The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 23

And: Might have been, for some, was what I thought, but didn’t say; might still be, for you, with someone else. ’Cause. I just ain’t that gal you’re thinkin’ of, Lewis Boll. Never was. Never will be.

I looked at him, past him. Saw the dim bronze shadow of myself in Miz Farwander’s mirror, looming over Lewis like an angry spectre, for all you could see the full range and extent of my shame. And as I kept on looking, I saw one of Her snakes — my snakes — start to move its slick green head, to rise and keep on rising like it planned to strike, flickering its impossible tongue out like a kindling flame.

And Lewis.

(oh, Lewis)

for all he didn’t see it too — for all he couldn’t’ve — he went rigid, went grey, went heavy, went dead. Stood there while the stone spread fast all over him like mould does on cheese or a blush follows a slap, ’til Miz Forza stepped forward lightsome as always, took him by the elbow and pushed him off-balance, to shatter on impact with the raw dirt floor.

“There,” she said, clapping her gloved hands. “That’s that. And now we’re alone again at last — just the three of us.”

Upstairs, the thunder crashed, like God Himself was breaking rocks. But Miz Farwander simply shrugged her shoulders at it with a brisk little tut-tut noise, flicking her too-long tongue against her metal teeth, and told the sky above her:

“Oh, go on and howl all you want to, father-killer — you had your chance ’fore you let yourself get old, let the white Christ take half the whole world over and some host of no-name one-gods take the rest, with barely even a fight. But you still had to keep spillin’ your seed hither and yon, didn’t you, where we could get to it? And now it’s done. We’re three once more, whole and perfect, with nothing at all left to stop us.”

She put one hand on my right arm as Miz Forza took my left, and the two of ’em drew me away — cooed at me, stroked me, told me to keep my eyes down ’til we was inside the caravan itself, for fear of any further accidents. And when we got inside they sat me down easy with my feet up, to give me some time to settle in and come to terms with what had happened; Miz Farwander made tea, while Miz Forza tipped a bottle of something into it — that salve she’d used to keep the Mask good-looking? I hoped not, but it sure to hell did stink almost the same—

I was shaking as I sipped, watching her slip off her gloves, so’s I could see her hands clear for the first time ever: Black like Miz Farwander’s, from tips to wrist. Exactly like.

They knit their four black hands together tight and rocked together, like they was almost about to cry. And I saw—

— I realised—

— remembering those sisters of Hers, who lived forever and took on Her ugliness, who made monsters of ’emselves even though they didn’t have to, just so’s She’d never have to be alone—

— that all their fingers were nails, and all those nails were claws. That their tongues were equal long and sharp, just as their teeth (metal or no) were fangs. That their hair was snakes too, come seeking out now from under cap and scarves alike, to say hello to mine.

For it was like Miz Farwander’d told my no-’count Pa, that ranting lightning-strike voice lost behind the thunder: We was all the same again, all three, at long last. Just like ’fore my head was cut off, and my spilt blood birthed out a horse with wings, in and amongst so many other equal-awful creatures.

I wear the Mask of Fear at all times now, shows notwithstanding, and am worn in turn: She is my face, I her body. To even try taking it off would rip us both apart and force the two Mizes to start over — something I could never countenance, even for my own comfort; I owe them so much, after all. And thus together we hold pride of place while Miz Forza sets at my right hand, Miz Farwander at my left, looking up at me with a swoony mutual love that I can’t feel, startling-keen as any knife slid fast and sure ’tween the ribs.

We eat well, and plenty. I freeze ’em in their tracks, they knock ’em down. And the caravan moves on, moves on, through this new world with its ancient tides, the ebb and flow of inhumanity. Dustbowl’s just a word to most, near nine decades gone, all but forgotten. Yet you only fool yourselves to think it’s over, for though hunger may be better-hid, it is never far behind.

That’s why cooch still plays, now as ever. Like it always did.

I take the stage nightly, hard and proud and cold, a dead light shining from my rigid face; I live always in company but always alone, obdurate, untouched, imperturbable. As though I too was turned to stone that night, so long past — me, Persia Leitner, who am now called by many other names: Sister, Dread Lady, Queen of Snakes, Mask of Fear. Poseidon’s whore, Athena’s injustice, Perseus’ victim. Zeus’ bane.

Medusa.

Next show starts right soon, rubes. C’mon inside, look up. Look hard. No, harder.

And now.

let me show you somethin’.

JOEL LANE Midnight Flight

JOEL LANE’S PUBLICATION IN the supernatural horror genre include three short story collections: The Earth Wire, The Lost District and The Terrible Changes, while a collection of his supernatural crime stories, Where Furnaces Burn, is forthcoming.

He is also the author of two mainstream novels, From Blue to Black and The Blue Mask; three poetry collections, The Edge of the Screen, Trouble in the Heartland and The Autumn Myth; a chapbook, Black Country; a booklet of crime stories, Do Not Pass Go, and a pamphlet of erotic poems, Instinct. His articles on great weird fiction writers have appeared in Wormwood and elsewhere.

Current projects include a collection of ghost stories, The Anniversary of Never.

“‘Midnight Flight’ was written for The Horror Anthology of Horror Anthologies, edited by D. F. Lewis,” explains Lane. “It’s a tribute to the classic weird fiction anthologies I read before my teens, and to the libraries — now shut down or severely depleted — where I found them.

“That led naturally into a story about the loss of memory, and how memory might not want to be lost.”

* * *

PAUL COOKSEY REMEMBERED the book’s title on the same day that he forgot where he lived. As his bus neared the Hockley Flyover and the tall buildings on either side receded, he had a momentary sensation of flying on wings of concrete. Night was falling, but the street-lamps hadn’t yet come on. Cars streamed past on the outside lane. He closed his eyes, and a name he’d been trying to recall for months came back to him as naturally as if he’d never lost it. Midnight Flight.

The editor’s name continued to elude him, and it wasn’t any of the usual suspects. The book had been in the school library, quite battered when he’d read it in. 1956 it must have been, when he was twelve. The first book of horror stories he’d read, unless you counted the children’s versions of Norse and Greek myths and Beowulf, which you probably should.

As the bus crawled through heavy traffic on the Soho Road, the teenagers shouting into their mobiles and headphones leaking beats drove the book from his mind. But now he’d remembered the title, maybe he’d be able to track down a copy. It might even have the original cover. He couldn’t see through the murky windows to identify his stop, and the chanting around him was getting louder as if the reception was better at this point. Paul rose to his