What Fears Become Part 1

WHAT FEARS BECOME.

An Anthology from The Horror Zine.

Edited by Jeani Rector.

Praise for WHAT FEARS BECOME.

"You won't be able to put WHAT FEARS BECOME down, not even for a second...Darkly humorous...Each spine-tingling chiller takes the reader into the depths of eerie imaginations...Thanks to Rector, get used to names such as Philip Roberts, Larry Green, and Cheryl Kaye Tardif because you're going to be hearing from them in the future!"Jorge Solis, Fangoria "There's nothing like a good scary story, except a lot of them, collected in an anthology from some of our top horror/suspense writers. So read one and be scared, or read a few and be good and scared, or read the whole book and lock all the doors and stay up all night listening to the house creak...They're terrific."William Martin, New York Times bestselling author of Back Bay "What Fears Become is a bold, brilliant collection of some of the most innovative and eloquent voices in modern horror. A musthant read for any avid horror fan."Gabrielle Faust, author of Eternal Vigilance "What an inspired mix of energetic and captivating horror. Here is work from acclaimed writers and a host of talented newcomers. This anthology is like a fearful breath from an ancient crypt; enter if you dare!"Trevor Denyer, Midnight Street Magazine "Dip in and you're hooked. WHAT FEARS BECOME is a high-bar mix of new and established talent."Stephen Gallagher, author of Kingdom of Bones.

"From the producers of The Horror Zine, this anthology of frightful fiction pulls in an impressive cast including some of the old masters of the genre, several bright luminaries and a handful of newcomers, promising that the top quality of the fiction, poetry and art is the only thing that matters."Djibril al-Ayad, editor of The Future Fire "This anthology showcases unusual and deeply disturbing horror fiction by numerous distinguished authors. Ramsey Campbell's story, in particular, will surely strike terror into the hearts of all aspiring writers."Margaret L. Carter, author of Different Blood: The Vampire as Alien "The stories in "What Fears Become" epitomize what Stephen King has called "the bad death." Whether they're jealous mirrors, irradiated vampires, clueless ghosts, or carnivorous homes, this anthology's shadows render the world a deadly place that gets most of its stories' protagonists in the end. Unless the protagonist is a monster-or already dead. That happens, too."Paula R. Stiles, editor of Innsmouth Free Press "The well crafted stories, and list of writers new and well known make WHAT FEARS BECOME a must read for horror lovers."Selina Rosen, author of The Host trilogy.

For the loyal readers of The Horror Zine.

Acknowledgments.

As editor of The Horror Zine, I would like to take this opportunity to thank all the talented writers, poets, and artists that make us what we are. There would be no The Horror Zine without all of you. I want to especially thank the best-selling professional writers who so generously and graciously lent us their works for this book.

I also want to thank all the hardworking and underpaid (think working for free!) editors of print and online magazines who strive diligently to give the writers, poets, and artists a venuein which to display their talents.

I particularly want to thank Trevor Denyer of Midnight Street Magazine for introducingme to Ramsey Campbell a couple of years ago, which basically started this whole adventure. I want to extend my thanks to Geoff Nelder for introducing me to Conrad Williams. I would like to thank Mattfrom the online forum Shocklines and also Ed from Cafe Doom for their unselfish devotion to giving people like me a venue to share my news and also to promote my endeavors.

I want to thank Trudy Hunter, Julia Cross, Sue Quiberg, Cheryl Babc.o.c.k, and Kathleen Matranga for their continuing support. I would like to thank Heather Rector and Eric Rector for their refreshing uniqueness that never fails to inspire me.

And finally, I would also like to thank Cheryl Tardif, Lisa Hazard, Jennifer Johnson, Dean H. Wild and Toni Lopopolo for making this book possible.

Foreword by Simon Clark.

I want to talk to you about a mystery. An interesting and important mystery. One that is, well, a matter of life and death.

And what has this extraordinary volume, What Fears Become, got to do with that extraordinary mystery?

Because the book you hold in your hands is part of a unique gift that we enjoy as a species. That gift is 'story.' As far as we know, we are the only creatures to tell, invent, and enjoy stories. And stories are important. We owe our existence to them. They sustain. Interpret. Educate. Encourage. Give hope. They allow us to see through the eyes of our fellow humans. They nourish empathy. Stories develop the strength and breadth of our amazing imaginations. They give us the power, from time to time, to cheat death. They are vitally important to the human race. Stories mean life.

Many anthropologists will cite singing and dancing as being the glue that cemented early tribal society together. I believe our 'species survival and growth package' includes other vitally important elements, such as a talent for the visual arts, a compulsion for physical and mental games, and stories-our universal pa.s.sion for the made-up tale. Fiction pumps through our veins.

Where's the origin of this apparent inborn need to tell and to hear stories? The mystery lies in the origins of this need. We can't say precisely where the first fable was spun. Or when. Perhaps a gene mutated in one of our ancestors two hundred thousand years ago. For some mysterious reason our great (many times great!) grandmother or grandfather found themselves saying words that broadly mean "Once upon a time." And then relating events that never actually happened, yet which contain iridescent truths that illuminate human life.

Soon I'm going to talk about What Fears Become. First, I should say something about my dramatic statement that stories are so important we owe our existence to them. After all, I can't glibly toss out the opinion "that stories are a matter of life and death" in your general direction, then saunter away, can I? So, Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I present my case. The facts are, at the time of this writing, scientifically accurate. Of course, I'm a writer of fiction (every cell of my body positively throbs with that 'story' gene: yours, too!), so I paint my facts onto the canvas of imagination.

Here we go. We're traveling back twenty thousand years. Back to a world of woolly mammoth and saber-toothed cats. Silently, we follow a lone figure limping through the forest. This is the last of the Neanderthals. The anatomy of the figure is typical of the Neanderthal species. A very stocky build. St.u.r.dy legs. The jaw juts out fiercely. Large eyes peer from beneath prominent brow ridges. The arms are muscular, biceps are bulging. She is so powerful that she can easily snap the neck of a wild pig.

Her body language radiates confidence and strength. Her formidable torso is protected by a long cloak made from reindeer hides. She carries a spear tipped with a flint that's as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. For months she has been searching for more of her kind. A quest doomed to failure. She can't possibly know that she is the last of her species. Nor would she understand that something happened in the last few generations that caused the Neanderthal to begin a headlong rush to extinction.

The last Neanderthal is living on borrowed time.

In the forest she hears voices. Though the language is unfamiliar, she is suddenly excited. Her species have communicated with each other in a remarkably sophisticated way for thousands of years, using spoken words and tongue clicks. Her heart pounds. This female is certain she has found another family grouping of Neanderthals. The chances of joining the group are slim-typically Neanderthal tribes are insular, they seldom interact-just the thought, however, of setting eyes on her own kind is so thrilling that she begins to run.

At the edge of the clearing the female pauses. Something is wrong. Yes, the men, women and children she sees walk on two legs, they call to one another, a couple are arguing, juveniles are laughing as they throw sticks into a tree. The figures wear animal skins, carry spears that are remarkably similar to the weapon she carries. Yet they are not the same as her species. Their bodies are so slender they seem almost fragile. Their faces are peculiar, too. They have small chins; the foreheads rise straight up instead of sloping back like those of her race.

The last Neanderthal is disappointed. These aren't of her blood. Yet she finds their behavior interesting. Although it is decidedly bizarre. Not much of it makes sense to her. Lack of food has made her drowsy. So why not settle down here in the bushes? Rest. Observe these delicate creatures for a while.

From her vantage point, concealed in the vegetation, she watches. The peculiar-looking creatures start a fire. They butcher a roe deer with flint knives. Soon they are enjoying a meal. Even though they have been hunting during the day they don't doze after the feast like Neanderthal hunters would do.

These eccentric individuals chase one another about the camp. The young men make a compet.i.tive game of jumping over a rock. Meanwhile, a group of children scratch lines in the dirt with twigs. She realizes that the lines resemble horses. This is very perplexing because her own species never did anything like this. Nor did they carve figures as a man appears to be doing right now to a section of mammoth tusk. Just as darkness pulls in, when all sensible Neanderthals would be bedding down for the night, these people start to move about the fire. They clap their hands in a rhythmic way. Sounds come from their delicate, little mouths. They seem to be saying the same words at the same time, then they begin to sway to the rhythm.

Song never featured in the Neanderthal way of life. Dance is alien to her.

After the dancing a silver-haired woman begins to speak. All the tribe gather round to listen. They are captivated by what she is saying. The last Neanderthal notices the expressions on the faces in the audience. She's incapable of figuring out that the h.o.m.o sapiens are listening to invented situations that befall a fictional character. And because other tribes of h.o.m.o sapiens are eager for new stories, different tribes meet and share their fables. Therefore, they don't experience the tribal isolation that has brought the socially shy Neanderthal to the brink of extinction.

The family group she watches from her hiding are vibrant, outgoing, and pa.s.sionately interested in life. Their restless curiosity always means that they expand their contact amongst neighboring tribes, so the gene pool is ever-growing. These highly imaginative humans are equipped to survive, even flourish.

The female stares at the creatures listening to the story. The faces of the children shine with delight. They are learning without even realizing a lesson is being taught. Or that the muscles of imagination are being strengthened to the point imagination becomes a tool of incredible power in its own right.

The last Neanderthal continues to stare as the stars come out one by one. She no longer blinks. Not even when a spider begins to methodically spin a pure white shroud for her face.

II.

Story. So very important. So vital to the survival of our species. And fiction is important to us individually. You probably remember the first story you heard that fascinated you, and invoked the power of your imagination. Certain films and TV dramas undoubtedly still linger in your mind, even though you saw them as a very young child.

I grew up loving movies that featured monsters, aliens, and robots. When I was three-years-old I watched a film on television that, for the first time, seemed to light up the atoms of my very being. For the life of me, I can't name the film, or the actors. But, wow! I can still remember the hulking, great robot that stomped down a metal ramp with so much force that sparks flew from its iron feet.

Bouncing up and down on the sofa, I shouted, "That's great! I'm going to watch it again next week!" The adults carefully explained to the diminutive Simon, with his wide, shining eyes, that it was a film, not a TV series. That it wouldn't be back next week. That didn't matter. Not at all! Because my imagination had been brought to life. Whenever I wanted, I could recall in vivid, dazzling, awesome detail that huge robot clumping along, sparks blazing from its feet.

So, like my fellow human beings everywhere on Earth, I found my love of story. Books, comics, television, film, radio. Stories pulsated everywhere. My family told tall tales. My uncles had a never-ending supply of haunted house yarns. "Simon. Do you see that house by the ca.n.a.l? There are ghosts in there..." An uncle would point to the creepy old building and I'd believe every word.

Fiction nourished me as much as potatoes, gravy and the sweet puddings we were served at school. What I devoured most in the way of books were anthologies. Fortunately, the school library had a fine stock of ghost stories for children. I gobbled them up one after another. And birthdays brought me the Armada Ghost Book series.

And it was only later that I appreciated that many of the pieces I enjoyed were first printed in magazines, such as the nineteenth century monthly The Strand Magazine, and Weird Tales, hailing from the 1920s. These publications used the latest print technology to deliver their content in what was then a fresh and inventive way. The Strand Magazine not only published great text by the likes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, there were also dramatic ill.u.s.trations of soldiers brandishing swords, or explosions, or thrilling cliff-top fights. Weird Tales boasted vivid covers, which were broadly based on the Beauty and the Beast theme. Gorgeous females being menaced by alien creatures were a resounding favorite. Back in the gloomy depression between the World Wars they would have screamed excitement from the newsstands. Buy Me! I can take you away from your worries! Readers would be carried away on strange adventures from the pens of H.P Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard and the top pulp writers of the day. Imaginations would blaze; the reader would step into the hero's shoes. They'd be empowered. Even when the reader was back in the real world again after closing the magazine, they could face the day-to-day struggles with renewed energy and hope.

That's what stories, do. They help our species to survive.

With every new generation there's always an inventive, new way to feed our appet.i.te for fiction.

So, imagine my delight when I heard about The Horror Zine.

Let me tell you about the e-zine.

Launched by Jeani Rector in 2009, this is a glorious online treasury of fiction, artwork, photographs, articles and poetry. With that first click of the mouse I saw that there was something special about The Horror Zine. Lavish color, photos, and ill.u.s.trations blazed from the screen. Its very look proclaimed a fresh approach to online publishing.

The Horror Zine is divided into different departments. Each one features short stories, poetry, art, or non-fiction. Jeani Rector is a lady with vision. Shrewdly, she understands what horror fans enjoy. Jeani Rector ably ushers in artists, authors and poets for us to enjoy.

There is provocative artwork. Some subtly erotic, some disturbing, some eerie, and some just plain beautiful. All of it very, very good. And instead of simply displaying the artwork of talented individuals, The Horror Zine becomes a vehicle that can take us to the artist's website, or invites us to contact them. In this way, Jeani Rector's e-magazine acts as both an art gallery and a marketplace, where publishers and individuals might seek to commission original artwork that is stimulating and visually exciting.

The same applies to the fiction department. We step into the pages of new and gifted writers who create such remarkably unique and imaginative fiction that it stays with us long after we are finished reading. We can read the story; we learn something about the writer, then once more the door swings open for us to visit the authors' websites.

Besides the new writers, The Horror Zine also has a remarkable list of established authors: Graham Masterton, Melanie Tem, Ramsey Campbell, Piers Anthony, Scott Nicholson, Conrad Williams, Ronald Malfi, Cheryl Kaye Tardif, Elizabeth Ma.s.sie and others, who have entrusted their work to the editor's decidedly capable hands.

A click of the mouse and we're conveyed to the poets: Joe R. Lansdale is among them. The Horror Zine poets create fluid and artistic lines well worthy of the time spent to savor them.

Elsewhere in the e-zine we find The Banners Page, a portal to other sites in keeping with The Horror Zine's morbid theme. "The Oddities in the News Page" features factual items culled from the newspapers: a medieval 'vampire' burial, plans to clone extinct animals, a 75-year-old mystery in Los Angeles that may or may not be related to Peter Pan, and the like. Anyone who has ever stepped into Ripley's Odditorium will love this. I know I do!

"The List of Zines Page" is devoted to an extensive directory of both print zines and e-zines that that are potential markets for the work of writers, poets, and artists. Best of all, "The List of Zines Page" is kept current and all of the links work.

"The Morbidly Fascinating Page" invites us to peek into some dark corners. Here we find pictures and articles - famous criminals of the past, haunted houses, ancient bodies preserved in bogs, shrunken heads, Victorian post-mortem photography, and an a.s.sembly of macabre curios and bizarre exhibits. There is a different subject every month to, well, morbidly fascinate us.

And The Horror Zine holds its contributors in heartwarmingly high esteem. My work features there. I contributed a short piece of fiction ent.i.tled The Pa.s.s. Working with Jeani is a happy experience. She took a great deal of care in ensuring The Pa.s.s was displayed attractively, smartly ill.u.s.trated, and I was extremely gratified that the reader has the opportunity to find out about my latest novels. Believe me, this gladdens an author's heart. I'm sure other contributors to The Horror Zine have been and will be looked after superbly.

Just when this seems the point where I invite everyone to hurry over to The Horror Zine to immerse themselves in this groundbreaking creation, I holler "Wait!" Because Jeani isn't content to deliver a great online magazine. Jeani has also embarked on editing a very beautiful book.

I'm honored to be able to introduce to you the Jeani Rector-edited anthology here in your hands: What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine.

Maybe this book is in the form of paper and ink, or you might be reading it in an electronic format. Rest a.s.sured, however, that you are about to step into worlds of wonder where dreams and nightmares are waiting to steal into your heart.

Here you'll find the kind of artwork in book format that elevates The Horror Zine into something so special. Your editor has selected a fabulous array of stories, poetry, and artwork for this book.

Let me give you a little background about some of the contributors. Ramsey Campbell was encouraged in his writing by HP Lovecraft's friend, August Derleth, and has rightly gained a legendary status in the genre. Graham Masterton's skill as a writer shines from the page. Pick one of his stories and read the masterful dialogue aloud. You'll see what I mean.

Piers Anthony's novels have appeared many, many times in the New York Times bestseller lists. I've been fortunate to take part in a convention event with Melanie Tem, and found myself wishing I could make notes about her insights into the craft of the tale. Elizabeth Ma.s.sie is a well-established writer of novels, short stories and radio plays, and has legions of fans.

A favorite movie of mine is Bubba Ho-Tep, which was inspired by a novella from the prolific and gifted Joe R. Lansdale. Here he turns his skillful hand to verse. Conrad Williams is carving a big name for himself in the horror world. His fans would agree; as does Peter Straub, who describes Conrad's work as "beautiful and blazing."

Scott Nicholson is the celebrated author of The Red Church. The latest in a long line of fine books by Scott is Drummer Boy. Cheryl Kaye Tardif is a versatile writer, and a rising talent of the Canadian book world. A talent destined for worldwide appreciation.

And then there's Ronald Malfi. Always a joy to read, Ronald Malfi's writing-style shines with a diamond-bright brilliance that always leaves me wanting more, much more.

Bentley Little is ferociously loyal to the horror genre. He has been rightly described by Stephen King as "a master of the macabre." In the last twenty years he has built up a dedicated following for his terrific supernatural fiction. Bentley Little's The Mailman is a personal favorite of mine and is wickedly entertaining fare.

Those are the established writing stars. Which make this book an essential must-buy in its own right. However, Jeani Rector hasn't forgotten the new authors. These new authors prove that The Horror Zine has a healthy appet.i.te for writers who have a taste for the adventurous and the innovative.

Online, The Horror Zine attracts the best talent. The well-known, the soon-to-be-well-known. Jeani Rector deserves our applause for producing such a visually stimulating, enchanting and downright exciting website. Now those elements are enshrined here in What Fears Become. This wonderful anthology continues the important traditions of the first story-teller. That ancestor of ours that first spoke the words: "Once upon a time..."

Here is proof that humanity is still confidently exploring the world of imagination. And as we continue our voyage into the future we will always tell one another stories. After all, it truly is a matter of life and death.

Simon Clark.

England.

August 17, 2010.

http://www.bbr-online.co.uk/nailed/.

Abstract Green Houses.

Ricardo Di Ceglia.

FICTION.

BAST.

by Christian A. La.r.s.en.

The fluorescent light flickered like the minds of the residents. Sometimes it lit up the entire breadth and depth of the hallway, and sometimes-most times-it only interrupted the peace of the darkness.

"I hate this place," muttered Marty, counting off the room numbers. The patients, end-stage dementia sufferers and terminal cancer victims shambling past in flapping terrycloth robes, gave him the absolute w.i.l.l.i.e.s. They looked like something out of a George Romero movie. He hated the smell worse, though-a mix of p.i.s.s, disinfectant and ointment that made the nursing home stink like a giant litter box.

The woman at the nurse's station smiled when he walked past, but never looked up from her Sudoku game. In fact, the smile never reached her eyes. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked automatically, scrawling numbers in a grid without pausing for an answer. A fat black cat lifted its head from a porcelain bowl where it had fallen asleep. It followed Marty with its good eye. The other was sewn shut and made it look like it was winking at him.

Marty mumbled a perfunctory no thanks to the nurse and shuffled into his grandmother's room. The sun was a sinking tangerine and the lights were off, but he could hear her breathing raggedly-a faint snore repeating through her diminished frame.

"Grandma?" he asked and wondered why. He hadn't had a real conversation with her in weeks. Not since a couple of months after she checked into the home, since the beginning of her great inexplicable-but not totally unexpected-geriatric decline.

"Hubert? Is that you? It's too bright. I can't see."

"Grandma, it's me. Marty," he answered, drawing a chair closer to her bed. With the faint purple coming in through the windows, he could see the outline of her face like a silhouette portrait cut from black construction paper.

"They were having a party outside, Hubert."

"Who was?"

"The people in the white coats."

"The doctors? Where? Out in the hall?"

"No, the people in the white coats were having a party, Hubert. Don't you listen?"

Marty didn't know why he was bothering with the conversation, given that she thought he was his years-dead grandfather Hubert, but at least they were connecting, at least a little, and it might be for the last time too. At least he hoped it might be. "Where was the party?"