Voices From The Other Side

by Brandon Massey

  Michael Boatman costarred for six seasons on the ABC comedy Spin City and for seven seasons on the HBO series Arli$$ plus appeared in numerous other television and film roles. His fiction appears in print in Horror Garage, and in the anthologies Razor-Edged Arcanum, Badass Horror, Daikaiju! II: An Anthology of Giant Monsters! and Revenant, and in several online magazines. Currently, he is developing film and television projects in the horror/dark fiction genre featuring African-American protagonists. His second novel, The Revenant Road, is currently in development at Stan Winston Studios. He lives in New York with his wife and four children.

  Leslie Esdaile-Banks, also writing as L. A. Banks and Leslie E. Banks, is a native Philadelphian and Dean’s List graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, Wharton Undergraduate Program. Upon completing her studies in 1980, she embarked upon a career in corporate marketing and sales for several Fortune 100 high-tech firms.

  In 1991, after a decade of working in the corporate environment, Esdaile-Banks shifted gears and began an independent consulting career assisting small businesses and economic-development agencies.

  Esdaile-Banks soon found a hidden talent, fiction writing, which has led her on a successful trajectory toward becoming one of the nation’s premier African-American authors capable of deftly crossing literary genres. Graduating in 1998 from Temple University’s Masters of Fine Arts Program with a degree in film and media arts, she added the dimension of filmmaking and visual media (with a portfolio of strong documentaries) to her artistic and business endeavors. Drawing on her urban background, Esdaile-Banks uses both life experience and a vivid imagination to create new landscapes in print. Each of her many works, from classic horror to suspense/thrillers to women’s fiction, and even within the romance genre, all contain a paranormal, otherworldly slant.

  At present, Esdaile-Banks is broadening the scope of her work to include a series of projects for St. Martin’s Press (the Vampire Huntress Legend series, to be authored under the pseudonym L. A. Banks) and a series for Pocket Books (Soul Food, a novel series based upon the ShowTime/Paramount Television Show, to be authored under the pen name Leslie E. Banks). Esdaile-Banks lives in Philadelphia with her husband and children.

  Anthony Beal is a thirty-year-old New York native whose passions include drinking aged tequila, eating Cajun food done right and writing dark horror poetry and short stories. A passionate fan of Edgar Allan Poe, Poppy Z. Brite, H. P. Lovecraft, Piers Anthony, John Skipp and Craig Spector, he feels that Brite, Poe, and Lovecraft have had the greatest influence on his writing style. Beal enjoys pressing his sweaty body against liquor-lounge wallflowers, and is believed to exist in more than one universe. It is said that he can distinguish between people closest to him sheerly by the taste of their sweat. When he isn’t baptizing nude convent students with flavored oils, Beal enjoys collecting skulls, grilling dead animal flesh and achieving states of spiritual transcendence through inebriation.

  Christopher Chambers is the author of the mystery thriller novels Sympathy for the Devil and A Prayer for Deliverance, as well as the Oxygen Network teleplay Official Mischief. He’s written numerous short stories that have appeared in collections featuring authors such as John Edgar Wideman, Walter Mosley, Eleanor Taylor Bland, Grace Edwards, George P. Pela-canos and Gary Phillips. His first horror suspense story was “I, Ghoul,” in Dark Dreams. His historical novel Yella Patsy’s Boys is forthcoming. He lives in Washington, D.C., with his wife.

  Patricia E. Canterbury is a native Sacramentan, an award-winning poet, an award-winning short-story writer, a novelist, a philanthropist and a political scientist. Her first published novel, The Secret of St. Gabriel’s Tower, is the first of a proposed five-book, middle-grade, historical-mystery series. It is part of A Poplar Cove Mystery. Carlotta’s Secret, the first of her children’s eight chapter-book contemporary mystery series, The Delta Mysteries, has been optioned by a major motion picture studio. Canterbury won the First Annual Georgia State Chapbook contest in 1987 for her poetry chapbook Shadowdrifters: Images of China.

  Canterbury was the assistant executive officer of the Board for Professional Engineers and Land Surveyors. She lives in Sacramento with her husband, Richard, the author of the short-story collection Snapshots on Hell Street, and several pets. Canterbury has had short stories published in Shades of Black, an anthology of stories by contemporary African-American mystery writers, Dark Dreams and Life’s Spices from Seasoned Sistahs: A Collection of Life Stories from Mature Women of Color, a 2005 anthology written by women of color from around the world. She received an honorable mention for her story “The Elderly Gentlemen” in April 2005 from the Elk Grove Writers’ Conference. Canterbury is seeking new publishers for her series. She is very active with Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, Northern California Publishers and Writers Association and the Society of Children’s Writers and Illustrators.

  Born in Port Chester, New York, Rickey Windell George recalls having written horror since the tender age of five. Now internationally published, he is best known for his unique blending of no-holds-barred carnage and over-the-top sexuality.

  George’s work has been seen in a host of publications, including Dark Dreams, Fantasies, Blasphemy, Chimera World # 1, Scared Naked Magazine and Peepshow magazine. He is also the author of the 2005 collection Sex & Slaughter & Self-Discovery.

  Linda Addison lives with writer Gerard Houarner in the Bronx, where they create strange dreams and collect fun artifacts. Her collection Consumed, Reduced to Beautiful Grey Ashes (Space & Time) received the Bram Stoker Award. Catch her work in Dark Dreams, Dark Thirst (Pocket Books), Dead Cat Traveling Circus of Wonders and Miracle Medicine Show (Bedlam Press) and Dark Matter (Warner Aspect). Her poetry and stories have been listed on the Honorable Mention list for the annual Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and Year’s Best Science-Fiction. She is a member of CITH, SFWA, HWA and SFPA. Her Web site is www.cith.org/linda.

  Maurice Broaddus holds a Bachelor’s of Science degree in biology (with an undeclared major in English) from Purdue University and works as an environmental toxicologist. He has been involved in ministry work for well over a decade, and is in the process of planning a church. His horror fiction has been published in numerous magazines and Web sites, including the Small Bites anthology, The Crossings anthology, IDW Publishing’s comic books, Horrorfind and Weird Tales. His television and movie reviews can be read at the Hollywood Jesus Web site (www.HollywoodJesus. com). Learn more atwww.Maurice Broaddus.com.

  Tananarive Due is the national best-selling author of Joplin’s Ghost, The Good House and many other acclaimed novels. She lives in Southern California.

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Brandon Massey was born June 9, 1973, and grew up in Zion, Illinois. Originally self-published, Thunderland, his first novel, won the Gold Pen Award for Best Thriller. His other suspense novels include Dark Corner and Within the Shadows. He was also the editor of Dark Dreams: A Collection of Horror and Suspense by Black Writers.

  Massey currently lives near Atlanta, where he is working on his next thriller as well as Dark Dreams III. Visit his Web site at www.brandonmassey.com for the latest news on his books and signing tours.

  Enjoy the following excerpt from Brandon Massey’s

  CORNERED

  On sale now wherever books are sold

  1

  The morning that Corey Webb’s past finally caught up with him, he was taking his daughter to a doctor’s appointment.

  Tuesday, June 10, began hot, windless, and bright. The clear sky was cobalt blue, the blistering sun giving it the gloss of a glazed porcelain bowl. Although it was two weeks before the first day of summer, the temperature was forecast to peak in the mid-nineties, the heat worsened by a strength-sapping humidity that would guarantee thousands of air conditioners cranked to the max throughout metro Atlanta.

  Cool air humming from the vents of his black BMW sedan, Corey navigated the crawling rush-hour traffic on Haynes Bridge Road in Alpharetta. His wife, Simone, and th
eir nine-year-old daughter, Jada, were debating an R&B song that had been playing on the radio, a track apparently titled “Get Me Some.” Corey had changed stations within five seconds of hearing the song’s lewd hook—and had been treated to Jada singing the rest of it word for word in a pitch-perfect voice, drawing a gasp from Simone and a blush from Corey.

  “I can’t believe you knew the words to that awful song, Jada,” Simone was saying. “And you tell me you can’t recall where you’ve heard it, which I simply do not accept.”

  Corey had to admit that even after all these years, he got a kick out of watching Simone play mom. With her penny-brown eyes, jet-black hair styled in a cute bob, milk-chocolate complexion, and prominent dimples, she might have been a fresh-faced coed, not a thirty-four-year-old woman with a PhD in clinical psychology.

  She was a great mother, though. He liked watching her at work.

  Twisted around in the passenger seat, Simone subjected Jada to her penetrating gaze and awaited a satisfactory answer.

  “Mom, I said somebody at school played it on their phone,” Jada pleaded from the backseat.

  Keeping quiet, letting Simone handle this her way, Corey glanced in the rearview mirror. Jada had pecan-brown skin, gray eyes, thick dark eyebrows, black hair woven into tight cornrows. He’d once worn his hair like that when he was a kid. It struck him that the Corey from back then and his daughter looked so much alike they could have been twins.

  “Who’s this somebody?” Simone asked. Her voice carried a gentle breeze of her Alabama accent. “Give me a name. I want to talk to their parents.”

  Last month, Jada had completed fourth grade at Alpharetta Elementary. She currently attended a three-week summer program in Roswell for gifted students. Nevertheless, high-performing youngsters, like all other kids, obviously found the time to enjoy lascivious songs that would have shamed their parents, and they did it on their cutting-edge cell phones that performed every conceivable task short of whisking you to the moon.

  Sometimes, when listening to his daughter talk about what she and her classmates did these days, Corey felt as if he had grown up in the Middle Ages.

  “Somebody,” Jada said. “I don’t remember who it was. Everyone in class has a phone except me. When can I get a phone?”

  Corey held back a smile. His girl was a clever one. When you couldn’t win the debate, change the debate.

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” Simone said.

  Jada frowned, caught red-handed. A chuckle slipped out of Corey.

  Simone turned to him. “Why are you laughing? This is serious. Your daughter was singing about having sex.”

  “No, I wasn’t, Mom,” Jada said. “I was singing about getting some till the morning comes.”

  It took every ounce of willpower in Corey to hold back a laugh. Simone flashed him a deadly, don’t-you-dare-laugh glower.

  Corey cleared his throat. “Umm, that’s not the kind of song you should be singing, Pumpkin. Seriously.”

  “Why not?” Jada asked.

  “It’s a song for adults, that’s why,” Simone said. “It’s not appropriate for you to sing. Understood?”

  “Okay,” Jada said with a sigh. “Then I won’t sing it any more.”

  “Good,” Simone said. “And if you hear one of your friends play it again on their phone or iPod or whatever else, you’ll tell me who did it, because none of the children in your class should be listening to that song, either.”

  “Yes, Mom,” Jada said in a defeated voice. Then she piped up, “But when can I get a phone? Daddy said I could have one.”

  Corey cut a glance in the rearview mirror again. Jada was grinning at him. Nine years old going on nineteen.

  “You told her that?” Simone asked him. “I thought we had an agreement. No cell phone, at least for a few more years.”

  Corey shrugged. “All of her classmates have them.”

  “Yeah, Mom, everybody does,” Jada said. “Everybody except me.”

  Simone shot him a rebuking look. “Baby, you know I don’t agree with keeping up with the Joneses.”

  “Who are the Joneses?” Jada asked. “Do they live near us?”

  “It’s just a form of expression, Pumpkin,” Corey said.

  “It means getting something you don’t need, only because everyone around you has it,” Simone said. “It’s giving in to peer pressure, which we’ve discussed before.”

  “But what if I need a phone?” Jada asked.

  “You don’t need a phone, honey,” Simone said. “You want a phone. There’s a world of difference.”

  “It could be a good security measure,” Corey said. “We could get one of those phones for kids that would call only the numbers we program into it—like ours and your mother’s.”

  “But if we’re doing our jobs as parents and keeping track of our child, she would never have a use for a cell phone.”

  “Things don’t always go as planned,” he said. “I like to take extra precautions. At the end of the day, better safe than sorry, don’t you think?”

  Simone got quiet. They both knew she could never beat him in a debate about security. He was co-owner of a firm that installed alarms and surveillance systems in residences and businesses throughout the region, and their own house was a marvel of high-tech surveillance and monitoring. Debating the merits of security with him was like debating criminal justice law with a judge.

  “You still shouldn’t have promised her a phone before discussing it with me,” Simone said.

  “I didn’t exactly promise her a phone.” He looked in the mirror and caught Jada’s eye. “Pumpkin, did I promise you a phone? Didn’t I just say maybe?”

  “Yes.” Jada nodded vigorously. “Daddy said maybe, Mom.”

  “Didn’t I say that I’d have to discuss it with your mother, first?” he said.

  Another eager nod. “Daddy said he’d have to talk to you about it, Mom.”

  “See?” Corey grinned at Simone.

  “You two co-conspirators are full of it,” Simone said.

  She shook her head in what was meant to be an aggravated expression, yet a smile broke through the mask, accentuating those killer dimples. The disciplinarian role she played so well was only an act, Corey knew; her heart was as sweet and soft as melted caramel.

  “So can I get my phone?” Jada said.

  “Your father and I will discuss the subject later,” Simone said.

  “Can you talk about it now?” Jada asked. “Please?”

  “Later,” Simone said firmly.

  Jada made a whiny sound, but Simone gave her a warning glare, and she fell silent. Simone settled back into her seat, mothering duties concluded for the moment.

  Corey took Simone’s hand, squeezed. Glancing at him, she returned the squeeze, lips curved in a soft smile.

  On mornings like that one, Corey felt like the luckiest man alive.

  Growing up, he’d never imagined that he would one day have a life like this. A beautiful wife. An adorable daughter. A successful business. Most people thought they never got what life owed them, but he considered his own story as proof that sometimes you actually got more than you deserved, that God smiled on sinners and saints alike.

  He’d been raised by his grandmother in one of Detroit’s toughest neighborhoods. He’d never met his father, didn’t so much as know the man’s name. As for his mother, she had abandoned him when he was three to follow some long-forgotten Motown crooner to California. She’d died twenty-five years ago with a needle in her arm in a seedy Los Angeles motel.

  Grandma Louise, a big-hearted woman from Arkansas with a penchant for quoting Bible scriptures and packing snuff inside her cheek, had done her best to keep him on the straight and narrow, but her old-fashioned teachings couldn’t compete with the siren song of the streets. Considering the things he’d gotten into and the dangerous crowd he’d run with, he should have wound up either in prison, or dead.

  But he’d been spared, had escaped the chasm that claimed so
many black men just like him. Rarely did a day pass when he did not count his blessings.

  Idly scanning the dashboard, he noticed that he had only twenty miles’ worth of gas left in the tank. A QuikTrip convenience store was coming up ahead, the fuel service islands busy as people gassed up on their way to work.

  He turned off the road and parked beside the only available pump.

  “That time again?” Simone checked the price of the gasoline, clucked her tongue. “My goodness, remember when it was less than a buck a gallon?”

  “Those bygone days,” he said.

  “Can I help you put the gas in, Daddy?” Jada asked.

  “Sure, Pumpkin.”

  “Don’t be too long, guys,” Simone said. “It’s twenty to nine. We can’t be late for our appointment.”

  Outside the car, Corey let Jada slide his debit card into the card reader slot, enter his PIN, and select the grade of gasoline. He inserted the spout into the tank, and told Jada the total price he wanted to pay. Her gaze riveted on the digits climbing on the price display, she ran her fingers through her cornrows, absently adjusting the tiny black speech processor hooked behind her left ear.

  Jada had been born with profound hearing loss. When she was two years old, Corey and Simone had arranged a cochlear implant, a modern medical miracle that served as a prosthetic replacement for the inner ear, electronically stimulating auditory nerve fibers to produce a sense of hearing. Years of intensive speech therapy had enabled Jada to attend mainstream school from kindergarten onward, and she enjoyed as active a social life as any girl her age—Girl Scouts, ballet, play dates, the works.