Tell My Sorrows to the Stones

“Christopher Golden’s storytelling is spellbinding. His novels capture the charming mystique that permeates New England, to which he adds a shuddering dose of the occult.”

—Boston Magazine

“A new book by Christopher Golden means only one thing: the reader is in for a treat. His books are rich with texture and character, always inventive, and totally addictive.”

—Charles de Lint

“Christopher Golden is one of the most hard-working, smartest, and most talented writers of his generation. Everything he writes glows with imagination.”

—Peter Straub

“In
Baltimore
, Golden’s popular style is impeccable, and horror comics creator Mignola’s copious illustrations confirm the tale’s dark atmosphere throughout, from no-man’s-land to the old inn to the houses and graveyards where the vampire is encountered. A new classic of vampire literature.”

—Booklist

“Christopher Golden is an imaginative and prodigious talent who never lets genre boundaries hold him back.”

—Douglas Clegg

Tell My Sorrows to the Stones
© 2013 by Chrisopher Golden
Cover artwork © 2013 by Erik Mohr
Cover design and interior design © 2013 by Samantha Beiko

All rights reserved.

Published by ChiZine Publications

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

EPub Edition AUGUST 2013 ISBN: 978-1-77148-154-0

All rights reserved under all applicable International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS
Toronto, Canada
www.chizinepub.com
[email protected]

Edited by Brett Alexander Savory
Copyedited and proofread by Michael Matheson

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.

Published with the generous assistance of the Ontario Arts Council.

“Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;
Who, though they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale:
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears and seem to weep with me.”

—William Shakespeare,
Titus Andronicus

I once wrote a love note to my wife that began with the words “Every song is about you.” That isn’t true of my stories, of course—don’t get the wrong idea—but when it comes time to dedicate my books, I always think of Connie first. A collection of short stories is like the strange history of a period in a writer’s life, but she has been there since before my writing life even began, and so every piece of my authorial history is also our history. And thus, this one is—

For Connie.

Always.

Christopher Golden is a twisted, sneaky, shape-shifting wizard, and if you didn’t know that already then you’d best learn it now—before you start reading
Tell My Sorrows to the Stones
. Because whatever you’re expecting, this isn’t it.

Unless, of course, you’re expecting an assortment of deliciously evil vignettes. In that case, you’re right on target—so dig in. But if you’re not quite familiar with the wizard in question, or if you just can’t decide if this is the collection for you, then let me ask you this: Would you like to be kept awake at night, turning a story over and over in your mouth, tasting it long after you’ve put the book aside because goddammit, it just isn’t finished with you yet?

Well then. Welcome aboard.

These stories are terribly wonderful, each and every one. They’ll rev your engine, break your heart, and stop it, too. They’ll worry you, walk with you, and make you wonder how much is true and how much is merely a small spell, cast with mischief and malice. They’ll leave you second-guessing your eyes and ears, double-checking the lights and shadows. You’ll listen for that sound again, and jump when you hear it . . . or swallow hard when you don’t, in case it wasn’t your imagination and you’re not alone after all.

Which is not to say that all these stories are all the same, or even necessarily alike.

No, this is a mighty fine grab-bag with a full range of genres and tricks on display. One hesitates to resort to the old chestnut about “something for everyone”—really, one should be smacked for even considering it—so let us say instead that there’s something for everyone with a creepy little dark spot somewhere at the bottom of the soul. Or possibly a horny spot. Some of these are pretty hot. (And kind of messed up.)

So pick your poison. In this assembly you’ll find legends both urban and rural, the kind that lead drunk teenagers onto train tracks—or keep smarter locals away. You’ll meet monsters from around the world and unnervingly close to home. Here there be demons and demigods who make bargains you’ll regret for a lifetime, however long that turns out to be.

And oh, you’ll find some ghosts. The ghosts are my favourites.

Keep your eyes open for the lost miner and the cowboy, and don’t skip the gothic tales with the family trees that twist and bend, and maybe break when no one’s looking. The dead are everywhere, and they aren’t always friendly.

In short, this is one sexy stack of screwed-up stories and you should absolutely read the shit out of it. But maybe turn on the lights first. Make sure no one’s looking over your shoulder. Fix a drink. Settle in.

And
enjoy
.

—Cherie Priest

That dreadful autumn, Sarah Cooper woke nearly every night in the small hours of the morning and lay in the dark, back toward her husband, the memory of their dead son filling the space between them.

During the day the tension did not weigh so heavily. Sarah and Paul wandered the house only dimly aware of one another, ghosts haunting their own marriage. Resentment and blame hung in the air like static building before a thunderstorm. Sarah knew that she ought to try to comfort her husband, but Paul did not seek her out, nor did she look for solace in his arms. Cruel and capricious happenstance had taken Jonah from them—a bacterial infection, a spiked fever, an ambulance too slow to arrive—but they had to hold someone responsible, and each found fault with the other, and guilt in the mirror.

They couldn’t stay in this house much longer. Sarah would never survive it. Fifty-seven Brook Street existed now as a museum of sorrow. Jonah had bounced on the sofa, bumped his head on the coffee table, marched his walker across the kitchen tiles as a baby, and slept in his parents’ bed almost as many nights as his own. The toys had all been packed away, but his room remained with its books and stuffed polar bear and the dinosaur border that ran along the top of the bedroom walls. Sarah kept that door closed, but could not bring herself to take down the pictures in the living room and the downstairs hall and from the bureau in her bedroom. Her hairbrush had brushed Jonah’s hair. His Spider-Man cup hid at the back of a kitchen cabinet, waiting to be remembered; waiting to remind her.

How did Paul stand it? Sarah didn’t know. They avoided the conversation most of the time. That seemed even worse because it felt like they were trying to pretend Jonah had never been there—that they did not grieve. But Paul made an effort to talk around the absence of their son, just as he usually avoided meeting her eyes.

By October, they spoke only when absolutely necessary.

When Sarah found the fuzzy Scooby-Doo costume she had bought Jonah over the summer, unable to resist even though Halloween had been months away, she crushed it against her chest and wept into the costume, brown fabric soaking up her tears. Then she put it into a box of Jonah’s things that she planned to donate to the Salvation Army. She never mentioned it to Paul, and as Halloween approached, he never asked.

In the second week of October, she woke in the night with only the glow of a distant streetlamp filtering through the window. It must have been two or three o’clock in the morning. After so many weeks of such awakenings, she knew sleep would not be in any hurry to return so she lay and listened to Paul’s rhythmic breathing.

The gulf between them had grown over the weeks since Jonah’s death, expanding a little at bedtime every night. They hadn’t had sex in all that time, though there had been times in the small hours of the morning when she had needed so badly to be held, to be touched, to be loved. But night after night they lay back to back, shoulder and neck muscles bunched with tension and expectation, and they edged further away, widening the gap between them.

A glow of moonlight draped across the shadows of their bedroom and the gauzy curtains billowed with the crisp autumn breeze. Sarah lay on her side and stared at the windows, at the curtains, and at nothing. The windows rattled with powerful gusts—the weather changing, winter drawing nearer—and she heard the skittering of dry leaves across the driveway and the front walk.

Then, off in the distance, the lonely whistle of a train.

Sarah had heard the sound every night for nearly two weeks. At first it had been barely audible, so that she had trouble determining its origin. Each night it seemed to become louder, though of course the train tracks couldn’t be any nearer. In all the years she had lived in Dunston, she could not recall ever having heard the sound before, never mind seen a train. It must, she told herself, only run late at night when the town slept, when only insomniacs and grieving mothers might hear it.

She listened as the whistle faded and felt a terrible longing, wished she were on board that train, bound for destinations unknown.

When her tears came, she let them slide down to dampen her pillow. Her husband did not stir, but Sarah was not surprised. Paul had long since stopped being stirred by her tears, even in the light of day.

She slid nearer the edge of the bed and watched the moonlight and the billowing curtains and listened to the shush of the autumn leaves blowing across the lawn. In time, sleep would claim her again, tears drying on her face.

Sarah would hear the whistle of the train in her dreams, where she held her tiny son in her arms and rocked him, singing him softly to sleep on the way to his own extinguished dreams.

The new offices of Sterling Software had been built just at the edge of town, near a narrow metal bridge across the Kenyon River. Window glass winked in the morning light as Sarah drove over the bridge, her travel mug rattling in the cup holder on the dash, spurting up a dollop of coffee.

The Kenyon River meandered southward under the bridge. In the spring it roared, but in autumn it remained a gentle whisper. She followed the road northeast on the other side, coming around a corner, all the while keeping the Sterling building in sight. It stood at the top of a hill that had been transformed into a mini-industrial park, complete with a Comfort Inn and a TGI Friday’s restaurant. Sarah barely saw any of those buildings. In truth, she barely saw the road or the rich, harvest-hued foliage of the trees around her. Her focus was on driving to work, and she could do that with her mind on autopilot.

The dashboard clock read 9:12. Late again, and she felt badly about it. A tremor of discontent passed through her. Exhausted, she’d rushed to get ready, and the mirror had reflected both her tiredness—in the dark crescents beneath her eyes—and her haphazard attempt at fixing her hair and putting on makeup.
Get your life together, Sarah. You’re dropping the ball.
But the advice sounded hollow. She couldn’t convince herself that any of it mattered. Work. Sleep. Face. Life.

The car jittered over train tracks, causing her coffee to burble again.

Sarah frowned and tapped the brake, slowing down and glancing in her rearview mirror. She’d been over those tracks twice a day every day for more than a year, ever since Sterling had moved to the new location. There were no railroad crossing signs, no flashing lights, nothing.

Another few minutes won’t matter.

She put the car in reverse and backed up, checking to make sure no other cars were approaching. At the tracks she braked again, pausing to peer both ways along the line. Grass grew up between the wooden ties. The rails themselves were dark with rust. In either direction the tracks curved away into trees and undergrowth that had begun to encroach over the years.

Sarah shook her head. No trains on this line. Not for years.

As she drove on, she could not help but glance at the mirror. The memory of the whistle from the late night train lingered, and led her to thoughts of Jonah and her dreams.

No. Work.

If she thought about Jonah, she would be useless at work. They had been more than kind, had offered her as much time as she needed to mourn. When Sarah had announced, after six weeks, that she was ready to return to her receptionist position, the office manager—Ellie Poole—had asked if she was
really ready
. Sarah had thought it a foolish question. How could she ever be ready to go to work, to put her loss behind her?

But at home all that awaited her was the museum of sorrow, the constant reminders. Her co-workers’ sympathy made work little better, but at least she could find distraction there.

Sarah found a parking spot near the front of the building and climbed out. Dropping her keys, she swore as she bent to retrieve them, then slammed the door. With her purse over her shoulder and her coffee in hand, she hurried up the walk to the front doors. Inside the glass and chrome lobby, Martin stood at his security post, one ear bud of his iPod in place and the other hanging loose. When he looked up and saw her, his face blossomed into a warm smile. The young guard seemed to be the only one at Sterling who could be genuinely happy to see her without his warmth devolving into pity.

“Morning, Sarah.”

“Hi, Martin.”

Behind the reception desk, a secretary named Laura Rossi gave her a grim look. Ellie had obviously shanghaied her to substitute until Sarah showed up, and the wide-bottomed, curly-haired woman did not bother trying to hide her displeasure. Sarah was almost glad that Laura didn’t tiptoe around her.

“Let me guess—car trouble?”

“I’m sorry, Laura. The last time, I swear.”

The woman got up from the reception desk and sighed, rolling her eyes, but she waved the apology away as though Sarah’s tardiness was no big deal.

“It’s fine. Martin’s good company.”

Martin grinned broadly. “I was serenading her.”

Sarah managed a thin smile. Martin liked to sing, but softly, mostly to himself. She never minded, but she suspected that someone as generally uptight as Laura would be driven near madness by the man’s musical mutterings.

The phone began to ring. Laura shot it a dark look, then turned her back and went through the door into the main offices. Sarah hurried over and picked up.

“Sterling Software. Can you hold, please?” She put on her headset, then took the caller off hold and transferred him to the northeastern sales manager.

“Some people can’t seem to figure out how to use an electronic directory,” Martin said.

Sarah nodded, but broke into a yawn.

“Don’t do that,” Martin protested, yawning in reply. “It’s contagious. No fair.”

“Sorry, just didn’t get nearly enough sleep last night.”

“Pretty much every night, isn’t it?”

His face and voice were kind. The question wasn’t an intrusion. Martin never intruded on her grief. If she didn’t want to answer, he would not mind. But Sarah found him warm and easy to talk to.

“I fall asleep all right,” she said, pushing her hair away from her face to meet his gaze. “But I wake up in the middle of the night and then it takes me an hour or so to drift off again. It’s weird what you hear at night, though, y’know?”

Martin removed the ear-bud and held the cord in his hand. “I do. The quietest noise seems much louder in the middle of the night.”

“Yes!” Sarah said. “During the day I can’t even hear the clock ticking, but at night it’s so loud. And now I hear the train every night. I almost listen for it.”

The security guard gave a soft laugh and a shake of his head. “Now you’re just fooling with me. That’s not nice, Sarah.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Come on. The Three-Eighteen? I’m not falling for that old story. Didn’t believe it when my grandmother told it, either.”

A tractor trailer growled as it pulled into the parking lot and continued around past the building, headed for the loading dock in back. It distracted them both for a moment. When Sarah looked back at Martin, he was studying her curiously. She sat forward in her chair.

“What’s the Three-Eighteen?”

His eyes became narrow slits in his dark face a moment and then widened with sudden realization. “You didn’t grow up around here, did you? I forget sometimes.”

Sarah shook her head. “Nope. My family comes from upstate New York. I moved here with my father when I was thirteen.”

“Right, right. You’ve told me. Sorry. He worked at the mill, right?”

“Worked and died there,” she said. “So what’s this train thing?”

“Just a local ghost story. Most towns have a house all the kids think is haunted and I’m guessing we do, too. But the story that always gave me the creeps was about the Three-Eighteen. My grandmother used to talk about it and the counselors at camp used to tell it around the fire, along with the ones about Hatchet Mary and the Hook and that kind of thing.”

Sarah frowned. “So, it’s a ghost train?”

“That’s the story. Passes by every night at 3:18
A.M.
‘Carrying the ghosts of the ones folks can’t let go of,’ my Gram used to say. And it’s only those folks, and people near dying themselves, who can . . .”

The words trailed off.

Breathless, Sarah stared at him. “Who can what?”

Martin gave her a sheepish grin. “Who can hear it. That’s how all those old stories go, y’know? Supposed to creep us all out. That way if you hear a train whistle after dark or something that even sounds like one, you’re supposed to think it’s the Three-Eighteen come to collect you.”

She dropped her gaze and stared at the marble tile beneath her chair.

“Sarah?”

His voice made her flinch. She looked up. “I hear the whistle every night.”

Martin laughed and came over to her desk. He splayed one strong hand on the counter where people laid out their ID to be allowed inside.

“Sarah, come on. It’s just a story. Whatever you’re hearing, it’s something else. Got to be some late night road work, smoke venting from the damn sneaker factory or something. But it’s not a train, and it sure as hell ain’t the Three-Eighteen.”

She took a long breath and let it out with a small, self-deprecating laugh. Of course Martin was right. Sarah felt nauseous just thinking about the few moments she’d spent seriously considering the campfire tale as truth. Every town had local folklore.

“You okay?” Martin prodded. His wide eyes were full of concern. “I shouldn’t even have mentioned it, but you brought up the train whistle and I just figured you were teasing me. This isn’t the kind of thing you ought to be thinking about.”

“I’m okay,” she promised. How to explain the numbness inside and the gulf between herself and her husband? How to explain that the word ‘okay’ had entirely lost its meaning for her. Paul had always liked grim novels about the destruction of human society or the ecosystem or worse; he called it post-apocalyptic fiction. But Sarah was living a post-apocalyptic life. People who hadn’t been through it couldn’t possibly understand.

“You sure? It’s only that you never seem like you’re all here, if you don’t mind my saying. Ellie Poole’s been bitching about you coming in late and, well, looking kind of run down.”