Phantoms
CONTENTS
Cover
Also Available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction Marie O’Regan
When We Fall, We Forget Angela Slatter
Tom is in the Attic Robert Shearman
20th Century Ghost Joe Hill
A Man Walking His Dog Tim Lebbon
Cameo Laura Purcell
Lula-Belle Catriona Ward
Front Row Rider Muriel Gray
A Haunting John Connolly
My Life in Politics M.R. Carey
Frank, Hide Josh Malerman
The Chain Walk Helen Grant
The Adjoining Room A. K. Benedict
The Ghost in the Glade Kelley Armstrong
The Restoration George Mann
One New Follower Mark A. Latham
A Haunted House is a Wheel Upon Which Some are Broken Paul Tremblay
Halloo Gemma Files
The Marvellous Talking Machine Alison Littlewood
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
PHANTOMS
HAUNTING TALES
from masters of the genre
Also available from Titan Books
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New Fears 2
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Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse
Wastelands 2: More Stories of the Apocalypse
PHANTOMS
HAUNTING TALES
from masters of the genre
edited by Marie O’Regan
TITAN BOOKS
Phantoms
Print edition ISBN: 9781785657948
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785657955
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: October 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
INTRODUCTION copyright © Marie O’Regan 2018
WHEN WE FALL, WE FORGET copyright © Angela Slatter 2018
TOM IS IN THE ATTIC copyright © Robert Shearman 2018
20TH CENTURY GHOST copyright © Joe Hill 2005, 2007. “20th Century Ghost” was first published in the High Plains Literary Review, vol. XVII, no. 1–3, 2002. It appeared in the story collection 20th Century Ghost first published in 2005 by PS Publishing Ltd., England and subsequently in a hardcover edition published in 2007 by HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission of the author.
A MAN WALKING HIS DOG copyright © Tim Lebbon 2018
CAMEO copyright © Laura Purcell 2018
LULA-BELLE copyright © Catriona Ward 2018
FRONT ROW RIDER copyright © Muriel Gray 2011. “Front Row Rider” was first published in The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women, Constable and Robinson/Running Press. Reprinted by permission of the author.
A HAUNTING copyright © John Connolly 2009. “A Haunting” was originally published in Dark Delicacies III: Hauntings. Reprinted by permission of the author.
MY LIFE IN POLITICS copyright © M.R. Carey 2018
FRANK, HIDE copyright © Josh Malerman 2018
THE CHAIN WALK copyright © Helen Grant 2018
THE ADJOINING ROOM copyright © A.K. Benedict 2018
THE GHOST IN THE GLADE copyright © Kelley Armstrong 2018
THE RESTORATION copyright © George Mann 2018
ONE NEW FOLLOWER copyright © Mark A. Latham 2018
A HAUNTED HOUSE IS A WHEEL UPON WHICH SOME ARE BROKEN copyright © Paul Tremblay 2016. Originally published in Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.
HALLOO copyright © Gemma Files 2018
THE MARVELLOUS TALKING MACHINE copyright © Alison Littlewood 2018
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
INTRODUCTION
Marie O'Regan
Anyone who knows me knows my love of ghost stories. From an early age, I read everything I could get my hands on – I have very fond memories of reading Enid Blyton (I especially loved the Adventure series and the Famous Five novels) and Agatha Christie, two of my favourite authors at that time. Then, aged nine, I found a book in the school library called Thin Air: An Anthology of Ghost Stories (edited by Alan C. Jenkins, in 1967), and my direction was set. It contained such classics as Dickens’ “The Signal-Man”, W.W. Jacobs’ “The Monkey’s Paw” and Saki’s “The Open Window”, as well as more whimsical stories such as Oscar Wilde’s much-loved “The Canterville Ghost” and Hugh Walpole’s “The Little Ghost” – thirty stories in total, ranging from gently humorous to downright terrifying. In the end, I took that book out so often that when I left primary school they gave it to me, and it’s still one of my most prized possessions.
From then on, my tastes leaned more towards darker fiction, although it could be said that my love for Agatha Christie had already given me a nudge in that direction. I’ve read – and continue to read – widely in many genres, but I have a special fondness to this day for a ghost story, well told. A few years ago (2012, to be exact), I edited my first solo anthology: The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women, partly because of this love of ghost stories and partly because at that time I kept hearing that women didn’t really write horror of any kind, let alone supernatural. Not true, of course, and I was happy to showcase the talents of both classic and current writers in an anthology I felt displayed a wide range of ghost stories. There was something – hopefully – for every taste.
So why ghost stories? Ghost stories have a quality, for me, that sets them apart from other types of supernatural tale. They tend to be stories that deal with loss, or guilt. There’s an emotional resonance that a reader can feel permeating the page; there’s no need for a “baddie” if you don’t want to include one in your story, as not all ghost stories are to do with evil-doers and their intent or their deeds. They have an atmosphere that’s unique to them, a creeping sense of… not fear, necessarily, more of disquiet – a knowledge that something’s there, just out of sight, at the far reaches of hearing or vision. At least until the spirit chooses to reveal itself. There’s a melancholy, a sadness, that resonates with the reader and creates empathy, leaving a frisson of emotion that often remains long after the reading of the story.
With this volume, I’ve gone for modern ghost stories, from a very talented range of writers who were kind enough either to write a tale especially for this anthology or to allow me to reprint a favourite of mine from their existing body of work. Within these pages you’ll find a range of ghost stories – from John Connolly’s incredibly poignant “A Haunting” and Joe Hill’s film-loving “20th Century Ghost” to Muriel Gray’s tragic “Front Row Rider” and Josh Malerman’s tale of guilt, “Frank, Hide”, not to mention stories by such authors as the wonderful A. K. Benedict, Helen Grant, Tim Lebbon, Robert Shearman and many more. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed putting this anthology together, and am very grateful to the authors for trusting me with their words.
I hope you find something you love in this anthology, as I have.
Marie O’Regan
Derbyshire
January 2018
WHEN WE FALL, WE FORGET
Angela Slatter
The mist beyond the low stone wall is thick, now white, now grey, sometimes shading to a black that blends with the night, so it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. Never seen anything quite like it; though I’ve travelled far, this is different from any place I’ve ever been. Insular people, the small distances between their holdings might as well be a hundred miles for all the interest they take in their neighbours – unless there are secrets in the offing. The little town that clings to the earth sloping down to the harbour is not quite so bad; something to do with being in close proximity, I suppose. The necessity of human contact. And they all go to one church or the other, depending upon their own version of God and Its message. There’s a tidy white-washed Protestant place of worship in town, a grey stone Catholic one about ten minutes out of it. The name of this island doesn’t matter; it’s much like the one where my memories began and ended, those left to me along with my troubles.
I’ve been sitting on the front stoop for too long. The cold has numbed my backside and legs, made my lower back ache, but I don’t get up. Mortal hurts still strike me as novel even after all these years. The sun sank while I sat here, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that cooled far too soon. The fog began in the peat bogs just on the other side of the road that hardly anyone drives down anymore now they’re used to me. My cardigan’s too thin. If I had any sense I’d have gone in long ago, tended the hearth, had blazes crackling in the sitting room and in my chosen bedroom upstairs; I prefer the fireplaces to the rattling radiators, prefer the true warmth, the ancient warmth. But I am watching the mist, same as every evening, watching it mass above the bogs, creep up and over the road, then press and froth at the low stone wall that encloses my garden. Each night it creaks and clatters the rickety wooden gate, but it never pushes through, not even spilling between the long gaps from paling to paling. As if whatever waits out there keeps it at bay.
Ariel would have liked it here, the way the house is so close to the cliff, overlooking the sea. The rush and roar and crash of the waves on the rocks below, the constant sound of it. I’d have had to watch her, though, so close to the edge; the thing is, we’d not be here if I had not lost her once before.
The house crouches behind me, breathes over my shoulder. The place was already furnished, mostly antiques, not necessarily comfortable, but I make do. I need so little. It has three storeys: on the ground floor a kitchen, a library, a sitting room; upstairs four bedrooms and a renovated bathroom. Above that the tiny, airless attic with dust on the floorboards and a round window of red, blue and green, small enough for a child to open and push her head through should the mood take. Sometimes I hear what might be footsteps up there, the echoing sighs of forgotten things.
A racket at the gate catches my attention. The mist is shifting, spinning as if it might form into something new, something tall with substance. It brushes against the wooden entrance, shakes it enough to produce a noise that might hide a moan or a groan or even the sweep of a sharp metal object through the air. It struggles, wavers, fails and falls away. It’s not time yet; there are more tasks to be done.
I force myself upwards. My knees protest. I arch backwards and feel the little cracks as each vertebra returns to its proper alignment. Sighing, I go inside, closing the door behind me. There are things that need doing, and this body must sleep.
* * *
At mid-afternoon, the sun’s made half an effort, and though the light is mostly grey there are some shades of gold to it, here and there. The wind alternates between sly nips and outright bites. You can see why the trees, cut down in ancient times, were reluctant to grow again. There are only a few stunted oaks across the island, like the one clinging drunkenly to the side of the granite church. An angry, tenuous tree, ugly and twisted, refusing to go without a fight. My daughter would have squealed with delight to see it, to climb it, to perch triumphantly on branches not that far from the ground.
There’s no warmth, though. I settle the knitted cap more firmly on my head so the breeze can’t pluck the red locks of hair away, hunch my shoulders, jam my hands back into the pockets of my puffa jacket and continue towards the church and the small rectory beside it which houses the local priest.
As I get closer the stained glass windows seem to glow. I shake my head. Lighting inside the building. Nothing to be afraid of. I smile; it’s been so long since I’ve felt fear, the sensation is strange. The glasswork is very fine and I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. The faithful always want the best for their houses of worship, no matter how remote, will always empty their pockets, go short, starve their own children, if only the structure where they think God resides might be magnificent in some way. As if It’s not got better places to be.
The glass angels are exquisite, however, kind and forgiving, strikingly lovely as they deliver tidings of comfort and joy, and lambs to and from slaughter. I’m not sure what I feel as I look at them, whether I hear the singing of metal again, the sound Ramiel told me was the last I ever heard.
Off to my right are ranks of peat bricks and the gutted earth from which they’ve been dug. They lie like soldiers, waiting. Soon they’ll be stacked, herringboned, to dry.
No one’s around.
As with every other dwelling here, a low stone wall marks out the boundaries. Inside the graveyard are headstones, the older ones covered in mosses from deep fern green to almost lime, then to a seafoam hue. Many of the names have been weathered away. I focus on the double doors of the church; oak, I think, presumably brought over from the mainland where trees are plentiful, stained by age, smoothed by years of priestly and penitential hands, by the dogged ministrations of the ever-present wind. The lock, if ever it was polished to a shine, is black now. The left door hangs ajar, but the sunlight doesn’t creep too far inside.
I take a deep breath and move along the path, through the gap in the wall. Nothing happens; no bolt of lightning, no thunder, the sky does not split. I keep walking, right up to the doors, and there is only a tiny tremor in my fingers when I push them open. As I step over the threshold, that spot between my shoulder blades begins to itch.
It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the tiny porch, and I bump my hip against something hard: a marble font, carved like a gigantic cup with hands wrapped around the rim. The water within shimmers darkly, as if shadows rise to the surface, and I don’t dip into it, don’t cross myself and hope for the best like others. My reflection in it is an uncertain thing. There are rows of pews in the nave, twenty each to the left and right. On either side of an aisle flagstones also serve as headstones for those who’ve been judged as good and great. At the far end flicker many points of light: candelabras ranged on both sides of a small altar, and in front of that altar with its white gold-embroidered cloth and carved tabernacle is a man in a black cassock, turned towards me. He’s like a stain against the pristine fabric.
A man who gasps as I step from the gloom.
What does he see?
He puts out a hand to steady himself, the other comes up as if to ward me off. I smile. The doors behind me swing properly shut, cutting off the watery daylight that’s made me a silhouette to him.
“Father McBride?”
I can hear his breathing, it’s slowing, calming as he sees me for a human being after all. He nods, trying to collect himself.
What did he see?
“I’m Sarai McEwan.”
“Ah. The new girl at the big house on the Old Road.” And he smiles as if that might cover the fact he was terribly afraid for however brief a time. That I might be reduced to a series of descriptors. Girl. Trying to make me small, unimportant, to make himself feel big again. Once upon a time I’d have given him a lecture about infantilising women, but there are more important matters.
“Not so new,” is what I say instead. “Mhairead Spence at the historical society said I might chat with you.”
“I’l
l speak to any who come to me in need,” he says, and I sense a homily approaching. I feel the heat of angry blood flooding my face, have to work hard to keep my voice steady. I think how it could all be done with now, that I could take up a candlestick or that fine shiny monstrance and… but no. There’s an order to things, steps that need following if I’m to get my wish.
“How kind. But it’s not your godliness I’m in need of today, Father.” I barely keep the contempt from my tone. “But your archaeological knowledge, that’s another thing entirely.”
His expression flickers like slides onto a screen, one change after another, subtly different until it settles to a kindly frown. Registering the rejection of one thing and the offering of another, unexpected thing. There’s uncertainty, too; his past clings to him as surely as a phantom limb. Doesn’t everyone’s?
“That was a long time ago, Ms McEwan.”
“You’re not that old,” I say; flattery works even on a priest. I can see it in his face as I draw closer. Especially on a priest. He’s in his forties, perhaps closer to fifty than not, but he’s handsome: square jaw, features rugged as if carved by his time on this island and eyes the pale shade of blue I associate with a stript soul, with a loss that’s leeched part of your very life from you. Eyes like my own. He’s tall, bulky, would turn to fat quickly if he weren’t careful, going for a run at dawn and dusk, past my house, muscular arms and legs pumping, fighting off whatever cold might try to get into his bones; he’s been here so long, the climate shouldn’t bother him anymore. The thick, salt and pepper hair is longer and untidier than is seemly for a man of his profession and vintage, but I don’t imagine the spinsters and widows who come to listen to his preaching mind so terribly much; nor the married women and some of the men.
“I don’t know much about the house where I’m staying, you see, just that an adventurer built it and filled it with his souvenirs.” I smile again, take the last few steps and offer my hand. After a moment, he accepts; his skin is warm, rough with calluses from years of digging that no amount of time will smooth away. His pupils dilate at the touch. I don’t look my age, and my lips are full, my eyes full-lashed; all the tales I’ve heard say that Gunn McBride always did have an eye for a beautiful woman. No reason why that would have changed just because he found God. I release his hand at last, feel the sudden cold.