather-bound and had curious titles which I did not recognize. They were not like the miscellaneous collection of classics and popular novels to be found in our house.

    "Here's something that might amuse you, old man," said de Walter to my father, pulling out a gilt-tooled volume in red leather.
"Crebillon Fils.
The engravings are contemporary."

    I saw my father open the book at random. The right-hand page was an engraved illustration of some sort, but he shut it too rapidly for me to see what it was.

    My eye was attracted to a group of silver framed photographs on a bureau. Several of them featured younger versions of the de Walters, which showed that they must once have been elegant if not exactly handsome. Others were of strangers, presumably relatives or friends, usually formal portraits, and of these one stood out. It was an old photograph, pre-war at a guess, of a bald man with a short nose, determined mouth and a fierce stare. He looked straight out menacingly at the camera and, it would seem, at us. It was like no photograph I had ever seen before.

    "Know who that is, young feller-me-lad?" De Walter asked me.

    "I do," said my mother with evident distaste.

    "Yes," said de Walter, sensitive to her reaction but unruffled. "He had a certain reputation. The Great Beast, and all that. Queer chap, but he knew a thing or two. Know what he said? Remember this, young 'un. 'Resolute imagination is the key to all successful magical working.' That's what he said. Well, Crowley had the imagination all right. Trouble was, he lacked the resolve. Drugs and other beastliness got in the way. I'm afraid he wasn't quite a gentleman, you see.

    "I visited him once or twice during his last days in Hastings. He was in a bad way because the drugs had caught up with him, as they always do. Ghastly, but useful. Got some handy stuff out of him, about the
homunculus.
Ever heard of that, little man?" he said with a wink. I said I hadn't.

    "It means 'little man', little man. Except he doesn't come out of a mother's tummy, he comes out of an egg. But it's a special alchemical egg." I was baffled, but I took comfort from the fact that my parents seemed to be equally puzzled. De Walter went on: "Making the egg. That's the hard part. Now, here's another. Have you heard of a
puerculus,
my boy?" And he winked again. I shook my head. "Well now, use your nous.
Puer
in Latin means-?"

    "Boy."

    "Good. Right ho, then. So if
homunculus
means little man, then
puerculus
means-"

    "Hugh, dear, hadn't we better be getting on?" said Mrs de Walter.

    "Ha! Yes! Call to order from the lady wife!" De Walter led us out of the room and down a whitewashed corridor towards a stout ironbound oak door with a Gothic arch to it quite unlike the others in the house.

    "Now then," said de Walter, putting his hand on a great black key that protruded from the door's lock, "my grand finale. The wine cellars! This way, boys and girls!"

    My mother, who had become increasingly nervous throughout the trip, suddenly burst into a stream of agitated speech: "No really, that's awfully kind of you, but we must be on our way. Do forgive us. It's been really delightful, but there's a bus from the village in ten minutes - I consulted the man, you see - which we will just be able to catch. Thank you so much, but-"

    "Enough, dear lady, enough!" said de Walter. He seemed more amused than offended, though even then I recognized the amusement of the bully who has successfully humiliated his victim.

    When we were safely on the bus, among a troupe of uniformed schoolchildren and three black-clad old women who were carrying cages of hens into Estoril, my mother said: "Never again!"

    My father, whose courteous soul, I thought, might have been offended by our hastily-contrived departure, said nothing. I think he even nodded slightly.

    One Sunday morning, a year or so after our holiday in Portugal, my parents and I were sitting over breakfast in the kitchen. Sunday papers were, as usual, spread everywhere.

    One of my father's indulgences, excused on the grounds of professional interest, was to take a large number of the Sunday papers, including the less "quality" ones, like
The People
and the
News of the World.
I noticed that my father always picked up the latter first and often read it with such avid attention that my mother had to address him several times before he would comply with a simple request, like passing the butter. I had no interest in newspapers at that time and frequently, with my mother's permission, took a book to the breakfast table.

    On this occasion I happened to notice my father turn a page of the
News of the World
and give a sudden start. My mother asked if anything was the matter. "I'll tell you later," he said and left the kitchen, taking the paper with him.

    When, later that morning, I found the
News of the World
abandoned in the sitting room, I noticed that the centre pages were missing. However, my father had failed to observe that among the exciting list of contents to be found on the front page were the words: HORROR AT THE VILLA MONTE ROSA.

    I forget how I managed to get hold of another copy of that paper, but I did that day, and I made sure that my parents did not know about it. These little discretions and courtesies were part of the fabric of our life together.

    Across the centre page spread was sprawled the familiar headline: HORROR AT THE VILLA MONTE ROSA.

    Much of the space was occupied by a large but fuzzy photograph, probably taken with a long lens from a nearby vantage point, of three people being escorted down the drive of the villa by several Portuguese policemen. Two of them I could clearly make out. They were Mr and Mrs de Walter, their expressions stony and sullen. The third, a woman in an overall, had bowed her head and was covering her face with both hands. I guessed this to be their housekeeper, Maria, an assumption that was confirmed by the text.

    The article itself was short on detail, but long on words such as "horror", "gruesome", "grisly" and "sinister". The few clear facts that I could ascertain were as follows. Over the course of about eight or nine years a number of boys, all Portuguese, aged between ten and twelve had disappeared from the Monte Rosa district.

    The last boy to vanish, from the village of Monte Rosa itself, had been seen on the day of his disappearance in the company of the de Walters' housekeeper, Maria. A police search of the Villa Monte Rosa and its grounds resulted in the discovery not only of the boy's corpse "hideously mutilated", according to the article, but the remains of over a dozen other children. Most of these had been found "at the bottom of a disused well in the grounds".

    The de Walters, said the article, had "been unable to throw any light on these horrific discoveries", but were still helping the authorities with their investigations.

    Some weeks later I confessed to my mother that I had read the article. Her only comment was that I had had a lucky escape, but I am not sure if she was right. The de Walters would not have touched me, and Hal, whom I had met by the well, had not been one of the boys who were killed because they were all Portuguese. Hal, you see, had been English like me and not a
Portugoose.

    I am writing this now because I have been told to, by my wife and the others. Not that I have any complaint against her. We have been married for over twenty years. We have no children; that inestimable privilege had been denied us, and adoption would have been impossible. I could not have taken an alien being into my house. But we have plenty of occupation, my wife and I. We are great collectors; in fact, I am a dealer in antiques and am recognized as something of an expert on Lalique glass.

    One afternoon, about three months ago - I think it was three months, it may have been two, or perhaps even less - we were in Bath. Naturally, we did our rounds of the antique shops. There is a little place in Circus Mews, not far from the Royal Crescent, which we often visit, rather shabbier than the rest; at least not tarted-up in some awful way. I won't say we pick up bargains there because the owner knows his stuff, but he has a way of discovering rare and unusual items that I find enviable.

    It was a bright summer day, and shafts of sunlight were penetrating the windows of his normally rather gloomy establishment. That is how I believe I had a sense of what was ahead of me even before we opened the door to the shop.

    As soon as I was inside, I saw it.

    It was one of Mrs de Walter's glass cases of stuffed animals, the second one of the series I had called in my mind "The Rodent's Rake's Progress", and it was exactly as I had remembered it. In fact, it surprised me that it did not seem smaller to me, now that I was myself older and larger.

    The scene, as you remember, is set outside the inn with the sign of the Skull and Trumpet. There were the brawling mice and rats in the foreground, and - yes! - the Puritan moles in steeple hats are peering out of a diamond-leaded casement on the first floor to the right of the inn sign. There are windows to the left, but these are not open. And yet - this is something I cannot remember seeing before - there is something behind those windows, and it is not another rodent.

    It is the pale head-and-shoulders of a boy in a white flannel shirt, a boy no more than six inches high. I cannot see him too clearly through the little leaded panes of glass, but I think I know him.

    I swear that the head moved and turned its black eyes upon me.

    They tell me of course this is rubbish, and I want to believe them.

16 - Neil Gaiman - The Witch's Headstone

    There was a witch buried at the edge of the graveyard, it was common knowledge. Bod had been told to keep away from that corner of the world by Mrs Owens as far back as he could remember.

    "Why?" he asked.

    "T'aint healthy for a living body," said Mrs Owens. "There's damp down that end of things. It's practically a marsh. You'll catch your death."

    Mr Owens himself was more evasive and less imaginative. "It's not a good place," was all he said.

    The graveyard proper ended at the edge of the hill, beneath the old apple tree, with a fence of rust-brown iron railings, each topped with a small, rusting spear-head, but there was a wasteland beyond that, a mass of nettles and weeds, of brambles and autumnal rubbish, and Bod, who was a good boy, on the whole, and obedient, did not push between the railings, but he went down there and looked through. He knew he wasn't being told the whole story, and it irritated him.

    Bod went back up the hill, to the abandoned church in the middle of the graveyard, and he waited until it got dark. As twilight edged from grey to purple there was a noise in the spire, like a fluttering of heavy velvet, and Silas left his resting-place in the belfry and clambered headfirst down the spire.

    "What's in the far corner of the graveyard," asked Bod. "Past Harrison Westwood, Baker of this Parish, and his wives Marion and Joan?"