The John Maclay
Page 1
Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
INTRODUCTION, by John Maclay
NEW YORK NIGHT
A YOUNGER WOMAN
LYNN
NIKKI
THE ONE THING TO FEAR
WIDOWED
TOM RUDOLPH’S LAST TAPE
STARDOM
MAX
THE HOLE
WHO WALKS AT NIGHT
THE GREEN GLASS BOTTLE
AN IRON MAIDEN
LATE LAST NIGHT
IF IT’S ALL THE SAME TO YOU
The MEGAPACK® Ebook Series
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
The John Maclay MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2017 by John Maclay. All rights reserved.
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The “MEGAPACK®” series name is a registered trademark of Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved.
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These stories originally appeared in the following publications:
“New York Night” originally appeared in Urban Horrors, Dark Harvest, DAW Books. Copyright © 1990 by John Maclay.
“A Younger Woman” originally appeared in Borderlands I, Avon, 1990. Copyright © 1990 by John Maclay.
“Lynn” originally appeared in Dreadful Delineations, Delirium Press. Copyright © 2004 by John Maclay.
“The One Thing to Fear” originally appeared in Footsteps VII. copyright © 1986 by John Maclay.
“Widowed” originally appeared in Divagations, Delirium. Copyright © 2008 by John Maclay.
“Tom Rudolph’s Last Tape” originally appeared in Vampire Detectives, DAW Books. Copyright © 1995 by John Maclay.
“Max” originally appeared in Shadow Show, Morrow. Copyright © 2012 by John Maclay.
“The Hole” originally appeared in Shivers 3, CD Publications. Copyright © 2004 by John Maclay.
“Who Walks at Night” originally appeared in The Horror Show, Summer 1986. Copyright © 1986 by John Maclay.
“The Green Glass Bottle” originally appeared in Weirdbook 28. Copyright © 1993 by John Maclay.
“Late Last Night” originally appeared in Night Screams, Roc Books. Copyright © 1996 by John Maclay.
“If It’s All the Same to You”: Grue 7, Spring 1998. Copyright © 1998 by John Maclay.
“Nikki,” “Stardom,” and “An Iron Maiden” are published here for the first time and are copyright © 2017 by John Maclay.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
I first became aware of John Maclay not as a writer, but as a publisher—of the now-classic “Masques” horror anthology series, edited by the late, great J.N. Williamson, and a number of other books. When the original Masques appeared, I remember looking at the spine and noting that it was published a company called Maclay that I had never heard of before. But that name stuck, and soon I began noting John Maclay’s stories in various anthologies and magazines. He—like many of the dark fantasists who emerged in the late 1980s—had a distinctive voice, very different from the authors who came before. He still writes that way, fusing horror, fantasy, and suspense (often with an erotic element).
Over the years, John has steadily built up an impressing body of work, and I am delighted that he accepted my invitation to contribute a volume to the MEGAPACK® series. So here are 15 modern classics of dark fiction. Mix horror, fantasy, and suspense, and you get—John Maclay!
Enjoy!
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
ABOUT THE SERIES
Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”
The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)
RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?
Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK® ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://wildsidepress.forumotion.com/ (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).
Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.
TYPOS
Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.
If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com or use the message boards above.
INTRODUCTION, by John Maclay
I was a late starter in writing—and, I hope, a late bloomer. My first story sale was in 1984, when I was forty, and I’ve averaged four a year ever since. I’ve been honored to have appeared in mass market alongside some of the greats, and just as honored to have done so in specialty press.
Most of my work has been horror and fantasy, with a dash of the supernatural, which I’ve found to be most congenial to my general outlook on life. And I’ve found the short story form to be most congenial as well.
In horror, I’ve favored the reality-based kind, with its possible direct influence on the reader and the daily world at large. I once stated my rationale as follows: horror as cathartic; as highly moral since it usually involves good against evil; as having freedom, edge, and depth; and as being a fiction of rebellion, iconoclasm and discomfort, as all good fiction should be.
In fantasy, I suppose I’ve always been a dreamer, valuing visions that go beyond the everyday. In my recent afterword to a story of mine in a Ray Bradbury tribute anthology, I stressed his, and my, “sense of wonder.”
And in both genres, my work tends toward the erotic: in horror, because of the eternal dichotomy of sex and death; and in fantasy, because of the wellspring of possibilities that is in the romantic and sexual urge.
But enough said. I just hope you’ll enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them—for you.
NEW YORK NIGHT
I was out digging in the garden the other day, watching Alice hang up the sheets to air in the spring sun, when the memory came back again. It had been years since the last time; the kids had still been home, I thought, but it was as if no time had passed since then, or the thing itself. So it hit me hard, like lightning on that clear day. I stopped shoveling, leaned on the handle, and looked up at the trees above the house. Everything seemed so peaceful—that was what I’d earned, I reflected, for spending my time with my family, the company, the small town where I lived. What Joe Morrison, 55, half-bald and looking toward retirement, had earned, and built. But at my age, in my position, I guessed, the mind had strange ways of leading you back—to your adventures, your departures from the everyday. The flight to Europe, maybe, or the hiking trip in the Grand Canyon. But for me, I suddenly knew as I felt the memory flood my mind, it was much more than that.
It was the closest to hell I would ever come.
In the early Eighties, when business was booming, the company used to send me to New York. I liked everything about the Big Apple—the early morning train ride up, the feeling of arriving somewhere important, the whole craz
y city that somehow worked. I’d spring up the dingy stairs at Penn Station, into the bustle of the terminal—and there I’d meet Jeb Ewell, the guy from the home office.
He was about my age, heavy-set, with wavy hair and a handlebar mustache, and a bluff, hearty manner that always carried me along. A transplanted Southerner, his easy drawl seemed to calm my doubts, tell me everything was all right.
“WeIll, Joe!” he’d say shaking hands, a twinkle in his eye. “Been a dog’s age. Ready to take ’er on”—he’d gesture around him—“again?”
I’d be ready. And off we’d go, out to his double-parked Buick, the sunlight of Sixth Avenue, the tall buildings, a couple of appointments on Madison—then a little place on Third, and the late lunch that went on all afternoon, and into the night.
Jeb was a bourbon man, and so was I. We’d have two or three before the food—“Here’s to the first one!” my friend would say—and more after, while we talked in the dark restaurant bar.
Then at five o’clock the office workers, the secretaries, would start to drift in, and we’d compare notes on the women. We were both just past forty then, mid-life crisis types, and while I was married, Jeb wasn’t. I had a good thing going with Alice, I thought, but I had to admit I envied the big man his freedom. In fact, I envied any kind of freedom those days; that’s why the New York trips were so welcome. And that’s why they ended the way they did.
Jeb would lead, of course. He’d ease up to a young blonde, or a dark Latin type, and I’d follow along. “Hel-lo, there!” he’d chant, grinning, and soon we’d be sitting with strange women, their perfume, their voices, lighting up my imagination. I’d think, sometimes, of Alice, of how she’d been when I first met her. It was that kind of newness that turned me on, I guess. And in spite of my guilt at being with someone else, I’d tell myself that in a way I was being faithful to her.
Then when the bar cleared out, toward one A.M., one of several things would happen. Usually it would be goodbyes to our newfound loves, a tired kiss or two, and false promises—on their part—to meet again. With a resigned smile, Jeb would drop me at the hotel, and I’d collapse into dreams of what it might have been like with that tall redhead, or that little brunette with the big breasts. Once, though, it was a lot more—all of it, in a tiny flat in the east Eighties. But sometimes, it was something else. As it was…that night.
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It had been a bad day. Jeb had been late meeting me, and while I hadn’t minded, he had. Then the meetings had gone wrong, with some guy out to make a career trying to walk all over us. So when we got to the little restaurant, late, pushing four o’clock, we had to make up for lost time. I watched Jeb order the bourbons too fast, watched my friend, not his usual hearty self, get surly drunk, watched him stagger over to a nice, quiet woman, and ask her loudly “if she’d wanta get laid.”
“Shee-it!” he was groaning as I got to him before the huge bartender did, and led him back to the table. “Whaddya gotta do…?” And then he looked me in the eye. “You, Joey,” he said, focusing. “You gotta do it, tonight.”
I knew what he meant. I’d let him lead before, but I sure as hell wasn’t innocent. And besides, the whole rotten day with the company, and my own restlessness, had left me with an urge to be satisfied. I wanted to help my friend, to give him something that would bring back the Jeb I’d loved. So with a new but welcome feeling of challenge and danger, I helped the big man out into the New York night.
It was a great night, as it always was, with the huge, dark towers dwarfing the tiny figures who moved, mostly alone, over the wide sidewalks to their destinations, their random points of light. A night that was better, and the city more wonderful, because of the drinks. The cool air was pleasant, exhilarating as I led my companion along. I knew it was too late, and we were too far gone, to try to pick up women in any of the small, identical bars we passed. It had to be the other thing we’d done, with him leading, twice before. The thing that was always there—and not too bad—in New York.
I found the certain coffee shop with no trouble at all, and its glaring white interior didn’t disappoint me. There were the dozen hookers, running the gamut from white-skinned teenagers from the Midwest, to hardened pros with tired smiles. I stopped us both outside the window—Jeb looked better now—and tried to decide if I was feeling sorry. But I wasn’t; the excitement was still there. And if I had any doubts, my friend drove them away.
“Go for it, Joey,” he nudged me, looking almost like his old self. “Go for it!”
Then I was motioning, and we were being joined by two women in their thirties, black as the city night, or the bottom of my soul.
I’d never been prejudiced, and I wasn’t now, though I felt a little sad about all the women of whatever color who had to be prostitutes, and all the men who somehow had to go to them. But it was infinitely better, I thought, than spending the night alone. So as Jeb and I walked the girls through the dying streets, we were happy, and so were they, even if only at making their score.
The thin one with the Afro, in the short black pants, was Duchess. “Big guns!” she laughed, showing bright teeth. “Big business!” She grabbed my arm, pushed her healthy body against my proper gray suit.
The other girl, Gena, the tall, full-figured one with the purple dress, was more wary, and she was Jeb’s to deal with. I watched my half-awake friend as he mumbled to her, worked out the unpleasant money arrangements. The twinkle was almost back in his eye as he looked over as if to say, “You led this time, Joey, but I’ve got the one who knows more.” But he still didn’t seem quite right.
Soon we got to my hotel, a place Jeb had picked out for me. It was modern, maybe a Mafia front, with big inexpensive suites, and a desk clerk who winked at the kind of thing we were going to do tonight. And it was in the elevator, with its harsh light, that the trouble started.
The big hooker, Gena, suddenly drew back, with a mean expression on her face.
“You not cops?!” she spit out, looking our business suits up and down. My girl, Duchess, who’d been holding my arm, now let go.
I didn’t know what to do, with Jeb in his haze. So I finally, stupidly, pulled out my wallet, showed her my company I.D.
Gena looked at it, then roared with mocking laughter. “You not think”—she gasped, and Duchess giggled too—“that…that…prove a damn thing?!”
I glanced at Jeb for help, but there wasn’t any; he was slumped against the wall. For the first time I felt uneasy, wondered if my urge to be satisfied, my determination to lead in place of my strangely-different friend, had been terribly wrong. But I was being silly, I decided; the worst that could happen was that the women would bolt, and leave us alone.
I was wrong.
The big hooker, suddenly straight-faced, was coming toward me in the small elevator, her body moving strongly under her tight dress, her eyes hard. She reached into her handbag—and came out with something long…and shiny.
This isn’t happening, my mind said over and over, as I watched her black hand raise the knife slowly up, up to my chin. But then, at the last moment, her face broke back into laughter—and she swung the blade over, stopping it, with a playful imaginary cut…at Jeb’s big belly.
“You not cops,” Gena laughed, folding the weapon up and putting it away. “If you do be”—she caught Duchess’s eye—“we slice the guts outta you!!”
The adrenalin was still pumping, though, as we reached our floor, and the two women and I helped my big friend out of the elevator and down the dark hall to my suite. I knew I had every reason to be afraid, to listen to the voice inside that was telling me to get out—now. Even if the big hooker’s threats were theatrics, as I kept telling myself, she was surely different, a “crazy” I had no business getting myself or Jeb mixed up with. He would have known better, I thought.
But this wasn’t his night. It was mine, for once, and I had to see it through. And I had to adm
it, guiltily, that the danger, and the thin, exciting figure of Duchess, her long bare legs moving below the tight black pants, had made me a different man.
Inside the suite, Gena steered Jeb to the living room couch, and Duchess led me farther, to the cool, wide bed where tonight I wasn’t going to be alone. We undressed, and soon I’d almost forgotten about my friend, as my woman’s dark natural body moved over me. Once or twice I thought I heard sounds from the other room, but I told myself they weren’t anything more than Jeb being happy as I was, as I wanted him to be. In the middle of my pleasure with Duchess, I was pleased with myself for what I’d done. It was going to be all right after all…
Suddenly, chillingly, I heard the scream.
At first I thought it was a woman’s, it was so shrill. What’s he doing to her? was my first thought. What in the world…?
But then, coupled there on the bed, I slowly came back to reality.
Standing in the door, her naked black body powerful, vengeful, was Gena, an insane look in her eye. In her hand, as I sickeningly knew it would be, was the knife.
And it was dripping blood.
I didn’t think anymore. With all my strength, I shoved Duchess off me, threw her so she almost collided with her devil friend. I was aware of her grabbing for her clothes, then the two of them rushing away. I heard a door slam. Then I got to my feet, and staggered to the room outside.
I’d never been in war, so I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. But then, I somehow had time to think, you were never really prepared. For the sight of a dying yet horribly alive being that once was your friend, still standing on its feet, gasping, trying to walk…
But held back by its own intestines, foot upon nauseating foot of them, twined around its legs…
And slipping in the huge pool of crimson fluid which spread before it on the carpeted floor…
Its mouth moving—“Joeeeyy!”—in a final scream, before it dropped heavily in front of me, and I collapsed into oblivion. The awful scream I knew I’d never stop hearing in my nightmares, might hear on that dying day when I’d go…where I had to go.