Charles L Grant - Gallery Of Horror

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GALLERY OF HORROR
by
CHARLES L. GRANT
INTRODUCTION
More years ago than I care to remember, I used to spend every Saturday
afternoon at the Lincoln Theater in Kearny, New Jersey, joining my
friends in an escape from school, the weather, parents, homework, and
anything (or anyone) else that tended to smack of childhood's worst
Monster-being responsible (otherwise known as acting your age, or
growing up). It was, at the time, quite natural to substitute for this
Monster a delightful clutch of others-the werewolf, the vampire, the
ghost, the banshee, the thing in the cellar, the thing in the attic.
More often than not my friends and I would leave the theater laughing,
walking stiff-legged or pretending we were wearing long black capes and
fanging the girls walking by.
But as sure as cartoon follows first feature, there was also ."Qaturday
night. In bed. Alone. Sleeping the sleep of the innocent until
something woke me up. Woke me up so hard, in fact, that I had a hard
time going back to sleep; and often I would require the soothing
services of my parents to assure me that I would, indeed, see the next
dawn.
You would think that years of this would have cured me of Karloff
and Lugosi and Zucco and all the others, but it didn't. And it didn't
nny n either, though no one would admit to the
nightmares that followed the Saturday matinee. The only thing we did
know was: they were fun. Not in the dreaming, but in the retelling.
After all, that's why we went to those films in the first place-to get
scared then, and to get scared again later.
Since then the Monster has gotten me, for the most part. I have grown
up, I have accepted some measure of responsibility here and there, and I
do, on occasion, act my age (whatever the hell that means).
On the other hand, I also write'and edit books like this, ones that if
all goes well will give their readers a good dose of the chills, the
shudders, and the outright shrieks now and then. After all, if the
truth be known, we haven't grown up all that much; the fears we have now
aren't the same as they were when we were children, but they're fears
just the same. They make our palms sweat, they give us nightmares, and
they're sometimes powerful enough to alter our characters.
They are now, as they were then, real.
So why read about them?
Because this book you can put down, walk away from, close with a slam in
the sure knowledge that all of the horrid things happening to the people
in these pages can't happen to you. What's on these pages doesn't
exist.
I still think they're fun to flirt with, however, to give in to now and
again, and if they hit closer to home than they would have when we were
kids, well, that's the nightmare risk, isn't it? That's where the fun
comes in.
And to be sure that these writers haven't wasted their time, they ask
only one thing of you (aside from a shadowy room and a cold wind and a
pane that rattles unnervingly in the sash): just as watching a film with
two dozen graphic and full-color murders tends to numb the mind and
produces little more than yawns, reading twenty or more stories at a
clip is dulling, and ultimately disappointing. It doesn't make any
difference to the authors gathered here how fast the traffic is going
out on your street; all they ask is for a fair chance to do to you what
you want them to-horrify, terrify, or just give you a dose of squirming
anxiety.
These stories are variously graphic, quiet, oriented toward the
supernatural, aimed at the psychological; some are bludgeons and some
are razors; some will ask you for more work than others, and some will
do their work more than once-like the shock of a virulent poison
entering your system . . . and the aftertaste that lingers.
All, however, are in the business of recording nightmares.
And sooner or later you just might hit one of yours.
Of course, as long as the lights work, and as long as you don't really
not for a minute believe in any of this stuff, it won't matter to you at
all. That childhood Monster has gotten hold of you and transformed you,
and you can handle most anything these days, especially stories that do
nothing more than nibble a little at your imagination, tug a little at
the shadows you were sure were banished when the sun came up.
Sure you can.
Sleep well.
CHARLES L. GRANT Newton, New Jersey
Something Nasty
Adults seem to find wondrous delight in tormenting the young to
experiences before they "grew up," or it may be something else,
something worse-something basic.
and coauthored dozens of books ranging from the macabre to the
thrills of sports car racing to his biography of Steve McQueen. He
has also written screenplays for television and film, among them
Burnt Offerings and Trilogy Of Terror.
"Have you had your shower yet, Janey?"
ther's voice from below stairs, drifting smokily up to her, barely
audible where she lay in her bed.
Louder now; insistent ." Janey! Will you ans
She got up, cat-stretched, walked into the hall, to the landing, where
her mother could hear her ." I'y in .
"But I told you that Uncle Gus was coming over this afternoon."
"I hate him," said Janey softly.
"You're muttering. I can't understand you." Frustration. Anger and
frustration ." Come down here at once."
When Janey reached the bottom of the stairs her mother's image was
rippled. The little girl blinked rapidly, trying to clear her watering
eyes.
Janey's mother stood tall and ample-fleshed and fresh-smelling above her
in a satiny summer dress.
Mommy always looks nice when Uncle Gus is coming.
"Why are you crying?" Anger had given way to concern.
"Because," said Janey.
"Because why?"
"Because I don't want to talk to Uncle Gus."
"But he adores you! He comes over especially to see you."
"No, he doesn't," said Janey, scrubbing at her cheek with a small fist
." He doesn't adore me and he doesn't come specially to see me .
He comes to get money from Daddy."
Her mother was shocked ." That's a terrible thing to say!"
"But it's true. Isn't it true?"
"Your Uncle Gus was hurt in the war. He can't hold down an ordinary
job. We just do what we can to help him."
"He never liked me," said Janey ." He says I make too much noise. And
he never lets me play with Whiskers when he's here."
"That's because cats bother him. He's not used to them. He doesn't
like furry things." Her mother touched at Janey's hair. Soft gold ."
Remember that mouse you got last Christmas, how nervous it made him. .
. . Remember?"
"Pete was smart," said Janey ." He didn't like Uncle Gus, same as me."
"Mice neither like nor dislike people," Janey's mother told her .
"They're not intelligent enough for that."
Janey shook her head stubbornly ." Pete was very intelligent. He could
find cheese anywhere in my room, no matter where I hid it."
"That has to do with a basic sense of smell, not intelligence," her
mother said ." But we're wasting time here, Janey. You run upstairs,
take your shower and then put on your pretty new dress. The one with
red polka dots."
"They're strawberries. It has little red strawberries on it."
"Fine. Now just do as I say. Gus will be here soon and I want my
brother to be proud of his niece."
Blonde head down, her small heels dragging at the top of each step,
Janey went back upstairs.
"I'm not going to report this to your father," Janey's mother was
saying, her voice dimming as the little girl continued upward ." I'll
just tell him you overslept."
"I don't care what you tell Daddy," murmured Janey. The words were s in
a way er room.
Daddy would believe anything Mommy told him. He always did .
Sometimes it was true, about oversleeping. It was hard to wake up from
her afternoon nap. Because Iput off going to sleep. Because I hate it.
Along with eating broccoli, and taking colored vitamin pills in little
animal shapes and seeing the dentist and going on roller coasters.
Uncle Gus had taken her on a high, scary roller coaster ride last
summer at the park, and it had made her vomit. He liked to upset her,
frighten her. Mommy didn't know about all the times Uncle Gus said
scary things to her, or played mean tricks on her, or took her places
she didn't want to go.
Mommy would leave her with him while she went shopping, and Janey
absolutely hated being there in his dark old house. He knew the dark
frightened her. He'd sit there in front of her with all the lights out,
telling spooky stories, with sick, awful things in them, his voice oily
and horrible. She'd get so scared, listening to him, that sometimes
she'd cry.
And that made him smile.
"Gus. Always so good to see you!"
"Hi, Sis."
"C'mon inside. Jim's puttering around out back somewhere. I've fixed
us a nice lunch. Sliced turkey. And I made some cornbread."
"So where's my favorite niece?"
"Janey's due down here any second. She'll be wearing her new dress-just
for you."
" Well, now, isn't that nice."
She was watching from the top of the stairs, lying flat on her stomach
so she wouldn't be seen. It made her sick, watching Mommy hug Uncle Gus
that way, each time he came over, as if it had been years between
visits. Why couldn't Mommy see how mean Uncle Gus was? All of her
friends in class saw he was a bad person the first day he took her to
school. Kids can tell right away about a person. Like that mean ole
Mr. Kruger in geography, who made Janey stay after class when she
forgot to do her homework. All the kids knew that Mr. Kruger was awful.
Why does it take grownups so long to know things?
Janey slid backwards into the hall shadows. Stood up. Time to go
downstairs. In her playclothes. Probably meant she'd get a spanking
after Uncle Gus left, but it would be worth it not to have to put on her
new dress for him. Spankings don't hurt too much. Worth it.
"Well, here's my little princess!" Uncle Gus was lifting her hard
in swung around in the air. He set her down with a thump. Looked at
her with his big cruel eyes ." And where's that pretty new dress your
Mommy told me about?"
- "It got torn," Janey said, staring at the carpet ." I can't wear it
today."
Her mother was angry again ." That is not true, young lady, and
you know it! I ironed that dress this morning and it is perfect." She
pointed upward ." You march right back upstairs to your room and put on
that dress!"
"No, Maggie." Gus shook his head ." Let the child stay as she is .
She looks fine. Let's just have lunch." He prodded Janey in the stomach
." Bet that little tummy of yours is starved for some turkey."
And Uncle Gus pretended to laugh. Janey was never fooled; she knew real
laughs from pretend laughs. But Mommy and Daddy never seemed to know
the difference.
Janey's mother sighed and smiled at Gus ." All right, I'll let it go
this time-but I really think you spoil her."
"Nonsense. Janey and I understand each other." He stared down at her ."
Don't we, sweetie?"
Lunch was no fun. Janey couldn't finish her mashed potatoes, and she'd
just nibbled at her turkey. She could never enjoy eating with her uncle
there. As usual, her father barely noticed she was at the table .
He didn't care if she wore her new dress or not. Mommy took care of her
and Daddy took care of business, whatever that was. Janey could never
figure out what he did, but he left every day for some office she'd
never seen and he made enough money there so that he always had some to
give to Uncle Gus when Mommy asked him for a check.
Today was Sunday so Daddy was home with his big newspaper to read and
the car to wax and the grass to trim. He did the same things every
Sunday.
Does Daddy love me? I know that Mommy does, even though she spanks me
sometimes. But she always hugs me after. Daddy never hugs me. He buys
me ice cream, and he takes me to the movies on Saturday afternoon, but I
don't think he loves me.
Which is why she could never tell him the truth about Uncle Gus .
He'd never listen.
And Mommy just didn't understand.
After lunch, Uncle Gus grabbed Janey firmly by the hand and took her
into the back yard. Then he sat her down next to him on the big wooden
swing.
"I'll bet your new dress is ugly," he said in a cold voice.
"Is not. It's pretty!"
Her discomfort pleased him. He leaned over, close to her right ear ."
Want to know a secret?"
Janey shook her head ." I want to go back with Mommy. I don't like
being out here."
She started away, but he grabbed her, pulling her roughly back onto the
swing ." You listen to me when I talk to you." His eyes glittered ." I'm
going to tell you a secret. About yourself."
"Then tell me."
He grinned ." You've got something inside."
"What's that mean?"
"It means there's something deep down inside your rotten little belly.
And it's alive!"
" Huh?" She blinked, beginning to get scared.
"A creature. That lives off what you eat and breathes the air you
breathe and can see out of your eyes." He pulled her face close to his .
"Open your mouth, Janey, so I can look in and see what's living down
there! "
"No, I won't." She attempted to twist away, but he was too strong .
"You're lying! You're just telling me an awful lie! You are!"
"Open wide." And he applied pressure to her jaw with the fingers of his
right hand. Her mouth opened ." Ah, that's better. Let's have a look .
. . " He peered into her mouth ." Yes, there. I can see it now."
She drew back, eyes wide, really alarmed ." What's it like?"
"Nasty! Horrid. With very sharp teeth. A rat, I'd say. Or something
like a rat. Long and gray and plump."
" I don't have it! I don't!"
"Oh, but you do, Janey." His voice was oily ." I saw its red eyes
shining and its long snaky tail. It's down there all right. Something
nasty."
And he laughed. Real, this time. No pretend laugh. Uncle Gus was
having himself some tin.
Janey knew he was just trying to scare her again-but she wasn't
absolutely 100 percent sure about the thing inside. Maybe he had seen
something.
"Do . . . any other people have . . . creatures . . . living in
them?"
"Depends," said Uncle Gus ." Bad things live inside bad people .
Nice little girls don't have them."
" I'm nice!"
"Well now, that's a matter of opinion, isn't it?" His voice was soft and
unpleasant ." If you were nice, you wouldn't have something nasty living
inside."
"I don't believe you," said Janey, breathing fast ." How could it be
real?"
"Things are real when people believe in them." He lit a long black
cigarette, drew in the smoke, exhaled it slowly ." Have you ever heard
of voodoo, Janey?"
She shook her head.
"The way it works is-this witch doctor puts a curse on someone by making
a doll and sticking a needle into the doll's heart. Then he leaves the
doll at the house of the man he's cursed. When the man sees it he
becomes very frightened. He makes the curse real by believing in it."
"And then what happens?"
"His heart stops and he dies."
Janey felt her own heart beating very rapidly.
"You're afraid, aren't you, Janey?"
"Maybe . . . a little."
"You're afraid, all right." He chuckled ." And you should be-with a
thing like that inside you!"
"You're a very bad and wicked man!" she told him, tears misting her
eyes.
And she ran swiftly back to the house.
That night, in her room, Janey sat rigid in bed, hinrs.
He liked to come in late after dark and curl up on the coverlet just
under her feet and snooze there until dawn. He was an easy-going,
gray-and-black housecat who never complained about anything and always
delivered a small "meep" of contentment whenever Janey picked him up for
some stroking. Then he would begin to purr.
Tonight Whiskers was not purring. He sensed the harsh vibrations in the
room, sensed how upset Janey was. He quivered uneasily in her arms.
"Uncle Gus lied to me, didn't he, Whiskers?" The little girl's voice was
strained, uncertain ." See She hugged the cat closer .
"Nothing's down there, huh?"
And she yawned her mouth wide to show her friend that no ratthing lived
there. If one did, ole Whiskers would be sticking a paw inside to get
it. But the cat didn't react. Just blinked slitted green eyes at her.
I knew it," Janey said, vastly relieved ." If I just don't believe it's
in there, then it isn't."
She slowly relaxed her tensed body muscles-and Whiskers, sensing a
change, began to purr-a tiny, soothing motorized sound in the night.
Everything was all right now. No red-eyed creature existed in her
tummy. Suddenly she felt exhausted. It was late, and she had school
tomorrow.
Janey slid down under the covers and closed her eyes, releasing
Whiskers, who padded to his usual spot on the bed.
She had a lot to tell her friends.
It was Thursday, a day Janey usually hated. Every other Thursday her
mother went shopping and left her to have lunch with Uncle Gus in his
big spooky house with the shutters closed tight against the sun and
shadows filling every hallway.
But this Thursday would be all different, so Janey didn't mind when her
mother drove off and left her alone with her uncle. This time, she told
herself, she wouldn't be afraid. A giggle.
She might even have fun!
When Uncle Gus put Janey's soup plate in front of her he asked her how
she was feeling.
"Fine," said Janey quietly, eyes down.
"Then you'll be able to appreciate the soup." He smiled, trying to look
pleasant ." It's a special recipe. Try it."
She spooned some into her mouth.
"How does it taste?"
"Kinda sour."
Gus shook his head, trying some for himsell "Ummm . . . delicious."
He paused ." Know what's in it?"
She shook her head.
He grinned, leaning toward her across the table ." It's owl-eye soup.
Made from the dead eyes of an owl. All mashed up fresh, just for you."
She looked at him steadily ." You want me to upchuck, don't you, Uncle
Gus?"
"My goodness no, Janey." There was oiled delight in his voice ." I just
thought you'd like to know what you swallowed."
Janey pushed her plate away ." I'm not going to be sick because I don't
believe you. And when you don't believe in something then it's not
real."
Gus scowled at her, finishing his soup.
Janey knew he planned to tell her another awful spook story after lunch,
but she wasn't upset about that. Because.
Because there wouldn't be any after lunch for Uncle Gus.
It was time for her surprise.
"I got something to tell you, Uncle Gus."
"So tell me." His voice was sharp and ugly.
"All my friends at school know about the thing inside. We talked about
it a lot and now we all believe in it. It has red eyes and it's furry
and it smells bad. And it's got lots of very sharp teeth."
"You bet it has," Gus said, brightening at her words ." And it's always
hungry."
"But guess what," said Janey ." Surprise! It's not inside me, Uncle Gus
. . . it's inside you!"
He glared at her ." That's not funny, you little bitch. Don't try to
turn this around and pretend that
He stopped in mid-sentence, spoon clattering to the floor as he stood up
abruptly. His face was flushed. He made strangling sounds.
"It wants out," said Janey.
Gus doubled over the table, hands clawing at his stomach ." Call
. . . call a . . . doctor!" he gasped.
"A doctor won't help," said Janey in satisfaction ." Nothing can stop it
now."
Janey followed him calmly, munching on an apple. She watched him
stagger and fall in the doorway, rolling over on his back, eyes wild
with panic.
She stood over him, looking down at her uncle's stomach under the white
shirt.
Something bulged there.
Gus screamed.
Late that night, alone in her room, Janey held Whiskers tight against
her chest and whispered into her pet's quivering ear .
"Mommy's been crying," she told the cat ." She's real upset about what
happened to Uncle Gus. Are you upset, Whiskers?"
The cat yawned, revealing sharp white teeth.
"I didn't think so. That's because you didn't like Uncle Gus any more
than me, did you?"
She hugged him ." Wanta hear a secret, Whiskers?"
The cat blinked lazily at her, beginning to purr.
"You know that mean ole Mr. Kruger at school. . . . Well, guess
what?" She smiled ." Me an' the other kids are gonna talk to him
tomorrow about something he's got inside him." Janey shuddered
deliciously ." Something nasty!"
And she giggled.
Canavan's Back Yard
The best Dark Fantasy deals, as does any go od fiction, with the real,
the here and now, the world we all know; the difference, of course, is
the twist the writer gives what we thought we knew, what we thought we
were comfortable with. That twist doesn't have to be a jarring
one; it just has to make things look only sliter.
Joseph Payne Brennan is one of the Masters of Dark Fantasy,
beyond all doubt. His short fiction has paved the way for all of us
working in the field today, and the following story has withstood the
test of time to rightfully be called a classic.
first met Canavan over twenty years ago shortly after he had emigrated
from London. He was an antiquarian and a lover of old books; so he
quite naturally set up shop as a second-hand book dealer after he
settled in New Haven.
Since his small capital didn't permit him to rent premises in the center
of the city, he rented combined business and living quarters in an
isolated old house near the outskirts of town. The section was sparsely
settler, but since a good percentage of Canavan's business was
transacted by mail, it didn't particularly matter.
Quite often, after a morning spent at my typewriter, I walked out to
Canavan's shop and spent most of the afternoon browsing among his old
books. I found it a great pleasure, especially because Canavan never
resorted to high-pressure methods to make a sale. He was aware of my
precarious financial situation; he never frowned if I walked away
empty-handed.
In fact, he seemed to welcome me for my company alone. Only a few book
buyers called at his place with regularity, and I think he was often
lonely. Sometimes when business was slow, he would brew a pot
of English tea and the two of us would sit for hours, drinking tea and
talking about books.
摘要：

GALLERYOFHORRORbyCHARLESL.GRANTINTRODUCTIONMoreyearsagothanIcaretoremember,IusedtospendeverySaturdayafternoonattheLincolnTheaterinKearny,NewJersey,joiningmyfriendsinanescapefromschool,theweather,parents,homework,andanything(oranyone)elsethattendedtosmackofchildhood'sworstMonster-beingresponsible(oth...

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