STRANGE TALES 10 - Softcover

Strange Tales Of Mystery And Terror; Robert M. Price (editor) Richard Lupoff, Andrew Kelly, Charles Ensminger, Adrian Cole

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0753415380 ISBN 13: 9780753415382

Publisher: Wildside Press, 2007

Synopsis

This wide-ranging collection of twenty-four spine-tingling stories draws on the best traditions of classic horror, from powerful myths and folktales to contemporary stories of man-made terrors. With contributions by writers of the caliber of Philip K. Dick, Stephen King, and Edgar Allan Poe, this is a truly chilling anthology.

About this title

About the Author:

Susan Price is the acclaimed author of many children's books. In 1987 she won the U.K.'s prestigious Carnegie Medal.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

THE KIT BAG

ALGERNON BLACKWOOD

When the Words "not guilty" sounded through the crowded courtroom that
dark December afternoon, Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal K.C. [king's
counsel] and leader for the triumphant defense, was represented by his
junior; but Johnson, his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his
chambers like lightning.

"It's what we expected, I think," said the lawyer, without emotion; "and,
personally, I am glad the case is over." There was no particular sign of
pleasure that his defense of John Turk, the murderer, on a plea of insanity,
had been successful, for no doubt he felt, as everybody who had watched the
case felt, that no man had ever better deserved the gallows.

"I'm glad too," said Johnson. He had sat in the court for ten days watching
the face of the man who had carried out with callous detail one of the most
brutal and cold-blooded murders of recent years.

The counsel glanced up at his secretary. They were more than employer and
employed; for family and other reasons, they were friends. "Ah, I remember;
yes," he said with a kind smile, "and you want to get away for Christmas?
You're going to skate and ski in the Alps, aren't you? If I was your age, I'd
come with you."

Johnson laughed shortly. He was a young man of 26, with a delicate face like
a girl's. "I can catch the morning boat now," he said, "but that's not the
reason I'm glad the trial is over. I'm glad it's over because I've seen the last of
that man's dreadful face. It positively haunted me. That white skin, with the
black hair brushed low over the forehead, is a thing I shall never forget, and
the description of the way the dismembered body was crammed and packed
with lime into that—"

"Don't dwell on it, my dear fellow," interrupted the other, looking at him
curiously out of his keen eyes. "Don't think about it. Such pictures have a
trick of coming back when one least wants them." He paused a
moment. "Now go," he added presently, "and enjoy your holiday. I shall want
all of your energy for my Parliamentary work when you get back. And don't
break your neck skiing."

Johnson shook hands and took his leave. At the door he turned suddenly.
"I knew there was something I wanted to ask you," he said. "Would you mind
lending me one of your kit bags? It's too late to get one tonight, and I leave in
the morning before the shops are open."

"Of course; I'll send Henry over with it to your rooms. You shall have it the
moment I get home."

"I promise to take great care of it," said Johnson gratefully, delighted to think
that within 30 hours he would be nearing the brilliant sunshine of the high
Alps in the winter. The thought of that criminal court was like an evil dream in
his mind.

He dined at his club and went on to Bloomsbury, where he occupied the top
floor in one of those old, gaunt houses in which the rooms are large and lofty.
The floor below his own was vacant and unfurnished, and below that were
other lodgers whom he did not know. It was cheerless, and he heartily looked
forward to a change. The night was even more cheerless: it was miserable,
and few people were around. A cold, sleety rain was driving down the streets
before the keenest east wind that he had ever felt. It howled dismally among
the big, gloomy houses of the great squares, and when he reached his
rooms, he heard it whistling and shouting over the world of black roofs
beyond his windows.

In the hall he met his landlady, shading a candle from the drafts with her thin
hand. "This come by a man from Mr. Wilbr'am's, sir."

She pointed to what was evidently the kit bag, and Johnson thanked her and
took it upstairs with him. "I shall be going abroad in the morning for ten days,
Mrs. Monks," he said. "I'll leave an address for letters."

"And I hope you'll 'ave a merry Christmas, sir," she said in a raucous,
wheezy voice that suggested spirits, "and better weather than this."

"I hope so too," replied her lodger, shuddering a little as the wind went roaring
down the street outside.

When he got upstairs, he heard the sleet volleying against the windowpanes.
He put his kettle on to make a cup of hot coffee and then set about putting a
few things in order for his absence

"And now I must pack—such as my packing is." He laughed to himself and
set to work at once.

He liked the packing, for it brought the snow mountains so vividly before him
and made him forget the unpleasant scenes of the past ten days. Besides, it
was not elaborate in nature. His friend had lent him the very thing—a stout
canvas kit bag, sack-shaped, with holes around the neck for the brass bar
and padlock. It was a bit shapeless, true, and not much to look at, but its
capacity was unlimited, and there was no need to pack carefully. He shoved
in his waterproof coat, his fur cap and gloves, his skates and climbing boots,
his sweaters, snow boots, and earmuffs; and then on the top of these he
piled his woolen shirts and underwear, his thick socks, puttees, and
knickerbockers. The dress suit came next, in case the hotel people dressed
up for dinner, and then, thinking of the best way to pack his white shirts, he
paused a moment to reflect. "That's the worst of these kit bags," he mused
vaguely, standing in the center of the sitting room, where he had come to
fetch some string.

It was after ten o'clock. A furious gust of wind rattled the windows as though
to hurry him up, and he thought with pity of the poor Londoners whose
Christmas would be spent in such a climate, while he was skimming over
snowy slopes in bright sunshine and dancing in the evening with rosy-
cheeked girls—ah! That reminded him; he must put in his dancing pumps
and evening socks. He crossed over from his sitting room to the cupboard on
the landing where he kept his linen.

And as he did so, he heard someone coming softly up the stairs.

He stood still a moment on the landing to listen. It was Mrs. Monks's step,
he thought; she must be coming up with the last mail. But then the steps
ceased suddenly, and he heard no more. They were at least two flights down,
and he came to the conclusion that they were too heavy to be those of his
bibulous landlady. No doubt they belonged to a late lodger who had mistaken
his floor. He went into his bedroom and packed his pumps and dress shirts
as best he could.

The kit bag by this time was two thirds full and stood upright on its own base
like a sack of flour. For the first time he noticed that it was old and dirty, the
canvas faded and worn, and that it had obviously been subjected to rather
rough treatment. It was not a very nice bag to have sent him—certainly not a
new one or one that his chief valued. He gave the matter a passing thought
and went on with his packing. Once or twice, however, he caught himself
wondering who it could have been wandering down below, for Mrs. Monks had
not come up with letters, and the floor was empty and unfurnished. From
time to time, moreover, he was almost certain that he heard a soft tread of
someone padding around over the bare boards—cautiously, stealthily, as
silently as possible—and, further, that the sounds had been lately coming
distinctly closer.

For the first time in his life he began to feel a little creepy. Then, as though to
emphasize this feeling, an odd thing happened: as he left the bedroom,
having just packed his recalcitrant white shirts, he noticed that the top of the
kit bag lopped over toward him with an extraordinary resemblance to a human
face. The canvas fell into a fold like a nose and forehead, and the brass rings
for the padlock just filled the position of the eyes. A shadow—or was it a
travel stain? for he could not tell exactly—looked like hair. It gave him rather
a shock, for it was so absurdly, so outrageously, like the face of John Turk,
the murderer.

He laughed and went into the front room, where the light was stronger.
That horrid case has gotten on my mind, he thought; I shall be glad of a
change of scene and air. In the sitting room, however, he was not pleased to
hear again that stealthy tread upon the stairs and to realize that it was much
closer than before, as well as unmistakably real. And this time he got up and
went out to see who it could be creeping around on the upper staircase at so
late an hour.

But the sound ceased; there was no one visible on the stairs. He went to the
floor below, not without trepidation, and turned on the electric light to make
sure that no one was hiding in the empty rooms of the unoccupied suite.
There was not a stick of furniture large enough to hide a dog. Then he called
over the banisters to Mrs. Monks, but there was no answer, and his voice
echoed down into the dark vault of the house and was lost in the roar of the
gale that howled outside. Everyone was in bed and asleep—everyone except
himself and the owner of this soft and stealthy tread.

My absurd imagination, I suppose, he thought. It must have been the wind
after all, although—it seemed so very real and close, I thought. He went back
to his packing. It was by this time getting on toward mi...

About this edition

• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Publication date: 2007
• ISBN 10: 0753415380
• ISBN 13: 9780753415382
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 272