by Mike Allen
UNSEAMING
MIKE ALLEN
INTRODUCTION BY LAIRD BARRON
Published by Antimatter Press
antimatterpress.com
UNSEAMING
Copyright © 2014 by Mike Allen.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover photograph © 2014 by Danielle Tunstall, danielletunstall.com.
Interior art © 2014 by Paula Arwen Friedlander, arwendesigns.net.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
FIRST EDITION: Oct. 7, 2014
Published by Antimatter Press
Columbus, Ohio
antimatterpress.com
“Introduction: A Stitch in Darkness” copyright © 2014 by Laird Barron
“The Button Bin” first appeared in Helix: Speculative Fiction Quarterly, October 2007.
“The Blessed Days” first appeared in Tales of the Talisman 4, No. 4, Spring 2009.
“Humpty” first appeared in Flesh & Blood 9, 2002.
“Her Acres of Pastoral Playground” first appeared in Cthulhu’s Reign, ed. Darrell Schweitzer, DAW, 2010.
“An Invitation via E-mail” first appeared in Weird Tales 350, July–August 2008.
“The Hiker’s Tale” first appeared in Cabinet des Fées 1, No. 2–3, 2007.
“The Music of Bremen Farm” first appeared in Cabinet des Fées 1, No. 1, 2006.
“The Lead Between the Panes” first appeared in Lakeside Circus 1, No. 1, 2014.
“Stone Flowers” first appeared in Scheherezade’s Bequest 8, October 2009.
“Gutter” is original to this collection.
“Condolences” is original to this collection.
“Let There Be Darkness” first appeared in Penny Dreadful No. 6, 1998.
“The Quiltmaker” is original to this collection.
“Monster” first appeared in Nameless 2, No. 1, 2014.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The stories collected in this book span a period of sixteen years, so it’s inevitable that I will leave out someone important in my list of those who contributed to the creation and publication of these stories, and who encouraged me to write more of them. With apologies to any so omitted, my gratitude goes to Laird Barron, Jason Brock, Erzebet YellowBoy Carr, Claire Cooney, Jennifer Crow, Ellen Datlow, Shawn Garrett, John Glover, Shalon Hurlbert, Izzy Jamaluddin, Rose Lemberg, Tom Ligotti, Virginia Mohlere, Jaime Lee Moyer, Tim Mullins, Dominik Parisien, Michael Pendragon, Ben Phillips, Cathy Reniere, Julia Rios, Anne Sampson, Charlie Saplak, Ekaterina Sedia, Ken Schneyer, Darrell Schweitzer, Stephen Segal, Jon Smallwood, Tony Smith, Christina Sng, Ferrett Steinmetz, Sonya Taaffe, Shveta Thakrar, Catherynne M. Valente, Ann VanderMeer, Ian Watson, Lawrence Watt-Evans, Bud Webster, and Jacqueline West; and the music of Black Sabbath, Sepultura, Motörhead, and Slayer, to name just a few.
I regret that Larry Santoro, who did much to help me promote this book, never got to see the finished product. I am glad that Tales to Terrify continues, but Larry will be missed.
Special thanks must absolutely go to Elizabeth Campbell, whose invaluable contributions to this book’s existence can hardly be enumerated; providing this long-wandering project with a good home is just one of them. Also to Francesca Forrest, who braved her first experience with cosmic horror to copyedit this book into something presentable, and to Nicole Kornher-Stace, for dragging her typonet through these words.
And it goes without saying—though it must be said—without Anita, my partner in crime, not one bit of this would have happened.
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION: A STITCH IN DARKNESS
Laird Barron
part one: threads frayed and broken
THE BUTTON BIN
THE BLESSED DAYS
HUMPTY
HER ACRES OF PASTORAL PLAYGROUND
AN INVITATION VIA E-MAIL
part two: lacing over hidden wounds
THE HIKER’S TALE
THE MUSIC OF BREMEN FARM
THE LEAD BETWEEN THE PANES
STONE FLOWERS
GUTTER
CONDOLENCES
part three: drawn shut, torn open
LET THERE BE DARKNESS
THE QUILTMAKER
MONSTER
About the Author
INTRODUCTION:
A STITCH IN DARKNESS
Laird Barron
For years we’ve known Mike Allen as a celebrated poet and editor. He’s been involved in the Rhysling Award for some time, and his work with the Clockwork Phoenix series has met with acclaim. We always knew he could write poetry. He’s had books published, he’s been profiled by the Philadelphia Inquirer, he’s won awards. Same deal with his editorial record. Meanwhile, quietly, a story here, a story there, Allen has steadily made inroads into the speculative fiction field.
Matters began to shift in earnest several years ago when he published “The Button Bin” in a small ezine called Helix. It’s a subversive piece of body horror and noir-infused dark fantasy that dealt with themes of abuse and betrayal. Written in second person present tense, it instantly attracted controversy. By the end of the year it wound up on the Nebula ballot; no mean feat for a horror story. One got the sense that after years of flying under the radar, he’d arrived. I suspect this book is going to take many folks who haven’t been paying attention by the scruff of the neck and shake them.
The timing seems appropriate. It has been said by anthologist and editor Ellen Datlow that the horror genre is undergoing a golden age. I can’t help but agree. The confluence of talented authors and editors juxtaposed with the rise of the small press and independent publishers has sparked something of a renaissance. Particularly gratifying is the general youth movement that has accompanied this creative surge. Many horror and dark fantasy writers working today are in their thirties and forties; callow youth by industry standards. This new wave is typified by powerhouses: Sarah Langan, Kaaron Warren, Joe Pulver, Livia Llewellyn, Ennis Drake, Richard Gavin, Gemma Files, Steve Duffy, Stephen Graham Jones, Matt Cardin, Michael Cisco, and Gary McMahon, to name a handful. Pick up a book by any of these authors and you’ll immediately understand Datlow’s enthusiasm regarding the future of the genre. In my estimation it’s not a golden age solely in terms of literary quality or abundance, either: it’s also golden for innovation—an age of genre-bending, splicing, folding, and spindling. Creatively and artistically speaking, I don’t know that horror fiction has ever seen an era more supercharged with exciting and important work.
Mike Allen has, with this debut collection, immediately made a case for his inclusion at the forefront of the New New Wave. Unseaming is representative of the finest work being done today. It combines elements of science fiction, fantasy, crime, and horror with an icy exuberance that is reflective of Michael Shea, Don Webb, and, in certain instances, of Cronenberg. Allen’s a child of the 1980s, and the influence of horror cinema as purveyed by the aforementioned Cronenberg, with perhaps a dash of John Carpenter, seems evident as streaks of dark coloration in the bubbling froth of Allen’s concoctions. There are images within these pages that once glimpsed will imprint themselves upon your consciousness, etch themselves into your soft brain matter. For such a nice man (and make no mistake, I’ve met Mike Allen, and he’s one of the good guys), he doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to his art. His darkest fascinations rival anything committed to paper by the likes of cont
emporary masters such as Clive Barker, Ramsey Campbell, or Caitlín Kiernan. This is raw, visceral, and sometimes bloody stuff. Primal stuff.
Allen’s prose is among the more elegant and fluid among contemporary authors, yet at times clipped and lean. His skills as a poet, author, and journalist have synthesized into a voice quite distinct from his peers. Another strength that marks him out is his versatility. He skillfully adopts the mode best suited to the individual piece, be it anecdotal or lyrical. Whether he’s conveying the mind-bending terrors of “The Button Bin,” the bloody phantasmagoria of “The Blessed Days,” or downshifting into the more naturalistic dread of “The Hiker’s Tale,” Allen is in command of tone and development. He reaches into your mind and plucks the strings, smiling his jovial, avuncular smile as he manipulates the prosaic until it begins to change. Until it turns to jelly.
English professor and acclaimed author John Langan recently commented to me that one of the great strengths of horror is that it simply is, a thing unto itself that cannot be duplicated by any other literary mode. There’s something profound in that simple declaration. The essential uniqueness of horror is a quality embraced by Unseaming. Allen’s narrative concerns strike at what horror does best—illumination of the hidden, exploration of the taboo and the transgressive. Time and again he returns to themes of physical transformation, the disintegration of identity, and the mutability of mundane reality. How flimsy it all is, this universe we float through like seeds upon a tide! When immersed in Allen’s cosmos, you’ll gradually discover that nothing is safe; everything is permitted. Your family, your friends, your childhood toys all conspire against you; the universe itself roils and seethes beneath a smooth, cool varnish, ever changeable, ever malignant in its appetite. There is a real sense of isolation, estrangement, and jeopardy in these stories.
So, with these few words, the moment draws nigh for me to step aside and cede the stage to the man of the hour. If you are a casual fan of the dark fantastic, prepare for a few jolts of shock and amazement and, I daresay, a new appreciation of a genre that is all too often defined by its lowest common denominator. On the other claw, if you happen to be counted among the rare breed of horror aficionados ever on the hunt for something fresh, something worthy of the tradition set down by the Straubs and the Blochs and the Wagners, then get ready to have your fuses blown. With that, I bid you all a fond adieu as you venture into the gathering darkness…
threads frayed and broken
THE BUTTON BIN
You know he’s the one who made your beloved niece disappear.
He’s come out of his shop now, fussing with gloves that look expensive, a match to his long glossy overcoat. Glare from the streetlight glints on his bare scalp. Above that light, impotent clouds wall away the moon, render the sky a blank carbon sheet.
His odd little assistant left moments ago, her hose-sheathed ankles still overflowing her shoes as she waddled across the lot to her van. His car squats directly under the light, smart–except for these few minutes there’s no one to see him but you. Yet why would he worry? In a throwback town like this, with every house from a 1950s-era postcard, crime remains distant, alien, a single murder strange as an apocalypse.
You stand from behind the trash cans with your arm held out as if you’re warding off a demon, pointing the black pistol you took from your father’s gun safe.
You’re lucky. Mr. Lenahan sees you but doesn’t understand. In his moment of incomprehension you close the distance, press the nose of the Glock against the soft underside of his chin. He’s a big man, Lenahan, you’re looking up into his surprised round face.
Back in the store, you say.
He starts to speak, he wants to tell you he’ll give you the money, there’s no need to get rough, but something stops him.
It’s not the first time he’s looked you in the eye. Once last week, he helped you choose a bolt of fabric for a baby blanket, covered with baseballs and bats and mitts, you told him you wanted your fiancée to make it, he responded to your tale with rote coos and congratulations. And today, an hour before closing, you asked him to help you find a replacement button for one you ripped off your shirt just for the ruse.
Don’t see too many men come in here more than once, he said, with a smile full of hints and questions.
And he’s recognized you again. His eyes move as if scanning an inner catalog. He whispers, Your eyes are the same. Denise.
If you could silence your own heart to listen more closely, you would. Sweat drools down his wide forehead.
I can tell you where she is, he says.
You say, I know you can.
* * *
This is what she means to you:
Wide green eyes that mirror your own, peering shyly at you from the doorway of the den in your parents’ basement: you stretched out full length on the sofa, paging through T.S. Eliot’s silly book on cats. You catch her watching, a scrawny girl in overalls and a pink T-shirt, dark hair clipped back with a pink plastic bow, all this pink inflicted on her by your basket-case half-sister. She tells you that–My mom makes me–when you hold up your right hand, smallest finger extended, and say with infinite amusement, Hi, Pinky!
You see she’s about to retreat, so you wave the book. Ever read this before?
Dumbstruck, she shakes her head. She is ten, you are fourteen.
Wanna hear from it?
She nods.
So it starts. You become her warrior-poet, showing her nuggets to be found in your parents’ dusty academic volumes of Eliot and Poe, Yeats and Auden, Plath and Byron. Warrior, because you’re a killer of deer, ducks, squirrel, which repulses and fascinates her all at once. She comes along with you and your dad on one such trip that fall, you figure it’s going to be a boring stakeout in the woods, and you brought Wallace Stevens in your back pocket, because you want to creep her out with “The Emperor of Ice Cream” (you love the way she watches when you read, the way she shudders when you sneak something scary in on her) but it’s a bad day for boredom, a three-point buck wanders into view and she gets to see your father kill it, watches silent and thoughtful as you help clean the carcass. You wonder what she thinks of the blood on your hands.
She has her own life apart from yours, school, a few school friends, softball. You see her in her softball uniform a lot, and go with your parents to several games, though they don’t hold your attention you cheer loud for her whenever the chance arises, make sure she hears you. What you look forward to, face it, is her time with you, admiring your clever words–it’s not hard to seem constantly clever to someone four years younger–with those eyes so much like your own but prettier. It’s intoxicating. Exhilarating. Your drug of choice.
But her mother’s blood pumps through her heart. Your father’s wild first child, eighteen years older than you by a woman long vanished, whose very existence your own mom tolerates with pained, saintly silence. Your crazy half-sister, who accepted her fiancé’s marriage proposal as he sat behind the protective glass at the jail intake, the day after the cops brought him in for beating her. They never did marry–she found her senses for a brief time three years later, when he forced his fist into her mouth and made her lips split. And when she found those senses, went into the shelter, your father and mother agreed with stoic grace to help watch Denise. And because it didn’t take long for your sister to find trouble again, Denise spends a lot of time in your house, sleeping in the extra bedroom upstairs, polite little ghost with a burning curiosity stowed quietly inside, eating supper in the cluttered dining room while her mother shacks up with this bad man or that.
You shouldered your burden of guilt: she’s thirteen, you’re seventeen, charged with watching her while mom and dad spend Sunday out with those church friends, the ones your mom likes and your dad always bitches about. But you have a couple of your own friends over, sneaky middle-class hellions like yourself, sitting at the back patio table beneath the tacky umbrella, the three of you already high when Denise walks up. She asks what you’re
doing, but she has an idea already.
Being the good son is all about what your parents don’t know.
She knows what you’ll do, because you’re the coolest uncle ever. She stares with thoughtful silence at the mystic smoke swirling inside the blue glass bong. You show her how to breathe it in. You and your chums giggle at her coughing fit.