Dead Water and Other Weird Tales Read online

  DEAD WATER

  AND OTHER WEIRD TALES

  BY

  DAVID A. SUTTON

  INTRODUCTION BY DAVID A RILEY

  ILLUSTRATED BY JIM PITTS

  PUBLISHED BY THE ALCHEMY PRESS

  Dead Water and Other Weird Tales © David A. Sutton 2015

  Introduction © David A. Riley 2015

  Cover and interior artwork © Jim Pitts

  This publication © The Alchemy Press 2015

  PRINT EDITION ISBN 978-0-9929809-5-5

  All rights reserved

  The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the permission of The Alchemy Press

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons is coincidental.

  The Alchemy Press, Staffordshire, UK

  www.alchemypress.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  THE FISHERMAN

  MIDWINTER

  ZULU’S WAR

  THE TRANSMIGRATION

  UNDER THE GLAMOUR

  CORRUPTION

  THE FETCH

  MIND-FORGED MANACLES

  POT DE TETE

  RETURN TO THE RUNES

  GIFTS

  A NIGHT AT THE HIPPO

  INNSMOUTH GOLD

  NIGHT SOIL MAN

  DEAD WATER

  THE PRE-RAPHAELITE PICTURE

  WAKING

  LANDFALL ON ELYSIUM PLANITIA

  AFTERWORD: STORY NOTES

  ALSO BY DAVID A. SUTTON

  PUBLISHED BY THE ALCHEMY PRESS

  NEW FROM THE ALCHEMY PRESS

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Smudge.

  And to all the friends I have made since becoming involved in weird fiction.

  When you stay true to the genre: you are my inspiration.

  Many thanks

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ‘The Fisherman’ © 2007. Originally published in Gothic (chapbook)

  ‘Midwinter’ © 1995. Originally published in The Merlin Chronicles

  ‘Zulu's War’ © 2006. Originally Published in When Graveyards Yawn

  ‘The Transmigration’ © 1988. Originally published in Grue #8

  ‘Under the Glamour’ © 1988. Originally published in Mystique #1

  ‘Corruption’ © 1981. Originally published in Fantasy Macabre #1

  ‘The Fetch’ © 1976. Originally published in The Taste of Fear

  ‘Mind-Forged Manacles’ © 2008. Originally published in Subtle Edens: The Elastic Book of Slipstream

  ‘Pot de Téte’ © 2015. First published in this collection

  ‘Return to the Runes’ © 1980. Originally published in More Ghosts & Scholars

  ‘Gifts’ © 2008. Originally published in Estronomicon, Christmas Special

  ‘A Night at the Hippo’ © 2013. Originally published in Second City Scares: A Horror Express Anthology

  ‘Innsmouth Gold’ © 1994. Originally published in Shadows Over Innsmouth

  ‘Night Soil Man’ © 2013. Originally published in Psycho-Mania

  ‘Dead Water’ © 2009. Originally published in The Black Book of Horror #4

  ‘The Pre-Raphaelite Picture’ © 2013. Originally published in The Black Book of Horror #10

  ‘Waking’ © 1987. Originally published in 2AM #2 (volume 2)

  ‘Landfall on Elysium Planitia’ © 2015. First published in this collection

  Art by Jim Pitts

  INTRODUCTION

  DAVID A. RILEY

  In his introduction to David A. Sutton’s first collection of stories, Clinically Dead and Other Tales of the Supernatural, Stephen Jones wrote: ‘It’s about bloody time…’

  Nine years have passed since then and I can only add that it’s been a long wait for a much anticipated second collection. About bloody time!

  Dave’s outstandingly good stories are varied in theme and style, unified by the painstaking skill with which they have been written. His engrossingly involved tales are filled with fully fleshed characters, about whom we care. In Dead Water and Other Weird Tales he covers fantasy, science fiction and supernatural horror, from the Arthurian mythology of ‘Midwinter’, the zombie horror of ‘Pot de Téte’, Jamesian devilishness in ‘Return to the Runes’, the science fiction horrors of ‘Mind-Forged Manacles’ and to a kind of Lovecraft-meets-a-desperately-down-at-heels Indiana Jones in ‘Innsmouth Gold’.

  It was in the late 1960s when I first came into contact with Dave. At the time he was editing and publishing the ground-breaking fanzine Shadow, which was the first and perhaps the only magazine of its type to be solely devoted to literary horror. Already Dave had gathered an impressive list of contributors. One was Brian J. Frost, not only a fine artist but an impressively erudite scholar of the horror genre. His extensive survey of the werewolf theme resulted in one of the best werewolf anthologies ever published (Book of the Werewolf, 1973) but formed the basis for the almost encyclopaedic introduction to that book. Another was the Belgian writer Eddy C. Bertin, who provided an amazing number of articles on the horror genre. There was, of course, a wealth of others. Under Dave’s direction, Shadow stood out amongst a plethora of fanzines devoted to film.

  It wasn’t till 1970, though, and the annual Easter Science Fiction convention, held that year in London, that I finally met Dave face to face, along with his future wife Sandra. Within the next twelve months Dave became editor of the New Writings in Horror and the Supernatural series for Sphere Books. And his career into professional editing began, including a long stint with Stephen Jones producing Fantasy Tales, and then Dark Terrors from Gollancz, again with Steve Jones. Perhaps unfairly, it is as an editor that he is still mainly perceived. In my view, though, he is also one of the best – and perhaps one of the most underrated – horror writers in Britain today, whose polished writing style, coupled with an in-depth knowledge of the horror genre that is second to none, makes for a winning formula.

  Without itemising every story in this collection I must highlight some I especially like. ‘The Fisherman’ is a dark tale with a hauntingly dreamlike quality that is at the same time magnetic, as the mystery of what happened to an old fisherman’s wife draws the reader into its nightmarish meshes. ‘Midwinter’, an Arthurian tale set in an age of loss, depicts a defeated Merlin who knows that the future has no place for him. Or does it? ‘A Night at the Hippo’ is a wonderfully atmospheric story, evocative of the last days of the music hall, and involves what to me has always been one of the most disturbing acts once popular in them: the ventriloquist’s dummy. Under Dave’s writing, this familiar theme easily avoids any of the clichés often associated with this trope, giving us an unforgettably creepy denouement.

  Lovecraft created a memorable location with his classic horror story ‘The Shadow over Innsmouth’. August Derleth unfortunately almost did the theme of the Deep Ones to death with some of his least-inspired Mythos stories. Dave, though, breathed new life into them. ‘Innsmouth Gold’ has a horrifying climax, one which it is doubtful Lovecraft could have penned, again illustrating Dave’s sometimes wicked originality.

  I have always loved Dave’s stories. They are never boring, never clichéd, always intriguing and, whatever the theme, believable. His ability to create credible characters whose fates matter is one of his major strengths. They are not mere cardboard cut-outs, set up for some horrible fate to destroy, but real people. They live and breathe – and matter.

  Dip into Dead Water with care. You never know what might b
e lurking there.

  —David A. Riley, February 2015

  THE FISHERMAN

  When Stephanie first saw him, his eyes were wild yet unfocused. She found out why later. She and Rod were waiting outside the holiday cottage in Pembrokeshire; the keys were promised any minute. In front of them huddled the building that had been converted from a farm structure into holiday lets. Not strictly cottages as advertised, but she wasn’t going to quibble. Behind them crouched the tiny inlet of Nolton Haven and the swell of St. Bride’s Bay beyond. Stephanie had turned to watch the waves that caroused so very close to the dwellings. The beach itself was hidden from her viewpoint, below the shelf of land they were standing on. The twin biceps of the cliffs on either side hugged the bay close. Rugged and yet secure, she thought. As she watched a seagull lazily ascend in the middle distance, a dark shape suddenly appeared out of the ground.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, starting back and colliding with her husband as he peered into a room through one of the windows.

  Rod pivoted around quickly, recovering his balance and hers in turn. A few yards away an old man in oilskins was rising up as if he was emerging from the rough green turf that separated the promontory of land from the beach. They would later discover the foot-worn steps that allowed beachcombers to negotiate the ten or so foot drop to the pebbles and sand.

  ‘Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs,’ the old man said as he climbed the top of the rise and walked with a determined pace towards the couple. ‘Upon the slimy sea.’

  Stephanie edged closer to Rod and put her arm around his waist. He could feel her shudder. The old man was very close to them now, had entered their personal space and she could see his red and watery eyes close up, eyes that had been staring out to sea for too many years. A seafarer’s eyes, focusing not on her, but distantly, or even inwardly perhaps.

  ‘Get away you old fool!’ A middle-aged woman had rounded the corner of the holiday lettings, bearing their key. The old man turned to face her and his eyes hardened to marble, but he walked off towards the cliff path without saying anything further.

  ‘Mrs Rollason,’ Rod introduced her to Steph. ‘Stephanie, my wife.’

  ‘He’s all right,’ Mrs Rollason said. ‘Gilbert wouldn’t hurt a fly I daresay, but he’s not quite right, if you know what I mean.’ She smiled hopefully and handed Rod the key to their accommodation. ‘Nice to meet you, Stephanie. I’m Joan. I’ve put a loaf of bread and some butter and milk in the fridge for you both, start you off. The beach shop sells groceries if you don’t want to go into Broad Haven right away. If you need anything else in the meantime, please come over to the farmhouse. Either Ted or me’ll always be around.’

  Steph nodded in acknowledgement, but was distracted as she watched the old man labouring up the steep coastal path that navigated the cliffs out of Nolton Haven. ‘Does he live around here?’ she asked, hoping he didn’t. The man had given her quite a jolt.

  ‘Up there,’ Joan nodded towards the highest visible point of the cliff. At the top, surrounded by gorse, was a small, once white-painted wooden building. It didn’t look much to live in. ‘His wife was drowned off the beach, quite a few years ago now, and he’s out day and night looking for her, so they say. He’s harmless enough. Needs help of course, but won’t take it. Stubborn old fool.’

  ‘What on earth was he jabbering about?’ Rod asked. ‘Sounded familiar.’

  ‘Oh, he’s always saying some poetry or other. Now you two newly-weds enjoy your honeymoon and forget about old Gilbert, won’t you.’

  When the farmer’s wife had gone, Stephanie snatched the key from Rod and opened the door to Swift Cottage. ‘A single-bedroom holiday cottage with all the modern conveniences’, she recalled the brochure. The roof space above the living room was open to the rafters, one of the charming features advertised. But the furniture was a bit tatty and the kitchen units, cooker and fridge had all seen their best days some years before.

  ‘You told her we were on our honeymoon?’ Stephanie asked as she walked around the living room, her fingers lightly caressing an elaborately decorated earthenware ewer and bowl on an old sideboard.

  ‘Well, no,’ he answered, lowering his head to come through the door from the kitchen, where he had been examining the contents of the fridge. ‘But I didn’t disabuse her if that’s what she thinks. I just told her we were recently married.’

  And so they were, but their honeymoon had actually been taken in Turkey earlier in the year and had turned out disastrously. The honeymoon holiday from hell had nearly wrecked the marriage. They were still trying to get their money back from the tour company, as well as their fractured relationship from each other. During the holiday, Stephanie had discovered that she did not really know Rod very well at all, so much for whirlwind romances. She loved him still, but the comforting ache of new love had dissipated. She tried to recapture the emotion, yet it eluded her like a favourite piece of music that on subsequent hearing no longer has the passion to arouse. On their honeymoon she found Rod quarrelsome and bad tempered and took his frustrations out on her, instead of the holiday rep.

  Nothing went right and, to try to salve the wounds caused by the various holiday brochure failures and their constant arguments, she had suggested on their return that they squeeze their bank account a little more, on the promise of actually getting some compensation, and go away again, for a few days while summer was still hanging on in England. Rod managed to wangle some more leave from the office and she walked another tightrope of self-certificated sick leave. It might be her last before her employer had to let her go.

  ‘Oh, well, this might as well be our honeymoon! The Turkish one definitely wasn’t! In fact, Rod,’ she said eagerly, throwing her arms around his neck and draping herself onto him, ‘let’s call this our real honeymoon, eh? Try to forget about the ... about the...’

  ‘The—?’ he began before he clocked her little jest. They kissed, Rod tasting the smear of lipstick she wore. He lifted her and carried her to the sofa, which creaked of old springs as he lowered her onto it. They began removing one-another’s clothes and Rod’s hands caressed her.

  His middle finger found its way inside her and she groaned. As her heart beat faster with her arousal, she wondered if the ache of new love was returning. Then she remembered the old man. Pushing Rod up off her, her eyes looked serious for a moment. ‘Close the curtains will you, Rod,’ she asked.

  He stood up and did so. ‘In case mad Gilbert peeks in?’ he guessed. ‘Maybe we should pay him a neighbourly visit after, invite him down to dinner.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ She reached up and pulled his belt free from his jeans as if cracking a whip. ‘Now fuck.’

  *

  The seaward facing window of the wooden house that crowned the top of the cliffs gazed blankly across St. Bride’s Bay, the grey water reflected back upon itself. Inside, a shape moved across the windowpane, an eye’s pupil milked by a cataract. The dwelling and its single occupant were as old and weathered and colourless as the sea.

  Gilbert pulled up his chair and watched through the salt-rimed glass. Cradled in his hands a mug of hot water in which was dissolved an Oxo. Down below, the waves, ever eager to smother the sand, were elbowing close to the land, lifting the stern of his little dinghy where it was moored on the beach. It would soon be dark and he would venture down to the surf and the shadows, and the silver light from the moon. And row out on the tide, undisturbed in his search.

  Tonight, as ever, he would unleash the boat and row out to where the two walls of the cliffs hugged around Nolton’s Bay like protective arms. Out he would go, to where the wide sea spanned to the horizon and the gentle slop of the waves was omnipresent, but muted so that the sound of the oars could be heard as they sliced and skated the slack ocean. Tonight would be a reprise of many such nights. A habit only curtailed when winter storms blew in and sea spray mixed with driving rain dashed his cabin with salty fury. Then he would have to curtail his repetitive and fruitless forays. Watery runnels for
med in his glazed, despairing eyes like salt waves bridling across reddened sand. And dripped in a silent cataract down a face as craggy and dark as the grey cliffs. Out there ... somewhere ... his beautiful lost Siren.

  *

  There seemed to be few tourists here, fewer beachcombers or sun worshippers.

  Steph and Rod were walking arm in arm along the road to the pub up the hill. From up here Stephanie could see a small caravan park nestling in the valley, from which there was little sign of movement, even though summer still had a few throes to throw. She conceded to herself that the beach was a small one by any standards and that the sea was probably too inconsiderate for swimming. The little bay, hemmed in as it was by high cliffs, allowed the tide too much wilful leeway; delightful rock pools at low tide, but precious little sand to sit on once the sea had rode in at high tide. The bay had a wild charm, but also she thought, an aura of loneliness. As they walked she watched a lone fulmar skim the cliff’s face, wheeling slowly this way and that, its wings as stiff as an aircraft’s. The solitary bird evoked the sense of an ancient landscape, one so untenanted that it was a simple matter to believe that they were the first humans to reach this shore since some Celtic tribe harvested the fish here a millennia ago.

  Dusk was arriving with the cold breeze off the sea. ‘Hug me,’ Steph said, wishing she didn’t always have to ask.

  As he did so, Rod turned his attention to the pub. They climbed the steps that weaved through the beer garden to its entrance. ‘Hope the food’s hot.’

  Stephanie wished he wasn’t so easily distracted; she would have liked more of his attention devoted to her. But not wanting to dampen things with an unguarded comment, she said instead, ‘I should think they get plenty of business from the caravan park.’ As they entered the lounge, the dining area was surprisingly unoccupied. ‘Or maybe not.’ If a pub’s busy at mealtimes, she tended to think, its food was likely to be more agreeable.