The Year's Best Horror Stories 21

skin was chafed and scraped, but she ignored the pain, squeezing her body through, hoping she could squirm fast enough, God it has to be fast enough, has to be… Heavy breathing at the hole’s entrance below her. Got to go faster! Clammy sweat peppered her brow; grit clung to her damp naked skin. Strange gibbering behind. Faster! Clawing sounds. Darkness.

An alarm shattered the cold morning air. Kate sprang out of bed. Got to… What? My, what’s all this dirt? I’m filthy! Kate jumped into the shower, the layer of dirt turning to mud, then washing away, swirling down the drain. The warm water stung her abrasions at first, like old-fashioned Mercurochrome on a hundred knife gashes. She sucked in her breath and tensed her punished back, leg and arm muscles. Gradually the water’s soothing wet warmth calmed her complaining body.

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” she singsonged as she turned off the water. Kate selected a modest matching plaid outfit her mother had purchased for her birthday. She dressed, cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair back from her face, and decided against the heavy makeup she normally wore. Although she usually skipped breakfast, she looked forward to it today.

She opened her bedroom door. Her mother walked by. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” Kate chanted. Her mother beamed at her appreciatively. Kate’s little brother Kevin zoomed down the hall, half clothed. Mrs. Kraft opened her mouth, ready to reprimand him, but Kate beat her to the punch. “Kevin!” ordered Kate, “march back to your room, young man. Put some decent clothes on. And brush your teeth.”

In Kevin’s betrayed gaze was the understanding that his relationship had changed in some fundamental way with his sister and all females past her age. “Geez! Where do you girls learn that stuff?”

THE HYACINTH GIRL by Mary Ann Mitchell

“—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.”

T. S. Eliot—“The Wasteland”

Beverly adjusted the jalousie on the living room window in order to view Carl. Among his blond strands stood some conspicuous grays. The gray hairs were coarser, sturdier than the blond wisps which had carried him through his fifty years. He swept his callused hand through his locks and settled into his chair.

“Carl, do you want something to drink?”

Carl waited for Beverly to come to the porch door, then shook his head. Beverly, dressed only in her underwear, walked out onto the porch and sat at his feet. The cold wooden planks touched her thighs and caused her shoulders to shiver.

“Night is creeping up on us,” she said.

“I’ve got to go home.”

“Stay, Carl, please. I’ll make bouillabaisse and fresh garlic bread.”

Carl shook his head. She knew he could see the lake peeking out from behind the trees. His rowboat would be just on the edge of the lake. If he started rowing upstream now, he would be home before dark. He rubbed his hands together, then stretched his arms out wide. As he brought his hands down to his knees to rise, Beverly grabbed one hand.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

He looked at her without expression. With a free hand he reached into the pocket of his white trousers and pulled out a piece of paper. It was folded into a small square. Uninvited, she took the paper from his hand and unfolded it. There was her body, sketched out in pencil; her long legs, the slightly domed tummy with the public hair rising almost to her navel, the funnellike breasts peaking in dark swirls, and the slender nape reaching behind the earlobes. But it was the perfection of the facial features which gave her the confidence to smile up at him. He stood.

“Tomorrow?” she asked.

He shrugged and moved down the steps to the gravel path. She waved, but he never turned to see it. He probably would listen to some Mahler, she thought, and finish the book by Nietzsche, which they had discussed earlier that day. He’d have a light supper.

Most of the next day Beverly pecked at letters on her computer keyboard, forming words that ran into sentences. The sketch lay to the right of the board. She was sorry she hadn’t asked him to sign it, “Love, Carl.” Maybe tonight.

She had dinner late that night. She didn’t know whether to make it for one or two. Eventually she put single portions on the stove. At bedtime she plumped up some pillows along his side of the bed and threw her left leg across the bottom pillow.

The pillow was still buried between her thighs when she felt a hand slide up her buttocks. She looked at the clock. Seven a.m. The hand felt rough against her. It coursed her flesh like sandpaper leveling a rough board. His full lips touched her shoulder blades, then she felt the hair of his chest rest softly against her back. She could feel her wetness spreading across the pillowcase as her pelvis pushed into it.

Later at breakfast she noticed how dark Carl’s skin was, as if he had been working outdoors all the previous day. His blond hair had been whitened by the sun, almost camouflaging the gray. His hands were raw. Many calluses had broken open into wounds.

“You must have worked hard yesterday.”

He didn’t say anything.

“By the way, I’d like you to sign the sketch.”

He looked at her and shook his head. His handsome features were pensive. She saw a cruelty that had never been there before.

“Why not?”

“I shouldn’t have given it to you. I should have kept it for myself.”

She smiled.

“I’m sure you can duplicate it.” She started to remove her bathrobe. “I’ll even pose for it.”

Beverly dropped the robe over the back of the chair and stood.

“Let’s go back to the bedroom and see if we can manage a repeat performance.”

A few hours later there was a blank paper and pencil on the nightstand. On the bed Carl and Beverly lay entwined. She was awakened by the jolting movement of his body. Carl was trying to reach for the drawing material. Beverly moaned and Carl terminated his attempt, and instead lay still beneath her. His breath halted a second or two and then slowly gained its rhythm. She waited. Ten minutes, a half hour, a day later she didn’t know which, then she suckled his teat. Beverly spread her legs across his hips and sat atop his body; she smiled, satisfied but hungry. He picked up the pencil and paper. Immediately she stood up on the mattress and heaved her auburn hair up across her forearms. He sketched.

The drawing was not as perfect as the first. His hand was shaky and the lines were not following her body contours. This seemed to anger him.

“I think it’s good.” She pecked him on the cheek and got up to prepare lunch. As she left the bedroom she