by Brian Hodge
“Due Date” was one of the first things I wrote after the birth of my wife’s and my first child. I don’t share Carver’s brooding frustration with fatherhood — I quite like it, as a matter of fact — but I do know the influence of which he writes. My kids have made me a better writer by making my life messier, noisier, richer, better… and sometimes scarier. “Due Date” is an expression of the latter, steeped in Carver’s powerful and poignant minimalism.
On “Mama”
Freud was right. I always knew this deep down in my bones, ever since I was a kid. In other words, there is a subconscious, and it is rooted in childhood trauma, and it is often the hidden puppeteer of all the whacky shit that we do. You see, I learned about Freudian psychoanalysis when I was about 11 years old, and it just sunk a hook into me. Imprinted me. Everything I thought about — and I mean everything — gradually, eventually, inexorably, led me back to the ideas first foisted on the world by Ol’ Sigmund. And I never even noticed the irony in the fact that I became a Freudian acolyte at approximately the same moment that I entered puberty. But that’s how the subconscious works. You don’t consciously notice any of this stuff. Until a shrink points it out. Anyway: I was delighted to read, in a recent Newsweek article, that neuro-scientists have virtually proven Freud’s theories by locating — via high tech scanning technology — the area of the brain where the subconscious actually lives. Take that, all you Skinnerian skeptics! Which, in a roundabout way, and maybe a Freudian way, leads us to this modest little yarn. “Mama” is an unapologetically Freudian police procedural. In fact, I tried to imbue it with so much Freudian behavioral detail that it would positively jump off the chart of genre tradition, and maybe start to prod at something original… or at least interesting. Of course, I had a hell of a time finding a market for this little mongrel. Thank God, Tina Jens is out there, moving and shaking and taking chances with her wonderful series of chapbooks, as well as her venerable reading series, Twilight Tales, at which I proudly count myself as a regular.
On “There’s Somebody Down Here Wants to Talk to You”
May I just say a few words about Stephen King? Stephen King will be remembered as a master storyteller – a populist literary figure alongside the likes of Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. Just wait.
You’ll see.
King is a product of our times – our paranoid, pulpy, lurid zeitgeist. But he is also a brilliant moralist. Which brings me to this story. Yes, I’m influenced greatly by Mr. King. And yes, when I was invited to write a “hit man” tale for an anthology edited by the mad, motor-mouthed master of bloody crime fiction, Joe Konrath, I was in a King-like mindset. I wanted to write a supernatural take on the hit man mythos. But I also wanted to write a moral tale. Something that picked the scab off the big lie that hit men are exciting, sexy, mysterious figures. And for my money, that’s what King does (a lot better than I, by the way): he disguises morality plays with horrific trappings. Just take a look at “The Stand”, ““The Body”, ““IT” or “The Green Mile.”
On “Glory Hand in the Soft City”
One of the grand poobahs of fiction anthologies — not to mention a grand master of the whole field of horror, thriller, and mystery writing — is a jovial, down-to-earth gentleman from Iowa named Ed Gorman. Although I only know Ed casually, I count him as a major influence and mentor. His stories and novels meld the hard boiled with the tender better than that of any other practitioner of this craft. Ed was one of the first A-list authors to champion my work… and although I’m biased, I think his short story “En Famile” is one of the best in the English language. Ed invited me to contribute a piece to a science fiction antho called Future Crime, and I jumped at the opportunity. I wanted to create a cyber-punk style story with heart, in honor of Ed’s legacy. I researched “Glory Hand in the Soft City” more rigorously than any other short story I’ve ever written. Mostly because I wanted to get the science right. During my research I came across a book called The Biotech Century by Jeremy Rifkin. It actually changed my life — or at least changed the way I look at the future. When you can patent life forms, and reinvent nature, you better step back and take a good look at your most deeply held beliefs. But another reason I did so much homework on this one is because it was for Ed. When you get invited to one of Ed’s parties, you don’t show up in cut-offs and high-tops. You wear a goddamn Armani tuxedo.
On “The Butcher’s Kingdom”
While Allan Pinkerton was inventing the modern private detective agency in Chicago in the mid-1800s, Edgar Allan Poe was in his late period, writing brilliant scientific treatises, such as “Eureka,” about the nature of the cosmos. My postulation that Poe and Pinkerton not only met, but also influenced each other and collaborated on criminal cases, is based mostly on the historical fact that Pinkerton was a big reader, and loved Dickens and Poe, and would have been a big fan of “Murders in the Rue Morgue.”
On “The Miniaturist”
I would like to say that I read H.P. Lovecraft at an early age and was deeply warped and influenced by him, but the truth of the matter is, I was influenced more by a cheesy Ace paperback cover for the Lovecraft novella AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS than any of the master’s work – a book which I actually stole from a B. Daltons in Peoria, Illinois, and was too lazy to actually even look at the text. But that cover! A creepy, cadaverous, green face staring out at me with worms extruding from holes all over its skull! It must have pressed a button in my greasy little pre-pubescent imagination — who knows what sends us on our trajectories in life – but I was hooked on horror from that moment on. I thumb-tacked lurid covers all over my bedroom and started actually reading some of the stories in these books. And I guess it all leads to works like ‘The Miniaturist’ – and I suppose you should blame that illustrator at Ace.
On “The True Cause of the Great Depression”
Over the last twenty-five years I have been fortunate enough to have many of my novels and stories translated into foreign languages. I remember sitting in a meeting at the Book Expo, a big booksellers convention similar to an upscale Amway meeting, sitting across the table from a pleasant, well dressed, Eastern European woman, who proceeded to look at me and say, “We are going to make you huge in Bulgaria.” I don’t know if this ever happened, but I have always had good luck with my works in places such as Germany. In fact, a couple of years back, one of my German editors asked me if I would like to write a Christmas story in the crime genre for an anthology being put together that year. Crime and Christmas? Seemed like just the kind of twisted recipe that I love to cook up. But something weirdly poignant happened along the way, and I guess that’s why this piece inhabits the final position. I like happy endings. Here’s hoping we have more of them.
Jay Bonansinga
Chicago, Illinois
UNTCIGAHUNK: THE COMPLETE LITTLE BROTHERS
By Rick Hautala
CONTENTS
An Introduction to Untcigahunk
Untcigahunk – The Novel
THE UNTCIGAHUNK MYTHS
Little Brother
Little Brother Speaks
Redman
Chysalis
Love on the Rocks
Deal with the Devils
The Birch Whistle
Oilman
AN INTRODUCTION TO UNTCIGAHUNK: The Complete Little Brothers
Parents don't love one child more than another. At least they shouldn't. Sure, some parents might understand or "get" one child more than another; some children are more difficult to raise; and parents no doubt love each child in different ways; but a parent's love is (or at least should be) unconditional.
The same applies to a writer's books.
I love every one of my books, of course, but you should by no means think that means I think any of them perfect. Far from it. But if I didn't love my books, I wouldn't have written them in the first place.
Once a book is finished, though, a writer can pause and look at it and see—like parents with their children—tha
t some aspects are just not quite right. Some books are easier to write while others are hell on wheels tough to get out onto the computer screen. But every book is imperfect in some way or other … sometimes in far too many ways.
Writers also, of course, are never fully satisfied with the finished book. No book I've ever written scratches the itch to my satisfaction. Otherwise, why bother to write another one?
That being said, I can state that Little Brothers and the short stories gathered here under the title Untcigahunk are special to me for a couple of reasons.
Although I am often asked (and usually irritated by) the question: "Where do you get your ideas?" I remember quite clearly when the initial idea for Little Brothers hit me. It wasn't exactly a stunning moment of overwhelming creative insight. It was more in reaction to a comment from my editor on my second novel, the atrociously named Moonbog.
Side note: After working on my second novel for more than a year, my editor didn't like that this book wasn't supernatural, as was my first novel, Moondeath. Why the "Moon" in the first two titles? All I'll say is, these weren't my working titles for those books. Those titles were foisted on me by my editor. The original titles were The Dark Brother for Moondeath, and simply The Bog for Moonbog. After having the title of my third novel, Nightstone, also forced on me against my strenuous objections—the original was The Menhir—I was determined to come up with a title for my fourth book that the editor wouldn't be able to change no matter how much she might want to. Hence, Little Brothers.
Anyway, while I was revising Moonbog, my editor kept asking me why I couldn't put, like, some creatures in the bog that were killing off the people of the town. If you've read Moonbog, you know that it's more of a mystery/thriller than a straight horror novel. When I saw the hideous cover art for the book, I was appalled. It was terrible. Ridiculous. Funny, even. My first reaction was that anyone who bought the book based on the cover art would be disappointed because the cover totally misrepresented the contents while anyone who might actually enjoy the story would never buy a book with such a cover. I saw this as a lose/lose proposition, but I was just starting out, and I had zero clout with the publisher.
Welcome to the world of publishing.
Moonbog it was, atrocious cover and all.
When my editor kept asking me to "insert" some creatures that hid in the woods and killed people, while I was fishing for an idea to follow up my third novel, Nightstone, I gravitated toward that suggestion. After doing a small amount of research into Native American myths and legends and a whole lot of "making stuff up to suit the story," I hit upon the idea of the Untcigahunk, the Micmac word for "little brother." I created forest creatures who, like locusts, emerge periodically from underground and wreak havoc.
I thought it was a cool idea at the time, and I obviously still like it. That's why later on I wrote these short stories. I kept getting ideas for new ways to deliver the depredations of these creatures. With "Witch House," I even concocted an "origins" story that is hinted at by the "cellar hole" in the novel. I was also working with comic book artists Steve Bissette and Michael Zulli, hoping to launch a Little Brothers graphic novel, but for a variety of reasons, that never came to pass.
Since writing Little Brothers, I've gravitated more toward ghost stories, which have always been a passion of mine. Starting with Night Stone and right through to Waiting, the novel I recently completed and hope will be published soon, I’ve enjoyed the eerie, spectral frisson of the ghost story. The bulk of my novels are more "supernatural" than "horror," if I can make such a distinction.
But I've always liked writing monster stories too, as Little Brothers and the later books Moonwalker (also not my original title, which was The Siege) and The Mountain King attest. They're a blast to write, and it's always a challenge to come up with something original.
I hope I don't sound too egotistical here when I say that I think the "little brothers" are unique. It never fails that when I do a book signing, at least one person—often several—will say that Little Brothers is their favorite novel of mine. Sometimes, that comment hurts because... well, the book was my fourth novel. I would like to think that, after writing something like thirty novels, some of my more recent books would hit the mark a bit better. But I was also always a proud parent, as it were.
I enjoyed writing this book, and now that it's the first of my "children" to see electronic publication, it's like the novel is the first of my children to go to graduate school for an advanced degree. I have always harbored the hopes that—someday—someone in Hollywood would read this book and want to make a movie of it. With the CGI effects filmmakers can pull off these days, it would make for one fun scare fest. Who knows?... Maybe it will happen.
In any event, I hope you enjoy the book and stories—either for the first time or for a second go-'round.
Beastly good wishes!
Rick Hautala
March 21, 2010
Westbrook, ME
UNTCIGAHUNK - THE NOVEL
PART ONE
JUNE 17 THROUGH JUNE 19
"Poika on poika vaikka kuinka sen rasvassa paistaa."
A Finnish expression which, loosely translated, means: "Boys will be boys no matter how long you fry them in fat."
CHAPTER ONE
"The Cellar Hole"
1
Kip Howard was lying on the couch, trying to keep his gaze from wandering out the window. Beyond the splashes of green leaves blowing gently by the window, he could see rafts of white clouds sliding smoothly along the horizon. Sunlight glinted from the wooden windowsill and caught spinning motes of dust.
This is getting to be too much like school, he thought as he shifted uncomfortably, me, wishing I was outside...not in here.
It was the middle of June. The last day of school was so close he could practically smell it; but this... the end of this wasn't in sight. Not this month... not this year... not ever, he was beginning to feel.
"So," the voice beside him said gently, "you said you had an 'okay' week. Do you want to tell me anything else about it?"
Kip shifted his head and took several seconds to look at Dr. Fielding. She sat with her left leg crossed over her right knee. Her gold Cross pen was poised over an open spiral-bound notebook, and she was looking at him over the large rims of her round glasses.
"Just okay," he answered. "Nothin' special."
The sun reflecting off the windowsill caught the blue silky fabric of her blouse and shattered into a dazzle of light. The color made him think of the sky just after the sun had set, but for some reason, that thought sent a chill through him.
"Have you been getting along any better with your brother?" Dr. Fielding asked. She was trying not to let it show, but Kip was pretty sure she was getting impatient. But why should she be the one getting impatient?... I'm the one who doesn't want to be here.
"Marty? He's an as—He's a jerk." Kip had been close to letting the word asshole slip out, but he'd caught himself. He wondered why, if Dr. Fielding was supposed to be helping him, he felt so uncomfortable about swearing in front of her.
"Has he done anything—this week? Anything that bothered you?"
Kip shrugged and shifted his gaze back out the window. He pondered how long it had been since he started coming here. This was the second June he'd been doing this, so it had been more than a year... well over a year. But last June was different. After everything that had happened, spending time with Dr. Fielding had been—well, if not new, at least exciting. Now, it just felt like a chore.
"If it's all the same to you," Kip said, "I'd just as soon cut this session short today. I think maybe I got a touch of spring fever or something."
He cleared his throat and started to shift to a sitting position, but Dr. Fielding's next question took his strength from him, and he sagged back.
"You're not hiding anything from me, now, are you, Kip?"
Kip shook his head... perhaps too vigorously. "Why would I do something like that?"
"Well... ho
w's school been going for you? Have you started to pull your grades up any?"
"Yeah... sure," Kip said edgily. "I guess I'm doing okay."
"Have you had any more nightmares?"
Again, Kip shook his head, answering honestly, "No. Not this past week, anyway."
"Look, Kip," Dr. Fielding said gently, but still, she held the pen poised over the paper. "I know you well enough to know when you're holding back on me. I certainly hope by now I have your confidence."
"You do... Really," Kip answered, but he didn't even try to mask the irritation he was feeling. He didn't like the way she could always do that—make him feel like he was made of glass or something; how she could read him so easily. At twelve years old, he was starting to think he was a little more complicated than that.
"So...?"
Kip sighed. The sunlight on the windowsill wavered, and he thought for a moment that the clouds floating by had turned to gray, threatening rain.
"It's my dad," Kip said, fighting the constriction in his throat. The sound of her writing made him think, strangely enough, of the scraping sound of a fly caught between two panes of glass.
"What about your dad?" Dr. Fielding asked.
"He's... umm." Kip swallowed, but the lump in his throat wouldn't go down. "He's thinking about starting to work on the house again."
"You mean the new house?"
"Um-hum." Kip nodded, suddenly conscious of the tension building in his shoulders. "The new one."
"How do you feel about that?"
