The Year's Best Horror Stories 9 by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed.) Page A
Authors: Karl Edward Wagner (Ed.)
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lurching—and how, quite suddenly, blood had burst from both of Daisy’s eyes in a flood that soaked her ruff and pattered down on the floor of the barn, how she had collapsed on her forepaws . . . and on the still, rainy spring air of that day he had heard the sound, not muffled but curiously clear, coming from the attic of the house fifty feet away: Jang-jang-jang-jang !
He began to scream hysterically, dropping the armload of wood he had been getting for the fire. He ran for the kitchen to get Uncle Will, who was eating scrambled eggs and toast, his suspenders not even up over his shoulders yet.
She was an old dog , Hal, Uncle Will had said, his face haggard and unhappy—he looked old himself. She was twelve , and that’s old for a dog . You mustn’t take on, now — old Daisy wouldn’t like that .
Old , the vet had echoed, but he had looked troubled all the same, because dogs don’t die of explosive brain hemorrhages, even at twelve (“like as if someone had stuck a firecracker in his head,” Hal overheard the vet saying to Uncle Will as Uncle Will dug a hole in the back of the barn not far from the place where he had buried Daisy’s mother in 1950; “I never seen the beat of it, Will”).
And later, terrified almost out of his mind but unable to help himself, Hal had crept up to the attic.
Hello, Hal, how you doing? the monkey grinned from its shadowy corner. Its cymbals were poised, a foot or so apart. The sofa cushion Hal had stood on end between them was now all the way across the attic. Something—some force—had thrown it hard enough to split its cover, and stuffing foamed out of it. Don’t worry about Daisy, the monkey whispered inside his head, its glassy hazel eyes fixed on Hal Shelburn’s wide blue ones. Don’t worry about Daisy, she was old , old , Hal, even the vet said so, and by the way, did you see the blood coming out of her eyes, Hal? Wind me up, Hal . Wind me up, lets play, and who’s dead, Hal? Is it you?
And when he came back to himself he had been crawling toward the monkey as if hypnotized. One hand had been outstretched to grasp the key. He scrambled backward then, and almost fell down the attic stairs in his haste—probably would have if the stairwell had not been so narrow. A little whining noise had been coming from his throat
Now he sat in the boat, looking at Petey. “Muffling the cymbals doesn’t work,” he said. “I tried it once.”
Petey cast a nervous glance at the flight bag. “What happened, Daddy?”
“Nothing I want to talk about now,” Hal said, “and nothing you want to hear about. Come on and give me a push.”
Petey bent to it, and the stem of the boat grated along the sand. Hal dug in with an oar, and suddenly that feeling of being tied to the earth was gone and the boat was moving lightly, its own thing again after years in the dark boathouse, rocking on the light waves. Hal unshipped the oars one at a time and clicked the oarlocks shut.
“Be careful, Daddy,” Petey said. His face was pale.
“This won’t take long,” Hal promised, but he looked at the flight bag and wondered.
He began to row, bending to the work. The old, familiar ache in the small of his back and between his shoulder blades began. The shore receded. Petey was magically eight again, six, a four-year-old standing at the edge of the water. He shaded his eyes with one infant hand.
Hal glanced casually at the shore but would not allow himself to actually study it. It had been nearly fifteen years, and if he studied the shoreline carefully, he would see the changes rather than the similarities and become lost. The sun beat on his neck, and he began to sweat. He looked at the flight bag, and for a moment he lost the bend-and-pull rhythm. The flight bag seemed . . . seemed to be bulging. He began to row faster.
The wind gusted, drying the sweat and cooling his skin. The boat rose and the bow slapped water to either side when it came down. Hadn’t the wind freshened, just in
He began to scream hysterically, dropping the armload of wood he had been getting for the fire. He ran for the kitchen to get Uncle Will, who was eating scrambled eggs and toast, his suspenders not even up over his shoulders yet.
She was an old dog , Hal, Uncle Will had said, his face haggard and unhappy—he looked old himself. She was twelve , and that’s old for a dog . You mustn’t take on, now — old Daisy wouldn’t like that .
Old , the vet had echoed, but he had looked troubled all the same, because dogs don’t die of explosive brain hemorrhages, even at twelve (“like as if someone had stuck a firecracker in his head,” Hal overheard the vet saying to Uncle Will as Uncle Will dug a hole in the back of the barn not far from the place where he had buried Daisy’s mother in 1950; “I never seen the beat of it, Will”).
And later, terrified almost out of his mind but unable to help himself, Hal had crept up to the attic.
Hello, Hal, how you doing? the monkey grinned from its shadowy corner. Its cymbals were poised, a foot or so apart. The sofa cushion Hal had stood on end between them was now all the way across the attic. Something—some force—had thrown it hard enough to split its cover, and stuffing foamed out of it. Don’t worry about Daisy, the monkey whispered inside his head, its glassy hazel eyes fixed on Hal Shelburn’s wide blue ones. Don’t worry about Daisy, she was old , old , Hal, even the vet said so, and by the way, did you see the blood coming out of her eyes, Hal? Wind me up, Hal . Wind me up, lets play, and who’s dead, Hal? Is it you?
And when he came back to himself he had been crawling toward the monkey as if hypnotized. One hand had been outstretched to grasp the key. He scrambled backward then, and almost fell down the attic stairs in his haste—probably would have if the stairwell had not been so narrow. A little whining noise had been coming from his throat
Now he sat in the boat, looking at Petey. “Muffling the cymbals doesn’t work,” he said. “I tried it once.”
Petey cast a nervous glance at the flight bag. “What happened, Daddy?”
“Nothing I want to talk about now,” Hal said, “and nothing you want to hear about. Come on and give me a push.”
Petey bent to it, and the stem of the boat grated along the sand. Hal dug in with an oar, and suddenly that feeling of being tied to the earth was gone and the boat was moving lightly, its own thing again after years in the dark boathouse, rocking on the light waves. Hal unshipped the oars one at a time and clicked the oarlocks shut.
“Be careful, Daddy,” Petey said. His face was pale.
“This won’t take long,” Hal promised, but he looked at the flight bag and wondered.
He began to row, bending to the work. The old, familiar ache in the small of his back and between his shoulder blades began. The shore receded. Petey was magically eight again, six, a four-year-old standing at the edge of the water. He shaded his eyes with one infant hand.
Hal glanced casually at the shore but would not allow himself to actually study it. It had been nearly fifteen years, and if he studied the shoreline carefully, he would see the changes rather than the similarities and become lost. The sun beat on his neck, and he began to sweat. He looked at the flight bag, and for a moment he lost the bend-and-pull rhythm. The flight bag seemed . . . seemed to be bulging. He began to row faster.
The wind gusted, drying the sweat and cooling his skin. The boat rose and the bow slapped water to either side when it came down. Hadn’t the wind freshened, just in
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