The Year's Best Horror Stories 9 (21 page)

In the blinding instantaneous moment he saw; not more than a yard from his face; the golden robe, the mitre, the skull, and the eyes, the terrible eyes . . .

He must have fainted. When he awoke, it was bright daylight and he was lying on the back seat of the coach. Giuliano was leaning over him. The courier had been told where Mr. Pearsall had gone, and when he failed to return on time, Giuliano and Umberto had gone to the church to find him. Entering by the south door (which they emphatically denied was locked) they heard his screams from the crypt and saw the flash. They found him without much difficulty; he was within a few yards of the steps.

Giuliano was more relieved than annoyed, but he chided Mr. Pearsall for disturbing the bodies in the catacomb. Banging into them in the dark was careless and destructive, but as for deliberately dragging one body all that way from its resting place . . . and it being the body of a bishop too! . . .

Mr. Pearsall did not have the strength to argue.

“Black Man With a Horn” marks a return to
The Year’s Best Horror Stories
by T. E. D. Klein, who had earlier appeared in DAW’s
Series II
and
Series III
. His few appearances here are certainly not a reflection on the quality of his writing: rather, Klein is an author who prefers to work in the novelette-novella length, meticulously creating his stories at the rate of about one every other year or three. This past year saw a positive outpouring of his work, with the publication of this novelette and a novella, “Children of the Kingdom,” in Kirby McCauley’s
Dark Forces.

Klein is a native New Yorker, born there in 1947 and now living in Manhattan. Previously he taught high school in Maine, worked in Paramount Pictures’ story department, and he is currently editor of the new
Twilight Zone Magazine.
In addition to his fiction, Klein has written articles for the
New York Times
, as well as the story notes for Kirby McCauley’s horror anthology,
Beyond Midnight
. He holds degrees from Brown and Columbia, but it was during the four years he lived in Providence while attending the former university that Klein became interested in the writing of H. P. Lovecraft. Much as M. R. James influenced subsequent writers of supernatural fiction in Britain, Lovecraft inspired successive generations of writers to continue his “Cthulhu Mythos.” As a rule such continuations or pastiches have been awful beyond belief. “Black Man With a Horn” offers both proof that this need not be the case, as well as a bitter comment upon fandom’s obsessive dead-hero worship.

The Black [words obscured by postmark] was fascinating—I must get a snap shot of him.

—H. P. Lovecraft, postcard to E. Hoffmann Price, 7/23/1934

There is something inherently comforting about the first-person past tense. It conjures up visions of some deskbound narrator puffing contemplatively upon a pipe amid the safety of his study, lost in tranquil recollection, seasoned but essentially unscathed by whatever experience he’s about to relate. It’s a tense that says, “I am here to tell the tale. I lived through it.”

The description, in my own case, is perfectly accurate—as far as it goes. I am indeed seated in a kind of study: a small den, actually, but lined with bookshelves on one side, below a view of Manhattan painted many years ago, from memory, by my sister. My desk is a folding bridge table that once belonged to her. Before me the electric typewriter, though somewhat precariously supported, hums soothingly, and from the window behind me comes the familiar drone of the old air conditioner, waging its lonely battle against the tropic night. Beyond it, in the darkness outside, the small night-noises are doubtless just as reassuring: wind in the palm trees, the mindless chant of crickets, the muffled chatter of a neighbor’s TV, an occasional car bound for the highway, shifting gears as it speeds past the house . . .

House, in truth, may be too grand a word: the place is a green stucco bungalow just a single story tall, third in a row of nine set several hundred yards from the highway. Its only distinguishing features are the sundial in the front yard, brought here from my sister’s former home, and the jagged little picket fence, now rather overgrown with weeds, which she had erected despite the protests of neighbors.

It’s hardly the most romantic of settings, but under normal circumstances it might make an adequate background for meditations in the past tense. “I’m still here,” the writer says, adjusting to the tone. (I’ve even stuck the requisite pipe in mouth, stuffed with a plug of latakia.) “It’s over now,” he says. “I lived through it.”

A comforting premise, perhaps. Only, in this case, it doesn’t happen to be true. Whether the experience is really “over now” no one can say; and if, as I suspect, the final chapter has yet to be enacted, then the notion of my “living through it” will seem a pathetic conceit.

Yet I can’t say I find the thought of my own death particularly disturbing. I get so tired, sometimes, of this little room, with its cheap wicker furniture, the dull outdated books, the night pressing in from outside . . . And of that sundial out there in the yard, with its idiotic message.
“Grow old along with me
. . .”

I have done so, and my life seems hardly to have mattered in the scheme of things. Surely its end cannot matter much either.

Ah, Howard, you would have understood.

That, boy, was what I call a travel-experience!

—Lovecraft, 3/12/1930

If, while I set it down, this tale acquires an ending, it promises to be an unhappy one. But the beginning is nothing of the kind; you may find it rather humorous, in fact—full of comic pratfalls, wet trouser cuffs, and a dropped vomit-bag.

“I steeled myself to
endure
it,” the old lady to my right was saying. “I don’t mind telling you I was exceedingly frightened. I held on to the arms of the seat and just
gritted my teeth
. And then, you know, right after the captain warned us about that
turbulence
, when the tail lifted and fell, flip-flop, flip-flop,
well
—” she flashed her dentures at me and patted my wrist, “—I don’t mind telling you, there was simply nothing for it but to
heave.”

Where had the old girl picked up such expressions? And was she trying to pick me up as well? Her hand clamped wetly round my wrist. “I
do
hope you’ll let me pay for the dry cleaning.”

“Madam,” I said, “think nothing of it. The suit was already stained.”

“Such a nice man!” She cocked her head coyly at me, still gripping my wrist. Though their whites had long since turned the color of old piano keys, her eyes were not unattractive. But her breath repelled me. Slipping my paperback into a pocket, I rang for the stewardess.

The earlier mishap had occurred several hours before. In clambering aboard the plane at Heathrow, surrounded by what appeared to be an aboriginal rugby club (all dressed alike, navy blazers with bone buttons), I’d been shoved from behind and had stumbled against a black cardboard hatbox in which some Chinaman was storing his dinner; it was jutting into the aisle near the first-class seats. Something inside sloshed over my ankles—duck sauce, soup perhaps—and left a sticky yellow puddle on the floor. I turned in time to see a tall, beefy Caucasian with an Air Malay bag and a beard so thick and black he looked like some heavy from the silent era. His manner was equally suited to the role, for after shouldering me aside (with shoulders broad as my valises), he pushed his way down the crowded passage, head bobbing near the ceiling like a gas balloon, and suddenly disappeared from sight at the rear of the plane. In his wake I caught the smell of treacle, and was instantly reminded of my childhood: birthday hats, Callard and Bowser gift packs, and after-dinner bellyaches.

“So very sorry.” A bloated little Charlie Chan looked fearfully at this departing apparition, then doubled over to scoop his dinner beneath the seat, fiddling with the ribbon.

“Think nothing of it,” I said.

I was feeling kindly toward everyone that day. Flying was still a novelty. My friend Howard, of course (as I’d reminded audiences earlier in the week), used to say he’d “hate to see aeroplanes come into common commercial use, since they merely add to the goddam useless speeding up of an already overspeeded life.” He had dismissed them as “devices for the amusement of a gentleman”—but then, he’d only been up once, in the twenties, and for only as long as $3.50 would bring. What could he have known of whistling engines, the wicked joys of dining at thirty thousand feet, the chance to look out a window and find that the earth is, after all, quite round? All this he had missed; he was dead and therefore to be pitied.

Yet even in death he had triumphed over me . . .

It gave me something to think about as the stewardess helped me to my feet, clucking in professional concern at the mess on my lap—though more likely she was thinking of the wiping up that awaited her once I’d vacated the seat “Why do they make those bags so
slippery?”
my elderly neighbor asked plaintively. “And all over this nice man’s suit. You really should do something about it.” The plane dropped and settled; she rolled her yellowing eyes. “It could happen again.”

The stewardess steered me down the aisle toward a restroom at the middle of the plane. To my left a cadaverous young woman wrinkled her nose and smiled at the man next to her. I attempted to disguise my defeat by looking bitter—“Someone else has done this deed!”—but doubt I succeeded. The stewardess’s arm supporting mine was superfluous but comfortable; I leaned on her more heavily with each step. There are, as I’d long suspected, precious few advantages in being seventy-six and looking it—yet among them is this: though one is excused from the frustration of flirting with a stewardess, one gets to lean on her arm. I turned toward her to say something funny, but paused; her face was blank as a clock’s.

“I’ll wait out here for you,” she said, and pulled open the smooth white door.

“That will hardly be necessary.” I straightened up. “But could you—do you think you might find me another seat? I have nothing against that lady, you understand, but I don’t want to see any more of her lunch.”

Inside the restroom the whine of the engines seemed louder, as if the pink plastic walls were all that separated me from the jet stream and its arctic winds. Occasionally the air we passed through must have grown choppy, for the plane rattled and heaved like a sled over rough ice. If I opened the john I half expected to see the earth miles below us, a frozen gray Atlantic fanged with icebergs. England was already a thousand miles away.

With one hand on the door handle for support, I wiped off my trousers with a perfumed paper towel from a foil envelope, and stuffed several more into my pocket. My cuffs still bore a residue of Chinese goo. This, it seemed, was the source of the treacle smell; I dabbed ineffectually at it. Surveying myself in the mirror—a bald, harmless-looking old baggage with stooped shoulders and a damp suit (so different from the self-confident young fellow in the photo captioned “HPL and disciple”)—I slid open the bolt and emerged, a medley of scents. The stewardess had found an empty seat for me at the back of the plane.

It was only as I made to sit down that I noticed who occupied the adjoining seat: he was leaning away from me, asleep with his head resting against the window, but I recognized the beard.

“Uh, stewardess—?” I turned, but saw only her uniformed back retreating up the aisle. After a moment’s uncertainty I inched myself into the seat, making as little noise as possible. I had, I reminded myself, every right to be here.

Adjusting the recliner position (to the annoyance of the black behind me), I settled back and reached for the paperback in my pocket. They’d finally gotten around to reprinting one of my earlier tales, and already I’d found four typos. But then, what could one expect? The front cover, with its crude cartoon skull, said it all: “
Goosepimples
: Thirteen Cosmic Chillers in the Lovecraft Tradition.”

So this is what I was reduced to—a lifetime’s work shrugged off by some blurb-writer as “worthy of the Master himself,” the creations of my brain dismissed as mere pastiche. And the tales themselves, once singled out for such elaborate praise, were now simply—as if this were commendation enough—“Lovecraftian.” Ah, Howard, your triumph was complete the moment your name became an adjective.

I’d suspected it for years, of course, but only with the past week’s conference had I been forced to acknowledge the fact that what mattered to the present generation was not my own body of work, but rather my association with Lovecraft. And even this was demeaned: after years of friendship and support, to be labeled—simply because I’d been younger—a mere “disciple.” It seemed too cruel a joke.

Every joke must have a punchline. This one’s was still in my pocket, printed in italics on the folded yellow conference schedule. I didn’t need to look at it again: there I was, characterized for all time as “a member of the Lovecraft circle, New York educator,, and author of the celebrated collection
Beyond the Garve
.”

That was it. the crowning indignity: to be immortalized by a misprint! You’d have appreciated this, Howard. I can almost hear you chuckling from—where else?—beyond the
garve
. . .

Meanwhile, from the seat next to me came the rasping sounds of a constricted throat; my neighbor must have been caught in a dream. I put down my book and studied him. He looked older than he had at first—perhaps sixty or more. His hands were roughened, powerful looking; on one of them was a ring with a curious silver cross. The glistening black beard that covered the lower half of his face was so thick as to be nearly opaque; its very darkness seemed unnatural, for above it the hair was streaked with gray.

I looked more closely, to where beard joined face. Was that a bit of gauze I saw, below the hair? My heart gave a little jump. Leaning forward for a closer look, I peered at the skin to the side of his nose; though burned from long exposure to the sun, it had an odd pallor. My gaze continued upward along the weathered cheeks toward the dark hollows of his eyes.