The New Uncanny Read Online Free PDF Page B

with hair less neat and a gaunt quality reminiscent of the physical state I had embodied when the mould was made, the eyes were its greatest feature. Belonging to what had once been a bull terrier, both were former lab specimens, heavily diseased, preserved together for years in an old jar of formaldehyde. Several minor adjustments and refinements made by a past colleague, a long-dead teacher of science to whom my work had strangely appealed, had turned them into hard, bright, unique-looking decorations for Possum’s face. Deceptively cloudy until caught in the correct light, these two vaguely transparent orbs were the key to Possum’s success, and, despite patent similarities in our appearance, evidence of his own distinct personality.
    My most recent addition to his look, nevertheless, had proved extremely effective. Having attached coloured flypaper to the tongue, which, like the body, was canine in origin, over the previous summer the mouth had accrued a large cluster of dead insects that dropped abruptly into view whenever the puppet licked or swallowed, usually scattering one or two dried bluebottles into my spellbound and horrified audience. A tiny battery-powered mechanism in the concealed handle allowed me to control rudimentary facial movements, although I had never once bothered learning how to throw my voice. Possum’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare penetrated well enough during his sudden appearances, without the need of vocal embellishment. Only ever revealing him at points in my plays when his presence was a complete surprise, his unnerving silence merely served to exacerbate his subsequent chaotic behaviour. Whether I had him devouring other characters without warning, perhaps even my hero or heroine, bursting through concealed walls or destroying with unrestrained violence my neat but tedious endings, Possum’s soundless, sudden presence held sway over my young audiences like no other puppet I’d ever built. He was a rule unto himself, and now he was beginning to do things I couldn’t allow.
    I leaned closer toward the mirror, reflecting on my most recent performance, and watched the sinking sun darken Possum’s face with shadow. I observed how his head continued to stir subtly of its own accord as my body’s natural rhythms gradually made their way into his, and I tried in vain to freeze his movements. Then, before it was fully dark, I took Possum outside.
    There was no sign of frost, but the earth was suitably wet. I dropped him in the stagnant water tank behind the old shed, where he couldn’t get out, and threw mud and stones at him from my vantage point at the rim. I pulled faces at him until I could no longer see anything below me, then went back into the house. I considered waiting up for Christie’s return, but instead went straight to bed.

    I awoke to find it beside me, the long tongue hanging out like a vulgar child’s. The head had been turned to face me in my sleep, and its eyes in the dawn light were a pale, milky yellow. As I sat up to scratch the tiny bites covering my legs and ankles, several dry houseflies dropped from the pillow onto my bed sheet. Later I found a dead wasp tucked inside my pyjama pocket. I pushed Possum to the floor, realising that his head had been wiped clean and his body scrubbed. Sensing that the parlour games had begun, I dressed quickly. I could hear Christie clattering about in the kitchen below, and I took the puppet with me when I went downstairs.
    ‘Good morning and thank you,’ I said, dumping Possum on the cluttered table. ‘Now please burn all your hard work.’
    Christie, moving slowly with the aid of a stick, handed me a mug of strong tea and the ancient biscuit tin.
    ‘Good morning,’ he said, smiling under his thick, nicotine-stained beard. ‘The head is expertly made.’
    ‘As are the legs,’ I said, sipping my drink. ‘A perfect job.’
    ‘You wired them in?’ he asked.
    I looked out at the garden. A huge bonfire had been piled