“Powerful…I love it… Richard Chizmar writes clean, no-nonsense prose…sets his tales in no-nonsense, middle class neighborhoods I can relate to…and writes terrific stories served with a very large slice of Disquiet Pie.”
— Stephen King
“Chizmar’s stories are hard-hitting, spooky, suspenseful, poignant, harrowing, heartbreaking and most of all very well-written. Excellent work!”
— Robert McCammon
“Like Ray Bradbury, Richard Chizmar has a sweet, nostalgic streak. The past in his stories is always a warm, perfect place. The present, however, belongs more to Robert Bloch, as wonder gives way to horror. The twists are worthy of the old Twilight Zone. Enjoy.”
— Stewart O’Nan
“It’s an idyllic little world Richard Chizmar has created. Boys fish in the shallows of a winding creek. A father tosses a baseball with his young son in the fading light of a summer day. There’s the smell of fresh-cut grass. And then, well…just beneath the surface? There are those missing pets whose collars turn up in a shoebox. Or the disturbing photos the dead can leave behind. Or the terrible thing you might find yourself doing when a long lost brother suddenly returns, demanding money. Chizmar does a tremendous job of peeling back his world’s shiny layers, revealing the rot that lies underneath. His stories feel like so many teeth: short and sharp and ready to draw blood.”
— Scott Smith
“Richard Chizmar’s voice is authentic and powerful, and the stories he tells in A Long December are a joy, by turns dark and darkly funny, always compelling, always evocative. He hooks you fast and his words will linger in your mind long after you’ve finished reading, the mark of a special talent.”
—Michael Koryta
“Exceptional stories that lay our hearts, lives and fears bare with brutal, beautiful economy.”
—Michael Marshall Smith
“Richard Chizmar’s talent is a fierce, poignant marvel. His exquisite stories shatter.”
—Richard Christian Matheson
“Richard Chizmar is the kind of writer I love—his prose is sharp, simple, and to the point. He grabs your attention in the first paragraph, and never lets go, and, even better, his writing never gets in the way of his story. It flows so smoothly it’s as if you’re experiencing it rather than reading it. Another writer told me years ago that whenever he wrote what he thought was a showstopper of a sentence or paragraph, he would stop writing, admire his work, then immediately cut it. ‘The last thing you want the reader to do is stop to admire the writing,’ he said. ‘All that does is pull them out of the story you’re trying to tell.’ This, of course, is not advice you’ll ever hear from MFA writing programs, but for those of us battling in the trenches every day, it was great advice. Chizmar is a master of this form, and hats off to him!”
—John Saul
“A wonderful, masterful collection—terrifying stories full of heart and soul…and darkness. Sure to please even the most jaded reader.”
—Brian Keene
“Chilling and thought-provoking tales that quietly uncover horror in the most ordinary of lives.”
—Kelley Armstrong
“Richard Chizmar has a very special talent for creating a homely, believable world—the kind of world that you and I live in every day. But he gradually invests that world with a creeping sense of unease, and then he throws open those suburban front doors and brings us face to face with all the unthinkable horrors that have been hiding behind them.”
—Graham Masterton
“…a highly talented dark suspense writer with a wide range of subject matter and a knack for clear, straightforward, but evocative prose that may remind you of Stephen King, Dean Koontz and Ed Gorman.”
— Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
“Richard Chizmar is a master delineator of two phenomena—the human condition and the inhuman condition. Some of his people may be monsters, but Chizmar has the rare talent to make you see his monsters as people. His work eloquently and expertly expands the dimensions of the genre…and should concern anyone interested in exceptional writing talent.”
— Robert Bloch
“…a writer of great accomplishment. His work, always effective, is notable for its clarity and originality of concept. Chizmar has a great gift for the sinister.”
— Peter Straub
“Richard Chizmar will soon distinguish himself as a major writer of American suspense fiction.”
— Ed Gorman
“Richard Chizmar is the kind of writer who gives the genre of dark fiction the dignity it deserves. He is not only a superb writer, but a seductive storyteller as well. He dangles hidden secrets in front of our faces, and then dares us not to follow him as he pulls away. We do follow, we have to follow. With vivid characters, confident prose, dialogue so realistic that the pages nearly speak it aloud, and carefully constructed plots, Chizmar makes us follow those hidden secrets he dangles before us, just out of reach, and at the end of the journey, we are always amply rewarded.”
—Ray Garton
………………………
About the title novella, A Long December…
“A fresh, compelling take on the serial killer theme. Suspenseful, well structured, expertly characterized.”
—Bill Pronzini
A Long December Copyright © 2016
by Richard Chizmar.
All rights reserved.
Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2016
by Edward Miller.
All rights reserved.
Print version interior design Copyright © 2016
by Desert Isle Design, LLC.
All rights reserved.
Individual copyright information can be found in Copyright Info.
Electronic Edition
ISBN
978-1-59606-794-3
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
subterraneanpress.com
For Kara,
who saved me.
Table of Contents
Blood Brothers
The Man with X-Ray Eyes
The Box
Heroes
Ditch Treasures
The Silence of Sorrow
After the Bombs
Last Words
Night Call
The Lake is Life
The Good Old Days
Grand Finale
The Artist
Family Ties
Mister Parker
Monsters
Like Father, Like Son
The Tower
Brothers
Cemetery Dance
Blue
A Crime of Passion
Homesick
Devil’s Night
Bride of Frankenstein: A Love Story
The Season of Giving
A Capital Cat Crime
The Sinner King
A Season of Change
Midnight Promises
The Night Shift
Only the Strong Survive
The Interview
The Poetry of Life
A Long December
Story Notes
“When you light a candle, you also cast a shadow.”
—Ursula K. Le Guin
………………………
“Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.”
—Mark Twain
………………………
“Time takes it all whether you want it to or not, time takes it all. Time bears it away, and in the end there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again.”
—Stephen King
Blood Brothers
ONE
> I grabbed the phone on the second ring and cleared my throat, but before I could wake up my mouth enough to speak, there came a man’s voice: “Hank?”
“Uh, huh.”
“It’s me…Bill.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I jerked upright in the bed, head dizzy, feet kicking at a tangle of blankets.
“Jesus, Billy, I didn’t recog—”
“I know, I know…it’s been a long time.”
We both knew the harsh truth of that simple statement and we let the next thirty seconds pass in silence. Finally I took a deep breath and said, “So I guess you’re out, huh? They let you out early.”
I listened as he took a deep breath of his own. Then another. When he finally spoke, he sounded scared: “Hank, listen…I’m in some trouble. I need you to—”
“Jesus Christ, Billy! You busted out, didn’t you? You fucking-a busted out!”
My voice was louder now, almost hysterical, and Sarah lifted her head from the pillow and mumbled, “What’s wrong? Who is it, honey?”
I moved the phone away from my face and whispered, “It’s no one, sweetheart. Go back to sleep. I’ll tell you in the morning.”
She sighed in the darkness and rested her head back on the pillow.
“Hey, you still there? Dammit, Hank, don’t hang up!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” I said.
“I really need your help, big brother. You know I never woulda called if—”
“Where are you?”
“Close…real close.”
“Jesus.”
“Can you come?”
“Jesus, Billy. What am I gonna tell Sarah?”
“Tell her it’s work. Tell her it’s an old friend. Hell, I don’t know, tell her whatever you have to.”
“Where?”
“The old wooden bridge at Hanson Creek.”
“When?”
“As soon as you can get there.”
I looked at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock—5:37.
“I can be there by six-fifteen.”
The line went dead.
TWO
I slipped the phone back onto its cradle and just sat there for a couple of minutes, rubbing my temple with the palm of my hand. It was a habit I’d picked up from my father, and it was a good thing Sarah was still sleeping; she hated when I did it, said it made me look like a tired old man.
She was like that, always telling me to stay positive, to keep my chin up, not to let life beat me down so much. She was one in a million, that’s for damn sure. A hundred smiles a day and not one of them halfway or phony.
Sitting there in the darkness, thinking of her that way, I surprised myself and managed something that almost resembled a smile.
But the thought went away and I closed my eyes and it seemed like a very long time was passing, me just sitting there in the bed like a child afraid of the dark or the boogeyman hiding in the bottom of the closet. Suddenly—and after all this time—there I was thinking so many of the same old thoughts. Anger, frustration, guilt, fear—all of it rushing back at me in a tornado of red-hot emotion…
So I just sat there and hugged myself and felt miserable and lost and lonely and it seemed like a very long time, but when I opened my eyes and looked up at the clock, I saw that not even five minutes had passed.
I dressed quietly in the cold darkness. Back in the far corner of the bedroom. I didn’t dare risk opening the dresser drawers and waking Sarah, so I slipped on a pair of wrinkled jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt from the dirty laundry hamper. The shirt smelled faintly of gasoline and sweat.
After checking on Sarah, I tiptoed down the hallway and poked my head into the girls’ room for a quick peek, then went downstairs. I washed my face in the guest bathroom and did my business but didn’t flush. For just a second, I thought about coffee—something to help clear my head—but decided against it. Too much hassle. Not enough time.
After several minutes of breathless searching, I found the car keys on the kitchen counter. I slipped on a jacket and headed for the garage.
Upstairs, in the bedroom, Sarah rolled over and began lightly snoring. The alarm clock read 5:49.
THREE
He saved my life once. A long time ago, back when we were kids.
It was a hot July afternoon—ninety-six in the shade and not a breeze in sight. It happened no more than thirty yards downstream from the old Hanson Bridge, just past the cluster of big weeping willow trees. One minute I was splashing and laughing and fooling around, and the next I was clawing at the muddy creek bottom six, seven feet below the surface. It was the mother of all stomach cramps; the kind your parents always warned you about but you never really believe existed. Hell, when you’re a kid, the old “stomach cramp warning” falls into the same dubious category as “never fool around with a rusty nail” and “don’t play outside in the rain.” To adults, these matters make perfect sense, but to a kid…well, you know what I’m talking about.
Anyway, by the time Billy pulled me to the surface and dragged me ashore, my ears had started to ring something awful and the hell with seeing stars, I was seeing entire solar systems. So, Billy put me over his shoulder and carried me a half-mile into town and Dad had to leave the plant three hours early on a Monday just to pick me up at the Emergency Room.
I survived the day, more embarrassed than anything, and Billy was a reluctant hero, not only in our family but all throughout the neighborhood. Old widow Fletcher across the street even baked a chocolate cake to celebrate the occasion with Billy’s name written out in bright pink icing.
I was thirteen, Billy twelve, when all this happened.
Like I said, it was a long time ago, but the whole thing makes for a pretty good story, and I’ve told it at least a hundred times. In fact, it’s the one thing I always tell people when the inevitable moment finally arrives and they say, “Jeez, Hank, I didn’t know you had a brother.”
I hear those words and I just smile and shrug my shoulders as if to say, “Oh, well, sorry I never mentioned it,” and then I slip right into the story.
This usually happens at social gatherings—holiday work parties, neighborhood cook-outs, that sort of thing. Someone from the old neighborhood shows up and mentions Billy’s name, asks what he’s been up to, and another person overhears the conversation.
And then the questions:
“What’s your brother’s name? Does he live around here? What’s he do for a living? Why haven’t you mentioned him before, Hank?”
Happens two, three times a year. And when it does I just grin my stupid grin and tell the drowning story one more time…and then I make my escape before they can ask any more questions. “Excuse me, folks, I have to use the restroom.” Or “Hey, isn’t that Fred Matthews over there by the pool? Fred, wait up. I’ve been meaning to ask you…”
It works every time.
Billy was just a year behind me, but you never would’ve guessed it growing up. He looked much younger; two, maybe even three years. He was short for his age and thin. Real thin. Dad always used to say—and at the time we could never figure out just what the hell he was talking about—that Billy looked like a boy made out of wire. Little guy is tough as wire, he’d always say, and give Billy a proud smile and a punch on the shoulder.
Despite his physical size, Billy was fast and strong and agile and much more athletic than me. His total lack of fear and dogged determination made him a star; my lack of coordination made me a second-stringer. But we both had fun, and we stuck together for the three years we shared in high school. We played all the same sports—football in the fall, basketball in the winter, baseball in the spring.
Baseball. Now, that’s where Billy really shined. All-County second-base as a sophomore. All-County and All-State as a junior, and again as a senior.
A true-blue hometown hero by the time he was old enough to drive a car.
After graduation, I stayed in town and took business classes over at the junior college. Summer befo
re sophomore year, I found an apartment a few miles away from home. Got a part-time job at a local video store. Played a little softball on Thursday nights, some intramural flag football on the weekends. Stopped by and saw the folks two, three times a week. Ran around with a few girlfriends, but nothing serious or lasting. For me, not too much had changed.
Then, Billy graduated and went upstate to college on a baseball scholarship and everything seemed to change.
First, there was the suspension. Billy and three other teammates got caught cheating on a mid-term English exam and were placed on academic probation and suspended from the team.
Then, a few months later, in the spring, he was arrested at a local rock concert for possession of marijuana. It shouldn’t have been that big a deal, but at the time, he’d been carrying enough weed to warrant a charge for Intent to Distribute. Then, at the court trial, we discovered that this was his second offense and the university kindly asked him to clear out his dorm room and leave campus immediately. His scholarship was revoked.
He was lucky enough to receive a suspended sentence from the judge but instead of moving back home and finding a job—which is what Mom and Dad hoped he would do—Billy decided to stay close to campus and continue working at a local restaurant. He claimed he wanted to make amends with his baseball coach and try to re-enroll after the next semester if the university would allow him. So, he moved in with some friends and for a time it appeared as though he’d cleaned up his act. He kept out of trouble—at least as far as we (and his probation officer) could tell—and he stopped by on a regular basis to see Mom and Dad, and he even came by my place once or twice a month (although usually only when he needed to borrow a couple of bucks).
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