The Year's Best Horror Stories 21

“I love you, Beverly. That’s why I almost gave you the sketch. But it was too late for me to find someone else. Neurological control had dissipated in my hands to the point that I couldn’t draw a straight line and it had to be created by my hands, a photograph wouldn’t do. The original sketch was made when we first slept together. Then I didn’t mind the idea of using you but later it preyed on my conscience. I thought of how I would miss you. But this is the greatest act of love you could give me, and I realize you’ve always been braver than I. Probably loved me more, too.”

“What about me, Carl? What about my life?”

“I’ll always think of you, Beverly. When the time comes to take your remains down the river I promise to pray for you. I built an elaborate casket for your image. It’s sturdy; should hold up for quite some time. It’ll make the decay take place more slowly. Give you time to settle any matters you think are important.”

“What if I go to the police?”

“And say what?”

Beverly swung her body down across the mattress and rolled over onto her right side while still clutching the churning life contained in her stomach.

“I lined the casket with the best white satin I could obtain and smoothed the sketch across the bottom among some rose petals. Before closing the lid I kissed your representation, and sang a hymn as I lowered the coffin into the grave. It was a moving ceremony, really. This is the first time I’ve ever buried someone I loved.”

Beverly was screaming. Was it inside her head or coming up through her body? She was too confused to know for sure. Carl rolled her over onto her back and she felt him trying to enter her. Her hands beat against his head. She pounded and kicked to release herself from this bringer of death.

From far away she heard him say that he was leaving, he couldn’t stand to see her like this.

“You did it! You did it!” she yelled and watched him walk out of the room.

She slid off the bed and stumbled into her office. She was alone in the house now. As she sat at her desk she remembered every detail of Carl’s face and form. She tried to duplicate it on paper but failed. If only her hands could mirror the image in her mind. All she could see were the pronounced cheekbones, the straight slender nose…

She wrung her hands together and as she did sheaths of skin dropped onto the desk blotter. Her howling reached as far as Carl, who was about to push his boat into the lake.

MIND GAMES by Adam Meyer

The old woman opened her eyes. Shafts of sunlight peered from between the drapes, illuminating swirls of dust. The sheets were damp with her own sweat. A glance at the clock. 6:37 a.m. At least she’d had a few hours’ sleep. It was hard to sleep these days.

She lifted her head from the pillow and sat up arthritically, old bones aching. She looked around the room, saw heavy oak furniture and rocking chair and a thirteen inch T.V. and photographs on the wall, but the faces staring back at her from the frames were those of strangers, and—

Oh my God, she thought. Where am I?

Afraid to move, afraid to stay still too long, remembering that, there had been someone here last night, forgetting who, knowing only that she didn’t want to meet him again.

Where am I?

The faces: smiling, staring, screaming with their eyes.

Who are you? she asked them silently.

But they were deaf, and their frozen mouths permitted no words anyway.

Oh, dear God where is this where is this where is—

She moaned, a short, pained sound that rose from her tortured soul. She was home. This was her own apartment. She had been lost in her very own bedroom. Herman would have laughed if he had seen her a moment ago, a senile old woman who couldn’t recognize her own name. But Herman was lucky: he had never been old, he was young forever, just like the photos on the wall. Just like in her mind.

Except when she tried to picture his face she couldn’t. She saw only a plane of gray like the one that waited outside the window.

She felt the familiar terror rising up, swallowing her whole, like the whale that swallowed Pinocchio.

Pinocchio. She remembered taking the girls to see that a couple of years ago. Oh, yes. Where were the girls? She had to get them off to school. The bus would be here soon.

She padded out of the bedroom and found herself in the middle of the hallway, wondering where she had meant to go.

Christ, the old woman thought, it’s eating away at my mind, cell by cell, piece by piece.

Only it wasn’t the Alzheimer’s. That was just an excuse the doctors had made to explain something they couldn’t understand. She knew what it really was.

But the old woman tried not to think about that as she shuffled into the kitchen and started to make breakfast.

The old woman’s daughter arrived at one-thirty. She was carrying a brown bag filled with groceries. She set it down on the counter and took a seat at the kitchen table beside her mother, who sat at the window and looked at the motion of people and cars below.

“You left eight messages on my machine this morning, Mom. You sounded worried, afraid. Did something happen?”

The old woman’s gaze was focused out the window, sifting between the dull blue sky stitched with gray clouds, and the figures scurrying along the sidewalk, carrying umbrellas in anticipation of rain. She looked briefly at her daughter and then away, as she said, “What are you talking about, dear? I only called once.”

“When?” The younger woman’s eyes softened, though her tone was still angry.

“Oh… I’m not sure. I don’t know, it was several hours ago at least.

“Five of the messages pleaded me to come over right away, and the other three…” She didn’t seem willing to discuss those.

“Well, Barbara dear, I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble,” the old woman said.

Her daughter gave her a strange look, hurt and angry and regretful. She said, “I’m Sarah. Barbara’s dead, mom. She died almost thirty years ago, remember? The car… I was only five, and she was eight. Jesus, Mom, don’t you even remember that?”

“Of course I do,” the old woman lied. “Of course, how could I forget. Don’t cry, Sarah, don’t cry.”

Sarah wiped the tears from her face with a napkin. “I brought you some groceries, Mom. Should be enough to hold you through the week.

“Thank you, dear, that’s wonderful. Did you bring the spaghetti?”

Yes.”

“Good, I thought we’d have spaghetti for dinner. That was always your favorite.”

“Mom, I—I can’t stay that late, you know that. I’ve got to get back for John and Eddie.”

The old woman smiled, revealing a mouthful of teeth, most of which weren’t real.

“I wish you’d stay, dear. Your father would love it if we could all have dinner together, like the old days.”

“Oh God oh God oh God.”

“What’s the matter?” the old woman asked her daughter.

“Nothing,” Sarah said. “Nothing.”

They sat in companionable silence for almost an hour. Finally, Sarah spoke.

“Mom, have you thought about what I asked you the other day?”

Needles of rain splattered the window, exploding against the glass with a faint pitter-patter sound.