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  The Collection

  Bentley Little

  How far would you go with a hitchhiker who'd left behind an unimaginable trail of horror and destruction?

  How would you feel if your father's new bride was something dredged up from the bowels of hell?

  What would you do if you discovered an old letter suggesting one of America's Founding Fathers had been a serial killer?

  How long would you last in a mysterious border town that promised to let you in on one of its most gruesome secrets?

  This is The Collection — thirty-two stories of hot blood and frigid terror that could have come only from the mind of Bentley Little. And that's a scary place to be.

  He's been hailed by Dean Koontz for his "rock-'em, jolt-'em, shock-'em contemporary terror fiction." Now Little presents a 32-story collection that could only have come from an author with "a deft touch for the terrifying" (Publishers Weekly).

  From Publishers Weekly

  Little (The Association) displays his darker side in the 32 mostly memorable stories that comprise this collection of unpublished and previously published stories. Drawing from a bizarre cauldron of influences (cited in brief introductions to each piece), Little tackles some disturbing topics, including pedophilia, family crucifixions, incest and bestiality. Indeed, even fans accustomed to the gore found in Little's novels may be taken aback by the manner in which characters carry out their fetishes and crimes. The main character in "Blood," for example, kills both little boys and grown men without remorse, believing that his macaroni and cheese craves human blood. The supernatural and the unexplained are common themes, but some plot lines are underdeveloped. In "Monteith," readers are left to ponder what would have happened had the main character confronted his wife about a one-word note - written in her hand - that turned his life upside down. Among Little's best offerings are "Bob," a chilling tale of mistaken identity, and "Pillow Talk," a witty yet sad story about bed linens that come to life and ultimately display more human traits than many of the characters in this collection. A fascinating glimpse into how Little's creativity has evolved over the years, this volume is a must-have for the author's fans despite its uneven nature.

  From Booklist

  Of the 32 spine tinglers in Little's gathering, some inevitably stand out. In "The Phonebook Man," the guy delivering the directory, once invited into a woman's house, changes his appearance drastically and refuses to leave. "Life with Father," one of the darkest stories in the collection, concerns a recycling obsession that leads to incest and murder. In "Roommates," Ray searches for one, only to get a strange batch of applicants, including a woman who believes her monkey is her daughter, a three-foot-tall albino, and a dirt-obsessed nurse. In "Bob," a group of women cleverly "sell" a young man on the idea of killing the abusive husband of a woman they know. And in "Pillow Talk," a man is shocked to find himself pursued sexually--by pillows. Little introduces each story by briefly explaining his inspiration for writing it. Little's often macabre, always sharp tales are snippets of everyday life given a creepy twist. Kristine Huntley

  THE

  COLLECTION

  Bentley Little

  A SIGNET BOOK

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  ISBN 0-7394-2761-X

  Copyright © Bentley Little, 2002 All rights reserved

  Contents

  The Sanctuary

  The Woods Be Dark

  The Phonebook Man

  Estoppel

  The Washingtonians

  Life with Father

  Bob

  Bumblebee

  Lethe Dreams

  Paperwork

  The Idol

  Skin

  The Man in the Passenger Seat

  Comes the Bad Time

  Against the Pale Sand

  The Pond

  Roommates

  Llama

  Full Moon on Death Row

  The Show

  The Mailman

  Monteith

  Pillow Talk

  Maya's Mother

  Colony

  Confessions of a Corporate Man

  Blood

  And I Am Here, Fighting with Ghosts

  The Baby

  Coming Home Again

  The Potato

  The Murmurous Haunt of Flies

  The Sanctuary

  Religious fanatics have always seemed scary to me, and when I hear them espousing some wacky eschato-logical theory or promoting their perverse interpreta­tions of the Bible, I always wonder what their home lives are like. What kind of furniture do they have? What kind of food do they eat? How do they treat their neighbors and their pets?

  "The Sanctuary" is my version of what life would be like for a child growing up in such a household.

  * * *

  The drapes were all closed, Cal noticed as he came home after school, and he knew even before walking up the porch steps that something terrible had happened. The drapes hadn't been closed in the daytime since ... since Father had had to pay.

  He shifted the schoolbooks under his arms, licking his dry lips before opening the front door. Inside, the living room was dark, the heavy brown drapes effectively keeping out all but the most diffused light. He almost didn't see his mother curled up in a corner of the couch. "Mother?" he said nervously.

  She didn't answer, and he walked over to where she was sitting, placing his books on the coffee table. This close, he could see the wetness of tears on her cheeks. "Mother?"

  She leaped up and grabbed him by his shoulders, holding him close, pressing him against her bulk. He could smell on her housedress an unfamiliar odor he did not like. "Oh, Cal," she sobbed. "I didn't mean to do it! I didn't mean to!"

  Cal suddenly noticed that the house was silent. There were no noises coming from the back of the house, and he had a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Where's Chrissie?" he asked.

  Her hands clutched tighter, hugging him. "I couldn't help myself," she wailed. Tears were rolling down her puffy cheeks. "I had to kill him."

  "Kill who?" Cal asked, fighting back his fear. "Who did you kill?"

  "I was walking home from the store, and I saw this man walking his dog, and The Rage came over me. I couldn't help myself."

  "What happened?"

  "I-I told him my car wouldn't start, and I had him come into the garage with me to see if he could figure out what was wrong. Then I closed the door, and I used the ax. I-I couldn't help myself. I didn't think I'd do it again, I didn't want to do it again, but The Rage came over me." She ran a hand through Cal's hair, and her voice was suddenly free of emotion. "I sinned," she said. "But it was not my fault."

  "Where's Chrissie?" Cal demanded.

  "Chrissie had to die for my sins."

  Cal pulled away from his mother and ran down the hall­way, through the back bedroom, to The Sanctuary. There, next to Father's cross, was the crucified form of his sister. She was naked, spread-eagled, her hands and feet nailed to the wood, her head hanging down limply.

  "Chrissie?" he said.

  She did not move, did not reply, but when he hesitantly touched her foot the skin was still warm.

  Behind him, he heard the door to The Sanctuary close. The only light in the windowless room came from the can­dles flickering in front of the altar. As Cal stared at the un-moving form of his sister, at the small streams of blood which flowed from her impaled hands and feet, his mother's strong hands grasped his shoulders. "She will be resur­rected," his mother said, and when he turned he saw the tears in her eyes. "She will be resurrec
ted and will sit at the throne of God and we will pray to her and worship her as we do your father."

  She dropped to her knees beside him and gestured for him to join her. He saw faint red traces in the lines which crisscrossed her palm. Her life line, he noticed, was totally obscured with a thin smear of blood. "Pray," she begged. She folded her hands in a gesture of supplication.

  Cal knelt down before his father's cross and folded his hands in prayer.

  "Dear Jim," his mother began. "Hallowed be your name. We thank you for protecting and providing for this, your household. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. We beseech thee, O Jim, to keep us safe from harm. You are great, you are good, and we thank you for our food. Amen."

  Cal knew his mother's prayers were not exactly right. He remembered some of what he had learned in Sunday school, when they used to go to church, and he could tell that her en­treaties were a little off. But he said nothing. If he did speak up, she would only scourge him until he repented of his blasphemy and then make him kneel for hours praying to his father, so he kept his mouth shut.

  His mother was muttering next to him, reciting a private prayer, and though he knew he was expected to do the same, he glanced around The Sanctuary instead. Below Chrissie's hands and feet were the sacred bowls used to catch her mar­tyred blood. They would drink it later for Communion, and Cal grimaced at the thought. Already he could taste the sick­ening salty herbal flavor of the blood, and it made him want to vomit. In the corner of the room, bathed in a swath of shadow not penetrated by the candlelight, he could see the outline of the bloody ax leaning against the wall. On the floor in front of the ax was the hammer she had used to cru­cify Chrissie, and next to the hammer were scattered extra nails.

  His mother stood. "You may leave," she said. "I want to be alone right now."

  He nodded silently and left The Sanctuary. He wanted to cry, but could not; instead he sat at the kitchen table and stared into space blankly. Bocephus scratched on the door, and he let the dog inside, feeding him on the kitchen floor. The shadows lengthened, the sun set, and still his mother did not come out. He made himself a sandwich, drank some milk, and after watching a sitcom on TV, went into his bed­room. He was tired but found himself unable to fall asleep. He turned on the small black-and-white television on the dresser. He needed company.

  Sometime later, he heard his mother's footsteps and the rustle of her clothes as she emerged from The Sanctuary and went directly to her bedroom. Through the thin wall, he heard her praying, her hoarse voice rising and falling in rhythmic oratorical cadences.

  Bocephus came into his room and jumped on the bed, tail wagging, tongue hanging happily out. Cal pulled the dog close and buried his face in the clean golden fur, hugging the pet to him. Hot tears spilled from his eyes and he wiped them on the dog's soft hair. "Chrissie," he said. "Chrissie."

  The house was silent. Sometime after he had fallen asleep, his mother had come in and turned off the TV, and now it was so quiet that he could hear his mother's deep, even breathing in the next room, punctuated by an occa­sional snore. He stared up into the blackness, thinking about his mother, about The Rage, about Chrissie, and about what he should do. He stared up into the blackness-

  and heard Chrissie's soft whisper.

  "Cal."

  A wash of goose bumps arose on his skin as a wave of coldness swept over him. He closed his eyes, pulling the blanket up over his head. His heart was hammering in his chest. He was imagining it. He had to be.

  "Cal."

  The whisper was clear, only slightly louder than his mother's sleep-breathing.

  "Cal."

  He wanted to scream, but his mouth was suddenly dry. He plugged his ears with his fingers and shut his eyes tightly, but though he could not hear Chrissie's whisper, his mind filled the sound in for him and he knew that if he lifted the fingers from his ears he would hear the voice again.

  "Cal."

  What did she want? He thought of Chrissie's crucified body, nails driven through hands and feet, her head hanging down limply, an expression of lonely terror frozen on her face, and suddenly he was no longer afraid. Or not as afraid. He was still a little scared, but the fear was tempered with sadness and sympathy. She was his sister; she had been killed to pay for their mother's sins, and now she was alone, all alone in The Sanctuary with Father.

  She had always been afraid of The Sanctuary.

  She had always been afraid of Father.

  He unplugged his ears and pulled the blanket from his head.

  "Cal."

  The whisper was not malevolently beckoning to him as he had originally thought. It sounded more like a plea, a plea for help. He slipped out of bed, careful not to make any noise. He walked slowly down the hall, past his mother's room, through the back bedroom to The Sanctuary.

  He looked around the darkened room. Only one candle was still flickering, and like the others it was almost worn down. He could see, however, that the pewter bowls at the foot of the cross were full again, and the man Mother had murdered was now shards of bone, blackened and unrecog­nizable. A faint haze of smoke still hung over the room.

  "Cal," Chrissie whispered.

  He looked up.

  "Kill her," Chrissie said. "Kill the bitch."

  He went to school the next day as if nothing had hap­pened, but reading and spelling went in one ear and out the other, and he could concentrate neither on history nor on math. His mind was on his mother. Part of him knew that he should tell someone what had happened, but part of him did not want to tell. Besides, who would he talk to? Miss Price did not particularly like him and he wouldn't feel comfort­able telling her what had happened, and he would feel even more awkward talking to the principal, whom he had only seen a few times striding across the playground toward his office. He should go to the police, he knew. That was who would really want to know. But then they would take his mother away, and they would take Father and Chrissie away, and he would be all alone.

  Besides, he was afraid of what his father might do. Fa­ther's wrath was great, and he had the power of God on his side. And what could policemen do against the power of God?

  At lunch, on the playground, Cal stood alone, sometimes wanting to tell someone about his mother, sometimes not.

  He did not even consider Chrissie's option.

  He walked home slowly after school, taking his time, thinking. His mother would be praying in The Sanctuary- that was what she had done the last time The Rage came over her and Father had had to pay-and he didn't want to join her. He still wasn't sure what he wanted. His muscles were tense, he had a bad headache, and he felt trapped.

  He walked down the street toward his house and stopped in surprise. His mother was not in The Sanctuary. Instead, she stood on the front lawn, hose in hand, watering the green lawn and the bed of flowers which grew beneath the kitchen window. The street was filled with the noise of out-of-school kids playing games in their yards, riding up and down the sidewalks on bikes and Big Wheels. Farther up the street, Mr. Johnson was mowing his lawn, the gas-powered engine a constant buzz underneath the more random noises of the kids.

  Cal walked slowly forward, watching his mother. She glanced over at him and smiled, and then a change came over her face. Her eyes widened as if in fear, and the corners of her mouth flattened out. Her entire body took on a rigid robotic stance.

  The Rage, he thought, panicking.

  And then she dropped the hose and was running down the sidewalk. He ran after her, but she was already talking to a boy he didn't know, a kid from some other street. The boy nodded, then pushed his bike alongside as both of them headed back up the sidewalk. Cal stood lamely in front of them, not knowing what to do.

  His mother shot him an unreadable look as she passed, a look filled simultaneously with tortured agony and mali­cious glee.

  "Mother!" he cried, running behind her.

  She turned, smiling, and slapped him hard across the face.

  As he fell to the ground, he
saw his mother lead the boy into the garage.

  He jumped to his feet and followed them through the small garage door. The boy was standing in the middle of the room, looking around, confused. "Where is it?" he asked.

  Cal heard the boy's chin hit the cement as his mother pushed him to the floor.

  "No!" Cal yelled.

  The boy was too stunned to cry, and he merely looked up in blank confusion as the shovel slammed into his back. He flopped around on the concrete floor like a fish, blood streaming from the long slice where the shovel dug into his back.

  Cal staggered out of the garage, but he could hear the sickening, squelching sound of the shovel chopping into flesh with short quick bites.

  And then his mother ran out, her hands bloody, a look of abject terror on her face.

  Cal cringed, but she dashed past him, rushing around the side of the garage. He saw her take from the side yard two long eight-by-fours. She dragged the boards to the back of the house, and he heard the slow regular sound of wood being sawed. He stood there unmoving. The sawing stopped a few minutes later, and he heard the irregular whipcrack of hammer against nail.

  She was constructing a cross.

  He wanted to leave, to run, but something held him back. He stood, then sat alone in the front of the house listening to the sound of the hammer, as around him neighborhood life went on as normal. He was still sitting there when he heard the back door slam and saw through the front windows of the house his mother carrying the cross down the hall to The Sanctuary.

  It hit him then, what was going to happen to him, and he quickly jumped to his feet. He was not going to let her have him. He would run if necessary, fight if he had to.

  Bocephus barked once, loudly, a short harsh yelp that was immediately cut off.

  Then there was silence.

  "Bocephus!" Cal yelled. He ran into the house, down the hall.

  The dog was already splayed on the cross, all four legs stretched in a pose of crucifixion, long nails protruding from his paws.

  His mother dropped the hammer, and fell to her knees. There were tears rolling down her cheeks, but she was not sobbing. She began to pray. "Bless this house, bless our feet, good food, good meat, good God, let's eat. Blessed are the meek. Blessed are the peacemakers. In the name of the Fa­ther, the Daughter, and the Holy Dog, Amen." She genu­flected first toward Father, then toward Chrissie, then toward Bocephus.