3 Which is basically this: I don’t like story illustrations which merely depict a scene from a story. If I have done my job well, the reader already has a brainful of images based in my skillful use of language, and can very well visualize my narrative. What I infinitely prefer is to see illos which add a new dimension to the tale, which examine the theme and essence and mood of the story and create new images that you wouldn’t already come up with while reading.
INTRODUCTION
Since this is an Introduction, let’s start with how and when I first met Tom Monteleone. What happened is so indicative of Tom and his writing (“the person, the process, and the product”) that it bears repeating. Truth is, it should be immortalized if only because it’s so damned funny.
When I started out in my career as a “horror” writer, I had attended only a few science fiction or horror conventions. After Nightstone was published, Ginjer Buchannan (who recently edited a book for Berkley by A. J. Matthews, a good friend of mine) suggested that I go to a convention called NECon in Bristol, Rhode Island. (In my opinion, NECon is the only horror con worth going to annually. Check it out sometime.)
Not knowing what to expect, that summer I went. Not knowing anyone there (except Ginjer), I dutifully wore my name badge. (“Badges! We don’t need no stinking badges!”) Because I figured no one would know my name, I put the hologram from the Nightstone cover on my badge. After all, to most of the people there, I was my book.
During the traditional “Meet the Authors” party on Friday night, a guy who (let’s be honest) might have had one or two drinks more than he should have came up to me, leaned close, peered at the hologram on my name badge, and in a burst of whiskey-tinged breath, said, “Hey! I read that fucking book. You the guy who wrote it?”
All I could do was smile and nod. I noted the name on his badge—Thomas F. Monteleone—and recognized it. I had read him. Better still, I had liked what I had read. As a neophyte at horror cons, I was instantly intimidated.
“Uhh—yeah, I am,” was as witty a reply as I could muster.
“Man, I loved that book! Hey! You gotta have a drink with me!”
I smiled again, a little tighter, and nodded as he clapped my shoulder and held up the bottle of George Dickel Sour Mash (White Label), which he was currently consuming faster than I thought might be safe.
“You gotta have a Dickel with me.”
Keep in mind, now, I’m Finnish. The definition of a Finnish extrovert is he’s the one who will look at your shoes when he’s talking to you. Tom is Italian and all that implies. Even if he doesn’t know you, he’ll clap you on the back and hug you. I don’t need to tell you that I was a bit…perplexed as to how to respond. What I did was keep smiling while holding up the bottle of Sam Adams Beer I was nursing. Even at conventions, three or four beers in an evening is my limit.
“I’m all set, Tom, but thanks.”
“No, no. You don’t understand. (It sounded more like “unnerstan.”) I loved your fucking book, and you gotta have some Dickel with me.”
Tom pressed closer. I grew nervous. I didn’t know him. I hadn’t yet heard, much less witnessed, some of the antics which we later…
Opps, sorry.
Under court order, I can’t mention anything “pre-Elizabeth,” (Tom’s charming and talented wife), and I won’t now other than to finish this short and relatively innocent anecdote.
“I appreciate your offer, Tom,” I said, “but I only drink beer. I never drink distilled alcohol. I appreciate the offer but—”
“No, man. You gotta have some Dickel with me.”
He hugged me even closer. We were almost touching noses. For a Finn, this kind of closeness can be very disconcerting unless you’re…well, you know, unless you’re really trying to get to know someone.
“Let me ask you something, Rick,” Tom said after tilting his head back and taking another healthy gulp of Dickel. He leaned even closer, if that was possible. “Have you ever run your hand up the inner thigh of an eighteen year old girl?”
My mind went blank. Who was this guy was, and why was he asking such a personal question?
Swallowing dryly and wishing he would at least step back so the Dickel fumes wouldn’t be quite so overwhelming, I’m sure I blushed as I said something to the effect of, “Uhh…Yeah, well…sure, but I—”
“Then I don’t have to tell you how smo-o-o-oth this whiskey is.”
I had my first drink of Dickel with Tom that night.
It wasn’t the last.
Over the years, especially at NECon and a handful of HWA meetings and World Horror Conventions (which are fun, too, but nowhere near as much fun as NECon), Tom and I have become close friends. Tom isn’t just a writer whose work I admire; he isn’t even just a friend. He is as close to being my brother as we can get without actually mingling Italian and Finnish blood. More than that, we have collaborated on a few projects, and I have seen from the inside how Tom generates and develops ideas. I’ve seen him work.
You need read only a handful of his short stories or even just one of his novels (try Blood of the Lamb or The Resurrectionist) to know what kind of literary magic Tom can conjure. He is a craftsman who makes spinning a yarn look effortless when, in fact, I know that he puts a great deal of effort into every page that eventually comes out of his printer. Heart and soul and guts are the basis of any Monteleone story. That and a creativity and imagination that leaves many of us fellow writers choking in the dust. You’ll see that as soon as you dip into this collection. I have never read a story by Tom in any anthology or magazine that wasn’t one of if not clearly the best story. And now several of them are gathered here in Fearful Symmetries. If this career-spanning collection escapes winning an award or two, then it is simply because life isn’t fair.
Well, life isn’t fair, but winning an award or even a wheelbarrow full of awards isn’t what Tom and his writing are about.
It’s the words on the page.
The story.
The magic, and what it does to your mind and emotions.
I’ve seen this on the inside because I’ve read Tom, I’ve worked with him, and I’ve submitted stories to his ground-breaking anthology series Borderlands. My stories, by the way, were rejected because they weren’t good enough. Friendship isn’t going to cut it with Tom when it comes to writing. If the work isn’t better than the best you can do, he won’t accept it for his anthologies, and he won’t shy away from telling you why. Tom has never shied away from telling you his mind. An old friend of mine from college used to say: “It’s better to be honest than nice.” Well, Tom lives by that. He has irritated and outright pissed off many people—writers, editors, and fans—but it has always been because what matters most is the writing!
Anything else is…well, simply not as important.
I’m feeling a little like I’ve had one or two more sips of Dickel than is advisable. I’m wandering all over the map here. It’s partly because I can’t tell you more stories about hanging out with Tom and some of the outrageous antics that ensued. And, frankly, I’m having a bit of trouble because, although I knew how to start, I have no idea how to finish this little introduction. I suppose I could discuss a handful of stories and tell you what I thought of them and why, and how I think you should appreciate them—(try not gasping while you read “The Wager,” f’rinstance; tell me “The Night Is Freezing Fast” doesn’t bring tears to your eyes)—but I won’t. That would diminish the power of these stories. The stories speak for themselves, loud and clear, just like their author.
But if I’ve given you even some slight insight into Tom and his work, then I’ll have done my job. I’m not sure I have or even can do that because—frankly—I don’t know how he does it. I’m a writer and an avid reader. Like a practicing magician, whenever I read someone else, I try to see how they’re performing their tricks so—maybe—it will help me make my own magic more convincing when I do it. Over the years, there have been many writers I’ve read and admired and learned from,
but even collaborating with Tom hasn’t given me any real insight into the process. If I may further mangle my metaphor, I invariably end up feeling like a ten year old who has done a few parlor tricks for friends and family, watching Houdini or Henning do their amazing thing and having no clue how they did it.
But we do have the stories, and we can read them. Why have you even read this introduction?
Go ahead.
Read Tom’s stories. Be thrilled and amazed by a wide-ranging imagination that has peeled back every corner, light and dark, of the human mind and soul. These stories bum bright in the forest of the night. They are “fearful symmetries” that only Tom Monteleone could have delineated.
Enjoy!
—Rick Hautala
Westbrook, Maine
My oldest and one of my dearest friends in this business is Charlie Grant, also known over the years as C. L. Grant and Charles L. Grant. He was the creator and editor of the premiere original anthology series of the Eighties called Shadows, and asked me to contribute to the very first volume. This was significant for me for several reasons—one, he thought I was good enough to help him launch a new series; and secondly, it would mark one of my earliest efforts to escape from the ghetto of science fiction.1 Charlie had been lobbying for me to lean toward the direction of the weird tale, the stories of horror and suspense—a body of writing that was beginning to be called “dark fantasy.”2 And so I must credit him for quite literally changing the focus and direction of my writing career.
He is also responsible for the story, which follows—another of my earliest efforts in horror and dark fantasy. He was editing some other one-shot anthologies for Sharon Jarvis when she was at Playboy Press and they sported these great buzzword titles like Fears and Terrors (which are, by the way, the English translations for the names of the two moons of Mars). So Chaz calls me and says: give me something nasty and disturbing, but without being graphic. I came up with a simple, little tale of revenge that people tell me they simply cannot forget…even if they want to.
1 Don’t get me wrong, I loved science fiction as a kid and growing up. It was a literature of ideas which always made me think, and it gave me a lifelong dose of wide-eyed wonder about the world. It was the kind of uniting that inspired me to dream about being a writer myself. The problem? After I started selling stories to the SF magazines and anthologies, I realized that I didn’t think like most of the better writers in the genre, and that my future did not lie among the glassteel domes of the future cities and the trackless voids of space.
2 The story was called “Where All the Songs Are Sad” and is reprinted in my first collection, Dark Stars and Other Illuminations.
Elliot Binnder huddled in the corner of the dark supply room, caressing the business-end of a linoleum knife.
Outside, in the main corridor, the sounds of the hospital blended together: the paging system loudspeakers, the creaking wheels of gurney carts, offhanded laughter of passing student nurses, the occasional footsteps of someone passing close by the supply room door.
Dressed in hastily stolen hospital garb, Binnder appeared to be just another surgeon in the huge hospital. The pale green O.R. cap and matching pajama-like tunic and pants covered his street clothes; the surgeon’s mask concealed his stoical features.
The shift change, he thought; I’ll wait until the change of shift. Lots of confusion then. No one will notice me…
The blade felt keen and sharp as he edged it with his thumb, following its menacing curve down to the point. In the darkness, it reminded him of the talon of some horrible creature, and he smiled. He checked his liquid crystal watch, and smiled again. Not much longer now…
Balding, thin, and yet working on a double chin, Elliot Binnder did not normally appear very threatening. In fact, he was quite meek-looking, and had always thought himself the perfect stereotype of a timid bank clerk. In fact, he was a timid hardware store clerk.
Sitting in the dark, his mind drifted back over the chain of events that had brought him to his present state of mind and place in the cosmos. It was the hardware store…
…where he had worked for almost twenty years. Twenty years. The store had been owned by Leo J. Fordham, Sr., a kindly old gentleman who understood the faithful service and loyalty of good employees. Elliot had worked for the old man from the beginning, and gave the owner an honest day’s work every day, year in and year out. Things went along pleasantly and after ten years’ service, Elliot was made the manager of Fordham’s Hardware—earning a good salary and making the payments on his bungalow. Mr. Fordham was very happy with his work, and had even loaned him the money for the down payment on the little house. Elliot Binnder was a happy, contented man.
That is, until the owner’s son, Leo J. Fordham, Jr., started coming down to the store after school and on Saturdays to “learn the business.” Still a teenager, the young Leo Fordham had already acquired a hard edge to his personality and an envious glow to his eyes. He looked like a vulture waiting to descend upon soon-to-be-carrion, and even back then, Elliot knew enough not to trust the owner’s son.
As time passed, Leo Jr. spent his summers home from college in the hardware store, and he became an increasing source of annoyance and irritation to all the employees, especially Elliot Binnder. No matter how diplomatic, or “nice,” Binnder attempted to be with Leo Jr., there was no getting around the young man’s obnoxious nature and know-it-all attitude. Leo Jr. was contemptuous of Elliot’s authority and took every opportunity to ignore his suggestions and disobey outright his requests in day-to-day business.
But Elliot had been a patient man, and he hoped that perhaps Leo Jr. was just another young man feeling his oats, as they used to say, and that time and maturity would change him into a more agreeable, reasonable person. Thus did Elliot avoid speaking with the father and owner of the store about the problems experienced with the son.
Perhaps I should have said something…
But he didn’t say anything, and the situation became increasingly worse until, inevitably, Elliot and Leo Jr. hated each other. That was apparent to all the other employees, but unfortunately not to Mr. Fordham Sr., who was spending more time in his greenhouse and less and less time at his business. In fact, the only thing that kept Elliot sane and whole had been the casual mention by Leo Sr. that he intended to open another hardware store in the next town, and that he would be making Elliot a full partner—along with his son, of course. The papers, the old man told him, were being drawn up by his lawyers, and everything would be official as soon as his attorney came back from a trip to the Bahamas.
Time passed quickly it seemed, at that point, and Leo Jr. graduated from college, married, and was often seen with his pregnant wife carrying about the next generation of the Fordham line. Elliot hoped that this coming responsibility, plus the inclusion of both into a business partnership would finally thaw out the relationship between he and the impetuous Leo Jr.
But it was even less than wishful thinking. On the same weekend that Elliot had told his wife of the elder Fordham’s plans, he received a phone call from Mrs. Leo Fordham, Sr. The woman was on the brink of hysteria as she struggled to tell him that her husband had been killed in an auto accident only an hour previous. Elliot had been shocked—it was as though his own father had died and the sense of loss and sincerely felt grief was almost overwhelming. He could only think of never seeing the dear old man again, and was therefore not thinking of what further consequences might follow that unfortunate and very untimely demise.
Naturally, Elliot closed the store until after the funeral; and although he attempted to contact the son several times, he was unsuccessful. When he saw Leo Jr. at the funeral service, the young man ignored him completely.
But on the day business reopened, the young man was more than eager to speak with him. Elliot was not surprised to see the young new owner seated behind his desk that fateful morning. To tell the truth, Elliot had even expected it, and the demotion that would surely accompany the gesture. But he
was surprised by Leo Jr. in a way he could not have expected.
“Good morning, Binnder, I’ve been waiting for you,” the son had said.
“Have you?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.” Young Leo was almost grinning, unable to contain the obvious joy surging through him at that moment.
“What kind of bad news?” Elliot said.
“Oh…the worst, I can assure you. I’m afraid its ‘pink-slip’ time for you, old man. I want you to get all your shit out of here immediately. It’s over and I never want to see your simple face around here again.”
“What!” Elliot had said, his voice carrying all the shock and disbelief and pain that such cruelty could summon. “You’re firing me? You’re letting me go?”
“Oh yes. Absolutely.” Leo Jr. had smiled at that point.
Perhaps it was the smile, the certain enjoyment the son had displayed then, or perhaps it was the years of resentment and hate finally bubbling to the surface…Elliot would never know for sure, but he did know he would extract his revenge on the young bastard who sat grinning before him. He hated him at that moment as he had never hated anything in his life.
And it was only the beginning of the ordeal.
Every place where Elliot applied for work, having cited his managerial experience at Fordham’s Hardware, he was quickly denied employment. One prospective employer volunteered to Elliot that he had received a “less than glowing” reference from Leo Jr. It was apparent then, that it was not enough for the young son to simply dismiss Elliot in disgrace. No, Leo Jr. clearly intended to ruin him.
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