The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 2002, Volume 13

by Stephen Jones

  Nothing ever changes. We just tell ourselves it does.

  RICHARD A. LUPOFF

  Simeon Dimsby’s Workshop

  RICHARD A. LUPOFF CELEBRATED THE PUBLICATION of his fiftieth book, The Great American Paperback, in 2001. This was a work of cultural history that won glowing praise from periodicals as varied as Playboy magazine and the scholarly Wilson Quarterly. Most of his work, however, has been fiction, including several dozen novels and more than 100 short stories.

  Much of his fiction has been collected in such volumes as Before 12:01 and After, Claremont Tales and Claremont Tales II. His latest publication is Marblehead: A Novel of H. P. Lovecraft, the manuscript of which was recently rediscovered, having been lost more than twenty-five years ago.

  ‘In “Simeon Dimsby’s Workshop” I return to the wondrous, long-ago days when I was an avid reader and fan,’ explains Lupoff, ‘admiring the glamorous figures who filled the pages of lurid pulp magazines and dreaming of the time when I would join their ranks.’

  IT TOOK REGIS HARDY SIX years to sell his first short story.

  He would rise early each morning and put in an hour of mental effort, bending over a notebook, striving for the right combination of words that would elicit a letter of acceptance instead of the rejection slips to which he was accustomed. When he kissed his spouse, Helena, good-bye after a light breakfast of toast and half a grapefruit, he would ride the municipal bus to his job in downtown Elmwood, California.

  The men and women around him occupied themselves in a variety of ways: perusing copies of the Elmwood Daily Express-Bulletin, listening to their favorite music on portable CD players, reading paperback novels. Often regular riders on the Number Eighteen line would greet one another and discuss the events of the world, or of their personal lives, as they traveled to work. High-school students engaged in horseplay. College students would take part in serious and arcane discussions of Kierkegaard, Aeschylus, or the millions of dollars they expected to make in the high-tech world as soon as they received their degrees.

  Not Mr Hardy. He lived near the end of the Number Eighteen line and always got a seat on his way to work. He would ride with his eyes closed, imagining the doings of the men and women in his stories, striving to capture just the right event, image, or turn of phrase to make his current opus the one that would carry him across the threshold of literary status from that of ambitious amateur to that of acclaimed professional.

  Mr Hardy worked at the Department of Social Services. He took his lunch each day in the department’s cafeteria, notebook laid flat beside his plastic tray and yellow wooden pencil in hand, working, always working on his stories. And every night, after dinner with Helena, he would retreat to his private corner and work for another hour on his stories before joining his wife to watch the evening news.

  Six years.

  And then the miracle happened.

  Mr Hardy received a letter from the editor of Mayhem Monthly. The editor had read Mr Hardy’s submission, ‘Vampire Town’, and was pleased to tender the enclosed purchase agreement for the story.

  The payment was minuscule and the magazine, which had rejected numerous of Mr Hardy’s efforts in the past, was a minor one, but Mr Hardy was ecstatic. He could see a doorway opening before him. He imagined a room filled with the literary figures he had admired, almost worshiped, all his life, eagerly welcoming him to their world and to their own glamorous company.

  Filled with pride, Mr Hardy showed the letter to his wife, who threw her arms around his shoulders and planted a congratulatory kiss on his cheek.

  That night, inspired by the delicious taste of success, Regis Hardy worked on his current story-in-progress for two hours rather than one. Later, lying in bed, Helena’s soft breathing and warm presence filling him with marital contentment, he projected an imaginary motion picture on the ceiling, peopling each frame with characters of his own invention and creating a sound track filled with mood-inspiring music, crackling dialog and exciting sound effects.

  It would be pleasant to report that Mr Hardy, having at last achieved the mystical transformation from amateur to professional writer, was immediately greeted with nothing but editorial accolades, but such was not the case. Following the solitary sale to Mayhem Monthly there came a series of rejection slips from a broad spectrum of periodicals.

  But Regis Hardy was not one to surrender his treasured dream, especially after having sold ‘Vampire Town’.

  Some months later came a double red-letter day. There was another letter of acceptance, this one from Interstellar Stories. The work in question was a novelette titled ‘Narcotics from Neptune’. The same day’s postal delivery included a brown manila envelope. The envelope contained two copies of the issue of Mayhem Monthly featuring ‘Vampire Town’.

  The Hardys sat happily side-by-side admiring Regis’s story and the black-and-white illustration that accompanied it. To be candid, the illustration was decidedly on the crude and slapdash side, nor had the artist captured quite the flavor of Mr Hardy’s story, or the detail of his description. But Mrs Hardy patted Mr Hardy affectionately on the cheek, and he did feel that another milestone had been passed on the roadway to success.

  As the months and years rolled by Mr Hardy found that he was receiving fewer rejection notices and making more sales. He was able to move to higher-paying and more prestigious markets. He cracked Image of the Imagination and Exciting Adventure Annual and finally New Modern Gangster Quarterly.

  He built a proud ‘brag shelf’ of magazines containing his works. He admired the many black-and-white illustrations that accompanied them, and invited Mrs Hardy out for a celebratory cocktail and dinner when Wilderness magazine honored him with a full-color cover painting of a scene from his story ‘Cannibal’s Canoe’.

  His hair was thinning and his temples were grey now, and he suspected that Mrs Hardy’s flaming titian locks retained their brilliance only with the assistance of expensive chemicals, but he chose not to raise the subject in conversation. He had never made a living from his writing. He had kept his day job at the Department of Social Services, but he knew in his heart that the job was merely a means to the end of supporting his writing endeavors.

  Only two goals had eluded him.

  Despite numerous attempts he had never been able to sell a story to Grave Yarns. In each case the story in question had been successfully placed in another market, nor was Grave Yarns the highest-paying or most prestigious of periodicals. But it was a venerable publication, almost legendary in the community, and Mr Hardy had long dreamed of winning a place in its pages. That was the first of Mr Hardy’s remaining unfulfilled ambitions.

  The second was to see his stories collected into a book. He had approached a number of publishers and been turned away with the advice that he procure the services of a literary agent. He had then approached a number of agents only to be turned away by them with the advice that he write a novel if he wished book publication. Collections of short stories were virtually impossible to place, he was told.

  By this time Mr Hardy was nearing retirement age and looked forward eagerly to leaving the Department of Social Services. He would then be able to devote all of his energies to his literary endeavors. Mrs Hardy had already taken early retirement from her own job, and offered her husband encouragement with his plan.

  By the time a letter arrived at the Hardys’ modest home bearing the return indicia of Grave Yarns Mr Hardy was forced to don his trifocal spectacles in order to read it. But the game was most assuredly worth the candle as Mr Hardy found that he had at last captured the proverbial brass ring on the ever-turning carousel of literature. The editor of Grave Yarns was pleased to accept Mr Hardy’s submission to the magazine, ‘Even the Dead Have Rights’.

  Only one goal remained now on Mr Hardy’s agenda, and that was book publication. He had not been wholly frustrated in even this enterprise, for several times his stories had been included in anthologies. These books, some colorful and some drab, some of them beautifully bou
nd and jacketed volumes and others cheaply made paperbacks, held a special place of honor in the Hardy living room. But a collection devoted entirely to his own works was a dream the realization of which continued to elude Mr Hardy.

  And then Mr Hardy received a letter from a publisher unfamiliar to him. Surely this was one he had never contacted, nor even read of in the trade journals to which he assiduously subscribed. The writer of the letter introduced himself as the proprietor of a new firm, Mantigore Press. He was seeking to publish the works of deserving but previously overlooked authors. He had been an admirer of Mr Hardy’s atmospheric and effective prose for some years, and if Mr Hardy found himself in a position to place a collection of his stories with the new company, Mantigore Press was prepared to issue a contract immediately, and to offer a small but realistic advance payment against royalties to be earned.

  The letter was signed, Auric Mantigore.

  Regis Hardy was so excited that his wife had to spend the better part of an hour calming and soothing him. He then responded to Auric Mantigore’s letter with a quick and enthusiastic reply in the affirmative.

  Thus it was that, in due course, Mantigore Press announced the impending publication of Return to Elmwood: the Collected Stories of Regis Hardy.

  Mantigore Press was headquartered in the city of Repentance, Maine, some 3,000 miles from Elmwood, California. At first Mr Hardy conducted his business with Mantigore by postal means, but when Auric Mantigore informed him that the distinguished artist and resident of Repentance, Simeon Dimsby, had been engaged to create a jacket painting and interior illustrations for Return to Elmwood, Mr Hardy could contain himself no longer.

  Over a modest evening meal he broached his plan to his wife. ‘We are both now retired, Helena. Our pensions are small but adequate to our needs, and we have some savings. I would like to travel to Repentance, Maine, to meet Auric Mantigore and the great Simeon Dimsby. I intend to write to Messrs. Mantigore and Dimsby and propose such a meeting. If they are amenable to my plan, I would be most pleased to have your company on the trip, and to arrange for your inclusion in our festive gathering.’

  There were tears in Helena Hardy’s eyes as she voiced her approval of her husband’s notion.

  Even before watching the evening news on that occasion, Regis Hardy penned letters to Auric Mantigore and Simeon Dimsby, broaching his plan. While similar in content, the two letters were not identical. That addressed to Simeon Dimsby included a paragraph in which Mr Hardy expressed his admiration for Dimsby’s work. Many artists had attempted to capture the essence of Regis Hardy’s stories, but none had fully succeeded, at least in his opinion. But he was confident of Dimsby’s ability to do so, and hoped fervently to meet the great illustrator.

  Not long after writing to Mantigore and Dimsby, Regis Hardy received responses from both. Mantigore explained that he was a busy man whose responsibilities occupied him for many hours each day. Further, he was obliged by commercial considerations to spend most of each month traveling. Consequently, he suggested that Hardy and Dimsby make such arrangements as they saw fit. If available, Mantigore would join them. If unable to do so, he would nonetheless offer his best wishes.

  Regis Hardy was mildly disappointed by Auric Mantigore’s letter, but he was positively elated when he read Simeon Dimsby’s. The artist had developed a great fondness for Hardy’s stories and was most enthusiastic about Return to Elmwood. He had already created preliminary sketches for his illustrations and worked out what he referred to as his ‘concept’ for the dust-jacket painting. He indicated a date by which he hoped to have the final versions of the drawings in hand, and suggested that Regis Hardy come to his, Dimsby’s, home and workshop on that date.

  Further correspondence confirmed that Mrs Hardy would also be welcomed at the Dimsby demesne, and that if it were convenient for the Hardys, the invitation would be so timed as to include dinner at the Dimsby home. Mrs Dimsby was an accomplished chef, Simeon Dimsby asserted, and would be pleased to prepare her finest dishes for the Hardys.

  Regis Hardy could barely contain his joy. He dispatched an enthusiastic reply, jotted the date of the proposed dinner party in his desk planner, and made a note to phone a local travel agent and book a flight for himself and his wife to the airport nearest Repentance, Maine.

  It was fortunate for Regis Hardy’s peace of mind that Simeon Dimsby worked rapidly, for even so Mr Hardy found himself counting the days until his and Mrs Hardy’s flight, like a child counting days until a birthday, or Christmas, or the end of the school year. Standing before the bathroom mirror in his pajamas, Mr Hardy took note of his lined visage, his largely naked scalp and the snowy whiteness of what little hair he retained.

  He was an old man, but in his chest his heart leaped like that of an eager and joyous youth.

  At last the long-awaited day arrived. The Hardys were driven to the airport by one Albert Tindle, a former colleague of Mr Hardy’s at the Department of Social Services. They boarded the huge, sleek jetliner, Mr Hardy commenting almost involuntarily at the contrast between it and the far smaller, propeller-driven monoplanes of his youth.

  Their journey was uneventful, and upon reaching Repentance, Maine, the Hardys checked into a motel. This was a locally owned affiliate of an international chain. It was well managed in accord with corporate guidelines. The Hardys’ room was comfortably appointed in a standardized and impersonal style. Mrs Hardy remarked that they might as easily have been in Brazil, Syria, or Thailand, or even on the moon, had there been motels on the moon, for all the local character of their lodgings.

  Mr Hardy telephoned the home of Simeon Dimsby. Mrs Dimsby took the call, reiterated the invitation to dine that evening, and even offered the services of her husband to pick up the Hardys at their motel. Mr Hardy expressed gratitude for the offer but indicated that he and his wife would take a cab to the Dimsbys’ house.

  Dusk was falling when the driver pulled to the curb at the address Regis Hardy had given him. The warm autumnal afternoon had yielded to a chill breeze with the disappearance of the sun, and an early moon was rising red and menacing above the eastern horizon. Mr and Mrs Hardy stood side by side, gazing at the tall frame structure. A brightness flickered in the front window as if electrification had somehow bypassed the Dimsby house and its occupants relied on old-fashioned oil lamps for illumination.

  An unexpected chill caused Mr Hardy to shudder almost imperceptibly. He took his wife’s hand and advanced, opening a protesting gate in the waist-high iron fence. The lawn surrounding the house had not been mowed in a very long time. The wooden stairs that led to the front porch creaked with each of Mr and Mrs Hardy’s steps.

  A search for a doorbell or knocker having failed, Mr Hardy rapped tentatively on the wooden panel with his knuckles.

  At once the door swung back. A plump woman of below average height looked up at the Hardys. The roundness of her face was offset by the grey hair which she had pulled back into a bun. She wore a patterned housedress and cloth apron. A small birthmark above one eye evoked a mildly distasteful fantasy on Regis Hardy’s part.

  ‘You must be the Hardys. Come in. I’m Mrs Dimsby. Eustacia Whipple Dimsby. Please call me Eustacia.’

  She took Mr Hardy’s fedora and Mrs Hardy’s wrap and escorted them to a parlor furnished as it must have been a century before. ‘Mr Dimsby is in his workshop. Make yourselves comfortable while I fetch him.’

  She disappeared down a hallway.

  The Hardys exchanged glances.

  A door slammed. The pendulum of a tall clock swung to and fro. There were footsteps. A figure appeared where Eustacia Dimsby had last been seen.

  ‘I am Simeon Dimsby.’

  Regis Hardy rose to his feet. Dimsby shook his hand, then bowed over Helena Hardy’s as would have a Regency dandy. It took an effort for Regis Hardy to refrain from flinching away from Dimsby’s icy fingers. The artist was cadaverously thin, his pale countenance set off by a high-collared white shirt and heavy black suit. Waves of cold seemed to wa
ft from him.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he explained. ‘My workshop is below the house and I keep it cool at all times, to preserve my compositions.’

  ‘You work in oils?’ Hardy asked. He knew little of artistic media.

  Dimsby shook his head from side to side. ‘No.’ He offered no further explanation.

  ‘But if you have to keep your work refrigerated, how do you deliver it to your publishers?’ Dimsby did not answer at once, and Hardy filled the silence. ‘That is, your pictures are so fine, both your black-and-white illustrations and your paintings. Helena and I have admired them for a long time. I was thrilled when Mr Mantigore told me you were to illustrate my book, Return to Elmwood. But what do you use for ink? For paint? Wouldn’t it spoil?’

  ‘Such is the wonder of modern invention,’ Dimsby explained. He had crossed the room and opened what appeared to be an eighteenth century cupboard. He turned with a graceful decanter in one hand and two round-bellied snifters in the other. ‘The day has taken a chilly turn, has it not? Won’t you each try some brandy to warm yourselves while Mrs Dimsby prepares our dinner.’

  Each of the Hardys accepted a snifter of shimmering, copper-colored liquid. As Regis Hardy held it before his face the fumes of the liquor rose with a pleasant sharpness and warmth. It was delicious on his tongue. From the corner of his eye he observed his wife sampling the beverage.

  ‘You were speaking of technology,’ Hardy addressed his host.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And won’t you have some brandy yourself?’ Hardy asked.

  ‘I do not,’ Dimsby said. After a brief silence he resumed. ‘My compositions would, ah, de-compose if exposed to heat,’ he explained, laughing at his own play on words. ‘Therefore I scan them into a computer and deliver them to my publishers in the form of electronic files.’