I stopped the truck and stared at the little league field where I had first learned to play baseball. My father had been my first coach. He’d shown me how to field a grounder and lay down a bunt.
On the move again, I crossed over Winter’s Run where Sam and I used to fish with our friends for perch and sunnies and catfish, and where we would swim on hot summer days, swinging from an old tire and hurling ourselves into the deepest part of the creek. I remembered when I had landed wrong and cracked my head open on a rock one Fourth of July. Sam had carried me home over his shoulder for almost a mile. Mom had almost fainted when we’d walked in the front door, both of us covered in my blood.
I followed the winding road parallel to the creek for another couple of miles and reached the old wooden Hanson Road Bridge at five minutes before midnight. I pulled to the dirt shoulder and parked and turned off my headlights, and when my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could just make out the silhouette of a car parked on the opposite side of the bridge. I couldn’t tell what make it was or if there was anyone inside, but it didn’t matter. I knew whose car it was.
He had gotten my message.
****
I climbed out of the truck and stood at the mouth of the bridge, searching for movement. I could hear the rush of water flowing over the rocks below, and the familiar smell of creek mud and algae bloom greeted me. High overhead, the breeze shifted and a sliver of moonbeam filtered down through the trees.
I had kissed my first girl standing on this bridge: Carol Burnside. I’d been fourteen years old and head-over-heels in love with my next-door neighbor. Six months later, her family moved to Pennsylvania and I never spoke to her again.
I started walking across the bridge, slowly, eyes scanning, when a voice came from the darkness: “Charlie, is that you?”
I froze. “Sam?”
I heard footsteps on gravel and my big brother walked into view. His hair was cut short and he was wearing a gray suit minus the tie. I was surprised—and annoyed—to realize he looked younger than me.
He smiled nervously. I could tell he didn’t know whether to shake my hand or hug me. Instead, he did neither. He just stood there, staring. “It’s good to see you. I couldn’t believe it when I heard your message.”
“It was you,” I said, getting right to business. “You followed me that night.”
The smile vanished.
“All these years…you must think I’m so fucking stupid.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid, Charlie.”
I put a hand up. “Shut up, okay. Just…shut up. It’s your turn to listen.”
He nodded and looked at the ground.
“That night you came into my room…you told me ‘The best thing that could happen is for you to go away and never come back again.’ I thought it was a warning, but it wasn’t, was it?” I clenched and unclenched my fists. “It was a promise.”
“I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t listen—”
“You followed me that night,” I said. “You were the one who called the police.”
“You almost killed a man.”
“It was an accident. I was trying to get away.”
“I knew you were using again during winter break. I saw the signs and I didn’t know what to do.”
“I wasn’t using!” I screamed in his face, and he jerked back from me, shielding himself with his arm like I was going to hit him.
I wanted to. More than anything. I wanted to choke him and throw him off the damn bridge. “I haven’t touched drugs in over seven years, not since that night in college.”
“That’s great, Charlie. It really is.”
“I knew someone was following me. I even doubled back and checked, but I didn’t see anyone.” My shoulders sagged. “You called the police on your own damn brother.”
Sam looked down at his feet again. “I’m sorry.”
I laughed then. I couldn’t help it. “You’re sorry?” I held my arms up toward the sky. “Hear that, everyone? He’s sorry!”
“Charlie—”
“All these years, not one visit, not even a phone call or a fucking postcard.”
He was crying now. “I wrote letters—”
“Bullshit.”
“I did. I wrote lots of them…I just couldn’t get up the nerve to mail them. I still have them, Charlie. Hidden in my office. You can read them if you want.”
“No, thanks,” I snarled. I felt the heat rise in my face and my hands curled into fists again. I took a step toward him.
“I don’t care what you do to me,” he said, holding his ground, “but will you please wait until after the funeral to tell Mom?” He wiped his nose with his suit sleeve. “She’s fragile. I don’t think she can handle any more right now.”
I was trying to decide whether to floor him or tell him to go to hell when Virgil’s voice whispered inside my head: Accept the fact that other people—other good people—also make mistakes.
I hesitated. Sometimes big ones.
I lowered my hands. You have to forgive and move on.
I turned and started walking away, slowly counting to ten inside my head. That big heart of yours will lead you to good things soon enough.
“You won’t say anything, right, Charlie?” he called out from behind me, his voice edged with panic.
I waved a hand in his direction, but I didn’t turn around and I didn’t stop walking until I reached the truck.
****
I made a left on Cherry Avenue and followed the familiar winding curve up over the hill and there it was in the distance.
Home.
My breath caught in my throat and my eyes welled with sudden tears. I quickly wiped them away.
The lights were on in the kitchen, and I could see my mother’s favorite rose-covered curtains still hanging in the window.
As I pulled into the driveway, a second light turned on upstairs—in my old bedroom—and I saw a dark shadow flit across the window. My mother was still awake.
I sat inside the truck for a minute, gathering myself, and then I grabbed my knapsack and got out. Crickets whirred in the open fields around me and although I hadn’t noticed a single one while I had been driving, dozens—maybe hundreds—of fireflies danced in the night sky, blinking their tiny yellow-green lights.
I turned in a slow circle, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, staring with astonishment. I had never seen such a sight in my entire life.
Sometimes I think God creates something special just to remind us that the world is beautiful, that magic still exists.
I slowly reached out and caught a firefly in the palm of my hand. It blinked a friendly hello to me and fluttered away.
Fireflies are magic?
I walked to the other side of the truck and gazed into the back yard where I could just make out the dark shape of an old picnic table sitting next to Mom’s garden.
I think so, Charlie. I really do.
For a fleeting moment, I thought I glimpsed two figures sitting there, and then they were gone.
When I turned back to the house, the front door was standing open and my mother was hurrying down the porch stairs.
I dropped my knapsack and ran to her.
STORY
NOTES
You know the drill, folks.
For those readers who enjoy learning about “the story behind the story,” these Notes are for you. So pull up a chair and have a seat, and let’s talk a bit. I have a few more secrets I want to tell you.
And if you’re one of those readers who would rather just stick to the stories themselves, hey, that’s okay, too. Go right ahead and ignore these little afterwords and dive right into that next book on your To Read pile. If it’s anything like mine, it’s about head-high off the floor and tottering.
Finally, regardless of which camp you f
ind yourself in, please wait to read these Story Notes until after you have read the stories themselves. There are spoilers lurking in the shadows ahead.
THE MAN BEHIND THE MASK — This story originally appeared on my website (cleverly located at RichardChizmar.com, for the curious among you); this is its first appearance in book form.
I’ve often wondered what happens to survivors of serial killers after they manage to escape or are rescued. The personal journeys and obstacles they must endure and overcome in order to once again become healthy, functioning human beings in today’s society. I’ve thought a lot about the tornado of emotions they must experience on a daily basis. The guilt and regret; the memories and fears; the hopes and dreams.
“The Man Behind the Mask” is the result of all those dark musings. I like this story a lot, despite its horrific ending. I adore and admire the main character, Jennifer Shea. She certainly deserves a better fate than the one I gave her. As for the story’s conclusion, I don’t know that I’ve ever written a more disturbing final act. I shuddered when I first wrote it, and I’m wincing right now just thinking about it.
THE BAD GUYS — This short tale first appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (you can read more about my affection for the magazine in the first of two essays, which appear later in this collection). The story itself came very quickly (a single sitting at the keyboard) and, as does much of my fiction, explores the thin line that exists between “the good guys” and “the bad guys.” Just as with real life, it’s often hard to tell the difference. I thought a lot about my dear old friend, Ed Gorman, as I wrote this story. I sure miss you, Ed.
THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT… — Many of my stories focus on the horrors and dark secrets that lurk in normal, everyday suburban neighborhoods. I’ve always found “the monster next door” a whole lot more terrifying than vampires or zombies or any other type of supernatural creature. These folks are usually evil and clever as hell, and unless we catch a break and their masks slip, we often never find out the truth about them until it’s too late.
“The Meek Shall Inherit…” is an example of too late. The neighborhood in the story is the neighborhood I grew up in. Jimmy and Brian are real life kids that lived on my street. Best friends—brothers—I am still close with today. I hope they forgive me their part in this dark adventure.
SILENT NIGHT — I’m a big kid at heart, and I love the holidays. Halloween, Christmas, Thanksgiving; you name it, and I’m a fan. But I’ve also—from a very early age—always recognized the darker shadows that permeate these special days. The sense of melancholy and loneliness and despair that often walks hand-in-hand with the joy and celebration. It’s simply more difficult for some people to hide the truth—from themselves as well as others—during the holiday season. Just thinking about it breaks my heart.
We are never provided with the main character’s name or true identity in this story—both victims of the long ago sacrifice he made in order to protect his family. Throughout, he is only referred to as “the man.” Somber and laced with regret, “Silent Night” is a different kind of ghost story.
WIDOW’S POINT — For me, 2017 was the year of the collaboration. First there was Gwendy’s Button Box, co-written with Stephen King. This coming-of-age novella was a blast to write (understatement of the year), and surprised all of us by landing on the New York Times bestseller list for a month and selling all around the world. I’m grateful for every second of the experience and hope to do it again one day.
But, believe it or not, there was a second collaboration that meant even more to me.
When Mark Parker (editor/owner of Scarlet Galleon Publications) asked me to write a horror story involving the sea for his Fearful Fathoms anthology, two thoughts came immediately to mind: 1) I want to write about a haunted lighthouse; and 2) I wonder if my son, Billy, would be interested in writing with me.
Billy, eighteen at the time, had already sold several short horror stories and essays to pro-level publications, so I knew the idea of haunted sea tales would appeal to him. But writing alongside his old man? That I wasn’t so sure of.
Fortunately, he dug the idea, and we soon set off on our adventure. I sat down and wrote the opening of the story, establishing our main character and the initial history of the Widow’s Point Lighthouse. Billy took it from there, lending the story his own unique flavor and helping the characters and setting come to vibrant life. We traded sections back and forth for a couple weeks—added, subtracted, rewrote, polished—and, before we knew it, we had a completed story. We sent it off to Mark Parker and, to our relief, he loved the story and gave it a place of honor in his anthology. It is reprinted here for the first time.
But Billy and I weren’t quite finished yet.
“Widow’s Point” refused to leave me alone, even after it was published. The history of the lighthouse, the spirits that roamed within its stone walls…they kept lingering in my thoughts, whispering to me, calling to me.
One afternoon, I texted Billy and told him I didn’t think we were finished with the story, that I believed there was more to tell. To my surprise, he replied that he had been feeling the exact same way. In short order, we decided to expand the story into a full-length novella. The writing came fast and furious. We called it our “everything but the kitchen sink” story (because we giddily crammed just about everything we could think of into the narrative), and had so much fun from start to finish. When we were done, we knew we hadn’t reinvented the wheel, but felt we had crafted a compelling and truly unsettling page-turner.
A slim hardcover edition of Widow’s Point was published in January 2018. To father and son’s delight, sales and reviews were strong, and foreign rights were soon sold to numerous countries, including England, Germany, Italy, and Bulgaria. Audio rights recently sold here in the States, and a film adaptation is currently in the works. Finally, there are now plans for a prequel and a sequel to Widow’s Point, and I can’t wait to get started.
MY FATHER AND ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE — Not much to say about this one that isn’t covered in the original essay. My father was a quiet man. A reader, a thinker, a tinkerer (his garage workshop was a magical place when I was a kid), the hardest working and best man I’ve ever known. He (along with my mother) supported me every step of the way, even as I ignored my college degree to start a small publishing company at age twenty-one. He was and will always be my hero.
THE WITCH — I’ve written several stories featuring Frank and Ben, my two favorite police detectives. “Night Call” and “Night Shift” appeared in my last collection, A Long December, and two more appear in this one.
For the record, I love Halloween. I love everything about it—the old-fashioned traditions and set pieces, and even all of the modern gaudiness and flash. But I’m a pretty simple guy. Give me some spooky music and homemade decorations, and I’m a happy man. Throw in a pillowcase full of candy to dig through, and a pocket full of candy corn to throw at the cars that drive too fast through my neighborhood on Halloween night, and I’m downright giddy.
A few readers have commented that “The Witch” is almost an anti-Halloween story, but it’s truly not intended to be. Frank Logan can be a cranky SOB. I blame him.
A NIGHTMARE ON ELM LANE — As noted earlier, I write a lot about suburban neighborhoods. I grew up in one in the small town of Edgewood, Maryland, and it was a pretty wonderful experience. Think Kevin Arnold and The Wonder Years, and you’ll get a fairly accurate picture of what it was like for me. My best friends lived right up the street. We walked to school together. Trick-or-treated together. Had more sleepovers than I can count. We spent our summers playing outside all day—whiffle ball, marbles, kick the can, flashlight tag, trading baseball cards, fishing, exploring, shooting BB guns, building forts, throwing crab apples at cars. We had our haunted house (The Myers’ House), our grumpy neighbors, our weird neighbors, our bullies, and we even had our wrong side of the tracks.
It was an idyllic place to grow up, but it wasn’t perfect.
And I recognized that from a very early age.
Even as a young boy, I scanned the local newspaper (we only had one). I read about the thefts, the assaults, the small town scandals. I saw the burn-outs selling weed outside of the pool hall and noticed the bruises on some of my friends (not my closest friends, thank God, but guys—and girls—from the next street or block over).
I remember walking home by myself many nights and imagining what life was like for the people who lived inside the houses I passed. I saw lights glowing in windows or televisions flickering on dark curtains, and made up stories about the people inside my head.
A lot of these houses hold secrets, I remember thinking. How well do we really know our neighbors? We wave hello to them, beep our car horns as we drive past, maybe share a hot dog and a soda at a neighborhood cook-out, but how well do we really know them?
What might they be hiding inside those walls? In their dark basements and dusty attics and locked bedrooms? What might they have buried in their back yards…?
DIRTY COPPERS — I miss Ed Gorman every day, as a friend and mentor and writer. I’ve written a lot about Ed in the past—both while he was still with us and after he passed away—so I won’t repeat myself here. Just know this, if it weren’t for Ed, I probably wouldn’t be writing and publishing today. He, along with Steve King, are pretty much my guardian angels in this crazy business, and I will always be in their debt.
When I first began to assemble this collection, I realized that I hadn’t read “Dirty Coppers” since it was originally published back in 1997. Twenty long years ago. That’s a long time for more experienced eyes to look back on a piece of fiction. After two decades, words tend to grow moldy, their vibrancy and clarity lost in a maze of cobwebs. So I had no idea what to expect when I pulled out the manuscript, but the very last thing I would’ve predicted were tears in my eyes.
The tears didn’t come because I had rediscovered that “Dirty Coppers” was a classic piece of sci-fi/noir fiction (trust me, it’s not) or because it was a complete embarrassment (it’s not that, either). The tears came because, for about an hour on that Sunday evening while I turned the pages, my dear old friend was alive again. Sitting there at my side, reading our story in that deep, sarcastic voice of his, laughing that wonderful gruff laugh of his. Ed Gorman, my guardian angel, teaching me again. Even now.
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