by Del Howison
“But …”
“The boy in The Architecture of Snow struggles through a blizzard to save his father. Eddie in this novel struggles to get out of a slum and find a father. You’re running variations on a theme. An important theme, granted. But the same one as in The Sand Castle.”
“Continue.”
“That may be why the critics turned against your last book. Because it was a variation on The Sand Castle also.”
“Maybe some writers only have one theme.”
“Perhaps that’s true. But if I were your editor, I’d push you to learn if that were the case.”
Wentworth considered me with those clear, probing eyes. “My father molested me when I was eight.”
I felt as if I’d been hit.
“My mother found out and divorced him. We moved to another city. I never saw my father again. She never remarried. Fathers and sons. A powerful need when a boy’s growing up. That’s why I became a grade school teacher: to be a surrogate father for the children who needed one. It’s the reason I became a writer: to understand the hollowness in me. I lied to you. I told you that when I heard you coming across the yard, when I saw your desperate features, I pulled my gun from a drawer to protect myself. In fact, the gun was already in my hand. Friday. The day you crawled over the fence. Do you know what date it was?”
“No.”
“October fifteenth.”
“October fifteenth?” The date sounded vaguely familiar. Then it hit me. “Oh … The day your family died in the accident.”
For the first time, Wentworth started to look his true age, his cheeks shrinking, his eyes clouding. “I deceive myself by blaming my work. I trick myself into thinking that if I hadn’t sold ‘The Fortune Teller’ to Hollywood, we wouldn’t have driven to New York to see the damned movie. But the movie didn’t kill my family. The movie wasn’t driving the car when it flipped.”
“The weather turned bad. It was an accident.”
“So I tell myself. But every time I write another novel about a father and a son, I think about my two boys crushed in a heap of steel. Each year, it seems easier to handle. But some anniversaries … Even after all these years …”
“The gun was in your hand?”
“In my mouth. I want to save you because you saved me. I’ll sign a contract for The Architecture of Snow.”
* * *
Throughout the long drive back to Manhattan, I felt a familiar heaviness creep over me. I reached my apartment around midnight, but as Wentworth predicted, I slept poorly.
“Terrific!” My boss slapped my back when I gave him the news Monday morning. “Outstanding! I won’t forget this!”
After the magic of the compound, the office was depressing. “But Wentworth has three conditions,” I said.
“Fine, fine. Just give me the contract you took up there to get signed.”
“He didn’t sign it.”
“What? But you said—”
“That contract’s made out to R. J. Wentworth. He wants another contract, one made out to Peter Thomas.”
“The pseudonym on the manuscript?”
“That’s the first condition. The second is that the book has to be published with the name Peter Thomas on the cover.”
The head of marketing gasped.
“The third condition is that Wentworth won’t do interviews.”
Now the head of marketing turned red, as if choking on something. “We’ll lose Oprah and the Today show and the magazine covers and—”
“No interviews? That makes it worthless,” my CEO said. “Who the hell’s going to buy a book about a kid in a snowstorm when its author’s a nobody?”
“Those are his conditions.”
“Couldn’t you talk him out of that?”
“He wants the book to speak for itself. He says part of the reason he’s famous is that his family died. He won’t capitalize on that, and he won’t allow himself to be asked about it.”
“Worthless,” my boss moaned. “How can I tell the Gladstone executives we won’t have a million-seller? I’ll lose my job. You’ve already lost yours.”
“There’s a way to get around Wentworth’s conditions,” a voice said.
Everyone looked in that direction, toward the person next to me: my assistant, who wore his usual black turtleneck and black sports jacket.
“Make out the contract to Peter Thomas,” my assistant continued. “Put in clauses guaranteeing that the book will be published under that name and that there won’t be any interviews.”
“Weren’t you listening? An unknown author. No interviews. No serial killer or global conspiracy in the plot. We’ll be lucky to sell ten copies.”
“A million. You’ll get the million,” my assistant promised.
“Will you please start making sense.”
“The Internet will take care of everything. As soon as the book’s close to publication, I’ll leak rumors to hundreds of chat groups. I’ll put up a fan website. I’ll spread the word that Wentworth’s the actual author. I’ll point out parallels between his early work and this one. I’ll talk about the mysterious arrival of the manuscript just as his editor died. I’ll mention that a March and Sons editor, Robert Neal, had a weekend conference at Wentworth’s home in October, something that can be verified by checking with the motel where Mr. Neal stayed. I’ll juice it up until everyone buys the rumor. Believe me, the Internet thrives on gossip. It’ll get out of control damned fast. Since what passes for news these days is half speculation, reporters and TV commentators will do pieces about the rumors. After a week, it’ll be taken for granted that Peter Thomas is R. J. Wentworth. People will want to be the first to buy the book to see what all the fuss is about. Believe me, you’ll sell a million copies.”
I was too stunned to say anything.
So were the others.
Finally my boss opened his mouth. “I love the way this guy thinks.” He gave me a dismissive glance. “Take the new contract back to Wentworth. Tell him he’ll get everything he wants.”
* * *
So, on Tuesday, I drove back to Tipton. Because I was now familiar with the route, I made excellent time and arrived at four in the afternoon. Indeed, I often broke the speed limit, eager to see Wentworth again and warn him how March & Sons intended to betray him.
I saw the smoke before I got to town. As I approached the main street, I found it deserted. With a terrible premonition, I stopped at the park. The smoke shrouded Wentworth’s compound. His fence was down. A fire engine rumbled next to it. Running through the leaves, I saw townspeople gathered in shock. I saw the waitress from Meg’s Pantry, the waiter from the Tipton Tavern, Jonathan Wade from the bookstore, the barber who was the town constable, and Becky. I raced toward her.
“What happened?”
The constable turned from speaking to three state policemen. “The two outsiders who’ve been hanging around town—they broke into Bob’s place. The state police found fresh cigarette butts at the back fence. Next to a locked gate, there’s a tree so close to the fence it’s almost a ladder.”
My knees weakened when I realized he was talking about the tree I’d climbed to get over the fence. I showed them the way, I thought, sickened. I taught them how to get into the compound.
“Some of the neighbors thought they heard a shot,” the constable said, “but since this is hunting season, the shot didn’t seem unusual, except that it was close to town. Then the neighbors noticed smoke rising from the compound. Seems that after the outsiders stole what they could, they set fire to the place—to make Bob’s death look like an accident.”
“Death?” I could barely say the word.
“The county fire department found his body in the embers.”
My legs were so unsteady that I feared I’d collapse. I reached for something to support me. Becky’s shoulder. She held me up.
“The police caught the two guys who did it,” the constable said.
I wanted to get my hands on them and—
&nbs
p; “Bob came to see me after you drove back to New York,” Becky said. “As you know, he needed an attorney.”
“What are you talking about?”
Becky looked puzzled. “You aren’t aware he changed his will?”
“His will?”
“He said you were the kind of man he hoped his sons would have grown up to be. He made you his heir, his literary executor, everything. This place is yours now.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks. They rolled even harder an hour later when the firemen let Becky and me onto the property and showed us where they’d found Wentworth’s body in the charred kitchen. The corpse was gone now, but the outline in the ashes was vivid. I stared at the blackened timbers of the gazebo. I walked toward Wentworth’s gutted writing studio. A fireman stopped me from getting too close. But even from twenty feet away, I saw the clump of twisted metal that was once a typewriter. And the piles of ashes that had once been twenty-one manuscripts.
* * *
Now you know the background. I spend a lot of time trying to rebuild the compound, although I doubt I’ll ever regain its magic. Becky often comes to help me. I couldn’t do it without her.
But The Architecture of Snow is what I mostly think about. I told March & Sons to go to hell, with a special invitation to my assistant, my boss, and the head of marketing. I arranged for the novel to be privately printed under the name Peter Thomas. A Tipton artist designed a cover that shows the hint of a farmhouse within gusting snow, almost as if the snow is constructing the house. There’s no author’s biography. Exactly as Wentworth intended.
I keep boxes of the novel in my car. I drive from bookstore to bookstore throughout New England, but only a few will take the chance on an unknown author. I tell them it’s an absolutely wonderful book, and they look blank as if “wonderful” isn’t what customers want these days. Is there a serial killer or a global conspiracy?
Wade has dozens of copies in his store. His front window’s filled with it. He tries to convince visitors to buy it, but his tourist customers want books that have photographs of ski slopes and covered bridges. He hasn’t sold even one. The townspeople? The waitress at Meg’s Pantry spoke the truth. She isn’t much of a reader. Nor is anybody else. I’ve tried until I don’t know what else to do. I’m so desperate I finally betrayed Wentworth’s trust and told you who wrote it. Take my word—it’s wonderful. Buy it, will you? Please. Buy this book.
AND SO WITH CRIES
CLIVE BARKER
And so with cries the world begins,
and angels offer up their skins,
to cover naked Humankind.
As above, below. As in front, behind.
You didn’t know this? Yes, we’re clothed
in what loving spirits first betrothed
to us. Our skins a glory newly shed,
and to our raw blood sinew wed.
Is it any wonder we’re divided
from ourselves? When God decided
we would live with nerves exposed,
and only angels interposed
on our behalf. And dressed us well.
For which, of course, they went to Hell.
ONE LAST BOTHER
DEL HOWISON
HAUNTED: DARK DELICACIES III is a variation on a theme. There are several meanings to the word haunted. What we seem to think of immediately is to annoy or pester a person or place by constantly visiting, the way it happens in a haunted house or possibly the damage I beset upon my favorite saloon. We could be haunted by memories of a terrible incident or visions of the past coming back time and again seeking revenge.
It’s true that the term haunt is most frequently used with a ghost or a spirit as its implied subject. But it also means a lair or a feeding place of animals or other things, possibly because of their returning to the same spot over and over. It means to be present, often.
The one definition that seems to apply to me the most is the adjective haunting in reference to something that is often recurring to the mind and not easily forgotten, like a haunting tune or the haunting stories you have just consumed. There will be more, and Jeff and I will be back to haunt you with yet another selection of ghoulish original tales of terror by the masters of the macabre. But until then we hope you are truly haunted by what you have read and that the ghosts of tales past continue to visit you over and over and over.
CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES
MARIA ALEXANDER — Maria Alexander’s credits include stories in Chiaroscuro and Paradox Magazine, as well as anthologies such as Lost on the Darkside and Blood Surrender. An anthology she shares with three other award-winning female horror writers, Sins of the Sirens, was released in 2008 to critical acclaim. Look for her work in the queer anthology, Unspeakable Horrors: From the Shadows of the Closet. She lives in Los Angeles. For the full literary rap sheet, visit her website, www.thehandlesspoet.com.
KEVIN J. ANDERSON — Kevin J. Anderson is the author of nearly a hundred novels. Best known as the author of epic science fiction in his internationally bestselling Dune novels with Brian Herbert, his own space opera, The Saga of Seven Suns, and numerous Star Wars novels, Kevin is also no stranger to the horror field. His first novel, Resurrection, Inc., was nominated for the Bram Stoker Award, and his X-Files novels became hugely popular around the world; he has written many horror short stories and edited Blood Lite. He has over twenty million books in print in twenty-nine languages. His most recent novels are Jessica of Dune (with Brian Herbert), Enemies and Allies, and the first book in his epic nautical fantasy saga, The Edge of the World.
CLIVE BARKER — Clive Barker was born in Liverpool, England, where he began his creative career writing, directing, and acting for the stage. Since then, he has gone on to pen such bestsellers as The Books of Blood, Weaveworld, Imajica, The Great and Secret Show, The Thief of Always, Everville, Sacrament, Galilee, Coldheart Canyon, and the highly acclaimed Abarat fantasy series. As a screenwriter, director, and film producer, he is credited with the Hellraiser and Candyman pictures, as well as Nightbreed, Lord of Illusions, Gods and Monsters, and The Midnight Meat Train. Barker lives in Los Angeles.
MICHAEL BOATMAN — By day, Michael Boatman dresses up and pretends to be other people on television. He’s probably best known as the “gay black guy” from Spin City or perhaps the “uptight black guy” from Arli$$. Television addicts of sufficient age may remember him as the “haunted black guy” from China Beach. He’s been “the black guy” in feature films like Hamburger Hill, The Glass Shield, The Peacemaker, Woman Thou Art Loosed, and the upcoming film Killing Wendy. He’s darkened up shows like Law and Order SVU, Criminal Minds, Grey’s Anatomy, and The Game and appeared on Broadway in Athol Fugard’s Master Harold … and the Boys. Much of his fiction attempts to straddle the line between horror and humor. He is the author of the monster-hunter novel The Revenant Road. His short fiction has appeared in magazines like Weird Tales, Horror Garage, and Red Scream and in anthologies like Sages & Swords, Daikaiju! 2: Revenge of the Giant Monsters, Badass Horror, Voices from the Other Side, and Whispers in the Night. Some of his stories have been herded into his short-story collection, God Laughs When You Die: Mean Little Stories from the Wrong Side of the Tracks. He lives in New York with his wife and four children, works in LA, writes on airplanes, and heckles angry flight attendants. His website is www.michaelboatman.net.
GARY A. BRAUNBECK — Gary A. Braunbeck is the author of eleven novels and eleven short-story collections. Among his most popular books are the Cedar Hill novels, including In Silent Graves, Keepers, Mr. Hands, Coffin County, Prodigal Blues, and the recent Far Dark Fields. His third collection of Cedar Hill stories, The Carnival Within, is forthcoming as are the novellas In Seeing and Clipper Girls. His work has thus far garnered five Bram Stoker Awards, an International Horror Guild Award, three Shocklines “Shocker” Awards, a Dark Scribe Magazine Black Quill Award, and a World Fantasy Award nomination. He lives in Columbus, Ohio, with his wife, author Lucy Snyder (Spellbent, Installing Linux on a Dead Badger, Sp
arks and Shadows).
AXELLE CAROLYN — Axelle Carolyn has been a horror fan for as long as she can remember. Brought up on a steady diet of scary movies and Stephen King novels, she was for several years a regular contributor to genre publications such as Fangoria, L’Écran Fantastique, and SFX, for which she traveled around the world to cover film sets and festivals. Today she still writes a monthly column on horror movies on entertainment website IGN, but she divides most of her time between acting and writing fiction. Her first book, It Lives Again! Horror Movies in the New Millennium, a study of horror since 2000, came out in late 2008. She lives in London with her husband, writer-director Neil Marshall.
SIMON CLARK — Simon Clark lives in Doncaster, England, with his family. When his first novel, Nailed by the Heart, made it through the slush pile in 1994, he banked the advance and embarked upon his dream of becoming a full-time writer. Many dreams and nightmares later, he wrote the cult zombie classics Blood Crazy, Darkness Demands, This Rage of Echoes, and The Night of the Triffids, which continues the story of Wyndham’s classic, The Day of the Triffids. His revival of the wickedly ambulatory plants won the British Fantasy Society’s award for best novel. Simon’s latest novel is The Midnight Man, a story of murder, madness, and ghosts, featuring Vincent Van Gogh in the most turbulent year of his life. Forthcoming are Ghost Monster and Whitby Vampyrrhic. Simon also experiments in short film, and he created Winter Chills for BBC TV. Simon’s website is www.bbr-online.com/nailed.
JOHN CONNOLLY — John Connolly was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1968, and is the author of eleven books, including the collection of supernatural short stories Nocturnes and his most recent novel, The Lovers.
MICK GARRIS — Award-winning filmmaker Mick Garris began writing fiction at the age of twelve. He spent seven years as lead vocalist with the acclaimed tongue-in-cheek progressive art-rock band Horsefeathers. His first movie business job was as a receptionist for George Lucas’s Star Wars Corporation. Steven Spielberg hired Garris as story editor on the Amazing Stories series for NBC, where he wrote or cowrote ten of the forty-four episodes. Since then, he has written or coauthored several feature films (*batte ries not included, The Fly II, Hocus Pocus, Critters 2, Riding the Bullet) and teleplays (Amazing Stories, Quicksilver Highway, Virtual Obsession, The Others, Desperation, Nightmares & Dreams capes, Masters of Horror). His directorial credits include many of the above, plus Psycho IV: The Beginning and Sleepwalkers, and network miniseries The Stand, The Shining, and Steve Martini’s The Judge. As a prose fiction writer, his works include A Life in the Cinema and Development Hell. Garris lives in Southern California with his wife, Cynthia, an actress, musician, composer, and muse.