The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, 2016 Edition Read online

  THE YEAR’S BEST DARK FANTASY & HORROR

  2016 EDITION

  EDITED BY PAULA GURAN

  Copyright © 2016 by Paula Guran.

  Cover design by Stephen H. Segal & Sherin Nicole.

  Cover art by Fergregory.

  Ebook design by Neil Clarke.

  All stories are copyrighted to their respective authors, and used here with their permission.

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-477-5 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-471-3 (trade paperback)

  PRIME BOOKS

  www.prime-books.com

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

  For more information, contact Prime Books at [email protected].

  Contents

  Introduction: The Dark Dangerous Forest by Paula Guran

  Sing Me Your Scars by Damien Angelica Walters

  There is No Place for Sorrow in the Kingdom of the Cold by Seanan McGuire

  The Scavenger’s Nursery by Maria Dahvana Headley

  Black Dog by Neil Gaiman

  1Up by Holly Black

  The Three Resurrections of Jessica Churchill by Kelly Robson

  Windows Underwater by John Shirley

  Ripper by Angela Slatter

  Seven Minutes in Heaven by Nadia Bulkin

  Those by Sofia Samatar

  The Body Finder by Kaaron Warren

  The Deepwater Bride by Tamsyn Muir

  Fabulous Beasts by Priya Sharma

  Below the Falls by Daniel Mills

  The Cripple and Starfish by Caitlín R. Kiernan

  The Door by Kelley Armstrong

  Daniel’s Theory About Dolls by Stephen Graham Jones

  Kaiju maximus® : “So Various, So Beautiful, So New” by Kai Ashante Wilson

  Hairwork by Gemma Files

  The Glad Hosts by Rebecca Campbell

  The Absence of Words by Swapna Kishore

  Mary, Mary by Kirstyn McDermott

  Cassandra by Ken Liu

  A Shot of Salt Water by Lisa L. Hannett

  Street of the Dead House by Robert Lopresti

  The Greyness by Kathryn Ptacek

  The Devil Under the Maison Blue by Michael Wehunt

  The Lily and the Horn by Catherynne M. Valente

  Snow by Dale Bailey

  Corpsemouth by John Langan

  Acknowledgements

  Other Notable Stories: 2015

  INTRODUCTION: THE DARK DANGEROUS FOREST

  Paula Guran

  The dark dangerous forest is still there, my friends. Beyond the space of the astronauts and the astronomers, beyond the dark, tangled regions of Freudian and Jungian psychiatry, beyond the dubious psi-realms of Dr. Rhine, beyond the areas policed by the commissars and priests and motivations-research men, far, far beyond the mad, beat, half-hysterical laughter . . . the utterly unknown still is and the eerie and ghostly lurk, as much wrapped in mystery as ever.

  —Fritz Leiber, “A Bit of the Dark World” (first published in

  Fantastic Stories of Imagination, February 1962)

  If you are new to this series (and these introductions), take my word: we’ve already established that neither dark fantasy nor horror is really definable. Any definition you might apply is apt to be debated anyway. Perhaps more importantly, both terms are—by the very nature of what they describe—always evolving, changing, mutating, transforming . . .

  The spectrum of whatever we might consider dark fantasy or horror is extraordinarily expansive. “The dark dangerous forest” is vast and teeming with strange and fabulous flora and fauna; some of it familiar, some unnameable, most of it weird. This allows enormous latitude to execute the unique purpose of The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror.

  This year we have thirty works of fiction (ranging in length from less than three thousand words to more than thirty-two thousand words) published in 2015 from twenty-six different sources. We run the gamut from whispers of fear to profound dread, historical horror to grim scenarios of the future, explorations of small relationships to considerations of the inexplicable. There are delvings into both death and immortality, examinations of past mythologies and the invention of utterly new ones, sobering speculation as well as some smiles and dark drollery . . . and a great deal more.

  The prose styles range from straightforward to deceptively effortless to elegantly decadent to exquisitely poisonous to intentionally Gothic and others in between and outside those modes.

  Random notes made as I was re-reading, copy editing, arranging, and doing the other mysterious things editors do:

  • Many of the stories might be said to deal with monsters or the monstrous, but none of them deal with typical monstrosity, except for, perhaps, some of the human monsters. (Perhaps it is appropriate to recall that monster comes from the Latin monstrum, from the root monere: “warn; instruct.” Monsters were first identified not only as abnormal abominations, but also as divine portents of impending evil or aberrance in the natural order.)

  • Several ghosts appear, a couple of aliens, some witches, a seer, and there is even a vampire story (albeit the vamps are neither classic nor sparkly).

  • At least three are identifiable as “Lovecraftian,” however none of these mimic H. P. Lovecraft, nor are they similar stories. (In fact, many readers will probably not even realize they are “lovecrafty” at all.) Since there were around fifteen anthologies of Lovecraftian tales published in 2015—not to mention other venues that published such stories—there were a number of stories of this type to choose from this year.

  • Six or more are set in, or partly set in, the future. Some of these could be termed “science fiction,” but at least one is more fantastic than scientific.

  • Four deal with environmental issues; two with surviving the end of the world as we know it.

  • Nine or so are set in the past (history is, after all, primarily horrific), and several of those evoke earlier literature or literary figures.

  • This overlaps with the point just above, but other than the Lovecraftian stories, there are also a few “tributes” to earlier writers.

  • Two stories involve dolls; that is due to Ellen Datlow’s excellent The Doll Collection anthology.

  • Only one story has computers in it.

  • The sea plays a role in four of the stories.

  • Racism is a theme in two selections; gaming in another two. Two stories deal with heroes.

  Make what you will of all that. But don’t worry, just because stories fall into groupings from my little list—they have little else in common.

  This year, for the first time, I’m including a list of stories from the year that are also notable. (See page 525.) I’m not calling them “honorable mentions” —no offense to those who use the term!—because, to me, the phrase connotes a commendation for something of exceptional merit, but still not deserving a top honor or “prize.” This isn’t a competition or a ranking. The notables stories are also among the “best” of those published in 2015. It is far from a complete list! (Also check the introduction and content of my The Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy Novellas: 2016 for some long dark fiction I may have forgotten to include here.) One reason I have hesitated compiling such in the past is that I inevitably will forget to note or miss some great stories. Consider this an experiment.

  Why aren’t these stories here? Four of them appear in Rich Horton’s The Year’s Best Science Fiction and Fantasy: 2016—the big sister of this series and also published by Prime Books. (We already duplicated one story this year.) Obvious
ly, I don’t have enough room for them all; more specifically, I can only include a limited number of longer stories, so some on the list were sacrificed due to length. Others are by authors already included; some anthologies had several great stories and I couldn’t include them all, a few, well, I didn’t catch up with them until too late . . . etc.

  Of course, you already have quite a bit of fiction right here in your hands and/or in front of your eyes to consider before looking for more. Enjoy!

  Paula Guran

  11 April 2016

  I’m certain they call him the good doctor, but they’re not here at night. They don’t know everything.

  SING ME YOUR SCARS

  Damien Angelica Walters

  This is not my body.

  Yes, there are the expected parts—arms, legs, hips, breasts—each in its proper place and of the proper shape.

  Is he a monster, a madman, a misguided fool? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. But this is not my body.

  The rot begins, as always, around the stitches. This time, the spots of greyish-green appear on the left wrist, and there is an accompanying ache, but not in the expected way. It feels as though there is a great disconnect between mind and flesh, a gap that yearns to close but cannot. I say nothing, but there is no need; Lillian’s weeping says it with more truth than words.

  The hands are hers.

  “Please don’t show him yet. Please,” she whispers. “I’m not ready.”

  “I must,” I say. “You will be fine.”

  “Please, please, wait until after the party.”

  I ignore her. I have learned the hard way that hiding the rot is not acceptable, and while the flesh may be hers, the pain is mine and mine alone. I remember hearing him offer an explanation, but the words, the theories, were too complex for me to understand. I suspect that was his intention.

  Lillian will still be with us; she is simply grasping for an excuse, any excuse at all. I understand her fear, but the rot could destroy us all.

  My stride is long. Graceful. Therese was a dancer, and she taught me the carriage of a lady. I pass old Ilsa in the hallway, and she offers a distracted nod over the mound of bed linens she carries. All the servants are busy with preparations for the upcoming annual party, which I’m not allowed to attend, of course.

  I wonder what sort of fiction he has spun to the servants. Am I an ill cousin, perhaps, or someone’s cast-off bastard that he has taken in? Either way, I’m certain they call him the good doctor, but they’re not here at night. They don’t know everything.

  They never speak to me, nor do they offer anything more than nods or waves of the hand, and none of them can see my face through the veil I must wear when I venture beyond my rooms. All my gowns have high necklines and long, flowing sleeves; not a trace of flesh is exposed.

  For my safety, he says. They will not understand. They will be afraid and people in fear often act in a violent manner. His mouth never says what sort of violence he expects, but his eyes do.

  When I knock on the half-open door to his study, he glances up from his notebooks. I shut the door behind me, approach his desk slowly, and hold out Lillian’s hand.

  “Oh, Victoria,” he says, shaking his head. “I had hoped we were past this. This configuration is as close to perfect as I could hope.”

  I bite my tongue. Victoria is not my name, simply a construct.

  I asked him once why he had done such a thing; he called me an ungrateful wretch and left his handprint on my cheek. I wonder if he even knows why. Perhaps the answer is so ugly he has buried it deep inside.

  Without another word, he leads me to the small operating theater, unlocks the door, and steps aside to let me enter first. The room smells of antiseptic and gauze, but it’s far better than the wet flesh reek of the large theater. My visual memories are vague, but the smell will not leave, no matter how hard I try to forget.

  I sit on the edge of the examination table without prompting. His face is grim, studied, as he inspects the wrist, and even though his touch is gentle, I watch his eyes for signs of anger. I know the rot is not my fault, but innocence is no guard against rage.

  He makes a sound deep in his throat. Of sorrow? Condemnation?

  Lillian weeps, then begs, then prays. None of which will make any difference.

  The rot binds us to him as the stitches bind them to me. A prison, not of bars, but circumstance. I have entertained thoughts of the scissors and the thread, the undoing to set us free, but I have no wish to die again, and neither do the others. While not perfect, this existence is preferable. And what if we did not die? What if our pieces remained alive and sentient? A crueler fate I cannot imagine.

  He scrapes a bit of the rot away, revealing a darker patch beneath. When he lets out a heavy sigh, I note the absence of liquor on his breath.

  He busies himself with the necessary preparations, and Lillian begins to cry again. The others remain silent. He paints the wrist with an anesthetic, which surprises me. My tears have never stopped him from his work. I close my eyes and feel pressure. Hear the blades snipping through the stitches. Smell the foul scent of decay as it reaches out from beneath.

  He places the hand in a small metal tray, then coats the remaining flesh in an ointment that smells strongly of pine and wraps it in gauze.

  “We shall know in a few days.

  Diana’s worry is as strong as mine. Lillian tries to speak but cannot force the words through her sorrow and fear.

  When the anesthetic wears off, the skin gives a steady thump of pain from beneath the gauze and I do my best to ignore it.

  “At least it was only the one,” Grace says.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Lillian snaps.

  “What if it spreads?” Diana asks.

  Molly mutters something I cannot decipher, but it makes Lillian weep again.

  “Hush,” says Therese. “Remember Emily? She had reason to weep. You do not.”

  Sophie laughs. The sound is cruel. Hard.

  “Stop, please, all of you,” I finally say. “I need to sleep. To heal.”

  Heal is not the right term, perhaps remain would be better.

  “I’m sorry, Kimberly,” Lillian says softly.

  The sound of my real name hurts, but not as much as the false one. At least Kimberly is, was, real.

  The rest apologize as well, even Sophie, and fall silent. I toss and turn beneath the blankets and eventually slip from my bed. The others say nothing when I open the small door hidden behind a tapestry on the wall. The passageway is narrow and dusty, and spiders scurry out of my way; it travels around the east wing of the house—the only part of the house where I’m allowed—then leads to the central part, the main house. There are small covered holes here and there that open to various rooms, to carpets my feet will never touch and sofas I will never recline upon. The passageway also goes to the west wing of the house, but the rooms are unused and the furniture nothing more than cloth-covered shapes in the darkness. The only doors I have found lead to bedrooms—mine, his, and one other designed for guests, although we never have guests stay—and one near the music room.

  There is, as always, a race in the heartbeat, a dryness to the mouth, when I creep from the passage and make my way to the servants’ entrance. The air outside is cold enough to take my breath away as I follow the narrow path that leads to the gate in the outer wall. There is another path that leads down the hill and into the town, but the gate is locked.

  I pretend that one day I will walk through the gate and down that path. Leave this house behind; leave him behind for good. But if I ran away and the rot returned, who would fix me? The rot would not stop until it consumed me whole.

  I know this for truth because he left it alone the first time to see what would happen, and the rot crept its way up until he had no choice but to remove the entire arm. Her name was Rachael, and he removed both arms so he could then attach a matching set.

  Most of the windows in the town are dark. The church’s steeple ri
ses high, a glint of moonlight on the spire. I have heard the servants talk about the market, the church. Beyond the town, a road winds around a bend and disappears from sight.

  My parents’ farm is half a day’s travel from the town by horse and carriage. It would be a long, difficult walk but not impossible. I wonder if Peter, my eldest brother, has asked for Ginny’s hand in marriage yet. I wonder if Tom, younger than I by ten months, has stopped growing (when I fell ill, he already towered over all of us). I wonder if my mother still sings as she churns butter. And my father . . . the last thing I remember are the tears in his eyes. I hope he has found a way to smile again; I wish I could see them all once more, even if only from a distance.

  I wait for someone to speak, to mention escape and freedom, but they remain silent. After a time, I return to my bed and press my hand to Molly’s chest. The heart belongs to someone else, someone not us. Sometimes I think I feel her presence, like a ghostly spirit in an old house, but she never speaks. Perhaps there is not enough of her here to have a voice. Perhaps she simply refuses to speak.

  I wish I knew her name.

  Although the stump shows no more signs of rot, he doesn’t replace Lillian’s hand. It makes dressing difficult at best, but I manage.

  After supper, when all the servants have gone, I join him in the music room. I sing the songs he has taught me. Melodies which were strange and awkward at first now flow with ease; foreign words that fumbled on my tongue now taste of familiarity.

  He accompanies me on the piano he says belonged to his mother. Only two songs tonight, and after the second, he waves his hand in dismissal, and I notice the red in his eyes and the tremble in his fingers. Perhaps he is worried about the party.

  When he comes to my room in the middle of the night, I hide my surprise. He usually doesn’t touch me unless I’m whole, but by now I know what is expected, so I raise my chemise and part Therese’s legs. When he kisses my neck, I pretend it belongs to someone else. Anyone else. The others whisper to me of nonsense as a distraction. Thankfully, he doesn’t take long.