Ashes (34 page)

Sheets that would give back all that had gone
into them.

A handmade blanket stitched not in the attic
of the heart but in the dark basement of the disappointed.

“
The ambulance will be here
in twenty minutes,” Faith said. “Until then, cherish the despair
you deserve.”

She tugged the blanket up to his chin, and
then, with a final, benevolent look into his frightened eyes, she
drew it over his face.

###

1
FROM THE ASHES

Looking back over old work is like looking at
photographs: you see that younger, more innocent, and more foolish
version of yourself and wonder how you ever got this far, and how
you never really understood much of what was shaping your life at
the time.

Writers love their own words. They have to.
They spend much of their time isolated, hunched over a keyboard,
squinting at a screen until their eyes burn and their spines scream
and their wrists stiffen in protest. And all they have to show for
the sacrifice is a scattering of glyphs that sometimes seems to
have no meaning in any language. To then assume that barrage of
symbols will take on a comprehensive narrative and satisfying arc
is truly an act of arrogance.

But writers go one step further–we expect
people to not only read the words, to not only piece them together
into a coherent story, but we demand adoration for our act. And,
occasionally, a little bit of cold coin.

The only time I will voluntarily reread an
old story is when I am revising it or proofing it for a book like
the one you hold in your hands. Because my first instinct is to
correct all the flaws that are now so obvious to the wiser and more
battle-scarred version of myself, and the second is to cringe and
fling the offensive prose into the recycling heap. Sure, there was
youthful vigor aplenty in the tales, a little brashness and vanity,
and a barely hidden glee in the process of stacking words as if
they were a child’s alphabet blocks. But just as the parent must
come in and clean up what the petulant child has kicked over, the
writer must look at his older work with nothing less than total
dismay.

There is one saving grace, though. These
stories saved my life and helped me reach this little scenic
turnout in the journey.

I wrote most of these stories when I was
struggling with alcoholism, depression, fatherhood, divorce,
selfishness, fear, and other personal trauma, all of it
self-inflicted. And all I could do was scream onto the page in much
the same way pre-morphine amputees screamed into the pillows in the
field hospitals of bygone wars. Hear me, don’t hear me.

With a little time under my belt, and a
little acceptance, the pain seems like such a waste. I would gladly
have traded a little peace for all the work I’ve managed to pile up
over the years. But perhaps these stories played a part in reaching
my new station. Indeed, Dark Regions publisher Joe Morey and I
kicked around the title of “Growing Pains” for the collection. Like
the fetus in “The Christening,” I had to kick and squirm and squeal
to be born. I had to fight for it, even though the fight was only
against myself.

As a result we have this
collection, largely written over the years 2000 to 2006, as
documentation of that period of my life when I could easily have
gone the other way–into the darkness and despair that I so often
ridicule others for embracing as
poseur
stage costume. Perhaps there’s a
lesson in the cumulative pile of burnt offerings, but that old
photograph is as much gray as it is black and white.

So here’s a little color commentary to flesh
out the fantasy.

Timing Chains of the
Heart
- This was one of my first published
stories, appearing in the short-lived Internet magazine E-Scape in
1998. I believe it was inspired by some of those old EC horror
comics of the “Tales of the Crypt” sort, and a story that stuck
with me about someone driving a hearse and the coffin ripping open
in an accident, with the corpse ending up behind the wheel. I’ve
also developed a small
ouvre
of transformative horror, in
which the reader–and sometimes the author–isn’t sure whether the
haunting is real or only occurring in the mind of the protagonist.
Instead of delivering on the expected crash, I prefer the continued
horror of the endless, open road. After all, the scariest part of
hell is the allegation that it lasts forever.

Dog
Person
– This was inspired by a true story.
My friend Al Carson was talking about his dog’s expensive medical
problems and how he decided to have Sally “put to sleep” instead of
spending thousands of dollars. We discussed a fictional version of
the tale and, in his version, there were two shots–first was the
mercy killing of the dog, then the suicidal shot. I went with the
version here, where the guy loves his dog so much that he just
can’t face life without her. And, of course, the treacherous wife
gets the fruit of her hateful labors. Originally published in
Cemetery Dance Magazine #56 in 2006 and selected by editor Ellen
Datlow for inclusion in
The Year’s Best
Fantasy & Horror.

The October
Girls–
Written under the original title of
“Playmates” in 2001, I wrote this for a promotional e-book that
fellow authors Brandon Massey and Jon Merz were distributing. The
idea of a dead best friend is not uncommon or new, but I like the
chilly flavor of the dead friend’s jealousy. In the end, however,
our sympathy shifts to the girl who must live a wretched childhood
rather than the one whose pain has ended. I’m currently developing
this as a book series, with the characters more grown up and firmly
in the early 20's. Unfortunately, even young grown-ups are more
dishonest than children, so this may be the closest we get to the
truth.

Murdermouth
– I’d toyed around with
carnivals and circuses before, especially with zombies, and I’ve
penned a few first-person zombie tales. To me, suffering
bottomless, vacuous hunger is more horrifying than actually being
pursued by such creatures, and I still prefer the old-school
zombies that plod along with total patience and determination
instead of darting around like wolves, sometimes weilding firearms.
In much of my work, I’m attempting to figure out the nature of
love. As with the real thing, sometimes I just get a little squishy
in the process. Published in the anthology
The Book Of All Flesh
in
2001.

Sung Li
– Every author needs to drag out at least one creepy-doll
tale, and this is mine. The subtext of child abuse is a little too
facile and gross, but the doll and the knife were drawn from my
real life, and again we have a bit of ambiguity about the reality
of the supernatural occurrences. I write without outlining, so I
often don’t know the ending until I get there. And sometimes not
even then. Originally published in At The Brink of Madness #3 in
1999.

In The
Family
– This was written before the “Six
Feet Under” television series, proof that undertaker families are
kind of strangely appealing. However, they often have great senses
of humor, as you can imagine. This story isn’t too funny, though,
and has a bit of a Norman Bates flavor and I’m not sure the science
is too valid. My plan is to be cremated myself, as I don’t really
trust anyone playing with my internal organs, especially if they’re
getting paid by the hour. First appearance in The Third Alternative
#41 in 2005.

The Night Is An
Ally
– I dug the old “Weird War” comics that
usually had short scripts with a twist ending, and I’d also read a
book called
Ordinary Men: Reserve Police
Battalion 101 and the Final Solution in Poland
. I was fascinated by the psychological process in which
“ordinary men” evolved into cold-blooded killers, and I have no
more answers today than I did then. And I believe it’s
frigtheningly easy for such events to replicate themselves
repeatedly in the human future. This appeared in the Mike
Heffernan-helmed anthology
A Dark And
Deadly Valley
in 2007.

Work in
Progress
– I studied art in college and have
this secret little fantasy of becoming a painter in my old age. Or
maybe I just think it’s cool that Van Gogh whacked off his ear and
mailed it to his sweetheart. Proof that guys will do anything for
sex. But it could have been worse, if he had chosen a different
organ...which is another story in itself, but I’m not writing it.
Published in Crimewave #9 in 2006.

She Climbs A Winding
Stair
– This story spun itself from an image
of a ghost woman looking out on the sea, waiting and waiting for
her seafaring love. I’d done some research on Portsmouth Island off
the North Carolina coast, which was abandoned with buildings intact
and is now a part of the National Park system. Ghost towns aren’t
necessarily limited to the Old West. Originally published in The
Book of Dark Wisdom #9.

Watermelon
– I’m almost embarrassed to
admit this is autobiographical, but if you’ve read the book, then
you’ve caught me with my pants down, anyway. One night, while
drunk, I yanked a watermelon from the fridge and beat the holy hell
out of it, ramming my fist inside and yanking out the pink pulp. I
wasn’t even that angry. But I imagined that was the sort of diffuse
outlet that prevented some greater atrocity somewhere else. And as
with the protagonist here, you suspect worse things down the road,
life goes on, and hell lasts forever. Appeared in Cemetery Dance
#51 in 2005.

The Meek
– This story had an odd evolution, as it was originally
intended for an Australian anthology that ultimately collapsed.
Publishing ventures seem to give rise to more disease, bankruptcy,
depression, divorces, and computer problems than all other human
endeavors combined, at least to judge from all the excuses offered
up by people with bigger dreams than abilities. But that’s why I’m
a writer, because I need only a piece of paper and pen, and these
days a laptop. At any rate, here’s another “carnivorous ruminant”
tale with religious overtones, later visited more in depth in my
novel
The Farm
.
Originally published in the limited-edition CD anthology Extremes
II in 2001, a hybrid format that also contained three of my
original rock songs that can be heard on my Web site.

The Weight of
Silence
– While anticipating the birth of my
daughter, I had a horrid run of “sinister pregnancy” stories, most
of which were centered around conniving, cold-hearted mothers who
didn’t really want to be mothers. And double crosses are among my
favorite fictional tools, especially where romance is involved. Put
it all together and you get a story that probably won’t be found on
the table of a waiting room in the maternity ward. Originally
published in the
Corpse Blossoms
anthology in 2005.

The Hounds of
Love
– This is one of my favorite stories,
and again I’m plumbing the well of love and attachment. Sometimes I
wonder if love is simply possession, and if you love something, you
have an obligation to it. I was afraid this one was a little too
gruesome but I vowed not to back down a bit, even though it got
rejected a few times. Most serial killers start out as animal
torturers, so perhaps this strange critter’s love is enough to keep
little Dexter on the straight and narrow. Published in
The Book of More Flesh
in
2002.

You’ll Never Walk
Alone
– This is the third of my stories to
appear in James Lowder’s Flesh zombie series, in the 2004
Book of Final Flesh
, and I
co-opted religion yet again, as well as that old inspirational show
tune “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” I also went back to the mountains
with this one, for though most of my novels are set in the
Appalachians, my stories travel all over the place and often with
strange company. Some things are far scarier than walking alone, I
can assure you.

Penance
– This set-up was inspired by the Black Plague-era habit of
nailing people inside their own houses to prevent them from
infecting others. Of course, such an apocalyptic situation
practically begs a religious overtone, and I’m always happy to
oblige. I hope I don’t come off as preachy, because I certainly
don’t have any answers, and I try to offer uplifting moments in the
horror, like those golden shafts of sunlight that sometimes break
through a gathering storm. I’m generally an optimist, though I
don’t blame people who don’t believe it. Appeared in Black October
#3 in 2002.

Scarecrow
Boy
– This story went through numerous
rewrites and I loved the “country” flavor of it, though it took a
while to develop a satisfactory narrative arc. One editor said it
was too much like the old horror-movie trick of “Don’t open the
gate, you
know
better than to open the gate,” and then the character
conveniently opens the gate. But sometimes we don’t listen to
reason, or we get absent minded, or maybe we just grab at whatever
means necessary in order to gain eternal life. Published in
Chiaroscuro at Chizine.com, in 2001.

Last
Writes
– This is one of only two co-writing
projects I’ve ever been involved in, and the first in which the
collaborator was dead. Sometimes I think if I actually had to
collaborate, the other guy would be dead before we made it through
the third chapter. But luckily Edgar Alan Poe is timelessly cool
and, best of all, doesn’t need a cut of the royalties. I liked the
idea of having Poe as a character in his own story, since the
original fragment that inspired the project was written in first
person. From
Poe’s Lighthouse
in 2006.