Evil Jester Digest, Vol.2

by Peter Giglio (Editor)

  EVIL JESTER DIGEST

  Volume 2

  Edited by

  Peter Giglio

  Evil Jester Press

  New York

  Evil Jester Digest, Volume 2

  Copyright © 2012 by Evil Jester Press

  First Digital Edition

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the authors. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Peter Giglio

  All stories have been published with the permission of the authors

  “No More Shadows” © 2008 by Tim Waggoner

  “A Curse and a Kiss” © 2012 by Eric J. Guignard

  “Depravation” © 2012 by Mark Allan Gunnells

  “The Girl with the Thirsty Eyes” © 2012 by Scott Bradley

  “Slink” © 2012 by Trent Zelazny

  “Vampiro” © 2012 by John Palisano

  “Kristall Tag” © 2012 by Holly Newstein

  “The Tardy Hand of Miss Tagerine” © 2011 by Jon Michael Kelley

  “Vanishing Act” © 2012 by Simon McCaffery

  “Windows in the Wreckage” © 2012 by Trent Zelazny

  “Coyote Gambit” © 2012 by Gene O’Neill

  “Closing Time” © 2012 by Amy Wallace

  ISBN: 978-0615735443

  This volume is dedicated to the memory of Bryan Walker, a dear and generous friend, a talented musician and writer, and a loving family man who was taken too soon.

  Rest in peace.

  Table of Contents

  A Note from the Editor Peter Giglio

  No More Shadows Tim Waggoner

  A Curse and a Kiss Eric J. Guignard

  Depravation Mark Allan Gunnells

  The Girl with the Thirsty Eyes Scott Bradley

  Slink Trent Zelazny

  Vampiro John Palisano

  Kristall Tag Holly Newstein

  The Tardy Hand of Miss Tangerine Jon Michael Kelley

  Vanishing Act Simon McCaffery

  Windows in the Wreckage Trent Zelazny

  Coyote Gambit Gene O’Neill

  Closing Time Amy Wallace

  A Note from the Editor

  Peter Giglio

  There are several ways to assemble an anthology, but for the sake of argument, and for our collective sanity, allow me to posit two primary methods.

  An editor can unleash a submission call on the public, weed through slush, and hopefully find what he or she is looking for.

  An editor can seek out exactly what they want by going after specific authors and/or stories.

  With my first two anthologies, though I incorporated some aspects of the second strategy, I held true to the duties of a slush pile warrior. I read hundreds of submissions and made many painful decisions. The process was exhausting, but also worthwhile. I discovered many brilliant new voices, and I learned a lot about the market.

  This time out, however, I opted entirely for an “invitation only” process. I knew who I wanted in this book, and the final TOC, though nothing ever goes entirely according to plan, isn’t all that different from my initial vision. The common thread: all the authors in this volume are people I routinely read. A few of them are folks I’ve worked with.

  Now, before everyone slams me for cronyism, please remember, I’m no slouch when it comes to opening doors for strangers, and I’m not done with slush duties by a longshot. In fact, Evil Jester Digest, Volume 3 will feature an open submission call. Volume 4 will likely be of a piece with this entry—invite only. The internal logic of this pattern is pretty simple. I don’t want to duplicate authors in consecutive volumes. My mission is to present readers with a wide cast of voices.

  But there’s more to it than that. I also didn’t want to get stuck in one way of doing things. Just like I needed to pay my dues in the slush (both as an author and an editor), I now need to prove (at least to myself) that I can successfully hunt and gather.

  I hope I’ve done that. If not, it’s no reflection on the brilliant scribes in this book; it’s on me.

  In the end, the right way is the one that works. So if you, the readers, enjoy this eclectic and electric collection of dark fiction, I’ve done my job and done it well.

  I feel I must mention, lest you all think my job this time out was peaches and cream, there were (and will always be) rejections. A special thanks to everyone who accepted my invitation to submit but didn’t make the cut. I know your stories will find homes in the near future.

  All right. Got all my ’splaining out of the way. I promise far less exposition from this point forward. In fact, I envy you; you’re getting ready to discover some remarkable worlds.

  Peter Giglio

  Lincoln, Nebraska

  November 8, 2012

  Tim Waggoner first captured my attention with a wonderfully depraved novel titled Pandora Drive, which is set primarily in an abandoned amusement park in Ohio.

  As a kid I spent my summers in Northeast Ohio, in and around my parents’ hometown of Akron. As a result, I understand how much amusement parks mean to that part of the country. Geagua Lake, Cedar Point—hell, Ohio even had a Sea World once upon a time. To say I felt an immediate kinship to Tim is an understatement.

  I became an instant and lifelong fan.

  So asking Tim to take part in Evil Jester Digest, Volume 2 was a no-brainer, and the story he provided…? Well, even though it doesn’t feature an amusement park, it’s one of the best things he’s ever written.

  Conventional wisdom tells us that time heals all wounds.

  Leave it to Tim Waggoner to fuck with conventional wisdom, and do it better than anyone.

  No More Shadows

  Tim Waggoner

  Daniel was making his third trip around the parking lot of Electronixx (the Hi-Tech Superstore with More) when his cell phone rang. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone—and there was only one person it could be this time of night—but after the fifth ring, just when the phone was about to switch over to voicemail, he snatched it up from the passenger seat and answered.

  “Hi, Dan. I hate to bug you again, but I was wondering if you had a chance to pop that check in the mail yet. Lindsey needs a new winter coat, and she has an orthodontist appointment on Monday.”

  “I get paid tomorrow, Angie.” As if she didn’t know that. “I’ll be able to write you a check then.” He paused, not wanting to say the next words, unable to stop himself. “I could come by the house after work and drop it off. If you want.”

  Her reply came without hesitation. “Thanks, but we’re going up to Akron to visit my sister this weekend. We’ll be leaving as soon as Lindsey gets out of school tomorrow. Just go ahead and mail the check if you don’t mind.” No warmth in her voice, all business.

  “Yeah, sure.” He neared the parking lot’s exit, thought about leaving. Instead he turned and began his fourth circuit.

  “Are you out somewhere? Sounds like you’re driving.”

  “Just running a couple errands.”

  “At ten o’clock at night?”

  He shrugged, although there was no one to see the gesture. “Got nothing better to do.” And wasn’t that the sad truth. Even sadder was the fact that his “errands” consisted of driving aimlessly around town, exploring side streets, circling parking lots, driving just to drive, staying out so he wouldn’t have to spend any more time than necessary in his crappy one-bedroom apartment. This was his nightly routine, had been ever since he’d moved out of the house two months ago.

  “I’d think a lo
t of stores would be closed by now.” An edge of suspicion in her voice, and the subtext of her words was clear: What are you doing spending money on yourself when you owe your daughter and me a check?

  He wasn’t out shopping, hadn’t stopped anywhere except at a Burrito Bungalow for dinner, but he resisted the urge to defend himself. He knew it would only end up with the two of them arguing.

  “Can I say goodnight to Lindsey?”

  “She’s already in bed. Sorry.”

  He doubted Lindsey was asleep. She always read for a half hour or so before turning off the light and snuggling beneath the covers. When she’d been younger—and not so much younger, at that—he’d read stories to her. Only a couple months ago, he’d been the one to check on her and remind her that she needed to turn out the light and get to sleep. Now he was a man who wrote checks to her mother and only saw his daughter every other weekend.

  “I just want to say goodnight to her, Angie. I…” Just want to hear her voice, he finished silently. Just want to remember that I’m her daddy. That I used to be someone.

  Angie was quiet for several seconds, and he thought she was on the verge of relenting, but before she could speak, Hehhha short, rail-thin man ran stumbling into the glare of his headlights. Daniel only had enough time to register fragmentary images: a terror-stricken pale face, small round glasses, short blond hair, stubby fingers on the end of flailing hands, right leg twisted at an awkward angle, the limb in danger of buckling any second despite the man’s small frame. Daniel dropped his cell, jammed his foot down on the brake pedal of his Jeep Cherokee, and yanked the steering wheel to the left. The vehicle had been traveling less than 20 mph, and his tires gave only a short squeal of protest before the Jeep came to a stop.

  Daniel sat gripping the steel wheel with both hands, breath trapped in his throat, heart hammering in his ears. No thump, he told himself. No scream. That meant he hadn’t hit the guy. The adrenaline rush of fear gave way to relief, but that emotion was in turn obliterated by a surge of anger. What the fuck had that stupid sonofabitch been thinking? It was ten o’clock on a Thursday night, closing time for Electronixx, and while the parking lot was half empty, that meant it was also half full. If Daniel had been traveling any faster, he might’ve slammed into a parked car when he veered to miss the small man. As it was, only sheer luck had kept him from hitting another vehicle; the Cherokee’s front bumper had edged into an empty space right next to a pick-up. If he’d been a little slower on the brake…

  Daniel put the Jeep in park and searched for his cell phone. He found it lying on the floor on the passenger side, and he undid his seatbelt and leaned down to pick it up. As he straightened in his seat, he put the phone to his ear, spoke Angie’s name twice, but there was no reply. Either the call had been dropped or she’d disconnected. He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, his disappointment over not getting to talk to Lindsey replaced by anger. He yanked the key out of the ignition and practically jumped out of the car. He started yelling before he even saw the man.

  “Are you crazy? Didn’t you see me coming?” A voice in the back of his mind said that he should be checking on the man to make sure he wasn’t hurt, and while Daniel felt a twinge of guilt for letting his anger get the better of him, he continued shouting. “Jesus Christ, you could’ve been killed, or at the very least caused me to wreck!”

  During his tirade, Daniel had walked around the back of the Cherokee, intending to confront the small man. He’d forgotten to turn off the Jeep’s headlights before getting out of the vehicle, but they were angled off to the side now, and they no longer illuminated the section of the parking lot where the man had been. But there were plenty of light poles stationed at regular intervals throughout the lot, giving off more than enough fluorescence for Daniel to see. It was early November in Southwest Ohio, which meant cold and wet. It had been spitting rain on and off all evening, and a scattering of glistening black leaves were plastered to the asphalt like insects with strange flat carapaces. The small man—he couldn’t have been much over five feet tall—stood almost directly beneath one of the parking lot lights, the fluorescent glow washing him in ghostly blue-white. Now that Daniel got a good look at him, he could see that the man wore a blue windbreaker far too thin for the weather, jeans, and tennis shoes. Daniel’s own leather jacket and slacks were only slightly more appropriate for the temperature, but then he hadn’t expected to do much walking around tonight.

  Despite the fact Daniel had been railing at him, the man wasn’t looking in Daniel’s direction. Indeed, he showed no sign that he was even aware that he’d almost been hit by Daniel’s Cherokee. He kept turning his head as if searching for something, his feet shuffling back and forth in constant movement, as if he were desperate to keep running but unable to decide which direction to go. Daniel’s anger ebbed as he realized the man was probably crazy, and he was about to turn around and head back to his vehicle when the man’s gaze finally fixed on him, and his panic-stricken eyes widened even further. Not in fear this time, but recognition.

  “Daniel? Daniel Symons?”

  Daniel was so surprised to hear his name come from the man’s lips that for a moment all he could do was stand and stare. And it was in that moment that Daniel realized who the short man in the blue windbreaker was.

  “Billy Wallace? Is that you?”

  The relief that washed over the man’s—over Billy’s—face was so sudden it was borderline comical. Billy rushed up to Daniel and gripped him by the shoulders, eyes wide, mouth stretched into an almost maniacal grin.

  “My god, am I glad to see you! You gotta help me, Dan! They’re after me!”

  Too many conflicting thoughts and emotions roiled in Daniel’s mind, preventing him from answering right away. He had no doubt that the terrified man standing in front of him, fingers digging almost painfully into his skin, was Billy Wallace. Daniel hadn’t seen him since high school, over twenty years ago now, but aside from some wrinkles around the eyes and a hairline that wasn’t receding so much as rapidly retreating, Billy looked little different than he had then. Seeing him here, in the middle of Electronixx’s parking lot on a cold November night, was weird enough, but the basic situation was so eerily similar to the last time Daniel had seen him that he was gripped by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, one so powerful that for a moment he wondered if he might be dreaming. But then Billy squeezed his shoulders more tightly, and Daniel imagined his fingernails might cut through his jacket’s leather. No dream, then. The sensations were too real.

  Billy leaned in closer and gave Daniel’s shoulders a shake to emphasize his next words. “You gotta get me out of here before they catch up to me!”

  Billy’s breath, unfortunately, was just as real as his grip. Redolent of days-old coffee and stale cigarettes, it made Daniel’s gorge rise, and he had to swallow once before he could speak.

  “What the hell are you talking about? There’s no…”

  Daniel’s words died as he looked past Billy—over the top of his head, really—and saw a quartet of shadowy figures approaching from just beyond the pool of fluorescence in which Billy stood. They were tall, even taller than Daniel who stood over six feet, and thinner than Billy, almost cadaverously so. They moved slowly, their steps measured and deliberate, and if it hadn’t been for the echo of their feet on the wet asphalt—soft plapping sounds, as if they wore swim fins—Daniel might’ve thought them nothing more than an illusion created by a combination of the night’s gloom and exposure to Billy’s wild paranoia.

  Billy released Daniel’s shoulders, took hold of his left arm, and started pulling him toward the Cherokee. “We need to leave—now!”

  Maybe it was due to seeing Billy again in such strange circumstances, or maybe it was the atavistic crawling sensation on the back of his neck that told Daniel he was shit deep in trouble. But whatever the reason, he didn’t question Billy. He started running for the Cherokee, digging in his pocket for the keys, praying they’d reach the vehicle in time, but in time fo
r what, he wasn’t certain.

  Daniel jumped into the vehicle and yanked the door shut behind him. He jammed the key into the ignition as Billy opened the passenger door and frantically climbed inside. Through the open door, Daniel caught a momentary glimpse of four dark figures approaching the Cherokee, a sight that was thankfully cut off as Billy slammed the car door. Daniel turned the key, resisting the urge to look past Billy out the passenger side window to monitor the shadowmen’s progress. He didn’t need to see them to know they were coming.

  The Cherokee’s engine growled to life, and Daniel put the transmission into reverse and stomped on the gas pedal. The vehicle swerved backward, and Daniel immediately stepped on the brake to keep from smashing into a parked Saturn behind him. The headlight beams swung around to shine on the shadowmen, and Daniel experienced a surge of irrational hope that the illumination would burn the dark figures out of existence like true shadows. But instead of dispelling the shadowmen, the glare from the headlights horribly accentuated their forms, revealing them to be man-shaped blobs of darkness, the surface of their bodies shiny-slick, like wet sealskin. Daniel saw no eyes, ears, or mouths, but he had no doubt the creatures could sense them and, though he saw nothing specific on which to base this conclusion, there was something about the inexorable way the four continued toward the Cherokee that made them seem hungry.

  “Go, go, GO!” Billy shouted, and his words goaded Daniel into action. He put the Cherokee in drive and pressed down on the accelerator. Back tires squealed on wet pavement, and the rear end of the vehicle fishtailed before the Cherokee straightened out and roared forward. The shadowmen didn’t move at first, and Daniel thought they might hit the damned things, but the dark quartet stepped aside at the last minute—two moving to the right, two to the left—and the Cherokee passed between them without difficulty. Daniel steered for the parking lot’s exit, and though he told himself not to, he couldn’t keep from looking in the rearview mirror. The shadowmen were there, of course, haloed by fluorescent light, standing motionless, watching as Daniel drove away, taking Billy with him. And then Daniel pulled the Cherokee onto the street and accelerated, determined to put as much distance between himself and Electronixx as possible.