Dark Terrors 3: The Gollancz Book of Horror

young man, arms above his head, resting his hands on the door frame. There was a certain proprietorial air about the pose. The silence lasted only seconds but in that time, Cynthia saw and realized who he was. She recognized the beautiful face, the red hair, the long, white hands. This man had Emma’s face, Emma’s hair, Emma’s eyes, Emma’s cruel smile of the nightmares. She had seen his image in a hundred of Emma’s sketches and paintings. She had seen him naked.

The man came into the room, leisurely closed the door and, folding his arms, leaned back against it. He said nothing, although he didn’t seem surprised to find Cynthia there. Had he watched her enter the house?

Cynthia tried to take a step backwards and found she couldn’t. Her shoulders were against the mirror. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded, aware of the tremor in her voice. She realized she was trapped. Fear paralysed her.

‘I might ask the same of you,’ said the man.

‘My husband and I look after the place. He’ll be over here soon. ’

The man laughed. It was a melodious, musical sound. ‘You’re a good woman, Cynthia,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you liked my paintings. I’m glad you saved them. You’ve been a good friend to Emma.’

Cynthia’s mouth had turned to glue. Her jaw ached and she was conscious of a numbness creeping through her limbs, as if presaging a faint. Images of her own comfortable, safe living-room flashed before her eyes. A mockery; she was neither comfortable or safe and further away from home than she’d ever been. An image of violence and murder superimposed itself over the fading memory of her familiar setting. ‘Who are you?’’

‘A friend,’ he answered. ‘Don’t be afraid.’ He unfolded his arms, rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ve been waiting to speak with you. I want you to help me.’

This apparently reasonable request slightly reassured Cynthia. Perhaps everything would be all right. ‘You had better come over to the house. My husband.. ’

‘Who is still at work. ’ The man laughed again. ‘I want you to help me here, Cynthia. It won’t take a moment.’

Panic slipped back into Cynthia’s mind. He knew her name. Her voice was a squeak. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s quite simple. I want you to turn around, very slowly, and take down tie mirror from the wall.’

‘Why?’

‘Please do as I say.’

Cynthia’s mind quickly juggled the thoughts of whether it would be wiser to comply or refuse. She would be helpless with her back turned. Why did he want her to move the mirror? But even as she was still trying to come to a decision, she could feel her body moving by itself, turning round. Her neck felt wrenched; she did not want to take her eyes from the intruder. An urge to scream built up within her, a scream she knew would never escape the constriction in her chest.

‘That’s right,’ said the man. ‘Gently now.’

A weird sound, that of strangled sobbing, whined from Cynthia’s throat as her neck cricked round to face the wall. She watched as if from a distance as her arms moved automatically to ease the glass from its hanging. Its damp surface pressed against her cheek and she staggered under its weight. The man didn’t move to help her. ‘I still need it, you see,’ he said. ‘Just for a while, until I know what I’m doing. You can help me, Cynthia, because I don’t think the new residents of this place would want to, do you?’

Cynthia was draped over the mirror, mouth hanging open, fighting for breath. ‘Who are you?’ she managed to whisper and then the fatal question, the one she didn’t want to ask but couldn’t stop. ‘Did you kill Emma?’

The man smiled. ‘I suppose I did, in a way, but not in any manner you could imagine or comprehend.’ The smile faded from his lips. He moved quickly towards Cynthia and put his hands on her face, ignoring her cry of horror. ‘Cynthia, please know me! Please! I need your help!’

Cynthia’s flesh chilled. She wanted to pull away from the warm, slim hands. ‘No!’ she said, but it was a weak sound.

‘Yes! Yes!’ There was fire in the man’s eyes, a dancing light. ‘Cynthia, I had to do this. I can’t explain why to you, because you wouldn’t understand. It’s something that’s been with me for a long time. I created the image, and put it into the mirror. With my eyes, with my sex.’

‘Emma,’ Cynthia said.

‘I had to undress myself from the flesh, for the new flesh to become.’

The man moved away from Cynthia’s tense, crippled stasis. He glanced around the room. ‘Everything’s destroyed. It’s as it should be, but you.. ’ He turned to her again. ‘You kept some of it back. You are my gateway, Cynthia. Felicia is my guide, but I’ve missed her somehow. ’

‘She’s been here,’ Cynthia said.

The man nodded. ‘I know. She’s waiting for me, somewhere. Once the image was fuelled, it could act, it became. I know this all sounds bizarre to you, but there are wondrous things in the world, things you can be, and do, if you only admit the possibility. I’m here now, Cynthia. This is me as I want to be.’

‘You killed yourself,’ Cynthia said. Her instincts hadn’t lied to her the day Michael Homey had turned up. Emma had been fine, more than fine. Cynthia wanted to sit down; her skull felt as if it was about to crack with the weight of the unbearable knowledge it now contained.

The man smiled at her gently. ‘Do I look dead? You have touched me, haven’t you?’

‘What is the mirror for?’ Cynthia asked.

‘I’m not fully out of it,’ replied the man. ‘Not yet.’ He shivered. ‘It’s yours now, Cynthia. You must put it on your bedroom wall.’

‘No,’ Cynthia said, uselessly.

‘Come on, it’s cold in here. Let’s go home.’

Back in her own house, the mirror propped up against the wall, Cynthia curled up in an armchair and drank a large tumbler of Scotch. She was alone. The back door had been left open and all the rooms were in darkness. She hugged herself tightly, cold. Cars passed the house, lights from the other houses glowed into the dark. Behind other doors, husbands talked about their day to wives, and children splashed in steaming, bedtime baths. Dreams would settle, and when the new residents of Wren’s Nest moved in, memories would fade. Life would go on.

Cynthia, sitting somewhat apart from this world of cosy domesticity, gazed into the mirror and drank her Scotch. The moment when the unseen becomes seen changes life for ever. There is a sense of loss, when ignorance dies. Emma Tizard seemed such a nice girl.

* * *

Storm Constantine’s most recent fantasy novels are the ‘Grigori’ trilogy: Stalking the Tender Prey, Scenting Hallowed Blood and Stealing Sacred Fire, which explore the theme of fallen angels, drawing upon angel mythology from around the world. As the author explains, ‘“Such a Nice Girl” is a sequel to another story of mine, “Candle Magic”, which appeared in the anthology Blue Motel: Narrow Houses Volume Three (edited by Peter Crowther), although the two stories can be read as stand-alones. After I wrote “Candle Magic” I wanted to know what happened to the protagonists, and “Such a Nice Girl” just kind of popped out!’ The tale will also be included in a limited edition collection of the author’s fiction, to be published in the USA by DNA Books.

Pieces RAY GARTON

I’ve been coming to pieces lately. It seems that the more things come together in my mind, the more I come to pieces.