Dead Horizon (4 page)

The papers and the police would have their work
cut out
for them.

There was a bounce in Cecil’s step as he made his way through the dark London streets. The weight of the medical bag felt good in his hand. He’d taken a good portion of the meaty organs for his brother, and a couple strips of flesh as well,
and
he’d made a show of it for the authorities.

Cecil heard the commotion long before he saw anything. His spirit fell when he realized the pandemonium originated from the very street where he and Edward lived.

He picked up his pace, jogging at first, then full-out running. He rounded the corner and saw several firefighters from the Metropolitan Fire Brigade running willy-nilly, some shouting orders, others simply doing the best they could to fight the raging flames.

Cecil stood staring at the disaster. Flames leapt high into the air and thick black smoke billowed from the windows of the brick flat as the inside was consumed. In spite of the best efforts of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade, they would not be able to extinguish the fire in time to spare poor Edward.

Cecil covered his face and pushed his way toward the burning flat. The heat was blistering and unbearable.

“Hey, you there . . . get back before you scorch yourself.”

Cecil ignored the warning and hurled the medical bag into the flames.

A firefighter grabbed hold of Cecil’s arm. “Step away from here,” he said.

Cecil jerked his arm away and rushed off, pausing at the corner long enough to look back at the fire one last time before disappearing into the London fog . . .

* * *

April 24
^th
, 1891

“ . . . right here on the East Side,” a stocky newspaper vendor called out around the fat cigar in his mouth.

A lanky man wearing black trousers, an overcoat, and a black hat rounded the corner and bumped into the vendor.

“Look where you’re goin,’ bub,” the vendor grumbled.

The lanky man halted, glanced at the newspapers in the vendor’s hand, and dug two cents from his pocket, which he handed the vendor in exchange for a copy of the
New York Times.

CHOKED AND MUTILATED!

A MURDER LIKE ONE OF JACK THE RIPPER’S DEEDS.

WHITECHAPEL’S HORRORS REPEATED IN AN EAST SIDE LODGING HOUSE.

Cecil smiled at the headline. He tucked the paper under his arm and went on his way. He whistled happily and thought about Edward.

Too bad he wasn’t here to share the glory.

The Thing in the Attic

The story I will now tell may seem at times to be the ravings of a madman. Indeed, I may be such a creature. The events described here, however, are no less valid in light of my condition—a condition owed, no doubt, to the situation I now place before you.

That said, let me begin my tale.

It was cold that winter morning, black outside my window but for the flurry of snowflakes that gently made way to the ground. I was sitting in my small study. The room was lit by a single desk lamp—one that provided just enough light by which to work.

I am a writer by way of vocation, and as such, generally destitute. I spend many late nights with my fingers humming gracefully about the keys of the old, battered Remington I use to create my masterpieces.

The guest house I was renting at the time of this incident was set back quite some distance from the main house, giving the impression of isolation. I quite preferred it that way, though at times I felt a loneliness that burned at my very core.

I’ve always been an overzealous worker, content to shun the rest of the world in favor of my typewriter, and had it not been for the occasional generosity of my landlord, I dare say I might have been dead some time ago.

Enough chatter, though.

It was the third month of my stay in this guest house that a rather unusual situation began to make itself known. After having completed yet another twenty manuscript pages, I decided to treat myself to a good cigar. I augmented the smoke with a snifter of brandy, silently toasting the extent of my progress on the new book.

The sound was distant at first. It was a noise much like the scraping of a lonely tree branch upon the roof in the middle of the night, and indeed I would have taken it for such had not the sound been coming from behind the north wall of my study.

I was far from concerned at first, taking the sound to be a rodent of some sort, though, I might add, a beast of considerable magnitude. I returned at once to my work, blocking the sound from my mind. It was not an easy task, for the noise grew more insistent with each passing minute. I struggled to ignore it, focusing ever harder on my work, typing madly. The words came quickly—hot impressions on paper—quite possibly the words of a genius, but enough about that.

The scraping began to move against the wall. It was the sound of fingernails across a chalkboard, slow and tortured, and as I could no longer overlook it, I began to follow it, cocking my ear to the wall. The noise would periodically come to a halt, as if my scrutiny had been detected. It would then, after a period of perhaps thirty seconds, resume its standard pattern, moving slowly along the inner workings of the wall.

My curiosity soon gained the better of me. I began to search for something with which I might knock a hole in the wall. The end of the wall, at last, was upon us, but the scraping sound changed its course. There was the addition of another sound—a knock of sorts—which alternated with the more familiar scraping.

I dashed madly from the house, down the steps, and to the small yard that fronted my living quarters. Facing my guest house and peering upward, I saw that indeed there was an attic of sorts to be accessed, and whatever the thing was lurking behind my wall, surely that was its destination.

I rushed back into the house, overcome with high hopes. There had to be a way for me to access the attic room as well, and sure enough, I found it. A trapdoor did indeed exist. There it was, a thing of beauty, dead-center above my work desk. How had I not noticed it before? The only obstacle now was to reach the thing.

And here, dear readers, is where the insanity begins. I tried the desk chair, then I climbed upon the desk itself. Neither of them was of sufficient height to allow me to reach my goal.

Then an idea struck. I went immediately to my bookshelves and dragged books to my desk, piling them high, a precarious arrangement at best, but one I would be obliged to make due with.

The thing had already gained entry to the attic. I could hear it walking above me, and at that moment, I became quite convinced that it was not at all anything from the rodent family. It walked on two feet, and, I might add here and now, with quite a heavy step. Each foot that fell upon the floor of the attic was solid enough to shake plaster dust onto my upturned face, forcing me to shut my eyes as I struggled with the trapdoor.

Eager as I was to put the mystery to rest, my heart pounded with the excitement of what I might discover. My throat was swollen and dry. I prayed silently that I would not be required to scream for help. I thought several times to turn away from the foolish business at hand, and had it not been for the sudden displacement of the door, I would surely have abandoned my insane pursuit.

I stared for a long time into the black mouth of the attic, plotting what my next move might be. I went to retrieve a lantern, for only the truly disturbed would have ventured into the attic as it was. Though questionable, my mind had not taken leave completely. By the time I returned, I could no longer hear footsteps, but I detected the heavy breathing of the thing above me.

I rose upon my toes for a closer look, setting the lantern inside the lip of the opening. The books began to wobble rather dangerously, forcing me to grope for the sides of the open door. I began to haul myself up into the attic. The darkness swallowed my lantern. I stood fully erect and proceeded into the attic. It was not the move I intended, but my curiosity gained the better of me, and so it was that I found myself sharing the same space with something that, had I known the full extent of, I would not have wanted to be close to under any circumstance.

The attic was silent now. The lantern cast a pale yellow light about the room. As my eyes adjusted, I took note of shadowy forms around me: an old trunk, a high-backed chair, dusty boxes piled one upon the other . . . but nothing alive.

I was at a loss for explanation. Certainly I had heard those footsteps. Was it possible that it had all been a great hoax? Had my mind played a trick? I thought not, but the proof of it seemed before me, illustrated by the vast emptiness of the dark, dank room around me.

A man was never more eager than I to leave that unholy room. I turned on my heels, desperate for flight, and here I came face to face with the thing in the attic—a rotting corpse.

I stood there, my mouth open in horror, staring at the cadaverous thing before me, its eyes black and degenerated, its skin thin and gray, like wet flower pasted over brittle bone. The jaw hung down, exposing rotted teeth and a black tongue like a bloated leech.

I stepped back from the sheer horror of the sight, endeavoring to get as far away from the anomaly as possible. It came toward me, a leering grin upon its thin, twisted lips. My heart thumped madly. My blood ran like a flood-stricken river. There was no place for retreat. Had there been a window, I surely would have flung myself through it, even at the risk of broken bones or death.

I pleaded with the thing, but it was of no use. It cocked its head to one side and advanced upon me, reaching out with gnarled fingers. I screamed without shame. The creature followed suit, matching my own wail with the same full intensity, though perhaps an octave lower. Our screams melded, creating a verbal obscenity that most certainly pierced the depths of Hell.

My foot slipped at the opening of the trapdoor. I caught myself as I plunged through it, dangling above my desk, my feet searching madly for something solid upon which to rest. Just as the ghastly thing peered down at me with the curiosity of a child, I let myself fall to the desk top, sending books in every which direction.

As I lay flat on the polished mahogany of my desk, the thing in the attic came down and bent over me. I could smell its rancid breath. I tried to get away, but my arms and legs were twisted at uncanny angles. My head swam and my sight grew dim, then I slipped into a black void that provided a welcome relief from reality.

When next I was aware of my surroundings, I was pacing the attic as if it were my sacred domain, though I knew not for the life of me how I had managed to get there. Passing an old mirror with beautiful gold trim, I gazed upon the reflection it held. Complete horror gripped me, for the pale skin and bleak eyes of the thing in the attic stared back at me. . . .

Born Again

He’d risen from the cold, dank earth, shaking off maggots like rainwater as he made his way through the cemetery. Others were rising too, but he didn’t care about them. He cared only about the home and family he’d left behind. He was sure they needed him. He could hardly wait to see the joy on their faces when he returned.

Surely there would be joy.

Others wandered the streets. So many lost souls. He kept moving. He had a purpose. He had somewhere he needed to be.

There were noises. Gunshots. He remembered the sound. He remembered so many things. Being dead hadn’t changed any of that.

Dead things falling around him, dying again.

He kept moving, minding his own business. If he didn’t wander, no one would realize he was one of those who’d been born again. As best as he could tell, he was still in pretty good shape. His rotting flesh still covered most of his bones; his organs were mostly intact.

He minded his business and kept moving.

A truck roared past him. There were more gunshots. A bunch of yokels in back, throwing flaming bottles at a group of the newly risen dead—those, like him, who had been born again.

He kept his head down and forced himself to walk.

Not shamble, walk.

The dead things (funny, he couldn’t quite include himself in this group) had a way of shambling. That was a funny word when you got right down to it. Say it. Listen to it roll off your tongue . . . shambling.

Maybe if he could walk instead of shamble, just maybe no one would notice his clothes were moldering and the maggots clung to him no matter how hard he tried to shake them off.

He could only think about his family. He had to get home again. He had to see the wife and daughter he’d left behind.

“Goddamn maggot-infested fucks,” a voice came over the chaos that was beginning to break out everywhere.

More gunshots, an explosion somewhere in the distance, and the sound of tires squealing on pavement. He knew all of these sounds. He could remember it all so clearly, but something was still lost to him.

His name.

He couldn’t remember his name.

He couldn’t even remember dying.

His wife would tell him. He remembered her name. Claire. His wife was Claire and his daughter, who was just nine, was Jenny. They would be happy to see him, and then Claire could tell him how he died.

He was close now. So close he could almost feel Claire in his arms. He’d have to clean up some, of course, but then he could hold her. She’d be happy to be held by him, wouldn’t she?

He changed direction, away from the chaotic streets of the plaza. He’d always laughed at that. This was a small town, with a population of just over 1500, and this little section of town was the plaza. What small town needed a  plaza anyway?

Now the plaza was a war zone.

He heard explosions and screams even as he disappeared into the dark, moving away from the chaos as fast as his rotting legs could take him.

Someone bumped into him. Right out of the dark, another one just like him, only in worse shape. This one was missing an arm and at least half of his back. Something long and slimy trailed along behind him.