Terror Scribes Read online

  Terror Scribes

  Edited by Adam Lowe

  Dog Horn Publishing (2012)

  Rating:******

  Tags: anthologies, fantasy, horror

  Terror Scribes

  Edited By

  Adam Lowe

  &

  Chris Kelso

  Terror Scribes

  Published by Dog Horn Publishing at Smashwords

  Copyright 2011 Adam Lowe & Chris Kelso

  INTRODUCTION

  from Adam Lowe

  My own forays into horror have been patchy. I’ve always written work that could be considered transgressive and gory. I used to write a lot of horror, in fact. But I’ve always felt most comfortable flitting between the genres like a cyborg butterfly with a mouth full of narcotic offal.

  I attended my first Terror Scribes meeting in 2009. At the time, my novella Troglodyte Rose had just been published by a local publisher of young writers: Cadaverine Publications. It certainly had horrific elements. It was inspired by film noir, cyberpunk, B-movies, the kind of science fiction-horror of Alien, and lots of roleplaying games (although whereas my friends always preferred Vampire: The Masquerade and Mage: The Ascension, I always preferred Wraith: The Oblivion and Kult). I’ve always been fascinated, I guess, by the intersections between the grotesque and the beautiful. The aesthetics of horror, you might say. Clive Barker’s sado-masochistic horror in Hellraiser appeals to me, for example, with its chains and leather and beautifully disgusting angels of wrath.

  The monstrous has always fascinated me. I like to confront the terrifying. But still, I was scared about that initial meeting in Bradford. I had never been in a room with that many horror writers before. How monstrous would they be? Would they snarl and bite? Would they carry skulls and write with quills? Would they sign their autographs in blood?

  I anticipated nerves (an unrealistic fear, those who know me might say), and wondered whether I would be welcomed into this circle of writers. I wondered if there would be room at the table.

  And there was.

  What I remember from that first meeting was how laidback it all was. There was no hierarchy. This clearly wasn’t a society or an association. It certainly wasn’t a guild or a union either. It was just a gathering of friends—some of them old friends, and some of them, like me, new.

  Sometime later, Sue Phillips indicated she wanted to step away from her role as group admin for the online hub of the Terror Scribes on Facebook. Something of a social media whore myself, and never a man to say no, I enthusiastically jumped at the challenge. This, as my friends will tell you, is one of my most endearing traits. It is also, I’m well aware, my biggest weakness. Because no sooner had I been promoted to an admin on the group than I suggested I compile a Terror Scribes anthology. Forget that I also had to finish my own novel (the full-length version of that same novella I carried with me those three years ago in Bradford), that I am co-writing another, that I still haven’t finished my gore-fest musical Nero High School Slaughterhouse, and that I also had a publishing schedule so packed I’d been working pretty much every day since 2008 . . . No, I was excited. I wanted to publish a Terror Scribes book. I wanted to see all these wonderful writers of the grim and macabre in all their perfect bound glory. And then, you see, we’d have an excuse to throw a party. (Parties being another thing I’m famous for that also occasionally manifest as a flaw.)

  Then there came another suggestion: perhaps we could bring the book to Alt.Fiction for a ‘soft launch’? Well, I mean, I do like a challenge after all. And I wanted an excuse to party, didn’t I? Didn’t I? All I needed was a co-editor as young and eager as I was. In stepped Chris Kelso, and the race began.

  So it was that I battled the gnashing hordes of the Impending Deadline Army, and slogged away through the dead of the night. So it was that I became estranged to my friends and howled insults at the computer monitor as InDesign CS3 thwarted my evil plans. So it was that I made lots of semi-hysterical posts on Facebook, fully expecting my own collapse from exhaustion and madness. And yet, to those who bore witness to this spectacle (which is, I’m afraid, a pretty regular thing whenever a deadline approaches), one thing was clear: I loved it. Perhaps I’m a masochist. Perhaps that’s the real reason I’m drawn to the horrific. But whatever. I have. I’ve enjoyed every moment of exquisite suffering to put together this book in what was an amazingly compressed period of time.

  So here it is. Hopefully in time for Alt.Fiction. And what delights me most is that I get to re-read all these deliciously dark confections again. At my own leisure. Without any deadlines. And now, so can you!

  from Chris Kelso

  There are many imitations of horror—some are as subtle as a smudge of mustard on a Jackson Pollock painting, others tear through your entire system like a derailed coal cart—but no one permutation is more effective than the other.

  Compiling Terror Scribes provided me with the unique opportunity to offer a home to some of the best horror exponents from around Europe and North America. Along with my mercurial editorial confederate, Adam Lowe, we were faced with the unenviable task of whittling submissions down to a select few, on the kind of tight deadline that Adam seems to relish but that anyone else thinks is lunacy.

  I think the results have cumulated into a satisfying collection, furnished with nebulous, original tales guaranteed to set your teeth on edge and give you bouts of gooseflesh. From the home-grown talent of Sue Phillips to prolific US gore-hound Deb Hoag, from the satirists to the psychopaths to the traditionalists, everyone is well represented. We received some excellent stories from long-time Terror Scribes members, alongside some dazzling contributions from the newer members—and let’s not forget our downright peculiar compatriots from across the pond, who were invited to bring just a little bit of bizarro anarchy to the order!

  We are not oblivious to the fear Terror Scribes will evoke. Quite the contrary, we’re advocates of it . . .

  Table of Contents

  ‘Welcome to the Jungle’

  by John Palisano

  ‘The Third Possibility’

  by Sue Phillips

  ‘At the Water’s Edge’

  by Sharon Kae Reamer & Robert D. Rowntree

  ‘Angel Tracks’

  by Richard Farren Baber

  ‘51 Weeks’

  by Rachel Kendall

  ‘Adrift with Space Badgers’

  by Jeff Burk

  ‘Sleep Deeply’

  by Mark West

  ‘Scarred’

  by Deb Hoag

  ‘Hairy Palms’

  by A.J. Kirby

  ‘Gallery Green’

  by Jan Edwards

  ‘Play Time’

  by Marie O’Regan

  ‘Life-like’

  by Paul Kane

  ‘Transmogrify’

  by Richard Thomas

  ‘Nine Tenths’

  by Jay Eales

  ‘Mister Death’

  by Paul Bradshaw

  ‘A Vision of Carcosa’

  by John B. Ford & Steve Lines

  A Selection of Flash Fiction

  by Christy Leight Stewart

  ‘But She Looked Above and Nothing was There’

  by Wendy Jane Muzlanova

  ‘Cry Baby Creek’

  by David Price

  ‘Bastardising Metaphors in Banchory’

  by Chris Kelso

  ‘Bait’

  by Derek M. Fox

  ‘Light Fingers’

  by Selina Lock

  ‘The Glass Chamber’

  by Adam Lowe

  ‘To the Stars that Fooled You’

  by John Palisano

  Welcome to the Jungle

  by John Palisano

&n
bsp; Michelle remembered the black business card and had a vision that it would be her way out of obscurity. “Always follow your gut,” she said. She never got in trouble whenever she listened to her instincts.

  She’d woken up after another anonymous day as an extra more tired than she’d felt in her entire life. Even her coffee didn’t seem to do much to rouse her. She thought about calling Pam and telling her how it went. They’d both moved out to L.A. within weeks of getting out of Palmville, Texas High School. Pam settled in with a good casting company while Michelle beat the boards pursuing an acting career. She went on the occasional audition, but she never landed anything: another blonde in a sea of blondes. How would she ever stand out?

  She grabbed the business card and looked it over. Dusty Palace. Jungle Productions. There was a snake-like drawing at the bottom. He’d introduced himself the night before at the Frolic Room, her favorite neighborhood bar. He’d directed two movies she’d actually heard of, The Longfellow and Hounds Of Hell. After he left, the bartender, Mike, told her he thought the guy was sleazy. Aren’t they all? she thought. At least she could call him . . . find out what he was about. So what if it was straight to home video? So what if she had to be in a horror movie? She didn’t mind. Whatever the project, at least she might be seen in something that had distribution. She certainly didn’t want to pantomime to invisible dance music for fourteen hours a day for the rest of her life.

  She looked him up on the net. Everything he said checked out—his company website, his IMDB credits. He was legitimate. “Wow,” she said. “This could actually be something.”

  “So glad you called.” Dusty talked warm and slow.

  “I just wanted to find out a little bit more about the shoot next week. I mean, what’s it pay? How long will you need me for? That sort of thing?” Michelle asked.

  He laughed a little. “Now you sound like an actress.”

  “Well, I came here to act,” she said. “Otherwise it’s not really worth it to me to be here. I mean, I can make more at an office job back home in Texas, and work a lot less hours. It’s not like I’ll ever be seen doing extra work, anyway.”

  “I hear you,” he said. “Well, look, I can’t offer up too much more than two grand for the day without seeing how you act. I’m sure you’d be good enough for one of the girls in the dungeon scene, though.”

  “Okay. That sounds better.”

  “Are you good at being scared? Are you okay with nudity? Being topless? Can you scream?”

  There it was. She heard Pam’s voice in her head telling her not to call him. Fine. She’d test him. “I’m great at being scared. Honestly? The other stuff? Not really. I’m not sure I want to go there just yet.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ve got other girls for that, but you did say that you’re okay with being scared, maybe dying onscreen, maybe a love scene, right?”

  “Sure! What’s a little blood and screaming?” she asked.

  “Right. Well, look, we’re going to do that scene in two days. Here’s the deal . . . ”

  “Are you nuts?” Pam asked. “You shouldn’t be doing sleaze like that. Just stick with the extra work. It’ll begin to pay off. Everyone in the industry has long hours. It’s a given: The extras, the PAs, the entire crew. Heck, even those of us in the office, we all work long days. I even have to read scripts on the weekends a lot of the time.”

  “He’s offering two grand for one day.”

  The line was silent.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get it up front.”

  “He’s paying me as soon as I get there,” Michelle said as she paced her studio. “That’s rent and food for an entire month. And I don’t have to wait three weeks for the check, either.”

  “Take it. Just be careful.”

  Sun Valley felt like an entirely different state. There were farms and horses. Houses spread out more. It reminded her of some of the border towns she’d grown up with in Texas, so she felt immediately at home. She thought, this is going to be great. This was a good move. Her little Toyota Yaris pulled onto the side of the road and she patted her GPS. Best invention ever, she thought.

  The house was larger than she expected. She saw cars lined up and down the street. She wondered where the crew vans were parked? She hadn’t seen any. Where was Craft Services? Were the actors being held inside? She saw none of it and just assumed they were in another location. Ah, so this is what indie film is like, she thought while she proceeded to the front door. This feels really small.

  A handmade sign taped to the door read: WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE. The bottom had the same snake logo as Dusty’s card. “Cute,” Michelle said.

  There was a lavender bush growing right next to the door and its smell mixed in with that of stables and horses. It reminded her so much of Texas that she shut her eyes for a moment and imagined she was home again, right on her Daddy’s front porch.

  The door knob rustled and she got her composure. Then she put on her bravest smile. Again, her stomach was in knots from the nerves. One day, she knew, it would all be familiar to her and she’d walk right into these situations as easy as iced tea.

  Of course, it was Dusty who had opened the door. “Michelle!” he said. “My Michelle! Welcome to our little place in paradise city.”

  The cottage seemed perfectly interior designed with all sorts of traditional southwestern themes. The walls were painted sandy with Aztec blue accents. Every surface looked fussed over. There were people sitting on the couches. One was reading a script. The others joked and laughed.

  “You have perfect timing. We need to get you changed and down to set.”

  “Down?”

  “The basement.”

  “Oh, right. I just don’t see where this place would have a basement.”

  “That’s why we chose it. It’s rare in L.A. to find a house with any kind of basement.”

  Michelle met Rebecca, the wardrobe person. She had Michelle keep her jeans, but changed into a white blouse. “The blood will show up better,” she said. They both laughed.

  “Speaking of that? Where’s all the crew trucks and stuff?” Michelle asked.

  “These low budgets . . . we have to carry everything in our trunks,” Rebecca said. “Craft services is pizza. Dressing rooms are bathrooms. You get the idea. I’m doing lights, too, by the way.”

  “It’s already a lot more fun than the other set I was on this week,” Michelle said.

  “Let’s make it even better.” Dusty reached into his pocket and gave her an envelope. She looked inside: Twenty hundred-dollar bills. It was impossible for her not to grin ear to ear.

  The basement was hot and unfinished, so one could see the exposed rock walls. The floor wasn’t much more than a layer of sandy dirt. There was a naked woman chained to the wall. She didn’t look up or respond when Michelle and Dusty entered.

  “What’s the name of this movie?” Michelle asked. “I forgot to ask.”

  Dusty frowned. “Appetite,” he said. “Some poor fellow, played by me by the way, has a monster chained up in his basement and he has to feed it live kill every few days to keep it happy, or else.”

  He gestured to a huge mound about as high as their shoulders on the far side of the basement. It looked like a giant red crab coiled in on itself. Each of its claws had a shiny dagger affixed.

  “That’s our special effect,” Dusty said and laughed.

  “It looks real.” Michelle said, stuttering. In fact, it looked very real. There was something about it . . . a presence that touched her instinct. Something about it just wasn’t right. She thought that maybe it was a giant puppet, but she couldn’t see any wires coming out the back. Maybe there was a guy inside to puppeteer it.

  Dusty waved a hand under his nose. “It stinks in here something fierce,” he said. “We better hurry up and shoot this sucker.”

  Dusty picked up a handheld video camera off the washer and dryer unit. “That’s what we’re shooting on?” Michelle asked. R
ebecca the wardrobe girl, and grip, apparently, walked closer to the naked woman. There was another set of cuffs hanging near her.

  “You can shoot Hi Def with this thing. It’s better than what George Lucas used on Star Wars. If it’s good enough for George, it’s good enough for me.”

  Michelle was beginning to rethink having called him. Was she just in some terrible exploitation movie? Was this a mistake after all? Maybe she should have listened to Pam. Still, two thousand bucks to be scared of a giant crab monster is still two thousand bucks, she knew, and it’d get distribution.

  “We just need you to put your hands up in these cuffs,” Rebecca said. “Then we can shoot.”

  Michelle stepped over to the cuffs and turned backward. She raised her hands, smiled, and said. “These are, like, real chains?” She had a nervous pit in her belly, just like when she rode the rollercoaster at the theme parks growing up.

  Rebecca cuffed her. “These are actually cheaper than the prop ones. Don’t worry: They’re perfectly safe.”

  Dusty opened his camera, turned it on and walked over to Michelle. “Okay, so here’s the scene. She’s going to get eaten, and all you have to do is scream and act terrified of big old Red over here.”

  “Okay!” Michelle said. “But once this is over I’ve got to see how that thing works.” She nodded to the giant crab monster.

  “Oh, you mean Red?” he asked, then nodded with a smile. “Sometimes a magician shouldn’t reveal his secrets, right?”

  “I guess,” she said.

  “I don’t want your performance to suffer. I want this to be real.”

  “Action!” Dusty called.

  Red unfolded slowly and gracefully. Michelle thought it looked like a one of those Transformers toys, or like a blooming onion, only more organic. Dusty held the camera rock solid. Red moved, creeping along the basement floor. It’d gotten almost an entire head taller since it unfolded. Four thin arms on each side closed in on the naked girl like two hands coming together.

  “Farrah!” Dusty said. “Wake up! Look who’s here to see you! It’s Red!”