Horror Library, Volume 4 Page 10

  Oh, and then there was Tim.

  Tim was alright, I suppose, for a hack. He was the only one with the ability to put words together in ways that made other people care. Unfortunately, he'd used his powers to make a quick buck. It started with an article for a men's magazine—one of the ones where nubile young celebrities strip down to their bras and panties to plug their latest movies—and, after that sale, an agent took an interest in one of Tim's novellas.

  I'd read the novella. Typical cookie-cutter genre shit. And of all the genres, it was horror. Such a waste of talent.

  He said to me once, 'It's all a game—learn the rules and play.'

  Easy enough for him to say. His game was money. He wrote what other people wanted to read and that's why he was on his way to the supermarket racks.

  He'd found his audience, that's all. Never mind that his audience consisted of brain-dead teens, socially inept comic book collectors, and—worst of all—giggling little goth groupies that thought Tim was 'a cutie'.

  I know my audience too, and they are the ones that read my words and understand. If only five people on earth truly ever get what it is that I do, that's four more than I would ever have believed. I don't take the easy way. I don't give people what they want to read. I give them what they need. The creation process is hard and sometimes painful, but that's what birth is all about—agony and terror and tearing yourself open until something of worth comes from it.

  That's why I laughed and walked out when Tim said, "I think you just need to maybe put more of yourself into the work, Martin."

  ***

  Unlike so many writers, I do not drink.

  Unlike so many writers, I actually write.

  I went home that night and wrote as I'd never written before. I sat there, eyes closed and fingers moving, for what seemed like forever. A sheen of sickness covered my body and made my scalp itch and ache. My fingers burned for hours before they finally split.

  It was easy to ignore the pounding on the door and the rattle of the knob; they came and went in cycles, like the tides. The sound of the keys clacking droned on, and my mind droned with them.

  Periodically, as I stopped to sip water or massage the feeling into my back or legs, I checked my word count.

  The first time I stopped to change keyboards, I was at fifteen thousand.

  The last time, three keyboards later, five hundred thousand.

  Looking back on it, the whole process was amazing, but I couldn't tell you what those words meant. It was gibberish and, in truth, didn't matter at all. It was a fever dream, a Braxton-hicks—a preparation for what was yet to come. In the end, I deleted the file without a second look.

  During my normal working life, I was lucky to have one thousand decent words after six weeks of struggle; my short stories were finely honed masterpieces that sometimes took a full nine months to create—

  They were shit.

  —and here I was spewing out words faster than my hands could move. I commanded that they move faster; I pushed the joints and digits to the breaking point, literally.

  The pop must've sounded louder in my head than it did in reality, but it was enough to stop me momentarily.

  I looked at my fingers. The flattened pads and tips shone without the small ridges and dips of fingerprints. The knuckles were fat and tight, swollen to the point of bursting, the nails sunken and black from the congealed blood underneath. The cuticles had long since revolted, springing the nails outward like miniature scoops. My hands hummed and quivered as I watched. They sang of the symbols and letters and words and ideas that fought to flow through them.

  They ached for more.

  With a painful difficulty, I clenched and shook them out. I closed my right hand around my left palm and, like a milkmaid with a cow's teat, pulled and squeezed down the length of my fingers. Each nail unsheathed for perhaps an eighth of an inch before slipping loose from its bed and clattering to the keyboard.

  Of course I hurt, but that's what artists do.

  The blood which flowed, slow as molasses at first and then bright and smooth as new ink, from the vacant craters in my fingers emerged with strength and intensity that eclipsed the flow of mere words earlier; this was unfettered truth, unbridled expression. Droplets spilled and sprayed the keys; crimson spatters coalesced and intermingled into lines and curves; lines and curves intertwined into symbols that gathered and aligned into pure thought in 12 point new courier font on my screen.

  And as the last gelled globule stained the cracked keys, I saw an end to the new manuscript. Using a stained forearm to operate the mouse, I scrolled back to the top of this new story, writ in blood, and I read. Afterwards, I saved the manuscript to three separate disks and printed a hard copy.

  Over time, I managed to stand. (The stains on my pants did not embarrass me; I had no connection at all to those processes.) I unlocked my office door and emerged into the house. Maureen was nowhere about so I went to our bathroom, washed up, and changed clothes, throwing the stained items into the trash. The house was empty and quiet, perfect for my work.

  My stomach roiled and burned in protest but before I fed it, I fumbled bandages onto my hands and with great care folded the new manuscript, placed it in an envelope, and mailed it to the first publication that came to mind.

  Two weeks later, I received a phone call from the editor of The New Yorker. They wanted to buy my story. Minutes after the conversation, my fax machine spat out the contract. I read and reread it, searching for any loophole that would allow them to steal my work. When I was confident that they couldn't, I signed it and faxed it back.

  When the check arrived, I took it to Maureen where she'd been staying at her mother's house, and she actually leapt into my arms.

  The only thing I felt was pride. I was right after all, and now she saw it.

  I had not sold out.

  ***

  That first story generated an enormous buzz. Maureen handled the phone calls and gave the agents and publishers the information I'd written out for her. Everyone wanted a piece of me, it seemed, but I remembered Tim's words—I knew the game, but I wasn't going to play it by anyone's rules.

  They would learn to play by mine.

  Contracts came and I signed them.

  Wounds healed and I opened them.

  Stories emerged and I sent them.

  I hear they were quite powerful. I didn't read them. Didn't have to.

  Calls came from the Today show, Oprah, and 60 minutes, among others. I declined their offers. The statement Maureen gave to the producers told them that everything I had to say was in my work.

  Offers came to sell movie rights. The short list of names included Hanks and Eastwood, Bertolucci and Coppola, Spielberg and even the kid who did that horrible musical I couldn't stand.

  I turned them down too, via Maureen. My medium was the written word, she said, and as the written word it would stay.

  All of that only made them want me more. And the more they wanted, the more I obliged. I was not totally unfeeling toward my audience, after all, but they would have to understand that this—these words—was where the magic dwelled. And now I was the fulltime magician, no longer in the red. . .

  . . .Not that the money mattered; it didn't. Not to me.

  I did not leave my office, not even to sleep. Maureen, finally understanding after all these years, never bothered or interrupted me. She left the meals, bandages, and antibiotics outside the door at six am, noon, six pm, and midnight. When I could pull myself away, I ate; when I couldn't, she took the dishes from me without a complaint. She no longer sold her soul to the marketing jerk-offs; she managed my career instead. Don't think for a moment it was because she was proud of me or loved me. . .she, like everyone else, just wanted to be the first to read whatever I bled next.

  When the time came that the stories no longer flowed as they once had, I did not panic. All writers face creative blocks at one time or another. For me the solution was simple—there is always more of one's self to
put into the work, if one is willing.

  When The New Yorker solicited another article, I dragged a dull utility knife across my palm.

  An essay for The Antioch Review? Snips of the first few millimeters from the tips of my index and middle fingers with Maureen's garden shears did the trick.

  A creative non-fiction piece for Brick? I slipped my teeth under the edges of my newly re-grown thumb nail and peeled.

  . . .All just ways to get the creative juices flowing.

  I received Maureen's reports of the daily goings on, with my breakfast and supplies at six.

  She was always after me to clean the keyboard until I let her watch me work; the brown, scabrous thing had evolved, somehow. It barely even had keys anymore; they had sloughed off to make way for the thirsty, puckered mouth which waited anxiously for my next project.

  A number of the big publishing houses warred over who would print my first book, even if it was only an anthology of reprinted stories.

  I had never attempted a novel, but it seemed the right thing to do for my fans. Reprints would not hold them over, not anymore. It was bad enough that I had to wear earplugs for a month while contractors installed an elaborate security system to prevent them from breaking in to meet their literary savior. Some even sent packages—cardboard boxes with dark, wet stains that I regretfully had to return, unopened; it is never a good idea to accept unsolicited work.

  Still, they are my beauties. They understand the magic, right down to their very bones. They deserved something bigger, something better—something with teeth.

  I developed a system that Maureen followed strictly. Food and drink would now be brought inside the office, providing that she made no sound and wore a black, shapeless dress to avoid distracting me. Any distraction would be cause for punishment, and punishment meant no more reading, ever.

  The system worked, and it was more and more necessary the less mobile I became.

  Especially after that first disaster. . .

  ***

  Pardon this digression, but I feel the need to talk shop for a few moments—

  The place to cut, I discovered through a bit of trial and error, is at the ever-so-slight depression of the anterior talofibular ligament—just below that bony protuberance on the side of the ankle.

  Note—this is true of all joints. Never go straight in against the bone, this is the mark of an amateur.

  In this instance, I used a Black and Decker Jigsaw equipped with the metal-cutting blades, but the aspiring writer would do just fine with a standard hacksaw.

  The secondary cut to the forefoot should take place later, certainly after securing and stapling the posterior flap and bandaging the stump. Broad spectrum antibiotics should be taken orally for 1-4 weeks to insure no loss in productivity. Keep in mind rule number one of writing— writers write.

  Back to that forefoot—the simplest method I know is to cut between the 2nd and 3rd toes to the midfoot region (i.e. the bones you cannot saw through comfortably) and follow up with a secondary transverse cut between the metatarsals and cuneiforms. At this point, it is a simple thing to remove the bones and set them aside for later. Feel free to delegate this step to the agent or publicist if necessary. The bones may, at a later date, be dried, powdered and added to the fluid mixture. This could well be the meat of your narrative so do not cast this part aside willy-nilly. The fleshy bits may be blended or juiced, depending upon the equipment at hand, and are then available when needed.

  ***

  I worked at the novel without ceasing; composing the next day's work in my mind during the hour or so I allowed the body to sleep. This was necessary. Real art comes from pouring one's heart and soul into the work.

  (One last technical note—do not skimp on your blender. The heart is a very tough and fibrous muscle. This is no place to use that fifteen dollar wonder you received as a wedding gift. You really do get what you pay for, you know.)

  Maureen's assistance was vital during the creation process. During this time I came to understand and value her a great deal more. She earned her place in the front matter of the book.

  With such inspiration, she began to create on her own. Before long, producers no longer bothered her about interviews, but it didn't matter. The audience understood.

  Maureen showed me videos and pictures. It was easy to pick out my true fans by the patches and the gauze, by the prostheses and the IV's.

  My first and only draft clocked in at just under 120,000 words.

  That's roughly 480 pages or so.

  Critics have said that my writing, the stories, the essays, everything combined, doesn't amount to very much. This, coming from people who no one will remember a single generation from now. They never learned the secret, but I did.

  We did.

  I live, even now, in these words.

  Through this magic, I am immortal.

  And as your eyes scan these words we are absorbed to live inside of you.

  All of you.

  Forever.

  But enough about me.

  This was never about me, it was about the art. Your art, now. A great and vast vista lies before you, just waiting to be explored. So head on back to the kitchen, grab that steak knife I caught you eyeballing earlier, and let's get started.

  Bio(hazard)

  Charles Colyott is the pseudonym of an interdimensional virus frequently transmitted via unprotected eye-to-text contact. Symptoms include: An irresistible urge to raise alpacas, unprovoked bouts of cursing in Mandarin, and possible weight gain.

  Past outbreaks have been quarantined within the pages of Dark Recesses Press magazine, Withersin magazine, Read by Dawn II anthology, and +Horror Library+ Volume 3. Further instances of contagion have been said to echo throughout the mindless, gibbering void of the internet. And Facebook.

  If you fear that you may have become infected, do not be alarmed. . .You have.

  —SKIN

  by Kim Despins

  This thing wearing his sister's skin stands at the foot of Jeremy's bed, just as she has every night since he moved back into his father's house. When Jeremy asked Lisa to help care for their father in his last days, she hung up on him. Instead, this thing visits in her place. She whips the covers from his bed, and Jeremy's skin puckers in the cool rush of air.

  He thinks she's changed her mind about helping with their father, but when he touches her, the skin slides over the thing underneath and he knows this can't be his sister. He tries to scream but nothing emerges except a soft moan. He pushes her away, but his hands caress that pale skin while something else pulsates just beneath its surface. His body refuses every command his mind issues. He's come to accept these visits, even enjoys them in some unnatural way. There's always penance.

  His entire adult life has been penance. In the Peace Corps he taught English in a tiny cinderblock room to children who asked only the English words for food. After failing to feed anything more than their minds, Jeremy joined the seminary. His room there had a wood floor, plaster walls, and no starving children. As a priest, he enjoyed the overgrown garden behind the rectory. The trees hung low, denying the herbs sun and stunting their growth, but the air tasted fresh.

  The priesthood had been his escape. The children, their minds hungrier than their bellies, arrived at Sunday school eager to learn. His parishioners responded to his counseling with appreciation. After almost thirty years of searching, Jeremy finally found a community, a family.

  His father's illness has ripped him away from that family, and he aches to return. Jeremy waits for his father to die so he can return to his life in the church. His life with no starving children. His life without this thing wearing his sister's skin, and its unnatural hunger.

  Lying rigid on his mattress, Jeremy promises when he returns to the church, he'll trim the trees and feed the herbs with sunlight. He can't confess something this unsavory, but he vows to pray every prayer he knows a dozen times. Anything, he pleads with God, just make this thing go away.

&nbs
p; Every door is bolted, every window shut tight. Yet here she stands wearing the skin of someone he loves. This caricature of a woman is not his sister. Lisa lives thirty minutes away in Boston. Her partner and his religion are two of the many things they never speak about on the rare occasions they talk at all. During those conversations, Jeremy does the talking, and Lisa provides vague answers to his questions. Calling her his sister seems wrong, invasive. He barely knows her.

  Would she notice, he wonders, that he replaced the Farrah Fawcett poster from his boyhood with a framed photograph of a pale yellow crocus, opening among the crystals of melting snow? The photo was a gift from a parishioner. Jeremy tried to tell Lisa that he'd burned the cache of dirty magazines he'd found piled in his dresser drawers, forgotten since high school. Her response had been a dial tone.

  Jeremy called her three times the first week he spent in his father's house. Twice she hung up on him, and the third time her partner claimed Lisa was out even though he heard her voice in the background.

  "Wait," Jeremy said, struggling to remember this woman's name.

  "What?"

  "Does she still like to catch lightning bugs?"

  Lisa's voice came through the background. Jeremy pictured her standing next to her partner, one hand on her shoulder. "Tell him not now. I can't talk to him now."

  "Don't call back." The partner hung up the phone.

  The thing that looks like his sister unties her robe and lets it fall to the floor. Her skin glows in the moonlight. He wishes for the false safety of blankets, to curl up under the covers and pretend there's not a monster in the room. But his body disagrees. She climbs atop him, pausing to kiss his erection much the way Jeremy hopes to kiss the rings of the pope. Every night is the same, down to the hopes, regrets, and memories as she takes his willing body, and his mind pretends to fight from its cage.