The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 23

She shakes her head, disappointed, and looks up at the sky. I look too, but the rain is a cloud hovering too close to the ground.

“Your key is at the front desk.”

I nod. She signals me with some hand sign that belies her youth, then retreats inside. I try and push the cat out of the way with my foot, but it doesn’t move, not at first. My foot sinks into sickly soft fur that feels no different from a dish of rotted meat. The cat makes a low gurgling noise, and finally gets to its feet and staggers a few steps before falling on its side, out of breath.

My room is dark when I return to it, the overcast day filling the emptiness with the kind of shadows that do not dissipate when I turn on the lamps. I take my shoes and socks off to dry them, then sit on the edge of the bed. I scratch at the underside of my beard, less from discomfort and more for something to do with my hands, and look out the window at the solid wall of mist that hovers there. Part of me wants to draw the drapes, but I can’t. The swirling reminds me of a flood that will wash over everything and make it new. I just wish I knew what colour the water would be.

Suzanne and I made love that first night at the Inn, when the summer was warm and the scent of the beach was in the air. I remember it clearly, remember how soft and slow it was, remember us pausing to share a cigarette afterward, the smoke curling around the curve of her small breasts. And then I again see her grimacing face before me, only now she’s joined me on the edge of the bed, and with a sense of ten-year-old deja vu I ask what’s wrong. She hangs her head so I can’t see her face behind her hair, and covers her eyes. “A ghost must have just walked past me.” She laughs and I laugh with her though I’m not sure why. The vision begins to recede again until all that is left is the memory of a sky turned dark orange, and Suzanne’s hand fidgeting awkwardly as it lights on her abdomen. But there is something else, a flicker on the edge of my vision. I turn to the source and see in the darkness that the crack in the wall is longer, and the stain spreading from it is creeping across the carpet towards me. There’s something intriguing about it, but before I can determine just what that is I realise the stain is in fact something more.

In my head, words still echo like ripples in time spreading out from the past. I try to push them aside, try to drown them with alcohol or noise, but I can still hear them as they leave an indelible mark on my soul.

“What are we going to do?” I remember Suzanne asking me, her eyes wide while I only wanted to close my own to dull the throbbing.

“What can we do?”

There were no answers. What had seemed so clear only a few hours before we spoke had become suddenly so muddy, as though the oil that had flooded McCarthy Sound had contaminated my mind. I rubbed my temples as she spoke, and the fear she filled me with was thick and suffocating. She cried and hugged herself because I could do neither for her. I was afraid. I was young and afraid and selfish, and I could not understand why such a thing was happening.

“Why is this happening?” she echoed.

My apartment seemed filled by her presence, and as she sat at my kitchen table quietly sobbing I tried to think. Behind me, the television news was stuck in a loop, repeating the story of the tanker Madison and the wave of inevitable death that advanced upon the idyllic town of Port McCarthy. The words repeated in my mind until it seemed as though the voices were talking about me — talking to me. The accident was dire; everything had to be cleaned — I heard the words over and over until it seemed the only logical course, and yet Suzanne did not agree, not at first. I managed to convince her, though. I wore her down until she believed it was for the best. That ghost, too, continues to haunt me. It yelps at me, demanding my attention, and as I’m drawn from my reverie I realise it’s the sound of a dog in the next room. At least, I believe it’s a dog. I can’t be sure. It is unlike any sound I’ve ever heard, and it cuts into my nerves.

Yet I can’t help but feel dissociated from that part of myself, far away from the place I truly am, for when I see the shape of the shadow standing before me, I barely register its impossibility. The illusion is darker than anything I’ve ever seen, and beneath its form is a stain that has crept across the carpet towards me, a stain of what was spilled here so long ago. And yet, that darkness looks familiar to me, as though I should recognise its shape but cannot. It’s a puzzle that my brain doesn’t comprehend. Not until the shadow moves. It’s then that the image shifts into focus, and I realise to my horror what I am witnessing.

I don’t know where he comes from or what he’s made of, but before the wall stands a child formed from the black oil that is spread like a thin blanket over every surface of Port McCarthy. The boy-shaped shadow ripples, standing with his back to me as he shields his eyes from the deep fissure he was born from. He hides his face as though playing a game, a game meant to tell me something, but I’m not sure what that might be. Whatever knowledge he is trying to impart has been washed away by the flood of regret that pours from my heart like oil from a ruptured ship. I stand, intent on going nearer to him, wanting to inspect the vision to be sure my eyes are not deceiving me, but I travel no more than a step before I find myself hesitating, unsure I truly want to know the truth. In my terror I am unable to confront him and the wave of my regret threatens to overwhelm me. The only way I might breathe again is to turn my back, to hide from the childlike shadow as it hides from me, and wait until the world seems familiar again. But instead all I can see is the dresser mirror, and the reflection of a shivering child smeared and fractured within it.

The accident’s effects were not clear to me at first. I thought naively that the world would revert to what it once had been. Suzanne returned to work, I to my writing, and though we still bore the knowledge of what had happened I thought for a while that it meant nothing, that ultimately our love — that love shared between us in the sun of Port McCarthy, that had taken seed and grown further there — would be enough to heal us. I could not allow myself to believe that the accident would rob us of that idyllic life and erase everything that had preceded it. Yet, over time, my confidence faltered. The first sign things had altered irrevocably I did not immediately notice. Each return of Suzanne home from work was progressively later, until eventually I realised it had been months since I’d seen her in daylight. The darkness, it wore on her. Deep circles appeared beneath her swollen eyes, her blonde hair dried and lost its lustre. She no longer smiled, and try as I might to retain what we once had I could feel it slipping through my fingers like the fine grains of sand along the Port McCarthy beach. The life Suzanne and I once shared had withered after the accident, and though a portion of me understood that I still refused to believe the part I had played. Port McCarthy, where all our happiness once lay, had become ruined by the black oil that lapped its shores. It had become a barren place to which neither of us could return; we no longer belonged there. The accident had banished us forever. I know this because ten years later I have returned, and as I stand in nearly the same spot, in the same room, as I did then when I told Suzanne I loved her, I cannot face what we made reflected in the mirror before me. Instead, I weep over all that has been taken from me and all that has been lost, never to return.

The knock at the door startles me. The world that had been so quiet before returns and I find myself caught in a limbo state between what is real and what cannot be. As though I am awakening from a dream, the sensation is enough to disorient me, and looking around everything appears to be wrong. Understanding of what has happened is frustratingly out of reach. The knock returns, a voice calling to me from the door, and shaking off my delirium I stumble towards it, keenly aware of the presence that stands behind me, not looking my way. I don’t dare turn to see if it has vanished.

“Are you okay in there?” the young woman from the desk asks through the door. Her concerned words belie her distaste for me. I hear her fumbling with the lock, trying to open it. I place my foot surreptitiously against the base of the door.

“I’m fine. Fine.”

“Can you open the door?” she asks. I jiggle the handle ineffectually from my side, feigning effort.

“It seems to be stuck.”

“That’s okay. I’ve just come to tell you—” she lowers her voice and I’m not sure at first I’ve heard her properly. “There’ve been some complaints. The walls here are a bit thin; things pass through them.”

“Things? What things?” I say, growing cold. Is it possible I feel the fissure behind me growing wider? Feel it like a crack in my own being?

“Like I don’t know what. Like whatever you’re doing in here. Can you keep it down?”

I am not sure what she means but I agree. What else can I do? I’m afraid she’s going to push into the room and see the wall and what has emerged from it. Or, perhaps, I’m more afraid she won’t. I close my eyelids and listen to her walk away then hear nothing more — nothing but the slow leaking tap, or perhaps it’s the rain outside. Or is it a small figure made of oil, its back turned to me as mine is to it, no longer able to keep its shape and exist in