A Host of Shadows

by Harry Shannon

  A Host of Shadows

  by Harry Shannon

  Kindle Edition

  Dark Regions Press

  2010

  KINDLE EDITION

  Text © 2010 by Harry Shannon

  Cover Art © 2010 by Yossi Sasson

  This digital edition October 2010 © Dark Regions Press

  Joe Morey, publisher

  Norman L. Rubenstein, editor

  Cover and interior design:

  David G. Barnett/Fat Cat Graphic Design

  www.fatcatgraphicdesign.com

  Dark Regions Press

  PO Box 1264

  Colusa, CA 95932

  www.darkregions.com

  “Introduction” by Rick Hautala © 2010 Rick Huatala

  “Blood and Burning Straw” (first published in Cemetery Dance magazine) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “The Easy Way” (first published in Cemetery Dance magazine) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “A Handful of Dust” (first published in Hardluck Stories) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Lucky” (first published in Hardluck Stories) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “And the Worm Shall Feed” (first published in the anthology A Dark and Deadly Valley) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Jailbreak” (with Steven W. Booth) (first published in the anthology Dead Set) © 2010 Harry Shannon & Steven W. Booth

  “All the Dead Lie Down” (first published at Horror World) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Thus Was His Death” (first published at Horror World) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Violent Delights” (first published in the anthology The Fear Within) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Mobius Dick” (with M. Stephen Lukac) © 2010 Harry Shannon & M. Stephen Lukac

  “The Fever Called Living” (with dgk goldberg) (first published at Gothic.net) © 2010 Harry Shannon & dgk goldberg

  “Another Hell” © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “The Name of the Wicked” © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Night Nurse” (first published in Horror Drive-In) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Tokens” (first published in Bare Bones) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Darkness Comprehended” (with Gord Rollo) (first published in City Slab) © 2010 Harry Shannon & Gord Rollo

  “In Darkness, Screaming” (with Jack Fisher) ((first published in Horror Garage) © 2010 Harry Shannon & Jack Fisher

  “The Need for Illusion” (first published in Lennox Avenue) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Concrete Gods” (with Kealan Patrick Burke) (first published as a chapbook) © 2010 Harry Shannon & Kealan Patrick Burke

  “Blacktop” (first published in the anthology Tales from the Gorezone) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Some are Born to Endless Night” © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “The Place of Excrement” © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Araneida” (first published in Cemetery Dance) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “Suffer the Children” (first published in novella version in the anthology Brimstone Turnpike) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  “A Host of Shadows” (first published in the anthology Dark Delicacies 2: Fear) © 2010 Harry Shannon

  Table of Contents

  Introduction by Rick Hautala

  Blood and Burning Straw

  The Easy Way

  A Handful of Dust

  Lucky

  And the Worm Shall Feed

  Jailbreak

  All the Dead Lie Down

  Thus Was His Death

  Violent Delights

  Mobius Dick (with M. Stephen Lukac)

  The Fever Called Living (with dgk goldberg)

  Another Hell

  The Name of the Wicked

  Night Nurse

  Tokens

  Darkness Comprehended (with Gord Rollo)

  In Darkness, Screaming (with Jack Fisher)

  The Need for Illusion

  Concrete Gods (with Kealan Patrick Burke)

  Blacktop

  Some are Born to Endless Night

  The Place of Excrement

  Araneida

  Suffer the Children

  A Host of Shadows

  A Few Notes

  About the Author

  Excerpt from PAIN a novella by Harry Shannon

  Dark Regions Press Ad

  For my daughter Paige and my Godson Alex. I’m looking forward to reading their stories someday.

  “The individual has a host of shadows, all of whom resemble him and for the moment have an equal claim to authenticity.”

  —Soren Kierkegaard

  Two Kinds of Darkness

  By Rick Hautala

  While reading Harry Shannon’s collection, I realized something. Maybe it was something I knew all along, but I needed to be reminded, and it hit me hard and fast as I read these stories.

  There are two distinct kinds of darkness we “horror writers” write about.

  The first kind of darkness is the kind I (and a lot of other authors) explore. We have vivid imaginations to one degree or another, probably since childhood, that tend to focus on things on the dark, “spooky” side, and we “explore” this darkness with a sense of childlike wonder and shivery fun from the safety of our writing desks and reading chairs.

  It’s easy, and it’s relatively safe…I say “relatively” because if paranoia or some other psychological aberration gets tossed into the mix, then all bets are off.

  But there’s another kind of darkness—and it’s the one you’ll find here—which is the kind of darkness that can only be written about by someone who, for want of a better phrase, has been “in the shit”…someone who has lived in and struggled through and survived the darkness and all its attendant demons.

  This second kind of darkness is much more dangerous because the person writing it hasn’t just “imagined” it or “played with the ideas,” like so many of us writing and reading in the “horror field.” This second kind of darkness comes from a life experience of walking on—and maybe even, at least for a while, living on—the dark side of life.

  I won’t presume to guess what Harry Shannon’s demons are. He’s the psychological counselor, not me. I have no idea what he has seen and done and gone through in his life to gain the insights so obvious in these stories; but each and every story in this collection is a message, a report back from the front, if you will, to the rest of us who are safely cushioned in our cocoons of security and are willing to experience the second kind of darkness only from relative safety.

  Every story you will encounter in this collection—and I use the word “encounter” rather than “read” because you will do more than simply “read” these stories; they will come at you like the flash of chain lightning or the speed of an oncoming freight train—will take you to places you don’t encounter often in life…and survive. From the darkest alleys of LA to the eerie emptiness of the Nevada desert, you will meet people who have—for one reason or another—experienced the darkness inside themselves or around them…people who are trying mightily to work through it and survive.

  They don’t always win, but, hey, that’s life, isn’t it?

  Jung talked about how we must “eat our shadow” before it eats us, and that’s exactly what these stories demonstrate. You will meet characters who are fighting to be good even as they are feeling weak and driven by the darkness that threatens to consume them. In trying to “own” or “work through” their dark side, they are in peril of having that dark side—the second kind of darkness…their own shadow—overwhelm and consume them once and for all.

  And isn’t that what life really is, too?

  Come on.

  Admit it.

  We all (or at least most of us—I do believe there are genuinely evil people in this world) struggle to live good liv
es and keep the shadows at bay. And from the fragile bubble of our homes and our religion and our thin veneer of “sanity,” we all know the shadows are waiting for us even as we pretend they’re not there.

  It isn’t often you encounter a writer who doesn’t just “imagine” the dark things. I know Harry Shannon has seen them; he’s maybe even lived them; and he hopes he’s conquered them but knows they’re always lurking…waiting for him to succumb in a moment of weakness.

  He’s come back with the scars…and the stories.

  So don’t for one second think this is a “safe” book.

  It isn’t.

  You will get glimpses here into the darkest corners of humanity…glimpses that aren’t in any way comforting, much less “safe.”

  And here’s the best part:

  Harry Shannon’s stories do the two things I believe all writing must do to be successful. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: The best fiction has to be both surprising and inevitable. If it’s too surprising, the reader has no idea what the hell is going on. If it’s too inevitable, then the reader is dissatisfied because they “saw it coming.”

  Well, Harry Shannon’s stories are certainly both surprising and inevitable. They entertain and satisfy, and in some small way they may even make you grow as a person because of what they show you about the second type of darkness in the world, inside people…and inside yourself.

  This book is filled with wonderful, dark surprises. I would conclude with the salutation: “Enjoy,” but you will do more than “enjoy” this collection. You’ll see the darkest side of things that not many people have seen…and lived to tell the tale.

  Thank God, Harry Shannon has done both.

  —Rick Hautala

  Westbrook, Maine

  January 8, 2010

  Blood and Burning Straw

  It’s always the same: The low, thumping twirl of the rotor blades spinning overhead; the thin squeak of metal strained at the rivets; the snickety-click of men obeying the order to “lock and load.” My sphincter puckers so tight you could carve washers off it. My mouth goes dry and my drooping cigarette tastes as foul as the newspaper at the bottom of a litter box.

  The world tilts at a crazy angle. I study the reeking, greenish river of jungle as it flows by below the chopper and wait for the sickening lurch as the big Huey comes around for a landing. Marco Hernandez, a sweet-faced young kid from the barrios of Los Angeles who never grows old, hands me a fat joint and winks. I take a hit and pass it on to the next scared teenager, a freckled kid named Moloney, who drops it, steps on it and then eats the flattened roach. Suddenly we’re hovering a few feet off the ground, hearing Pop WHINE Crack! PopPopPoP and I know this is one hot fucking LZ.

  “Let’s go, let’s go!”

  And we’re all jumping out into the saw-sharp grass that is nearly bent horizontal by the prop wash. I trip on the edge of the goddamned ramp and fall out, ass over Adam’s apple, and I’m laying there looking up at my boot where it’s caught on the edge of something. The gunner looks down at me. He’s chewing tobacco and firing at the tree line, swearing like a motherfucker. He casually kicks my foot loose. He shrugs and smiles, like I’m looking pretty funny here and it’s all a joke. The chopper lifts up and away. I can hear it being hit and the sound is like fists full of BBs falling into a metal trash can.

  I roll over and stare ahead. About every third man is already down and punched full of small, reddish holes. A couple of other boys are just dancing in mid-air, held aloft by bullets, already dead where they boogie. I look over to my left, and the whole tree line is sparkling with gunfire and writhing with dark shadows. I look to the right and a long, low rice paddy is crawling with little men in black pajamas. It’s an ambush.

  I smell blood, and then for some strange reason the stink of burning straw. I hear something right behind me. I grunt and struggle to get up. I feel a bayonet enter my body like a burning spike, low and in the back near the kidneys. I try to scream for a Medic, but I can’t seem to make a sound…

  It’s always the same dream.

  I woke up knowing someone was on the other side of my wall. I rolled out of bed onto the floor and groped beneath the mattress for my .9mm Glock. I slammed in the magazine and tried to slow my breathing. For a long moment I thought it was just the damned nightmare, but then I heard the noise outside again. I slipped some tennis shoes onto my bare feet and crept down the hall, tugging my boxer shorts back where they belonged. I was vaguely aware of the thudding of a police chopper in the skies overhead; that sound must have prompted my nightmare. The fog started to clear. I remembered it was Saturday night and that my jungle war had been over for more than thirty years.

  So who the hell was outside?

  I never sleep well. Last night, I had done the better part of a fifth of Jack Daniel’s while watching some old, badly dubbed Italian vampire movie. I was still a little drunk. I clutched the Glock and eased into the kitchen, duck-walking towards the back door, staying below the window. I heard the sound again; the footsteps, someone walking through the brush near my fence. I flipped on the backyard floods, grabbed the back door and yanked it open. I aimed the 9mm.

  “Right there, motherfucker!”

  The figure immediately assumed the same position. I saw the business end of a .357 Magnum. I felt the hair on my neck raise up like a couple of dozen tiny little snakes. We were in a Mexican standoff: Two armed men, pumped full of adrenaline, drawing down on one another in the middle of the night. I was vaguely aware that the police chopper was moving away to the North.

  “Vegas?”

  No one had called me that in years. The voice sounded familiar, too. I shook my head and squinted into the brightness. I let out my breath and lowered my weapon. The other man did the same.

  “That you, Cody?”

  A chuckle, the sound of the hammer being gently replaced: “Yeah, it’s me. Just when did you become some fat, middle-aged guy, anyway?”

  I snorted. “Happens to the best of us. Now, what the fuck are you doing in my backyard in the middle of the Goddamned night? I damned near shot you.”

  Cody Burnside came closer. He was smiling, and he looked pretty good. In fact, the porch light washed all the wrinkles out and I had the eerie feeling he was exactly the same, just as he had been when he was a teenager in the ‘Nam. For some reason that scared me.

  “Sorry, man, but I got to talk to you. Now.”

  As he moved closer, I saw the receding hairline and slight paunch and some heavy bags under his reddened eyes. Eyes that were darting here and there, up and down, like maybe he’d been snorting some crystal meth or something. Except Cody wasn’t the worst druggie in our outfit. No, that distinction belonged to me. He was a pussy-hound for sure, but I had never known Cody Burnside to do more than the occasional beer.

  I said: “Well, shit. You may as well come in.” We shook hands and hugged. “I’ve got a little bourbon left.”

  He followed me into the small, filthy kitchen. I put my 9mm on the counter and locked the door behind us. I turned around. Cody stood near the icebox, in the corner by the telephone on the wall. He was trembling and shaking and he still held the 357. “Pull down those shades, man,” he said. “Pull ’em down. Just do it.”

  And then he took the phone off the hook; laid it crossways on the top of the instrument. It got real quiet, and we both clearly heard the little beep-beep-beep start up. I kept my eyes on his gun. I stopped breathing. The recorded operator said: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up” in a tinny, scratchy little voice. Cody acted like he wanted to smash the phone. He looked my way, and for the first time I wondered if he had come here to kill me.

  “I said close the shades, man.”

  I did as I was told. The one on the west side of the kitchen was over the sink. I looked out into the night, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The east side, the back door itself, faced the fence. Nothing out there, either. The last one was right above my Glock, which was still resting o
n the counter. I moved my body in between Cody and that window and drew the shade. I palmed the weapon and took a deep breath, readying myself to spin and fire.

  But then a chair scraped and Cody sat down. I heard his gun clatter down onto my kitchen table. He started to sob and talk to himself. I put the 9 mm Glock back on the counter, turned around. He was hunched over, head in cupped hands. I got the nearly empty bottle of Jack and a couple of dirty jelly glasses and set them on the table. I lowered myself into a chair, poured a couple of fingers for each of us. Then I heard it.

  Cody Burnside was muttering in Vietnamese.

  I never did get the hang of speaking Chink, mind you. I just remember a word or two here and there (mostly useless things like “blow job” or “how much”) and a smattering of the pigeon-French we used back then; “dinque” for crazy, or “beaucoup” for a lot.

  “Here, man,” I said. “Have a drink.”

  Cody took his hands away, and in the dim light of the overhead bulb he looked truly horrifying. His mouth hung open and thick spit was running out of one corner. His nose was running from crying, and his cheeks were smeared with snot. His eyes were little piggie eyes, small and red and bulging, like he’d been up for days. He looked like a fucking corpse. I shuddered and drank my whiskey.

  Cody moved suddenly, grabbed the bottle and took a long pull. He put it back in the table and gagged. He closed his eyes, concentrated and managed to keep the booze down.

  “I need to talk,” he said.

  “You say so.” I shrugged. “We got all night. Is this about the war, man? That what you need to rap about?” I was good at listening. Lots of the guys have bad memories. Me, I just have a dream now and then.

  Cody leaned forward, rocking the cheap table. “Yeah, but this ain’t some bullshit, VA hospital, group-therapy thing. Vegas, you got to listen to me all the way through without interrupting. I got to get this out. Deal?”