Dark Delicacies II: Fear; More Original Tales of Terror and the Macabre by the World's Greatest Horror Writers Read online

  Praise for

  DARK DELICACIES® II: FEAR

  MORE ORIGINAL TALES OF TERROR AND THE MACABRE BY THE WORLD’S GREATEST HORROR WRITERS

  “A refreshingly varied anthology… Peter Atkins’s ‘Stacy and Her Idiot,’ a wry exercise in supernatural noir, perfectly couches its horrors in the hard-boiled idiom. Joe R. Lansdale[’s] ‘Dog’ [is] a taut thriller that achieves the intensity of supernatural fiction in its riveting account of a maniacal dog’s relentless pursuit of a human victim. In Barbara Hambly’s suspenseful ‘Sunrise on Running Water,’ a vampire passenger aboard the Titanic struggles to avoid inevitable immolation… an eclectic mix of older and younger talents that ensures broad-based appeal to horror readers.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Showcases another stellar cast of genre specialists… Honoring the volume’s subtitle, the likes of Barbara Hambly, Joe R. Lansdale, and Caitlín R. Kiernan prove themselves more than equal to the task of scaring readers witless.”

  —Booklist

  “Excellent… plenty of gore… All of the stories are wisely chosen… recommended.”

  —Library Journal

  “Like the first collection, this is a solid sampling of the kind of writing and love of horror that have made the Dark Delicacies store a unique and well-loved one among genre aficionados.”

  —Fangoria

  “Barbara Hambly[’s] ‘Sunrise on Running Water’ [is] an excellent, imaginative piece of solid fiction… Joe R. Lansdale’s ‘Dog’ is a truly terrifying story… an outstanding, brutal example of a terror tale. By contrast, John Harrison contributes ‘The Accompanist,’ a delicate story of friendship and love at the time of silent movies, with an affectionate homage to the subtle power of music. Ray Garton’s ‘Between Eight and Nine O’clock’ [is] crime fiction written in a superlative storytelling style… The highlight of the volume to me is Caitlin R. Kiernan’s ‘The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad No. 4),’ an outstanding piece of dark poetic prose.”

  —The Agony Column

  Praise for

  DARK DELICACIES®

  ORIGINAL TALES OF TERROR AND THE MACABRE BY THE WORLD’S GREATEST HORROR WRITERS

  Winner of the Bram Stoker Award for Best Anthology

  “The alliterative title hints at something unsettling: Dark Delicacies, a new anthology that can be described only as horrifying… repulsive, spooky, and chilling.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “An all-star concert whose performers work haunting riffs on gutbucket themes… Howison and Gelb have plundered their Rolodexes to recruit a formidable lineup of horror’s top creative talents.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A good anthology with impressive highs.”

  —Locus

  “Howison was clearly successful in delivering his goal: a diverse assortment focused solely on ‘total horror.’ To illustrate the variety, he chose to bookend the anthology with two vastly different luminaries—Ray Bradbury and Clive Barker.”

  —Fangoria

  “[A] dark gem… The original stories commissioned especially for this collection revel in the macabre.”

  —Library Journal

  “Vampires, zombies, werewolves, necromancers all get their due.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Serves up a collection of tales by some of the genre’s most revered writers… What’s good in here is damned good and worth a second, third, and even tenth read.”

  —Rue Morgue

  “Like any good anthology, Dark Delicacies weaves all over—and through—the world of horror. Here you will find everything… ghosts, zombies, maniac killers, vampires, and more… The primary mission for Del and Jeff with their horror anthology is to make it genuinely horrifying. Several of the writers within push themselves to the task admirably… If you want variety in your horror anthology, then this is the book for you.”

  —FeoAmante’s Horror Thriller

  “Del and Jeff did a great job compiling the kind of work that is indicative of its author, while at the same time giving some new voices a chance to shine among the big boys. There should be no hesitation on your part as to whether or not to pick this up, but just in case there is, I’ll tell you now: Do it. Who knows how long it’ll take for another collection of this caliber to be put together.”

  —Dread Central.com

  “An impressive lineup of authors.”

  —Emerald City

  “Using top-notch names in the horror field, you should take notice… stories so sinister that it nudges Dark Delicacies into must-have territory.”

  —Bookgasm

  Dark Deliciacies® II: FEAR

  All rights reserved.

  “Uneasy Introduction to the Second Anthology” copyright © 2007 by Del Howison.

  “Foreword: The Act of Creation” copyright © 2007 by Ray Harryhausen.

  “Sunrise on Running Water” copyright © 2007 by Barbara Hambly.

  “Dog” copyright © 2007 by Joe R. Lansdale.

  “The Accompanist” copyright © 2007 by John Harrison.

  “Where There’s a Will…” copyright © 2007 by Robert Masello.

  “Stacy and Her Idiot” copyright © 2007 by Peter Atkins.

  “Amusement” copyright © 2007 by Tananarive Due.

  “Great Wall: A Story from the Zombie War” copyright © 2007 by Max Brooks.

  “Words, Words, Words!” copyright © 2007 by Gary Brandner.

  “Between Eight and Nine O’clock” copyright © 2007 by Ray Garton.

  “First Born” copyright © 2007 by Penny Dreadful Ltd.

  “A Host of Shadows” copyright © 2007 by Harry Shannon.

  “What the Devil Won’t Take…” copyright © 2007 by L. A. Banks.

  “The Y Incision” copyright © 2007 by Steve Niles.

  “The Unlikely Redemption of Jared Pierce” copyright © 2007 by Joey O’Bryan.

  “Queen of the Groupies” copyright © 2007 by Greg Kihn

  “Season Premiere” copyright © 2007 by James Sallis

  “I Am Coming to Live in Your Mouth” copyright © 2007 by Glen Hirshberg

  “The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad No. 4)” copyright © 2007 by Caitlín R. Kiernan

  “Dark Delicacies Last Word—A Modest Proposal” copyright © 2007 by Jeff Gelb

  Published as an ebook in 2013 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc. Previously published as a hardcover by Carroll & Graf in 2007 and as a mass-market by Ace Books in 2008.

  Cover art by John Fisk.

  ISBN: 978-1-625670-68-7

  DARK DELICACIES® is a registered trademark of Dark Delicacies.

  DEDICATION

  To Sue with love and affection. To Scott and Jason because they made me, and to Joshua, The Guardian of the Gate.

  —Del Howison

  To those who still enjoy a good scare on the printed page: you—our readers!

  —Jeff Gelb

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Uneasy Introduction to the Second Anthology by Del Howison

  Foreword: The Act of Creation by Ray Harryhausen

  Sunrise on Running Water by Barbara Hambly

  Dog by Joe R. Lansdale

  The Accompanist by John Harrison

  Where There’s a Will… by Robert Masello

  Stacy and Her Idiot by Peter Atkins

  Amusement by Tananarive Due

  Great Wall: A Story From the Zombie War by Max Brooks
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br />   Words, Words, Words! by Gary Brandner

  Between Eight and Nine O’Clock by Ray Garton

  First Born by John Farris

  A Host of Shadows by Harry Shannon

  What the Devil Won’t Take… by L.A. Banks

  The Y Incision by Steve Niles

  The Unlikely Redemption of Jared Pierce by Joey O’ Bryan

  Queen of the Groupies by Greg Kihn

  Season Premiere by James Sallis

  I am Coming to Live in Your Mouth by Glen Hirshberg

  The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad No. 4) by Caitlín R. Kiernan

  Dark Delicacies Last Word–A Modest Proposal by Jeff Gelb

  About the Contributors

  Also by the Editors

  UNEASY INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND ANTHOLOGY

  DEL HOWISON

  WELCOME TO THE second go-round of the Dark Delicacies anthology of horror and the unsettling. Once again our intent is to open that creaking door into the very personal wavering room of angst and horror, your mind. Are you uncomfortable? No? You will be. Pull up a chair. Here is a pillow to place behind your back. I hope nothing sharp is sticking out of it. The lamp is just right, casting its yellowed glow over your shoulder and into your lap. Wait! Are the curtains open? We wouldn’t want anybody leering in at you while you read, would we?

  Is that the faucet dripping? You could go into the kitchen and stop it, but it’s so dark in there, and that may have been the rattling of the side-door knob I heard a moment ago. Somebody checking on us to see if we’re locked in and safe. I do hope we’re alone in here. One last question before we get started. Do you have a pet? No? I thought I heard something walking on floorboards upstairs. It is probably just my imagination starting to run wild.

  You know how things happen. Despite the cold wind outside, you’re beginning to sweat. It could be that the heat is turned up too high. I guess that’s why the furnace is making that banging noise in the basement. If it quits working, will we have to go down and fix it? A sudden light-headedness, and your eyes don’t quite focus right. A need to clear your throat, more for the noise than the swallowing. But your mouth seems awful dry. Maybe a glass of water will help. Oh, that’s right, it’s still pretty dark in that kitchen, and the water continues to slowly drip. A steady, rhythmic beat, beat, beat. Then it stops. How nice. Now the only noise is the sound of your own breathing.

  Something moves in the corner of the room just outside your field of vision. You felt it, and you almost saw it. But when you turn… no, no I guess not. There’s nothing there. My mistake. Now the wind seems to be picking up outside. You can hear the shuffle and rattle of the bushes in front of the house. The sound of leaves skipping across the porch is a bit like shuffling feet, isn’t it? You could turn on the porch light and peek out the front door. Oh, that’s right. The light burned out last week, and you still haven’t gotten around to replacing it. But I’m sure it’s nothing. And that moan is merely the air rushing around the corner of the house. All old houses creak like that. It’s the wood settling on its foundations. Nothing would be outside your door in this weather. Why, you would have to be a crazy person to go out on a night like this… wouldn’t you?

  It’s a good night to be inside, curled up with a good book. Well, here it is. You’re holding it in your hands. Clean the spots off of your glasses because they make it seem like there’s something there when there really isn’t. It’s a shame that when you put on your reading glasses, the rest of the room goes out of focus. The pillows over on the couch really take on weird shapes, don’t they? They kind of look like animals when they’re all fuzzy like that. Boy oh boy, one’s mind can certainly dream up some pretty crazy stuff, can’t it? Pull the lap blanket up over your legs. It feels snug and safer that way.

  What’s that? How did that moth get into the house? Isn’t it fun how its flickering shadow grows small to large on the wall and ceiling? You can hear him banging into the lamp shade above your head, can’t you? It’ll die soon and drop, and then it will be peaceful again. That is, unless you want to go into the kitchen and get a rolled-up paper to squash it. Oh, that’s right, the kitchen.

  Well, let’s just turn the page and start reading. That will make us forget about all of this nonsense. Wait. Damn that faucet. It’s started dripping again. You’re going to have to go into that kitchen sooner or later. Okay, later. It’s time for a quiet little tale of terror first. A little aerobic reading to get your heart rate up. But, my, it’s so high already.

  Del Howison

  September 2007

  www.darkdel.com

  FOREWORD: THE ACT OF CREATION

  RAY HARRYHAUSEN

  BEING ASKED TO do a foreword for a book of horror stories is an odd thing for me. Although I have skirted the edge of horror when doing films based upon fantasy mythology or when creating giant creatures, I have never actually been directly involved with horror in any of my films. I have created many bizarre creatures, but I have never jumped into the horror genre with as much enthusiasm as editors Del Howison and Jeff Gelb.

  Horror is their thing, and it is what they do best. With their first effort together in 2005, they won the coveted Bram Stoker Award from the Horror Writers Association for the Year’s Best Anthology. They certainly have the pedigree behind them, as Jeff has edited almost twenty horror anthologies, and Del (along with his wife, Sue) owns America’s horror bookstore in Burbank, California, for which this anthology is named. Also, they are both writers of horror.

  The common denominator between us is the art of creation. Animators and writers have much in common—passion, imagination, and the countless hours spent alone in small, dark rooms. Both of our arts are born of imagination and created with the insight of observation.

  Both stop-motion animators and writers must master some unexpected skills. For instance, I learned the art of fencing from a school in Hollywood before I began animating the skeleton sequence for The 7th Voyage of Sinbad, as I wanted to know how it felt to wield a sword so I could project it into the model. A writer must also invest time researching the areas with which he is not familiar in order to bring life and reality to the story.

  As I stated in my book The Art of Ray Harryhausen, I have always tried to instill character into my creations. To do that, I had to observe how the character of a person or animal was expressed and then translate those observations into action. Because a writer needs to get into the character’s thoughts as well as his actions, this kind of insight is the same for any professional writer, maybe even more so for people who do what I do.

  Much as I go through multiple stages to get to the final product, an editor does the same. He outlines or lays out his book of tales and that produces a rough sketch. He traces the different stories he has chosen until everything fits into his mold of the book’s structure. Then, whereas my final product is the animation in a finished film, the editor takes us on a journey through the arc or progression that the layout of the stories has detailed to end up with the finished book.

  All in all, it is a creative process that parallels my own process for a very similar end: to tell a story and entertain. Usually, my stories are first of wonderment and fascination, but they may also frighten you or make you laugh. Del and Jeff want to frighten you first and then fill your mind with wonder. To accomplish that effect in this anthology, they have hired some of the finest writers in the genre.

  I’m proud they asked me to write the foreword to their book. Maybe someday I’ll design the monsters in this book for the movies. Who knows? It’s in the lap of the Gods. In the meantime, I hope that these two “dark” editors continue their quest to bring you the macabre horror they know and love so well. So, until we meet again—sweet dreams.

  Ray Harryhausen

  London

  SUNRISE ON RUNNING WATER

  BARBARA HAMBLY

  THE DAMN SHIP was supposed to be unsinkable.

  Do you think I’d have set foot on the wretched tub if it weren’t?

  I em
barked at Cherbourg for a number of reasons, chief among them being that the Titanic entered port from Southampton at sunset, and loaded in the dusk. I’ve never liked the thought of shipping myself in my coffin like a parcel, with the attendant risks of inquisitive customs-inspectors, moronic baggage-handlers, and all the tedious beforehand wrangling with a living accomplice who might or might not take the trouble to make sure one’s coffin (or trunk—most of us prefer extra-large double trunks for travel) hasn’t been installed in the hold lid-down under several thousand pounds of some imbecilic American dowager’s frocks. Half the time one has to kill the accomplice anyway. Usually it’s a pleasure.

  “Are you sure you wish to do this, Napier?” inquired Simon, who had come down to the docks in a closed car to see me off. Being a century and a half older among the UnDead than I—one of the oldest in Europe, in fact—he is able to tolerate even more twilight, waking slightly earlier and, if need presses, can prolong his wakefulness for a short time into the morning hours, though of course only with adequate protection from the sun’s destructive light. “You won’t be able to hunt once you’re on board, you know. The White Star Line keeps very accurate manifests of its passengers, even in third class. It isn’t like the old days.”

  “Simon,” I joked, and laid my hand on his gloved wrist, “you’ve been a vampire too long. You’re turning into a cautious old spook—what do they call them these days? A fuddy-duddy.”

  I knew all about the passenger manifests. I’d studied them closely.

  We’d hunted the night before, close to sunrise. I’d killed twice. I knew it was going to be a long voyage. Seven or eight days, from Cherbourg to New York. A span of time that bordered on dangerous, for such as we.

  I hoped I wasn’t one of those vampires who turn crazy after four or five days without a kill—who are so addicted to the pleasure of the death, as well as to its simple nourishment—that they hunt under conditions which are sure to bring them to the attention of authorities: for instance, among a limited and closely watched group of people. But quite frankly, I didn’t know. Without a kill every few days, we start to lose our ability to deceive and ensorcel the minds of the living, a situation I had never permitted to occur.