by Lee Thomas
Like Light for Flies
stories by
Lee Thomas
with an introduction by
Sarah Langan
Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords.com
Copyright © 2013 Lee Thomas.
Introduction copyright © 2013 Sarah Langan.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in 2013 by Lethe Press, Inc.
118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018
www.lethepressbooks.com • [email protected]
isbn: 978-1-59021-026-0 / 1-59021-026-3
e-isbn: 978-1-59021-167-0
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
“Comfortable in Her Skin” © 2011, first appeared in Supernatural Noir / “The Butcher’s Block” is original to this volume / “Testify” © 2010, first appeared in Blood Splattered and Politically Incorrect / “The Dodd Contrivance” © 2011, first appeared in Swallowed by the Cracks / “Flicker” © 2010, first appeared in The Horror Library, Vol. 4 / “Inside Where It’s Warm” © 2010, first appeared in Dead Set / “Nothing Forgiven” © 2011, first appeared in Darkness on the Edge / “Fine in the Fire” is original to this volume / “The House by the Park” © 2011, first appeared in Tales from the Den / “Turtle” © 2008, first appeared in the January 2008 issue of Doorways Magazine / “Landfall ’35: A Prequel to Parish Damned” is original to this volume / “Tuesday” © 2008, first appeared in Bits of the Dead
Interior design: Alex Jeffers.
Interior illustrations: tanja_ru, iStockphoto.
Cover design and image: Matt Cresswell.
Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Thomas, Lee, 1965-
[Short stories. Selections]
Like light for flies : stories / by Lee Thomas ; with an introduction by Sarah Langan.
pages ; cm.
ISBN 978-1-59021-026-0 (pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-59021-167-0 (ebook)
I. Thomas, Lee, 1965- Comfortable in her skin. II. Title.
PS3620.H6317L55 2013
813’.6--dc23
2013005807
Advance praise for Like Light for Flies
“It’s only going to get worse, one of Lee Thomas’s characters tells another, in his bold new collection Like Light For Flies…and believe you me, it does. Yet Thomas writes so beautifully and immediately that he can make the most atrocious images seem not only familiar, but somehow welcoming. His is a world of dreadful pleasures and awful delights, wreathed in meat and muck, driven by odd desires. The characters in these tales are universally broken people, flawed in ways every reader will understand if not entirely sympathize with, and the fates they meet are often exactly as cruel as they are just. And again: nothing forgotten and nothing forgiven, reads the (slightly paraphrased) last line of one story, a quote that could well be Thomas’s motto, the overarching philosophical thread behind his work—since most readers will, indeed, find it hard to do either.”
—Gemma Files, author of the Hexslinger Series
“Lee Thomas’ expertly crafted Like Light for Flies is horror literature at its best: intense, gripping, and weirdly beautiful. These visceral and violent nightmares haunt and disturb, lingering long after the initial reading.”
—Jeff Mann, author of Desire and Devour
“Lee Thomas writes with an artist’s skill and a revolutionary’s heart. His prose entertains, cuts, inspires, and terrorizes. With Like Light for Flies, Thomas continues to prove himself as a master of his craft, planting a flag at the top of the horror genre and daring pretenders to climb to such heights.”
—Nate Southard, author of Down and Red Sky
“Lee Thomas is stylish, witty, erotic—and when he wants to be, utterly terrifying. These twelve stories occupy a modern open-plan house with James Purdy and George Romero as neighbours. They are rooted in genuine, carefully observed human dilemmas and conflicts—and then they take you inside, where the demons crawl and madness paints the scenery. Thomas knows how the lies we tell ourselves and the betrayals we live with can destroy us from within. He weaves beautiful, twisted fables from the raw materials of desire and loss. This book is a fridge stocked with twelve different flavours of ice-cream—each of them perfectly chilled, none of them vanilla.”
—Joel Lane, author of Where Furnaces Burn
“Thomas’s monsters aren’t unfathomable creatures from the great beyond; they’re people in power, driven by hate and desperation, given just enough supernatural resources so that they can win. He drops the reader into an uncanny place where the everyday, self-destructive psychology of the lost and miserable is bolstered by inhuman powers, and the terror comes as much from within as without.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Introduction by Sarah Langan
Comfortable in Her Skin
The Butcher’s Block
Testify
The Dodd Contrivance
Flicker
Inside Where It’s Warm
Nothing Forgiven
Fine in the Fire
The House by the Park
Turtle
Landfall ’35: A Prequel to Parish Damned
Tuesday
About the Author
Introduction
I’ve known Lee Thomas for more than a decade. He’s got this big brother vibe—at least toward me. I’d just started dating the man I would eventually marry during the World Horror Convention, 2005, in New York. Thomas was the first person to meet him, and immediately gave him a once-over, followed by an approving handshake. There’s a good reason everybody loves Thomas and I’m honored to be writing this introduction.
Thomas and I were in a critique group together back in 2004. The first time I read his stuff, I wondered if it was porn. Then I went home, and thought about it. Then I woke up thinking about it. It stuck in my head—this story. The people in it weren’t nice to each other. Married couples weren’t in love. Dads resented their children. Everybody screwed around. They were also kind of…screwy. Then, and some of you are familiar with this story—there was the nectar. The jerking off. The bees. Oh, boy.
By the time the critique group met up again, I’d read the story five times. I was dumbfounded. What should I say? My reaction was horror. Distress. How could he do this? How could he write such weird, terrible things? But by then I also understood the contrary: how could he not?
We are horror writers. Like ancient mariners, we go to dark places, and come back, compelled to tell our tales. It just so happens that Thomas has visited some really hellish worlds. Lucky for us.
I’ve long felt that Thomas’ work ought to be more widely read. It’s good enough in prose and originality that it deserves the reviews and awards—not just from the genre community, but from the wider literary community. The man’s a natural story-teller in the most classic sense: he understands plot, and how to draw a reader’s attention. He also knows how to end things with a bang. If he chose to write thrillers with alpha dog man characters, he’d be a best seller.
My guess is that it’s the subject matter that has kept him out of the mainstream. He doesn’t just write horror; about a third of his characters are gay. It’s a double whammy. Reading this, you might think I’m out of touch—that publishers don’t care. Trust me, they do. Even now, in 2013, mainstream hous
es don’t want gay main characters. Jesus, UPS won’t even donate to the boy scouts now that gays are allowed. There’s a lotta douches out there.
What further complicates it—Thomas’s characters aren’t refreshingly happy gay men. They don’t share fancy condos and egg/sperm donors. We’re not invited to witness their normalcy, and the kids are definitely not all right. No, these guys are veterans of a hate war. They’re haunted; afflicted by their place in society, as represented by monstrous machines and devils next door. What’s worse, in Thomas’ world, we’re all fucked up. The heteros, the kids, the little old ladies, and even the family pets. We’re flawed creatures, molded from a flawed God.
I suspect that the social barriers that make fiction like Thomas’ taboo will soon fall. There is room and demand for the stories he so lovingly fashions, even if the three big houses haven’t yet caught on. As readers we want the best of our fiction to pull us into new worlds. We want to sympathize with strangers. Here, Thomas succeeds every time.
In these twelve stunning stories from Like Light for Flies, you’ll see a wide range. From masochist-turned post-modern actress, to Lovecraftian send-up, to vampire origin tale, to hardboiled horror-crime a la Barker, it’s a genre soup full of memorable characters and wildly original plots. But the true thread that runs through them is that particular charm residing in Thomas himself.
Despite the darkness, there’s something about Thomas’s writing that is generous, smart, and above all, concerned. That’s where the big brother thing comes in. When I read about the monstrous couple who get their come-uppance for not helping a girl in distress, I can almost see Thomas frowning at the end, saying: I know. It’s horrible. I’m so sorry I had to tell you. But you did go looking, my dear.
Even if there’s no such thing as a happily ever after, and it turns out that the world beneath this one is darker than any of us had imagined, there’s a bright side, too. Thomas holds our hands through the awful truth, and imparts what wisdom he can. He’s not going to lie to us, but he is going to make sure we make it out okay, even if our friends on the page do not.
It’s this concern that lifts Thomas’s fiction above whatever label gets branded to it. It might even be the impetus for the stories. He tells them because they are his version of truth, and because his morality insists on it. Like the ancient mariner, he must. And how can we read something as brilliant as “Nothing Forgiven” and not be changed? How can we not look askance at the world after that?
There’s something disturbingly magical about Thomas’ duality—he wants to corrupt us, but he also wants us to become richer people for it. He’s a soul preacher. I have no idea where he gets these fascinating ideas. But I believe them.
In these pages, you’ll find some of the most original work of this decade. “Landfall ’35,” the excellent prequel to Parish Damned, concerns disposable veterans on the eve of a terrible storm. We’ve got a sweet couple falling in love in “The House by the Park,” but like all couples, they’ve got baggage. “The Dodd Contrivance” opens doors to new worlds, and we wonder whether the present world or the monster-filled one is worse. All are subtle, and smart, and eschew the obvious. The subject of “Testify” is a Christian leader forced from the closet. It’s easy to lampoon the side you’re not on, but harder to show all sides with compassion. That’s what Thomas does, because he can’t help it. Because it’s the truth of the story that matters to him, no matter where it takes us, or him.
I hope you enjoy these pages as much as I did. Until we meet again, Mr. Thomas.
—Sarah Langan, January, 2013
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I’d like to acknowledge the hard work and vision of Lethe Press, a publishing house that has sown its own field and made it bountiful—a rare and wonderful thing. My thanks to Steve, Toby, Kip, and Alex. Special thanks to Daulton for pulling this manuscript from the slush pile and greenlighting its publication.
Much love to Sarah Langan for taking the time to read this work and provide an ideal Foreword for the volume.
Thanks to Abby Frucht, Richard McCann, and Nate Southard, who endured early versions of a few of these stories.
Special thanks to Ellen Datlow, Vince Liaguno, Norman Prentiss, John Everson, Bill Breedlove, RJ Cavendar, Boyd Harris, Harrison Howe, and R. Jackson: editors who were kind enough to buy some of these stories the first time around.
For Steve Berman,
Unspeakable, unpredictable, and unequaled.
Comfortable in Her Skin
Sylvia Newman strolls along the boulevard. She is already late for her rendezvous with Louis Towne, but the delay is calculated. The nights she makes Louis wait are always the most exciting, so she takes her time, stopping at brightly lit shop windows along the street to peer in at the teasing displays. At Genevieve’s a glittering stream of diamonds pulls her to the glass like a magnet. The necklace is draped over a black velvet bust, and the clear gems twinkle like tiny stars. At their center is a perfect ruby the size of a postage stamp. Sylvia has never seen anything so beautiful in her life, and though Louis is rich, She knows he will never be diamonds-and-rubies generous with her. Besides, the shop owners in this part of town know Louis well. They also know his wife.
Leaving behind the beautiful gems, she continues to the corner. Sylvia spots Louis standing by his car under a street lamp across the intersection. His angry expression is emphasized by the shadows, and the sight of his frown sends a thrill through her. He will complain about being made to wait in a neighborhood where he is so well known. He’ll sulk over dinner and threaten to dump Sylvia on her ass for being such a pain in his, and when he fucks her, it will be brutal without a hint of tenderness, and Louis will think he’s punishing her. Sylvia is more than happy to allow him the illusion.
Louis stands up straight and throws his shoulders back when he sees her across the street. He is an odd looking man with chipmunk cheeks and a perpetual coffee-ground stubble covering them. His ears are abnormally small and stick away from his head. He is not repellent to look at but nearly so. For Sylvia, the attributes that make him attractive—his power and his money—sufficiently offset his passing resemblance to a rodent. Besides, he is a natty dresser always wearing crisp Italian suits, perfectly tailored to his stout form, so he looks sharp if not handsome.
When she reaches the corner, Sylvia lifts her hand to wave. Louis shoves his hands in the pocket of his slacks in a gesture meant to show his irritation.
Behind Louis, a tall, burly man, wearing a black woolen overcoat and a wide brimmed hat pulled low to hide his face, appears on the sidewalk. His stride is purposeful. With his left hand he draws a handgun from the pocket of his coat and swings it up in a smooth arc. Sylvia’s heart and lungs turn to ice water, and she opens her mouth to call a warning.
The muzzle of the gun flares. Then in unison with the crack of the pistol’s report, a hole appears in Louis’s face, producing a spray of brain and blood and teeth to shower the sidewalk before he collapses. The giant of a man leans down and puts another bullet in the head of Sylvia Newman’s lover.
Sylvia pivots on her toes and hurries back the way she came.
Sylvia did not attend Louis Towne’s funeral, but I did. Being Towne’s lawyer, I felt a professional obligation to say farewell to my client; the decision certainly had nothing to do with respect or affection for the man.
The service was held at St. Michael’s Cathedral, an institution to which Towne had donated considerably over the years. A Bishop presided over the ceremony, standing behind the altar and speaking exalted words above a polished mahogany coffin that contained the earthly remains of a base and violent man—a man I had come to see as evil in every possible way. The irony that the church should so laud such a monster seemed lost on the other mourners. Members of the congregation wept and held each other for comfort. Hard faces, streaked with tears, looked heavenward for answers. “Why?” a woman sobbed in the pew ahead of mine.
I too asked why. Why had it taken so lon
g for god to rid the world of this filth? At least they’d kept the coffin closed for the mass so I didn’t have to lay on eyes on him again.
Louis Towne had come to me fifteen years ago to hire my services. Despite ample clues—unheeded because of my naiveté and a certain level of professional denial—it took me a year to discover the nature of my client’s business, and I’d almost dropped him on the spot once I did. But the truth was Towne paid well. He paid on time. And Towne scared me. Part of the fear was rational; he was a gun-toting thug, whose curriculum vitae included maiming and murder and a hundred lesser crimes. In this he was not unique. More than likely, dozens of men who had acquired the same level of brutal experience occupied the cathedral’s pews, but his intimidation did not end with the obvious. There was another level to his threat, one which I could only call mystical. Even before he entered a room I would feel the air thicken, growing dense with his detestable presence. Sometimes in the middle of a conversation, Towne’s eyes would harden and he’d begin speaking phrases in Latin. Occasionally a familiar word would emerge from the babble, and though I could never put together exactly what he was saying, hearing him quote this dead language soon had the power to shrivel my skin into gooseflesh.
Ahead of me and to the left, a man with broad shoulders bowed his head, revealing a scarred nape. I wondered if he had carried his gun into the cathedral, and then I wondered how many murderers shared the room with me, and the mockery of god and his house settled in my gut like writhing worms.
