by Scott Hale
“Dinner was great! Thanks!” he said, beaming, as though to blind his mother from the fact he’d hardly touched the meal.
Mrs. Prendergast swirled the wine in her cup and said slowly, “Tell me true. You hated it, didn’t you?”
Connor looked at the crime scene of half-baked, half-eaten, and wholly repulsive portions of food. He gave no response, only smiled, and left its meaning for her interpretation.
“How’s life, son?” Mr. Prendergast asked, a noodle slithering into his mouth. “You should come around more often.”
Connor choked down a piece of garlic bread to give himself a moment to come up with an excuse. His mind, however, was a wasteland; an endless expanse of fleeting ideas and grand delusions dampened by all the alcohol he’d chugged a few hours earlier.
So, like the worm desperate to be off its hook, Connor rose out of his seat, pointed across the table towards the living room, and said, “James has a boner.”
A few feet away on the couch watching television, Connor’s seventeen-year-old brother, James, went stiff. Whether or not his sibling’s sudden paralysis was due to an unfortunate erection was inconsequential. Because it wasn’t James the seventeen-year-old human to which he pointed, but James the seventeen-year-old Siberian husky, whose old bones creaked louder than his barks.
But the fact that it made Connor’s brother turn beet red was most definitely a bonus. And something he’d totally pass off as deliberate years down the line.
“Jesus, help me,” Mrs. Prendergast pleaded, finishing off her wine and immediately filling the glass back to its brim.
Mr. Prendergast covered his mouth with a napkin, laughing weakly like a nun at a dirty joke. He shook his head and put his elbows on the table, relinquishing for the evening his hold on trivial formalities.
“You’re hilarious,” James said, turning his head and staring his brother down. “Grow up, dude.”
“It’s a big deal. Well, maybe not big—”
The dog snorted.
“—but average, for sure!” Connor gave the dog the thumbs up.
James the seventeen-year-old husky groaned: compliment accepted.
“So why don’t you come around more often, eh?” James the human lowered a blanket onto his four-legged doppelganger to maintain his modesty.
Connor looked at the meatballs before him and considered lobbing one at his little brother. Afraid that it may blow through James’ skull, he quickly decided against it. Yes, James’ question was an excellent question—one that was inevitably asked at every get together—but no matter how he spun it, he was the one who always ended up caught in their web.
Connor puffed up his chest, stuck out his pinky. Deepening his voice and giving it a decidedly British tone, he said, “I’ve been busy with the magazine. Readers are absolutely ravenous for new material.”
James smirked. “They do know its bullshit, right?”
Mrs. Prendergast started to hiccup. “J-J-Ja-Jame-James!”
When she probably thought no one was listening (they were), Mrs. Prendergast snuck in a few burps behind her hand.
Mr. Prendergast finished his spaghetti and made some incoherent lies about the quality of the cooking. “Language, come on,” he then said. He shook his head, and covered the side of his face to avoid making eye contact with the dog.
“It’s up to my readers to decide if its fake,” Connor said, pushing his plate away. Jackass, he thought, glowering at James. Always makes me look like an idiot.
“How many subscribers are there now?” Mrs. Prendergast asked. She started to squint, as though the cheap chandelier over their head had become too bright to bear.
Proudly, Connor said, “Thirty.”
“How many of those are actually people you don’t know?” James asked, having turned around on the couch completely. He’d draped himself over the edge of the couch, like a sloth contemplating suicide. He looked so triumphant, having placed his older brother under the inquisitor’s spotlight.
“Don’t hate. Money is money, sir.” Connor stood up. “Mother, if you would allow it, I would be honored to wash thy dishes.”
James groaned and rolled his eyes at Connor’s behavior.
“Just trying to lighten the mood. Jesus,” he said.
“Sit,” Mr. Prendergast urged, sliding Connor’s chair forward so that it hit him against the back of his knees. “Tell us about your latest issue.”
“Well.” Connor rubbed at his neck. He took great pride in his magazine, but when it came to sharing details with those who weren’t its audience, he felt like a total asshole. “There’s not much to say. It’s still in development.”
“What about that kid they saw up in Maidenwood?” James suggested. He left the living room and joined the family at the table. “The one that was wearing animal skins and a skull?”
Connor shook his head. “You do know whose body they found up there, right?”
“No.”
“Beatrice Bacchus’s, man.” Connor bit his thumb. He had never been close friends with Beatrice, but he’d known her, and it was strange to think of her being dead. His memories of her… they didn’t seem real anymore because of it. “I bet your ex is a mess.”
James had gone pale. “Yeah… yeah. Maybe I should call her? No, I won’t, but, yeah, you’re right. Not a good story to tell. Was it the kid who did it?”
“I don’t think they’ve caught anyone—”
“Issue six,” Mrs. Prendergast interrupted. She had a weak constitution when it came to tragedy, and didn’t much care for things that made her boys cry. “Did it really need to be so violent?”
Connor’s eyes rolled so far back in his head that even demon-possessed Regan would cringe. “It wasn’t that violent, Mom. Really, it’s okay, you don’t have to read ‘Black Occult Macabre.’ I know it’s not your thing.”
Mrs. Prendergast smiled. “I wouldn’t be a very good mother if I didn’t,” she said, finishing her glass. She had a weak constitution, but for her boys, she’d endure almost anything. “Actually, I like that it’s fake.” She scowled at James. “It helps me sleep at night knowing you’re not running around here in Bedlam with witches and werewolves and… Satanists.”
“Well, it’s not all made up, isn’t that right, Connor?” Mr. Prendergast said in a scholarly tone. He took off his glasses and gave them a quick rub with his shirt. “What about that café over by the middle school? You said you saw something there.”
“A ghost, I think.” He exchanged glances with his mother and father, knowing all too well where their feigned interest and this so-called casual conversation would lead. “That one about the vampire priest? Total creep. Totally real. Word is born.”
Mr. Prendergast straightened his back. “That creep baptized you, boy!” He smiled and shook his head. “You know, there are some guys at work who’d be interested in signing up. I can get their emails. Or I can give them yours.”
“Every bit helps,” Connor said. It felt good to have his father’s help, better than most other’s. Sighing, he said, “I wish I could print it, ship it. Digital is great and all, but it’s not the same.”
“Print does have a certain feel to it, doesn’t it?” Mr. Prendergast reached for his wallet. “Need something to help you get through the week?”
Connor closed his eyes. Act like a kid, and they’ll treat you like a kid. He said through his teeth, “I’m fine. Bills are getting paid, and I’m getting more hours.”
As though on cue, Mrs. Prendergast chimed, “All that’s left is a wife and a baby on your knee.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you could find a nice girl from your subscribers,” James said, smirking. “Long walks through the graveyard. Sacrifice goats on the weekends.”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Connor said. “Your girlfriend reads my stuff, you know? Think she’d be up for a good, old fashioned blood orgy?”
James twisted his mouth. “Ha, ha, mother fu—”
“I’m serious!” Connor interrupted before his fat
her had a chance to. He started to gather up the plates around the table. “Easily my number one fan. Easily. She’s so perky.”
James scrutinized his stony face. “Not that gullible,” he said, hand slowly slipping down to his side, like a cowboy in a standoff. He drew his phone and played it cool, as though he weren’t, even though he was, frantically texting his girlfriend, Magda.
“I got it.” Mrs. Prendergast wobbled to her feet and snatched the plates and silverware Connor had started to collect. “Thank you, though. It’s good that you at least try to have some manners.” She shot a damning look at her youngest, but James, bent and strained, was too deep in his own jealous oubliette to pay her much mind.
“Anyway.” Connor stretched as his father stood, who was already eyeballing the couch so as to escape washing the dishes. “I got to go. I’m meeting someone, a contact. They said they have a story for me, and they’re paying to tell it.” He bit his lip. “Thanks for…” it almost seemed blasphemous to use the word, “… dinner.”
“Hey,” his father said, leaning in and hugging Connor. His glasses caught his son’s hair and plucked out a few strands. “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but there are a lot of messed up people out there. And you know I’m right when I say the kind of stuff you publish draws them out. So be careful, okay?”
His mother turned and stumbled into the kitchen, leaving behind one heel in the hallway. “Call us when you’re done.”
Connor thanked his father, gave his younger brother the middle finger, congratulated the dog on his boner, and booked it for his car.
THE MEETING
“Black Occult Macabre” was the result of a lonely night spent watching poorly translated Japanese horror films. Connor had tired of the modern entries into the genre, which often consisted of clever-but-not-that-clever homages, horror-hate disguised as satire, and dude-bro-watch-me-be-an-ass characters. So he did something about it.
Using a pad of paper and a pen, objects which were, surprisingly, not yet extinct, he outlined his objectives for the magazine. In essence, they stated it would be a self-contained publication supplemented by not only investigative journalism, but pure, grade-A bullshit.
The topics to be discussed were hardly unique to anyone having a passing familiarity with horror, but Connor had hoped that, by localizing the events to his hometown of Bedlam and modeling them after the masterful films of old, he would be able to build an insatiable intrigue and newfound respect for all things dark and terrible.
He finished the first issue in three days. The completion of accompanying illustrations, which Connor had done abstractly to hide his lack of artistic talent, followed shortly thereafter. In total, Volume 1, Issue 1 was ten pages in length. To Connor, whose head was so swollen by ego it would’ve put the Elephant Man’s to shame, the magazine was the greatest thing he had ever created.
Without checking for spelling and grammatical errors, an excited and sleep deprived Connor quickly compiled a list of email contacts and, with a bad case of the shakes, sent his baby off into the world.
“This is awesome, man!” Dan the metalhead had replied. “Is there really an underground cemetery beneath the high school?”
“Holy crap, Con! That’s scary! Where do you come up with this stuff? You made it up, right?” Marissa the barista had responded.
“Dude, you should totally get this shit published. For like, money,” Abel the stoner had suggested. “For real, though, if you got anymore, send it on over. I know some people who’d eat it up. No joke. Love it, man.”
And then, after he was good and drunk on compliments like a starry-eyed couple after prom, came the coup de grâce from Ethan: “It’s a noble effort, but the stories are cliché and the prose too prosaic or too purple to be scary. You need to learn to walk before you run. Connor, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a good imitator, and that’s it. Honestly, I couldn’t be bothered to finish all ten pages. It’s simply unreadable. I literally have never read such garbage before.” Yes, this was from Ethan; Ethan the elitist with his four monitor command station in his parents’ basement. “You’ve got potential. I can help you with that. But you should think about literary fiction. It’s the only thing that actually has the potential to say something worthwhile. And talk about shock value. Lowest common denominator much? Where’s the moral? Where’s the politics? Where’s the commentary on our—”
At that point in the email, Connor the cyclops pressed the delete key so hard it snapped in half and flew across the room.
In between the intermittent thoughts of strangling Ethan with his mouse cable, his mind started to work on the contents of Issue 2. He ended up analyzing various media outlets for inspiration and, feeling inspired by them, decided to redesign the layout of “Black Occult Macabre” to something more professional in appearance. Having the low standards they did, Connor’s friends were not only taken with the magazine’s makeover but were impressed with his ability to deliver not ten but twenty pages of new stories on wraiths, witches, and werewolves, and human slaves to zombie masters.
Due to a suggestion from his closest friend, Henry, Connor had decided to instate a fee. Beginning with Issue 3, which he had deliberately made longer to the numb the pain his readers would feel as they lightened their wallets, each monthly release was announced to cost seven dollars. Expecting outrage, Connor prepared himself to retract the statement and grovel at their feet for forgiveness. Instead, his fan base, which had reached an impressive fifteen, appeared quite taken with the notion. Somehow, the fee had given the magazine an air of legitimacy that hadn’t been there before.
Too ecstatic to speak, Connor took Henry out for drinks that night to celebrate. And by the end of the night, Connor was poorer than he’d ever been and Henry, that dastardly gentleman, was engaged to a one-eyed woman who carried him when they danced.
“Looks like we’re eating this week after all, boys!” Connor said to himself as he sat in his car, accepting payment on his phone from a friend of a friend of a friend for Issue 6.
He took one last look at his parents’ house before beginning to back out of the driveway. It would be nice to have one dinner where he didn’t act like a man-child, but that time hadn’t come yet. Adulthood just didn’t jive with him like it did everyone else.
I’m here now, actually. I’ll call you when it’s over, Connor texted Henry as he pulled up to Adelaide’s Hollow, a copse in the local park. He killed the engine and stared out through the windshield, trying to catch a glimpse of his contact. In Issue 5, he’d written a story about this place, in which a carnivorous tree snacked on star-crossed lovers. Ethan the elitist had told him it was a pedestrian effort. Connor the cyclops had called him a mother fucker and spent the rest of the night crying.
Of course, the story was pure, grade-A bullshit. However, to be fair, towards the center of the copse, there did sit an old oak with a split trunk that looked as though it were grinning with a mouthful of knives.
And as Connor got out of the car and wandered over to the copse, that’s where he found his contact, standing with his hands shoved into his ratty overcoat.
“Thank you for meeting me so soon,” Connor said as he closed the gap between them, the wet grass soaking his shoes. “Connor Prendergast,” he said, extending his hand.
The old man’s veiny hand wrapped around his and held on tightly. “Princess Kitty Lovechild,” he said, nodding. “Thank you for being so accommodating.”
Connor furrowed his eyebrows, laughed nervously. “Are you… are you royalty?”
The old man squinted, bit his lip, and burst into laughter. He clamped his clammy hand down onto Connor’s shoulder and used it for support, too overcome by his own amusement to stand upright. “I’m sorry. Name’s Herbert North.” He released his hold and scratched at the white stubble on his cheek. “Just trying to break the ice.”
“Do you live nearby?” Connor asked, quickly changing the subject. He noticed a plastic bag bursting from a pocket inside Herbert�
�s coat. “We could go grab something to eat,” he suggested, realizing they were alone, and remembering his father’s timely warning.
Ignoring him, Herbert said, “Have you been to that new restaurant on Main?”
Connor looked at Herbert, as though surprised to hear he may be a native of Bedlam, because he’d never seen or heard of him before. “The place where rich people go and order pictures of food and imagine how good it tastes?”
“Bingo.”
Connor shook his head, trying not to laugh. He liked Herbert North, but at the same time, there was a volatility about him, a pinch of insanity that made him feel uneasy.
“No,” he said finally. “Little too rich for my blood.”
“Chicken’s good,” Herbert said, tonguing his canines. “I want to show you something.” He nodded at the old oak as the wind whistled through its toothy maw.
“Ah, I know. I, uh, wrote about the tree in Issue 5. It’s always looked like that. Pretty weird. Ha.”
“I know.” Herbert took out the plastic bag, fumbled with the knot keeping it closed. He laughed as his face turned red. Impatience got the best of him and he tore open the bag’s side, revealing a large, glistening piece of steak within.
“Oh, man,” Connor started, watching as Herbert North fumbled with the hunk of meat, “I think I need to leave now.”
Herbert North shushed him. He lifted the steak up to the tree, paused, and then dropped the bloody offering into its makeshift mouth. Convinced he had made a mistake for which he would pay with his life or his virginity (he was saving himself, bless his heart), Connor began to back away. His father had been right: This line of work brought forth a certain kind of the crazy; the kind that fed old oaks old oxen as though they were tossing bread to birds.
Connor cupped the car keys in his pocket and waited for the moment to strike the old man down.
But it wasn’t the old man he’d need to hit. All at once, the old oak shuddered to life. Its branches flailed wildly, twisting like tendrils as it writhed in the dusky night. The tree’s hard exterior appeared to soften, become fleshy, to accommodate the movement. Its mouth started to move, chew. Tender chunks of meat pushed through the gaps in its jagged teeth and slid down its trunk, leaving behind a pink trail of gore.