“You shoulda shot, Daren . . .”
“I couldn’t, Grampa.” I was blubbering. “I can’t shoot nobody . . .” My tears fell, splattered on his face.
“You gotta, son. Your daddy, he never had no stomach for it neither. Couldn’t even do it to save your mama. That’s why he brung you here. He knew old Gramp would know what to do. That cancer that got your mama, boy—that cancer that killed her? Well, Daren . . . you got it, too.”
His words stopped in a gag, his eyes froze solid and he was dead.
I looked up. Looked around. The Snay was gone. The birds were quiet. I was alone in the woods.
Steve Rasnic Tem
MOTHERSON
COLORADO-based, like Dan Simmons (what do they put in the water out there?), Steve Tem is that rare pro whose work is generally welcomed for almost any sort of horror mag or anthology. He places craft ahead of other considerations and has the talent to shift from one fantastic attitude to another while sustaining quality and speaking in his own clear voice.
When the Bearded One made this uncommon and powerful story available last summer, he appended a note saying he had yarns coming out “in the anthologies Tropical Chills, Post Mortem, Graystone Bay #3, Hot Blood, Pulp house #/, The Book of the Dead, and Halloween Horrors II.” That means Steve has virtually blanketed the grimacing face of horror. For the second time, a Masques anthology peeks out from under a corner of that coverlet. Smiling.
MOTHERSON
Steve Rasnic Tem
JOEL FOUND SAMSON IN A FREIGHT car. Or Samson found him. In any case, both would have been hard to miss.
Joel was a runaway. One of his many social workers said he was becoming a “chronic” runaway, whatever that meant. All he knew was he had to run away all the time. Had to. How else was he going to find his own true mother?
Joel’s mother had abandoned him when he was just a year old. Or at least that’s what the social workers told him. But everybody knows social workers are liars, so he had no idea if that story was true or not. The social workers really liked to tell the story, though, and that made him suspicious. They made it sound like an adventure.
A woman from their agency had just gotten off the plane from a two-week vacation in the Bahamas. She was in the airport rest room when she heard a soft crying sound. She looked everywhere, even in the toilets, but she couldn’t find a thing. But she knew that somewhere a baby must be in terrible trouble, so she kept looking.
Finally she thought to lift the lid of the trash can, and there was Joel, all wrapped in a blanket. They said he must have been crying for a very long time because his face was bright red and he had trouble catching his breath. He’d even thrown up on the blanket, he’d been crying so hard.
So she called the police and brought Joel to the agency. The social workers were always telling him how cute he was then, and how all of them wanted to take him home with them, especially the lady who had “saved” him, but unfortunately it was against agency policy to place a child with someone who worked there.
That was a big lie. None of them had really wanted him. Joel was ugly. His face wasn’t red just from crying. He had a big strawberry birthmark covering the right side of his face. It looked as if he had been left under a sunlamp too long on one side. And when he got mad the mark got redder and redder, until it almost looked like his face was on fire, that he’d burn you if you touched him. He’d watched himself in the mirror, made himself get mad just to watch the birthmark flame. That wasn’t hard; there were a lot of things that made Joel mad and all he had to do was think about any one of them.
He’d been in six or seven foster homes, and three “adoptive placements.” They hadn’t wanted him either—they just said they did so they could brag to their friends and neighbors about what good people they were. Nobody wanted a kid with that kind of face, and Joel made sure that the families who took him in finally realized that fact.
He remembered the first place they’d sent him to. He had a little brother, five years old. The kid had a white puppy. The parents didn’t want Joel to feel jealous, so they let him feed the puppy sometimes. Joel didn’t feel jealous at all, but adults always thought they knew everything you were thinking. So he went along with them and fed the dog. Except one day he just added a little broken glass to the high-priced dog food they always bought.
Joel used to tell the social workers he only wanted to find his real mother and go back to her. They always told him she must not have been able to take care of him because she’d just abandoned him like that, but they didn’t know that. They’d never even talked to her.
Sometimes Joel imagined his mother must be somewhere crying over him, wondering what could have possibly happened to him. Maybe she’d been sick, or knocked unconscious. Or maybe someone had kidnapped him and left him in that bathroom. Maybe even that social worker who said she had found him had actually stolen him out of his mother’s front yard. Maybe the whole agency had been part of the crime. Anything might have happened.
Sometimes Joel could hear his mother inside his head, telling him to get out of whatever house and family the social workers had put him into and go find her. She needed him; they belonged together. Joel wondered if she had a big red mark on her face, just like his.
But that wouldn’t be right. His own true mother was beautiful.
This last time Joel had run away from a foster home. They were nice-enough people; at least they didn’t bother him with a lot of family-togetherness crap. But his mother told him it was time to leave. She told him to go to the railroad yards, where the freight trains go through. Maybe she was going to meet him, or tell him which train to take when he got there.
His mother told him to crawl into a certain freight car. Go to sleep, she said. That wasn’t hard to do—Joel always felt tired when his mother was talking to him. And the steady rocking of the train was about the finest thing Joel had ever felt.
When he woke up, the car was all red inside. Without thinking, he touched his face, wondering what was wrong. He’d been dreaming of fire, of burning up, and for a moment he wondered if he might still be dreaming. He turned his head in nervous little jerks.
The freight car was full of straw and empty cloth sacks. Most of the sacks were gathered in a big bundle at the shadowy other end of the car. The sliding door to the car was cracked a little, and it was there all the red was coming from. Joel staggered to his feet and went to take a look outside.
It was the most beautiful dawn Joel could remember. The sky was a gorgeous crimson, like it was on fire; but a nice fire. It warmed his birthmark pleasantly. He touched his face, helpless to prevent the smile he felt coming.
Nice, huh?
Joel stiffened. “Mother?” He turned and peered back into the darkened interior of the car. His eyes had to adjust again; he could barely see.
The bundle of empty sacks began to rise on two enormous legs.
“What you mean, boy?” The sacks parted to reveal the wide, bearded face. “You lost or something?”
Joel stared at the man standing among the discarded sacks. He was incredibly tall, with matted black hair and beard, and he wore a huge black overcoat that hung past his knees. It was hard to judge the man’s width because of the bulk of the coat, but Joel figured he must have weighed well over three hundred fifty.
“I asked you a question, son.”
Whoever he was, he was an adult, and not to be trusted. “I’m not your son,” Joel said. “And I’m not lost.”
The man tilted his head awkwardly, like as if he was stiff or something. Joel had a thought that the man might be crippled, but he couldn’t imagine where that idea came from. The man coughed a little, and Joel wondered if the man might be laughing at him.
“Well, you must be somebody’s son,” the man said. “I heard you asking for your mama.”
“Don’t you talk about my mother!” Joel felt his birthmark beginning to burn.
It’s all right, son. Don’t upset yourself so.
“What, w
hat did you say?” Joel raised his fists. He suddenly felt confused, like he wasn’t fully awake yet.
“I didn’t say anything uh . . . what’s your name, anyway?”
Joel just looked at him. “Joel,” he finally said, not sure why he was telling him.
“No last name?”
“No. Not one that belongs to me, anyway.”
“Well, that’s okay. My name’s Samson. No last name for me, either.” They stood like that awhile, awkward with each other. “Nice sunrise,” Samson said a couple of times, and Joel simply nodded. After a while Joel sat down, watching the countryside roll past the door. “You hungry . . . Joel?” Samson held out something wrapped in brown paper.
Joel took it, examined it. It was a candy bar. “Thanks,” he said, feeling a little more relaxed.
“No problem.” Samson was squatting now. Joel stared at the big man’s coat. It creased funny. He turned away again, afraid to look too closely.
They said nothing for several miles. The train seemed to change direction in a switching yard. For some reason Joel felt nervous. He didn’t know why. “I’ve never done this before,” he said. “I don’t even know where this train is going.”
It’s all right, baby. Everything’s going to be fine.
Joel stared at Samson’s beard, searching for signs of movement.
“Nothing to worry about, Joel,” Samson finally said, facing him, his mouth moving distinctly between the rolls of greasy dark beard. “I’ve been doing this for years. Perfectly safe. Where you off to, anyway?”
“I’m looking for my mother.” Joel felt foolish for having told him, but he was scared now, he needed for this man to help.
I’m here. I’m here, baby.
Joel shook. He rubbed his hand back and forth in the hay, wishing she would stop, wondering where she was.
“Well, that’s just fine. Mothers are real important. Ol’ Samson knows.”
Joel couldn’t understand how the man could look so calm.
It‘s me, baby. Mama’s right here.
Joel closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. Samson was staring right at him. He wondered if his birthmark was glowing. It burned his face just thinking about it “What you looking at?” he muttered between clenched teeth.
“Nothing, Joel. Not one thing. We gots lots in common, you know?”
Joel felt like laughing. “Like what?”
“Mothers, for one. We’re both our mother’s son and that’s real important. And we ain’t got no last names. My mama never told me hers.”
Come here, baby.
Joel bit the inside of his mouth. “Where is your mother now?”
Samson grinned. He had no teeth. “Oh, here, there, everywhere.”
Everywhere . . .
Joel started to cry.
Don’t cry . . .
“Oh, don’t cry, Joel. I didn’t mean nothing.”
Baby, don’t cry . . .
“I want my mama.”
“I know. We all want our mamas. And it’s like . . . it’s like all mamas are the same, even when they’re not the same person, you know?”
“She didn’t mean to leave me behind. They’re all liars!” Joel began to wail.
“That’s a fact, son. They’ll lie every chance they get. You don’t have to tell ol’ Samson about social workers.”
“But how did you know . . .”
“I tell you, I’ve had more than my share of social workers in my time.”
Baby . . .
Joel felt something. Joel felt inspired, and he risked a silly, crazy question: “Is your mother my mother?”
Samson chuckled. “No, no, that’s not it at all. You’re looking for your mama. My mama understands that, and she just appreciates how you feel. Yes, indeedy, she does appreciate it. That’s what got her interested in you; that’s what brought you here. Like a moth to a burning fire.” Samson’s head fell back and the close air filled with his deep-throated laugh.
Joel hesitated. Then he felt it all rush out of him. “She must have been sick. Something bad must have made her leave me!”
“I believe you.” Samson crawled across the rocking floor and looked Joel in the face. “Mamas go through a lot. My mama got her belly cut open giving birth to me. And she died for her trouble!”
I did it for you, baby. I’d do anything for you.
Joel stared at Samson. The huge man looked even more grotesque, splayed across the shaking, rocking floor of the freight car. The vibrations of the moving car made his loose overcoat move and bend in strange ways, as if it had a life of its own.
Come to me, son. I’m here for you.
Joel scooted back until he was leaning against the metal wall. Samson looked exhausted, his mouth open and eyelids half-lowered. He turned over awkwardly, lumping the straw together to make a cushion for his back.
“I’ll help you find her, Joel. Least I can do. ‘Cause I know how you feel.”
One of the shiny black buttons holding Samson’s coat together had pulled off.
“You owe it to your mama to keep looking.”
Something gray was falling into the gap in the coat left by the missing button.
“I thank my own mama every day for what she did for me—giving me life like that.”
More buttons popped from the coat as the gray skin pressed away from Samson’s body. Joel could see hair, and white bonnet
My baby . . .
Joel rose up on his knees, leaned forward to get a closer look.
“Your mama’ll do anything for you, you know that?”
Joel rose to unsteady feet. The coat was almost completely open now. Something was dropping from its hidden folds to the freight car floor.
“My mama, now, she suffered bad.”
For you, son . . .
Joel bent over, his hand on Samson’s overcoat.
My baby . . .
Joel began to lift one side of the heavy coat.
“They shouldn’t have cut her open like that! Weren’t even proper hospital!”
Something flopped forward onto the floor, grinning up at him.
My son . . .
“Why, that woman was just a midwife! Not no proper doctor.” The operation just didn’t work out!”
Joel stared down at the shriveled woman’s corpse.
Mama’s boy . . .
“But she never left me, my mama. That ol’ midwife couldn’t keep us apart. So that crazy ol’ midwife just kept us together. Raised me up, all by myself in that little attic room, still in my mama’s arms. My mama dearly loved me. Couldn’t give me up.”
Mother’s son . . .
Joel stared down at Samson’s hips, where the emaciated man’s body joined his mother’s broken frame. The woman’s empty eye sockets stared up at him, her mouth fallen open.
Joel could barely contain his rage. He wanted to kick through the twisted joining of mother and son, shatter the point where Samson’s narrowed, deformed torso emerged from female, skeleton thighs. He wanted to smash apart all the marbled surfaces where living flesh and old bone had blended into one. It wasn’t fair.
Joel had never had his mother. Samson had never lost his.
Motherson . . .
John Keefauver
KILL FOR ME
LIKE Adobe James and Paul Dale Anderson, John Keefauver is a living secret editors should want to expose. To acclaim. I knew of neither John nor “James” before Ray Russell confided their existence. But “Kill for Me” was (like “Motherson”) once meant to be part of an anthology I edited to advance new and “undersung” greats, like this Californian whose book appearances include several Hitchcock Presents anthologies, Joe Lansdale’s Best of the West, and Shadows 4. John’s fiction and humor have also made OMNI, Playboy, National Review, and Twilight Zone. Whereas my other anthology never made it into print, the tales by the likes of McCammon, Kisner, R. C. Matheson, Winter, Paul Olson, Castle, Tern, and Wiatcr have—And now, at last, this existential corker too!
KILL FOR ME
John Keefauver
JOW, THE GUN IS AIMED AT him as he sleeps so peacefully there, and all I have to do is pull the trigger and the whole horrible thing will be finished. Finally finished. Years of it, over. And I’ll be the only one left. Not that I deserve to be the one surviving. But if Irene had told me what she was going to do, there would have been two of us left. I would have killed him then instead of now.
In a way, of course, she’s the one who will be killing him. Not that she would want it that way. Still, there’s the irony of it. Her note to me after I found her: “Tell him you did it, that it was your idea. He will think I’m the ‘somebody’ and he will stop. He will be satisfied . . .”
Satisfied? Him? Him, stop? Whatever possessed her to think that he’d stop! Why should he stop after all these years? To my mind he’s just getting started. A bullet will be the only thing that will stop him.
She was always the optimist, though, Irene. She always said he would grow out of it. From the very beginning, she was the one who gave in to him, thinking he’d stop. And what she has just done was her final giving-in. Not that I didn’t think the same way she did too, at first, that it was simply a baby thing on his part. After all, don’t all babies go into a tantrum at some time or another, at least once, in order to get their way? Like holding their breath until you give them whatever they want. Like he did, although I don’t remember what it was he wanted anymore. But that was the beginning. And I suppose if we hadn’t given in to him then, and all the childhood years afterward, I wouldn’t be standing here now in his bedroom with a gun aimed at his head, my finger on the trigger. Can I really do it? If I hadn’t lived through it, I would think of myself now as a monster. Can I really do it?
It’s not a matter of whether I can, but mat I must do it. For Irene’s sake. And for all the others he will destroy if I don’t destroy him. I won’t give in to him again. If I—and Irene—had only stopped years ago. If we’d let him hold his breath until he turned blue. He couldn’t hurt himself—we knew it then—but he scared us and we gave him what he wanted. Scared us . . . Little did we know.
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