by Del Howison
Praise for
DARK DELICACIES®
“The alliterative title hints at something unsettling: Dark Delicacies, a new anthology that can be described only as horrifying.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Howison and Gelb have plundered their Rolodexes to recruit a formidable lineup of horror’s top creative talents.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Howison was clearly successful in delivering his goal: a diverse assortment focused solely on ‘total horror.’ To illustrate the variety he chose to bookend the anthology with two vastly different luminaries—Ray Bradbury and Clive Barker.”
—Fangoria
“[A] dark gem … The original stories commissioned especially for this collection revel in the macabre.”
—Library Journal
“A good anthology, with impressive highs.” —Locus
“Vampires, zombies, werewolves, necromancers all get their due.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Like any good anthology, Dark Delicacies weaves all over—and through—the world of horror. Here you will find everything from ghosts, zombies, maniac killers, vampires, and more … The primary mission for Del and Jeff with their horror anthology is to make it genuinely horrifying. Several of the writers within push themselves to the task admirably … If you want variety in your horror anthology, then this is the book for you.”
—Feo Amante’s Horror Thriller
“Del and Jeff did a great job compiling the kind of work that is indicative of its author, while at the same time giving some new voices a chance to shine among the big boys. There should be no hesitation on your part as to whether or not to pick this up, but just in case there is, I’ll tell you now: Do it. Who knows how long it’ll take for another collection of this caliber to be put together.”
—DreadCentral.com
“An impressive lineup of authors.”
—Emerald City
“Using top-notch names in the horror field, you should take notice … stories so sinister that it nudges Dark Delicacies into must-have territory.”
—Bookgasm
DARK DELICACIES®
Publication history:
Carroll & Graf edition: 2005
Ace mass-market edition: September 2007
JABberwocky eBook edition: October 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
A complete list of copyrights can be found here.
DARK DELICACIES® is a registered trademark of Dark Delicacies.
Cover design by John Fisk
All rights reserved.
eISBN: 978-1-625672-90-2
Published by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
49 W. 45th Street, 12th Floor
New York, NY 10036
awfulagent.com/ebooks
To my wife, Sue, partner, and more importantly, friend; and to my three families—the one I inherited through blood, the one I chose through marriage, and the one I found in friendship.
This could never have happened without you.
—Del Howison
For my wife and son, who always encourage me to grow from strength to strength.
—Jeff Gelb
CONTENTS
FOREWORD, BACKWARD, UPSIDE DOWNWARD Richard Matheson
INTRODUCTION Jeff Gelb
THE REINCARNATE Ray Bradbury
BLACK MILL COVE Lisa Morton
KADDISH Whitley Strieber
THE SEER Robert Steven Rhine
THE FALL D. Lynn Smith
PART OF THE GAME F. Paul Wilson
THE BANDIT OF SANITY Roberta Lannes
MY THING FRIDAY Brian Lumley
OUT TWELVE-STEPPIN’, SUMMER OF AA Nancy Holder
BLOODY MARY MORNING John Farris
A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
THE ANNOUNCEMENT Ramsey Campbell
THE OUTERMOST BOROUGH Gahan Wilson
DARK DELICACIES OF THE DEAD Rick Pickman
DEPOMPA William F. Nolan
THE PYRE AND OTHERS David J. Schow
ALL MY BLOODY THINGS Steve Niles
THE DIVING GIRL Richard Laymon
HAECKEL’S TALE Clive Barker
BEFORE YOU LEAVE Del Howison
CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES
ALSO BY THE EDITORS
FOREWORD, BACKWARD, UPSIDE DOWNWARD
RICHARD MATHESON
WHEN DEL FIRST invited me to a book signing at his store, Dark Delicacies, my probable reaction was: Okay, another signing, another bookstore.
I was right about the first part—a pleasant experience meeting some of my readers, gratification at being praised by them—plus, to be crass, some additional royalty money.
I was completely wrong about my second guesstimation. Dark Delicacies is most definitely not just “another bookstore.” It is the most unique bookstore of its kind I have ever seen, a treasure trove of all those books whose dark delicacy makes them good-to-great-to-superb reading.
Plus hundreds of additional items that create within its walls a magical, mystical, provocative, and totally evocative environment—posters, photographs, objets noir-d’art, and gifts of all variety that possess a definitely, darkly, delicate fascination.
Not forgetting the thousands of volumes from the most current publication to classic fiction and nonfiction.
In brief, a delightful location wherein to amble, peruse, and enjoy. My God, even the bathroom has intriguing artwork on the walls!
Signing my books at Del’s store has always been rewarding. How he lets it be known that I—and all the other writers, artists, and filmmakers—will be present, pen (or Marks-O-Lot) in hand, I have no idea.
I do know that making a bookstore of such a limited nature succeed is damnably difficult, incredibly demanding. Del and his hardworking wife, Sue, have done it though and continue to do it, a decade from its inception.
In the past two years, I have been unable to appear at Dark Delicacies because of a back problem. Del has generously brought me books to sign and, on occasion, has even driven me from my home and, later, back to it so I can attend an occasional signing at their store.
All this remarkable dedication and skill has permeated this Dark Delicacies anthology. Buy it, read it, enjoy it, keep it, and cherish it. I know I will.
Richard Matheson
June 2005
DARK DELICACIES
AN INTRODUCTION
JEFF GELB
I’VE SPENT A fair amount of time around children; first with my own son, and more recently, with two nieces. One thing I’ve always noticed is that kids love to be scared. The caveat, of course, is that they want to laugh shortly thereafter! It appears that the instinct toward fear is genetic, but so is the instinct toward safety, which prompts the laughter later.
The question is obvious: What makes us crave a good fright? Surely life is full of enough things to frighten us, especially in a post-9/11 world. In fact, as a horror anthology editor for nearly twenty years now, I have wondered more than once since 9/11 whether there was still a place for horror stories in this twisted world. But writers have been as responsive as ever to requests for submissions to my books. The Hot Blood anthologies, edited
with lifelong pal Michael Garrett, are still selling to a coterie of dedicated fans (thank you very much). And certainly the success at the movies of everything from The Ring to The Grudge, from Dawn of the Dead to White Noise, and a laundry list of others, proves that people do indeed crave being scared. That is, so long as they can then step back into broad daylight and be reassured that the world is no worse than the one they left behind when they stepped into the theater.
In fact, it appears to me that therein lies the secret of horror stories: they allow us to experience a certain sort of mental orgasm, if you will; an opportunity for a release of some of the tension and stress that life pushes at us daily. In a good horror story, whether it’s on the printed page, in a movie theater, or on a TV screen, we can let loose the worst nightmares imaginable, follow them to the most horrifying extremes, and still come out safe on the other side. And whether in the story the good guys won or not, the viewer or reader wins by finishing the story, setting aside the entertainment, and then diving back into the world at large, relieved of some pressure he may not have even known was eating away at his insides.
As the coeditor of the Hot Blood series, I’ve often done book signings for Del Howison, who, along with his lovely wife, Sue, runs America’s only all-horror bookstore. For that matter, it may be the only all-horror bookstore in the world. One thing’s certain: It’s one of the coolest places in the planet for any fan of horror in its myriad media, from movies to comics to books to toys, and with tons in between. During one fateful signing, Del told me that he had the idea to brand Dark Delicacies in a whole new way, as a series of anthologies by many of the writers he’d hosted throughout the store’s decade-long existence. It sure made a world of sense to me. Who wouldn’t want to write a story for the fine folks who’d helped them sell so many books to so many fans over the years? And why not an anthology series named after the store, whose name defines horror to its dedicated clients and fans? Now, this sounded great!
I’ve had a ball compiling the Hot Blood books with Michael Garrett. But the opportunity to stretch my editorial wings with an anthology whose only theme was “write the best damn scary story you can think of” was of particular appeal to me. And our writers have done just that. Del and I are still unabashed horror fans, and I know I speak for him when I look at our list of writers and just have to say, “Wow!” From the grand master himself, Ray Bradbury, to Richard Matheson, from Clive Barker to the very last horror story by the much-missed Richard Laymon—and not slighting anyone in between—we think this may well be the most significant horror anthology in the past twenty-five years (and that includes my own books!). These stellar authors were asked to write a story that defined modern horror for them, and they came through like troupers.
One promise Del and I made was to pepper the “names” in Dark Delicacies with young writers, who make the pilgrimage to Del’s mecca regularly, buying printed inspirations and then spending evenings and weekends studying those works and honing their own dark craft. I’m confident that we have found folks whose names are destined to become as legendary as the people they share pages with.
All of this talent under one cover may lead you to wonder, “Who’s in volume two?” To which we just have to say slyly, “Come back in a year or two and you’ll find out!” Del and I have many friends in the horror field and we’ll be knocking on many more doors.
This is an anthology whose time has come. Dark Delicacies presents horror for a new generation, for the world in which we now live. And unlike that crazy world around us, Dark Delicacies gives you the opportunity to be scared and then to put the book down and feel better afterward!
We’re confident that you’ll enjoy Dark Delicacies, and invite you to contact us with your impressions. We hope you will watch for news of future volumes because we’re in this for the long haul. For, as long as kids love to be scared by playing boo, or teens flock to horror flicks, or older folks (like Del!) get a delicious shudder by the power of the word on a printed page, there’s room in this world for Dark Delicacies.
So why not indulge in a real treat that’s obviously also good for you: an all-new horror anthology from the very best in today’s horror authors, who have been invited to bring you into their nightmares.
Welcome aboard and come on along for the ride. We promise it’ll be scary, but we also promise you’ll be smiling when you close the book. Now honestly, can real life make a better offer?
DARK DELICACIES®
THE REINCARNATE
RAY BRADBURY
AFTER A WHILE you will get over being afraid. There’s nothing you can do, just be careful to walk at night. The sun is terrible; summer nights are no help. You must wait for cold weather. The first six months are your prime. In the seventh month the water will seep through with dissolution. In the eighth month your usefulness will fade. By the tenth month you’ll lie weeping the sorrow without tears, and you will know then that you will never move again.
But before that happens there is so much to be finished. Many likes and dislikes must be turned in your mind before your mind melts.
It is new to you. You are reborn. And your birthplace is silk-lined and smelling of tuberoses and linens, and there is no sound before your birth except the beating of the earth’s billion insect hearts. This place is wood and metal and satin, offering no sustenance, but only an implacable slot of close air, a pocket within the earth. There is only one way you can live, now. There must be an anger to slap you awake, to make you move. A desire, a want, a need. Then you quiver and rise to strike your head against satin-lined wood. Life calls you. You grow with it. You claw upward, slowly, and find ways to displace earth an inch at a time, and one night you crumble the darkness, the exit is complete, and you burst forth to see the stars.
Now you stand, letting the emotion burn you. You take a step, like a child, stagger, clutch for support—and find a marble slab. Beneath your fingers the carved story of your life is briefly told: Born—Died.
You are a stick of wood, trying to walk. You go outward from the land of monuments, into twilight streets, alone on the pale sidewalks.
You feel something is left undone. Some flower yet unseen somewhere you must see, some lake waiting for you to swim, some wine untouched. You are going somewhere, to finish whatever stays undone.
The streets have grown strange. You walk in a town you have never seen, a dream on the rim of a lake. You grow more certain of your walking, you go quite swiftly. Memory returns.
You know every lawn of this street, every place where asphalt bubbled from cement cracks in the oven weather. You know where the horses were tethered, sweating in the green spring at these iron waterfonts so long ago it is a fading mist in your brain. This cross street, where a light hangs like a bright spider spinning light across darkness. You escape its web into sycamore shadows. A picket fence sounds under your fingers. Here, as a child, you rushed by with a stick raising a machine-gun racket, laughing.
These houses, with the people and memories in them. The lemon odor of old Mrs. Hanlon who lived here, a lady with withered hands who gave you a withered lecture on trampling her petunias. Now she is completely withered like an ancient paper burned.
The street is quiet except for the sound of someone walking. You turn a corner and unexpectedly collide with a stranger.
You both stand back. For a moment, examining one another, you understand something about one another.
The stranger’s eyes are deep-seated fires. He is tall, thin, and wears a dark suit. There is a fiery whiteness in his cheekbones. He smiles. “You’re a new one,” he says.
You know then what he is. He is walking and “different,” like yourself.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asks.
“I have no time,” you say. “I am going somewhere. Step aside.”
He holds your elbow firmly. “Do you know what I am?” He bends close. “Do you not realize we are the same? We are as brothers.”
“I—I have no time.”
/>
“No,” he agrees, “nor have I, to waste.”
You brush past, but he walks with you. “I know where you’re going.”
“Yes?”
“Yes,” he says. “To some childhood place. Some river. Some house. Some memory. Some woman, perhaps. To some old friend’s bed. Oh, I know, I know everything about our kind. I know.” He nods at the passing light and dark.
“Do you?”
“That is always why we lost one’s walk. Strange, when you consider all the books written about ghosts and lost walkers, and never once did the authors of those worthy volumes touch the true secret of why we walk. But it’s always for—a memory, a friend, a woman, a house, a drink of wine, everything and anything connected with life and—LIVING!” He made a fist to hold the words tight. “Living! REAL living!”
Wordless, you increase your stride, but his whisper follows:
“You must join me later, friend. We will meet with the others, tonight, tomorrow, and all the nights until at last, we win!”
“Who are the others?”
“The dead. We join against”—a pause—“intolerance.”
“Intolerance?”
“We newly dead and newly interred are a minority, a persecuted minority. They make laws against us!”
You stop walking. “Minority?”
“Yes.” He grasps your arm. “Are we wanted? No! Feared! Driven like sheep into a quarry, screamed at, stoned, like the Jews. Wrong, I tell you, unfair!” He lifts his hands in a fury and strikes down. “Fair, fair, is it fair? Fair that we melt in our graves while the rest of the world sings, laughs, dances? Fair, is it fair, they love while we lie cold, that they touch while our hands become stone? No! I say down with them, down! Why should we die? Why not the others?”
“Maybe …”
“They slam the earth in our faces and carve a stone to weigh us, and shove flowers in an old tin and bury it. Once a year! Sometimes not that! Oh, how I hate the living. The fools. The damn fools! Dancing all night and loving, while we are abandoned. Is that right?”
