Best Horror from Fantasy Tales

by Stephen Jones, David Sutton

Genres: Horror; Ghost

Synopsis

This illustrated collection includes stories by the world's leading masters of the macabre, including Clibe Barker, Ramsey Campbell, Robert Bloch, Fritz Leiber and Dennis Etchison.

Release date: October 10, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 160

Sample

I began collecting in this field in the mid-fifties, just when it seemed its magazines were a dying breed. Now and then the odd journal would appear and vanish: Phantom, edited by ‘We at the Web’ from Bolton, and voted ‘best book of its kind available in this country today’ by the Leicester Psychic Science Institute, survived for sixteen issues; Weird World, published by Gannet Press of Birkenhead, managed only two, and sank shortly after announcing a ‘grand short story competition’ which would pay each lucky winner a guinea once their five-thousand-word story was published. As obscure were Gerald G. Swan’s Weird and Occult Miscellany, whose back cover with its advertisements for studies of torture seemed to make some disconcerting assumptions about its readership, and a one-shot whose title I believe to have been Screen Chills and Macabre Stories, which reprinted Robert Bloch’s ‘Notebook Found in a Deserted House’ under the title ‘Them Ones’, rather to Bloch’s surprise, I suspect. But though Phantom latterly lifted a good deal of its contents from Weird Tales, none of these journals could make up for the demise of that most famous of supernatural horror magazines.

In the sixties Robert A. W. Lowndes, a fine editor, tried to do so with a family of magazines, Magazine of Horror, Startling Mystery Stories and others. These not only reprinted stories and art from the pulp magazines but preserved a continuity by encouraging new writers; within a few months Lowndes wrote an editorial about one of my stories and published a tale by a teenage reader, Stephen King. On top of all this, the magazines included advertising in, shall we say, the tradition of the pulps, complete with coupon to fill in: ‘Yes, I would like [insert number] LIFE SIZE GLAMOUR TOPLESS Go-Go Party Girls to come and live with me.’ But even such advertising couldn’t sustain the magazines beyond the early seventies, and for a while the field, as far as short stories were concerned, looked more moribund than ever.

Soon things changed, not least because that teenage reader of Lowndes’ magazines made a name for himself. It’s ironic, though, that in the midst of the explosion of horror fiction that followed King and Herbert and Ira Levin and The Exorcist, some aspects of it were still known only to the cognoscenti. I mean the little magazines of the field. Of these, Fantasy Tales has won more awards than any other magazine. I can’t say I’m surprised, for when I saw the first isue back in the summer of 1977, I felt that Weird Tales had risen from its grave.

Part of this impression has to do with the illustrations, individual though they are, and in particular with the blurbs on the contents page. The latter aren’t so easy to bring off as you might think. An anthologist who seemed ubiquitous fifteen years ago had a try, in a book which included a story of mine about litter that becomes animate. The blurbs on either side of mine were ‘What do you eat after you’ve finished your mother’s eyeball?’ and ‘When boys refused him, he cut them apart and laughed!’, but the worst the anthologist could find to say about my tale was ‘Trapped by malevolent bottles, napkins and straws!’ I rather think the editors of Fantasy Tales have more sense of what they’re doing and the tradition from which it derives. Only a sprinkling of pulp-style advertisements (‘Throw Away That Truss’, ‘Glands Control Your Destiny’, ‘Learn To Mount Birds’, ‘Tombstones Direct To You’, ‘Ear Noises?’, ‘Nose Trouble?’ ‘Ruptured?’ ‘Piles?’ ‘So Nervous You Can’t Sleep?’,) could render the magazine more authentic.

However, this is by no means to say that Fantasy Tales is simply an attempt to pastiche the pulps; rather is it the magazine Weird Tales might have been if it had survived. While the magazine pays tribute to its roots by publishing material such as the stories by Leiber, Garfield, Bloch and Wellman, and Wagner’s fine tribute to one of Ray Bradbury’s preoccupations, it is at least equally strong in more contemporary terms: see, for instance, the tales by Barker, Grant, Ligotti and Tem. I think it deserves especial praise for taking risks. One example may suffice. It published Dennis Etchison’s ‘The Dark Country’, though that is in no sense a fantasy, and this adventurousness was repaid when Etchison’s became the only story so far to win both the British Fantasy Award and the World Fantasy Award.

I’m proud to have been associated with the magazine as a contributor over the years, and now to help introduce it to a wider audience. May this book give its readers as much pleasure as I always experience when I see a new issue of Fantasy Tales.

MerseysideMarch 1988



‘Do you believe in me? . . . I am Rumour’

Already a respected playright (with such genre titles as The History of the Devil, Frankenstein in Love and The Secret Life of Cartoons), Clive Barker made an impressive debut as a horror writer in 1984 with the publication of the first three Books of Blood collections. Since then a further trio of Books of Blood has appeared (in myriad permutations and deluxe editions) plus two novellas, The Hellbound Heart and Cabal, and a pair of acclaimed novels, The Damnation Game and Weaveworld. He has written the screenplays for the films Underworld and Rawhead Rex (the latter based on his Books of Blood story), and more recently, he wrote and directed the hit horror movie Hellraiser and executive produced its sequel, Hellraiser II: Hellbound. ‘The Forbidden’ was published concurrently in the fourteenth issue of Fantasy Tales and Volume 5 of Books of Blood. A piece of modern urban horror that owes much to the influence of fellow horror writer Ramsey Campbell, the story won The British Fantasy Award in 1986.

LIKE a flawless tragedy, the elegance of which structure is lost upon those suffering in it, the perfect geometry of the Spector Street Estate was only visible from the air. Walking in its drear canyons, passing through its grimy corridors from one grey concrete rectangle to the next, there was little to seduce the eye or stimulate the imagination. What few saplings had been planted in the quadrangles had long since been mutilated or uprooted; the grass, though tall, resolutely refused a healthy green.

No doubt the estate and its two companion developments had once been an architect’s dream. No doubt the city-planners had wept with pleasure at a design which housed three and thirty-six persons per hectare, and still boasted space for a children’s playground. Doubtless fortunes and reputations had been built upon Spector Street, and at its opening fine words had been spoken of it being a yardstick by which all future developments would be measured. But the planners—tears wept, words spoken - had left the estate to its own devices; the architects occupied restored Georgian houses at the other end of the city, and probably never set foot here.

They would not have been shamed by the deterioration of the estate even if they had. Their brain-child (they would doubtless argue) was as brilliant as ever: Its geometries as precise, its ratios as calculated; it was people who had spoiled Spector Street. Nor would they have been wrong in such an accusation. Helen had seldom seen an inner city environment so comprehensively vandalized. Lamps had been shattered and back-yard fences overthrown; cars, whose wheels and engines had been removed and chassis then burned, blocked garage facilities. In one courtyard three or four ground-floor maisonettes had been entirely gutted by fire, their windows and doors boarded up with planks and corrugated iron.

More startling still was the graffiti. That was what she had come here to see, encouraged by Archie’s talk of the place, and she was not disappointed. It was difficult to believe, staring at the multiple layers of designs, names, obscenities, and dogmas that were scrawled and sprayed on every available brick, that Spector Street was barely three and a half years old. The walls, so recently virgin, were now so profoundly defaced that the Council Cleaning Department could never hope to return them to their former condition. A layer of whitewash to cancel this visual cacophony would only offer the scribes a fresh and yet more tempting surface on which to make their mark.

Helen was in seventh heaven. Every corner she turned offered some fresh material for her thesis: ‘Graffiti: the semiotics of urban despair’. It was a subject which married her two favourite disciplines—sociology and aesthetics—and as she wandered around the estate she began to wonder if there wasn’t a book, in addition to her thesis, in the subject. She walked from courtyard to courtyard, copying down a large number of the more interesting scrawlings, and noting their location. Then she went back to the car to collect her camera and tripod and returned to the most fertile of the areas, to make a thorough visual record of the walls.

It was a chilly business. She was not an expert photographer, and the late October sky was in full flight, shifting the light on the bricks from one moment to the next. As she adjusted and readjusted the exposure to compensate for the light changes her fingers steadily became clumsier, her temper correspondingly thinner. But she struggled on, the idle curiosity of passers-by notwithstanding. There were so many designs to document. She reminded herself that her present discomfort would be amply repaid when she showed the slides to Trevor, whose doubt of the project’s validity had been perfectly apparent from the beginning.

“The writing on the wall?” he’d said, half smiling in that irritating fashion of his, “It’s been done a hundred times.”

This was true, of course; and yet not. There certainly were learned works on graffiti, chock-full of sociological jargon: cultural disenfranchisement; urban alienation. But she flattered herself that she might find something amongst this litter of scrawlings that previous analysts had not: Some unifying convention perhaps, that she could use as the lynchpin of her thesis. Only a vigorous cataloguing and cross-referencing of the phrases and images before her would reveal such a correspondence; hence the importance of the photographic study. So many hands had worked here; so many minds left their mark, however casually: If she could find some pattern, some predominant motive, or motif, the thesis would be guaranteed some serious attention, and so, in turn, would she.

“What are you doing?” a voice from behind her asked.

She turned from her calculations to see a young woman with a pushchair on the pavement behind her. She looked weary, Helen thought, and pinched by the cold. The child in the pushchair was mewling, his grimy fingers clutching an orange lollipop and the wrapping from a chocolate bar. The bulk of the chocolate, and the remains of previous jujubes, was displayed down the front of his coat.

Helen offered a thin smile to the woman; she looked in need of it.

“I’m photographing the walls,” she said in answer to the initial enquiry, though surely this was perfectly apparent.

The woman—Helen judged she could barely be twenty—said: “You mean the filth?”

“The writing and the pictures,” Helen said. Then: “Yes. The filth.”

“You from the Council?”

“No, the University”

“It’s bloody disgusting,” the woman said. “The way they do that. It’s not just kids, either.”

“No?”

“Grown men. Grown men, too. They don’t give a damn. Do it in broad daylight. You see ’em...broad daylight.” She glanced down at the child, who was sharpening his lollipop on the ground. “Kerry!” she snapped, but the boy took no notice. “Are they going to wipe it off?” she asked Helen.

“I don’t know,” Helen said, and reiterated: “I’m from the University.”

“Oh,” the woman replied, as if this was new information, “so you’re nothing to do with the Council?”

“No.”

“Some of it’s obscene, isn’t it?; really dirty. Makes me embarrassed to see some of the things they draw.”

Helen nodded, casting an eye at the boy in the pushchair. Kerry had decided to put his sweet in his ear for safe-keeping.

“Don’t do that!” his mother told him, and leaned over to slap the child’s hand. The blow, which was negligible, began the child bawling. Helen took the opportunity to return to her camera. But the woman still desired to talk. “It’s not just on the outside, neither,” she commented.

“I beg your pardon?” Helen said.

“They break into the flats when they go empty. The Council tried to board them up, but it does no good. They break in anyway. Use them as toilets, and write more filth on the walls. They light fires too. Then nobody can move back in.”

The description piqued Helen’s curiosity. Would the graffiti on the inside walls be substantially different from the public displays? It was certainly worth an investigation.

“Are there any places you know of around here like that?”

“Empty flats, you mean?”

“With graffiti.”

“Just by us, there’s one or two,” the woman volunteered. “I’m in Butts’ Court.”

“Maybe you could show me?” Helen asked.

The woman shrugged.

“By the way, my name’s Helen Buchanan.”

“Anne-Marie,” the mother replied.

“I’d be very grateful if you could point me to one of those empty flats.”

Anne-Marie was baffled by Helen’s enthusiasm, and made no attempt to disguise it, but she shrugged again and said: “There’s nothing much to see. Only more of the same stuff.”

Helen gathered up her equipment and they walked side by side through the intersecting corridors between one square and the next. Though the estate was low-rise, each court only five storeys high, the effect of each quadrangle was horribly claustrophobic. The walkways and staircases were a thief’s dream, rife with blind corners and ill-lit tunnels. The rubbish-dumping facilities—chutes from the upper floors down which bags of refuse could be pitched—had long since been sealed up, thanks to their efficiency as fire-traps. Now plastic bags of refuse were piled high in the corridors, many torn open by roaming dogs, their contents strewn across the ground. The smell, even in the cold weather, was unpleasant. In high summer it must have been overpowering.

“I’m over the other side,” Anne-Marie said, pointing across the quadrangle. “The one with the yellow door.” She then pointed along the opposite side of the court. “Five or six maisonettes from the far end,” she said. “There’s two of them been emptied out. Few weeks now. One of the family’s moved into Ruskin Court; the other did a bunk in the middle of the night.”

With that, she turned her back on Helen and wheeled Kerry, who had taken to trailing spittle from the side of his pushchair, around the side of the square.

“Thank you,” Helen called after her. Anne-Marie glanced over her shoulder briefly, but did not reply. Appetite whetted, Helen made her way along the row of ground floor maisonettes, many of which, though inhabited, showed little sign of being so. Their curtains were closely drawn; there were no milk-bottles on the doorsteps, nor children’s toys left where they had been played with. Nothing, in fact, of life here. There was more graffiti however, sprayed, shockingly, on the doors of occupied houses. She granted the scrawlings only a casual perusal, in part because she feared one of the doors opening as she examined a choice obscenity sprayed upon it, but more because she was eager to see what revelations the empty flats ahead might offer.

The malign scent of urine, both fresh and stale, welcomed her at the threshold of number 14, and beneath that the smell of burnt paint and plastic. She hesitated for fully ten seconds, wondering if stepping into the maisonette was a wise move. The territory of the estate behind her was indisputably foreign, sealed off in its own misery, but the rooms in front of her were more intimidating still: A dark maze which her eyes could barely penetrate. But when her courage faltered she thought of Trevor, and how badly she wanted to silence his condescension. So thinking, she advanced into the place, deliberately kicking a piece of charred timber aside as she did so, in the hope that she would alert any tenant into showing himself.

There was no sound of occupancy however. Gaining confidence, she began to explore the front room of the maisonette which had been—to judge by the remains of a disembowelled sofa in one corner and the sodden carpet underfoot—a living-room. The pale-green walls were, as Anne-Marie had promised, extensively defaced, both by mirror scribblers—content to work in pen, or even more crudely in sofa charcoal—and by those with aspirations to public works, who had sprayed the walls in half a dozen colours.

Some of the comments were of interest, though many she had already seen on the walls outside. Familiar names and couplings repeated themselves. Though she had never set eyes on these individuals she knew how badly Fabian J. (A.OK.) wanted to deflower Michelle; and that Michelle, in her turn, had the hots for somebody called Mr Sheen. Here, as elsewhere, a man called White Rat boasted of his endowment, and the return of the Syllabub Brothers was promised in red paint. One or two of the pictures accompanying, or at least adjacent to these phrases were of particular interest. An almost emblematic simplicity informed them. Beside the word Christos was a stick man with his hair radiating from his head like spines, and other heads impaled on each spine. Close by was an image of intercourse so brutally reduced that at first Helen took it to illustrate a knife plunging into a sightless eye. But fascinating as the images were, the room was too gloomy for her film, and she had neglected to bring a flash. If she wanted a reliable record of these discoveries she would have to come again, and for now be content with a simple exploration of the premises.

The maisonette wasn’t that large, but the windows had been boarded up throughout, and as she moved further from the front door the dubious light petered out altogether. The smell of urine, which had been strong at the door, intensified too, until by the time she reached the back living-room and stepped along a short corridor into another room beyond, it was as cloying as incense. This room, being furthest from the front door, was also the darkest, and she had to wait a few moments in the cluttered gloom to allow her eyes to become useful. This, she guessed, had been the bedroom. What little furniture the residents had left behind them had been smashed to smithereens. Only the mattress had been left relatively untouched, dumped in the corner of the room amongst a wretched litter of blankets, newspapers, and pieces of crockery.

Outside, the sun found its way between the clouds, and two or three shafts of sunlight slipped between the boards nailed across the bedroom window and pierced the room like annunciations, scoring the opposite wall with bright lines. Here, the graffitists had been busy once more: The usual clamour of love-letters and threats. She scanned the wall quickly, and as she did so her eye was led by the beams of light across the room to the wall which contained the door she had stepped through.

Here, the artists had also been at work, but had produced an image the like of which she had not seen anywhere else. Using the door, which was centrally placed in the wall, as a mouth, the artists had sprayed a single, vast head on to the stripped plaster. The painting was more adroit than most she had seen, rife with detail that lent the image an unsettling veracity. The cheekbones jutting through skin the colour of butter-milk; the teeth—sharpened to irregular points—all converging on the door. The sitter’s eyes were, owing to the room’s low ceiling, set mere inches above the upper lip, but this physical adjustment only lent force to the image, giving the impression that he had thrown his head back. Knotted strands of his hair snaked from his scalp across the ceiling.

Was it a portrait? There was something naggingly specific in the details of the brows and the lines around the wide mouth; in the careful picturing of those vicious teeth. A nightmare certainly: A facsimile, perhaps, of something from a heroin fugue. Whatever its origins, it was potent. Even the illusion of door-as-mouth worked. The short passageway between living-room and bedroom offered a passable throat, with a tattered lamp in lieu of tonsils. Beyond the gullet, the day burned white in the nightmare’s belly. The whole effect brought to mind a ghost train painting. The same heroic deformity, the same unashamed intention to scare. And it worked. She stood in the bedroom almost stupified by the picture, its red-rimmed eyes fixing her mercilessly. Tomorrow, she determined, she would come here again, this time with high-speed film and a flash to illuminate the masterwork.

As she prepared to leave the sun went in, and the bands of light faded. She glanced over her shoulder at the boarded windows, and saw for the first time that one four-word slogan had been sprayed on the wall beneath them.

‘Sweets to the sweet’ it read. She was familiar with the quote, but not with its source. Was it a profession of love? If so, it was an odd location for such an avowal. Despite the mattress in the corner, and the relative privacy of this room, she could not imagine the intended reader of such words ever stepping in here to receive her bouquet. No adolescent lovers, however heated, would lie down here to play at mothers and fathers; not under the gaze of the terror on the wall. She crossed to examine the writing. The paint looked to be the same shade of pink as had been used to colour the gums of the screaming man; perhaps the same hand?

Behind her, a noise. She turned so quickly she almost tripped over the blanket-strewn mattress.

“Who—?”

At the other end of the gullet, in the living-room, was a scab-kneed boy of six or seven. He stared at Helen, eyes glittering in the half-light, as if waiting for a cue.

“Yes?” she said.

“Anne-Marie says do you want a cup of tea?” he declared without pause or intonation.

Her conversation with the woman seemed hours past. She was grateful for the invitation however. The damp maisonette had chilled her.

“Yes . . .” she said to the boy. “Yes please.”

The child didn’t move, but simply stared on at her.

“Are you going to lead the way?” she asked him.

“If you want,” he replied, unable to raise a trace of enthusiasm.

“I’d like that.”

“You taking photographs?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, I am. But not in here.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too dark,” she told him.

“Don’t it work in the dark?” he wanted to know.

“No.”

The boy nodded at this, as if the information somehow fitted well into his scheme of things, and about-turned without another word, clearly expecting Helen to follow.

If she had been taciturn in the street, Anne-Marie was anything but in the privacy of her own kitchen. Gone was the guarded curiosity, to be replaced by a stream of lively chatter and a constant scurrying between half-a-dozen minor domestic tasks, like a juggler keeping several plates spinning simultaneously. Helen watched this balancing act with some admiration; her own domestic skills were negligible. At last, the meandering conversation turned back to the subject that had brought Helen here.

“Them photographs,” Anne-Marie said, “why’d you want to take them?”

“I’m writing about graffiti. The photos will illustrate my thesis.”

“It’s not very pretty.”

“No, you’re right, it isn’t. But I find it interesting.”

Anne-Marie shook her head. “I hate the whole estate,” she said. “It’s not safe here. People getting robbed on their own doorsteps. Kids setting fire to the rubbish day in, day out. Last summer we had the fire brigade here two, three times a day, ’til they sealed them chutes off. Now people just dump the bags in the passageways, and that attracts rats.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“Yes,” she said, “since Davey walked out.”

“That your husband?”

“He was Kerry’s father, but we weren’t never married. We lived together two years, you know. We had some good times. Then he just upped and went off one day when I was at me Mam’s with Kerry.” She peered into her tea-cup. “I’m better off without him,” she said. “But you get scared sometimes. Want some more tea?”

“I don’t think I’ve got time.”

“Just a cup,” Anne-Marie said, already up and unplugging the electric kettle to take it across for a re-fill. As she was about to turn on the tap she saw something on the draining board, and drove her thumb down, grinding it out. “Got you, you bugger,” she said, then turned to Helen: “We got these bloody ants.”

“Ants?”

“Whole estate’s infected. From Egypt they are: Pharoah ants, they’re called. Little brown sods. They breed in the central heating ducts, you see; that way they get into all the flats. Place is plagued with them.”

This unlikely exoticism (ants from Egypt?) struck Helen as comical, but she said nothing. Anne-Marie was staring out of the kitchen window and into the back-yard.

“You should tell them—” she said, though Helen wasn’t certain whom she was being instructed to tell, “tell them that ordinary people can’t even walk the streets any longer—”

“Is it really so bad?” Helen said, frankly tiring of this catalogue of misfortunes.

Anne-Marie turned from the sink and looked at her hand.

“We’ve had murders here,” she said.

“Really?”

“We had one in the summer. An old man he was, from Ruskin. That’s just next door. I didn’t know him, but he was a friend of the sister of the woman next door. I forget his name.”

“And he was murdered?”

“Cut to ribbons in his own front room. They didn’t find him for almost a week.”

“What about his neighbours? Didn’t they notice his absence?”

Anne-Marie shrugged, as if the most important pieces of information—the murder and the man’s isolation—had been exchanged, and any further enquiries into the problem were irrelevant. But Helen pressed the point.

“Seems strange to me,” she said.

Anne-Marie plugged in the filled kettle. “Well, it happened,” she replied, unmoved.

“I’m not saying it didn’t, I just—”

“His eyes had been taken out,” she said, before Helen could voice any further doubts.

Helen winced. “No,” she said, under her breath.

“That’s the truth,” Anne-Marie said. “And that wasn’t all’d been done to him.” She paused, for effect, then went on: “You wonder what kind of person’s capable of doing things like that, don’t you? You wonder.” Helen nodded. She was thinking precisely the same thing.

“Did they ever find the man responsible?”

Anne-Marie snorted her disparagement. “Police don’t give a damn what happens here. They keep off the estate as much as possible. When they do patrol all they do is pick up kids for getting drunk and that. They’re afraid, you see. That’s why they keep clear.”

“Of this killer?”

“Maybe,” Anne-Marie replied. Then: “He had a hook.”

“A hook?”

“The man what done it. He had a hook, like Jack the Ripper.”

Helen was no expert on murder, but she felt certain that the Ripper hadn’t boasted a hook. It seemed churlish to question the truth of Anne-Marie’s story however; though she silently wondered how much of this—the eyes taken out, the body rotting in the flat, the hook—was elaboration. The most scrupulous of reporters was surely tempted to embellish a story once in a while.

Anne-Marie had poured herself another cup of tea, and was about to do the same for her guest.

“No thank you,” Helen said, “I really should go.”

“You married?” Anne-Marie asked, out of the blue.

“Yes. To a lecturer from the University.”

“What’s his name?”

“Trevor.”

Anne-Marie put two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into her cup of tea. “Will you be coming back?” she asked.

“Yes, I hope to. Later in the week. I want to take some photographs of the pictures in the maisonette across the court.”

“Well, call in.”

“I shall. And thank you for your help.”

“That’s all right,” Anne-Marie replied. “You’ve got to tell somebody, haven’t you?”

“The man apparently had a hook instead of a hand.”

Trevor looked up from his plate of tagliatelle con prosciutto.

“Beg your pardon?”

Helen had been at pains to keep her recounting of this story as uncoloured by her own response as she could. She was interested to know what Trevor would make of it, and she knew that if she once signalled her own stance he would instinctively take an opposing view out of plain bloody-mindedness.

“He had a hook,” she repeated, without inflexion.

Trevor put down his fork, and plucked at his nose, sniffing. “I didn’t read anything about this,” he said.

“You don’t look at the local press,” Helen returned. “Neither of us do. Maybe it never made any of the nationals.”

“‘Geriatric Murdered By Hook-Handed Maniac’?” Trevor said, savouring the hyperbole. “I would have thought it very newsworthy. When was all of this supposed to have happened?”

“Sometime last summer. Maybe we were in Ireland.”

“Maybe,” said Trevor, taking up his fork again. Bending to his food, the polished lens of his spectacles reflected only the plate of pasta and chopped ham in front of him, not hi