Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala
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GLIMPSES
THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF RICK HAUTALA
Print editions illustrated by award-winning artist Glenn Chadbourne
Cover Design by Andrew Smith
GLIMPSES
THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF RICK HAUTALA
Illustrated by Glenn Chadbourne
Cover Design by Andrew Smith
ISBN: 978-1-937128-99-9
This eBook edition published 2012 by Dark Regions Press as part of Dark Regions Digital. Just search “Dark regions Digital” to find the rest of our digital titles.
www.darkregions.com
Dark Regions Press
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© 2012 Rick Hautala
Premium signed print editions featuring eight interior illustrations and wrap-around cover artwork available at:
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Table of Contents
1. Schoolhouse*
2. Every Mothers' Son
3. Goblin Boy
4. The Hum*
5. Knocking
6. Toxic Shock
7. The Nephews*
8. A Good Day for Dragons
9. Blossoms in the Wind
10. Late Summer Shadows*
11. Burning Man Decapitated in Fatal Fall
12. Oilman
13. Iron Frog*
14. The Call
15. Black Iron
16. True Glass*
17. Scared Crows
18. The Back of My Hands
19. The Screaming Head*
20. Colt .24
21. The Compost Heap
22. Over the Top*
23. Voodoo Queen
24. Ghost Trap
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the memory of two dear friends
—Charlie Grant and Bill Relling—
Not a day goes by that I don’t send up a prayer for you both
I miss the stories you might have written, but not nearly as much as I miss you guys
INTRODUCTION
I had intended to write a brief “introduction” to each of these stories, maybe to explain why certain one were included and others were left out. Readers may (emphasis on the word may) be interested in how I came to write each story … where I got the ideas, how long they took to write, etc. Problem is, I realized that in too many cases, I couldn’t remember much about the actual composition of any particular story, and I found it a challenge to write about the stories without giving away at least a small part of the surprise and (I sincerely hope) the charm and pleasure of reading them.
A lofty goal I didn’t reach … so this brief introduction will have to suffice.
Here are a handful of stories that may (or may not) be my “best” (… so far, I might add.).I certainly intend , the Good Lord willin’, to write better ones in the future simply because I believe that the art and craft (not to mention the challenge) of writing is that it must remain fresh or else the “art” will die and the artists might as well die. .
Speaking of “art,” I could never consider this a story collection of mine without the incredible artwork of the amazing Glenn Chadbourne. Glenn gives me—and my readers—visions even I didn’t imagine when I was writing the damned things.
I hope you enjoy what we’ve collected herein. Most of them were fun to write. A few were painful. “Over the Top,” “Ghost Trap,” and “Blossoms in the Wind” were tough ones; whereas “A Good Day for Dragons.” “Burning Man Decapitated in Fatal Fall,” and “The Compost Heap” were great fun. “Schoolhouse,” “Iron Frog,” and “The Nephews” are more personal … maybe even a bit more autobiographical than, say, “The Call” or “Black Iron.” Maybe … And of course I have to say a huge “THANK YOU!” to Mike Mignola for giving me permission to play around in his Hellboy universe. Talk about a fun story to write—“Scared Crows” was a hoot, at least from my point of view.
Although I enjoy writing screenplays more than any other format, I consider myself primarily a novelist. I see my short stories as places where I can fool around a little—experiment with styles and ideas and voices I might use later in a novel. But for the most part, these stories were written for the sheer pleasure of trying to scare the be-Jezus out of the reader … Failing that, my goal has always been at the very least to unnerve the reader enough.
Are those honorable goals?
Well, I think so. Because late at night, when I’m lying in bed, unable to sleep because of the story ideas and fears and worries swirling around inside my head, I’ll be comforted, knowing that somewhere out there in the dark night, someone else is lying in bed, wide awake, either reading a story of mine or unable to sleep because they just finished reading one.
Whatever the case, I don’t feel quite so alone, so enjoy these “glimpses” into what lies beyond …
—Rick Hautala
June 12, 2012
Westbrook, ME
GLIMPSES: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala
Publishing History
(NOTE: stories marked by an * and in bold type have accompanying artwork)
*1. "Schoolhouse," published in Thunder's Shadow, August, 1995. (Originally collected in Bedbugs)
2. "Every Mothers' Son," originally published in Maine Impressions, Vol. 1, # 2, March 1987. (Originally collected in Occasional Demons)
3. “Goblin Boy,” Cemetery Dance # 64 “Special Halloween Issue,” 2010. (Collected here for the first time)
*4. “The Hum,” published in Man vs. Machine, edited by Marty Greenberg and John Helfers for DAW, 2007. (Collected here for the first time)
5. "Knocking," published in 1999, edited by Al Sarrantonio, published by Avon Books, September, 1999. (Originally collected in Occasional Demons)
6. "Toxic Shock," published in The Earth Strikes Back, edited by Rich Chizmar, published by Mark Ziesing, December, 1994. (Originally collected in Occasional Demons)
*7. “The Nephews,” published in Lighthouse Hauntings, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Down East Books, 2003. (Originally collected in Occasional Demons)
8. “A Good Day for Dragons,” published in Imaginary Friends, edited by John Marco and Martin Greenberg, DAW, 2008. (Collected here for the first time)
9. “Blossoms in the Wind,” published in Dark, Deadly Valley, edited by Mike Hefferan, 2007. (Collected here for the first time)
*10. "Late Summer Shadows," originally published in Maine, Vol. 1, # 1, September/October, 1989. (Originally collected in Bedbugs)
11. “Burning Man Decapitated in Fatal Fall,” published in Shroud Magazine # 4. (Collected here for the first time)
12. “Oilman,” published Occasional Demons CD Publications, 2009. (Originally collected in Occasional Demons)
*13. "Iron Frog," published in Murders for Mother, edited by Martin Greenberg, NAL, 1994. (Originally collected in Occasional Demons)
14. “The Call,” originally published in Occasional Demons, 2009.
15. “Black Iron,” published in Delirium 2, Delirium Books, 2007. (Collected here for the first time)
*16. “True Glass,” published in Shivers 5, edited by Rich Chizmar, CD Publications, 2009. (Collected here for the first time)
17. "Scared Crows," a HELLBOY story, written with Jim Connolly, in Hellboy: The Anthology, published by Dark Horse Publishing, January, 2000. (Originally collected in Occasional Demons)
18. "The Back of My Hands" published in More Phobias, edited by Webb, et. al, Pocket Books, 1995. (Originally collected in Bedbugs)
*19. “The Screaming Head,” in Sku
ll Full of Spurs, edited by Jason Boverg, published by Dark Highways Press, 2000. (Originally collected in Occasional Demons)
20. "Colt .24," originally published in Isaac Asimov's Magical Worlds of Fantasy #8: Devils, edited by Asimov, Isaac; Martin Greenberg, and Charles Waugh, NAL, 1987. (Originally collected in Bedbugs)
21. "The Compost Heap," originally published in Night World magazine, Vol.2 #2, edited by Erik Winter and Lyman Feero, Winter, 1991. (Originally collected in Occasional Demons)
*22. “Over the Top,” published in Armies of the Fantastic, an anthology edited by John Helfers and Marty Greenberg, DAW, 2007. (Originally collected in Occasional Demons)
23. "Voodoo Queen," originally published in The Overlook Connection edited by David Hinchberger, Summer, 1989. (Originally collected in Bedbugs)
24. “Ghost Trap,” in The New Dead, edited by Christopher Golden, St. Martin’s, January, 2010. (Collected here for the first time)
Schoolhouse
As soon as he saw the old Pingree School schoolhouse again, Pete Garvey knew that what had been bothering him all along had something to do with it.
No.
It had everything to do with it.
He'd come back home to Hilton, Maine, because his mother was in the hospital, following a serious heart attack. Fearful that she might die soon—and at eighty-one years old, that fear was entirely reasonable—she had asked her son to come home and settle her affairs for her before she passed.
Pete had been living in San Diego for the past fifteen years. He made every effort not to come back to Maine more than once every two or three years. For the first time since he had moved away, he finally dared to direct his afternoon walk down Story Street, past the Pingree School—his old grammar school.
Ever since he could remember, he hadn't felt comfortable even going near the old building. Today, he realized he probably should face it and try to figure out why, throughout his entire adult life, he had been bothered by recurring nightmares about the place.
The two-story brick building looked innocuous enough, sitting atop a low-crested rise with a thick screen of oak and pine trees behind it, like a stage backdrop. Beside the school, at the far end of the wide playing field, was an abandoned playground with a rusted swing set, jungle gym, and weed-choked sandbox. Deep divots in the turf beneath each swing and at the bottom of the slide marked the passing of uncountable children’s feet.
Ever since the town had built the new consolidated grammar school on Tarr's Lane, at the other end of town, the doors to the old Pingree School had been locked. The brick walls had been bleached pink by the hot summer sun. The pale yellow paint on the windowsills and door frames was cracked and powdery, like crumbling chalk. Several of the second story windows had fist-sized holes in them where some wise-ass kids had thrown rocks; but even where they weren't broken, the windows appeared to be somehow … spent— lifeless and dull, as though the glass no longer had the ability to reflect daylight. The only bright spots on the building were down around ground-level where local kids had spray-painted their initials, various obscenities, and the logos of their favorite rock bands.
The August afternoon was heavy with humidity as Pete and Cindy, his wife, started across the well-worn playground, heading toward the gentle slope. Heat waves rippled like water in the air, making the schoolhouse look like a mirage, hovering in the distance.
When they were about halfway across the playing field, Pete stumbled and then, catching his balance, stopped short in his tracks.
His body tensed as he stared up at the building, his jaw muscles clenching and unclenching. His breath came in short, panting hitches which he knew weren't because of the extra weight of carrying two-year-old Ryan, who was riding high on his back in a Snugglie.
No … Pete knew all too well that the icy tension winding up inside him was something he had experienced before— dozens, maybe hundreds of times before … in his dreams.
No … not dreams . . . nightmares!
"Shit," Pete whispered, biting his lower lip and shaking his head. He fought hard against the overpowering impression that the building was a dark, swelling wave, rising up and about to crash over him and sweep him helplessly away.
"Huh? Something the matter?"
Cindy looked at him with one dark eyebrow cocked.
Pete flicked a quick glance at her but immediately let his gaze shift back to the schoolhouse. He swallowed noisily. His right hand was clammy as he ran it across his forehead, smearing the sweat that had broken out on his brow.
"I—uh ... No. It's just the …”
His voice faded away to nothing as he shook his head tightly and took a shuddering breath. One side of Cindy's mouth twitched into a crooked half-smile that instantly melted.
"Oh yeah—” She nodded. "This is the schoolhouse you're always dreaming about, right?"
She glanced at the building and frowned, but after studying it for a moment, she smiled and said, "You know, in all the times we've come back here, I don't think I've ever even seen this place."
Pete grunted.
"That's because I make a point of never coming this way," he said.
As he spoke, his gaze kept shifting back and forth between his wife and the schoolhouse as though seeking something solid for his gaze to anchor onto.
Cindy carefully scanned the front of the building.
As far as she could see, there was nothing imposing or even remotely scary about it. In fact, having been born and raised in San Diego, she found the old schoolhouse to be rather cute, in a quaint, "New Englandy" sort of way.
But she recalled all too well those nights when her husband had awakened her with a strangled shout, and then lay there in bed, his body slick with sweat and trembling as he related to her the most recent variation of his recurring nightmare.
How can something as ordinary as this old building bother him so much? she thought, but she didn’t ask him.
"We don't have to walk this way to get back to your mom’s house, do we?" Smiling, she hooked her arm around his elbow. "Why not go back the way we came?"
"No."
Pete bit down on his lower lip and glanced over his left shoulder.
"It'd be too far to go all the way around Curtis Street. Besides, ole' Ryan here isn't gettin' any lighter. We can walk past it. No sweat. I mean—shit! What's the big deal, right?"
“Shit, shit, shit!" Ryan piped in as he kicked his feet and leaned forward, wiggling back and forth as he shouted close to his father's ear. "Daddy said shit!"
"Oh, yeah?" Cindy scowled at her son as she tweaked his nose. "Well, you'd just better watch your language, young man." She looked at Pete and added, "Doesn't make any difference to me either way. You're the one who's always talking about how weird this place makes you feel."
"It's just a stupid dream, for Christ's sake," Pete whispered, more to himself than to her.
Ignoring Ryan's echoing "Christsakes," Pete adjusted the backpack and, taking Cindy's hand, started walking toward the building.
They angled across the baseball field so they wouldn't have to pass too close to the school; but the closer they got, the stronger the image grew in Pete's mind that the dark, looming presence of the schoolhouse was an oncoming tidal wave. Cold rushes raced through him, making him cringe as he waited for the whole thing to come crashing down on top of him.
"You know what I think?" Cindy said in a low, controlled voice.
Pete looked at her, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
"I think you should go right up to the front door and have a look inside."
"Yeah … Right."
Pete laughed nervously and quickly looked away from her.
"I'm serious," Cindy said, a bit more forcefully. "I've always believed it's what we're afraid of—what we avoid— that's the worst. If we just turn and face our fears, more often than not we realize just how insignificant, how ridiculous they truly are."
"’More often than not,’" Pete echoed, aware of the trembling edge in his voic
e.
He sucked in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds.
"But not always. Look, I just don't like the place, all right? It gives me the willies. It's that simple."
Pete's grip on her hand was painfully tight.
"Sure. Okay. No sweat," Cindy said nonchalantly.
They kept moving toward the schoolhouse; but the closer they got, the slower Pete walked. Craning his neck back, he looked up at the tall, sunlit brick facade. A light breeze stirred the leaves of the large maple tree standing to one side of the school. Shadows danced and rippled like black water across the sidewalk and up onto the cracked and crumbling bricks. A cold clutching sensation gripped his chest, and he resisted a powerful impulse to break into a run to get away from there as fast as he could.
But he didn't.
Instead, he stopped short in his tracks.
He had to admit that Cindy's advice was probably right.
At the very least, he should take a look inside, if only to prove to himself that there was nothing to be afraid of in there. Facing a little apprehension now would certainly be well worth it if he would stop being tormented by his recurring nightmares.
"Umm … Maybe you're right," he said at last. "Maybe I should take a look inside … Just a quick peek."
He spoke so softly he wasn't sure if Cindy heard him or not. Turning to her, he said, "Why don't you take Ryan down to the playground for a bit while I take a look around?"
Cindy looked at him and scowled.
"I'll come with you, if you want," she said, but Pete shook his head.
"No. This is something I probably ought to face alone. Don'tcha think?"
Cindy shrugged, obviously trying not to make too big a thing of it either way. "Whatever you say."
"I wanna swing, Mommy! I wanna swing," Ryan shouted so close to Pete's ear it hurt. He started bouncing up and down in the backpack, and Pete almost lost his balance.
"Hold on, there, Tiger! Take it easy," Pete said, laughing tightly. "Hang on a minute so Mommy can get you."
"I wanna go now! I wanna go now!"
"Just a second," Pete said with a trace of desperation creeping into his voice.