Ted was totally up for that.
So we got in my car later that night and drove over to Billy Sallee’s home on Spooky Nook road.
We parked at the end of the rural, two-lane road, then made our way on foot to the house. Spooky Nook Road is pretty far out in the country, and there are only half a dozen homes on its half-mile run. Across the road from the houses is farmland. Behind the homes are thick woods. Ted and I hiked over to Billy’s house and, once there, crept up to the house.
The windows were dark. I noticed a car parked in the driveway. By all outward appearances, though, I had the impression nobody was home.
Ted and I crept up to the side of the house, being as careful and quiet as we could. We stood still for a while, trying to get a sense if anybody was home.
It sure didn’t seem like it.
Ted grabbed my arm, pointed toward the ground, and I saw what he was getting at. There was a faint light coming from the basement.
We crept forward slowly and knelt by the basement window. The window was set at ground level. We could see a light emanating from somewhere within, and once we got close enough we began to hear the sounds.
I got down on my knees, shivering from the cold, and crawled to the window. I put my face to it, cupping my hands to the side of my eyes to see inside. Ted did the same. I really wasn’t worried about the repercussions should somebody—Mr. Sallee, or even Billy himself—come out and catch us. I could just claim that we knocked on the door and nobody came and we went around back to see if anybody was home. No big deal.
What we saw in the basement, though, almost made me bolt for the car right then.
Billy was in the basement, his back to us. He was in a room that was off the area we were peering in. There were candles lit everywhere. The candle flames cast iridescent shadows on the walls. They illuminated what we were seeing perfectly.
Billy was standing on the floor, his arms outstretched, head titled back. There was a big black book lying open on a podium, as if he was reading or reciting from it. There were candles on the floor. There was also a weird shape drawn on the wood floor, with strange symbols scrawled here and there. There were large scraps of paper with other symmetrical shapes and designs scrawled on them, with writing that appeared Arabic. I also saw bottles with different kinds of liquid resting on a bench nearby.
Then we heard the sounds.
It almost sounded like Billy was chanting.
And there was something in the atmosphere, too. Something that was heavy, and malevolent and dangerous. I could feel it closing in on me. It almost felt like some awful force was being conjured, that it was simply waiting for some kind of signal to unleash its damage.
Ted and I got the hell out of there.
We ran back to the car, got in, and drove away. As we headed toward town I kept telling Ted that we had to do something. What Billy was doing wasn’t right. Ted kept shaking his head, saying we can’t do anything about it. Billy wasn’t breaking the law, and it was we who were trespassing. He suggested we just leave it alone and not have anything to do with Billy ever again. I finally agreed.
(There is a pause on the tape, a couple of sighs, then what sounds like a sob. A moment later the narrator’s voice comes back.)
I didn’t see Billy for a long time after that. Over the past three winter breaks I inquired kinda casually around town to see if Billy was home, and he was. Billy always came home for the holidays. I never saw him, and I never went by his house after that incident, but I couldn’t help but think about him and what he was up to.
And then…this year…and what’s happening now…
I saw Billy a few days ago at the Freeze and Frizz hamburger stand on Broad Street. He was looking shabby still, and the people around him gave him a wide berth, like he had a bad odor or something. He was just so damn scary! It was like people subconsciously knew he was bad news and they stayed away.
Seeing him again got me to thinking about what he’d been up to the past few years, so when I got home I got on the computer and googled Miskatonic University. I found the school’s website and read as much about it as I could. It seemed like a good school. Good, upstanding academic record. Its alumni were well-respected scientists, physicians, lawyers, professors, and writers. I wasn’t finding much out on the university’s website, so I broadened my search to other sites. It was there that I found more than I’d ever wanted to know.
Arkham, Massachusetts. A place said to be cursed. Witch-haunted.
And Miskatonic University itself is said to house rare books in a special section of the library, under lock and key, with armed guards patrolling the grounds…books that are said to be dangerous. Books that are said to contain secrets and formulas that could spell the end of civilization as we know it should they fall into the wrong hands.
Naturally, I gravitated to those rumors and googled and googled until my brain reached saturation. I learned about the Necronomicon, of its author, the Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, of De Vermis Mysteriis, of Cultes des Goules and the Liber Demonorum and another book that had a similar name. I think it was just called the Daemonolatreia. These were ancient tomes kept under lock and key at the Miskatonic University library. I tried to find out what those books contained by further Google searches. There was a lot of speculation…a lot of wild guessing…but I couldn’t find any reliable source on what was in them. Everything I read, from message board postings to essays on the occult on various websites, said the same thing: the books were ancient volumes of magic and contained ancient histories of the Old Ones, inter-dimensional beings that came from beyond the spheres, other dimensions, way back when the earth was uninhabited by man. These Old Ones ruled the earth then and somehow got banished to the outer spheres, but the books are said to contain formulas and rituals that are supposed to appease them, to throw the gates open to allow them access to this world, that if the right words were spoken, when the stars were right, the angles would be shifted and the spheres would open, allowing them access.
And really…all I could do was put two and two together and…well, this is it. Billy Sallee somehow gained access to those books. How he did it, I can only speculate. He was smart. It wouldn’t surprise me if he rose so high in the academic ranks at Miskatonic that he was allowed occasional access to those volumes. He wouldn’t be allowed to take them off the premises, of course, but like I said…he was smart. He would know where to look, could memorize certain passages, and would then work in secret to apply what he’d learned with what else they were teaching him there. Things like advanced geometry and physics and string theory and…well, shit…think about it, man! If those books were right…and they had to be, otherwise why would they be guarded so heavily? If they were right…and knowing a little about physics and string theory…how there are inter-dimensions that lie within our own…all it takes is the right mathematical formula to penetrate it…it makes perfect sense that Billy would take advantage of the ending of the Great Cycle and everything happening because of it, like the new sunspots that are popping up on the sun now, and use that knowledge and the information in those books to open those inter-dimensional gates to release something—
(There’s another pause on the tape, accompanied by deep, gasping breaths. When the narrator’s voice comes back on he is on the verge of panic.)
None of this would have happened if I had done something to stop the bullying! Billy was teased and bullied all his life, made to feel like a loser and a scapegoat, and he suffered great emotional pain. And for that, he got even. What’s happening is Billy’s revenge against an uncaring world; one that never protected him, that always showed him scorn and ridicule. He did something to open those dimensions and release the Old Ones into our world, to wreak havoc and destroy us. That’s what those things are that are destroying the cities…that’s what those large, circular holes are in the ground behind Billy’s house. It’s an Old One…some slithering, invisible monstrosity that he conjured up…it’s what those booming noises I heard are…they�
��re footsteps. And these things…they’re spilling out of the break in the dimension into our world, and the more they come out, the bigger the hole they’re creating between dimensions…that’s why we’re seeing more of this havoc all over the world…it’s not just the ending of the Great Cycle, that’s part of it, sure, but Billy is using that natural occurrence to his advantage…the holes are getting bigger, and soon it’s going to be a flood and they’ll be everywhere and…ah, God, if I’d only done something to have stopped it!
(The tape clicks as if the recorder is switched off and on again. As the narrator’s voice resumes there’s static in the background and he’s crying.)
The power’s out everywhere! I can hear something outside! I can hear something walking outside…something that sounds big and it’s knocking down houses and I never saw my parents today, never saw them before they left to tell them I loved them and…oh God, it’s right outside the house—
(The audio ends at this point and never resumes.)
DETECTIVE’S STATEMENT:
The above narrative was created by a professional transcriptionist in the employ of the Lancaster City Police department, and transcribed into text format for easy analysis in the case of Joshua Collins of 434 E. Oak Lane, Lititz, PA. Joshua is a suspect in the murder of his parents, Brian and Dorothy Collins, who were discovered by neighbors on the morning of December 12, 2012 when they failed to meet them for a church function.
It is the opinion of the criminal psychiatrist who read and listened to the narrative, and examined Mr. Collins in the psychiatric wing of Lancaster County Prison, that Joshua Collins is not only delusional, but suffers from myriad mental disorders including paranoia, schizophrenia, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and various other manias. Joshua is currently under the care of Kerry Wilson, MD, a prominent psychiatrist hired by Mr. and Mrs. Collins’ estate. Dr. Becker, the criminal psych who examined him, concurs with Dr. Wilson. After talking with both psychiatrists, reading through all the evidence, viewing the crime scene, and talking to dozens of witnesses, I am inclined to side with the mental health professionals. Joshua Collins needs to be confined to a mental hospital, possibly for life. He does not deserve prison.
There are things in Joshua’s tape-recorded statement that need to be clarified with a grain of sanity and good old-fashioned truth. The first is obvious: Joshua Collins did pick on Billy Sallee. In fact, according to several witnesses, including Ted Gleason and Mr. Sallee himself, Joshua Collins was the catalyst; the ring-leader, if you will. While he might not have dished out the harshest of the bullying, he always instigated it, setting the wheels in motion, so to speak. He only stepped in occasionally to administer a cruel punch in the arm, a cold-hearted verbal jab, plant a cruel and vicious sign on the back of poor Billy Sallee and laugh with the rest of his moronic friends. So, despite Joshua Collins stating numerous times that he was the wonder boy who did nothing to stop the vicious teasing of Billy Sallee, that statement is a falsehood. Joshua was no wonder boy. He was part of the elite crowd, yes, but was by no means a golden choirboy.
Regarding the phenomenon Joshua describes in his narrative, including the reports of invisible monsters rampaging through his town and all over the world, the destruction of property, and the chaos he describes, they are falsehoods. The brief news excerpts we hear on the audio are from a science-fiction movie. The other sounds we hear are from other horror and science fiction movies he had playing on his computer when he recorded this tape. In short, there were no monsters bursting loose from other dimensions to destroy the world as he described. It was all an elaborate set-up built to feed his paranoia and delusions.
It is the belief of the psychiatrists and myself that extreme guilt festered in Joshua for years, building up until it manifested in his various mental ailments. Joshua was obviously guilt-ridden for his part in Billy Sallee’s years of mental torture. He not only managed to hide his guilt well, his psyche developed what Dr. Becker called an “alternate personality” to help deal with it. It was these various ailments that eventually led to Joshua’s mental disintegration and, ultimately, the murder of his parents.
I would like to add an interesting footnote to all this. Contrary to Joshua’s statements about Billy Sallee’s state of mind and physical appearance in his narrative, upon interviewing Mr. Sallee I found him to be not only calm and articulate, but also well groomed and handsome. His high school senior class photo shows a boy who looks somewhat awkward, perhaps, but it is obvious to myself and the other investigating officers that Mr. Sallee shed that image and blossomed into a fine young man. Mr. Sallee admitted to me that he was painfully shy as a child and was, indeed, deeply hurt by the teasing he endured, but he obviously developed courage and a sense of spirit at Miskatonic. Perhaps leaving his home environment helped. Whatever the case, Mr. Sallee does not resemble the strange, shambling, unkempt figure Joshua Collins describes in his testimony. Mr. Sallee not only comes across as a courageous, if not outgoing and confident young man, but one who is well-groomed and pleasant in appearance. Currently a Physics student at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts (and on a whim, I investigated Joshua’s claims about the so-called forbidden books that are said to be housed at the University’s library; the head librarian told me they do keep rare books—including the Necronomicon, which he says is merely an ancient history book—and that they rarely allow access to them because of their rare state, not because they’re dangerous), Mr. Sallee plans to pursue PhD studies there as well.
I think the only thing that Joshua Collins was correct about in his rambling, chaotic statement was what the officers and I found in the woods behind the Sallee home during our preliminary investigation, which very well could have triggered this latest and fatal outburst of violence.
Starting from the perimeter of the Sallee backyard and leading into the woods beyond are several large, circular impressions in the ground.
The Man Who Had a Death Wish
(with G. W. Thomas)
The original version of this story was not only longer, it had no supernatural elements in it. I’d always wanted to write a western, and the early version of this story was my first attempt at that genre. Of course, it turned out rather dark and I had no idea what to do with it.
It wasn’t until I showed the story to Gary Thomas that he suggested we collaborate on it. Gary and I had talked about collaborating before, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. It was Gary’s idea to introduce the Lovecraftian elements into this story, and as far as I can tell it’s the first of its kind—a Lovecraftian western. We bounced this story back and forth for multiple drafts and the end result was drastically different from that first version. Our combined re-writing turned it into an entirely new and different tale. It was also now more unsaleable than ever, but what the hell—it was the most unique piece of fiction I’d written or collaborated on up to that point, so I was happy.
Its length and overall weirdness made it a tough sale. Fortunately Brian Keene, then the fiction editor at Horrofind.com, liked the piece enough to want to buy it and publish it. Since its original publication, it’s been reprinted a number of times in other magazines and anthologies, making it one of my most reprinted stories.
* * *
“Mr. Jenkins. I want you to kill me.”
Pete Jenkins looked up from a full straight and his whiskey glass. The statement came from a disheveled, dripping wet man dressed in ragged blue jeans, a white open throat shirt, a tan leather vest, and boots. Outside it was cold and raining hard from a fierce storm. The hat the stranger wore was worn and dirty with wet dust. His mustache was long and scraggly, his face stubbled with three days growth of beard. His clothes were dirty and large sweat stains had spread under the arms of his shirt, still visible from the wetness of the rain. It looked like he had traveled a long distance.
Jenkins rose to his feet. The stranger backed away, dragging his boots in the dirt. Pete was a little on edge, as he always was when somebody he didn’t know came int
o town asking for him. It usually meant a confrontation, the other man coming into town to prove his prowess by challenging Pete to a gunfight. Pete had a reputation throughout the West as one of the toughest men around.
“What did you say?” he asked, standing up straight. Behind him, his friends rose to their feet, hands at their holsters, ready for trouble.
The stranger looked at Pete with bloodshot eyes that had a haunted look. His voice, when he spoke, was low, but strong. “I just want one thing, Mr. Jenkins. I want you to kill me.”
The request hung in the air for a moment in the silence. Pete couldn’t believe his ears. He’d heard some crazy requests in his time, but none as crazy as this.
Pete broke the silence with a laugh, turning to his friends who joined him. The half dozen or so men who were in the bar when the stranger walked in joined them in their laughter. Only one man did not join in. A tall, dark man with one leg-tied holster who drank alone at the other end of the bar. He looked up at the stranger for the first time, then went back to minding his own business.
“Well now, that has got to be the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” Pete Jenkins pushed his hat back up on his head and regarded the stranger. He stood with his hands on his hips, eyeing the stranger with interest. “You want me to kill you?”
“I’ve heard that you are the best shot in the entire Wyoming territory,” the stranger said. “Best in the entire West, actually. I heard your name in Boston when I got back to the United States, and started hearing it more and more on my trip west. Especially in Kansas and Colorado. You have quite a reputation there.”
Pete Jenkins chuckled, glancing at his buddies as they joined him. “Well, I guess I do now, don’t I?” It was true. At thirty-four years of age, Pete Jenkins had gunned down more men than years he had lived. Wrestlers, gamblers, even honest men, it made no difference. If Pete came gunning, the other man ended face down in the dirt. He wore two colts in polished holsters. He was equally deadly with a Henry rifle or a Winchester. In a standup fight he would always come out the better man, though he had no problem with dry-gulching a man or shooting him in the back.
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