Ugly Little Things

by Todd Keisling

  Aidan shook his head. “I tried for a while, but my heart just wasn’t in it anymore. After what I’d done to those poor souls with these things—” He held up his hands, wrinkled and knotted with arthritis. “—how could I even dream of picking up my Fender again?”

  Miles offered a nod of sympathy. “Of course. You mentioned attorneys a moment ago. I believe your legal troubles following the incident were well-documented. If you’d prefer not to discuss—”

  “No, no, that’s fine. Most of those vultures are dead by now anyway.” Aidan chuckled dryly, a raspy scoff that sounded like a choking dog. “Since I was the only remaining member of the band, all the families of everyone who died in the club—including Bobby’s and Hank’s parents—came after me. At the end of the day, I never saw another dime of royalties from sales of our EP. And the album, of course, was never released to the public, so . . . ” Aidan finished his sentence with a tired shrug. “I took up a few jobs here and there to make ends meet. I did that for some years until my accident.”

  The producer shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d spent the last several hours avoiding the topic of Aidan’s facial scars, but now they were front and center. “Yes, I suppose I need to ask you about that unfortunate incident. We can keep this brief if you prefer.”

  “I don’t mind,” said the old man. “To be honest, there isn’t much to tell. I believe the official report said ‘survivor’s guilt’, and I guess, in some ways, they aren’t wrong about that. It eats me up inside, knowing that what we did that night caused so much agony. Every time I close my eyes to sleep, I find myself back up on that stage, with Carcosa’s towers looming over us, and the red congregation chanting back at us in time to that damned music. The dream always goes on forever, to the point where Johnny chants for them to take off their masks, and I have to relive watching them mutilate themselves all over again. Almost every night I have this awful nightmare. You can ask the nurses.

  “Anyway, one night a few years back, while in the throes of one of these night terrors, I decided I’d join the congregation and punish myself along with them. I was living with a roommate at the time—old Marcus Norton, God rest his soul—and I woke him up with my screaming. By the time Marcus was able to restrain me, I’d already done the worst of this.” Aidan fanned out his fingers and traced the tips along the deep ridges carved into his cheeks. Miles observed for the first time just how neat and trim the old rocker’s fingernails were. “That’s how I ended up in here, you know. They thought I was a suicide risk and committed me for observation. Apparently, I still cry out to Carcosa in my sleep. That led to more questions, which led to more observation, and then they decided to keep me for good. For my health, you see.”

  A heavy silence fell between them, and for a few moments, Miles feared the old man had fallen asleep. The dark sunglasses on the old man’s face obscured his eyes a little too well. Miles caught Jody’s eye and shrugged. Finally, when Miles leaned forward to wake him, Aidan held up his hand in protest. “I’m still with you, Mr. Hargrove. Forgive me, my mind wanders sometimes.”

  Miles smiled. “That’s quite all right. Penny for your thoughts?”

  “I was just thinking about this.” Aidan reached into his pocket and extracted a coiled silver chain. Nested in the center was a dark onyx jewel. Miles recognized it from the old man’s story, following it with his eyes as the chain swayed to-and-fro like a pendulum. The years had not dulled the golden trim of the pendant’s insignia. Miles motioned for Jody to zoom in on the object, and the cameraman did so.

  “Here.” The old rock star placed the onyx jewel on the table and slid it toward the interviewer. “For you. My last fan.”

  Miles Hargrove’s eyes lit up with a ravenous delight, betraying the forced frown spreading across his face. He balked at the gesture, shaking his head. “Oh, no, Mr. Cross, I couldn’t possibly take—”

  “Please, save me that horseshit. I’ve held on to it for far too long, and it’s the least I could do for letting me ramble on all these hours.” Aidan turned away and peered over his shoulder into the darkened corner of the room. He took off his shades. “Isn’t it about time for my meds, Diane?”

  One of the nurses waiting near the door nodded to him. “Yes, Mr. Cross. You’ll be needing your medication soon.” Diane turned her attention to Mr. Hargrove. “Just a few more minutes, please.”

  Miles rolled the onyx stone over his hands, running his thumb across the golden insignia. He felt impossibly giddy to be given such a gift, a true piece of rock and roll memorabilia. An actual pendant worn by one of the Yellow Kings on the night of their final show. It could be worth a fortune. No, better yet, it was priceless.

  Nurse Diane cleared her throat. “Mr. Hargrove?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. Yes, we’ll wrap this up in just a few minutes.” He skimmed his notes and fell upon the scribbling of words he’d written an hour before. “I do have one more question, Mr. Cross.”

  Aidan turned back in his seat and placed his hands on the table. “Shoot.”

  “A little while ago you talked about Bobby asking Johnny what it all meant, and Johnny sort of brushed off the question. You said you’d pieced it together yourself but never got around to explaining it to them. Do you mind sharing that with us?”

  Smiling, Aidan Cross leaned back and tilted his head up to the light. He squinted and took a deep breath.

  “Actually, Mr. Hargrove, I think I do mind. That album was put together to drive men mad, to fill their heads with visions of something we aren’t meant to see. Knowledge of something we aren’t meant to know. David Reiflen, the owner of the record label, told me he’d personally see to the destruction of the album masters. Swore to me he’d burn them himself. No, Miles, I’d prefer we leave their scattered ashes alone.”

  “But . . . ”

  “I’ve made up my mind on that, sir. Please don’t badger me. I’m an old man and I don’t need the grief.”

  “No,” Miles said, “that’s fine, I just . . . I’m surprised no one told you.”

  The color drained from Aidan’s face. “Told me what?”

  “Did you not understand why we came to you today? The record company hired us to interview you for the 30th anniversary of the recording. The album . . . ” Miles Hargrove’s throat clicked when he swallowed. “The album’s being released for the first time later this year.”

  Aidan sank back in his chair. The air slipped out of the room, and for the longest of seconds, still silence took its place.

  A moment later, the screaming started.

  ***

  Miles Hargrove watched Jody pack up the camera equipment into the back of the van. After the doors slammed shut, Jody stepped back and scowled at the producer. “Fuck, man, why’d you have to set him off like that? Hasn’t he been through enough?”

  “Hey, that wasn’t planned. Honest. I really thought he knew why we were there.”

  Jody shook his head in disgust. “Whatever, man. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

  Miles nodded, looking back at the sleek black limousine waiting in the facility parking lot. “Sure thing,” he whispered. As Jody drove away, Miles reached into his pocket and took out the black pendant the old man gave him. He lifted it before his face and stared transfixed at the curved golden insignia.

  He was so entranced by its beauty that he didn’t hear the limousine’s back door open, or the clap of one high heel on the pavement.

  “Whatcha got there, handsome?”

  Miles turned back and smiled at the auburn-haired beauty leaning against the side of the limo. He approached her with the pendant stretched out before him, an offering to his goddess.

  “A gift, my love.”

  The woman smiled, illuminating her eyes, which were two different colors. One brown, one hazel, and sometimes gold. Her coquettish gaze lit upon the onyx jewel.

  She smiled. “Have you found the Yellow Sign?”

  STORY NOTES

  Here is a book of lies, full
of ugly little truths, filled to the brim with someone’s deepest, darkest secrets. These stories began with the idea of taking all those nasty things that live inside us, transporting them to vessels of their own, and giving them life. You’ve seen their stitched faces and pallid smiles. You’ve stared into their empty, black eyes.

  But what dark magic makes them walk and dance? What unholy ritual birthed these horrible monsters?

  Let’s find out. First, you need to make an incision here, and then another one here. Insert your fingers. Now, slowly, gently, pull them apart.

  That’s it. Now look at your work.

  Look at what wonderful things have come spilling out . . .

  ***

  “A Man in Your Garden” was conceived in early 2016 as a writing exercise to get me back into the groove of writing on a regular basis. I’d spent most of the previous year dividing my time between real life endeavors (like buying my first house) and solving the perpetual riddle of my third novel, so I was in need of a break. What better way to ease back into things than with an experiment in second-person perspective?

  I had a dream in which I saw someone standing in my back yard late at night. In my dream, I was terrified, even though this anonymous figure didn’t do anything. The next day, while daydreaming of ways to escape my day job, I scribbled the opening line on a blue Post-It note. The rest fell into place relatively quickly, something which does not usually happen with my first drafts.

  No, I don’t have a pergola in my backyard, and I don’t own a hatchet. Not yet, anyway.

  ***

  I began work on “Show Me Where the Waters Fill your Grave” in the fall of 2016. It’s the most recent story and the last to be finished before compiling this volume. As you’ve probably gathered by now, some of my stories take years to complete. This one, however, only took about a month.

  I’d read an article about the flooding down in Louisiana last August and how caskets from a local cemetery were spotted floating down the flooded streets, and I was struck with the simple image of an old man staring at his front door. I saw him sitting in his foyer, waiting for his wife to return. Waiting while the churning floodwaters invaded his home to claim him. But why? That question nagged at me, as the best questions are wont to do, and over the following days a story took root.

  Thing is, this story didn’t pan out at all like I thought it would. When I began writing the story, I expected it to be a sappy, gothic love story, about a lonely old man given one last chance to see his wife. And that’s what it was going to be until I realized Jonathan had a gun in his hand. That’s when everything changed and the story took off in its own direction. The only real thing you can do in a situation like that is to follow it, see where it goes, and hope everything turns out okay. Sometimes we writers are just recorders. All we can do is listen while the stories tell themselves.

  ***

  “Radio Free Nowhere” was conceived from years of driving between Pennsylvania and Kentucky, playing roulette with the radio stations in the area of West Virginia, just south of the Mason-Dixon line. When you’re deep in the Appalachia Mountains, sometimes your only choices for radio stations are country, more country, hellfire and brimstone courtesy of various AM signals, and periods of intense static. Sometimes the static is all you have, and there have been many times when I’ve wondered about what we aren’t hearing—or worse, what we don’t realize we are hearing.

  This story was the result of those experiences, coupled with the idea that we’re all obsessed with our own curiosities, often to our own detriment. And those dark hands emerging from the water? Those came from the shadows of my dreams. If you’ve read this far, you’ve probably noticed I have a thing about hands. Hands creep me out. Especially when there are many of them, their bodies unseen, unknown. Submerging them in the murky waters of a forgotten lake seemed kind of fitting.

  ***

  I wrote “The Otherland Express” back in 2014 for Troy Blackford’s anthology, Robbed of Sleep. The story took root from a tweet that Troy sent out earlier that year about waiting for a bus. Unfortunately I couldn’t locate the tweet in time for this to go to print, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

  Anyway, the story was originally titled “The Wrong People,” about an unemployed man who catches the wrong bus and discovers it’s filled with people who are off somehow. Their skin doesn’t fit, sagging in weird places, and some of them have to keep readjusting their faces. The story played out in my head like an episode of The Twilight Zone, but when I tried writing it, the protagonist fell flat. I didn’t care about him and I didn’t care about his plight, so I scrapped the story and decided I’d give myself a week before telling Troy I’d have to pass on the anthology opportunity.

  A few days later, I read a news article about a teenager who’d left home to meet a stranger from the internet, and the rest fell into place almost immediately. The story’s protagonist transformed from a middle-aged fellow down on his luck to a confused, heartbroken teenager. Suddenly he had more of a reason to be on that bus, and the weird people did, too. I’m glad he made it to his destination—and with a new face, too.

  ***

  I almost gave up on “Saving Granny from the Devil.” I started writing it in 2009, set it aside, and proceeded to return to it once a year, trying a different approach each time until I found the right groove. Some stories are like wine—they need to ferment for a while before the flavor is right.

  The story wasn’t supposed to be fiction at all, but instead an essay about my late great-grandmother. Unfortunately, Old Scratch kept popping up in the narrative, and in 2013 I finally decided to let him speak. The result is the most personal thing I’ve ever written, blurring lines between fiction and non-fiction.

  Many of the events in this story really did happen, including a pair of neighborhood bullies locking me inside an old dog kennel. I was a budding artist in my younger days, Bedknobs & Broomsticks is still my favorite Disney film, and Granny really did suffer from a series of strokes in the last decade of her life. I didn’t make a deal with the devil to save her, but she did claim she saw a man in black beckoning to her from across the street. That image has haunted me for most of my life.

  One more thing about “Saving Granny:” the incident with the monkey really happened. I swear.

  ***

  “The Darkness Between Dead Stars” is another tale that went through a series of growing pains before finally standing on its own, and was almost scrapped several times. Typically, I’ll have a title, beginning, and end in mind before I begin a work on a story. I like to know what I’m writing about from a thematic point of view, and to have a goal post in sight. This isn’t always the case, though, and this story is an example of that. I began writing this story with an ending; I spent two years figuring out where it began, and what it wanted to be called.

  As I recall, the original plan was to begin the story with a failed entry into the Martian atmosphere that left Maxwell’s craft adrift in space. That version would’ve dealt more with the psychological ambiguity of his predicament, leaving the reader to question if what he was experiencing was actually happening. I didn’t care for that direction and scrapped it. My second attempt took a more traditional approach, beginning with Maxwell on earth, his selection, training, and so on. I wanted to keep the story at a reasonable length, so that idea was scrapped as well. By my own admission, I often struggle with writing “short” stories.

  Another idea (which never made it to paper) was the possibility of Maxwell’s placement in the program being part of a greater conspiracy, orchestrated by a religious cult that worships the stars. Along with being somewhat ridiculous (okay, entirely ridiculous), I didn’t like how that approach provided answers. My ending was always intended to play with existential uncertainty and the impossibility of knowing, leaving the reader with a question he or she would have to contemplate themselves.

  I liked the idea of someone else telling the story, as if to say, “Hey, this is no bullshit. It
really happened.” Having the story told through the eyes of a witness, rather than over the shoulder of a potentially unreliable narrator, provided more credibility to the circumstances leading up to Maxwell’s demise, and ultimately improved the story’s effectiveness. I’m quite happy with the way it turned out. As for the title, I was reading a lot of Thomas Ligotti at the time, which might explain the bleakness.

  ***

  The antagonist of “Human Resources,” a mysterious fellow named Charles Boid, has a funny history in my fiction. This story is actually the third in which he’s appeared. Way back in 2005 during my senior year of college, I wrote a short story for one of my English classes titled “ZZ.” The story was supposed to be in the style of Borges (but read more like Lovecraft), about a computer programmer named Charles Boid who creates a website through which visitors can communicate with eldritch beings “lurking beyond the code.”

  I expanded Boid’s history a few years later in a story titled “The Termination of Charles Boid” which I wrote for a Halloween contest. Boid remained dormant for nearly a decade after that, until Terry M. West contacted me about contributing to an anthology he was putting together. That anthology was Journals of Horror: Found Fiction, and the collection had a simple premise: horror stories told through “found” methods, like letters, notes, emails, and so on.

  Boid didn’t appear until I started writing the email that would become “Human Resources.” Since I work in a corporate office, the “found” method of a formal email resignation seemed like a good starting point, and once I realized I was dealing with someone who’d been exposed to He Who Lurks Beyond the Code, I knew Boid wouldn’t be far behind.

  We probably haven’t heard the last of Boid and his digital gods. Time will tell. Boid be praised.

  ***

  Out of all the stories in this collection, “House of Nettle and Thorn” has the longest revision history, spanning over a decade of drafts and title changes. I got the idea while sitting in a college class (Statistics, I think) and overheard some classmates talking about a teacher who’d seduced one of her students. By the end of the day I had a few notes and a tentative title, “Papercuts,” but a deluge of essay assignments kept me from starting that story. By the time I finished college, I’d put the story on a list of unfinished ideas and moved on.