The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 23

was so close to the shaft, why couldn’t he make out even a hint of the flashlight beam? “What are you playing at?” he shouted.

There was no response of any kind. Perhaps Lucas had decided to alarm him. He dealt the supine heap a kick, but it held more or less together. He tramped on it a number of times while edging forward. It was behind him, though not far, when something moved under his feet — a large worm, he thought, or a snake. As he stumbled clear of it he heard scattered leaves rustle with its movement, and recognised the sound he’d attributed to plastic on his way to the tunnel. He needn’t think about it further — he only wanted to reach the light. That still wasn’t visible, and he wasn’t eager to shout into the dark again, surely just because Lucas might think he was scared. He had no idea how many timid paces he’d taken before he was able to lift his head.

For a moment this felt like nothing but relief, and then he saw that the top of the shaft was deserted. “Lucas,” he yelled. “Lucas.” He was trying just to feel furious, but the repetition unnerved him — it seemed too close to doing his best to ensure that only his cousin would respond. He was about to call once more when Lucas appeared above him, at least fifty feet away, and sent the flashlight beam down the highest rungs of the ladder. Tom would have shouted at him except for being assailed by a sudden unwelcome thought. He knew why he’d seemed to take too long to return to the shaft: because the supine mass on which he’d trodden was further from it than before. While he’d been trying to find his way out, it had crawled after him in the dark.

He twisted around to peer behind him, but the blackness was impenetrable. Although he was afraid to see, not seeing might be worse. “Lucas,” he blurted, and then forced himself to raise his voice. “Send the light down here.”

The response was a noise very much like one he’d previously heard — a clang like the note of a dull bell. Now he realised it had been the sound of an object swinging against the ladder, repeatedly colliding with the upper rungs. This time the flashlight was making the noise, and struck another rung as it plummeted down the shaft. The lens smashed on the tunnel floor, and the light went out at once.

“What have you done now,” Tom almost screamed, “you stupid useless retard?” He dropped into a crouch that felt as if a pain in his guts had doubled him over. His fingers groped over the cold wet stone and eventually closed around the flashlight. He pushed the switch back and forth, but the bulb must be broken too. When he jerked his head back to yell at Lucas he saw that the dim round hole at the top of the shaft was empty once more. He staggered to his feet and threw out a hand to help him keep his balance, and clutched an object that was dangling beside him in the tunnel. It was the rope he’d wanted to think was a worm or a snake.

A mindless panic made him haul at the bedraggled rope, and an object nuzzled the back of his hand. It was a face, though not much of one, and as he recoiled with a cry he felt it sag away from the bone. He was backing away so fast he almost overbalanced when he heard sounds in the other section of the tunnel. Between him and the way out, someone was running through the absolute blackness as if they had no need of light — as if they welcomed its absence.

For a moment that seemed endless Tom felt the darkness claim him, and then he shied the flashlight in the direction of the sodden flopping footsteps. He clutched at the ladder and hauled himself desperately upwards. He mustn’t think about climbing towards the outstretched branch that had creaked as the boys made for the ridge. Perhaps nobody had killed themselves — perhaps that was just a story made up by adults to scare children away from any danger. He could no longer hear the loose footsteps for all the noise he was making on the shaky ladder. Lucas must be waiting by the shaft — he’d promised to — and of course he’d turned the light away when he’d heard Tom thumping the boards that blocked the tunnel. The thought gave Tom the chance to realise who the friend Lucas said he had must be. “I’m still your friend,” he called, surely not too late, as he clambered up the rusty ladder. He didn’t dare to look down, and he was just a few rungs from the top when he lost his footing. His foot flailed in the air and then trod on the head of whatever was climbing after him.

It moved under his foot — moved more than any scalp ought to be able — as he kicked it away. He was terrified what else he might tread on, but he only found the rung again. His head was nearly level with the exit from the shaft before a pulpy grasp closed around his ankle. However soft they were, the swollen fingers felt capable of dragging him down into the blackness to share it with its residents. He thrust his free hand above the shaft in a desperate appeal. Surely Lucas hadn’t felt so insulted that he’d abandoned his cousin — surely only he was out there. “Get hold of me,” Tom pleaded, and at once he had his answer.

CHRISTOPHER FOWLER Lantern Jack

CHRISTOPHER FOWLER WAS BORN in Greenwich, London. He is the award-winning author of more than thirty novels and twelve short story collections, including Roofworld, Spanky, Psychoville, Calabash, Hell Train and ten “Bryant & May” mystery novels.

His memoir Paperboy won the Green Carnation award. He has written comedy and drama for the BBC, has a weekly column in the Independent on Sunday, is the Crime Reviewer for the Financial Times, and has written for such newspapers and magazines as The Times, Telegraph, Guardian, Daily Mail, Time Out, Black Static and many others.

He recently wrote the War of the Worlds video game for Paramount, featuring the voice of Sir Patrick Stewart, and his two-volume collection, Red Gloves from PS Publishing, features twenty-five new stories to mark his twenty-five years in horror.

“This story came about because I needed something for Hallowe’en,” explains Fowler. “I was doing a gig at the London Metropolitan Archive, and figured I’d be on stage for fifteen minutes, tops.

“When I arrived, I found a wing-backed armchair on the stage and the organiser told me I had an hour to fill. I had no other stories on me.

“Desperate, I looked into the audience and found one of my fans there, who had another of my tales on him. I had written ‘Lantern Jack’ to be read aloud, and it saved the day, partly because I thesped it to the max and discovered my inner Olivier that night.”

* * *

NO, PLEASE, YOU were before me. Age before beauty, ha ha. I’m in no rush to be served. The barmaid knows me, she’ll get around to looking after me soon enough. This is my local. I’m always in here on special evenings. Well, there’s never anything on the telly and at least you meet interesting people here. There’s always someone new passing through.

I don’t come in on a Saturday night because they have a DJ now and the music’s too loud for me. You’d probably enjoy it, being young. I haven’t seen you in here before. This place? Yes, it’s unusual to find a traditional pub like this. The Jack O’ Lantern has an interesting history. Well, if you’re sure I’m not boring you. I like your Hallowe’en outfit; sexy witch, very original. This place is a bit of a pet subject of mine.

We’re on the site of an ancient peat bog. The strange phenomenon of gas flickering over it was called ignis fatuus, from which we get the flickering of the Jack O’ Lantern. They built a coaching inn on the marsh in 1720. Not a good idea. Even now, there’s still water seeping through the basement walls. Later it became a gin palace. That burned down, and it was rebuilt as a pub called The Duke of Wellington. Being on the corner of Southwark Street and Leather Lane, the pub was caught between two districts, one of elegant town houses and the other of terrible, reeking slums.

See this counter? It’s part of the original bar. Solid teak, brass fittings. It was curved in a great horseshoe that took in all three rooms, the public, the snug and the saloon. But the Jack was caught between two worlds. The drunken poor came in on that side in order to drown their miseries in cheap ale, and the fine gentlemen ventured in to swig down their port while visiting the brothels nearby. Oh yes, there were dozens in the back streets. The area was notorious back then. It’s all gentrified now. Urban professionals. They don’t drink in here. Not posh enough for them. They’ll be the first to scream when it’s gone. Not that the area will ever really change. You don’t change London, London changes you.

Of course, there was always trouble in here on All Hallows Eve, right from when it first opened. One time,