The Haunts & Horrors MEGAPACK®. Lawrence Watt-Evans

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СКАЧАТЬ and bending over, kissed his cheek.

      “I only just thought of it,” she said, hysterically. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Why didn’t you think of it?”

      “Think of what?” he questioned.

      “The other two wishes,” she replied, rapidly. “We’ve only had one.”

      “Was not that enough?” he demanded, fiercely.

      “No,” she cried, triumphantly; “we’ll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again.”

      The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs. “Good God, you are mad!” he cried, aghast.

      “Get it,” she panted; “get it quickly, and wish—Oh, my boy, my boy!”

      Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. “Get back to bed,” he said, unsteadily. “You don’t know what you are saying.”

      “We had the first wish granted,” said the old woman, feverishly; “why not the second?”

      “A coincidence,” stammered the old man.

      “Go and get it and wish,” cried his wife, quivering with excitement.

      The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. “He has been dead ten days, and besides he—I would not tell you else, but—I could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now?”

      “Bring him back,” cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door. “Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?”

      He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand.

      Even his wife’s face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.

      “Wish!” she cried, in a strong voice.

      “It is foolish and wicked,” he faltered.

      “Wish!” repeated his wife.

      He raised his hand. “I wish my son alive again.”

      The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind.

      He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle-end, which had burned below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him.

      Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, went downstairs for a candle.

      At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike another; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front door.

      The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through the house.

      “What’s that?” cried the old woman, starting up.

      “A rat,” said the old man in shaking tones—“a rat. It passed me on the stairs.”

      His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house.

      “It’s Herbert!” she screamed. “It’s Herbert!”

      She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly.

      “What are you going to do?” he whispered hoarsely.

      “It’s my boy; it’s Herbert!” she cried, struggling mechanically. “I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the door.”

      “For God’s sake don’t let it in,” cried the old man, trembling.

      “You’re afraid of your own son,” she cried, struggling. “Let me go. I’m coming, Herbert; I’m coming.”

      There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and panting.

      “The bolt,” she cried, loudly. “Come down. I can’t reach it.”

      But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey’s paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish.

      The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened. A cold wind rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road.

      FUGUES, by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

      Vanessa Hylas ran her fingers lightly over the curve of the forte-piano, enjoying its long, narrow shape—more like a boat than a harp—even as she pondered how she would contrived to keep the two hundred-year-old instrument tuned through an entire recital. “We’ll have to have two intermissions,” she told her manager as she continued to caress the glossy wood. “And retune it both times.”

      “That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Howard Faster, making a note on his PalmPilot. “I think people will make allowances for the instrument. This isn’t just any antique. It is the Dziwny forte-piano—the very one he…”

      “He killed himself playing; yes, I know,” said Vanessa, more bluntly than she had intended. She coughed and spoke again, more gently. “Stasio Dziwny performed for the last time on this instrument. It was December 8th, 1803, if I recall the date, a pre-holiday private concert at his patron’s most important Schloss, Schloss Lowenhoff. There were about fifty people present, not counting servants, according to what I’ve read.” Her shiny, close-cropped, dark-blond hair СКАЧАТЬ