Deep Cuts

by Angel Leigh McCoy

He briefly ran his tongue over his teeth. They felt firm, strong and secure, and new. So unlike how they had just hours before, when they’d been broken after catching that two-by-four.

  He remembered dying, if it could be called that. Then awakening, feeling his fluids flowing back into his body, his flesh re-establishing itself, eyes reforming, the crackle-pop-crackle of his bones as they re-meshed and went back into the right sockets, everything moving as if under the guiding hands of an all-mighty sculptor, which really, was the truth.

  The re-vitalized feeling was a token of the Promise, a refutation of the evil he had to endure, for now.

  His clothes were different, had just been on him when he had come-to. Old-looking frayed jeans now covered skinny legs. Dirt-encrusted boots that had seen better days were now on his feet, and an old, plain-blue T-shirt, covered over with a heavily-stained red-flannel long-sleeve, dressed his torso.

  The clothes were the usual. Like he’d always worn, garments meant for the day-and-times, region and climate he found himself in. The only thing that ever set his attire apart as being noticeable was their poverty-stricken look.

  And then the only oddities that marked him as being different from the rest of the world’s poor, were his eyes and albino-skin, and naturally, his scars. His hair, always thin, always silver in color, often changed its style after a ravishment: going from long to short, curly to straight. Today it was long and drawn back, tied into a ponytail by a dirty rubber-band he’d found in the alley.

  What he had discovered, ages ago, was that people didn’t remember him much after he’d left their presence. Something for the best. Most of his work was impersonal, absorbing the terrible blows the world-over, and never forgetting one jot or one tittle of any dark deed done. But, like last night, he also suffered personal attacks, personal assaults of cruelty. His bad brothers, devils all, got a kick out of it.

  “Can I help you?” The waitress stood beside his table, face full of contempt. She had taken her time coming, more’n-likely hoping he’d just give up and leave. Time was on the outer edges of morning; there were hardly any people present, a family or two, a few truckers. He’d been kept waiting for an hour. He would remember.

  “Biscuits-and-gravy, please.” Looking at the girl’s face, he could see himself in her eyes: ugly, scar-marked, bizarre in his albino flesh and no-color eyes. Beneath her.

  He could also see her: Christian, by profession, twenty-something, married, and screwing everything in sight, all the while telling her hubby that his fears were just in his head. He could feel her husband’s wounded heart. It tore him.

  “Comin’ right up.”

  He knew it would be. She’d want him out of here—quick.

  Glancing out the window from his booth, he watched the trees, the birds in the air, tried to focus on his environment, tried not to let his mind wander. He didn’t want to internalize just yet. Since his re-knitting, he’d felt a bit good. Horribly good, his body freshly touched by the Great Lord. But within, it was all still there, an open raw wound, with salt aplenty, constantly poured on. He could feel it all—locally, globally…historically, everything but the future.

  That was always fresh.

  A poor good-hearted cop, just shot dead, so some kid could join a neighborhood crew. A corpse-loving mortuary-worker having his way with a poor widower’s wife, hours before the funeral, thinking nobody would ever know.

  But he knew.

  It was torture.

  He could do nothing about any of it. Not yet. All he could do was watch, know, record—and feel.

  The pain racked him. But he would bear it. It was his charge, after all. But he didn’t want to. Not now. He wanted to enjoy what few moments of slight reprieve were left to him.

  Breathing in, he enjoyed the wafting smells of the restaurant: the bacon, the grits, the eggs, T-bone steaks, and…all the rest. Even the subtlest of the restaurant’s smells were there for him to enjoy: the spicy, biting scent of Tabasco, the morning-smell of coffee, and the fruity-tangy aroma of ketchup.

  He focused best he could and tried to ignore the whore-killing truck driver at the end of the counter, all covered in demon-stink.

  He failed.

  It was bound to happen, did in fact, most every day. The other side liked to taunt him, rub in his lot.

  He stared at the large-bellied, dark-hearted, dark-filled man.

  And saw it.

  A sparkle in the man’s eyes, a sparkle recently seen. Checking up on me, he thought.

  He could see the waitress heading his way, coming out the kitchen, behind where the truck driver sat, biscuits-and-gravy at-hand.

  He’d been right; they’d worked up his order good and fast.

  The truck driver, or rather what he was packing inside, gave him a knowing-grin, then toasted him with his coffee.

  “The Lord rebuke thee,” he whispered. For now.

  For a moment, the driver looked blank-faced, then turned back to his grits, completely unaware of his actions a moment before.

  “Here’s your chow,” the waitress said, voice flat, hands putting his food down hard on the table.

  “Thank you.”

  The waitress didn’t give the expected you’re-welcome. Instead, she just walked away.

  He ate with a gusto rarely experienced. It wasn’t that he was starved, though he always felt that way. It was more from simply wanting to enjoy a breakfast.

  Too soon, he was finished and standing at the register. He wasn’t concerned about paying for the meal. Somehow he always had the right amount needed, the exact amount to keep his body going.

  Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a few dirty bills and some coins and set them on the counter. He knew the pile would precisely meet the bill.

  “Anything else we can do?” the waitress asked from behind the register.

  “How about one of those mints?” he asked, pointing at a small box of Peppermint Patties. He knew he wasn’t going to get one, but he clung to the thin-hope anyway. Sometimes, he felt he needed more than just what it took to keep his body moving. Sometimes, he felt a treat would be nice, would be like ambrosia to his lips and tongue.

  “You can read the sign, mister. A quarter a piece.”

  “Too bad. I’m tapped.”

  “We all have it tough.”

  “Hey, sir.”

  Turning around, he saw a young girl, ten or so, sitting at a booth with her mother. Ahhh! How sweet, he thought. He could sense the child’s goodness. It flowed out of her like spring water.

  “Yes, little lady?” he said, going to bended knee.

  The girl got up and came over. He could see her mother watching with a wise and wary eye. He sniffed a breath of her goodness, as well, and knowing what he looked like, wasn’t offended by her suspicion.

  “Hi, my name’s Tara. What’s yours?”

  “I am Victim.”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “So is Tara. Do you know what Tara means?”

  “No.”

  The girl looked sweet as could be standing in her summer-print dress. “It means ‘Tower.’”

  “Really? My mother says the Lord is my high-tower.”

  “Does she now?”

  “Anyway, I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re short a quarter. That you wanted a mint.”

  “That’s right, little one.”

  “Well, today is your day. I happen to have a quarter.”

  The girl stood tall and proud, holding her hand out, quarter between two grace-filled fingers.

  Glancing at the mother, he saw her smile and give an OK-nod, and he took it. It was the best thing he’d received in a long, long time.

  “Thank you very much, dear lady.”

  “You’re welcome.” The girl smiled and stole a quick glance back at her mother, saw the still-young woman mouth to her, "Go-ahead; it’s okay." The girl turned back. “I want you to know…” she hesitated, some shyness taking hold.

  “Yes?” he asked, heart melting.
>
  “I just wanted you to know that Jesus loves you. For you to not ever, ever forget.” Happy with herself: for her message, her kindness, her bravery…for doing something good and for making her mother smile, she scampered back to her table.

  He stood up, heart breaking with joy. He faced the waitress, grabbed a mint, and held up his new quarter between thumb and finger. “Here.”

  “Big-man had to take the little girl’s money, huh?”

  “Yes,” he said, hardly able to restrain a hearty laugh.

  The born-again adulteress, with folded arms, stared. If she’d been able to look any further down her nose, she’d be looking at her own tits.

  Ignoring her, he turned around and walked to the mother and daughter sitting at the table.

  “Hello, I won’t be a moment,” he said to the mother.

  “Take your time,” she returned.

  He looked at the girl. “Tara, you know what you told me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wanted to say that I know. I do know. And I will never, never forget. I promise.”

  “I won’t either,” she answered, smile beaming.

  “You two have a wonderful day.”

  ◙

  The parting pleasantries had been nice, but short. He moved to leave the table, and the restaurant. He rarely engaged in conversation with people, and when he did, he kept it brief. He had work to endure. He did notice, however, that the truck driver was nowhere in sight.

  Good.

  As he left the restaurant, he glanced into the heavens, far beyond the morning blue-sky, and said under his breath, "Thank you."

  He knew his lot was hard. That was why he’d been chosen. The Great One had known he’d be faithful.

  It was a hard lot, to stand by—to just watch and feel and remember.

  There were Guardians, and they did what they could, sometimes able to strike back into the heart-of-darkness. But his task was different. He had to stand…and take it, to take it all, and never strike back.

  It was hard.

  But there was the Promise.

  And that, he held dear to. Will it be today? Tomorrow? Another hundred, thousand, ten thousand years? He didn’t know. Only that it would come to pass.

  He used to have a different name, a long time ago. A beautiful name. Unpronounceable by the human tongue. He missed it.

  He walked across the near-empty parking lot, direction picked by instinct. It didn’t really matter where he went. But, he was thankful. He’d been touched by his Lord, allowed to experience, even if so fleetingly…goodness.

  Looking about at nothing in particular—he spoke. He spoke to remind himself, he spoke in gratitude, spoke to spite evil. “For those who have, and who will be redeemed, there will one day, be rest. For all others, though, there will be me.

  “Now…today…I am Victim. But one day, when the Word returns, my name will change again. And let those who have delighted in their evil tremble.

  “For then, I will be…Vengeance.”

  More Deep Cuts Recommendations

  Our slush pile contained a number of gems in the form of recommendations we loved. We’d be cheating our readers if we didn’t include them, especially since the writers put so much thought into them. We hope you find it in yourself to unearth and read all these horror stories by women writers.

  —Editors

  ◙

  Fifteen years ago, I read Lisa Tuttle’s “The Extra Hour” in Peter Crowther’s Destination Unknown, and it’s stuck with me ever since, informing both my fiction and my daily life. Whenever I think I just need a little more time in the day, or a bubble on the side of reality where I can do my own thing without guilt or disruption, or a place where I can take a hell of a long nap without losing an ounce of time in real life, I think of that story—which means I think of it every single day. I re-read “The Extra Hour” just now, and discovered that in the years since I’d last read it, the ending had changed. (And maybe it had: I’d left it to its own devices, tucked away in that anthology. A lot of time has passed out here.) Everything that I had loved about it was still there, though. The concept is pure in its simplicity: a woman, craving more hours in the day, finds a magical room in which she can have all the hours she needs. There is a crafted, subtle timelessness to the prose and setting that perfectly suits the subject matter. The voice of the narrator is beacon-clear and absorbs attention at the outset. The story is a fantasy gone foul, but even when life in the magic room starts to get horrific, it’s still so beguiling to me. It’s just such an easy, but profound, “what if” scenario, and such a pleasure to read.

  —Mehitobel Wilson

  I discovered Ann Radcliffe by accident when I picked up an anthology titled The Witches Brew, containing “The Haunted Chamber.” After reading her work, I wanted to write like she did. Upon further research, I discovered Ann Radcliffe’s style had influenced other writers such as Mary Shelley, Baudelaire, and H.P. Lovecraft. Her way with description and the supernatural showed me those elements missing in my own work. It’s no wonder she’s hailed as the Mother of Gothic Fiction. Ann Radcliffe’s ability to infuse an aura of romanticism into scenes of terror leaves me in awe. Her works contain little physical horror as she relies on the supernatural. This style is similar to my own in that I prefer to describe the shadow, which can be far more frightening than the monster itself.

  —Hollie Snider

  I came across the story “Green Thumb” by Nancy Kress in a collection entitled Terrors. What struck me most about it was how Kress managed to keep a reader simultaneously curious and on edge at every point. She accomplished this by keeping the events strange and disturbing but also mysterious. The reader was given just enough of a glimpse into the twisted central character to know he was engaged in a seemingly ordinary hobby for rather unordinary purposes, but the exact nature of both his hobby and his motives weren’t revealed until a scene towards the end. Yet, the most horrifying surprise took place after the primary mystery of the story was revealed. There’s an unforeseeable twist that completely changes the reader’s perspective on all the events preceding it. “Green Thumb” is a frightening and very original horror story that is well worth seeking out.

  —Kelly Chase

  Almost a decade ago, I read "The Quest for Blank Claveringi" by Patricia Highsmith for the first time. I ran across this incredible story in the anthology Masterpieces of Terror and the Supernatural, edited by Marvin Kaye. Highsmith, perhaps best known for her gripping five-novel crime series about the murderer Tom Ripley, penned “Claveringi” mid-career, in 1967.

  The story remains one of my all-time favorites. For writers, it is an unforgettable lesson that an antagonist’s danger has more to do with how relentlessly she (or it) pursues her goal than with her natural attributes or the advantages of her species. For readers, it’s just a damn scary story.

  —Chandler Kaiden

  Lyn Venable scared us, not with monsters or magic, serial killers or super-science. She scared us with ourselves. With only a handful of published stories to her credit between 1952 and 1957, she nevertheless has a proven record of unsettling, introspective horror perhaps best exemplified in her 1953 masterpiece, “Time Enough at Last.” In a world where one of the simplest pleasures is finding time to be alone, Venable reminded us that we should enjoy the things we have, rather than dwelling on the things we don’t. Originally published in the January 1953 edition of the science fiction magazine If: Worlds of Science Fiction, “Time Enough at Last,” went on to become one of the earliest (and most highly-regarded) episodes of The Twilight Zone.

  —Christian Larsen

  I recommend the story called “The Bearded Ones” by Felicity Dowker. It was originally published in a small press anthology from Tasmaniac Publications called Festive Fear, and is reprinted in Dowker’s debut collection Bread Circuses, from Ticonderoga Publications.

  The story showcases Dowker’s formidable horror talent, her skill at evoking magic and dread, and her delicious penchan
t for revenge. “The Bearded Ones” takes seemingly innocuous and commonplace themes, like the joy of Christmas, and peels back its skin to reveal the disturbing flesh beneath that most of us never stop to consider. From the innocence of children to the injustice of being wronged, this story runs the gamut of the human condition. And it will forever change how you feel about Santa Claus.

  —Alan Baxter

  The horror story by a woman that most influenced my own writing is a wonderful, almost-haunted-house story I discovered in college, Elizabeth Bowen’s “The Cat Jumps.” A modern, cheerfully rational married couple throws a party in their new home, the site of a notorious murder. There are no walking dead in this story, no blood, and no graphic accounts of violence— just deeply disturbing hints, fragments of conversation, and a growing sense of menace. Today, as a middle-aged woman, I am more critical of the story. Bowen seems just a bit too sympathetic to the brutal misogyny it depicts. But “The Cat Jumps” remains the best example I know of an author allowing the readers’ own imagination to invoke horror.

  —Pamela Troy

  I adore the work of Barbie Wilde, mostly known for her film and television roles. Her short story “Sister Cilice” appeared in the Hellraiser themed anthology Hellbound Hearts. Wilde rises above the mostly male-penned stories in the collection to provide a touching but altogether very twisted piece. To write a story on the character (a female cenobite) that gave Wilde cult status not only gives that character extra depth, but also shows Wilde’s understanding of emotion and desire, two factors that make a good horror tale. For someone whose literary career is now stepping from the shadows of the great Clive Barker, Wilde shows she has a lot to offer readers.

  —Daniel I. Russell

  The mark of powerful writing is the ability to elicit a physical response from the reader. There are wonderful works that make us laugh or cry or think, but what about those things that just makes you cringe. When a writer can make our stomachs tense, make our bowels clench, send intense shivers slicing through our nervous system—those are the words we remember.