Black Static Horror Magazine #2 Read online

  But this is a collection in which even the less satisfying stories have something to recommend them, while the best are fine indeed. ‘Power’ by Steve Goodwin is one of the highlights, the tale of a Brit in Poland who falls in with a gang of Satanic skinheads. The story is beautifully written, with the evil Marek and his philosophy of power and nullity a compelling creation, a Nietzsche wannabe with a streak of Crowley thrown in to flavour, while a strong sense of place grounds the story in reality even as the supernatural elements coalesce, their precise nature left chillingly unsaid. ‘Subtle Invasion’ by David Conyers starts with a wasp sting and develops into a bleak, end of the world scenario, one that offers a re-evaluation of man's place in the great scheme of things every bit as disquieting as anything found in the oeuvre of Lovecraft. The feeling of hopelessness that pervades the story is almost palpable as its hero loses everything that he has, all whom he holds dear. David A. Riley's ‘Lock-In’ has echoes of King's The Mist but offers enough in the way of original touches to more than pass muster, with several pensioners getting stuck in a pub when a Satanist opens a rift between realities. The characters are engaging and the plot holds the attention, as they test the barriers that hem them in and fight to find a way back to whatever passes for normality

  Read by Dawn Volume 2 contains twenty six stories, and given the lower page count the average story is much shorter than in Black Book, with the longest a mere eighteen pages compared to thirty nine in the latter, and the shortest weighing in at just one line, which would put most flash fiction to shame (in fairness, it is a very good line). Only two of the contributing authors are familiar to me, though this time around some women did make the cut, and while every story in Black Book had a supernatural or alien element, with Read by Dawn the balance seems to have swung in favour of purely human evil.

  If I had to find a common denominator here, and I'll admit that my perspective could be skewed thanks to the prominence of the Madeleine McCann case in the media landscape, it would be that something like just under half of these stories involve children, though whether we should be afraid for the little ones or afraid of them is open to debate.

  Henry, the seventeen year old protagonist of ‘Baby Steps’ by Scott Stainton Miller, is obsessed with sex like any healthy teenager, but there's a sinister backdrop to his preoccupation. A girl has gone missing in the town where he lives, and his family are keeping something hidden in the basement, in this tale of youth seduced and embracing corruption, where everything is suggestion and nothing can be pinned down until the final revelation. Ken Goldman's ‘Rite of Passage', a savage indictment of urban squalor and lifestyles, details a long chain of cause and effect that sees a teen gang causing a motorway pile up and, although the final twist becomes evident long before the end, the sense of inevitability about what is happening actually enhances the effect for the reader, like being a witness to an RTA and wanting to scream out a warning but finding your tongue paralysed, having to watch in helpless horror as events unfold. In ‘Childhood’ by Morag Edward, young Ben believes in fairies, and when he finds crucifixes in the lodger's room thinks that the old man has been killing them, a revelation that tips the boy over the edge into insanity, the story cleverly delineating the delusions of childhood and, in the idea of the crucified Jesus as a fairy pinned to a dissecting board, offering an unforgettable central conceit, one that challenges our ideas on the nature of faith. Brian Richmond's ‘Like Snow’ has ghosts appearing all over town but harmless, this scenario simply counterpoint to a marital break-up, the story told from the viewpoint of the young boy who misses his father, the narrative movingly written and shot through with poignancy, all the pain of loss. More standard fare comes in the form of ‘Gristle’ by Stephen Roy, which has a paedophile procurer fall victim to a shape shifting monster that takes the form of a little boy, a sting in the tail piece where all the pleasure for the reader comes from seeing a nasty character get his comeuppance at the hands of something even more monstrous. One of the best stories in the book and with a last line that chills to the bone, ‘A Candle for the Birthday Boy’ by Christopher Hawkins sells the reader a dummy before dropping its final bombshell, as a man whose attitude has driven his ruthless mistress away finds that she has seeded a terrible revenge. It's a story in which the moral high ground shifts, as we first sympathise with the absent mistress, but then come to realise that, in the modern parlance, this woman really did have issues and the ones who are going to get hurt are the innocent.

  There are some weak stories, but they are the exception rather than the rule. ‘Sharp Things’ by Joshua Reynolds details an encounter in an underground train between an assassin and a mutant of some sort, a man whose body is filled with metal which he can use as a weapon, the story a bloody and violent curtain raiser for the collection, but too insubstantial to satisfy, seeming simply an episode in some bigger story. Similarly ‘The Skin and Bone Music Box’ by Andy P. Jones is little more than a vignette, a bittersweet recognition of poverty and what it can do to people. Promiscuity is punished in ‘Urbane’ by Frazer Lee, as nymphomaniac Jennifer falls foul of flesh eating monsters in an orgy of death that brings to mind the film Society, though if you're not into conservative values there is little to recommend it beyond the vivid descriptions of mutilation and death. A man is infested by a wormlike parasite in ‘Guts’ by Gavin Inglis and cuts himself open to get rid of it, the story effectively horrific in its description of the infestation and self-surgery but also somewhat pointless, the title inviting unflattering comparisons with Palahniuk's story of the same name.

  Back to the good stuff. The protagonist of Joe L. Murr's ‘Hostage Situation’ is a psychotic killer who finds himself stuck in the queue when robbers raid his bank, and you know how hard it is to keep control in those sort of situations, the story a grim little tale of human nature held in check and then not, with plenty of bloodshed along the way and a bitter coda in which it's suggested the difference between a hero and a monster is only one of degree. ‘Fat Hansel’ by David Turnbull gives us the real story behind what happened in that witch's cottage, with Hansel grown to adulthood and the possessor of strange appetites, which he wants his sister to share, the story a sinister outing that harks back to the true nature of fairy tales. Family values are affirmed in F.R. Jameson's ‘Adultery', with a couple who meet in a motel for a little extra-curricular sex terrorised by the sounds of torture from the next room, and agonising over whether they dare call the police as it would result in their infidelity becoming public knowledge, the story using a stock horror scenario to ask some awkward questions of the characters and reader both. The protagonist of Patricia Russo's ‘Sally’ latches on to somebody in a coffee shop and forces them to listen to a strange story, the mood growing weirder with every paragraph as the tone of voice changes and her obsession emerges, making this one of the most effective and unsettling stories in the collection.

  Keith's ‘Fingers’ are taken over by an alien intelligence in Jamie Killen's story, and he has to fight to save himself from becoming inhuman, but this is only the start of the problem. The story is told with a lightness of touch that undercuts the sinister nature of what is taking place, but the mood grows ever bleaker as it progresses, with Keith realising that his body is turning against him. In ‘The Proposal’ by Charles Colyott a man with the power to resurrect the dead does so for the woman he loves over and over again, even though he knows she will never return his feelings, the story one in which the protagonist is at first manipulative but ultimately pitiable, with his unique ability become the rack on which his emotions are tortured. ‘The Night Animals’ by Scott Stainton Miller, to me reads like a sequel of sorts to Morag Edward's ‘Childhood', but that could be nothing more than the character having the same name and a roughly similar family background. Problems in Ben's marriage are given a keener edge by his mother's illness, but there are suggestions her condition is not due to a stroke at all, and Ben learns the terrible truth about his family's heritage as all the chickens come ho
me to roost and ghosts of the past emerge in a subtle, disturbing tale of evil that feeds on our fears of mental illness and old age, promising that there are far worse things.

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  YOUNG GUNS: HORROR'S GENERATION X

  The short story is in decline the pundits tell us, regardless of which it remains the point of entry into the world of publication for many writers, the place where they learn their craft and grow, and when they first see their name on the spine of a book, that book is often a collection of short stories.

  World Wide Web and Other Lovecraftian Upgrades (Humdrumming paperback, 163pp, 7.99 pounds) is Gary Fry's second collection and a third is now available from PS Publishing. It is, as the title implies, a series of stories inspired by the work of H.P. Lovecraft, pastiches, homages and parodies etc. There's a sense about the book of a writer who has found his own voice and is bidding fond farewell to the influences of his formative years, and in this Fry echoes his mentor Ramsey Campbell, who also published a collection of work inspired by Lovecraft at the start of his career.

  As well as being the longest, the title novella is the most substantial of what's on offer, the place where Fry gets to stretch himself and show off his ability. ‘World Wide Web’ is the story of Adam, a young boy who relocates to a cottage in an isolated seaside community when his parents split up. While his mum, a former film star and fading beauty, drinks herself to death Adam ventures out and meets Howard Philip, a writer of weird tales, who gives the boy a sample of his work. Adam is resistant at first, but then finds himself gripped by the tale and wondering if there is any truth to it, grounding for the story in local legends. He finds strange roots rising up out of the earth and down on the seashore locates a hidden cave on the walls of which are monstrous drawings. And there seems to be a connection to his media mogul father too, with echoes of the outré in the corporate logo of his company. All of which is by way of setting the scene for the novella's resolution, in which Adam's fears are given form in a total collapse of the world order.

  This is a bravura performance and worth the price of admission alone. Fry seeds the story with signs and portents, hints of the numinous, but at the same time leaves the reader room to manoeuvre, to ask just how reliable our narrator is. Adam's character is drawn with an enviable skill, his sense of alienation, from both a familiar environment and those he loves, coming over well, and also the feeling that he has been betrayed, badly let down by the adults in the story, with scenes in which the boy tries to connect with both his mother and father among the most telling. There is a clever overlapping of effects here, various ideas and plot strands bouncing off of each other, highlighting the opposition between fiction and reality, Adam's inner torment and the external landscape of his world, with Fry particularly good at capturing the isolation of the coastal community and using it to reinforce his protagonist's outsider status. It is revealing that the story's resolution reflects the boy's personal phobia, is simply his fear writ large, and also ties in to his father's media empire, inviting a Freudian interpretation of what transpires.

  The remaining six tales wear their Lovecraftian roots a bit more obviously, and are more hit and miss, though none is without its rewards. The academic protagonist of ‘Unnaturally Selected’ is facing disgrace at the hands of a rival who has discovered a way to mutate human flesh. The academic is convincingly portrayed, a man caught up in concerns that would leave most of us disinterested, and the atmosphere of menace, with hints of some great horror creeping into the world, is palpable when he goes to visit his rival. The ending however was predictable and the extra twist Fry gives the narrative, with the white powder of transformation released as a social equaliser, doesn't convince. I suspect, rather than society overturned, all that would happen is we would see one set of bullies replaced by another or, alternatively, those in power monopolising the powder. In ‘Servant of the Order’ an unsuspecting bookseller agrees to provide a client with a copy of the Necronomicon with dire consequences, the story a tongue in cheek pastiche with a wealth of ‘in’ jokes. The ‘hero’ of ‘In the World’ is pitched into a reality where things have changed in many subtle ways; he's having an affair with his work colleague, is a harder boss and Princess Diana is still alive, the prompt for all this an interest in a ‘cursed’ house. There are some fine effects here, but ultimately it's stuff we've seen done before. ‘Out of Body, Out of Mind’ has another academic, this time going off to live in an isolated cottage where he can write a paper, but finding his reality falling apart. A longer story than the others, there is a strong atmosphere to this piece with excellent build up to the shocking denouement, and the novel suggestion that James Myreside's plight is in some ways self-inflicted, a consequence of his inability to connect with others. Finally, in ‘Bodying Forth’ a cleaner discovers an academic's notes and reads the tale of transformation they tell. Again there is a sense of the overly familiar to this story, with Fry bringing nothing new to the table except smidgens of jargon and a slight shift of perspective. Overall though, whatever the bumps in the road, this is a fine collection from a writer whose star seems to be on the rise and worth a few hours of anyone's time.

  Michael Boatman staked his claim to fame as an actor (his best known role is as Carter in Spin City) before adding another string to his bow with the publication of God Laughs When You Die (Dybbuk Press paperback, 147pp, $12.75), and 2008 should see his first novel hit print. Boatman's work seems informed by a splatter punk sensibility, with gore laid on thick and an unforgiving savagery that brings to mind not only the early fiction of a writer he admires, Joe R. Lansdale, but also the black comedy of such cinematic delights as Evil Dead and Return of the Living Dead. Psychology is thin on the ground, as Boatman's characters are too busy running for their lives or screaming as they die horribly to spend much time reflecting on what is happening to them. God Laughs When You Die is a RSVP card for those who thought Richard Laymon was a big softie. It's also a rather nice thing in its own right, with a cover ‘adapted’ from Hieronymus Bosch and a fine selection of interior illustrations that capture the mood of these ‘mean little stories from the wrong side of the tracks.'

  While nearly everything here has something horrific about it, it would be incorrect to say that all of these tales are horror stories. Boatman casts his net wider, taking in television, comics, SF and fantasy, placing the whole gamut of the modern media landscape and entertainment industry on his rack, and stretching it until new forms emerge. Take ‘The Tarantula Memoirs’ for example, a superhero story that brings to mind Martin's Wild Cards series, but casts a sardonic and world weary eye over the old stereotypes, as an ailing mystery man is given the opportunity to die in combat, fighting against an evil nemesis, and along the way the story asks questions about how such vigilantes would really fit into our society and what is evil anyway. ‘Bloodbath at Landsdale Towers’ poses these questions more directly, getting right in the reader's face and rubbing his nose in the reality of vigilantism. Two super powered beings take on a drug dealer and his gang, showing no restraint at all, with bodies pulled apart and blood spraying everywhere, as if Boatman's intent is to challenge the ingenuity of some film company's sfx department. The scene is set, a question is asked, the answer is refused and mayhem ensues, and that's all there is to it as far as plot goes, though we do get the suggestion that this incident is part of a bigger picture. It's in our own response that the shit really hits the fan. Initially we are repulsed by the criminals and look forward to seeing them get their comeuppance, but the response is so over the top, so heavy handed, that we are again repelled, perhaps even come to sympathise with the criminals, fighting a battle they can't hope to win and being slaughtered indiscriminately.

  Alien invasion is another recurring theme, with ‘Dormant’ the shortest tale in the book at only three pages and also the weakest. The protagonist is infected with an alien parasite, one that explodes out of the body if treatment is not forthcoming in time, and the man cannot afford treatment. The story is well writt
en and there's a gory scene in which a parasite does ‘explode', but it has no real raison d'etre, is simply shock for shock's sake, as if somebody had filmed John Hurt's death scene in Alien and decided to not bother with the rest of the movie. The aliens in ‘The Last American President’ are much more substantial, creatures who have turned our world into their personal playpen. The story is told from the viewpoint of a certain politician, who records their antics in his self serving memoirs, Boatman pulling out all the stops with a rich vein of invention and satire, while underlying the narrative is righteous anger at what we had done to our world before ever the aliens arrived and the hypocrisy of our leaders. In the mould breaking ‘The Ugly Truth’ Boatman presents a story that's part high fantasy, part martial arts spectacle, part romance, part gorefest and all fun. A stable hand wins the heart of the princess when he saves her from a monstrous zombie, something beyond all the royal champions regardless of their bone crunching prowess. So far, so fairy story, but in this instance there's a considerable amount of take no prisoners style mayhem to be got through before we reach the happy ever after, as if Tarantino had remade The Princess Bride.

  'Folds’ is set in the world of daytime TV reality shows, as an assistant producer comes to suspect that there is something not right about the incredibly fat boy who appears on the show. He makes a horrific discovery about the child's abilities, one that brings to mind an old episode of The Twilight Zone, but Boatman has grounded his story in the present day media world, satirising its worst excesses and asking who really are the monsters here, the fat boy, who has an agenda of his own, or the millions watching who do so simply to feel good about themselves. Generally though, the horror stories in this collection are the most conventional, as with ‘The Drop', in which a jealous husband plans to kill his rival in a boating ‘accident’ and vice versa, but both their plans are cast awry by the intervention of a third party, the story well written but not really going anywhere, with the outré element too intrusive and arbitrary to succeed. ‘Katchina’ similarly addresses old tropes, with a wife discovering that her husband is a serial killer when his victims return. More interesting is ‘The Long Lost Life of Rufus Bleak’ in which a black preacher is brought back from the dead to serve an otherworldly power, reflecting on his past and questioning his reason to be, realising that he has become every bit as monstrous as the Klansmen who murdered him.