That hadn’t sat too well with Herman either, and he was almost ready to punch the hippie freak’s face when his friend had come out. And then another friend had come out, and the three of them had just pissed him off so much, and he was already over an hour late to the audition, that he’d just said fuck it, and let the thing go. The tow truck driver left after he’d signed the paperwork, and he’d gone off to his audition only to be shut out of it. All because he was late and hadn’t gotten in before the door was closed.
He’d really thrown a fit then, and he supposed maybe he lost control. Just a little bit. He’d yelled and screamed, pounded the walls with his fists and kicked the door until it was flung open and a huge, burly guy who looked like a Viking Hell's Angel glared out. Herman had almost stomped over to vent his anger at being shut out when he saw how big the guy was—at least six foot nine and as wide as a house—and decided not to. The guy told him if he didn’t shut up and get out now, he was going to squeeze his skinny neck so hard that what passed for his brains would explode out of his skull. Herman got out.
So he’d gone to a bar on Ventura Boulevard and pounded back a few, simmering in his bad luck and anger. It had started out as a bad day, true, but it could have turned out all right if only that asshole longhair hadn’t made him late to the audition. If he’d been to the audition on time, things would have turned out a lot better, even if he hadn’t wound up with the part.
Herman ordered a beer—his third in the last forty minutes—and sat at the bar brooding. Yes, if that nameless idiot back at that bookstore hadn’t parked him in, everything would have been fine. Where do morons like that get off on thinking they could just park people in, in public parking lots? And who the hell did that redneck hick buddy of his that came out to defend him get off on thinking it was his parking lot? Maybe he owned the bookstore, but the parking lot couldn’t have been his, too. And so what if the signs posted said that parking was for bookstore patrons only? He’d gone into bookstores before, maybe not that particular bookstore, but he’d been intending to before today's incident. That would have made him a patron eventually. After today, the assholes that owned that flea trap excuse for a bookstore would be lucky if he set foot in their place of business.
Fortunately, the drinks helped calm him down. He was still pissed about today’s incident, but the booze helped him reel it in. He’d almost come to blows twice today, and he didn’t need to get into any trouble in a bar. Especially when he was drinking.
Once he was calmed down enough, he left the bar and drove home. He was especially careful driving home. He didn’t want to be pulled over, and with his luck he’d end up in jail tonight on DUI charges.
But he didn’t.
He got home twenty minutes later and noted with dismay that Erica wasn’t home. He’d hoped she’d be home because he was horny now and nothing genuinely calmed him down after a truly stressful day, like a really good fuck. But he remembered Erica had work today—three days in a fairly good part in some movie that was being shot up north—and he let himself in the house and headed straight for the bar. He was glad he’d met Erica three weeks ago; she was much nicer than Debbie, and she put out far more, too. That was the main reason he’d dumped Debbie in the first place; she just didn’t know what her place in their relationship was, and she still had the nerve to sue him for it. Well, he’d show her as soon as he landed on his feet and started getting good parts.
He grabbed a cold beer from the refrigerator and headed toward the back, slipping out the sliding glass door and onto the large porch. The rear of the house overlooked a small canyon that was nestled deep in the Hollywood Hills. Erica was renting the place from a producer friend of hers, and it was prime real estate. It was the place to live if you were in the business; it was split-level, three bedrooms, large living room/den, kitchen, two baths and garage. Their back deck overlooked a large yard that sloped downward for about fifty yards and ended in somebody else's yard farther down. Lined above them were other houses, all around the canyon. On nights like this, when the air was warm, buffeted by cool breezes, it was quite beautiful. He liked to sit out here on the deck, drink a few beers, smoke a few joints and just chill out.
Which was what he was doing now. He didn’t have any grass, but he had some brew and he could still enjoy himself. He leaned back in the lawn chair and drank up, relaxing, letting his mind drift away from the horrible day he’d had, the incident with that idiot at the bookstore, that—
He blinked and sat up in his chair. The sky was almost dark now, and despite the smog in the air the stars were very visible. He thought he’d seen something strange in the sky over the canyon and had just dismissed it from his mind when he saw it again.
It was a strange light, or so it seemed. He sat up in the lawn chair, gazing up at the sky, squinting, trying to get a good look at it. It looked like an effect from one of those cheesy science fiction/horror movies depicting alien invasions; it hovered in the air, a bright glow that seemed to be gaining brightness as it gained solidity. Herman shook his head and looked at the thing, hardly believing what he was seeing. He stood up, still looking at it as it churned and roiled in the air above him. It was about a hundred feet up, roiling and twisting like a strange funnel cloud. The atmosphere in the canyon seemed to grow still suddenly, the air growing leaden, crackling with energy. Herman’s mouth dropped open in astonishment as the thing solidified into what resembled a solid mass. It was still difficult to determine what it was, but as it grew it began to descend until it was thirty feet over the back deck. The air had grown warm and heavy with unharnessed energy. Herman was rooted to the spot; part of him wanted to bolt from the deck into the house, but the other part of him watched with grim fascination. The thing was now a shape, hunched and slimy with what appeared to be dozens of wavering tentacles flapping lazily in the still air. Herman was still trying to figure out what he could be witnessing when he was lurched off his feet into the air.
He screamed, but the sound was stifled. He flew through the air toward the thing and stopped, feeling the cold air of the canyon on his back. Something seemed to be holding him there, something invisible with incredible force. He struggled against its grip, feeling invisible slime coating him where it was gripping him. A low croaking noise rose from the thing, droning like the buzzing of a swarm of bees. He could dimly make out the house he shared with Erica some thirty feet below him, and the canyon and other houses even farther below, and the dim impression of the San Fernando nightlife stretched out before him, when he felt a sharp pain in his throat.
He gurgled and saw the heavy spurt of blood that geysered out of him like a fountain. He tried to move his hands up to his throat to stop it, but he couldn’t move his arms. They were pinned in place, held out on either side of him, immobilized. There was no pain, but he could feel himself growing weak as his lifeblood poured out of him. But what caused him to go over the edge, to go utterly mad, was that the blood didn’t appear to be falling into the canyon below. Instead it seemed to be spurting up into that squirming, pulsating shape of tentacles that had him in its embrace and splashing into a funnel shaped mouth affixed on the thing. The greedy slurping noises arising from above him created one more burst of adrenaline-tinged struggle to save himself, but he was already weakened from loss of blood. He struggled once, then lay back in the invisible embrace and watched as his blood hit the greedy mouth, only to be sucked noisily away.
His horror stricken eyes continued looking at the thing even after he was dead.
* * *
Excerpt from book review of the anthology DARK SHAPES, edited by Michael Morrison, hc, Gravespawn Press, 415 pgs, $29.95, trade edition; $70.00 signed, limited edition, as it appeared in the trade horror magazine Screams!
…but the prize tale in this anthology has to be Steve Walsh’s: The Revenge of Cthulhu. In this story, Walsh once again proves that he is the best writer of Lovecraftian horror to come along since Lovecraft himself. And while I may offend longtime fans of HPL, please
be assured that in no way am I blaspheming the master by suggesting that Walsh writes Cthulhu Mythos tales better than Lovecraft ever did in his prime. The reason? Just as Stephen King has an uncanny knack for portraying your everyday Jane/Joe and putting them in inexplicable, horrible incidents that turn their lives inside out, thus giving the reader somebody they can relate to intimately, so does Walsh have the same ability to create Mythos fiction with the same finesse. You won’t see any reclusive, scholarly types in Walsh’s Mythos fiction, no crumbling New England homes, no half-breed seaside villagers. In Walsh’s Cthulhu Mythos tales, the average American is placed in a situation utilizing Lovecraft’s cosmic creations that bring the creatures themselves more to life, thus making them more horrifying, more three dimensional. Unlike other Lovecraft pastiches, there are no references to Lovecraft, or the work of any of his later imitators (Bloch, Long, Campbell, et al) as a springboard to perhaps explain why these unnatural events are happening. They are just simply happening. Walsh has found a way to utilize these creatures in modern times without having to rely on their Gothic background. It’s no wonder why Walsh’s novels and stories of Lovecraftian horror have found a wider audience (some ten million in the last three years) than Lovecraft himself ever had since his death.
In “The Revenge of Cthulhu” we are introduced to Herman Alexander, a struggling actor who…
Holes
This story appears here for the first time. I got to thinking about the Mayan Calendar and how it ends December 21, 2012. I’m fascinated by ancient myths, religions, and cultures. I also love conspiracy theories. I got to thinking about the Mayan Calendar, and small town life, and this story just kind of came together like it was meant to be.
I might add that it’s the first of all my Mythos fiction to actually utilize all of the standard archetypes. You know, Arkham, Miskatonic University, the whole milieu Lovecraft worked with. Previously, I’d only utilized the concept Lovecraft presented in his work, the general theme that we as a species are just specks of dust in an uncaring universe with the notion that there are beings out there who can obliterate us if they so much as sneeze or fart. With “Holes” I wanted to go whole hog and pretend I was back in 1937 writing this for Weird Tales.
* * *
Editor’s note: The following is a transcription from a tape-recorded message. It has been reproduced here by a professional transcriptionist for easy reading.
It’s cold outside. Winter is here and, according to the newscasters, this is already proving to be the harshest winter in this part of the state.
(A heavy sigh on the tape. The sound of a chair squeaking.)
I guess I better get started.
Just a moment ago I heard a heavy booming. It sounded like something very large and heavy tramping through the forest behind my house. I took a peek outside, of course, but didn’t see anything.
The booming was so heavy I could feel the ground vibrate.
I sat listening for ten minutes as the sound receded in the distance. I kept waiting for police sirens, or maybe the sound of somebody heading outside to investigate, but I saw and heard nothing else. Just those heavy, tramping footsteps.
Because it sounded like they’d started near the Sallee home, I put my heavy winter coat on, headed outside, got into dad’s car, and drove over there real quick. The Sallee place is only half a mile from where I live.
The Sallee house looked empty when I got there. Looked like Billy’s parents were gone.
Billy, of course, was probably home for winter break, like I was.
There was no way I was going to go knock on the door to find out.
Instead, I parked the car on the side of the road and trudged through the ankle deep snow to the woods that bordered the Sallee house in the back. I kept well out of the perimeter of their property—old man Sallee is one of those gun nuts and has those NO TRESPASSING signs nailed up around his property. I made my way through the back and into the woods and started looking around, wondering if what I’d heard just ten minutes earlier had been a figment of my imagination.
It wasn’t. I saw it about fifty yards away from the Sallee back yard.
There was a large path through the woods made by dozens of circular impressions. The impressions sank well into the snow, making firm prints about six inches into the frozen soil beneath.
Whatever it was, it was heavy.
(Pause on the tape.)
And as I stood there, shivering in the cold night, my breath misting in front of me, I swear I could still hear it. Its footsteps moving farther and farther away from me. Judging from the distance, it had to be in town by now.
But nobody saw it. I heard no screams, no crashing cars.
Just those footsteps growing fainter.
I don’t even want to begin to think of what it might be.
* * *
(At this point the narrator must have turned the tape recorder off and then resumed again due to the audible clicking noise.)
I’m back in my house. God, I never want to see something like that again.
Okay, I’m going to start everything over from the beginning.
My name’s Josh Collins. I’m twenty-one years old. I will turn twenty-two on January 21st, 2013, which is a little under a month away. I live in a dorm room on the Penn State campus in State College, Pennsylvania, but I spend my winter and summer break at my folk’s house in Lititz, Pennsylvania, where I grew up. I’m at my parent’s house now, in my old bedroom, narrating this all into a little voice recorder. My parents are at some Christmas party tonight for my dad’s company. He’s a Purchasing Director at a manufacturing firm in Lancaster, so it’s pretty much mandatory he attends a company Christmas party, you know?
I’m an only child. And like I said, I grew up here. Went to Warwick High School, graduated top of my class in 2009. Got a scholarship to Penn State and am majoring in Engineering.
Anyway, I don’t want to tell you about myself, although I think I need to give you some of my background so you know where I come from. Who I really need to tell you about is Billy Sallee.
I grew up with Billy. He’s an only child, too. Only he and I are light years apart in so many ways.
I don’t mean to brag, but…I was a very popular guy in high school. I was on the track team, on the debate team, held various student body positions, and maintained a 4.0 grade average. I also managed to hold down a part-time job at Stauffer’s, the local grocery store, throughout my senior year. I did volunteer work in the community, all to raise my profile for the college recruiters, but also because I liked it. Yeah, I admit it…I like helping people. I know that’s kinda strange in this day and age, especially with people my age, but it’s true. I helped out at the local senior center, the local rec center. I did all kinds of things for the community.
And again…not to brag or anything, but I had a social life. I had friends. I had dates. I had a steady girlfriend in my senior year. Her name was Heather Watkins. She was a cheerleader, and unlike a lot of cheerleaders I knew, Heather actually had some smarts. She’s a junior at Millersville University now, majoring in Biology.
Billy Sallee was smart, too. Like me, he maintained a 4.0 grade average.
Unlike me, Billy Sallee had always been a social outcast.
Billy’s parents were middle-class, like my folks. And while I think they loved him, I don’t think they really paid attention to him. I also think they coddled him too much. I remember when we were in kindergarten, his mother always sent him to school with notes to the teacher; she didn’t want Billy to play on the monkey bars because he was clumsy and she was afraid he’d hurt himself; she didn’t want him to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because peanut butter made him break out in a rash. It got to the point that the other kids immediately sensed Billy was not like everybody else, that he was Special. Therefore, he became a target.
You know how kids are. Kids can be cruel.
Billy became the butt of everybody’s jokes. He was teased. Harassed. Humiliated. L
aughed at.
Oh, the teachers tried to put a stop to it, of course. Kids got in trouble. But the teasing never stopped. Not really.
Despite that, Billy did great in school academically. Like I said, he was smart. He was a whiz at math and science.
Because of the teasing he got throughout elementary school, he was painfully shy. It also didn’t help that his mother dressed him in the morning. His parent’s fashion sense wasn’t very becoming to him. If the word “geek” had a picture in the dictionary, Billy’s face would be featured prominently. When adolescence set in, Billy’s eyesight went south and he was fitted with glasses that magnified his eyeballs. His teeth were crooked (for some reason his parents never got him braces), he had bad acne, his hair was cut in a really awful haircut that suggested the barber (or his mother) had stuck a cereal bowl on his head and simply cut around the rim. Yeah, Billy was an outcast all right. And it might not sound like such a big deal, but you weren‘t there. Billy Sallee wasn’t just teased…he was tormented.
The examples are too numerous to mention. I can’t count how many times Billy was sent home from school crying. And not just little whimpering crying either, but outright bawling. The kids just picked and picked at him, finding all his vulnerable spots, and Billy never once fought back. I don’t know why he never fought back, although I have my suspicions. That probably had to do with his parents admonishing him to never make a fuss about things, to never call attention to himself, to not do anything that would embarrass them.
You know…things like fighting back, maybe getting suspended from school for the trouble. God forbid some school administrator thought badly about Billy’s parents because he’d gotten into one schoolyard fight.
So instead, he suffered and never spoke out.
He was called every name in the book. He was called four-eyes. When we were thirteen he was called Chipmunk, for his teeth and his high-pitched squeaky voice. Pizza face was another common nickname when he got zits. Fishy was another nickname. At first I didn’t know why the kids called him Fishy. He was skinny, for one thing. Skeletor would have been more appropriate. One time I asked James Chapman why that particular nickname was given to Billy. “Because when he starts crying he breathes like a fish,” James said. “His mouth kind of goes like this.” He demonstrated, his lips turning into an “O” as he mock-gasped for breath and mock-sobbed at the same time, his eyes wide and bugged-out, giving the appearance of a fish looking out at you from an aquarium or something. The other kids that were gathered around us at lunchtime laughed at this demonstration. I didn’t laugh. I thought it was pathetic.
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