Pete Aldin sold the very dark pagan story “The Whipping Tree” to Nightblade Fantasy and Horror Magazine Issue #23 Blodeuwedd, and the noir flash story “No Good Deed” to Bareknuckles Pulp No. 31 (Out Of The Gutter). “Lost Lake” by Greg Chapman appeared in the Literary Mayhem webzine edited by Peter D. Schwotzer. Robert Datson’s “Shoe Shine” was published in SQ Mag #10, edited by Gerry Huntman. “Nip, Tuck, Zip, Pluck” by John Paul Fitch appeared in Psychopomp #4. “Rear View”, a quiet ghost story from David R. Grigg, was published at the author’s The Narratorium website. Gerry Huntman’s “Dom and Gio’s Barber Shop” appeared in The Lovecraft eZine #21. “The Curious Case of the Frozen Revenant” by Gerry Huntman appeared in Railroad: Celebration Station, edited by Tonia Brown. D. Robert Grixti published “Pretty Birds” online at his Dark Gaia blog. “The Skeleton in Her Closet” by Heidi Kneale, appeared in Penumbra eMag, Volume 2, Issue 7. Kirstie Olley’s story Emily’s Typewriter was published on her website. “Squeak” by Emma Osborne was published in Daily Science Fiction (July 25th, 2013). “Blue Swirls” by Guy Salvidge appeared in Tincture Journal #1. “Fusion” by Amanda J. Spedding was published at the Cohesion Press website.
Graphic Novels
A Brush With Darkness (Milk Shadow Books) collected Dillon Naylor’s early horror comics and experimental work, along with posters and CD covers for The Beastie Boys, Area 7 and Powderfinger, and Melbourne cult bands The Fireballs, The Fat Thing, and Satellites, and promotional graphics for the all-ages Pushover festivals of the 90s. Savage Bitch by S.C.A.R. (Steve Carter and Antoinette Rydyr) collected the cult comic-strip originally serialized in Picture Magazine (Australian Consolidated Press) between 1995 and 1997, as a complete full-colour graphic narrative; included are the two graphic adventures Land of the Buku Buku and The Fury of Blood Bitch, with a foreword by Stephen R. Bissette (Swamp Thing, Tyrant, Taboo) and a special guest spot by artist Dave Heinrich (The Phantom: Ghost Who Walks). Zetabella published the graphic novel collection The Lesser Evil, Omnibus Edition by Shane W. Smith. “Zig Zag” by Andrez Bergen appeared in Uncanny Adventures edited by Jess Dubin (8th Wonder Press); thirty comic creators and twenty one genre-spanning stories.
Film
The showcase event for horror films in Sydney, The Night of Horror Film Festival, was held again in 2013, including the festival awards. Antipodeans to take out award categories were the occult dysfunctional family feature The Taking (Dir. Cezil Reed and Lydelle Jackson) for the Independent Spirit Award, the Audience Choice Award: Best Australian short went to P.O.V: Point Of View written and directed by Benjamin Morton, and winner of Best Animation went to Gothic horror Butterflies (dir. Isabel Peppard). Butterflies was also honoured with the Cinequest Film Festival 2013 prize for Best Animated Short, and the Yoram Gross Animation Award at the Sydney Film Festival 2013. The Fantastic Planet Feature Film Award in the category of Director’s Choice Award went to A Dark Matter (Dir. James Naylor), and the award for Best Female Performance went to Emma Lung (Crave). The Fantastic Planet Short Film Awards bestowed the honour of the Audience Choice Award: Best Australian Short to Wolf At The Door (dir. David Fairhurst).
Australian feature horror films completed in 2013 were Lemon Tree Passage, the directorial debut of David James Campbell concerning an urban legend about a haunted road of the same name in Port Stephens, and Wolf Creek 2 directed by Greg McLean and starring John Jarratt as fictional serial killer Mick Taylor. New Zealand feature horror films completed in 2013 included Housebound the directorial debut of Gerard Johnstone, and What We Do In The Shadows directed by Jemaine Clement and Taika Waititi, a mockumentary about a share house in Aukland occupied by vampires.
Remembered
Chrissy Amphlett, 53, Australian singer/songwriter, who thought “love was science fiction”; Steven Utley, 64, “internationally unknown” American SF writer; Paul Williams, 64, American writer and publisher; Gregory Rogers, 66, Australian children’s book writer and illustrator; Richard Matheson, 87, American fantasy/horror Grandmaster; James Herbert, 69, English horror Grandmaster; Jack Vance, 96, American sf/fantasy Grandmaster; Iain Banks, 59, Scottish fantasist; Parke Godwin, 84, World Fantasy Award winner; Frederik Pohl, 93, US sf Grandmaster; Joel Lane, 50, World Fantasy Award winner.
The Year’s Best Australian Fantasy & Horror
~ 2013 ~
The Fourth Annual Collection
Caution: Contains Small Parts
Kirstyn McDermott
Tim places the small wooden dog on the coffee table and checks inside the box a second time. No card, no note, nothing besides the dozen or so crumpled sheets of week-old Herald Sun that cushioned the toy during its journey through the postal system. Nothing to explain what it’s for or why it’s been sent to him.
“Maybe it’s a joke,” Linda suggests.
Grabbing the twine that’s strung like a garrotte through the dog’s neck, she pulls the toy along the tabletop. It has smooth wooden wheels in place of legs, painted a bright and glossy shade of red, and a brass bell on the end of its tail that tinkles with each movement of its multi-coloured, segmented body. The head bobs back and forth in a strange, jerky way that gives Tim the creeps. More like a mutant pigeon than a puppy. What sort of parent would buy their kid a toy like this anyway? What sort of kid would want one?
“There’s no return address?” Linda asks.
“No, just mine.” Printed in thick black capitals and Tim can’t decide whether or not the handwriting looks familiar.
“It’s sad.”
“You think?”
“Yeah.” She drops the twine and the dog creaks to a standstill. “Look at its sad little eyes, and its sad little mouth. Poor thing, I feel sorry for it.”
Tim shrugs. It doesn’t look sad to him; it looks . . . wrong.
“Maybe it got sent to you by mistake,” Linda says. She turns back to her trashy gossip mag, to the photo spread of Stars! Caught Without Makeup!, and shakes her head. “You should hang onto it, in case you have to return it. Might be some child’s favourite toy got sent here by mistake, you never know.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
As Tim picks the dog up, meaning to put it back into the box, a patch of chipped paint on one of the wheels catches his eye. Not really chipped, now that he looks closely, more like bitten or chewed. A toddler with serious teething issues, with serious teeth, to gnaw away so much wood. He dumps the dog into its nest of expired newsprint, then closes the flaps on the box and kicks it under the coffee table. Stupid toy.
Later, after Linda’s gone home, he’ll take the whole thing out to the bin.
* * *
Four minutes past three in the morning, according to the red glow of his alarm clock, and Tim lies perfectly still in bed, his ears straining for a repeat of whatever sound it was that woke him. Nothing. He rolls over, reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table. Empty. He must have forgotten to fill it before turning in; never mind, he’ll do without. But his tongue catches on the roof of his mouth and the more he thinks about not needing a drink, the thirstier he feels. At sixteen minutes past three, he swears and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
In the kitchen, light from a near-full moon washes through the window so Tim doesn’t bother flicking the switch. Just fills his glass with tap water and stands in front of the sink, looking out into the backyard as he drinks. The lawn needs to be mown, but he can still see dozens of lemons nestling amid the grass like overripe hand grenades. Linda usually picks a few to share with the girls at her gym, but even they can’t keep up with the prodigious output. Lemons. The most useless fruit in the world and he scores a yard with two trees full of the bloody things.
Not for the first time, Tim wishes he’d rented a townhouse or unit instead. Some modern, low maintenance prefab with concrete and pavers to keep Mother Nature at bay.
Behind him, a bell tinkles.
Tim jerks around. Water splashes over his hand and across the front of his shirt, and he swears again. Then he sees the thing sitting just
inside the kitchen doorway and further words desert him.
Impossible—impossible—that the small wooden dog should be there, right there, where he would have had to walk past it, step over it maybe, as he entered the room. Not when he threw the toy into the outside wheelie bin just that afternoon, not when he lugged the very same bin out onto the side of the street, where the garbos will be coming to empty it in a few short hours.
Impossible.
Without taking his eyes from the dog, Tim reaches around and lowers his glass into the sink, wipes his hands on his pyjama pants. Unless . . . unless he only threw out the box itself. Linda might have rescued the toy without him realising, maybe hidden it somewhere as a joke. Tim frowns, tries to remember the feel of the box in his hands, the weight of it. Tries to remember if he heard the bell ring as he tossed it into the half-empty bin. He shakes his head. It doesn’t matter what he remembers—the dog clearly couldn’t have been in the box because right now he’s staring at the damn thing with his own two eyes. Okay, so Linda took it. Put it . . . under the kitchen table? Where the vibrations of his own footsteps caused it to roll out? Sure, why not? Witching hour logic, but it’s good enough for Tim, or nearly so.
He takes a step towards the dog but finds himself loath to touch it—not with his bare hands anyway—and he doesn’t want to think too hard about why that might be so. It’s just so creepy, all painted eyes and flat black stare, sitting there now, not so much motionless as . . . coiled.
Ridiculous, but still. Tim throws a tea towel over the toy before picking the bundle up with both hands, and finds himself almost relieved when it doesn’t begin to wriggle within his grasp. His jaw clenches, anger seeping into his blood now as fear beats a shameful retreat. Damn Linda and her childish bloody jokes. He’s not going to give her the satisfaction of even mentioning it.
Outside, his breath frosts the air. Tim jogs down the driveway to where his bin now stands beside those of his neighbours, a trio of patient old soldiers huddled shoulder to shoulder against the darkness. He lifts the lid and drops the wooden dog inside, tea towel and all. The muffled tinkle of a bell sounds from the depths.
“Good dog,” he mutters. “Play dead.”
* * *
The phone rings as soon as Tim arrives home from work the next evening. Groaning, he hurries into the kitchen, juggling keys, work satchel, rain-soaked umbrella, and a thin plastic bag of takeaway Thai which has been threatening to snap a handle ever since he picked it up. Only two people ever call him on the landline: his mother, who doesn’t trust mobile phones; and persistent offshore telemarketers. He dumps everything onto the bench and reaches for the handset. The caller has a private number, which does nothing to narrow the field—his mother doesn’t trust phone directories either; she hasn’t been listed for years—and he considers just letting it ring out. But if it is his mother, she’ll only call back in five minutes, and in five minutes after that, and in five minutes after that. Better to get it over with.
He presses the answer button. “Hello?”
“Is this Tim Jennings?” The woman sounds young and weary and possibly, vaguely familiar.
“That’s me,” he replies. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Anna Vidicci.” A pause. “Melanie’s sister, you remember.”
It’s almost instinctive, the way his guts tighten. The Crane? Why is the Crane calling him? It’s been almost four years since he broke up with Mellie; what can her bitch of an older sister want from him now?
“Anna, hi. It’s been a while.” Tucking the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, he pulls the containers of Thai from their bag. The red chicken curry has leaked through the edges of its lid; coconut sauce drips across the bench, pools around his keys.
“Do you have a few minutes to speak?”
“Um, I’m kind of in the middle of something here.” He rinses his keys beneath the tap, leaves them in the dishrack to dry. Grabs a handful of paper towels to take care of the mess on the bench.
“I have some bad news.” Her voice is thin, its edges sheet-metal sharp.
Tim licks his fingers. “Look, can I call you back? What’s your number?”
“Melanie’s dead.”
“What?” He couldn’t have heard her right, she couldn’t have just said—
“Last Thursday,” the Crane tells him. “I thought you should hear it from me. The funeral’s on Wednesday, if you want to come. Sorry about the short notice, there were a lot of people I needed to call.”
You were the last name on my list, are the words she leaves unspoken.
Tim closes his eyes, allows himself to slide down the front of the cupboard to slump onto the tiled floor. A handle digs into his back; he doesn’t move. Today is Monday—four days ago, Mellie was still breathing somewhere. Still scribbling in those notebooks of hers as well, most probably, and talking to people who weren’t there, and sniffing her food for traces of poison—but still breathing. Still alive.
“What happened?” It’s a question he’s not sure he wants answered.
“Melanie wasn’t well, you know that. There were a lot of bad days, especially after you left. Thursday was one bad day too many.”
He swallows, tries to ignore the accusation in her tone. “I’m sorry, Anna.”
The way she speaks, the Crane always seems to be accusing somebody of something. He can picture her now, those pale lips pursed to a thin line, the furrows in her brow deepening to troughs as she pecks pecks pecks at the phone, determined to find fault, eager to apportion blame.
“Do you want to know about the funeral?” she asks.
Tim pretends to write down the details, repeating them back to her even though he already knows he won’t be going. He can’t see the point. It’s been over with Mellie for longer than they were ever together and it’s not like they bothered to stay in touch, not even on Facebook. Before tonight, he can’t recall the last time he even thought about her. No, it would be stupid to go to the funeral. Mellie’s family wouldn’t want him there; the invitation is merely protocol.
“Thanks for calling, Anna. I’m sorry about Mellie, I really am.” He pauses, tries to conceive a suitable condolence. “She was a special kind of person.”
“Yes,” the Crane says, and, “Well.”
They exchange awkward goodbyes and Tim stands to return the phone to its cradle. Left lidless on the bench, the Thai curry has started to separate and congeal. Orange pools of oil glisten on its surface. He picks up a plastic fork, stabs half-heartedly at a large chunk of chicken. Pale and tender, the meat splits easily apart, dripping red as he lifts it from the sauce. The smell is thick and rich and close to nauseating. Tim puts the lid back on the curry and returns it to its bag along with the rice and the little parcel of deep-fried spring rolls, then shoves the whole lot into the fridge. He can nuke it in the microwave later, or maybe tomorrow.
Maybe tomorrow, he’ll feel hungry again.
* * *
Friday nights, Linda comes over to eat pizza and watch movies. Sometimes she brings her overnight bag and stays the weekend but not tonight. Tonight the only things in her hands when Tim answers the door are a couple of new release DVDs, a six-pack of Mexican beer, and a small wooden dog.
“Starting a collection?” She grins, brandishing the toy like it’s some kind of weapon. The bell on its tail jangles fiercely.
Tim takes a backward step. “Where the fuck did you get that?” It’s the same damn dog—it can’t be, but it is. He can see the scratch marks—the bite marks—on the front wheel.
“Hi Linda,” she says, and pushes past him. “How lovely to see you.”
“Sorry,” he mutters, not really meaning it. He closes the door then follows her deceitful arse into the kitchen, tries not to look at the dog that sure as hell better not be looking at him from where it now sits on the kitchen table. “Just, seriously, where did the toy come from?”
“It was on the front steps when I got here.”
“When you got here.”
“That’s what I said.” She grabs a bottle opener from the top drawer, flips the caps on two of the beers. “You have any lemons inside?”
Tim shakes his head. “You didn’t bring it?”
“How could I bring it?”
“Come on, Linda, a joke’s a joke. What, because I never said anything about Sunday night, you thought you’d have another go? Okay, fine—you scared me a little. Happy? Wanna tell me how you did it now?”
She glares at him. “Whatever. I’m getting a lemon.”
“No.” Tim grabs her arm as she moves towards the back door, wrenches her back around to face him. Ignoring her startled yelp, the bright and sudden flare of shock in her eyes, he pulls her face close to his own. “First you tell me.”
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