The Year's Best Horror Stories 16 Part 11

"Takes after his granddad," Matilda maintained. "In fact Alfred-did you know, David, that was your grandfather's name?-moved twenty-five years ago last Christmas. He said, 'Make certain the lad-you-knows what's what.' And I said, 'You never need fear about that, Alfred.' "

"Only the other day," Edith stressed, tapping a knife handle on the table, "you forgot to mention Alfred said that only the other day."

"I hadn't forgotten," Matilda protested, "I just hadn't got round to it. At the same time as I was going to mention the lovely surprise we've planned for David's birthday."

Edith shook her head reproachfully. "Now, you've spoilt it all, Matilda. The fact he now knows a lovely surprise is planned for his birthday, means it will only be half a lovely surprise. He may even guess what it is. If you have a failing, Matilda, it is talking out of turn. Gladys Foot, who you may remember moved in 1932, said the same thing only yesterday. 'Matilda will talk out of turn,' she said. 'She even told me when I was going to move, and I didn't want to know until a day after the event.' "

Matilda dabbed her eyes with a black-edged handkerchief. "I mean well, Edith. I'm sure dear David won't give the matter of a lovely surprise on his birthday another thought, until he learns what it is on the great day, which I believe is the day after tomorrow."

Edith hastened to console. "Don't take on so, dear. I mean I only correct you for your own good. Have a gla.s.s of Mortuary 51. It will cheer you up."

I may as well point out that Mortuary 51 was a rather bad sherry and had nothing to do with a mortuary, but they had churchyard-funeral t.i.tles for almost everything. I mean the pepperbox was an earth-sprinkler, potatoes-corpoties, spoons-grave-diggers and any kind of soup or gravy, churchyard bouillon.

When I was escorted to my bedroom by Edna, she a.s.sured me that: "The bed shrouds were changed this morning."

I lay awake for most of the night trying to understand how this death-related mania had come into being. Possibly their longevity and the fact everyone they had known had died, might have had something to do with it. In the very beginning I mean.

My thirty-fifth birthday will never be forgotten.

To begin I found three black-edged cards propped up against a toast rack on the breakfast table. The goodwill messages were I am certain unique in birthday greeting history.

Three times thirty-five is one hundred and five, Then you should no longer be alive.

With luck this could be the last birthday.

And that's all we have to say.

From your loving aunties Edith, Edna and Matilda and all those who have moved.

But no present. No lovely surprise.

I had to a.s.sume it was the birthday tea that was planned for five o'clock. But I was wrong.

After lunch I was ordered to put on my best suit, polish my shoes and comb my hair, because we were going visiting. The aunts put on black satin dresses, black straw hats, and black b.u.t.ton-up boots. Then we all set out, walked the entire length of the High Street, watched I swear by the entire population of the village. Then we turned into a narrow lane, picked our way over puddles, pushed open-or rather Edna did-a low gate and entered the churchyard.

Edith called out, "Hullo, everybody. Don't worry about us. Won't be long," then led us along weed-infested paths until we came to that part of the churchyard where those who had reaped a reasonably rich harvest during their day in the earthly vineyard slept the long sleep. Or so I a.s.sumed. Marble angels stood guard over miniature flower gardens. Granite headstones proclaimed the virtues of those who rested under marble chips. We stopped at a strip of closely clipped gra.s.s, into which at regular intervals had been inserted round lead plaques, all bearing black numbers: 14, 15, 16, 17.

Edna took an envelope from her handbag. "You see, dear, we have purchased our permanent homes. Here are three deeds which state that plot 14 belongs to Edith, plot 15 belongs to Matilda and plot 16 belongs to me. Eventually we will move into our plots, but you may be sure leave them now and again to see how you are getting on."

There was really no answer for that one, so I kept quiet and displayed more interest in the empty plots than I actually felt. Then Edna produced the fourth deed.

"Now, dear, we come to your lovely birthday surprise. We have all clubbed together and bought you plot 17. You too now own your permanent home. What have you to say about that?"

All three looked at me with such an air of joyful expectancy, I just had to express delight-near ecstasy-happy surprise, even if it did mean gabbling insane nonsense.

"How can I thank you-something I've always wanted-I will treasure it for as long as I live-and longer. I can't wait to get into it ..."

"We had thought," Matilda said, "of tying a greetings present card to the plot number, but Edith thought it wouldn't be respectful. Now, Edna, make the presentation in the proper way."

Edna straightened up and stood rather like a soldier at attention, the little slip of paper in her hand. It was in fact a receipt for five pounds. She raised her voice until it was in danger of dissolving into a rasping croak.

"I hereby bestow on my beloved, great-nephew David Greenfield the deeds of his permanent home, trusting he will lie in it with credit to his n.o.ble moved-on ones."

I accepted the "deeds" and said thank you very much several times, having exhausted my fund of grateful words in the acceptance speech.

Then we all sang the first verse of "Abide with Me" before starting the tramp back to the village, bestowing words of farewell onto most of the graves as we went. I became acutely aware of the considerable crowd that had collected just beyond the churchyard wall, some of which gave gratuitous advice that included, "Why don't yer stay there?," "Dig hard and hearty and bed down," "Set up house there," "Yer all dead, why don't yer lie down?"

However all this came to an abrupt end when Matilda pointed two rigid fingers at the crowd and chanted in a shrill voice: On ye all the evil eye.

By Beldaza ye all die.

If ye not gone in one mo.

Or before I wriggle big toe.

And they all went. Running, jumping, pus.h.i.+ng, gasping; I have never before or since seen a crowd that included quite a number of elderly people move so fast, or with such agility.

Edna sighed deeply. "What a shame, sisters, we have to frighten people so much. I'd much rather be friendly and explain all about moving over a cup of tea and a condensed milk sandwich."

"The price of being special," Edith explained.

"The curse of being upper," Matilda agreed.

"I do hope we don't have to become too drastic," Edna had the last word. "People should only move when it's right and proper."

Two weeks later Edith was taken ill.

Not exactly ill, rather taken faint. She wilted and took to her bed and I slowly became aware that the house was being invaded.

Sort of.

Matilda and Edna accentuated their quick-glance-over-one-shoulder shuffle, only the quick glance was not so quick anymore. There was an awful lot of whispering too. I couldn't catch all of it, but what I did seemed very ordinary. "How are you, dear? Doesn't seem a year since you moved. Yes, time does fly. Shouldn't be long now before your Tom starts turning up his toes ..."

Another thing. I began to take quick glances over my shoulder, for there was the distinct impression that someone was standing way back and a quick turning of the head enabled me to catch the merest glimpse of him. Not sufficient to register any details, but enough to send a cold s.h.i.+ver down my spine.

As time pa.s.sed-three days or more-impressions began to set into near certainties. I distinctly saw the back of a woman attired in a polka dot muslin dress disappear round the corner of the landing, which led to Edith's bedroom. When I turned the same corner some ten seconds later there was no one in sight. I peeped into Aunt Edith's bedroom, she was lying still with hands crossed, but otherwise the room was empty.

Twice I was awakened in the middle of the night by cold lips kissing my forehead. Once by cold fingers gently caressing my throat. When I complained to Matilda and Edna next morning, both giggled and Matilda said, "Martha Longbridge always had an affectionate nature," and Edna added, "Daphne is so mischievous."

I asked, "Who are Martha and Daphne?" and they both gave me a pitying smile, before Edna replied: "Two old friends who moved a long time ago."

I did not dare ask any more questions.

Three weeks after Edith had been taken faint, she died. At least I would have said she died, the two remaining sisters insisted she had merely prepared herself for moving. Not moved you understand. Stopped breathing so as to prepare for moving.

The funeral took place three days later and was a very spa.r.s.e affair. The coffin was pushed to the churchyard on a hand bier-rather like a costermonger's barrow-and the clergyman was not encouraged to linger once he had galloped his way through the burial service. A deep grave had been dug in plot 14 and Edith's cheap pine coffin was lowered into it, then the earth shoveled back in and piled up as an untidy hump, which Edna crowned by a jam jar containing three marigolds. One from each of us. Then we went home to roast beef, Yorks.h.i.+re pudding, roast potatoes (corpoties), Brussels sprouts and rich churchyard bouillon, followed by apple pie and custard.

The house ceased to be invaded. The unseen guests merely settled in.

By that I mean I only occasionally felt the urge to glance quickly over the left shoulder, but really had the heebies when I woke up and found something very cold in bed with me. According to Edna, this was Susan Cornwall who had been-and presumably still was-very l.u.s.tful. Needless to say she had moved a long time ago.

But the two sisters became very preoccupied and rarely seemed to have time to spare for me. The word moving became commonplace.

"We'll talk about that, dear, after the moving."

"Come and see me after the moving, dear."

And when I asked what moving entailed, I was told: "You'll know afterward, dear."

May I belatedly explain that all three sisters had always looked elderly, but more due to dress and deportment than physical appearance. Edith of course had looked the older because she was and ninety-eight is a burden of years to carry about. The other two were fairly tall and gaunt, but could easily be taken for ladies in their middle to late sixties.

That was before Edith died.

The interval that separated Edith's death and her moving seemed to age them dreadfully. From lean they became emaciated. Eyes sank, teeth were bared in the likeness of a maniac's grin, bones became merely a framework to support brown wrinkled skin. This deterioration was explained by Edna in the following words: "We both give a bit, dear, so as to make a whole. One day you will have to give for both of us."

The atmosphere both in the house and in the village was pretty grim, and after the episode of my waking to find something very cold in bed with me, I did begin to entertain ideas about moving out, but-greed is a great courage maker. I found I was one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds the richer by Edith's death and I stood to gain twice as much when the other two sisters moved, so I prayed for the preservation of my sanity and stood firm if not steady.

I suppose it must have been two weeks after the funeral when I began to realize that the vicar was hanging around the street in which the house stood, and could sometimes be seen taking a long time to tie up a shoelace on the other side of the road, ready to bolt should either of the great-aunts appear, but succ.u.mb to an attack of nods, winks and head jerking whenever I put foot over the front doorstep.

His name was Humphrey Mondale, tall, thin and bald; a twisted stick of a man, who jerked in a forwardly direction rather than walked, and looked even more eccentric than the two remaining sisters. It was he who had galloped through the burial service on the occasion of Edith's funeral. I kept well clear of him.

But one morning he sprang out on me from the pa.s.sage that ran between the post office and the public library and had a numbing grip on my left arm before I could get away.

I think he either suffered from chronic catarrh or a perpetual bad head cold, for he spoke with a thick voice and sometimes blurred his syllables.

"Must twalk," he insisted, his head jerking from side to side on his thin neck, so I was reminded of a ventriloquist's dummy when the head is pushed up too high. "Nephoo ... yes?"

I said I was the nephew of the two maiden ladies who lived in Moss House, but he did not allow me to finish.

"Twying to contact you for deys. Must stop moving. Turrible effect on local people. No one come to church for years. Churchyard shunned. Bishop won't lesson."

I am one of those people who have a low sales' resistance and once b.u.t.tonholed find it very difficult to get away. The fellow insisted I go with him to the vicarage and what is more hung on to me like grim death to make certain I did. There a female counterpart of himself-plus an untidy mop of gray hair-was introduced as his sister. She gave me a strange look, crossed her two thumbs and said: "Not me as a good Christian woman, you don't," then ran into a small kitchen, from which she presently emerged carrying two mugs of weak tea.

Mr Mondale pulled me into a room he called his den-tired old armchairs, a battered desk, plus for some reason the smell of stale urine and green water.

I sank into a chair which instantly groaned and tried to do something dreadful to me with a broken spring. We didn't say a great deal until his sister had served the weak tea, but I then managed to muster some indignant resolution and asked: "What is all this about, Mr Mondale? You dragged me in off the street, without so much as by your leave."

The tea must have done something for his cold for his speech delivery improved.

"Distant member of the family myself, you know. Otherwise I'd have been moved long ago. You know the village is terrified of your aunts. Fear takes many forms. That scene by the churchyard the other day was one. But one day the aunts will really let rip-and then I'd hate to think what would happen. Particularly after a moving."

Curiosity got the better of irritation and I leaned forward to ask the all-important question: "What the h.e.l.l-beg pardon-is this moving? They won't tell me a thing. I thought they meant the actual moment of death, or even possibly the funeral. But apparently there's something more "

The vicar leaned back in his chair and yawned at the ceiling in an effort to emphasize there was indeed more. Much more.

"Good ... good Guard, yes. My word yes. It's the moving which upsets the village and will in time bring the newspaper people-especially that Sunday lot-beating a trail to our doors. Fortunately it takes place at night and most people close their curtains and try to ignore what's going on. Two years ago a foolhardy youth did come out and saw. He hasn't spoken since and has dreadful fits of the shakes to this day."

I dragged my chair forward. "But ... but ... what did he see?"

The Reverend Mr Mondale put out a hand. It was not particularly clean and the nails needed tr.i.m.m.i.n.g.

"Does that member shake?"

"No."

"Would you say that is a steady hand with not a tremor about it?"

"I would indeed."

"Surely that is evidence enough that I have never been such a fool as to peer through parted curtains when your aunts and that which is with them pa.s.s the house."

"Then you don't know?"

He jerked his head forward twice, his bad cold losing out to the strong emotion that now held his entire body in a masterly grip.

"I can surmise, sir. I am not the only one who has had the merest glimpse of those who sometimes stray back from the grave and pay a social call on your aunts. Unfortunately churchyards have become a.s.sociated with certain supernatural nastiness in the public mind. Can it be wondered at, that if at times, in some particular locality, the seeds of that nastiness come to full fruition? Eh?"

I felt a need to confess, share a fear that up to that moment I had not been aware existed.

"There's a nasty atmosphere in the house. Things lurking behind the left shoulder-something cold in the bed-cold fingers on the throat, whispers in the dark."

The vicar raised both hands, then let them fall back on to the desk with a kind of soggy thump. "Ah! Then it was not imagination! I have seen white faces with runny eyes looking down from the upper windows! There is only one answer. That house must be razed to the ground and the ground itself sewn with salt."

"Look here, I'm going to inherit that house!"

"Could you live there after the remaining aunts have moved?"

"No, I'd sell it. Good development land."

Now the vicar raised his eyes ceilingward. "There is no piercing the armor of the mercenary unG.o.dly."

I rose. "Thank you for all you have not told me."

I became more unhappy as the days pa.s.sed, even more so when told Aunt Edith's moving day would be the coming Thursday.

Thursday has always been my unlucky day, I will probably die on a Thursday-and be moved the following Thursday.

Edna laid a loving hand on my shoulder. "We say day, dear, in fact it's night. Between eleven and twelve in the evening. The best time. The pub has turned out and all honest people are tucked up in bed. Others!" She shook her head, then tucked her chin in. "Others must take the consequences if they see that which they shouldn't. After all, moving is strictly a family affair."

For the last three days I went for long walks and turned into an opposite direction whenever I saw the Reverend Mondale, for he had now taken to pus.h.i.+ng notes through the letter box begging me to burn the house down before the dreaded event, stating that if I didn't, he would, an item of information I felt duty bound to pa.s.s on to the aunts.

Edna tut-tutted and Matilda sighed deeply. "He was always a trial even as a boy. Edna, we can't have Edith upset and besides this house is home for the entire family. There's no help for it ..."

Edna nodded slowly. "A visit from Cousin Judith."

"You think that will be sufficient?" Matilda asked with some anxiety.

"Of course. You may remember the year the churchyard was flooded with the overflow from the chemical works?"