Primal
Fear
Also Available
By Brad J. Boucher
The Shoals
Diviner
11:11
Vessels
Curnow’s Crossing
Coming Soon
The Dead Hours
Readings from the Book of Pain
In the House of Sin
Primal Fear
Brad J. Boucher
Primal Fear
Brad J. Boucher
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First published as an eBook, August, 2013.
This new revised edition Copyright © 2015 Brad J. Boucher.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the Author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or by the Author.
ISBN-13: 978-1517208325
ISBN-10: 1517208327
Cover Layout and Design by Alyssa Boucher
Copyright © Brad J. Boucher. All Rights Reserved.
(Have questions for the author? Are you one of those people who enjoys offering feedback about something you loved or hated about the book? Then step right up to your favorite computer or communications device and feel free to contact the author at [email protected]. He’ll be happy to hear from you and, yes, he will reply. You can also visit his website, www.bradjboucher.com and you can find him on Facebook at Brad J. Boucher – A Writer’s Madhouse, where he hosts daily genre trivia and often shares free fiction. Thank you.)
They say you can’t become a successful writer
without doing a hell of a lot of reading, and I think that’s true.
And so this one is dedicated, with respect, gratitude
(and sometimes just open-jawed, wide-eyed awe),
to the writers who have
entertained, amazed, inspired, and influenced me throughout the years.
Ray Bradbury Edgar Allan Poe
Stephen King Joe R. Lansdale
Robert McCammon Elmore Leonard
Jerzy Kosinski Chuck Palahniuk
Brian Garfield Arthur C. Clarke
Tom Franklin George V. Higgins
Dennis Lehane Peter Benchley
Clive Barker William Peter Blatty
And, of course, the man to whom
every writer of horror and suspense
owes a giant debt,
Graham Masterton.
Author’s Note
Part One: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to
Primal Fear
I would like, if I may, to bend your ear with a few words about choosing a title: it’s a process that can be as easy as falling off a chair (or a ladder, if you’re into that sort of thing), or as difficult as doing your taxes at the bottom of a swimming pool (don’t ask). The right title can come along at the beginning of a new project and just demand to be used; it can inspire the work, bolster the plot, and even push the story in directions that might have remained unexplored had another title been chosen.
Sometimes a title can change halfway through, and sometimes (though I’ve only personally done it this way twice) the right one doesn’t come along until after the book or story has been completed. That’s what is known as the dreaded “untitled” project, and to tell you the truth, it never feels real the entire time you’re working on it.
Think about it: a person asks you what you’re working on. You tell them it’s a new book and you describe the plot in a few carefully crafted sentences, designed to set the hook and get them excited. Then they ask the question, the one you hoped they wouldn’t ask, but knew they would:
“What’s it called?”
You answer with the truth, because if you could have thought of a good title, you certainly would have done so by this point. “It’s untitled right now.”
“It’s what?”
“Untitled.”
Their eyes start to glaze over. “What’s that mean?”
“It means untitled. As in, there’s no title yet.”
Boredom is setting in. “You mean you couldn’t think of one.”
“No, no, that’s not it at all. It just means I haven’t chosen the right
one yet.”
But by this point, it’s too late. It’s over. Because any interest they may have had in your book or story or screenplay or recipe is gone. Completely. You might as well be talking about the proper scientific procedures for measuring the wear and tear on the bristles of a toothbrush. Your project no longer exists in this person’s eyes, because without a title, it is a non-thing. And that’s not meant to be insulting to the person who asked the question in the first place; it’s a sad fact of life. Nobody likes something that doesn’t have a title. Hell, I know I don’t.
When Quentin Tarantino announces that filming has begun on his new UNTITLED feature, I have to fight off a yawn, and my reaction is usually a feeling of: huh, well, tell me again when you know what you’re going to call it. But a few weeks later, when Tarantino says, yeah, it’s going to be called Kill Bill . . . well, then my reaction changes to: awesome, I’m there, when does it come out?
And the only thing I dislike more than hearing that someone else’s project is untitled, is working on a project of my own that is (yeah, you guessed it) untitled. It’s like having a baby and not choosing a name until the kid reaches high school. Or cruising out of Hampton Harbor for a day of fishing in a charter boat that’s never been named. Or sitting down at Las Olas with a freshly crafted burrito and scarfing it down without ever knowing its name. (What? Am I the only one who names my Las Olas burritos? Come on, people, they’re works of art.)
So, to get to the point, the book you’re about to read (if I ever shut the hell up) had to have a title when I started it, or it wouldn’t have moved much further than the prologue. And, because I’ve always loved the title of Tom Clancy’s on-the-brink-of-World-War-Three novel, Red Storm Rising, I decided to twist it to my horror-genre needs and named my project Dark Winds Rising. At the time, I thought it was cool and thought it worked pretty well, and . . . well, to be honest, I thought it was “good enough”. So that’s how I lived with the book while I was writing it, and that’s what I called the screenplay version when I wrote that later on, but truthfully, deep inside, I never really loved the title.
It never really made me want to hug it or take it out for a long romantic walk on the beach, and after a while, it started to sound stupid to me. Even worse, it started to sound purple. Know what I mean? And
not only purple, but purple velvet. I started to picture the book cover.
The words Dark Winds Rising would be printed in lavender velvet, with yellow flowers around it. An ancient sailing ship would be fighting a stormy sea, waves crashing over its bow, dark clouds pushing down from the skies. And at the helm of this ship, a shirtless Fabio-ish model would be clutching the wheel, his golden locks blowing in the wind, his steely gaze centered on that nameless, distant spot it always seems to be centered on. Beside him, a buxom woman in a tattered white, puffy blouse would be clinging to his arm, helpless, hopeless, her character dreadfully underdeveloped . . .
So you see my dilemma. In my eyes, it began to feel like the title of a romance novel. I kept writing. I had to. But I promised myself that if any of the familiar tropes of the romance novel started to pop up, if the title started to steer the book int
o areas of handsome farmhands or identical twins of different races born of two different mothers . . . well, then I would abandon the project completely.
And then something occurred to me, and another possible title popped up. The book has a running theme—which wasn’t apparent to me at first—of an ancient family bloodline and the responsibilities of being a part of that bloodline. So I deleted the title Dark Winds Rising (goodbye Fabio-ish dude) and typed in the title Bloodlines, and told myself I was very happy with the change. And the book liked it too. It was happier. It started getting easier to write. And that underlying theme of the family bloodline? The fact that the book was named after it actually helped me focus on it and develop it. The title was doing its job and helping to shape and improve the book. This was the title I’d been looking for. This was the perfect name for the story I wanted to tell. This was the title that I wanted to take out to dinner, and maybe even a movie later, as I long as I could keep it cheap and maybe not see it in 3-D.
I was in love.
But I was a fool. Whisper it with me, please, for emphasis: a fool.
Because when I finished the book, and when I was finally happy with it, the title started to cheat on me. It started popping up on the covers of books by other guys. It started to say subtle things about a short story I was working on and how it might be better off with that. And then I found out it had been the title of a really bad slasher movie from 2007, and to me, that was the last straw. I decided to kick Bloodlines
to the curb. Throw all its clothes and knick-knacks out onto the front
lawn and move on.
So I had a book I really liked, a completed manuscript that now only had one name that I could apply to it: UNTITLED.
What could I do? It felt like going to a high school reunion with just a picture of your cats in your wallet. How was I supposed to tell people about my new project, and generate excitement? “Hey, everybody! Come over here! Jump up and down and yank out your credit card and run out and please please please buy my new book, UNTITLED!!!!”
Yeah, that wasn’t going to work.
And then, a funny thing happened: to my immense surprise, I was asked to speak about my books at the Lane Memorial Library in Hampton. I felt honored and humbled and nervous and frightened, and extremely, extremely lucky, and then it occurred to me: not only could I speak about my previous books, I could also promote the new one. And since it was UNTITLED, I could do something about it at the author’s talk. And so I decided to have a contest to NAME MY NEXT BOOK! My daughter Alyssa designed and printed up flyers; Darrell Eifert, Head of Public Services at the Lane Library, was kind enough to post a blog about it on the library website.
And the entries started coming in. So many that I would never have to struggle for a title again in my life, no matter how many more books I might be blessed and lucky enough to write. But when the deadline came, I realized I had another problem: I had to choose one. I had to sit down and weigh every entry against the plot and figure out which fit best. Which would look best on the book cover? Which did I want to say 90,000 times as I talked the book up with everyone I met to try to get them interested in it? And most of all, which one could I live happily ever-after with?
The answer (and winning title) came from Dick Brochu, a Hampton resident and new fan: Primal Fear. It jumped out at me the first time I saw it, but still I dropped it into the file with all the other entries. I wanted to forget about it, to be fair and unbiased, and to consider each new entry without comparing it to that one. But it nagged at me. It spoke to me. And that, friends and readers (and I hope those two things are really one and the same) is what a good title does.
So, to drag a long story out to excruciating length, that became the title of the book that you’re (still) waiting to read.
Primal Fear.
Beautiful.
(Yeah, I know there’s a movie called Primal Fear, but at least it’s a good movie, so I’m not bothered at all about it.)
For his troubles, participation, and winning entry, Dick received a gift card to Las Olas (what did you name your burrito, Dick? Seriously, am I really the only one who does that?), my eternal gratitude, the focus of this special (and seemingly endless) Author’s Note, and—this is my favorite prize—I have named a character in the book after him. And, because his wife Mary was kind enough to be the first non-family member in my entire writing career to ever ask me for my autograph . . . well, maybe there might be a little surprise somewhere in the book for her as well. You never know.
Thank you to everyone who is taking the time to read this book. Thank you to everyone who entered the contest and submitted a title. Thank you to Darrell Eifert and the Lane Memorial Library staff for allowing me to speak in the Lane room and stage the contest in the first place (your support is more appreciated than you’ll ever know).
And thank you, Dick Brochu, for saving me from the scariest monster that any writer will ever have to face: the dreaded UNTITLED project.
On with the show. Oh. But wait . . .
Part Two: A Note About Proper Pronunciation
I know, I know.
Seriously? This guy is still talking? Where’s the damn book already?
(And you’re right, don’t worry. I know you are. But as I’ve said before, in previous, over-long Author’s Notes, look at it this way: all these words are bonus words. When you buy one of my books, you get all these freebies. These are like the Behind the Scenes extras on your favorite DVDs. And, come on, how many of your other favorite writers
take care of you this way, really? So sit back and relax and enjoy this
drivel. Maybe someday I’ll even find a way to include out-takes or gag reels in my future books . . .)
The book is coming, don’t worry, it really is. And so is Christmas. (And wouldn’t it be funny if you were actually reading this right before Christmas? That’d be wild.)
Okay, so here it is. Not really an Author’s Note at all, but a sort of pronunciation key for you. See, there are a ton of Eskimo Indian phrases and words in this book, the majority of which are made up and meaningless. Those are the ones you can just fly over and don’t need to pay any attention to. But a few of them are important, the ones you’ll be seeing over and over again and will need to pay attention to. You’ll need to know how to say them properly, if for no other reason than to make the book move along a bit more smoothly for you, without the roadblock of having to stumble over these strange, unwieldy words. Like that one. Unwieldy. Can’t believe I just used it, but it sure does describe what it means, doesn’t it?
Here are the important ones and how to say them (the italicized portion of each word is the syllable that should be stressed):
Tupilaq: (Too-Pill-Ack)
Wyh-heah Qui-Waq: (Y-Hee-Ah Key-Wah)
P’oh Tarhei: (Po Tar-Hey)
Mahuk: (Mah-Hook)
Jhe-rhatta: (Jey Rah-Tah)
Atae: (Ah-Tay)
Artaqua: (Ah-Tah-Kwah)
Jha Laman: (Jar-Lah-Mahn)
And that should just about do it. Are these words important to the plot of the book? Oh yeah, they sure are. Did I make them all up? Oh, yeah, I sure did. All except one, and that’s the first on the list. It’s actually a real legend, the one on which I based this book: The tupilaq.
Yeah, that word is real, and when I think about it . . . well, that just creeps me out . . .
Prologue
University of Montreal
Montreal, Canada
The image on the monitor screen flickered with static, but despite the poor quality of the recording, John Artaqua could still make out the old man’s features.
His right eye was the color of sour milk, its vision probably lost to cataracts many years before, and it remained sightlessly fixed upon the ceiling. His good eye flicked from side to side, as though in the throes of a dream, his withered hands clenching into tight fists upon the crisp white sheets that covered him. His mouth twitched, but nothing more than a whisper escaped his lips.
> Sweat beaded his forehead, coursing down the sides of his face, vanishing in the matted tangle of his snow-white hair. His emaciated body writhed on the bed, twisting from side to side. His lips moved again, forming words too soft to be overheard.
John reached out and turned up the volume. “I wish I could make out what he’s saying.” He watched the screen closely, trying to match up the faint mumbling with a familiar pattern in the movement of the old man’s lips. But the patient was too frail, his voice too weak, and John soon abandoned the tactic completely.
“Has he said anything you can understand? Anything at all?”
Just beside him, Dr. Morris shook his head. He’d brought the tape to John ten minutes earlier, but already he seemed to regret the decision. “Nothing. It’s like I told you on the phone. The only thing we’re sure of is the fact that he’s not speaking English.”
“So you haven’t communicated with him at all.”
“No. Not even basic sign language. During the day, we’re practically playing charades with him, but nothing seems to be getting through.”
John turned to face him, taking his eyes off the screen for the first time since he’d pushed the videotape into the player. He’d known Morris for almost a year, ever since the doctor had attended one of his lectures at the university’s public auditorium. Morris had taken quite an interest in the day’s topic, and had joined an informal discussion following the lecture. Since then, they’d been in contact several times, but not once could John remember the doctor seeming so unsure of himself.
Until now.
Morris had contacted him an hour before, asking for assistance concerning a new patient on his ward at the hospital. Even then he’d sounded confused, as though his own abilities to help the patient were suddenly in doubt.
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