Dark Screams, Volume 3 Read online

  Dark Screams: Volume Three is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Hydra eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Brian James Freeman and Richard Chizmar

  “Group of Thirty” by Jack Ketchum copyright © 2015 by Jack Ketchum

  “Nancy” by Darynda Jones copyright © 2015 by Darynda Jones

  “I Love You, Charlie Pearson” by Jacquelyn Frank copyright © 2015 by Jacquelyn Frank

  “The Lone and Level Sands Stretch Far Away” by Brian Hodge copyright © 2015 by Brian Hodge

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Hydra, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  HYDRA is a registered trademark and the HYDRA colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  “The Collected Short Stories of Freddie Prothero” by Peter Straub originally appeared in Turn Down the Lights edited by Richard Chizmar (Cemetery Dance Publications, 2013). Reprinted by permission of the author.

  eBook ISBN 9780804176637

  Cover design: David Stevenson, based on a photograph © Shutterstock

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Collected Short Stories of Freddie Prothero

  Group of Thirty

  Nancy

  I Love You, Charlie Pearson

  The Lone One and Level Sands Stretch Far Away

  Dedication

  About the Editors

  The Collected Short Stories of Freddie Prothero

  Introduction by Torless Magnussen, Ph.D.

  Peter Straub

  The present volume presents in chronological order every known short story written by Frederick “Freddie” Prothero. Of causes that must ever remain obscure, he died “flying solo,” his expression for venturing out in search of solitude, in a field two blocks from his house in Prospect Fair, Connecticut. His death took place in January 1988, nine months before his ninth birthday. It was a Sunday. At the hour of his death, approximately four o’clock of a bright, cold, snow-occluded day, the writer was wearing a hooded tan snowsuit he had in fact technically outgrown; a red woolen scarf festooned with “pills”; an imitation Aran knit sweater, navy blue, with cables; a green-and-blue plaid shirt from Sam’s; dark green corduroys with cuffs beginning to grow ragged; a shapeless white Jockey T-shirt also worn the day previous; Jockey briefs, once white, now stained lemon yellow across the Y-front; white tube socks; Tru-Value Velcro sneakers, so abraded as nearly to be threadbare; and black calf-high rubber boots with six metal buckles.

  The inscription on the toaster-sized tombstone in Prospect Fair’s spacious Gullikson & Son Cemetery reads FREDERICK MICHAEL PROTHERO, 1979–1988. A NEW ANGEL IN HEAVEN. In that small span of years, really in a mere three of those not-yet-eight-and-a-half years, Freddie Prothero went from apprenticeship to mastery with unprecedented speed, in the process authoring ten of the most visionary short stories in the English language. It is my belief that this collection will now stand as a definitive monument to the unique merits—and difficulties!—presented by the only genuine prodigy in American literature.

  That Prothero’s fiction permits a multiplicity of interpretations supplies a portion, though scarcely all, of its interest to both the academic and the general reader. Beginning in 1984 with childish, nearly brutal simplicity and evolving toward the more polished (though still in fact unfinished) form of expression seen in the work of his later years, these stories were apparently presented to his mother, Varda Prothero, née Barthelmy. (Baathy, baathy, momma sai.) In any case, Momma Baathy Prothero preserved them (perhaps after the fact?) in individual manila files within a snug, smoothly mortised and sanded cherrywood box.

  As the above example demonstrates, the earliest Prothero, the stories written from his fifth to seventh years, displays the improvised variant spelling long encouraged by American primary schools. The reader will easily decipher the childish code, although I should perhaps explain that “bood gig” stands for “bad guy.”

  From first to last, the stories demonstrate the writer’s awareness of the constant presence of a bood gig. A threatening, indeterminate figure, invested with all the terrifying power and malignity of the monster beneath a child’s bed, haunts this fiction. Prothero’s “monster” figure, however, is not content to confine itself to the underside of his bed. It roams the necessarily limited map of the writer’s forays both within and outside of his house: that is, across his front yard; down Gerhardie Street, which runs past his house; through the supermarket he, stroller-bound, visits with his mother; and perhaps above all in the shadowy, clamorous city streets he is forced to traverse with his father on the few occasions when R(andolph) Sullivan “Sully” Prothero brought him along to the law office where he spent sixty hours a week in pursuit of the partnership attained in 1996, eight years after his son’s death and two prior to his own unexplained disappearance. The commuter train from Prospect Fair to Penn Station was another location favored by the omniscient shadow figure.

  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 Fifty-Fourth 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, Connecticut, 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 us 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 pro
tection 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, evvrrie

  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 evvrwhy 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 evverweaur

  Deddi sai Wak Faysterr Wak Fayster Whatt ur yu affraitt ovv 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 cloused 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. The 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 havv 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 annymoire. 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 laffter 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 you 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 nevvr at the top of the staires. And he nevvr 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 Frank’s 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 divved 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 open
d. 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.

  Group of Thirty

  Jack Ketchum

  When the phone rang just before lunchtime he was on the computer as he should have been, but he wasn’t working, he wasn’t writing. He wasn’t even doing business via email. He was reading the two weeks’ worth of collected fan mail on his website and feeling more than ever like a fraud.

  He didn’t even have the will to answer these people.

  Nor the phone, either.

  The message machine kicked in with the usual.

  Then he heard Hello, Mr. Daniels. Ah, you don’t know me. My name’s Will Harris and I’m calling for the Essex County Science Fiction Group out here in Livingston—that’s New Jersey. We were hoping you’d do us a favor. I…uh, a number of us have been reading you for a long time now and really like your work and we’re wondering if you’d consider doing a talk at our monthly meeting. I’d have called sooner but I only just found that limited edition of The Neighborhood where Stephen King gives your real name and says that you live in Manhattan so I called Manhattan information and there you are, listed! I know you don’t write much in the way of science fiction, but that’s fine because we’re interested in fantasy and horror, too, and we thought, with Halloween coming up, it’d be awesome to have a horror writer this time. We’d pick up your expenses naturally and buy you dinner and—