Author's note: This book was originally published as Heron in the Magic Now in 2014. It has been given a new title and cover art.
Monsters and the Magic Now contains extreme content and is recommended for mature readers.
Praise for MONSTERS AND THE MAGIC NOW:
"A grippingly twisted saga. West depicts this macabre world with style and dark humor."-Bram Stoker Award® winner Lucy Taylor
"Will definitely leave an indelible mark deep within your soul!"-DIABOLIQUE MAGAZINE
"Only Terry M. West could spin a tale so dark and brutal and still make it transcend horror and become a work of literary craftsmanship."-Kevin Lintner, SANITY'S GRAVEYARD
"Equally disturbing and powerful, it's a story that won't get the audience it deserves, but which should be appreciated all the more for it."-Bob Milne, BEAUTY IN RUINS
"[Monsters and the Magic Now] is a nightmare on acid. It is beautiful, deep and sad."-Heather Omen, THE HORROR NATION
"One of the most powerful and disturbing- yet incredibly entertaining things- I have read in decades. "-Michael Donner, Captain Creeper
"[Monsters and the Magic Now] is a super edgy, blood-thirsty tale that made me uncomfortable and left me wanting more. I love this story!"-Zachary Walters, THE MOUTHS OF MADNESS PODCAST
"What true horror is all about."-SCARLET'S WEB
"Terry M. West has created an unnerving horrific masterpiece!"-GEEKDOM OF GORE
"I cannot overstate this: Horror fans looking for something truly original that will get under their skin need to read [Monsters and the Magic Now]."-author DS Ullery
Welcome to the Magic Now…
Imagine a world just like yours with one startling difference: every creature of legend has stepped forward from the shadow and now exist shoulder to shoulder with humankind! Welcome to the Magic Now! New York city has become a macabre melting pot. Vampires, werewolves, zombies and ghouls are the new immigrants and they are chasing the American dream. The Night Things have become part of the system. There are currently no laws that protect their rights; no rules against exterminating them. There are many people anxious to exploit the Night Things for profit and lust.
Hardcore Crust
Gary Hack looked through the window of the Greek diner. Two homeless zombies sat on the hot concrete. They shook cups in the air. People rode the sidewalk quickly around the undead pests. Some fed them a few coins, but most stepped over the dead men and away from them like they were avoiding dogshit. Gary could practically smell the rotted bastards through the glass. He was still sneering at them when Anteia, the large Greek daughter of the diner owner, brought his coffee.
Anteia quickly scooped up the sugar rack from his table. She left Gary two sugar substitutes and three lukewarm creamer packs.
“Come on, Anteia,” Gary complained. She had caught him pocketing sugar and honey packs, and now she was enforcing a bizarre ration upon him.
“Next cup, maybe,” she said, eying him sternly as she spirited the fixings away.
“That stuff costs you pennies. And I get low blood sugar sometimes,” Gary complained, as Anteia retreated to the kitchen.
Gary made his coffee and looked up, spotting his producer, Mike Cooke. Mike was a middle-aged and dishonest lawyer who had very dark appetites. Many of the custom video jobs Gary had landed came from Mike’s perverted golf buddies and clients. The man was sleazy, and his every motion and expression conveyed arrogance and power. Mike wore a suit - he always wore a suit - and his dark hair was greased back. He had on sunglasses, because he couldn’t stand people looking into his eyes. He could be a prick and a tough customer, but he was Gary’s best friend.
Mike looked like heat, buttoned-up like he was. He looked like mafia or police or somewhere in between. When the lawyer walked toward Gary’s booth, a few patrons looked at Mike Cooke like they thought he was bringing trouble with him.
Mike sat down across from Gary. He got comfortable and looked at the director. He frowned, slightly amused and resigned to what he saw.
“You look like shit, Gary,” he informed his friend. “You have a rough night or something?”
“I got pretty numb,” Gary admitted. “I ended up staying out pretty late.”
“What’s that around your neck?” Mike asked, motioning to the little leather pouch.
Gary took it off, having forgotten it was there. “It’s a gris-gris bag. Some weird street vendor gave it to me last night.”
“What the fuck is it?” Mike asked, taking the bag from Gary and smelling it. “It smells like soap and herbs.”
“It supposedly wards off evil. It keeps the dark magic away,” Gary said, sucking down his coffee and looking around for Anteia and a refill.
“Where did you get it?” Mike asked, handing it back to Gary.
“Oh, over on 14th, I think,” Gary said, trying to recall exactly where. “The guy was a hokum peddler. You know; unicorn horns and fairy blood and shit like that. You see them on every corner since the tombs opened.”
“You’re not fucking around with those dead hookers over in that area, right? They’ll give your dick ten kinds of rot,” Mike warned.
Gary shook his head. “I don’t go in for that stuff. I just like to wander, that’s all. The city is a very surreal place when I am… in that state. The secret of synchronicity is to be consciously aware. I like to watch life pulsing through the veins. Everything flows and makes sense.”
“Yeah, maybe when you’re looking at it with heroin vision. Still, you should strap yourself in before you shoot up with that shit,” Mike cautioned. “You got no business going outdoors like that. Not these days. There are too many fangs in the night. You’re going to walk into a back alley feeding party if you aren’t careful.”
“I don’t shoot up,” Gary corrected Mike. “I snort it. I hate the needle.”
“Listen, Gary. It’s your life and you can whittle it away however you choose. It’s never fucked with the work and as long as it doesn’t, who am I to judge, you know? Just be careful. You’re my friend. And I don’t have many,” Mike confessed, looking at the menu though he always ordered the same thing. Spinach omelet and fries with gravy.
“So, who are we meeting?” Gary said, his eyes praising Anteia when she returned to refill his cup. She handed three more sweeteners Gary’s way, and then gave Mike a cup. She was much more generous to Mike with the sweeteners. Gary gazed at them enviously.
“You ever hear of the Bloody Carnivores?” Mike asked.
Gary strained his mind for a second. “No, can’t say that I have.”
“They are a heavy metal band. The front man is a guy named Bruce Von Stiers. He’s a huge fan of yours. He remembers you from your after dark gigs.”
Gary nodded. “And what is he looking for?”
“He is bringing notes. We are going to go over them and work out a budget. He wants to move pretty quickly.”
“Good,” Gary said. “Cash his fucking check before he changes his mind.”
A man entered the diner and Gary knew right away it was his client. He was tall and thin and he snarled. His hair was dyed blue-black and he swaggered when he walked. He had on distressed clothes that were fashionably aged and ratty. He wore mascara and looked like a tragically self-destructive and hip carnival barker who was working the front gate of hell.
The man’s age was a sudden source of debate for Gary. Bruce Von Stiers was either a moderately young man who had lived life hard or he was an older man who still held on to some vitality. It was really hard for Gary to decide.
Bruce spotted an elderly woman seated next to Gary’s booth. He winked, gave her the sign of the horns and wagged his tongue at her. Gary motioned and Mike looked over his shoulder, smiling when he spotted Bruce’s devious grin.
“Bruce, baby, over here!” he said, motioning to the booth.
The man marched to the booth and perched wordlessly next to Mike. Gary imagined that the regulars they sat among were watching the unsavory proceedings with dark fascinatio
n and nervousness. He hated having his business meetings here.
Bruce Von Stiers stared silently at the filmmaker, his face dark and unmoved.
“You, my friend, are a fucking legend,” he finally said, just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable. He extended his hand.
Gary shook it and smiled. He wasn’t used to favorable responses from people. Most were usually judgmental and angry and looked at Gary with contempt. The warm greeting definitely took the tension of the meeting off of him.
“I have everything of yours, man,” Bruce admitted, as Anteia set him up with a cup of coffee. “It’s all on a drive at home. I even have shit that you didn’t put your name on.”
“Well, that’s very flattering,” Gary said. “And I am happy you chose me for this project of yours.”
“Are you familiar with my band?” Bruce asked hopefully.
Gary stammered for a second. “You know, I am not a real music kind of guy.”
“Are you into metal at all?” Bruce asked further, seeming somewhat put off.
It made Gary a little nervous. “I am open to it. It’s just not my normal cup of tea.”
“Tell him about your music,” Mike encouraged Bruce. “Gary grew up in the suburbs. What the hell would he know?”
“We’re a crust punk band. Crust punk is a combination of anarcho-punk and extreme metal,” Bruce explained, sipping his black coffee. “Do you know the history or the sound?”
Gary shook his head. He was lost.
Mike snickered and pointed at Gary. “I told you. He’s a fucking square, Bruce. You are going to have to educate my boy.”
Bruce laughed at this. “Okay, man. What we play is fast and it’s hard and it’s political, but we might slow down just long enough to tell you to go fuck your mother. I have a better way to enlighten you.”
Bruce dug a CD from his thin leather jacket and pressed it into Gary’s hand. “This is the soundtrack, okay? Learn it. Absorb it. It is a perfect marriage, even if you haven’t seen the bride.”
“So where are we going with this?” Mike asked.
Bruce pulled a rolled and stained manuscript out from his jacket and tossed it on the table. “This is the manifesto. The script. It spells out everything we need. I want to create a dark piece of monster porn. But I want it all Hammeresque. Like some Castle of Dracula shit from the seventies.”
“Monster porn is becoming old hat, when you think about it,” Gary brought up as gently as he could.
Bruce smiled. “Read the fucking script, okay? It gets dark and deep. Other groups are gonna be trying to top this, man. You’ll see. I want this fucker streaming on our site soon, so let’s get cooking. Throw me a number and don’t be pussies about it. I want this to be the best it can.”
Bruce looked outside the window and noticed the homeless zombies on the sidewalk. “Dirty fuckers,” he muttered. He motioned for Anteia.
“Do I really have to stare at that shit while I am eating?” he demanded, jabbing a thumb toward the undead bums.
Anteia shrugged. “Who are they hurting? What do I know?”
She refilled their cups and walked away from Bruce’s hate and anger.
“Do you remember where you were when you found out that the undead exist?” Bruce wondered, staring hatefully out of the window.
Mike thought about it and laughed, indicating there was a story there. “I was at a fucking funeral, man. It was a riot.”
They all laughed, but disgust pulled at Bruce again, and he stared back out at the zombies like he had a grudge to settle.
Gary couldn’t remember the moment he had learned there was dark magic in the streets. He was too self-consumed and self-medicated for milestones. He could come close to the circumstances if asked to recall a personal betrayal or attack. But that stuff was hazy, even on good days.
“The dead should stay that way, you know?” Bruce continued. “Just lie in your grave and keep your bones still. How hard is that? And I thought they weren’t supposed to congregate.”
“They can move around in groups of three or less,” Mike informed Bruce. “Any more and it is considered a horde.”
“Still, I liked it better when they hid in their caskets,” Bruce said. He killed his coffee and stood. He threw way more money than was necessary on the table. “Confer on the materials and call me. I will be waiting and ready to cut a check. And listen to my music, Gary Hack. It’s cathartic. Your work has inspired me. Maybe I can return the favor.”
Bruce walked out of the diner, pausing to kick the shit out of the zombies on the sidewalk. Nobody seemed to care or tried to stop him.
Mike lifted the script and cracked it open while Gary watched the display outside.
“This shit is kind of harsh,” Mike reported, scanning it quickly.
“What? Like a roughie?” Gary asked.
“Heavier than that,” Mike said. He folded the script and put it back on the table. “We are going to need a crew, auditions and a lot of money.”
“What is he calling it?” Gary inquired.
Mike squinted down at the handwritten title on the cover page. “Dracula’s Erotic Guest.”
Gary nodded. “Catchy. Well, we’re back in the saddle,” he said, stealing the sugar packs from the booth behind him.
“You know, Bruce was very articulate,” Mike said, impressed. “He’s got a brain and vision. I didn’t know what to expect. But he seems like a cool customer.”
“Yep,” Gary said, watching dully as Bruce kicked one of the zombies in the ribs a final time before moving on. “He seemed like a class act.”
***
One week later…
Gary Hack caught the boy looking into the dresser mirror again.
“Why do you keep doing that?” he asked the young vampire who was perched nervously on the bed.
The sucker’s name was Lenny Deen, and he grinned and replied, “Habit, I guess. I still have the urge to look at my reflection. They tell me it takes the first hundred years to get over it. And, truthfully, I’m a little nervous. Which makes it worse, you know?”
“How long have you had fangs?” Gary said, digging his phone from his pocket.
“Thirty-five years,” Lenny said.
“You are still a baby,” Gary observed, switching on his video and circling Lenny’s head. “Not a hair out of place, but remember that video makes your kind more pale and gaunt.”
“That’s why none of us are leading men. We can’t hold any powder,” Lenny joked, taking Gary’s phone and inspecting the footage. He thanked Gary and handed the phone back.
Gary looked around the hotel room. His crew was busy setting up lights and preparing the room for the shoot. Lenny was early. He had arrived wrapped in a black body bag in the back of a cab. The crew had hauled him into the safety of the sun-proofed room. The males cast for these things were always early and eager. It was the women who ran late and sometimes didn’t show at all. And if they did show up, they weren’t usually sober.
There were eight people on the set, all prepping and preening the room.
“More candles,” Gary barked at a young female production assistant who was squatting down and surrounding the bed with black candles. “There are plenty in the van. Use them all. The client was very specific.”
The girl nodded without a word and left the room, cracking the door open and squeezing through to keep the sunlight off of Lenny. There was a warning sign on either side of the door as a reminder. The sun would be retreating soon, though, and they wouldn’t have to be so careful.
Gary looked around and saw no idle hands. The costume girl was ironing a white gothic gown. Lights were still being tested and tilted and covered with gels. The boys would fuss and check their meters until Gary slapped their hands away. The walls were being covered with a black backdrop to give the room more space in the darkness and to hide a very obvious and cheap hotel room. They were kids, his crew, but they were good. They all hated him, of course, and felt they were much bigger in the grand sche
me and much more important than him; but that was always the case with their kind. At least they believed in paying dues and took this as a learning experience.
Seeing that things were under control in the hands of his crew, he decided to kill some more time with Lenny.
“So, what’s your interest in this? Fame? Money?”
Lenny looked up from the thin script he had been studying. “Boredom, I guess. I feel like I have done it all.”
“Christ kid,” Gary chuckled. “You’ve got some years ahead of you to be bored already.”
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