Turn Down the Lights

by Richard Chizmar (ed)

  Though these occasions were in fact no more than an annual event (more specifically, on the Take Your Son to Work Days of 1985-86), they had a near-traumatic, no, let us face the facts and say traumatic, effect on Prothero. He pleaded, he wept, he screamed, he cowered gibbering in terror. One imagines the mingled disdain and distress of the fellow-passengers, the unsympathetic conductor. The journey through the streets to 54th and Madison was a horrifying trek, actually heroic on the boy’s part.

  A high-functioning alcoholic chronically unfaithful to his spouse, “Sully” was an absent, at best an indifferent father. In her role as mother, Varda, about whom one has learned so much in recent years, can be counted, alas, as no better. The Fair Haven pharmacists open to examinations of their records by a scholar of impeccable credentials have permitted us to document Varda’s reliance upon the painkillers Vicodin, Percodan, and Percocet. Those seeking an explanation for her son’s shabby, ill-fitting wardrobe need look no further. (One wishes almost to weep. His poor little snowsuit too tight for his growing body! And his autopsy, conducted in a completely up-to-date facility in Norwalk, CT, revealed that but for a single slice of bread lightly smeared with oleomargarine, that Prothero had eaten nothing at all that day. Imagine.)

  In some quarters, the four stories of 1984, his fifth year, are not thought to belong in a collection of his work, being difficult to decode from their primitive spelling and level of language. Absent any narrative sense whatsoever, these very early works perhaps ought be considered poetry rather than prose. Prothero would not be the first author of significant fiction to begin by writing poems. The earliest works do, however, present the first form of this writer’s themes and perhaps offer (multiple) suggestions of their emotional and intellectual significance.

  Among the small number of we dedicated Protherians, considerable disagreement exists over the meaning and identification of the “Mannotmann”, sometimes “Monnuttmonn.” “Man not man” is one likely decipherment of the term, “Mammoth man” another. In the first of these works “Te Styree Uboy F-R-E-D-D-I-E,” or “The Story about Freddie,” Prothero writes “Ay am nott F-R-E-D-D-I-E,” and we are told that Freddie, a scaredy-cat, needs him precisely because Freddie is not “Monnutmann.” “Can you hear me, everybody?” he asks: this is an important truth.

  This precocious child is self-protectively separating from himself within the doubled protection of art, the only realm available to the sane mind in which such separation is possible. Ol droo, he tells us: it is all true.

  It should go without saying, though unhappily it cannot, that the author’s statement, in the more mature spelling and diction of his sixth year, that a man “came from the sky” does not refer to the appearance of an extraterrestrial. Some of my colleagues in Prothero studies strike one as nearly as juvenile as, though rather less savvy than, the doomed, hungry little genius who so commands all of us.

  1984

  Te Styree Uboy F-R-E-D-D-I-E

  Ay am nott F-r-e-d-d-i-e. F-R-E-D-D-I-E nott be mee

  Hah hah

  F-R-E-D-D-I-E iss be nyce, tooo Cin yoo her mee, ewrrie F-r-e-d-d-i-e iss scarrdiecutt fradydiecutt, nott mee Hee neid mee.

  Mannnuttmonn hah scir him hah hah

  Bcayuzz Monnntmonn hee eezzz naytt

  BOOOO

  Ol droo

  Ta Sturree Ubot Monnnuttmonn

  Baathy baathy momma sai baathy mi nom mommnas sai in gd dyz id wuzz Baaaathy

  Monnoittmoon be lissen yz hee lizzen oh ho

  Tnbur wz a boi nommed F-r-e-d-d-i-e sai Monnuttmon he sai ewrwhy inn shaar teevee taybbull rug ayr

  F-r-e-d-d-i-e un Monnuttmin

  Monnuttmoon sai gud boi F-r-e-d-d-i-e god boi

  En niht sai SKRREEEEAAAKKKK her wz da bood gig SKREEEEAAAAKK mummay no heer onny F-r-e-d-d-i-e

  Ta bood gig smylz smylz smilez hippi bood gig SKKRREEEEEAAAAAKK att niht

  Hi terz mi ert appurt id hertz my ert mi ert pur erzees

  Bugg flyes in skie bugg waks on gras

  Whi nutt F-r-e-d-d-i-e kann bee bugg

  oho ha ha F-re-d-d-i-e pur boi pour boi

  Ta Struuyrie Abot Dadddi

  Wee go in trauyhn sai Dudddi wee wuk striits sai Duddi noon ooh sai F-r-e-d-d-i-e

  Bood gig lissen bood gig lisen an laff yu cribbabby cri al yu went sai Mannuttmon

  Daddi sai sit heir siitt doon sunn and te boi satt dunn onb triyn wiff Mannnottmonn ryt bezyd hum te biu wuzz escayrt att nite nooo hee sai nooo mummma nut trayn

  Hah hah

  Dyddi be nutt Mannuttmon F-r-e-d-d-i-e be nott Mannuttmon Mummna be nott Mannuttmon hah no Cus Mannotttmon izz mee Aruynt de Kernerr duywn de strittt ever ewerweaur

  Deddi sai Wak Faysterr Wak Fayster Whatt ur yu affraitt ow WhATT

  De kerner de strett F-r-e-d-d-i-e sai

  1985

  The Cornoo

  The boy waz standing. He waz standing in the cornoo. There waz a man who caym from the sky. The sky was al blakk. I ate the starz sed the man around the cornoo. The boy doused his eyz. I ate the stars I ate the moon and the sunn now I eat the wrld. And yu in it. He laft. Yu go playe now he sed. If play yu can. Hah hah he laft. Freddie waked until he ran. That waz suun. I waz in my cornoo and I saw that, I saw him runn. Runn, Freddie. Runn, lettul boy.

  Wher iz F-R-E-D-D-I-E ??

  He waz not in the bed. He was not in the kishen he was not in the living roome. The Mumma could not find littl Freddie. Tie man from the blakk sky came and tuke the boy to the ruume in the sky. The Mumma calld the Duddah and she sed are you takng the boy??? Giv him bakk, she sed. This iz my sunn she sed and the Duddah said cam down ar yu craazie?? Becus rembur this is my sunn to onnlee I doin haw him. I saw from the rome in the sky. I herd. They looked soo lidl. And small. And teenie tinee downn thur small as the bugs. Ar you F-R-E-D-D-I-E ?? ast the man of the ruume. No he sed. I waz nevrr him. Now I am the blakk sky and I waz alws the blakk sky.

  F-R-E-D-D-I-E Is Lahst

  The Mumma the Duddah they sed Were Culd Hee Bee? It waz funnee. They cri they cri OUT hiz namm Freddie Freddie you are lahst. Cann you here us?? No and yes he sed you woodunt Now. The Onne who cumms for mee sum tymes is in Feeldss somme tymes in grasse or rode or cite farr awii. He sed Boi yuu ar nott Freeddie an Freddie iz nott yuu Hee sed Boi Mannuttman iuz whutt yuu cal mee Mannuttmonn is my namm. Mannuttmonn ius for-evv-err.

  The boi went dun Gurrhurrdee Streeyt and lookt for his fayce. It waz thurr on the streyt al ruff. The boi mad it smuuf wuth hiz ohn hanns. Wenm hee treyd ut onn itt futt purfuct onn hiz fayce. Hiz fayce fiutt onn hiz fayce. It waz wurm frum the sunn. Wurm Fayce is guud it is luyke Mumma Baathy and Duddah Jymm longg aggoo.

  I luv yuur fayce Mumma sed your swite faycce thuer is onnye wann lyke itt in the wrld. Soo I cuuyd nott staye inn mye huis. Itt waz nutt my huis anny moire. It waz Leev Freddiue leeve boi for mee. Thenn hee the boi cam bayck and sed I went Nooweehre Noowehre thads wehre. Noo he sed I dudd nott go to the Citty no I did nutt go to the wood. I went to Noowehre thats wehre. It waz all tru. Aall tru it was sed the boi whooz fayce wuz neoo. He waz Mannuttmann insydde. And Minnuttmann sed Hah Hah Hah menny timnes. His lafiter shook the door and it filld up the roome.

  1986

  Not Long Leftt

  The boy lived in this our world and in a diffrent one too. He was a boy who walked Up the staiurs twice and Down the staiurs only once. The seccondd time he went down he was not him. Mannuttmann you calld me long ago and Mannuttman I shall be. The boy saw the frendly old enymee hyding in the doorwais and in the shaddowes of the deep gutter. When he took a step, so did Mannuttman his enymee his frend. The Mumma grabbed his hand and she said too loud Sunny Boy You are still only seven years old sometimes I swear you act like a teenager. Im sorry Mumma he saiud I will never be a teenager. Whats that I hear she said Dud you get that from your preshioys Minutman? You dont know hisz name. When they got to the cornoo at the end of the block the boy smild and told to his Mumma I have not long left. You will see. I have not long left? she said. Where do y
ou get this stuf? He smyled and that was his anser.

  What Happenz Wen You Look Upp

  Lessay you stan at the bottum of the staires. Lessay you look upp. A Voice tellks you Look Upp Look Upp. Are you happy are you braav? You must look all the waye to the top. All the waye. Freddie is rite there—rite there at the topp. But you dontt see Freddie. You dont’t you cant’t see the top you dont’t see how it goes on and on the staiures you dont’t see you cant. Then the man geus out syde and agen heers the Voice. Look up look up Sullee it is the tyme you must look upp. Freddies Daddie you are,,,, so look upp and see him. Are you goud are you nise are you stronng and braav are you standing on your fruhnt lahwn and leeniung bakk to look up hiuy in the skye? Can you see him? No. No you cant’t. Beecuz Freddie is not there and Freddie is not there beecuz Mistr Nothing Nowehere Nobodie is there. He laft. Mistr Nothing Nowehere Nobodie laft out lowd. The man on his frunht lahwn is not happoy and he is not braav. No. And not Sytronng. Lessay that’s truoe. Yes. Lessay it. And the Mistr Nothing Nowehere Nobody he is not there exseptt he is newr at the top of the staires. And he newr leeves he nevr lefft. Hah!

  The Boy and the Book

  Once there was a boy named Frank Pinncushun. That was a comicall naaym but Frank likked his naaym. He had a millyun frends at school and a thosand millyuun at home. At school his best frends were Charley Bruce Mike and Jonny. At home he was freends with Homer Momer Gomer Domer Jomer and Vomer. They never mayde fun of his naaym because it was goode like Barttelmee. Their favrote book was called THE MOUNTAIN OVER THE WALL: DOWN THE BIG RIVVER TREEMER-TRIMMER-TROUWNCE TO THE UNDERGROUND. It was a very long long book: and it was a goid storie. In the book there was a boy named Freddie. Al Franks millyon frends wanted to be Freddie! He was their heero. Braav and strong. One day Frank Piunncushun went out to wlkk alone by himsellff. Farr he went: soo farr. Littel Frank walked out of his nayberhooid and wlked some more: he wllkd over streeits over britdches and throou canyhons. He was never affrayed. Then he cayme to the Great River Treemer-Trimmer-Trouynse and what dud he doo? Inn he jumped and diwed strait down. At the bottom was a huug hall were he culd breeth and wassnt’t eeven wett! The waalls were hygh redd curtuns and the seelingg ewas sooo farr awaye he culd not see it. Guldenn playtes and guldenn cupps and gulden chaines laie heept up on the flore. Heloh Heloh Freddie yeled. Helo helo helo. A doore opend. A tall man in a redd cloke and werring a crownne came in the bigg roome. He was the Kinge. The Kinge lookt anguree. Who are yoo and whi are yoo yallingg Helo Helo?? I am Frank Pinncushun he sed but I am Freddie to, and I was hear befor. And we will have a greit fyhht and I wil tryk you and ern all the guld. Lessay I tel you sumethyng sed the Kinge. Lessay you liussen. Ar we kleer?? Yes, kleer, sed Frank. The Kinge walked farwude and tutchd his chisst. The Kinge said I am not I and yoo ar not yoo. Do yuoo unnerrstan me? Yes said the boy I unnerstann. Then he tuuk his Nife and killt the Kinge and walkkt into the heeps of guld. I am not me he sed and luukt at his hanns. His hanns were bluudee and drippt over the guld. He lafft thatt boy he lafft so herd hius laffter wennt up to the seeling. Freddie he kuld see his laffter lyke smoke was hius laffter lyke a twyiste roop mayde of smuck but he kuld nott see the seelingg. He niver saw the seelingg. Not wunse.

  OKAY, SO ITS LIKE A LONG TIME AGO, AND I AM A SINGLE guy in the late Eighties and I am following my agent’s advice by writing horror novels for what was then known as the “paperback original” market. All my contemporaries were doing the same thing—Charlie Grant, Alan Ryan, Karl Wagner, Rick Hautala, David Drake, Gary Brandner, Joe Lansdale, Chet Williamson, Rick McCammon, and Jack Ketchum are some of the guys who come to mind.

  It was a heady time to be writing horror because we were all being towed along in Stephen King’s wake like water skiers going a little too fast to realize how crazy the whole venture was. If you had an idea for a book that employed any one of The Ten Horror Novel Buzz-Words[1], or a cover with a skull or skeleton on it, your editor could pretty much guarantee you were going to sell around 100,000 copies.

  That was great as long as you were writing at the novel-length. But what about all the people writing short fiction?

  Good question.

  Since this was not yet the Digital Age, there were still plenty of fiction magazines on the monthly newsstands. The genres of sci-fi, fantasy, mystery/crime, and even some western and romance titles enjoyed healthy readerships. But for those of us who wanted to write short stories that were unabashedly horror or dark fantasy, there were very few venues available. In fact, the only two I can remember back then were The Horror Show helmed by the late David Silva and The Twilight Zone.

  But that changed when a guy named Richard Chizmar decided to enter the publishing arena with a publication called Cemetery Dance. Now, oddly enough, even though I’ve been charged with doing this Afterword with the assumption that it would be an informative as well as entertaining piece, I cannot remember the exact circumstances of how I became aware of this new entry into the horror genre.

  I do know Rich contacted me to tell me about his plans for a subscription horror magazine, but I have no idea if it was by letter, phone, or some primitive form of email.[2] Why he picked me to share news of his venture I’m not sure—other than maybe we were both from Maryland, were both Terps fans, and both writers (and maybe he thought I was a cool guy). He mentioned that he wanted to send me a copy of his first issue and hoped I would have time to send him my comments and opinions. Since I’d never been shy about commenting on anything, I said sure, send it along.

  And so it came to pass that a manila envelope reached me with a postmark from a place called Riverdale, MD, which I knew was a centerfield throw from College Park. I opened it up and out slid a saddle-stitched mag with an 8 1/2 x 11 trim size with a black and white cover that is mostly a pen-and-ink illustration of what appears to be a demon...or at least a guy with a long tongue and a very distressing skin condition. Checking the table of contents, the only name I recognized was Dave Silva, but twenty-five years later, let the record show that Richard somehow managed to publish fiction by Barry Hoffman, Ronald Kelly, Bentley Little, and Steve Tem (as well as Silva)—all guys who went on to have major careers in the genre.

  In itself, an incredible accomplishment that bears witness to Rich’s abilities as an editor and general go-getter.

  Okay, now I have to admit, I was not blown away by the physical package of CD’s premiere issue, and I think I told Rich in my notes to him later. And further, I let the thing lay around the house for a week or two—like that empty pizza box you know will eventually require your attention—before I finally picked it up and read it as I had promised I would.

  That’s when I was pleasantly surprised.

  The stories for the most part were very well-written and did their best to avoid many of the hoariest of genre cliches.[3] There was also some poetry which was ambitious and skillful, and the general layout—while workman-like—was clean and very readable. In short, I was impressed. I held in my hands not only an immense amount of work for one person, but also the stuff of dreams.

  Magazines like Cemetery Dance don’t just pop out of some loamy soil like a wild onion or a zombie’s hand. They only happen with mass quantities of talent, discipline, dedication, and a refusal to accept failure. When I think back that Rich was still in college when he created this magazine, I am doubly impressed. While most of his contemporaries were preparing for their graduate degrees in Budweiser, he was taking those first unsteady steps towards a full-blown publishing empire.

  It’s stories like this that support my belief that America is still a great country.

  Moving right along, I have another dumb admission: I can’t remember when I actually met Rich in person. I know it wasn’t too terribly long after that first issue of CD, but as to time and place, I got nothin’. What I do remember, when we were shaking hands for the first time, is that if I were casting a film about a young Roman named Cassius or maybe Nomar Garciaparra,[4] this guy Chizmar would have been at the top of my list. He ha
d a rugged aspect, brimming over with serious determination, and he spoke in a soft voice that suggested quiet confidence rather than timidity.

  I liked him from those earliest moments, and as the years clicked by, we became friends. We’ve played poker and golf and baseball together as well as talk books and writers and family. His magazine quickly became a standard in the horror industry and his color covers acquired a distinct “look” that became recognizable even if you were standing across the room and could not read the title. When I saw my first work published in Cemetery Dance, I was very proud of the credential, but it was nothing compared to the day Rich asked me if I would consider doing my M.A.F.I.A. column for CD.

  My first thought was: are you kidding—of course! But I think I scraped up some decorum and simply accepted his offer.

  I didn’t tell him at the time, but I couldn’t imagine a better place for my monthly screeds against the universe. The column had endured a checkered past, bouncing from one magazine to the next—as each one managed to crash against a rocky coastline of poor distribution and mismanagement before slipping beneath a cruel sea. I truly enjoyed doing the column, and wanted to find a stable home for it. I wanted a venue where I could establish a solid and long-suffering audience.