All Too Surreal

by Tim Waggoner

  ALL TOO SURREAL

  By Tim Waggoner

  A Macabre Ink Production

  Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  First Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright 2015 by Tim Waggoner

  Edited by: Patricia Lee Macomber

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Shirley Jackson Award-nominated author Tim Waggoner has published over thirty novels and three short story collections in the horror and urban fantasy genres. He teaches creative writing at Sinclair Community College and in Seton Hill University’s Master of Fine Arts in Writing Popular Fiction program. Visit him on the web at www.timwaggoner.com.

  NOVELS

  Blade of the Flame 1: Thieves of Blood

  Blade of the Flame 2: Forge of the Mind Slayers

  Blade of the Flame 3: Sea of Death

  Cross County

  Dark Ages: Gangrel

  Dark War

  Darkness Wakes

  Dead Streets

  Defender: Hyperswarm

  Dream Stalkers

  Dying for It

  Ghost Town

  Ghost Trackers

  Godfire 1: The Orchard of Dreams

  Godfire 2: Heart’s Wound

  Grimm: the Killing Time

  The Harmony Society

  Lady Ruin

  Last of the Lycans

  Like Death

  Nekropolis

  Night Terrors

  A Nightmare on Elm Street: Protégé

  Pandora Drive

  Return of the Sorceress

  A Shadow Over Heaven’s Eye

  Stargate SG-1: Valhalla

  Supernatural: Carved in Flesh

  Supernatural: The Roads Not Taken

  Temple of the Dragonslayer

  The Way of All Flesh

  COLLECTIONS

  All Too Surreal

  Broken Shadows

  Bone Whispers

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

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  Acknowledgements

  “All Fall Down” originally appeared in Night Terrors. Issue 6, 1998.

  “Anubis Has Left the Building” originally appeared in More Monsters From Memphis. Zapizdat Productions, 1998.

  “Picking Up Courtney” appears here for the first time.

  “On the Skids in Another Dimension” originally appeared in Glimpses, Summer 1993. Reprinted in Skin and Bones, April 1999.

  “The Other Woman” originally appeared in Dark Planet, 2000, and was reprinted in Dark Fantasy: the Best of 2000, Cosmos Books, 2001.

  “Simulacrum” originally appeared in The Three-Lobed Burning Eye, Issue 4, Jan. 2000.

  “Night Eyes” originally appeared in Horrors: 365 Scary Stories, Barnes and Noble Books, 1998.

  “The Man of Her Dreams” originally appeared in A Dangerous Magic, DAW Books, 1999.

  “At the Movies” originally appeared in Skin and Bones, April 1999.

  “Exits and Entrances” originally appeared in Vengeance Fantastic, DAW Books, 2002.

  “Keeping It Together” originally appeared in Between the Darkness and the Fire, Wildside Press, 1998, and was reprinted in Skin and Bones, April 1999.

  “Horror Show” originally appeared in Villains Victorious!, DAW Books, 2001.

  “Mirroring” originally appeared in Horrors: 365 Scary Stories, Barnes and Noble Books, 1998.

  “On the Shelf and Dreaming” originally appeared in Dark Planet, Mar. 2000.

  “Fixer-Upper” originally appeared in Single White Vampire Seeks Same. DAW Books, 2001.

  “Joyless Forms” appears here for the first time.

  “I Scream, You Scream” appears here for the first time.

  “Mr. Punch” originally appeared in Young Blood, Zebra Books, March 1994. Reprinted in Skin and Bones, April 1999.

  ALL TOO SURREAL

  Contents

  All Fall Down

  Anubis Has Left the Building

  Picking up Courtney

  On the Skids in Another Dimension

  The Other Woman

  Simulacrum

  Night Eyes

  The Man of Her Dreams

  At the Movies

  Exits and Entrances

  Keeping It Together

  Horror Show

  Mirroring

  On the Shelf and Dreaming

  Fixer-Upper

  Joyless Forms

  I Scream, You Scream

  Mr. Punch

  All Fall Down

  He was being followed. He was sure of it. A white slash of a face seen out of the corner of his eye, an animal tingling on the back of his neck. He whirled, hoping to catch whoever it was in the act, but there was nothing. Nothing but sidewalks, empty save for a scattering of brittle autumn leaves, nothing but station wagons and vans parked in driveways, their owners safe and snug within their small, comfy suburban homes. Nothing but trees in the yards and along the street, full of yellows, reds and browns, leaves dead and dying, barely clinging to their limbs, ready to fall to earth and decay.

  Probably just my imagination, he thought.

  Plenty of places to hide, his mind whispered in reply.

  He considered that for a moment before finally shrugging and moving on. If he was being followed, it was probably just some kid playing hide and seek with a stranger. Whoever it was would tire of the game soon and go find something more exciting to do, watch TV, play a video game.

  What if it’s not a kid? What if it’s something else? Images and sensations flashed through his mind. Grinning face; cold, rough hands; sour breath; and dry, dead leaves dancing slow in the air.

  Sweat erupted all over his body and he began trembling. He clamped his eyes shut and forced the images away, pushing them down into the darkness where they belonged. When he at last opened his eyes, the trembling had ceased. He had forgotten all about the images and the thought that triggered them, as well as the person who might or might not be following him.

  He continued down the sidewalk, resisting the urge to whistle because it was such a cliché. It was good to be home.

  Home was Ash Creek, Ohio, and Kevin Chapman hadn’t been back for nearly fifteen years. Not since mo
ving his mother to a “retirement village” over in Kelton after his dad’s funeral. Some things had changed, of course. Most notably, Kevin. He was thirty-two, a lifetime away from the little boy who used to run up and down these streets, laughing and shouting with his friends, always on the lookout for excitement, always getting into trouble.

  Satellite dishes had sprouted in backyards, and the streets held more potholes, the sidewalks more cracks. The houses seemed smaller and dingier than he remembered, and too many of them needed painting. But otherwise, it was the same as always. Isn’t that what home was supposed to be?

  Kevin tucked his hands in the pockets of his yellow windbreaker. Despite being a sunny day, there was a bit of a chill in the air, a small, crisp taste of approaching winter. Fall had always been his favorite time of the year. There was something about the season that was somehow alive and vital, despite the fact that the whole world was getting ready to sleep through the coming cold. There was an energy in the air, as if nature wanted to get in as much living as it could before being forced to slumber.

  As he turned the corner onto McKitrick Street, there was a flurry of movement and sound and he was nearly bowled over by three kids racing along the sidewalk. He jumped out of the way just in time, almost falling into a hedge in the process. The children streaked off in a gale of laughter, no apologies, no acknowledgment that he even existed. He smiled as he remembered what it had been like. Adults had barely existed to him, too, at that age. They inhabited a remote, gray world of jobs and taxes, of bills and worries. A world he now knew far too well.

  He watched the kids run off to meet the thousand adventures which awaited them.

  Two boys and a girl, not one over ten. Arms and legs pumping, hair flying in the breeze. Kevin took a deep breath and fancied his lungs filled with the smells of clean sweat and soap: the wonderful, life-affirming scent of child.

  As he watched them depart, Kevin felt a dull ache within his soul and wished that he could join them. But childhood was long gone for him, never to return.

  A vision flickered on the edge of sight, a white face, a grin. Kevin bade it begone and continued down the sidewalk, the sweet smell of youth lingering in his nostrils.

  Kevin let his feet take him wherever they would and before too long they led him down a certain street, a very important street. Part of his mind — but only a part — was aware of the figure following him, darting from tree to tree, squatting behind cars, a figure that capered excitedly as Kevin continued along toward a certain house, a very special house.

  During every autumn of his childhood, Kevin could always count on one thing. He wondered …

  And there he was, standing in the front yard, wearing the same lumberjack-plaid jacket he always did, older by a good bit, but by the same token, not looking that much different than he had fifteen years ago. The old man, virtually a scarecrow of sticks and twigs inside his bulky jacket, was bent over, raking leaves into a small pile, although only a few leaves had fallen yet, hardly enough to be worth tidying up. But that was Mr. McNabb. If there was one thing he loved to do, it was putter around in his yard.

  The picture was perfect, even down to the same old wood-handled, spread-fan rake that Mr. McNabb always used. Still, Kevin couldn’t escape the feeling that some detail was missing, but he couldn’t quite figure out what. He decided whatever it was, it didn’t matter.

  “Mr. McNabb!” he called, and waved.

  The old man looked up, a frown further wrinkling his features as he tried to place his visitor.

  Kevin left the sidewalk and crossed the lawn to the old man.

  “It’s me, Mr. McNabb. Kevin Chapman. Remember?”

  At the sound of Kevin’s name, the old man’s face brightened, his slack, thin features transforming into the good-natured, grandfatherly face Kevin had so loved as a child. “How could I forget?” He set his rake down on the ground and shook Kevin’s hand heartily, the bony fingers full of surprising strength. “My God, it’s been what? Ten years?”

  “More like fifteen,” Kevin said.

  “Fifteen years.” Mr. McNabb shook his head. “My God.” He stepped back and looked Kevin up and down. “Well, sir, you’re certainly a far cry from the skinny kid I used to know.”

  Kevin laughed, a sound echoed by a high-pitched giggling coming from behind the old oak in Mr. McNabb’s yard. Kevin pretended he didn’t hear it.

  Kevin ruefully patted his too-soft belly. “No one’s called me skinny for years.”

  Mr. McNabb laughed. “Happens to the best of us, son.”

  Again the giggle, louder now. Kevin had a hard time convincing himself he hadn’t heard it. If Mr. McNabb was aware of the sound, he gave no sign.

  “So what brings you back to Ash Creek after all this time?”

  Kevin hesitated. What had brought him here? The end of his marriage? Getting too close to forty? Or just simple nostalgia?

  “Visiting your folks?” Mr. McNabb supplied helpfully.

  Kevin gratefully latched onto the convenient explanation. “Yeah,” he lied. He hurried on before Mr. McNabb could ask him how his dead father was, or inquire after the health of his mother who, in the nursing home, might as well be dead. “So, how are you, Mr. McNabb?”

  “Fine, fine.”

  “And Mrs. McNabb?”

  “The Missus is inside baking cookies or a cake or some such. Whatever it is, it’s guaranteed to be so sweet it’ll rot your teeth out.”

  Kevin laughed, louder this time to cover up any giggling that might come from behind the tree. “I don’t know how many times I’ve heard you say that.”

  Mr. McNabb smiled. “Too many, probably.”

  “Do the boys still come around for Mrs. McNabb’s treats, like we used to?”

  “Not really. They’ve all grown up and moved on, like you. And not too many young couples move to Ash Creek. It’s become an old town full of old farts like me.”

  Every town has a place where the children congregate, a park where they play, a pond they throw stones into, a special house where they’re always welcome, always given treats and, depending on the season, something warm or cold to drink. In Ash Creek, that place was the McNabbs’.

  Some of the happiest memories of Kevin’s childhood were of this place. Of munching Mrs. McNabb’s peanut butter squares, helping Mr. McNabb rake leaves into piles, Kevin running, jumping, Mr. McNabb watching and laughing, leaves scattering everywhere, then he and Mr. McNabb raking again, starting the whole process …

  Bone white face and nasty leer. Hot breath and frigid fingers. Throaty promises, whispered threats.

  Kevin blinked as the images receded back into the depths of his mind. Off to the side, peeking out from behind the trunk of the oak, was a glimpse of white, a hint of distorted smile.

  Imagination. Kevin vowed not to look at the oak again.

  “We had some good times, didn’t we Kevin?” Mr. McNabb said wistfully.

  Kevin nodded. “We sure did.”

  He didn’t know what else to say, then, tried to summon memories he might share with the old man, but there was nothing specific, just a series of random pictures.

  Building snow men and snow forts, playing tag in the yard, running through icy sprinkler jets every summer. Going down to the basement with Mr. McNabb to help him work on the models he so loved. Ships and planes, cars and tanks. It didn’t matter what, for Mr. McNabb always gave his models away to the kids — his kids he called them — when he was finished. He just enjoyed the process of putting all those parts together.

  Kevin heard a door open and shut and there was Mrs. McNabb on the porch. She was wrapped in a light blue sweater, hands tucked under her arms. Her hair was a bright white and she seemed far more frail than Kevin remembered, almost as if she were made of paper and bits of wood, no more substantial than any of Mr. McNabb’s models.

  “Can I help you?” she called, her voice quavery, from fear, age or both, Kevin couldn’t tell.

  Kevin waved and started toward her. “Hi,
Mrs. McNabb. It’s me, Kevin Chapman. I used to come around here when I was a kid.”

  She smiled, said, “Yes, of course,” and gestured for him to come closer.

  Kevin walked up the stairs, stopping two down from Mrs. McNabb so he would be at her eye level.

  “My, my, how you’ve grown, Kevin.”

  From the way she said his name, Kevin wasn’t sure if she remembered him specifically or if she had just lumped him in with the dozens of other children who had made the McNabbs’ house their special place over the years. He decided it didn’t really matter.

  “You look great, Mrs. McNabb.”

  She laughed without hint of embarrassment and her old, moist eyes twinkled.

  “Your mother fell down on the job, Kevin. She was supposed to teach you not to lie. By the way, how is your mother?”

  Kevin didn’t want to get into it, but after her joke about lying, he found himself telling her a shortened version of the truth.

  Mrs. McNabb clucked her tongue and shook her head when he was finished. “Such a shame. I thank God every day I still have my health. Especially now that I don’t have anyone to look after me anymore.”

  Kevin glanced at Mr. McNabb who had gone back to placidly raking leaves. Before he could reply, Mrs. McNabb added, “It’s been rough on me the last few months, ever since Owen passed on. But lucky for me, I still have a sister who comes by now and again, and her boy. He doesn’t visit as often as I like, but he’s good about fixing things for me, doing the yard work, that sort of thing. With their help, I get by well enough.”

  Mr. McNabb’s rake hissed through the grass.

  Kevin didn’t know what to say. Maybe she was senile, had Alzheimer’s or something.

  “Would you like to come in for a bit? There’s a pumpkin pie in the stove. I’m not quite the cook I used to be, can’t read the recipes too well, all those small letters, but I don’t think it’ll taste too bad.”

  Kevin thanked her, but said he should be going, he still had to get over to Kelton to see his mother. Which was a lie; he had no intention of visiting his mother, couldn’t stand the place and its smell of antiseptic and death. But he couldn’t go inside. He wanted to remember Mrs. McNabb the way she was, not like this.