Weird Tales, Volume 350

by Norman Spinrad

  At this point we come to Scanlin & Sons Dry Cleaners. On the wood-paneled front desk is affixed an Edwardian “R.” Scoop plastic chairs of aqua blue recall a 1950s vision of progress. On the wall perches a clock radiating wooden sunrays. Nothing changes here, most especially Mr. Scanlin himself. The “sons” have never been in evidence. Like the flickering shutter of old-timey film, a progression of young girls has worked the counter, always assertive, energetic, knowing, and willing. Scanlin possesses a leering confidence. He talks loudly and moves rapidly. He is cheerful in a neurotic, sweaty way. He is tall, balding, and thin. One can never take his picture; his insatiable appetite creates a nervous energy that blurs film. Perhaps a black-and-white Polaroid — the kind from which you must peel away the sticky facing after a wait of three minutes — taken at Christmas time would show him posed in front of a mantel with his arm around a small shoulder, revealing forced grins; but the faces would still be pasty-white from the flash. If you ever did obtain a proper image, his face would be a grotesquerie of bulging eyes and gritted teeth, as if he were being electrocuted. The grey polyester of his pants hiding a pickled but enormous phallus would be stained black with the afterimage of endless spills of sperm.

  Scanlin, a little too obviously, is at the top of your list. Even with boys, his finger lingers a little too long when measuring an inseam.

  Next to Scanlin & Sons Dry Cleaners is Belair Liquors, run by a pair of business-like Italian brothers who might be twins. Their sons, or the sons of one, run it now, and are often mistaken for the elders. A dusty blow-up sex doll sits waist-high in a tub of beer cans and holds in its outstretched arms a sign reading “Sale $2.99 6/pack.”

  Further along is the drugstore, notable for thick mass market paperbacks with embossed covers and huge typefaces, the stocky counter girl with the faint mustache, and outrageous prices.

  The white stripe on the barber shop's rotating pole has yellowed. It is unclear whether the barrel-bellied old man with the crew cut and short legs, who pockets bills from the cash register at every ring-up, is visible through the glass. The accounts of boys coming out of this establishment with rashes (cuts) on the backs of their necks are attributed to something that must have happened in their sleep.

  You have never known the name of the Chinese restaurant. A tobacco-colored filigree of wood or plastic adorns the windows on the outside. Dragon shapes emerge from this, though they turn abstract if looked at closely. Burgundy drapes hide the interior. It has always been so. There is never an indication whether this place is open or closed. You have never seen the curtains drawn back. You have never seen people entering or leaving. The Chinese restaurant creates a dark spot in Belair Plaza, a blank space. Walking beside it, your steps quicken, and it seems to turn invisible. The fact that the drapes are now open to reveal a quite ordinary restaurant with round tables and recessed lighting is indicative to you of something severely wrong.

  Our altitude is increasing rapidly at this point, reaching the outer edge of the plaza. The stores here, as on the leftmost side, are gaining an ethereal quality. The roof over the sidewalk has been leaking. Wet stains coat the cracker-colored squares under your feet. Here is the narrow store with the high steps leading up to it that is the Bippy Center, a community center for teens that sells rolling papers. This is a mecca for bean-bag chairs, where tiny pink-polished nails reach for the gnarled stub of a joint.

  The rightmost space may be dismissed. It has never had an identity. It has been some kind of hardware store or paint store or auto parts store or bicycle store, and now the independent video establishment here is doomed, though it may escape extinguishment as long as it does no business.

  Across a length of asphalt, which leads to the back of the plaza, is a concrete stairway. At the summit you must cross a street. Directly across the street is a worn path through the woods leading to the back of the Mini Market. Before you get there, you can find the body of the girl.

  The stairway is steep. The paint on its bent railing is the color of pool water. Etched into the paint and making it flake with rust are the words Mandy + Brian, Shell + Tommy, Tim + Angela. As you ascend, it is possible to gain a unique prospect of Belair Plaza. You are looking down the length of the entire building. It shrinks as you progress. The yellow lines of the parking lot fade. The roof is covered in gravel, tar, and black plastic sheeting. Smoke lazes out of pipe vents. The bricks of the walls crumble with seepages of calcium.

  The cold metal of the rail vibrates. The wind swirls, caught in the pocket between the hill and the building. Your throat constricts. Grit grates under your feet in the form of sand, broken green glass, candy bar wrappers, striped straws, orange french fry containers, stones, pop tops, and chewing- gum foil. These items are disturbed in a pattern indicative of an abrupt scuffling of shoes. It would be difficult to drag someone up these steps, but not impossible. You weep.

  Certainly such things do not happen as frequently as they did in the past. You were not kidnapped and then brainwashed. You were not buried alive in a school bus. You were not impaled with a safety pin through the heart. The creeks and ditches webbing the neighborhood no longer hold menace. The frequency of incidents that prompted school officials to paint red bands on the trees bordering the forest at your school, beyond which you were not to walk, have faded with the expansion of growth rings. The school, after all, is now a YMCA.

  Places do not kill people. Entropic ennui in a location can be overcome without murder, like letting steam out of a kettle. It smells of cheap aftershave and store-brand laundry detergent, and is practiced with a highly evolved system of behavior disguised as accidental that cannot be proven otherwise. The wrong change is given. Price tags are missing or switched. Bags are not offered. A clerk asks a roundhouse of condescending questions. A box of cookies is found crushed after purchase but wasn't noticed to be in this condition when on the shelf.

  It is polyester. It is lipstick on cigarette butts. It is sunshine blasting through a dirty car window.

  Places do not kill people, but there may be a pocket of geosynchronous circumstances that create conditions where the steam is cumulative, and erupts.

  Speculation is fruitless. Many things have changed since the last time you walked this slope. Many things have not.

  There are countless locales across the country named Belair.

  Adam Corbin Fusco’s fiction has appeared in The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, vols. 7 and 17; Science Fiction Age; and The Best of Cemetery Dance. His Web site is www.adamcorbinfusco.com.

  AN INVITATION VIA EMAIL

  by Mike Allen

  From: Giles Milko

  To: Miranda Statzler

 

  Subject: Excellent piece in the Critic!

  Date: Wed, 5 Nov 2003 11:12:03 -0500

  X-Mailer: Internet Mail Service (4.4.1545.48)

  Hello, Ms. Statzler, Giles Milko here. Hopefully you remember me from the conversation we had last Thursday at the after-hours faculty party. I have to say I really enjoyed your essay in the newest Fairleigh Critic on the subjective nature of fear. I'm very much in agreement with your contention that the most extreme phobia or paranoia, no matter how crippling, can be overcome through the gradual building up of confidence. I must say that aside from being informative, I found your piece also to be quite entertaining, especially the self-deprecating wit you used in describing your efforts through therapy to overcome your fear of spiders. In my head I could hear the mental squeals of horror as Dr. Sherrill placed the tarantula in your hand; then feel the overwhelming burst of triumph as you set the spider gently on the table and realized: I did it! I did it!

  Some of the asides in your article made me realize (Gods, can I be dense sometimes) that when you spoke of concerns about “arcane rites” in response to the invite to my Halloween party the next evening, that you possibly weren't kidding and perhaps had some genuine anxieties. I really should stress that my wife and I had planned for the Hal
loween party to be occult-free — no spirits other than the liquid sort!

  I realize I've gained a facetious reputation among students over the years, usually for little more than addressing poor Giordano Bruno's attempt to understand the world through sorcery in a History of Science class! (I must say though, Bruno did have a knack for concocting ominous-looking magical symbols — it's no wonder the Church made kindling out of him.) Obviously some such rumor reached you long before our first encounter in the flesh — so as soon as I finished your essay I felt compelled to write you and set things to right.

  The thaumaturgical ceremonies conducted in my home are not fearful, black-robed affairs reserved for special nights. They're actually very casual things, held Sunday mornings or the occasional Saturday if someone wants to see a football game instead. They're not geared toward any more sinister a purpose than furthering the careers of the participants. (I, for one, need the boost. Consider that I teach nine credits a week, write a column for the town paper and complete a new book every two years. Do you really think I could do all that without “outside” help?)

  A few faculty members take part, as well as one freelance writer from town who needs to combat his “day job braindrain.” Sometimes writers or artists from out of town make “guest” appearances. It's all quite open and friendly. No one dresses up — T-shirts and sweats, in fact, are perfectly acceptable attire.

  Of course, there has to be a sacrifice. Our ideal choice is one of those horribly misguided individuals (sadly, almost always a parent) who goes to the school board wanting to ban this book or that book, or goes whining to town council to cancel Halloween as a Satanic holiday. Unfortunately for the world, but good for us, there seems to be no shortage of them (though we've done our best, I swear). And if we can't get our hands on an adult, one of their children will do the trick — these sorts of genes don't need to spread.

  The sacrifice doesn't need to be conscious, but he or she does need to be alive, so that each of us can take a small bite of their still-beating heart. Making the proper cuts to remove a heart this way is frankly rather tricky, though we've all gotten well-practiced. Of course we have to pass a “chalice” around — a coffee cup will do, really — for that token chaser of blood. Then we summon the “outerdimensional persona” (that's the politically correct term these entities seem to prefer nowadays.) Now at this point you might experience some of that anxiety you discussed in your essay, but there's no need to worry. We've drawn the right symbols and circles so that the persona (our favorite is a fellow with a pleasantly dry wit named Mephisto) can't do anything other than talk. Once we see his (its? Gender is never clear with these things) disembodied head hovering over the remains of the sacrifice, we pepper him with questions about the status of his labors with regard to our projects (in the ears of which editors or agents has he whispered, what bargains has he struck, did he give an appropriate nightmare to the woman who wrote that rude rejection, etc.)

  After we get our update, he heads back to New York. Really, that's it. He (it?) takes most of the sacrifice for sustenance until next weekend. We knock on my study door so my wife knows we're done, and she'll usually bring in something like sweet rolls and hot chocolate, so we dig into those while we sit around talking shop. What's left over of the sacrifice we give to the new puppies, who love their weekend meal (it's usually cooked a bit as a result of the persona's presence.) Of course, the cat doesn't want to be left out, but her teeth have gone bad, so she just gets a little saucer of blood.

  You're probably wondering why the authorities have never barged in on us. Well, as a condition of this arrangement, Mephisto or whichever persona we happen to dial up erases the memory of the sacrifice from the minds of everyone who ever knew them (except for us.) So if no one remembers their existence, no one misses them. (And we've managed to improve the gene pool a tad in the process.) Of course, if there's a lot of physical evidence left behind, like say, wedding albums or newspaper articles, the entity will have to work a bit harder to make sure everyone's curiosity is sufficiently dulled. But overall it's a very efficient system.

  I'm not sure how close the lot of us has gotten to achieving our ultimate goals, but these weekend gettogethers do seem to help. You're certainly welcome to come by this weekend (or any weekend of your choosing, there's no hurry) and join in. Perhaps we could help you to produce more wonderful essays like the one I just read. Or maybe there are some solidly grounded fears (I hear rumors of a troublesome ex-husband?) that we can help put to rest for good.

  I hope all of this helps to reassure you.

  Yr obt. servnt.,

  Milko

  From: Giles Milko

  To: ScienceFaculty@fairleigh.edu,

  EnglishFaculty@fairleigh.edu,ligotti@morbid.net

  Subject: Apology

  Date: Mon, 11 Nov 2003 7:48:03 -0600

  X-Mailer: Internet Mail Service (4.4.1545.48)

  To all: My sincerest apologies!

  Ms. Statzler seemed like an intelligent, inquisitive woman who would understand the benefits of our arrangement. How could I have predicted she would interpret my explanatory email as a joke? I promise to be more careful in screening new members henceforth.

  I'm still not precisely a master of this new e-mail system, so if you received this message in error and have not a clue to whom I'm refer-ring — well, just take comfort that things are exactly as they should be. :-)

  All best,

  Milko

  Mike Allen lives in Roanoke, Va. with his wife Anita, a comical dog and a demonic cat. He’s the editor of Clockwork Phoenix and Mythic Delirium. His most recent fiction has appeared at Helix and Cabinet des Fées.

  MAINEVERMONTNEWHAMPSHIREMASS

  (In which we ask why all the horror authors seem to live in the same place)

  by Nick Mamatas

  Samuel Bey had never seen this before. It was traf, a midtown Manhattan snarl, but this wasn’t 54th and Lex and he hadn't just stumbled out of a and steak lunch with his agent McCage and that assistant of his, Kathleen, the one with the that stared at you while you ate. He was in Rover's Corner, the little town in the little state on the border of other little states deep in the gnarled wilds of New England. town in the little state on the border of other little states deep Rover's Corner was the town Sam Bey had made famous.

  Too famous, Sam thought. His books had made Rover's Corner a little bit of a tourist destination ever since The Dimmening came out years ago, but pigeon-chested nerds couldn't afford the SUVs and sleek German vehicles currently standing between Sam and the raspberry chocolate frappes at Copley's Dinner and Barber-B-Que. Even today Sam still winced at the thought of his first copy editor, at the smug little Vassar bimbette who thought “Barber-B-Que” was a typo.

  Can’t a man drink a frappe and get a Johnny Unitas haircut at the same time anymore? Whatever happened to America?

  SUVs happened to America. Political correctness. PG-13 movies. Comics that cost more than a dollar. Nick At Night instead of just getting sick from playing in the snow all weekend and getting to stay home on the couch watching Bewitched and Gilligan’s Island. Sam had had a personal assistant and let her go after she didn't get a famous reference to that episode of I Love Lucy in which Tennessee Ernie Ford shows up as “Cousin Ernie” after walking across Long Island — it was just impossible to get good help these days. And then there was the whole Internet and those fans and message boards …

  But enough of these current evils, Bey thought as he finally parked his H3 across three spots outside Copley's. It’s time for the showdown. There was an ancient darkness awakening in Rover's Corner and it was up to Samuel Bey to stop it. Sam got out of his car and stepped onto the unpaved but consecrated ground. Yes, consecrated with the spirit of goodness and the power of friendship and the memories of old loves and childhood joys and ice cream sandwiches and whoopie pies and sneaking over the border into New Hampshire to buy fireworks and then sneaking over the other border into Vermont just
to set them off and and and …

  And then he began to scream.

  “Sam!” someone shouted back. It was Bart Black, all smiles and swirling wisps of cigarette smoke. Bart Black was a horror author too — splatterbop, all jazzy riffs on thrill kills and sex murders. The Nether Knifepoint was his magnum opus, if his friend Sammy didn't say so himself. “That was the best vag-stab scene I've ever heard of,” Sam had told Bart after Sam's wife had read the manuscript up to that point and then stopped. Sam never read anything he hadn't written himself. Sam's blurb —“It'll get you right in the gut, and then a little bit lower” — was enough for six printings and four movie options (but no movies). Bart owed Sam. Big time. And tonight, he thought, he'd have to pay it back. All of it. “Are you all right?”

  “I “ Sam started, his voice raspy and weak from the scream. “I don't know why I did that.”

  “It's been going around,” Bart told him. “You'd better come inside. It's filling up fast in there.” Bart hiked a thumb back toward Copley's, and then expertly flicked his cigarette butt out of his hand. The sizzling ember spiraled through the night like a drunken lightning bug, then winked out in the darkness beyond the diner.

  “Copley's never fills up,” Sam said.

  “Tonight's no ordinary night.”

  From inside the diner, someone began to scream.

  Copley's was all filled up. God, Sam thought to himself (or he thought he thought this only to himself), this looks like the hotel lobby at Fangula’s Freak Con. And it did, except that this was no lobby, and it certainly wasn't off Exit 12 on the Jersey turnpike. They were all there, not just Bart. Surrounded by a handful of the younger writers, the guys who still sported heavy- metal T-shirts and mullets over balding pates — Sam always imagined that their hairdos were trying to crawl down their backs and escape — was Ophelia Darque, the screamer. Her corset wasn't on too tightly — well, it was, but in a good way — she was screaming to show off the fangs and just how widely she could open that lipstickslathered mouth. The kiddie writers (Sam thought of them as the Kiss Army) laughed and applauded and all but waved their arms and said, “Look at me, Ophelia. Don't look at these guys, look at me!” As a simultaneous circlejerk and collective cockblock, the scene was both Escheresque and Kafkaesque. Sam liked that he had thought of that line, and put it in his mental files to use in a book sometime. Or twelve times.