Something Wicked SF and Horror Magazine #5

by Something Wicked Authors

  Kevin had come face-to-face with his own doom.

  It promised him toys.

  "Toys and candy, Kevin. And puppies."

  Kevin wheeled about suddenly, dizzy as the mental hook in his brain resisted and tugged back, trying to turn him back to face the house.

  "You ... what're you doing here?” he gasped.

  "You, Kevin. I'm here for you."

  The frail, narrow figure of the old man struggled up the incline of the old driveway path. He was holding his cane, his breathing a heavy wheeze, his few wisps of long hair flailing in the wind like soft white threads, almost shining in the moonlight.

  "Gramps,” was all Kevin could say.

  "It's goin to be all right, Kevin. Everythins goin to be fine.” Kevin could hear fatigue and resignation in the old man's tone. Or was it disappointment?

  "Gramps, what's going on?” Kevin asked desperately.

  "I tried to warn you, son. I'm so sorry."

  "You knew, didn't you? You knew I'd come even though you warned me not to..."

  "I knew you'd come if I didn't warn you,” Gramps interrupted. “Afterwards, all I could do was hope you'd stay away. It isn't about tellin the future, Kevin. Our choices always shape the future, each and every second, so the outcome is never certain. Still, you came, and I was prepared for that if need be.

  "I know how powerful it can be Kevin. It's not your fault, boy—never think this was your fault."

  The leash in Kevin's mind tugged again, a sickening pull from deep within him that made his guts lurch. He turned, expecting to see the girl's terrifying visage in the bedroom window. He let out a shocked scream when he saw it mere inches from his own face. Its wide, curled grin was overflowing with long, needle-like teeth.

  "Gramps! Help! Oh God, help me!"

  "Kevin, relax!” Gramps insisted from behind him. “You're safe. Trust me, it's just tryin to scare you."

  "I am scared! I'm fucking scared to death!” Kevin was weeping now. He could smell the foulness of its breath as it lay across his face, hear the sickening gurgling from deep within its throat.

  "It's an illusion, Kevin,” Gramps said. “It doesn't look like that, not really. It doesn't look like anythin. Think Kevin, really think. Use your potential. You're perfectly safe, remember that."

  "What do you mean, safe? Don't you understand? It's got me, Gramps! I can't get away! Help me, please!"

  "Damn it boy, THINK!” Gramps bellowed.

  Kevin shut his eyes and felt a sudden snap, a trigger-release in his mind. He was thinking around corners, just for a few moments—but in that short span of time he understood it all. His grandfather's love. His grandfather's concern. His grandfather's deepest fear.

  His grandfather's sacrifice.

  The tether on his mind loosened. He opened his eyes, and the girl was gone. It did nothing to relieve his grief and guilt, however. The sudden shame that flushed his cheeks and filled him with complete dread paralyzed him as much, or even more, than the thing's mental grip.

  He turned to the old man, who looked at him kindly, with a warm love that made Kevin all that more ashamed.

  "Oh, Gramps...” Kevin sobbed.

  Gramps held up a finger to his closed lips, shushing Kevin as if he were a small child, and Kevin knew it was appropriate. He was a small, insignificant child after all, despite his incredible potential and ability. Everyone is, in the end.

  "It knew,” Kevin wept. “It knew you would..."

  "That's right Kevin. You were baited, but—"

  "I'm just the bait,” Kevin finished.

  "To reel in the big fish,” Gramps replied. “It's been after me for a long time now, son, and I've been able to dodge it one way or another over the years, until now."

  Kevin's grandfather walked slowly past him. He put his old wrinkled hand on Kevin's shoulder. “Now I have no choice,” he said soberly.

  "Gramps!” Kevin cried.

  "It has its sights on me right now,” Gramps whispered, “but you're the one it should be worried about. Remember that, Kevin. It made a big mistake tonight."

  Gramps continued up the path, slowly ambling his way to the front porch of Auburn House. Everything had gone suddenly quiet, but Kevin could feel the thing waiting in the shadows, wringing its non-hands and chomping its non-teeth with barely constrained excitement. It was gloating.

  Gramps called back over his shoulder to Kevin, and his words sounded phony, staged. “Don't come after me, Kevin. It'll stop you before you take two steps. This is the way it's been worked out between us. Me for you—that's the deal. Remember what I said, boy.

  Now get the hell home. You understand?"

  Kevin understood, but he couldn't say anything. He was choking too much on his sadness and despair and his helplessness. He'd been duped, played the fool, and the agony was almost too much to bear.

  Kevin's grandfather shuffled onto the porch and turned one last time to Kevin. “I love you boy,” he said simply, and entered the inky-black open wound that was Auburn House's front entrance.

  After a few moments, the leash sensation fully disappeared, and Kevin knew that Gramps was dead. He knew this with his own normal thoughts, because even a fool like him could understand the meaning without thinking around corners. The wind blew in hard, rough gusts now, and Kevin could feel a few icy raindrops collide with his skin.

  Anger flared within Kevin—sudden, powerful, and utterly complete. His mind clicked on again, and in an instant he was living in another all-to-real experience. Instead of cool grass and a warm, soft girl beneath him, the fiery rage within seemed to come alive all around him. Flames and heat and devastation surrounded him.

  The scene was a showdown. He had the thing trapped in the blazing inferno that was Auburn House; he had trapped it with his mind, and now it was the thing's turn to be frightened. Kevin was older, taller, and powerful; using his abilities to exact his long-held revenge on the thing that had killed that little boy, the Pace family, his Gramps and so many others. It was a black, screaming, charred obscenity writhing in Kevin's mental vise, but Kevin understood that even this was not the thing's true form. It was a form, however, that he could control with surprising ease.

  As soon as the experience crystallized around him, it melted away and he was standing in the monochrome moonlight again, the growing pitter-patter of rain mixing with fresh sobs that wrenched his gut and choked his throat.

  He clenched his fists tight, and screamed at the house and the thing inside of it.

  "I'll be coming for you!” Kevin yelled. “You know it's true. I'll be back. You remember that!"

  Then he hissed, “And then I'll burn this fucking shithole to the ground. And you with it."

  The horror of Auburn House screeched a high-pitched, piercing howl that broke the silence into billions of bits of dust, blown away on the wind. Kevin turned and slowly walked down the drive back to the forest path. He heard the thing in Auburn House smashing and destroying things within the house in a wild tantrum.

  It knows. There are ways of knowing things and it knows. I spoiled your precious victory, Kevin thought, fresh scorching tears soaking his face. He ran into the woods and didn't stop until he reached home.

  * * * *

  Eight years later:

  The crowd talked among themselves at the edge of the makeshift barrier, their faces lit in a bright orange glow despite it being the dead-middle of the night. They were gawking, pointing, commenting in hushed murmurs as the old house burned.

  Auburn House.

  The house was fully ablaze when the first person in town noticed it and called the fire department; it was only about thirty minutes later and the house was already beyond hope—a flaming skeleton of wooden bones that collapsed, bringing the house crashing to the ground in a blizzard of ashes and glowing embers. The fire department did a fine job preventing the fire from spreading, and in the end what remained of Auburn House was no more than a grotesque smudge on the burnt hilltop. And in time even that became overgrown
with lush vegetation.

  No one seems in a hurry to claim the prime location and build a new house on the site. In fact, if you ask, most people approve of the hill just as it is now, sans any structure at all. Auburn House had been there for so long, you see, and no one seemed to notice its oppressiveness until it was gone.

  Some still say it's haunted up there, and the trees whisper to each other on full-moon nights; but most agree not to bring that subject up these days. No one knows for sure why they feel like they do about the hill, and no one really cares. Beautiful flowers now grow in that patch of field where an old, sprawling and broken-down house once stood, and everybody agrees that it's a great improvement; because in this part of the world knowing too much about a thing does not bring you happiness. You accept the good things for what they are and you don't jinx them by asking why.

  And that's just the way it should be.

  * * * *

  Stewart Landon is a relatively new author working hard to gain publishing credits as he completes his first novel. His work to date includes numerous critically-acclaimed stories posted on www.Writing.com. His flash-fiction piece entitled Charcoal Man won a contest on the same site. The story proved so compelling and received so many rave reviews that Stewart decided to expand it into a longer, richer story that was subsequently published in The Harrow (www.TheHarrow.com, Charcoal Man, September 2006).

  This is Stewart's first story for Something Wicked.

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  [Back to Table of Contents]

  NEIL GAIMAN Q&A by Jonathan Perry

  On 02 October this year, Neil Gaiman hosted a talk and book-signing at London's Criterion theatre in Piccadilly Circus the night before the UK Premiere of Stardust. Jonathan Perry dropped everything to be there.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  At first glance, Neil Gaiman looks like a forgotten rocker whose fashion and hair have become permanently trapped in the mid-eighties—dressed in black, complete with biker's leather jacket, dark glasses and Tim Burton hair. What you don't expect is a soft-spoken, wonderfully articulate and incredibly funny man who just happens to be one of the greatest comic book and fantasy writers of our time.

  * * * *

  Enter Sandman

  Neil steps on to the stage to rousing applause, accompanied by Claire Armitstead, Literary Editor of the Guardian, who'll be asking the questions tonight. The event has drawn a crowd of 400 or so fans of all shapes and sizes, partly due to the many niches Neil has succeeded in.

  * * * *

  Claire starts the ball rolling with, “Do you mind being The Sandman?” After a few seconds’ thought, Neil replies, “It's definitely the biggest thing, though I think the weird thing now is that I am most famous for whatever the person found me as first. So there are definitely people for whom it is, “Did you know the person who wrote The Day I Swapped My Dad For Two Goldfish wrote other things too?” For some I am a children's author who happens to do other things, for others I'm the bloke who did Sandman and also does other stuff. There are some people who need a book in the middle of their name to explain who they are. You can go Chris Carter, but it's easier to go Chris “X-Files” Carter. I'm definitely happy to be Neil “Sandman” Gaiman, but for as many people I'm Neil “Neverwhere” Gaiman, or Neil “Stardust” Gaiman and actually for a lot of people now I'm Neil “www.NeilGaiman.com” Gaiman...” He is referring of course to his blog, which has over 1.2 million readers.

  When he can, he updates his blog almost daily—often with just a concise note about what he did that day, though he also adds pictures, events and links to other sites of interest. As far as author's blogs go, Neil really does let you peak through a window into his everyday life.

  * * * *

  The Interview

  After a wonderful reading of an extract from Stardust by the author himself, Claire begins the interview proper:

  * * * *

  CA: How do you bring it all together—children's novels and graphic novels, or comics—we call them graphic novels...

  NG: You can if you like. I don't really mind it. An anecdote I've told many times—this was 13 years ago—I was at a big literary Christmas party and I wound up in conversation with, I think, the literary editor for the Daily telegraph, or the Sunday Telegraph, and he asked, “What do you do?” I told him I write comics. And I could see his face go, “oh bugger I'm stuck with this bloke—how do I get away?” And he said, “well ... um ... what kind of comics do you write?” And I said, “Well, I've done one called Sandman, and one called Signal to Noise, which was just serialised and...” and he said, “Hang On. You're Neil Gaiman. My dear fellow, you don't write comics, you write Graphic Novels.” I felt like a hooker who'd just been told she was a Lady of The Heath.

  * * * *

  CA: One of the things we've heard about you is that you made comics legit.

  NG: Yeah, I didn't. I was one of the people who made comics legit. Alan Moore was making comics legit, Frank Miller, Art Spiegelman. There was a whole slew of us.

  * * * *

  CA: There was a particular generation, or point in history...

  NG: I think so, it was a bunch of us who thought this was an incredibly flexible medium, who felt that there was no reason that you couldn't put stuff in comics that was every bit as powerful and interesting and had as much emotional weight and had as much depth as any other medium. It's just a medium. It's as good or it's as bad as the stuff you give it.

  * * * *

  CA: Was that why you went over to the States?

  NG: No, I went over to the States, because at the time, under the economic leadership of the previous George Bush, the dollar was in bad shape, as it is now, and I was being paid in them for all the work I was doing for DC comics. And English bank managers are unsympathetic enough with the freelance lifestyle, at the best of times, but when you don't know if that check for $2000 is going to be worth 1000, 1200 or even 800 pounds until you cash it, they are even more unsympathetic. So really it was just the point that I discovered that I could buy a giant Addam's Family size house with 15 acres of woodland and stuff for, back then, the equivalent of 75,000 pounds that I realised, “I can write here! It doesn't matter as long as it has a phone"—so I did.

  * * * *

  CA: You also do a lot of film meetings, don't you?

  NG: Yeah, I do. Moving to the middle of America meant that I wasn't that far away from Los Angeles, just far enough so that anybody who wanted to waste my time was going to have to pay for it. In Los Angeles people want to see you and they pay for a bottle of water, with everybody it's just a bottle of water. And what's nice about being in Minneapolis is that if people really want to see me in LA it's going to cost them a few thousand dollars to fly me in and put me up for the night. It sorts out the people who think they can get you for a bottle of water from the people who are actually sort-of serious. They're going to have to pay for the plane and the water. And I love that, because they love wasting your time—and I don't have that much. There are so many things I want to write. I just want to write and get back to making stuff up again.

  * * * *

  CA: Now, you're at the end of a long gestation period with a lot of your film projects—a lot them are coming to fruition...

  NG: Yes, I suppose. It's that weird thing that tends to happen a lot in my life, which is that I will do a bunch of stuff, over a long period of time, and then it will all come out together. Like this script for Beowulf—somebody wrote me a letter the other day on my blog, telling me off for writing Beowulf saying, “why don't you go back to writing novels, you shouldn't have written this,” and I thought, where were you in May of 1997, which was when the script was written?

  I wrote an article for the Guardian the other day—one of the things I love about writing is that I find out what I can. Most people think that you know what you think before you sit down to write and you write it, and that may be true for lots of people, and it's completely not true for me. I wro
te American Gods to find out what I thought about America. And so I wrote this article about fairy tales, and why we re-tell them and what they mean and what the telling of fairy tales is about, really because they asked. And I realised as I got toward the end of the article that the reason I like [Stardust] so much, even though the film, absolutely, differs from the book in lots and lots of crucial ways, is that the film feels to me like a re-telling. It feels like Matthew Vaughn and Jane Goldman loved the story and then told it, as opposed to adapting it, and that's a large part of fairy tale tradition and I love the idea that sometimes you can write something that feels enough like a fairy-tale, feels enough like folklore, to get re-told. And it makes me happy. When I set out to write Stardust I wanted to write something that felt like you'd always known it. The idea of a young man who promises his beloved that he will bring her back a fallen star, and when he finds the star, discovers that it's not a lump of meteoric rock but a young lady with a broken leg in a very bad mood, who doesn't want to be dragged half-way across the world to be presented to anybody's girlfriend. And the fact that they have to travel together and that there are things and people after them ... It's really odd that we're here, [he gestures to the theatre] when we leave, which we will do in an orderly fashion, they will start ushering in people to come and see The 39 Steps, and The 39 Steps, the film, not the book, is one of the things that I had in my head when I started writing Stardust. Just the idea where Robert Donat and Madeleine Carroll hate each other and are hand-cuffed together and on the run—and I thought I want that kind of ... I like the feel of that.

  * * * *

  Facing the Fans

  Fan: Would you think it forward if I asked you for a kiss?

  NG: [To be true to the passage I read earlier from Stardust, I should turn you down ... ] though I might be swayed at the signing.

  * * * *

  Fan: I'm interested in the link between comics and folklore, and for writers like you and Alan Moore that link is obviously quite conscious. Do you think that it's always been conscious, for example for writers like Stan Lee, or artists like Jack Kirby, or is it just your generation?