*
I returned to Moran’s office at midday. He asked how I was feeling, but I saw that his inquiry was mere politeness and that he was impatient to discover my thoughts. Once I was seated, he asked what conclusions I had come to on the mystery of P–’s death.
I forced a smile, the falsity of which I felt sure he would see. “A sorry tale indeed. It would appear that even in the grip of death, Mr. P– could not bring himself to abandon his powers of invention.”
Moran looked perplexed. “Yes, of course—he was noted for his imagination. But you would agree that there is more to this matter than is at first apparent?”
I ignored this question and asked one of my own. “When did he die?”
“Yesterday morning, a little after five. His last words were, ‘Lord help my poor soul’.”
I pondered this for a moment, attempting to disguise my true emotions from Moran. “It seems that at the end, he sought a reconciliation with God.”
“Perhaps,” Moran said, sounding unconvinced. “I had hoped that you might enlighten me as to the meaning of what he told me before his death.”
“I am sorry, Dr. Moran, but I believe you were correct in your initial diagnosis. Death from alcohol and opium abuse, preceded it seems, by insanity. A sad end for one so talented.”
“But yesterday—you seemed to suspect something more?”
“That was yesterday, sir—there is no telling what flights of fancy might be provoked by fatigue or grief.”
A spark of anger or frustration flashed behind Moran’s eyes. “You’re saying that you have nothing more to tell me?”
“I am sorry, Doctor.” I rose and extended a hand across his desk. “I must be going.”
He gripped it violently and asked me to reconsider. I told him I was unable to shed further light on the matter, thanked him for his concern and went to the door.
“Wait,” he called after me. I hesitated and heard him say, “You really think you will be able to forget?”
I made no answer but hurried away, not wanting to lie to him again.
*
P– was buried the next day but I left before the funeral. I was anxious to return to Philadelphia, to Frances and the child she carried in her womb. The first task I performed upon my return was to destroy the manuscript of my account of the case of M. Valdemar. I had not looked at it in two years, nor did I read it then. Instead, as I watched the flames consume my words, I imagined that in repaying this unsuspected debt, I would in time be granted the balm of forgetting.
In the fourteen years that have passed since those concluding events, I have watched my daughter, Virginia, grow near to the first blooming of womanhood, and in that time also, I have heard now and again of Mr. P–. Though his fame has waned somewhat among the general populace, he is much admired in literary circles, particularly in Europe, where they appear to have a peculiar fondness for the macabre and pathological. Perhaps they know more than we are prepared to admit. For myself, I do not seek out his tales. Whatever excitement or frisson of fear they may impart to readers, I have attempted to avoid. In this I have failed, for all through these long years, in place of his fictions, I am haunted by those truths I have never disclosed. Hence this manuscript which, once complete, I do not intend to be read. How soon that will be I cannot say.
It is of no consequence, I tell myself—for I no longer desire to learn the answers to those questions which fear leaves unspoken. I put these pages aside, once more postponing the end. Instead I watch Virginia as she moves through life in blissful ignorance, as her beauty gives pleasure to all who come into contact with her. And I try not to let my eyes linger too long on the shadows and the spaces in between.
The Rediscovery of Death
Had he known beforehand the true nature of the story in which he was to play a part, Nicholas Cleaver might well have set the manuscript aside. But he was blessed with no such foresight and instead, spurred on by curiosity and ambition, he read on until the words began to disappear before his eyes, and by then that fleeting moment when he might escape his fate had long since gone. By then, Cleaver’s story had already been written.
Under normal circumstances Cleaver would have paid no more attention to Strickle’s email than to the any of the other unsolicited proposals that clogged up his inbox every day. But this one had been different, for instead of the usual suggestions for themed anthologies from would-be editors, or overfamiliar outlines for novels from authors who had had a story or two appear in the small press, Strickle claimed to have the rights to over thirty unpublished tales of supernatural fiction by some of the field’s most acclaimed writers. Although the name had been unfamiliar to him, Cleaver had been intrigued enough to respond and suggest a meeting.
*
Cleaver lived in Roath, an area of Cardiff whose population was largely made up of students. He rented a one-bedroom flat above an office and back storeroom that housed his independent publishing business, the Thingumbob Press. He had started the press fifteen years previously, initially to publish a quarterly zine called Nevermore, which he had edited and to which he had contributed the occasional piece of fiction. Although he had at one time imagined himself as a writer, he had quickly become aware of his limitations while at the same time realising that he had a knack for recognising a good story when he saw one. This, coupled with a natural acumen for business and an ambition to continue working in the field, had led him to rethink the direction of the press, shifting the emphasis from Nevermore—which had never turned a profit—to seeking out relatively unknown but talented genre writers and publishing their first collections.
In his first year Cleaver had published three titles, each of them making a small profit which had been reinvested in the business. For the next three years he had continued to work selling advertising space in regional newspapers, ploughing most of his salary into Thingumbob. The breakthrough had come in his fourth year when he had published a forty thousand word novella by a young American writer that had gone on to win both the British and World Fantasy awards. It had sold out its initial print run, and Cleaver and the author had gone on to sell the mass market rights to a large, London publishing house.
By his sixth year he was publishing ten new titles annually, and in the last year, he had brought out twelve paperback originals as well as eight limited edition hardbacks with specially commissioned artwork. Although most had made money, they had not done as well as Cleaver had expected, and he was aware that without another sizeable hit, he might have to scale back his operation, or even worse, return to telesales.
Though he had invited Strickle along to discuss his proposal, Cleaver did not hold out much hope that it would come to anything. It was more of a speculative punt. His hopes sunk even lower when, two days after receiving the email, he met Simon Strickle for the first time. He’d never been one for judging people on first impressions, particularly when it came to writers and editors, but when a sickly looking middle-aged man carrying a leather satchel walked into his office in a grey, shabby suit that hung too loosely from his frame, Cleaver decided that their meeting would be brief.
“You’re Cleaver,” the man said in a low rasp that Cleaver struggled to hear.
He stood up. “Yeah. You must be Simon Strickle,” he said, shaking the cold, clammy hand.
“I must,” Strickle said, lowering himself into the seat in front of Cleaver’s desk. His bloodshot eyes twitched furtively and a film of perspiration glistened on his eggwhite face.
“Have we met before? Some convention maybe?” Cleaver said, studying Strickle, trying to place him from some past gathering of writers.
“No, we’ve never met.”
“Sorry,” Cleaver said, still thinking there was something familiar about Strickle and puzzled as to the man’s certainty. “I go to a lot of conventions, get to meet a lot of people in the industry.”
“Yes,” Strickle whispered harshly, as though the matter were settled.
“Can I get you something? Te
a? Coffee?”
Strickle turned his head and looked around the small, cramped office as though wary of something. “No,” he said, after a while. “Nothing.”
“Well then,” Cleaver said, becoming aware of a sickly smell in the room, akin to the scent of overripe fruit. “Your proposal intrigued me.”
“Anyone else here? In the building?”
Cleaver was puzzled. “I’m alone. Why?”
“Don’t want anyone listening in.”
“Why would anyone want to listen to our conversation?”
Strickle wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “People get greedy, want things they can’t have.” His sandpaper voice seemed to abrade the air between them.
“You came to me,” Cleaver said, irritated. “So why don’t you tell me what you’ve got.”
Strickle was struck by a violent coughing fit. He took a crumpled tissue from his pocket and pressed it to his mouth. Cleaver saw specks of blood darken the tissue.
“Are you all right?” he said, getting out of his seat. He went back into the storeroom and filled a glass of water from the small sink just behind the door. When he returned, Strickle had recovered somewhat, and was dabbing sweat from his face. “Here, this might help,” Cleaver said, handing the glass to Strickle.
After a couple of sips, Strickle leaned forward. “I have stories by some of the finest ever writers of supernatural fiction.”
“You said that, yes.”
“But I never mentioned any names.”
“I’m all ears.”
Strickle’s quick, nervous gaze flitted once more round the office. His voice dropped to a barely perceptible whisper as he spoke again. “I have a story by Robert Aickman. You know who he is?”
“I know who he was. He’s been dead thirty years.”
“Well, I have one of his that’s never been published.”
“That would be quite a coup.” Cleaver was sceptical. “I mean, a collection of his stories came out posthumously in eighty-five, and I think a previously unpublished tale appeared in a small press periodical about five years ago. I’m pretty sure that’s about it for Aickman.”
Strickle scratched his right knee and seeming momentarily lost for words. “I have others. Fritz Leiber, Robert Bloch, Angela Carter.”
“These writers are dead.”
“I know that. Yet, I have the stories. And more by Marjorie Bowen, Dennis Wheatley, August Derleth, Robert Chambers, Clark Ashton Smith, Daphne Du-”
“Hold on a second,” Cleaver interrupted, incredulous. “You’re trying to tell me that you’ve discovered stories by a bunch of famous dead writers that never made it into any journal or book?” Cleaver frowned and drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk. “And that these tales have somehow been overlooked by their estates?”
“That’s it.”
“And you can vouch for their provenance?”
“When you’ve read them there will be no doubt in your mind.”
“Jesus, Strickle—I’ll need a hell of lot more than that. I mean. I don’t know you. What credentials do you have? How would you come across such material?”
“These are all the credentials you’ll need,” Strickle said, reaching into his satchel. He took out a folder and placed it on the table. Handwritten in neat capitals across the top of the folder was the inscription THE REDISCOVERY OF DEATH. “Before I give you this, I need your word that you won’t share its contents with anyone.”
“What’s in it?”
“Two stories. One by Leiber, the other by Shirley Jackson.”
“I usually have a reader take a look at the material. A second opinion, you understand. And I’d need to verify that there are no copyright issues”
“The copyright is not a problem,” Strickle said, seeming to struggle for breath. His red eyes watered as he placed both hands on the folder. “But I have to insist, no reader except you. You can appreciate the sensitive nature of the material.”
Despite his scepticism, Cleaver found something in Strickle’s manner that made him waver. What he claimed to have seemed incredible, but what if, what if he really was in possession of lost works by those writers? Unpublished stories by people like Leiber, Bloch and Chambers would be literary gold-dust. Whoever brought such works to the reading public would have his reputation made for sure. Careful, he told himself. Don’t get carried away. Humour him. “All right then. No one reads what’s in here but me, and I don’t discuss it with anyone but you.”
Strickle nodded, taking his hands from the folder. Cleaver’s mouth was dry as he reached for it. He began to tear open the seal but Strickle rasped, “Not here. When I’m gone.”
Cleaver shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Read them.” Strickle stared oddly at the folder. There was a look of desperation about him. He stood up. “I’ll wait to hear from you,” he said, before shuffling out of the office.
*
Allyson called at four. He had put off reading the stories, saving them for the evening, but now his girlfriend wanted to know what time he was picking her up. He had forgotten they had arranged to go see a movie. It was a new David Lynch film they were both looking forward to. He said he would pick her up at six thirty.
Later, as he drove to Canton in the west of the city, he thought about Simon Strickle, wondering how much of what he claimed was true. The only way to begin finding out was to read the stories. He was amused to discover a slight resentment towards Allyson for reminding him of their date. If Strickle really had what he said he had, then time was of the essence. God forbid some other editor or publisher got wind of it and approached Strickle before he had the chance to even read the damn stories.
After the film they met some friends in a bar. Some guy Allyson worked with and his girlfriend, both of them social workers. For the rest of the evening, when they weren’t discussing David Lynch, they were talking shop. Cleaver could remember hardly anything about the movie. He was distracted, his mind elsewhere.
Back at Allyson’s she asked him if anything was wrong. He laughed and told her he’d met a man whose proposal could turn things around for his business. She wanted to know more but Cleaver suspected she was just being polite. She’d never shown much interest in the press and had sometimes hinted that he’d be better off working for a mainstream publisher. He changed the subject and soon after they went to bed.
*
Cleaver arrived at the office before nine the next morning. He checked his emails. Apart from a query from his printer about an overdue payment, there was a proposal for a novella from a writer whose name barely impinged on his consciousness, and one from a vaguely interesting new author from Manchester, who, following Cleaver’s request, had attached a file containing a dozen stories for a possible collection. Cleaver felt numb with boredom. The thought of ploughing his way through stories by some earnest young turk made him despair.
Strickle’s folder lay on the desk where he had left it. He took it upstairs, made a cup of tea and sat down to read. It had been years since he’d read Leiber but ‘Cat Drink Wolf’ struck Cleaver as among the best stories he had ever written. The wit, playfulness and unusual imagery were pure Leiber and it seemed every bit as good as ‘Horrible Imaginings’ or ‘Gonna Roll the Bones’. It was impossible to believe the story had never been published. Immediately after he’d finished reading it Cleaver looked up Leiber on his laptop, searching three online bibliographies. He found no mention of a story called ‘Cat Drink Wolf.’ He dug out an old copy of The Encyclopedia of Fantasy and read the entry on Leiber, only to come up empty again. How the hell had it been overlooked?
Cleaver felt a tingle of excitement. Maybe it was a pastiche, he told himself, but it felt authentic. Even if it wasn’t a genuine Leiber, it was still a bloody great story. He picked up the Shirley Jackson piece, a story entitled ‘Comings and Goings.’ He knew little of Jackson other than she had written the source novel for the film The Haunting. The story was slow to get going, but soon he found himself being
affected by a peculiar sense of dread as the female protagonist began to perceive gradual and disturbing changes in her husband’s character after the birth of their first child. The narrative was quietly compelling and the absence of any explicit violence or gore made its abrupt ending even more shocking.
Jackson’s Wikipedia entry gave a comprehensive list of her published stories but this was not among them. He didn’t know if it was typical of Jackson, if it accorded with her voice, but it was a jewel of a tale, polished, original, and extremely effective in evoking an atmosphere of quiet, subtle dread. In 1996, some thirty years after her death, a box of unpublished stories had been found in a barn behind her house. The best of these had been published in a collection called Just an Ordinary Day. Cleaver wondered if ‘Comings and Goings’ was one of those that had been found in the barn. If so, why hadn’t it been included in the collection? And how had Strickle uncovered it?
Researching Strickle, Cleaver found a Wikipedia entry that revealed he had been born in Salem, South Wales, in 1957. After a stint in the army, he had worked as a barman, nightclub bouncer, farmhand and merchant seamen, before turning to writing fiction in the early 1980s. His first sale was to a long defunct literary journal called Kollapse, before he began to see his work published on a more regular basis in UK and American small press journals. Cleaver didn’t recognise any of them, but figured they were a few years before his time.
Although Strickle had published over sixty stories, it was as a critic and later, as editor, that he had made his name, according to the wiki entry. As editor of the speculative fiction ‘zine, Regard the End, he was the first to publish stories by Willard Grant and John Luther Novak, and he had regularly published work by t. Winter-Damon, Roberta Lannes and Don Webb. In an online article reprinted from a small press review magazine, Rhys Hughes spoke in almost reverential tones about the influence of Regard the End. By the late eighties Strickle was editing a series of little known but highly influential anthologies, all now out of print. Among those who commented on Strickle’s work were Jonathan Carroll, who called him one of the most astute editors in the field, while Peter Crowther said he owed him a huge debt of gratitude. Ellis Robertson was impressed by the clarity and breadth of Strickle’s vision and said he would never have been able to put together his three anthologies of mid 90s cutting edge horror without his valuable input and assistance.
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