That's what stories, do. They help our species to survive.
With every new generation there's always an inventive, new way to feed our appetite for fiction.
So, imagine my delight when I heard about The Horror Zine.
Let me tell you about the e-zine.
Launched by Jeani Rector in 2009, this is a glorious online treasury of fiction, artwork, photographs, articles and poetry. With that first click of the mouse I saw that there was something special about The Horror Zine. Lavish color, photos, and illustrations blazed from the screen. Its very look proclaimed a fresh approach to online publishing.
The Horror Zine is divided into different departments. Each one features short stories, poetry, art, or non-fiction. Jeani Rector is a lady with vision. Shrewdly, she understands what horror fans enjoy. Jeani Rector ably ushers in artists, authors and poets for us to enjoy.
There is provocative artwork. Some subtly erotic, some disturbing, some eerie, and some just plain beautiful. All of it very, very good. And instead of simply displaying the artwork of talented individuals, The Horror Zine becomes a vehicle that can take us to the artist's website, or invites us to contact them. In this way, Jeani Rector's e-magazine acts as both an art gallery and a marketplace, where publishers and individuals might seek to commission original artwork that is stimulating and visually exciting.
The same applies to the fiction department. We step into the pages of new and gifted writers who create such remarkably unique and imaginative fiction that it stays with us long after we are finished reading. We can read the story; we learn something about the writer, then once more the door swings open for us to visit the authors' websites.
Besides the new writers, The Horror Zine also has a remarkable list of established authors: Graham Masterton, Melanie Tem, Ramsey Campbell, Piers Anthony, Scott Nicholson, Conrad Williams, Ronald Malfi, Cheryl Kaye Tardif, Elizabeth Massie and others, who have entrusted their work to the editor's decidedly capable hands.
A click of the mouse and we're conveyed to the poets: Joe R. Lansdale is among them. The Horror Zine poets create fluid and artistic lines well worthy of the time spent to savor them.
Elsewhere in the e-zine we find The Banners Page, a portal to other sites in keeping with The Horror Zine's morbid theme. "The Oddities in the News Page" features factual items culled from the newspapers: a medieval 'vampire' burial, plans to clone extinct animals, a 75-year-old mystery in Los Angeles that may or may not be related to Peter Pan, and the like. Anyone who has ever stepped into Ripley's Odditorium will love this. I know I do!
"The List of Zines Page" is devoted to an extensive directory of both print zines and e-zines that that are potential markets for the work of writers, poets, and artists. Best of all, "The List of Zines Page" is kept current and all of the links work.
"The Morbidly Fascinating Page" invites us to peek into some dark corners. Here we find pictures and articles - famous criminals of the past, haunted houses, ancient bodies preserved in bogs, shrunken heads, Victorian post-mortem photography, and an assembly of macabre curios and bizarre exhibits. There is a different subject every month to, well, morbidly fascinate us.
And The Horror Zine holds its contributors in heartwarmingly high esteem. My work features there. I contributed a short piece of fiction entitled The Pass. Working with Jeani is a happy experience. She took a great deal of care in ensuring The Pass was displayed attractively, smartly illustrated, and I was extremely gratified that the reader has the opportunity to find out about my latest novels. Believe me, this gladdens an author's heart. I'm sure other contributors to The Horror Zine have been and will be looked after superbly.
Just when this seems the point where I invite everyone to hurry over to The Horror Zine to immerse themselves in this groundbreaking creation, I holler "Wait!" Because Jeani isn't content to deliver a great online magazine. Jeani has also embarked on editing a very beautiful book.
I'm honored to be able to introduce to you the Jeani Rector-edited anthology here in your hands: What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine.
Maybe this book is in the form of paper and ink, or you might be reading it in an electronic format. Rest assured, however, that you are about to step into worlds of wonder where dreams and nightmares are waiting to steal into your heart.
Here you'll find the kind of artwork in book format that elevates The Horror Zine into something so special. Your editor has selected a fabulous array of stories, poetry, and artwork for this book.
Let me give you a little background about some of the contributors. Ramsey Campbell was encouraged in his writing by HP Lovecraft's friend, August Derleth, and has rightly gained a legendary status in the genre. Graham Masterton's skill as a writer shines from the page. Pick one of his stories and read the masterful dialogue aloud. You'll see what I mean.
Piers Anthony's novels have appeared many, many times in the New York Times bestseller lists. I've been fortunate to take part in a convention event with Melanie Tem, and found myself wishing I could make notes about her insights into the craft of the tale. Elizabeth Massie is a well-established writer of novels, short stories and radio plays, and has legions of fans.
A favorite movie of mine is Bubba Ho-Tep, which was inspired by a novella from the prolific and gifted Joe R. Lansdale. Here he turns his skillful hand to verse. Conrad Williams is carving a big name for himself in the horror world. His fans would agree; as does Peter Straub, who describes Conrad's work as "beautiful and blazing."
Scott Nicholson is the celebrated author of The Red Church. The latest in a long line of fine books by Scott is Drummer Boy. Cheryl Kaye Tardif is a versatile writer, and a rising talent of the Canadian book world. A talent destined for worldwide appreciation.
And then there's Ronald Malfi. Always a joy to read, Ronald Malfi's writing-style shines with a diamond-bright brilliance that always leaves me wanting more, much more.
Bentley Little is ferociously loyal to the horror genre. He has been rightly described by Stephen King as "a master of the macabre." In the last twenty years he has built up a dedicated following for his terrific supernatural fiction. Bentley Little's The Mailman is a personal favorite of mine and is wickedly entertaining fare.
Those are the established writing stars. Which make this book an essential must-buy in its own right. However, Jeani Rector hasn't forgotten the new authors. These new authors prove that The Horror Zine has a healthy appetite for writers who have a taste for the adventurous and the innovative.
Online, The Horror Zine attracts the best talent. The well-known, the soon-to-be-well-known. Jeani Rector deserves our applause for producing such a visually stimulating, enchanting and downright exciting website. Now those elements are enshrined here in What Fears Become. This wonderful anthology continues the important traditions of the first story-teller. That ancestor of ours that first spoke the words: "Once upon a time…"
Here is proof that humanity is still confidently exploring the world of imagination. And as we continue our voyage into the future we will always tell one another stories. After all, it truly is a matter of life and death.
Simon Clark
England
August 17, 2010
http://www.bbr-online.co.uk/nailed/
Abstract Green Houses
Ricardo Di Ceglia
FICTION
BAST
by Christian A. Larsen
The fluorescent light flickered like the minds of the residents. Sometimes it lit up the entire breadth and depth of the hallway, and sometimes—most times—it only interrupted the peace of the darkness.
"I hate this place," muttered Marty, counting off the room numbers. The patients, end-stage dementia sufferers and terminal cancer victims shambling past in flapping terrycloth robes, gave him the absolute willies. They looked like something out of a George Romero movie. He hated the smell worse, though—a mix of piss, disinfectant and ointment that made the nursing home stink like a giant litter box.
The wom
an at the nurse's station smiled when he walked past, but never looked up from her Sudoku game. In fact, the smile never reached her eyes. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked automatically, scrawling numbers in a grid without pausing for an answer. A fat black cat lifted its head from a porcelain bowl where it had fallen asleep. It followed Marty with its good eye. The other was sewn shut and made it look like it was winking at him.
Marty mumbled a perfunctory no thanks to the nurse and shuffled into his grandmother's room. The sun was a sinking tangerine and the lights were off, but he could hear her breathing raggedly—a faint snore repeating through her diminished frame.
"Grandma?" he asked and wondered why. He hadn't had a real conversation with her in weeks. Not since a couple of months after she checked into the home, since the beginning of her great inexplicable—but not totally unexpected—geriatric decline.
"Hubert? Is that you? It's too bright. I can't see."
"Grandma, it's me. Marty," he answered, drawing a chair closer to her bed. With the faint purple coming in through the windows, he could see the outline of her face like a silhouette portrait cut from black construction paper.
"They were having a party outside, Hubert."
"Who was?"
"The people in the white coats."
"The doctors? Where? Out in the hall?"
"No, the people in the white coats were having a party, Hubert. Don't you listen?"
Marty didn't know why he was bothering with the conversation, given that she thought he was his years-dead grandfather Hubert, but at least they were connecting, at least a little, and it might be for the last time too. At least he hoped it might be. "Where was the party?"
"Across the river," she sounded angry.
"Didn't they invite you?"
"No, they wouldn't stop inviting me!"
For a long time, he couldn't draw anything else intelligible out of her. She moaned and groaned about the cat trying to kill her, how she was afraid to swim, that she wasn't ready, and why did she have to go in the first place? Marty patted her hand. Her skin felt thin and loose, like it was ready to slide off of her bones in a pile, and it made him shiver. Willpower. Old-fashioned German bull-headed willpower. That was the only thing holding her together.
The doctors had said she had six months left in her, tops. That was thirteen months ago, and it beat Marty up every time he came back to see her, a little less there than the last time. But enough of her was left to fight that inevitable slide. How he wished that part of her was the first to go. He didn't mind seeing her bruised from the IV lines, or feeding her a cafeteria version of Thanksgiving dinner. What he minded was seeing her living through these nightmares like they were real, and waking up meant dying. Maybe she would be better off really dying.
Marty slumped back in the chair and watched the sunlight drain from the twilight. His grandmother was sleeping, or some variant of it, but he told her about his day, anyway. The mundanities, the trivialities about his job, how his wife was handling grad school courses—whatever came to his mind. It was reflexive. He didn't actually intend any of it. It merely came out as the room fell into nighttime, with only the flickering fluorescent trapezoid cut by the doorway casting any light.
Something brushed up against Marty's leg and he reached down in that momentary panic—where the small unknown seems life-threatening—and barely missed the fluff of the cat's tail. It sprang onto his grandmother's bed, settled between her feet, and looked at Marty with its single, slitted, radioactive eye.
"Shoo, puss. Go on, go," said Marty, waving his hands at the animal. It looked back at him with something akin to bemusement. "I said go!" he repeated, reaching for the cat. It hissed at him and bared its teeth. When it reared back, the light from the door caught a white splotch on its chest shaped like a swinging noose.
Marty settled back into his seat. It wasn't doing him any harm. Yet. But then it started to crawl up toward his grandmother's face, the blades of its shoulders pistoning higher than its sleek black head. Marty looked over his shoulder toward the nurse's station.
"Can someone come in here and get this cat?"
When he turned back, the cat had settled on his grandmother's chest, where it proceeded to lick its paws. There was a faint wheezing noise coming from the bed, like a broken motor or an air-hose leaking from a pinhole. The sound drew Marty forward, and for a couple of seconds, he thought it might be the cat purring, but it wasn't. The sound was coming from higher up, and then it shaped itself into words in his grandmother's voice.
"I c-c-can't breathe, Hube-b-b-bert-uhh."
"Grandma!" shouted Marty, reaching for the cat with both hands. It stood its ground and glowered at him with its one chartreuse eye. Marty tried to pick it up, but it seemed to weigh more than a thousand pounds. It let out a long purr that sounded like a burp.
Then the room went quiet.
"Grandma? Grandma?" whispered Marty, suddenly and surprisingly very afraid that she might be dead when just a few minutes before he had hoped as much. He took her hand in his and he patted it. It felt cold. He fumbled around her wrist and couldn't feel a pulse. "Nurse!"
"What's the problem, sir?" asked the nurse sleepily as she entered the room.
"My grandma's not breathing and I can't get this cat off her chest!"
As he was saying that, the cat jumped off the bed and padded past Marty with its tail sticking straight up, flashing its anus at him. In the oddly cast shadows, the animal looked bigger than a small dog. The nurse called the staff physician and he declared Marty's grandmother dead a few minutes later. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gustafson," the doctor offered.
"Doctor, there was a cat in here…"
"That's Bast, a shelter cat. She's a favorite around here. Named after the Egyptian cat goddess."
Marty didn't know why any of that was important when they should have been talking about his grandmother. "Why does that cat have the run of the place? That cat sat on my grandmother's chest."
"Bast snuggles up to people when she's feeling affectionate, and the residents seem to like her. She brings their spirits up."
"You didn't hear me. That cat, doctor, sat on my grandmother's chest and squeezed the air out of her."
"Now, Mr. Gustafson, I'll admit she's overfed, but old Bastie doesn't weigh more than twenty-five pounds, give or take. She doesn't weigh enough to do what you described. Besides, if you were so concerned, why didn't you just pick her up?"
"I tried. I couldn't move it."
"I understand," said the doctor. "Some people don't like cats. I'll talk to the director of the home about keeping the cat out of places she's not welcome. And again, I'm very sorry for your loss. We'll make the arrangements for you."
Marty felt like arguing, but let it go because of the offer of arrangements. Still, he felt like pointing out that he didn't have feelings about cats one way or the other—at least cats in general. But this Bast he didn't like at all, from its one-eyed glare to the noose on its chest, to the way it squashed the tidal breath out of his grandmother's dying body. Still, he was too numb to take it any further, so instead he worked with the home about the arrangements for his grandmother's body, and afterward, he walked back down the flickering hallway. Most of the residents were asleep this time, but Marty still had the willies for some reason.
"Well, Grandma, I guess you won't have to be afraid of being alone in the dark anymore," Marty said out loud, feeling like he was whistling past a cemetery. He signed out at the visitor's check-in, spun himself through the revolving door and out of that litter box smell.
But the outside didn't smell any better. Marty supposed it was either on his clothes or up both nostrils, and he'd have to shower when he got home. Hell, he needed a shower anyway, but it would have to wait until after he walked Freya. She was wagging her tail in the backseat. He waved at her with his free hand as he felt the door handle catch with the other.
It was in that last split second that she growled and bared her teeth, too late to be an effective warning.
He thought—as quickly as only such thoughts can be—how odd she looked, and then something hit him like the sweet spot of a baseball bat, right between the shoulder blades and knocked him down to the pavement.
The dog was going nuts inside the car, a million miles away. There was a terrible weight on his back and another noise, breathing just above his ear, the hissing of a cat. He felt it curl its claws between his shoulder blades and start to press the air out of his lungs, just like he'd watched it do to his grandmother, and he couldn't even gather the breath to shout for help. His eyesight was graying out, and the last thing he would ever see was his bald tires. I guess I didn't need that alignment after all, Marty thought.
Freya, though, tested the door with her weight and it gave. Marty heard her scramble out, her claws and jaws snapping and scrambling onto the pavement. Marty felt her weight on his legs and hips, but even for a dog her size, it was reassuring. The cat hissed and dug its claws deeper into Marty's back—this time a move not of predation, but of desperation. One cat paw moved off of Marty's back and Freya whimpered, drawing back. Marty's hopes went up in smoke. The cat got Freya. There goes my last chance.
But he was wrong again. Freya leaped back, snapped at Bast, got a hold of something, and pushed her weight against Marty's side, peeling the cat off of his back. Bast mewled pitifully, raked its claws across Marty's back, and then was gone. He managed to look up. Freya's teeth were red with cat blood, her lips curled in a feral snarl.
What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine Page 2
