by Shock Totem
Gunnells is a tenacious young writer. His short fiction is populated with realistic characters that are richly drawn and human. With The Quarry, Gunnells dips his toes into the format of novel...and he does a pretty good job of it.
Limestone University looms on the edge of manmade Lake Limestone, the scenic body of water that hedges the college campus. Known locally as the Quarry, it is the scene of a long-ago mining mishap, which resulted in the flooding of the mines that lay abandoned below the lake’s depths. But there is something else down there. Something ancient and lonely and evil. Something that manipulates the living as well as the dead.
When a prank goes awry, and a student inadvertently arouses the malevolence that languishes in the murky depths of the quarry, bad things happen. People disappear. People die...or don’t.
Once again Gunnells shines with his realistic depiction of people. The students of Limestone University are painted in rich colors and swarthy textures, and it actually made me slightly nostalgic for those long-gone salad days of higher education.
While there are aspects that could have been done better—the ending seemed abrupt and could have been fleshed out a bit; perhaps a little more depth into the history behind the evil entity and its origin—there will always be missteps or could-have-done-this-or-that criticisms when it comes to younger writers. Bottom line is, this is a fine debut novel by a strong writer, one I’ll be keeping my eyes on.
–John Boden
Wolf Hunt, by Jeff Strand; Dark Regions Press, 2010; 254 pgs.
There are many types of horror. Some are meant to frighten, some to creep you out, some just want to be disgusting, and some aim to make you laugh. It is this last category that I’ve seen the least of over my years of reading. In fact, the closest I’ve ever come to a “funny” horror yarn was probably John Saul’s Creature, but that was due more to the outlandish plot than anything intentionally humorous.
All of which leads me to Wolf Hunt, by Jeff Strand, a story with a plot just as peculiar as Creature, only when this book makes you laugh, you know the author meant it to be that way.
Wolf Hunt tells the story of George and Lou, two quirky, small-time thugs hired to transport some precious cargo through the Florida Everglades, from Miami to Tampa. That cargo? A man in a cage, who is either a werewolf or just some poor sap who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The interplay between the characters is downright hilarious. Strand has a definite gift for clever banter, and it’s on full display in this novel. The arguments and discussions George and Lou engage in with Ivan, the caged would-be werewolf, are both clever and supremely sarcastic. Even Michele, a young woman the two thugs pick up after one rather edgy scene involving insane dogs, has her own unique and mocking voice. The words bounce from character to character with ease, and often whole pages were filled with nothing but dialogue. This made the novel occasionally read like a comedic play, which was quite cool. And this aspect of the writing doesn’t disappear after we find out that Ivan is, indeed, a werewolf, and then escapes. (Really, I’m not spoiling anything here. The book’s title is Wolf Hunt, after all.)
Of course, most fiction worth its salt doesn’t stay strictly in one category, and Strand refuses to pull punches when it comes to gore in the second half of the book. Ivan is a brutal—and brutally efficient—killer. The text tends to linger on his more abhorrent acts, which I’m sure some readers won’t appreciate. However, if you can stand a few stomach-turning descriptions, when the banter cranks back up you’ll find yourself once more bobbing your head with a smile on your face.
The one thing Wolf Hunt is not, however, is scary. Though there is a good amount of tension built over the course of the hunt, I never once felt the slightest inkling of fright. This might be disappointing to some, but it was fine by me. There was enough going on in the story to keep me thoroughly entertained, if not excited to continue. This book might not be a literary masterpiece, but it doesn’t pretend to be. The author is never heavy-handed, and the story never loses the sense of dark playfulness that is on display right from the very first chapter.
In short, this is a wonderfully enjoyable read, one that plays with common tropes and uses the reader’s preconceived notions of what certain characters should act like against them. It’s funny, intense, and at times downright sick. As for the author, Jeff Strand…well, this is one reviewer who’s now a fan.
–Robert J. Duperre
Crooked Tree, by Robert C. Wilson; Berkley Books; 1981; 324 pgs.
When I was in my early teens, the high point of my week was when we would travel to the local Murphy Mart (pre-cursor to the Wal-Marts of today) a small department store that had a shelf of paperbacks. While my mother perused the store looking for whatever it was she looked for, I stood and lusted after the books. Those gloriously covered 80s pulp paperbacks. I especially loved those with the “cut out” type artwork on the cover, where you opened it to a full page of art that was usually more horrific than the actual cover.
I also had the luxury of having a wonderfully cool aunt. My step-mother’s sister was a voracious reader with an appetite for the macabre. She had a small bookshelf in her living room, heaving with pulp horror goodness. She’d let me borrow from them often, and while I saw Crooked Tree among her books, I never got around to borrowing it. The cover was one that stuck with me, so that all these years later, when I saw it at a local used shop, I snapped it up immediately.
In Crooked Tree, Michigan, something evil is stalking. Taking place during a time of social upheaval and turmoil as local Native Americans and corporate entities fight for control of the forests, lawyer Axel Michelson and his wife become enmeshed in a bloody war between man and beast and ancient evil.
When a star witness in the trial between the tribes and the corporations fails to show...no one knows it is the mere beginning of a terror that will uproot the town and its heritage. After more bodies start to surface, all ravaged and torn, evidence begins to point to the local black bear population, and an even more unbelievable reason for their carnage. Beliefs are challenged and pride is swallowed.
As is usually the case with these books, it was a quick and fun read. The characters are well drawn and the pacing is brisk and loaded with action. The backstory and mythos behind the evil is well plotted and the overall novel well done.
I must admit to a slight let down by the convenience of the ending but that happens from time to time. But if you have a hole in your soul that only a novel about Native American history, hungry bears and ancient evil can fill, Crooked Tree will do the trick.
–John Boden
2011 SHOCK TOTEM FLASH FICTION CONTEST WINNER
LITTLE KNIFE HOUSES
by Jaelithe Ingold
Say what you will about their arrogance, but there’s something cathartic about watching a chef wield his knives. All that precision. All that perfect timing and mastery and magic when steel slices the flesh of animals and vegetables.
Our kitchen. Although really it’s his kitchen, since I only go in there for a drink or to watch him work. Him, darting between the island and the range. Me, leaning against the countertop with a glass of wine in hand, eyes on every move his knives make.
All in complete silence. Like a ritual, and just as much a part of our marriage as the ring.
Until his knife hand slips.
“Shit!” Blood swells from his hand and dribbles onto the cutting board. A common occurrence among chefs, just as sidewalks find the clumsy and door frames find the tall. It only seems accidental.
He quickly goes to the sink and washes off the blood. I make all the usual sounds of concern that a wife does in bandaging his wound. All the while, my eyes are drawn to the knife that dared to take his blood. It’s always the one with the nick in its handle.
Greedy thing.
• • •
Upstairs, he is asleep. Downstairs, I slip into the kitchen. A black canvas case sits on the counter, sharpened knives nestled in their pockets and ready f
or work tomorrow.
Gently, I unroll the bundle and withdraw the knives. Eight of them lined up like shiny soldiers, and I cannot help but admire their loveliness. Even now I can hear them speaking.
As they always have.
“No more, okay?” The words are little more than a whisper. “It’s only been a week since the last time.”
The scarred knife glimmers in the shadows. It doesn’t like rejection.
As I watch, dark spots expand on the blade like little windows. Small feet emerge from the holes, followed by a barrel-shaped body. Long, twisted arms and a sooty, smashed face. Then its eyes blink. First white, then red. This one’s called the General.
We must have it.
I bite my lip. How do you argue with a gremlin? Or a goblin, or whatever fairy fucking thing it is? How do you say no when the creature can emerge at any time to take blood from whatever source it wishes?
Eight of the things have crawled out of their little knife houses. Eyes blinking up at me. Hands held out. Mouths opened wide.
Give it to us.
Another ritual. I always wear long sleeves, long pants and dark colors, and this is why. Last week, I cut my leg, so today it has to be an arm. That’s the rule. More silvery white scars decorate my skin, though the freckles help hide the marks.
We will kill him.
“All right.” Without hesitation, I pick up the nicked knife and slice the skin on my forearm. One second later, the blood swells over the surface in a neat line.
The creatures swarm.
• • •
He holds my hand, callused thumb gently abrading the skin of my wrist. “Anything you want to tell me?”
Our anniversary is tonight, but I’m not sure what he wants me to say. “I love you.”
Now he’s playing with my sleeve. “Aren’t you warm in this?” His hand brushes higher, pushing the fabric up until the first of the faded marks appears.
“Stop.”
His grip tightens. “Stop? You mean like you’ve stopped?”
On the plate, various sauces have begun to congeal, though my eyes are drawn to the swirl of pink below the rare filet. “Some promises can’t be kept.”
Sometimes the alternative is worse. Like letting them feed on him.
He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. My stomach twists at his frustration. I don’t like causing him distress, but what choice do I have?
“Let me see.”
I yank away. That’s against the rules. The scars are private. Just for me, and not for him. That’s why our bedroom is always dark and he doesn’t pry.
“Or I could just call the doctor.”
Avoiding eye contact, I pick up my steak knife and saw into the meat. More pink juice seeps out. The blade pits and a small hand reaches out, dips a finger and then withdraws, no doubt destined for the creature’s mouth.
“You want to argue on our anniversary?” The meat sits in a lump on my tongue. With difficulty, I swallow. They’re getting bolder, though they still avoid my husband’s view.
“No, I don’t want to argue.” He sips the wine, oblivious to the events on my plate. “But I don’t want to sweep your problems under the rug either.”
“I had a bad day. But it’s not a problem anymore. Promise.”
• • •
Another night. Another dinner. And it seems like the General and his cohorts are satisfied for now. Preparations go smoothly and the knives return to their canvas pockets without incident.
The conversation from two weeks prior has been set aside. My husband is back to his unchallenging self. He laughs and tells jokes. He smiles and leans in for a kiss. Then he offers to do dishes while I prepare dessert.
The water’s running. He’s whistling and I’m smiling while scooping out the ice cream. I don’t have to think about the marks anymore. Or to feel guilty.
Then something shatters.
“Shit!”
I hurry to the sink, where blood has turned the suds pink. His right hand is clamped over the left. His face has gone white, but he doesn’t let me see the wound. Instead, he runs toward the bathroom. Drops of blood spatter against the floor. Garish and mesmerizing until something tinkles in the sink.
I shut off the faucet, and the drain gobbles down the bloodied water and soap. At the bottom are the remains of one wine glass.
But it’s the other glass which captures my attention.
A thin slice, and the glass crumples and folds. A translucent heel emerges, followed by a crystalline figure.
We must have some, too.
Jaelithe Ingold was named after a character in Andre Norton’s Witch World series, so it’s no great surprise that she loves speculative fiction. She used to prepare fossils for display at the Carnegie Museum and is now a retail manager. Her work has appeared in Dark Recesses, Electric Spec, Arcane Magazine, and Abyss & Apex.
CANON
by Anaea Lay
William Paul Smith had a ghost at his back. The ghost, four years older and six months dead, had not spoken a word since forsaking the flesh. It had not looked him in the eye. The ghost did not like William’s plan.
“Move to your left,” William said to the fiddler. “And you, too,” a moment later to the kid with the harmonica.
They shuffled together, shooting William frightened glances and clutching their instruments.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be over soon,” William said. He’d paid them each in spirits, with a promise of pelts when they returned. It took charity to talk them out over the mountains this early in the spring, this close to blizzards, but generosity for so small a task raised suspicions, as well.
William glanced briefly at the ghost, ignoring the line down its skull and the blood in its hair. They—William, the two musicians, and the ghost—formed a circle. At the center, William planted a candle, fixing it in the soft earth to keep it in place. The night was still of wind, the flame safe.
The ghost straightened as William returned to the circle. William waited for it to speak, clutching a pair of dice in hand, but the ghost remained silent.
“Go ahead,” William said.
The kid with the harmonica started playing...
“She went with Jameson and the Frenchmen last year. They aren’t bragging about it, but Jameson said she saved his life.”
“I don’t know, Pete. Women would slow us down,” William said. “We’ve got quotas to meet. We won’t have time to coddle her.”
“She don’t need coddling. That’s the point. You ain’t got to worry about her like she’s a woman.”
“If you want a Negro, there are lots of good Negro men we could take. That Jeff Bailey, for one.”
“We don’t want just any Negro,” Peter said. “That Negro—you saw the haul Jameson came back with last year. Most of them were winter pelts from big beaver. She knows the trails. And them injuns over there taught her medicine.”
“Then Jameson should take her again,” William said. “Hell, we ought to go with them. I’m not keen on going our first time not knowing the passes.”
“Stop being so thick, Billy. We take her, so we don’t need Jameson. He’ll get a share of our take if we go with him. And I don’t want to work with no Frenchmen, either.”
“Fine. We can meet her, at least.”
The harmonica player continued, repeating the progression. The argument played over it. This time the fiddler joined in...
“How come you won’t come with us?” William asked Becky. Pete had described her as a ferocious Negro woman, but she was just a girl, slight and fragile-looking.
“You ain’t like other people,” Becky said.
“Why,” Peter said, “because we won’t sign up with a company? Lots of folks go independent. The profits are better.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean Mister William, there. He ain’t normal.”
“Neither are you,” William said, too surprised to stop himself.
“That’s true enough. We both see them. But it ain’t right, and
I don’t mean to make it a familiar thing.”
“Billy don’t do nothing with it,” Peter said. “He can’t help it, is all.”
“Come on. We’ll keep each other honest. Ignore them together.” Even as he spoke, William wondered why he’d changed his mind about her. Women were a bad idea, even ones like him.
William threw the dice down on the ground. They banged against each other as they fell, starting the story over even as the fiddler played on...
“Pete, take these and throw them,” William said, handing the dice to him.
“Why?”
“I’ll throw them, too. We throw the dice for who courts Becky. Winner gets her.”
“Billy, she ain’t a whiskey ration.” But he threw them anyway.
“Well, there’s that, then,” William said.
“It don’t mean nothing. I ain’t going to fight you over her,” Peter said.
“No, it means she’s yours. I thought so. I’d just hoped...”
“There’s girls back home who’ll love you. Becky ain’t all that much to fret over losing.”
But she was, and she’d already chosen Peter.
“I knew it hurt you. I should have let her alone,” the ghost said. “And I was stupid to talk about her like I did.”
William closed his eyes as the ghost talked, as the sound of the dice rattled in his head, as the musicians played on...
“I will certainly miss you on the trail with us,” William told Becky. His eyes avoided her swelling stomach.
“He shouldn’t go,” Becky said. “Neither of you should.”
“I know, but he won’t listen. He can’t see them. He can’t tell there’s something wrong.”
“He won’t come home. I try not to look, but it’s all over him. It’s all I can see.”
“I will bring him home to you,” William said.