Best British Horror 2014 Read online

  ‘Yes, it really must have been magical to hear the human voice reproduced through a machine in that fashion, for the first time,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Indeed,’ Philip replied. ‘But what of the instruments that played themselves, they would have been no less incredible.’

  He led Stephen over to a fairly ordinary-looking upright black piano. In the centre of it, where the music stand would have been, there were two horizontal bars, onto which Philip locked a long roll of thick punched paper. It looked a bit like the paper cards he had used many years before in the computer room at the post office, where he had worked briefly as an apprentice.

  Having threaded the roll, Philip then set about dismantling the front of the machine so that they could get a good look at the mechanism.

  ‘Now this one was made by an incredible craftsman,’ Philip began. ‘Ernst Steget of Berlin. He engineered the pianos, but he couldn’t produce the musical rolls. This had to be done by another craftsman, Giovanni Galuppo, down the road from him. However, Steget was fond of a schnapps, or two, in the local bar of an evening.’

  They both laughed, in the conspiratorial fashion that late middle-aged men do when issues of alcohol surface – such false bonhomie; beneath the forced laughter only half-remembered conquests that were never really conquered, opportunities squandered by a loose tongue, loved ones slighted and friends abused.

  ‘Sadly, his love of the schnapps resulted in the gradual dwindling of his business and eventually he became so indebted to Galuppo that he had to go and work for him to pay it all off,’ Philip continued. ‘Such is the way of the world I’m afraid, when one’s bounty and talents are squandered on vice.’

  Stephen didn’t like the tone of that last remark, aimed – as it clearly was – at his own indulgence in a pipe or two. But he did not have time to dwell upon the slight, if such it was, as the piano suddenly erupted into sound and motion. The keys danced beneath invisible fingers and the inside of the machine was feverish with the work of pulleys and wheels, valves, bellows and levers, all animated by the little blank squares on the paper roll as it slid through the instrument like a great white tongue.

  ‘What use the pianist, eh?’ Stephen joked.

  ‘Oh, we still have our uses, Mr Walker, with the right instrument,’ Philip retorted, rather viciously, Stephen felt.

  Then a shrill electronic ring called out from the workbench, crashing the world back into the present. Philip went over to answer a cordless telephone and then called out. ‘It’s my wife, there’s a delivery for me. I’ll be back in a moment. I’ll bring some tea too, enjoy the rest of the tune!’

  Stephen smiled and nodded. The piano was playing away and he felt rather nostalgic for the music his parents would entertain him with on the record player when he was a boy. His father loved the old music hall ones, and the spoken word records. The hours they would spend together on a Sunday listening to Flanders and Swann, or old Henry Hall and the BBC orchestra on scratchy 78s.

  The paper was still rolling around as Philip returned with a tray laden with cups, saucers, milk jug and a great steaming pot of tea. There was also a plate of biscuits, enough to service an AGM of the Women’s Institute, Stephen thought.

  ‘Doris thought you might be a bit peckish, so she put out some biscuits,’ Philip said, carefully balancing the crammed tray on a little stool beside a low chair with rather grubby paisley upholstery. ‘It’s Earl Grey, I hope that’s okay.’

  Stephen smiled and nodded.

  ‘I thought you were an Earl Grey chap,’ Philip said. ‘I didn’t know if you took it with milk or lemon, so there’s both.’

  ‘Oh, milk for me, please,’ Stephen said, his knees bending a little to the tune still tinkling from the piano.

  ‘I thought so, milk it is, do help yourself,’ Philip said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I must help this driver with some items I’ve had shipped over. I shan’t be a moment. You carry on, there’s a good few minutes left on that reel, I’m sure you won’t be bored.’

  ‘Oh, most certainly not,’ Stephen replied. For the first time in many years – despite Philip’s frosty undercurrents – he felt he had discovered a kindred spirit.

  He must have listened to the piano for too long, carried back to hedonistic Weimar, for when he poured himself a cup of tea it tasted a little odd, rather sour. Stewed probably. That, or the milk was off. He gave the little jug a sniff. Yes, it was the milk. Never mind, he needed a little refreshment now, as it might be some time before he got to Liskeard and found a tearoom. What was it mother used to say – a few germs won’t kill you! He poured himself another cup and as the last few notes on the piano tinkled out, and the scroll of paper unravelled its last coded dots, he looked about the expansive building.

  As he had noted on his arrival the place was by no means full of instruments. Each had its own particular space. Some were small, like the little wax cylinder player he had heard Philip’s grandfather reading Dickens upon; some larger, such as the piano from Berlin in the 20s. There were some larger organs on the other side of the room, one near the large curtain across the back wall. This seemed much like the kind of grand Wurlitzer organs he’d seen as a child, both in the theatre and at the fairs. It would be wonderful to hear Philip play that when he returned. Behind that though, and rather oddly positioned, was something more individual. It looked like quite a small organ, and Stephen thought it may have been uniquely crafted, so unusual was its construction. There seemed to be no ornate element to it, all was pure function. The panelling had obviously been crafted from a variety of different woods, each giving their particular rich colour to the overall piecemeal effect. And, from where he was standing, he could see no discernible maker’s plate.

  Finishing his second tea in a swift gulp, Stephen walked over and inspected it cautiously. As he had first thought, there seemed to be no maker’s mark (emblazoned proudly upon all the other machines) and none of the keys, or mechanical dials and knobs had any lettering, or numbers upon them, as was common on the other models. Perhaps this was in the first stages of restoration, he thought, running a hand along its well-polished, although awkwardly constructed, wooden frame.

  He thought he heard a noise then, from within it; a sort of escape of air. Perhaps a valve or piston decompressing.

  It quite startled him, and he jumped a little.

  Shh. Shh. It came again, twice, but sounded so like someone shushing a crowd to be quiet before a performance began that he didn’t know what to make of it.

  He looked around to check that Philip hadn’t come back yet from unloading the delivery van. He didn’t want to look a fool, and didn’t want to be noticed touching something that was probably delicate and very expensive.

  But, he just couldn’t help himself.

  He pressed one of the keys.

  From the back of the instrument there came a voice – lah!

  There could be no mistaking it; this was the sound of a human voice, singing a note. Stephen was intrigued, and a little disturbed. This latter sentiment did not prevent him from trying again though. He pressed the same key, and another one from nearer the other end of the board. A soprano voice sang out, at the same time as an alto joined in. But they did not sound recorded, it seemed as though the singers stood right beside him.

  He shivered a little, but determined that it must be due to the cold of the airy industrial building. It was not particularly cold that day, and besides Philip had turned the storage heaters on only the week before and they were pumping dry, warm air around the building to fend off any chill.

  Despite his fear, Stephen shuffled cautiously around the back of the machine to find where the ‘voices’ were coming from. There was a wooden grill at the back, rather like an old speaker. A faint draught was coming from it, and upon that delicate air there wafted an odd, meaty scent, as of cured European sausages.

  He noticed that above the speaker there
was a panel of some sort, made of long timbers of what could only be olive wood; their swirling grains and strange knots had been lovingly jointed together and finished with a little latch of leather and a bone toggle. This gave a strangely archaic feel to the instrument. Yet, all of this did not dissuade Stephen Walker from loosening the cord and carefully easing the panel down.

  At first he thought they were the chicks of large birds, all arrayed on wooden plinths, calling, silently, for food. So bizarre was the thing before him that it took a moment for his mind to fully comprehend what he was witnessing.

  These were the organ pipes, and each an organ of sorts.

  There were about twenty large wooden tubes, rather like inverted didgeridoos, in three rows of varying height. Each was crafted from a different wood and atop many of them there was stretched a thin, pulsating blob of organic tissue, with an oval opening across the top of the tube. There were five blank pipes.

  Each fleshy aperture slowly opened and closed, like a gaping raw mouth, and dripped a clear fluid down the pipe which collected in metal trays below, in which there rested a number of short sticks, each wrapped with swabs of cloth soaked in this thick liquid.

  The smell was foul, but in the face of such horror that was the least arresting detail.

  Stephen Walker was appalled. Yet he could not shake off a perverse desire to touch one of these things, to run his finger across it – there was something sadly familiar about their monstrosity. Almost against his will his hand reached slowly forward.

  Then a voice echoed across the cavernous space.

  It was Philip, returned from his delivery.

  ‘How you getting on in here?’ he called, merrily, wiping his oily hands with a rag.

  As surreptitiously as he could, and with a terror welling within him, Stephen Walker slid the wooden panel back into place and carefully fastened the toggle, as Philip approached him, smiling his cheery smile.

  ‘I was just, erm, admiring the woodwork on this one,’ Stephen said, shakily. He felt rather dizzy all of a sudden, hot and flustered. ‘It’s very . . . beautiful . . .’

  ‘Oh, that’s a little pet project of mine,’ Philip said, making his way over to the larger Wurlitzer organ. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t in full working order at the moment so I can’t play you a tune on it yet; maybe one day, when I get the time to finish it.’

  Stephen felt sick, claustrophobic and terrified. He was nervous that if he even made an attempt to move he would faint.

  ‘This little beauty is my pride and joy,’ Philip began, seating himself at the controls of the vast organ; controls that looked more like a spacecraft than a musical instrument.

  Philip flicked a switch and the huge red curtains at the back of the building rolled back to reveal an array of shiny metal pipes, row upon row of them.

  Stephen Walker could think of nothing but the fleshy, gaping wounds calling out silently in the contraption behind him.

  ‘Now, Mr Walker,’ Philip shouted out. ‘Give it your best voice. I’ll keep it simple, don’t you worry.’

  A great flare of sound assailed Stephen from the rows of pipes.

  Roll out the barrel! What a ridiculous song to hear only moments after having made his horrifying discovery. Stephen just managed to stop himself vomiting.

  ‘Come on,’ shouted Philip, his upper body rocking about like some demented toy. ‘Join in! We’ll have a barrel of fun . . .’

  Stephen mumbled a few words in an attempt to show willing, ‘We’ve got the blues on the run.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Walker, give it some oomph!’ Philip cried, clearly getting irritated.

  Stephen Walker gave in. His head was spinning and the whole place began to look blurry and distorted. He tried to turn the insanity of the situation to his advantage – to get a bit of courage up.

  ‘Ring out a song of good cheer,’ Stephen belted out. Quite where the spirit came from to sing in such an absurd situation he didn’t know. ‘Now’s the time to roll the barrel, for the gang’s all here . . .’

  ‘Now that’s what I’m talking about, Stephen,’ Philip said, ceasing his playing.

  It was the first time he had addressed Stephen Walker by his Christian name and something in the intonation was sinister and threatening. ‘What a beautiful baritone you have there, Stephen; real quality, and something we’re sorely lacking here in our little choir.’

  It may have been the blast of noise, or his own singing, or even Philip’s ominous tone, that had disoriented him, but Stephen Walker felt most peculiar.

  He staggered a little and slumped in the paisley chair to get his strength back, strength he would need if he were to get away from this crazy man. The seat was weak though and the bottom gave way. He crumpled into it like a rag doll, arms and legs at ridiculous angles. He hadn’t the energy left to correct his posture; his arms felt numb, his legs useless. His eyelids were heavy, and his mouth dry. He just sat there as everything around him became hazier, and darker, imploring Philip to help him with lips that merely twitched rather than pronouncing words.

  Philip sat down opposite him, getting blurrier by the moment. He poured himself a cup of Earl Grey, dropping a slice of lemon into it with a sad chuckle.

  ‘I always take it with lemon, and plenty of sugar,’ he said, sniffing at the milk jug, ‘besides the milk is always a bit funny at this time of year, I find.’

  Stephen made one last effort to get up. He succeeded only in knocking the chair into the little stool sending the tray crashing to the concrete floor.

  The teapot, jug, cup and saucer all shattered.

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ Philip said, ‘Doris has plenty of spares. It’s worth it anyway; you don’t know how hard it is to get people to join the choir out here. Trust me, I’ll be able to take much better care of that voice than you have.

  ‘I hope you understand, Stephen.

  ‘What is it the good book says, I will sing with the spirit, and I will sing with the understanding also. It is best this way; your gifts will be most cherished – dutifully maintained.’

  Stephen couldn’t speak.

  He couldn’t move.

  As the lights dimmed in Stephen Walker’s eyes Philip Morin took up his seat at the other, primitive, grotesque organ, looking every bit the maestro. And as he played the building filled with strange, lonely voices; exultant in mechanical agony, rapturous in automatic praise. Their beautiful, tortured song carried across the fields to fall upon the ears of the grazing cattle and sheep, and was drowned only momentarily by the 15:41 from Liskeard to Looe, filled with schoolchildren returning home, eager to forget their last class of the day. It did not stop at St Keyne, for nobody was waiting on the platform, and few ever alighted there.

  Someone To Watch Over You

  MARIE O’REGAN

  Emily glanced over her shoulder again, hoping to find nothing – but her shadow was still there, keeping pace. She sped up, annoyed to find that the increased tempo of the tap-tap of her heels was making her feel worse, not better – the fact that they’d picked up a gruffer echo was something she tried to ignore. She was only a few feet from the stairs leading down to the exit now; and she cursed her penchant for sitting at the front of the train – all it had done was leave her with further to go to get to safety.

  The lights in the waiting room went out, and she moaned – thank God she was at the stairs now. What on earth had possessed her to wait till the last train home when she knew damn well how dark it got on the platform at this time of night? East Finchley was a beautiful station, but it was also the first station going northwards that wasn’t underground – and when the staff switched the waiting room lights off, it got dark quickly.

  She heard her pursuer’s breathing quicken and grow ragged as he started to run, and she launched herself at the stairs with little thought of how hard it would be to keep her balance at that speed. She clattered downwards, pray
ing someone would hear her and come to investigate – but no one did. Towards the bottom she tripped, and felt herself grasped by strong arms – her rescuer stood her up and moved on before she had a chance to register who it was; her only impression was of strength and the cloying smell of tobacco smoke.

  Then he was gone. She stood in the corridor and stared upward, scared her pursuer would still follow – there was a scuffle up there, then a cry, and finally the sound of squealing brakes as the last southbound train was brought to a sudden halt. An alarm sounded and she blanched, knowing what had happened. She just didn’t know to whom. A shadow moved at the top of the stairs, and she saw a man’s silhouette against the lights of the incoming train – a tall figure in a long, dark coat; a hat obscuring his features. He seemed to look down at her, just for a moment, and then he was gone.

  Now staff arrived. She found herself shouldered to one side as guards ran up the stairs, and a very nervous young man tapped her arm, tried to shepherd her back towards the ticket offices, and the way out. ‘If you’d come this way, Miss . . .’

  She nodded, and allowed herself to be led. From behind her came the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up.

  As she walked into the office next morning, chatter stilled – she saw heads turn as she passed by, eyes drop as she sought to engage them and find out what was so interesting. Then she saw her boss, George Burrows, appear at his door and beckon her into his office, and her heart sank.

  ‘If I could have a word, Miss Lane,’ he said, and stood back to allow her entrance.

  She nodded and swept past him, trying to ignore the nervous muttering that swelled behind her.

  He followed her in and indicated the chair opposite his, and waited ’til they were both seated before he continued. ‘I’m surprised to see you in this morning,’ he said, his tone kind.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘You’ve been up most of the night, after all,’ he went on. He registered the incomprehension on her face and smiled. ‘This is a newspaper, Emily, surely you realised we’d hear of a death on the line?’