loosened the wires, she withdrew the needles, she pulled out the tubes. She touched the bruises and the marks on the pale skin. “I do love you,” she said.
Anne lay with Stephen. Her hands were at first soft and tentative, then grew urgent, caressing his body, caressing her own. As she touched and probed and clutched, her fingers became his fingers. Gentle, intelligent fingers studying her and loving her.
Healing her.
She rode the current, rising and falling, her eyes closed. Stephen kissed her lips as she brought them to him, and her breasts as well, and as she lifted upward, he kissed the trembling, hot wetness between her thighs. She stretched her arms outward, reaching for the world, and then brought them down and about herself and Stephen, pulling inward to where there was nothing but them both. His breathing was heavy; her heart thundered. An electrical charge hummed in the pit of her stomach. It swelled and spread, moving downward. Anne opened her mouth to cry out silently to the ceiling. The charge stood her nerves on unbearable end, and it grew until it would hold no longer. The center of her being burst. She wailed with the pulses. And she fell, crumpled, when they were spent.
“Dear God,” she whispered. She lay against Stephen, one hand entangled in the dark curls. Their warmth made her smile.
Her fear was gone.
Then she said, “Stephen, tell me. Only if you want. Why are you here? What put you in this place?”
Stephen said nothing. Anne hoped he had not slipped into sleep again.
“Stephen,” she said, turning over, meaning to awaken him. “Tell me why you had to come to the center. What happened to you?”
Stephen said nothing. His closed eyes did not open.
Anne pressed her palm to his heart.
It was still.
The party was over. Back in the recreation hall, Anne could hear Michael tooting his paper horn and calling out, “Hey, Miss Zaccaria, where are you? I’m ready to give you that swimming lesson. What about you?”
The water in the pond did not move. The breeze had died down, and the mist was being replaced by an impenetrable fog that sucked the form and substance from the trees and the benches around the surface of the blackness.
There were leaves at her feet, and she kicked them off the edge of the bank and into the pond. Small circles radiated from the disturbances, little waves moving out and touching other waves.
Anne took off her shoes, and walked barefoot to the end of the pier. The boat was still moored there, full of leaves.
The deep water below was as dark as Stephen’s hair.
Some have their dreams, others nightmares.
Stephen had his dreams now. Dreams without end.
Amen.
And Anne would now accept her nightmare.
The leaves on the water were kind, and parted at her entrance.
JONATHAN
CARROLL
The Dead Love You
J ONATHAN C ARROLL prefers to remain mysterious to his readers. What we do know is that he has been described as “the most innovative and original fantasist today.” He’s an American who has lived overseas for almost twenty years, currently residing with his family in Vienna. He also has a bull terrier that doesn’t talk.
He taught courses in world literature before becomming a full-time writer and has published six highly acclaimed novels to date:
The Land of Laughs, Voice of Our Shadow, Bones of the Moon, Sleeping in Flame, A Child Across the Sky
and
Outside the Dog Museum
, along with the novella
Black Cocktail
and a short story collection, only published in German translation, entitled
Die Panische Hand
. He won the World Fantasy Award in 1988 for his short story, “Friend’s Best Man”, a recent issue of
Weird Tales
was a Jonathan Carroll special, and he was Guest of Honour at the 1991 British Fantasy Convention.
None of which will prepare you for the story that follows, which was originally written for a stillborn anthology which Ramsey Campbell would have edited.
T HE MOST FRIGHTENING sound in the world is your own heart beating. No one
Anne lay with Stephen. Her hands were at first soft and tentative, then grew urgent, caressing his body, caressing her own. As she touched and probed and clutched, her fingers became his fingers. Gentle, intelligent fingers studying her and loving her.
Healing her.
She rode the current, rising and falling, her eyes closed. Stephen kissed her lips as she brought them to him, and her breasts as well, and as she lifted upward, he kissed the trembling, hot wetness between her thighs. She stretched her arms outward, reaching for the world, and then brought them down and about herself and Stephen, pulling inward to where there was nothing but them both. His breathing was heavy; her heart thundered. An electrical charge hummed in the pit of her stomach. It swelled and spread, moving downward. Anne opened her mouth to cry out silently to the ceiling. The charge stood her nerves on unbearable end, and it grew until it would hold no longer. The center of her being burst. She wailed with the pulses. And she fell, crumpled, when they were spent.
“Dear God,” she whispered. She lay against Stephen, one hand entangled in the dark curls. Their warmth made her smile.
Her fear was gone.
Then she said, “Stephen, tell me. Only if you want. Why are you here? What put you in this place?”
Stephen said nothing. Anne hoped he had not slipped into sleep again.
“Stephen,” she said, turning over, meaning to awaken him. “Tell me why you had to come to the center. What happened to you?”
Stephen said nothing. His closed eyes did not open.
Anne pressed her palm to his heart.
It was still.
The party was over. Back in the recreation hall, Anne could hear Michael tooting his paper horn and calling out, “Hey, Miss Zaccaria, where are you? I’m ready to give you that swimming lesson. What about you?”
The water in the pond did not move. The breeze had died down, and the mist was being replaced by an impenetrable fog that sucked the form and substance from the trees and the benches around the surface of the blackness.
There were leaves at her feet, and she kicked them off the edge of the bank and into the pond. Small circles radiated from the disturbances, little waves moving out and touching other waves.
Anne took off her shoes, and walked barefoot to the end of the pier. The boat was still moored there, full of leaves.
The deep water below was as dark as Stephen’s hair.
Some have their dreams, others nightmares.
Stephen had his dreams now. Dreams without end.
Amen.
And Anne would now accept her nightmare.
The leaves on the water were kind, and parted at her entrance.
JONATHAN
CARROLL
The Dead Love You
J ONATHAN C ARROLL prefers to remain mysterious to his readers. What we do know is that he has been described as “the most innovative and original fantasist today.” He’s an American who has lived overseas for almost twenty years, currently residing with his family in Vienna. He also has a bull terrier that doesn’t talk.
He taught courses in world literature before becomming a full-time writer and has published six highly acclaimed novels to date:
The Land of Laughs, Voice of Our Shadow, Bones of the Moon, Sleeping in Flame, A Child Across the Sky
and
Outside the Dog Museum
, along with the novella
Black Cocktail
and a short story collection, only published in German translation, entitled
Die Panische Hand
. He won the World Fantasy Award in 1988 for his short story, “Friend’s Best Man”, a recent issue of
Weird Tales
was a Jonathan Carroll special, and he was Guest of Honour at the 1991 British Fantasy Convention.
None of which will prepare you for the story that follows, which was originally written for a stillborn anthology which Ramsey Campbell would have edited.
T HE MOST FRIGHTENING sound in the world is your own heart beating. No one
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