David A. Riley's Blog, page 19

The Best of Lovecraftiana

 

Very pleased to be included in The Best of Lovecraftiana with the last of my Grudge End tales The Psychic Investigator. 

Also included are tales and illustrations by: Josh Maybrook, Carlton Herzog, David B Harrington, Lee Clark Zumpe, Joan d'Arc, Glynn Owen Barrass, Tim Mendees, TS S Fulk, Renee Mulhare, GO Clark, Mike T Lyddon, Gav Roachdown, Dean Wirth, Jim Pitts, Toe Keen, and Justell Vonk.

amazon.co.uk

It is available as a paperback priced at £7.30 and as an ebook at £2.43.

 

Lucilla - a novella reviewed on the Vault of Evil

The first review of my novella Lucilla is available to read online on the website The Vault of Evil. 

"At 90 medium print pages, Lucilla is equivalent to a slimline 'seventies NEL, and moves like one, too."

amazon UK £13.99 in hardcover/£2.99 in kindle

amazon.com $17.85 in hardcover/$3.70 in kindle

 

Book review: Ramsey Campbell, Certainly edited by S. T. Joshi

RAMSEYCAMPBELL, CERTAINLY

ESSAYSAND REVIEWS, 2002–2017

Editedby S. T. Joshi

Publishedby Drugstore Indian Press, an imprint of PS Publishing Ltd 2021

Overthe years Ramsey Campbell has written knowledgeably, often humorously, butalways with sincerity on a range of subjects from other authors, artists,films, books and, quite honestly, about anything and everything to do withweird literature and beyond.

Thisbook includes those written over a fifteen-year period from 2002 till 2017. Iwas pleased to see it included the article I commissioned for TheFantastical Art of Jim Pitts which I published in 2017 under my ParallelUniverse Publications imprint.

Includedin this collection of articles and essays are reminiscences of many importantgenre people. One is about the American literary agent Kirby McCauley who waspartly responsible for creating and organising the first World FantasyConvention and its awards. Though I never met him, he did provide me with myfirst American sale (to issue one of Whispers magazine). This had adouble benefit for me as, when Whispers won a World Fantasy Award thatyear my story from issue four was included in the hardcover book produced tocommemorate the event, edited by Gahan Wilson, who designed the famous awardcaricaturing Lovecraft’s head. Other reminiscences include such legendaryfigures as Fritz Leiber, Nigel Kneale, Manly Wade Wellman and Richard Matheson,as well as contemporary writers too, such as David Case, Gary Fry, MarkSamuels, Thana Niveau, Joe Hill and Joe R. Lansdale amongst quite a few others.

Campbellwill always be associated with H. P. Lovecraft and there are five articlesabout the master himself: ‘Lovecraft Analysed’, ‘Lovecraft in Retrospect, inRetrospect’, ‘Influences’, ‘He Was Providence’, ‘Glimpses in the Dark’, and ‘Lovecraft’sMonster’, all of them brimming with insights. 

Asanyone who follows Campbell on Facebook will know, over the years he oftencatches the attention of any number of cranks, trolls, and other miscreants thatprowl the internet, though woe on those who mislead themselves into thinkingthey can get the better. Nor is he adverse to taking on those he believes havetaken a step too far in attacking writers whose work he admires. Here we havetwo articles, ‘Plagued by Plagiarism parts 1 and 2’, in which he takes to taskhis old adversary Chris Barker over accusations against M. R. James in abooklet titled ‘Plagiarism and Pederasty: Skeletons in the Jamesian Closet’. Campbellis succinctly impressive in the way in which he playfully yet factually debunksBarker’s ill-informed contentions, which give the impression he fired them offin a scattergun attempt to at least hit the target once. Thanks to Ramsey’scritique he fails completely. Both articles are not only critically observantbut a joy to read.

Thereis, in fact, a great deal to enjoy in this book, which covers an entertaininglywide number of subjects. The good news, of course, is there’s a six year gapsince the last article published in this book and now, so there must already bequite a few new ones for another book.

 

 

 

Book Review: The Children of Red Peak by Craig DiLouie

 

THECHILDREN OF RED PEAK

CraigDiLouie

Publishedby Redhook. 384 pages. 2021

Availablein paperback, kindle and audio.

ReligiousDoomsday cults are always fascinating – though God forbid anyone reading this reviewshould ever be unlucky or foolish enough to join one. Sometimes, however, thereisn’t a choice. especially if a child’s parents are drawn into one. That’ssheer bad luck.

Asit is with “the children” of Red Peak, whose parents are attracted to what is atfirst an easy-going, almost paradisical cult intent on returning to a simpler lifein a farming community of like-minded individuals, safe from the stresses ofmodern life.  

Theyhave a hierarchy of elders – Shepherds – under the guidance of a Moses-likefigure, the Reverend Peale, whose gentle understanding helps to temper the sometimesmore hard-line attitudes of those under him. But it is this same leader whoeventually turns the group onto a path that takes them to self-destruction, afterhe temporarily takes a leave of absence to go on a pilgrimage of personal enlightenment– and sees God.

Itis this eye-opening event on the heights of Red Peak, an isolated mountainrange some distance from where they live, that changes everything. When theirleader returns he informs the group that God has told him the End Times are aboutto take place and they have been selected to be part of the elite that willascend to Heaven when this happens. To be saved, though, they must abandontheir pastoral paradise and journey with him to Red Peak, where he saw andspoke with God. There they will establish a new community to await their salvation.

Allof this is told in retrospect through the four surviving children who decadeslater meet at the funeral of the only other child to have lived through theterrible final weeks of the cult. Unable to bear her memories of what happenedany longer, the suicides, murders and self-mutilations that occurred that day,she has ended her life.  Which brings thesuppressed memories of all the traumas the others suffered back to the surface,as well as questions they have struggled to deal with over the years: Whatreally happened that day? Why did the loving, kind-hearted Reverend persuadetheir parents and everyone else to kill themselves – or to kill those who wereunwilling to do it themselves? Was it really God the Reverend saw? If so, whatkind of “God” was it?

Worsestill, no amount of searching by the authorities had ever been able to find anytrace of those who died, as if their bodies really did ascend to heaven,leaving a mystery behind that people still talk about with awe.

Nowgrown into adults, the survivors have built careers for themselves, thoughtheir choices appear in some ways not much more than desperate attempts toblock from their minds what they glimpsed, suspected, or worried happened,unable to move from beneath the shadow of that awful event during which they notonly lost their parents but most of their friends too. It is the violence ofwhat took place that haunts them, as some of the parents murdered their ownchildren to “save” them, and, during the days before the apocalypse, cultmembers tried to exculpate whatever sins they thought they had committed throughacts of self-mutilation. One mother, who had become convinced she was too fondof talking, cut out her tongue, while another, because she was vain about herlooks, savaged her own face. The compulsion to carry out bloody acts againstthemselves, is yet another trauma with which the survivors have had to deal.    

Theirreunion at the funeral acts as a catalyst towards what happens next – because theyknow that whatever drew their parents to Red Peak is still there, if not inreality at least in their minds. Is it God? Does the mountain really hold apath towards heaven? Is there still time in which to seek their own redemptionfor everything that happened? Or to find out what really took place there – andwhy?

Thisis a fascinating tale, told from the viewpoints of the four survivors whodecide their only hope to move on with their lives is to return to Red Peak totry and find answers to their questions. It is a decision that will awaken morethan just memories, though, and their determination to clear up the horrors ofthe past, when their childhoods came to a hideous end, builds towards achilling climax of what is a brilliantly visualised and illuminating tale.

 

My story Swan Song Triggers Numpties

Unbelievably some numpties online got triggered that my story Swan Song, originally published in the Black Books of Horror, was reprinted recently. What the poor deluded cancel culture extremists never seem to have realised was that this story involves a group of aging right wing fascists who take it out on their opponents with physical attacks. Hardly an endorsement of them, I might add, as they are described very negatively. Now why would that upset anyone?

For your entertainment and enlightment I am reprinting below the entire story as it was published so you can judge for yourself: 

SWAN SONG

by

David A. Riley

Bennettshuddered with revulsion.

Sat on the park bench like a pair of old scarecrowsrescued from a refuse dump, the couple made his flesh crawl. They were old,filthy, dressed in clothes that were dropping to pieces. Tramps. That was whatwe used to call them, Bennett thought. In the good old days when you could stillcall a spade a spade. What did they call them now, with all their PC crap? Bagpeople? Still too close to the truth probably. Homeless? Bennett hated thatword. It sounded like someone should pity them, not despise or hate.

Bennett grimaced. He could smell them from here, stillyards away from them. People like that shouldn’t be allowed in the park,polluting it with their vile presence. Why didn’t the council recruit guards tokeep scum like these two out so that proper people, decent people, couldenjoy it in peace?

Bennett glared. Somewhere inside their rags he knewthey would have bottles of alcohol hidden away. A man and what passed, hesupposed, for a woman, both of them getting on, like a pair of geriatric mummies,all skin and bone. Neither of them looked as if they had washed in years;ingrained filth dulled their skin.

Bennett thrust his hands deep inside his overcoatpockets as if he wanted to keep as much of his flesh protected fromcontamination as possible. His fingers itched. In a properly organised societyscum like these would be shot. In his imagination he could visualise doing it. Twoheadshots, that’s all it would take, before their carcasses were carted off to somekind of communal grave to be sown with quicklime and covered in dirt.

Bennett had a vivid imagination.

Though divorced, childless, a self-confessed misogynist,he never felt lonely. A group of cronies at the pub in which he spent most ofhis nights looked on at him in admiration. They admired the erudite tone of hiswit with an awe that tickled his vanity. Once, years ago, he had been a schoolteacher.He had been forced, though, to take early retirement. He had been a good teachertoo, even if he did ruffle a few feathers. Not like these namby-pambies nowadayswho let their pupils do whatever they liked, leaving school with no more ideaof good grammar than some Johnny-come-lately from Wogga-Woggaland. Bennett hadknown how to keep discipline. There had been no slouchers in his classes. Nofidgetters. No cheek.

Bennett’s eyes bored into the couple. He expected theywould stay transfixed to that bench till they’d guzzled whatever they’d broughtwith them, then sneak away to buy some more – or steal it.

With an effort of will, Bennett walked past.

With any luck they would be gone tomorrow, and hecould enjoy his stroll through the park in peace.

The next day, though, they were there again. This timethey had brought a flask and a plastic box of sandwiches, lying between them onthe bench as if they were having a God damned picnic. Now and then one of them threwa handful of crumbs across the tarmacadammed path for the birds. A flock ofpigeons were already pecking at them.

Bennett grimaced. Pigeons were another of his pethates. They were no better than rats. Feathered vermin. Typical that the oldcouple should be feeding them.

“Excuse me,” Bennett said. He stopped in front of them,regimentally ramrod. The steel ferrule of his rolled umbrella tapped the groundfor emphasis. “There’s a by-law against doing that.” He flicked his hand at thecrumbs scattered across the path. “No feeding. You could be fined,” he said.

For a moment there was a look of incomprehension inthe old couples’ faces as they stared up at him. The man’s mouth, purple withsome kind of growth, like a rope of vein running under his lips, part hidden instubble, moved into a smile. Bennett felt unsure about it. Was it a half-wittedthreat or an attempt to placate him?

Unused to uncertainty, Bennett nodded his head in anaffirmative gesture. “They take it seriously,” he said. “There are notices all aroundthe park.” Somehow, he realised, he sounded defensive, as if he needed tojustify his admonition, even though neither of the old couple had said anythingyet. Just that stupid smile from the man, that meant what? Anything? Nothing? Bennettwould have preferred a straightforward argument. That he could cope with. Thathe would have relished. That he knew he would have won. What he could not dealwith was this incomprehensible smile. He felt intimidated by it, though he failedto understand why.

“Just be warned,” Bennett said after a moment’ssilence, abhorring himself for it, knowing that he would run over what he hadsaid – or failed to say – the rest of the day, dissatisfied with it. It was somethinghe was not used to experiencing. Inadequacy was anathema. It showed weakness,lack of moral backbone, and cowardice. Things he despised.

He was still seething when he reached the Red Pheasant,a public house across from the main gates into the park. Although he didn’t normallydrink so early in the day, he felt the need for one now. A stiff brandy tosteady his nerves. That was the ticket. Something to take his mind of thosescumbags.

“Make it a large one, landlord.” He rested his arms onthe well-polished bar.

“You look as if you need it.” The landlord’sworld-weary sack of a face looked as if had seen too many late nights and notenough sleep.

Bennett growled. “It angers me when people abuse ourparks.”

“Vandals? I hadn’t heard of any trouble.”

Bennett shook his head. “A couple of old tramps. Satlike the King and Queen of Sheba.You’d think they owned the place.” Bennett frowned; he could feel thelandlord’s eyes stare at him as he handed him his brandy.

“Wouldn’t be a man and a woman?”

Bennett bridled at the man’s hushed tone.

“As it happens, yes. Customers of yours?”

The man shook his head, laughing. “You wouldn’t findthem here, oh no. Not that I’d want them.”

“Of course not,” Bennett said, wondering. He could sniffthe landlord had more to say. Bennett had a nose for nuances, developed overyears of dealing with two-faced, duplicitous children. “What do you know aboutthem?”

The landlord leaned over the bar with a conspiratorialair, even though the only other customers were sitting around a table at the farend of the room, too far away to hear. “They’re not what you think.” The man tapped the side of his nose. “Somesay they’re worth a friggin’ fortune. I wouldn’t know about that. But they’re welloff, that’s for sure. How rich?” He shrugged in a gesture that reminded Bennettof a Jewish comedian. “They live in one of those Edwardian villas down Maple Road. It usedto belong to the old man’s father. In a bit of a state now, I believe.”

Bennett frowned. “They’re rich?” Somehow this made himdislike the couple even more. They had less reason to be as they were. Whatkind of degenerates were they? Drop-outs? Hippies?

“I’ll have another brandy, landlord.” Bennett passed himhis glass. He felt he might need lubrication to get the brain cells working on whathe’d heard. “Have one yourself,” Bennett said. There was a smile on his lipsthat was foxy and cruel. Might as well see what the landlord had to say aboutthat pair. The more he knew about them the better.

An hour later, Bennett left the pub. He knew he had drunktoo many brandies and would suffer later. But it had been worth it.

“They used to be great philanthropists, you know,” thelandlord had said. “Caused a bit of a kafuffle, though, which brought it to anend. That was when they ran a refuge of sorts for homeless people.”

“Appropriate enough,” Bennett said. “They dress like apair of vagabonds.”

The landlord laughed, perhaps dutifully. “That wasbefore I took over this pub. I didn’t live round here then, so I only know allthis from hearsay. It was around the time I moved here that there was a bit ofa scandal.” He leaned closer, his breath a tad too close to Bennett’s face, butfor once he ignored this. “They used to take some of these homeless back totheir house, give them a bed to sleep in, fed and clothed them, then sent themon their way with enough money to start a new life. That’s what they claimed. Wordwas, though, that some of these buggers were never heard of again.” Thelandlord shrugged. “You could say why should they? Most of them probably slippedto their old ways again. End of story.  Trouble was one of their progenies wasdifferent. He wasn’t a dropout who’d made a mess of his life or been kicked outby his parents. He came from a good family, had gone to university and almost completedhis degree when he had a nervous breakdown. Went right off the rails. Abandoneduniversity and disappeared. His parents were frantic to find him. Thoughtsomething bad must have happened to him. The police had photos of him on TV.There were articles in the papers. His parents even hired private detectives totrack him down. He was finally traced here. He wrote home to his parents. Justa postcard, if I remember right, to say he’d met some people who were helpinghim.” The landlord winked. “You can guess who.”

Bennett nodded his head as expected, wondering whenthe blasted man would cut to the chase.

“Anyway, the lad’s parents contacted the couple andasked about their son. Left weeks ago, they were told. Have no idea where he isnow. That’s what they said. Trouble was, no one had heard or seen him sincethat postcard. Well, that was it. A proper shit storm erupted, if you’ll pardonthe French. The police got a search warrant and for days the house was screenedoff as they went through it like a dose. Dug up the garden. Made a right propermess of it, they did. I heard tell every floorboard inside was lifted. Evenwalls were knocked through in case there were hidden chambers.”

“And?” Bennett asked when the landlord paused toreplenish their drinks.

“Not a sausage. No trace anywhere. No trace ofanything suspicious at all. Red faces all round.” The landlord smirked. “Notthat this did the couple much good. Gossip was they might have buried the lad’sbody on the moors somewhere. Too much about their odd lifestyle came out in thepress. No one had known till then they’d been into the occult. That all cameout, with photos of statues and stuff in their house they’d bought from allover the place. Leaks about some of the books they had on Black Magic and stufflike that didn’t help, of course. There were all sorts of rumours suddenly,most of them probably a load of old bollocks, but shit sticks, doesn’t it?”

Purposefully Bennett strode towards the park. By thetime he reached the bench they’d occupied earlier the couple had gone. Back totheir villa, no doubt, resenting the idea that they could live in the kind ofgrandeur he’d had described while all he could afford, after a bad divorce anda reduced pension from the Education Authority, was a maisonette. Life was sobloody unjust. If there was a God, He was a fickle, hard-hearted bastard,unfair and perverse. Otherwise degenerate scum like the Huntingtons would never be allowed to live ina house like that. Work all your life, scrimp and save, slave to pound what knowledgeyou could into ungrateful minds week after miserable week, and what was yourreward? The answer gnawed at Bennett’s bowels like an incurable cancer; he felttears of frustration in the corners of his eyes.

It just wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair at all.

*

Bennett spent a sleepless night, vexed by thoughts of thecouple, as a result of which he was late getting up in the morning. His headached from the brandies he’d drunk in the Red Pheasant – and from more he’ddrunk back home, staring at the bars of his electric fire. The crisp air helpedto clear his head when he ventured out. If nothing else he had his health. Hecould still do a brisk walk around the better parts of town. Whether it helpedhis peace of mind to gaze at houses he could no longer afford, he was not sure,though it did him good to feel as if he belonged amongst them, not the one-bedroomrabbit hutch he rented. His divorce had left a few thousand in the bank, butnowhere near enough to buy a house of his own. What money he had would see himout if he took care. Though, damn it, he knew this just wasn’t really goodenough. He had worked all his life and should have been able to spend hisremaining years with enough money to splash out on luxuries if he wanted to.The only pleasure left was the occasional Martell he would buy at thesupermarket along with his groceries. And the four or five nights he spent eachweek at the pub.

Although Bennett knew he should have avoided goingthere, he could not help it. Walking past the end of the park, he carried ontowards Maple Road,with its large, stone-built Edwardian villas, erected during an era ofostentation. Bennett loved buildings from that period. He could have lived duringthose golden years before the First World War with equanimity. It was his idealtime - before socialism spoilt it all.

His heart grew heavy as anger rose in his throat. Bennettstopped in disbelief at the large, sandstone gabled house, knowing it had to bethe one that belonged to the couple. From the weathered varnish on itsotherwise splendid door and window frames to the dilapidated shrubs that filledthe surrounding garden, it stood out from its neighbours. Sun bleached curtainswere drawn at most of the windows and it looked abandoned, an eyesore comparedto the rest of the houses here.

The filthy scum! How could they?

Bennett felt the injustice more keenly still.

As he stood at the rusting cast-iron gate he couldhear music. Old pop music, sixties stuff, just what he would have expected. AWagnerian, Bennett still recognised it. Nights in White Satin. Overrated,degenerate trash, just perfect for a pair of ancient hippies, high on drugs.

Now that he had seen the house Bennett returned home, hisfeelings in turmoil. They were still in that state when he went to the pub thatnight. The Foxhill was quiet but at least “Pinky” Pinkerton and Sam Nedwell werealready there. Bennett took his whisky and water to their table.

A retired accountant, Pinky was treasurer for hislocal Conservative Party Association and a staunch admirer of Bennett’s wit. Hissallow face and downturned mouth would twist like rubber whenever he chuckled atone of Bennett’s blistering comments. The stem of a pipe stuck out of the toppocket of his sports jacket. A self-made businessman, who Bennett knew hadnever been quite as successful as he tried to make out, Sam Nedwell was redfaced and portly. Sporting a pale cream Armani suit too many years out of date,it was already starting to look a tad grubby at the cuffs. Bennett had knownboth men since their schooldays.

“What’s troubling you?” Sam asked in his blunt nononsense way.

Bennett downed half his whisky and pulled his face. Hetold them about the tramps in the park.

“Down-and-outers, eh?” Pinky said with a knowing nod.

“Bloody no good fucking dropouts,” Sam retorted.

The three men shook their heads.

“But rich.” Bennett looked at his friends in turn.“Filthy rich.”

“Bastards.”

“All inherited,” Bennett said, dismissively. “Neverearned a penny of it themselves. Had it left to them by the old man’s father,who’s probably turning in his grave right now.”

“Spinning, more like” Sam said. “It’s stuff like thismakes me glad I’ve no sprogs to squander what’s left of my money when I pop myclogs,” though Bennett and Pinky knew to the contrary. Sam had sown more thanhis fair share of wild oats in the distant past. In his younger days he hadbeen a bit of a lady’s man, not that anyone looking at the broken veinslittering the cratered knob of his drinker’s nose would think that now.

“If they keep feeding those pigeons, you should reportthem,” Pinky said.

Sam shook his head. “They’d get nothing worse than awarning. What good’s that?”

“Not good enough, that’s what. I want to do more thanthat,” Bennett said. “They’re a disease.”

“You know what you have to do about them.” Sam’swatery pale blue eyes stared into his. “Diseases, I mean, old man.” he addedthe grunt of a laugh more pig-like than human.

Pinky frowned. “Inoculate against them?”

Even Bennett laughed this time, having caught Sam’sgist. “Eradicate them.”

“Like that advert on TV,” Sam said. “You know the one?It’s got those blasted germs all wallowing around in the toilet bowl. In goesthe bloody cleaning stuff, whatever it is, and they burst apart, bloody wellkilled, the lot of ‘em.” He leaned back, laughing.

“My wife wouldn’t watch any channel but the BBC,”Pinky said. “I still don’t. Haven’t seen an advert in years.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” Sam wiped tearsfrom his eyes. “Better than the programs half the time.”

“Perhaps that’s why Pinky’s wife would only watch the beeb,”Bennett said.

Pinky laughed, his jaundiced face contorting withdelight. “Got you there, Sam. Scotched you, you old reprobate.”

Sam snorted. “You’re probably right. Might be why Ispend more time here.” He raised his beer in mock salute.

“What do we do about the tramps?” Pinky said, cockingan eye at Bennett.

“What do you mean do?” Sam’s face becameserious again. “It’s years since we did anything like that, if that’s what youmean.”

“Ten years at least,” Bennett said. He didn’t need tosay more. Starting in their mid twenties, Bennett and Pinky fresh fromuniversity, Sam on his way to his first fortune, ducking and diving, they hadbeen drawn into radical politics “so far to the right even Attila the Hun wasout of sight” Bennett used to phrase it. The spark was when Sam had broken apicket line and an angry mob of strikers had beaten him. He was making a hugeprofit supplying a firm with raw materials to help blacklegs keep productiongoing. Lorry drivers had refused to pass the pickets, but Sam owned his ownvehicle and had been offered umpteen times the going rate for what he wastaking in. The three friends had always been close at school, ganging up onanyone who tried to pick on them. Bennett, rubbed raw at being forced to join ateacher’s union, had been the most vociferous in Sam’s defence. Pinky hadalready gone through half a dozen right wing parties by this time, most of whichwould have got him barred from membership of the Conservatives for life. It hadnot taken much to persuade the three to retaliate against the men who attackedSam, finding out where they lived and paying each of them a late-night visit. Balaclava clad and armed with baseball bats they hadbroken several arms and legs and cracked a few heads before lying low. They hadbeen careful to make sure they left no clues as to whom they were and no one,even to this day, had ever pointed a finger at any of them.

Encouraged by their success, they had carried out other“commando raids” over the years, targeting anyone who made life hard for any ofthem. It had worked well. Difficult colleagues at school had been reduced to physicaland psychological wrecks, sometimes quitting the profession. Sam’s businessrivals had found life less than rosy if they infringed too much, while Pinkyenjoyed it for what it was, an opportunity to wreak violence, safe in theknowledge they were all too clever to get caught - and too respectable to besuspected. Pinky had an edginess that would have shocked his clients, none ofwhom would have ever imagined that their sallow-faced accountant had such astreak of sadism in him: it was sometimes so severe, in fact, the others had torein him in, even though they were almost as bad themselves. If they hadn’t,though, they would have had more than four deaths on their hands by now.

“You’re not going soft on us, Pinky?” Sam said,breaking the silence.

Pinky had large fists, which he rested on the table.They would have made him a formidable boxer if he had gone in the ring, but thatwas not what interested him. Broken knuckles bore testament to the faces he hadenjoyed reducing to bloody ruins, far beyond what any pugilist would have beenallowed to go even in his day.

“The spirit’s willing,” Pinky said with a sigh of regret.“I’m not so sure about the flesh.”

“Don’t I know it?” Sam grimaced. “The quack’s told meto watch my blood pressure. It’s sky high. Says I should take it easy; cut backon alcohol, would you believe!” He emptied his glass with a flourish of contemptat the thought.

“We’re none of us getting any younger,” Bennett said.“The days of taking on all and sundry at the dead of night have long since passed.”

“I’ll drink to that. Or will when I get a refill.” Samglanced at Pinky, whose round it was.

Bennett drew them in over the table. “Perhaps weshould end with a swan song.” He smiled at his friends.

“The tramps?” Sam grinned with appreciation. “Degenerateold bastards, ripe for the picking. They’d deserve what they get.”

“Why not?” Pinky said. He grinned too, and Bennettwondered if his friend was thinking how far they would let him go this time.

This last time.

Satisfied at the outcome, Bennett said, “I’llreconnoitre the place. See what’s what.”

“Why bother?” Sam asked. “If they’re like you’vedescribed, let’s just go in and deal with them.”

Pinky nodded his agreement.

Bennett sighed, though he was pleased at theirenthusiasm.

*

It was dark when they set out. Fog blurred the lightfrom the streetlamps, suiting their purpose. Bennett preferred to be seen by asfew people as possible. Midweek, there were not many late-night revellers as theywalked past the edge of the park, its gates locked hours ago. They hurried by. Bennettcould feel the frost in the air seep through his coat. Not much further now, though.Already he could see the turning to Maple Road.

A car drove past, gone within seconds. Bennett knewits occupants would hardly have noticed them; even if they did, they wouldn’tremember.

Soon he was standing outside number twelve, itsshambolic garden unmistakeable in the gloom. There were lights behind the downstairscurtains and, standing at the gate once more, Bennett could again hear musicinside. More sixties trash, as distinctive as joss sticks or the sickly stinkof marihuana. He told Pinky and Sam to wait till he had gained access.

As his friends stepped back into the darkness of theprivets, holding their balaclavas, Bennett gripped the top of the garden gateand swung it open. Striding to the door he grabbed hold of the brass knocker andpounded it hard. Echoes bounced back at him.

Moments later the music dimmed inside, and he heard amuffled conversation. A light came on behind the door before its locks wereturned. The door opened and a thin, querulous-looking face peered out; hair hungin a halo on either side of it.

“We spoke yesterday.” Bennett’s voice sounded oilyeven to him. “I thought I’d call to apologise.” He put on his best smile. “Ithink I spoke harsher than I should.”

The man smiled at him as he let the door swing open.

“Alicia, we have a visitor.”

Bennett was shocked at the old man’s voice. It was a dismalwhisper that made him shiver with revulsion. Worse, the smell inside thevestibule was a rank mixture of vegetable decay, dead rodent and dust. Therewas a disturbing sweetness mingled with it, reminding Bennett of dry rot. Thiswas so intense that he began to worry how safe the building was. Again henoticed the purplish red vein below the old man’s mouth, though it seemed lowerthis time. The skin around it looked raw as if it had been bleeding. Bennettcurled his lip in disgust.

“Come in, come in.” The old man wafted Bennett toenter. He wore a threadbare cardigan that hung full of holes from his scrawnyshoulders. As his hand urged Bennett in, it was as if his cardigan was woven outof spiders’ webs and was ready to fall to pieces.

Bennett slid past, trying to avoid any physicalcontact. The man revolted him even more inside the thick atmosphere of thehouse, and for a moment Bennett wondered whether he had made a mistake incoming here, for all he despised the repulsive couple and hated what they haddone to this house.

Beyond the vestibule there was little light inside thehallway. Dust and cobwebs snuffed out most of what was radiated by the solitarybulb still working in the chandelier hung from the ceiling. Bennett had more ofan impression of what the place looked like than a clear, distinctive view.Shadows clung to its corners, filling them like piles of dust. The carpet wasunidentifiable, probably more grime than fibres. He could feel his nostrils cloyingwith dust.

The old lady appeared from an open doorway. Music resonatedfrom the room behind her. There was a smell of incense. Though normally Bennettdespised such stuff he welcomed it now; it overpowered other odours, smellsthat were almost bad enough to make him nauseous. Perhaps that was why theyburned joss sticks, dozens of which were scattered on shelves around the room.Books, mainly leather-bound editions, crinkly with age, shared space with them.

“You were at the park,” the old lady said. Her voicehad the same breathless whisper - which didn’t surprise Bennett. What elsecould you expect in the kind of stale, dusty atmosphere of the house? It was awonder they didn’t asphyxiate. God alone knew what viruses were rampant here.

“He’s come to apologise for what he said to us,” theold man said. His hand, no more substantial than a bundle of dead leaves, pressedlight against Bennett’s shoulder, urging him into the room.

The old lady wore a floor length dress in a styleBennett recognised from the late sixties or early seventies. A hippy dress. Itscolours had been dulled by time and dirt into monochrome. The old lady’s armswere wrinkled sticks of bare flesh. Lead-coloured bangles hung from her wrists.

Both were bare-footed, Bennett realised. Purpleblotches, like diseased flesh, were the only colour. Their toenails were thick,like poorly preserved ivory, yellowed with age.

He swallowed back the bile that burned in his throatas he turned to face the old man, ready to tug the door open so his friendscould enter.

Something, though, restrained him.

It wasn’t compassion. Or fear of the consequences. Bythe time anyone found the old couple their bodies would have decomposed so muchno trace of the men’s presence would remain. Besides, they had no intention ofleaving any evidence here.

“Would you care for a drink?” the old lady said.

Bennett stared at her. Now was the time to strike. Hefelt a burning outrage against them both, undiminished by meeting and talkingto them. They epitomised everything that he hated.

Coming to a decision, Bennett turned to face the doorwhen something heavy struck his head.

*

Hours later he awoke to the worst headache he had hadin years. Worse than any hangover he had ever had too; he felt sick, uncomfortable,unable to move, and with a pulsing light inside his head that came with regularwaves of pain.

Bennett’s memories of what happened were vague. Hecould recall walking to the old couple’s house. He could even remember steppinginside, and the smells and dust. The smells were still there, clogging hisnostrils like rotting dough. Disgusted, Bennett opened his eyes; they weregritty with mucus and for a moment he could barely see anything other than thevague impression some distance away of a curtained window. Grunting, Bennettstruggled to sit up, even though the pain inside his head worsened. He realisedthat his hands had been tied together. The coarse rope had already worn layersof skin from his wrists and hurt.

His ankles had been tied as well.

Sitting on a kind of low couch like a chaise longue, itsupholstered seat was hard to his buttocks and uncomfortable. Finally, after afew minutes, Bennett managed to swivel round till his feet touched the carpet.By now he could make out more of his surroundings. The light came from a nakedbulb hung from a plaster rose in the ceiling. Though large, the room was empty apartfrom the couch. A dim expanse of dull carpet lay between him and the window andhe could hear an occasional scuffle inside the walls, either rats or mice.Other than this, the only sound was music, that infernal bloody sixties trashhe had heard before, dimmed by distance.

As his mind grew clearer Bennett wondered if thecouple had realised something was going on, though he could not imagine what couldhave warned them. What had happened to his friends? Even if he hadn’t openedthe door to them, they wouldn’t have waited long before bursting in.

As if in answer he heard someone scream. It was a man,crying out in pain. The scream was stifled almost at once as if gagged.

Bennett raised his hands to his mouth and gnawed atthe rope. He still had all his own teeth and they were strong and sharp; it didnot take long before the rope’s fibres parted beneath them, even though he hatedthe taste of oil and dust in which they had been smothered. It made him feelnauseous.

There was a series of loud bumps, and someone laughed.It was neither Pinky nor Sam; perhaps the old man, he thought. Bennett toreaway another mouthful of fibres from his bonds, spitting them out. He’d soonhave the bastard laughing a different tune when he was free. His teeth dug intothe rope once more, tearing at it in anger now.

Spurred on by more bumps, Bennett soon managed toweaken the rope till he could tear it apart. Throwing it onto the floor, hebent to unfasten the rope around his ankles. Seconds later he threw that awayas well.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm his nerves, Bennett massagedhis wrists to restore their circulation, then heaved himself off the couch, searchingfor anything he could use as a weapon. He pulled back the curtains from thewindow. Its old square panes were coated in layers of grime, though he couldstill see through them onto the back garden - an untidy jungle of overgrown evergreenbushes, most of them rhododendron black as grottoes. It stretched out for whathad to be a hundred feet, possibly more.

Realising he was on the first floor, Bennett wonderedhow the old man and his wife had managed to haul him all the way upstairs; theyhad to be a lot stronger than either of them looked to move his weight.Frowning, Bennett returned to the couch. He tipped it over onto its side andstarted to work on one of its heavily carved wooden legs, forcing it back andforth to wrench it free. It was curved, narrowing to an ornate foot. The woodwas heavy and hard. Finally he hefted the leg in one hand and took a couple ofswings. It was no baseball bat but he knew it would be effective enough.

Breathing heavily, Bennett approached the door. It waslocked, as he’d expected. Belts and braces, Bennett thought. He tightened hisgrip on the couch leg. Much good their precautions would do once he was face toface with them and it would take more than a locked bedroom door to keep himhere.

There were more bumps, louder this time. Putting hisear to the door Bennett could tell they came from further down the passageoutside. With a grunt, he stepped back from the door, pounding into it as hardas he could with his shoulder. His breath exploded from his lungs, and hewinced in pain. The door was stronger than it looked. Like the old couple, hethought. Stepping back, he kicked as hard as he could with the sole of hisshoe. The door shuddered and he heard something give. A splinter sprang from thedoorframe next to its lock. He kicked it again, feeling the tendons inside hiscalf stretch painfully. He was getting too old for tricks like this, too oldand too stiff. But this time, though, he could tell he had almost succeeded. Hegrabbed hold of the door handle and gave it a tug. There was a mournful creakand the door burst open. Bennett stepped outside in time to catch sight of theold man who had started down the passage from a door several yards away.Bennett ran towards him, brandishing the makeshift club. With a yelp, the oldman ducked into the nearest room, but was too slow shutting the door againsthim. Bennett shouldered it open, gratified to hear the man fall across thefloor behind it.

Sam lay inside the room on a bed, gagged and bound. Theold lady was knelt over him. Something long and red, like an intravenous drip,hung from just below her mouth. It dangled on Sam’s neck, and Bennett wasdisgusted to see what looked like a mouth at the very end of it open and shutas if it was trying to suck itself to his friend’s skin.

Grunting with the exertion, Bennett swung the couch legacross the back of the old lady’s head, felling her. He strode into the room,turned, saw the old man trying to scramble to his feet, nursing what looked likea broken arm; Bennett gave him no chance. Once, twice he swung the weapon,crushing his skull with resounding thuds. He felt something give at the secondblow. A third followed, but by now the old man was on the floor, his legs twitchingas if he was having a fit. Which, Bennett thought, debating whether to hit himagain, he probably was. The bloody red vein beneath his mouth had beendislodged and lay on his collar. Something dark oozed from it.

Bennett turned to the man’s wife. The single blow to herhead seemed to have killed her. This didn’t surprise him. It had been a hard one,delivered with all his weight behind it.

Throwing his weapon to one side, Bennett untied Sam’shands. Released, Sam tugged out the lump of cloth that had been bunged into hismouth.

“They’ve got Pinky in another room,” he said, lookingsick. “They started on him first. Did you hear the poor bastard?”

Bennett had had no idea which of them screamed. Thesounds had been too wretched to tell.

Saying nothing, Bennett helped Sam up, then hurriedinto the room from which the old man had fled. Pinky was lying there, fastenedlike Sam on a bed. As soon as they saw their friend’s face, though, they knewthey were too late. Just as they could tell that Pinky had died in terror; itwas transfixed on what was left of his features. Part of his face, though, hadgone, as if a powerful acid had eaten it away to leave a gaping blood-soakedhole.

“The fucking bastards killed him,” Sam muttered,though that was what they had come here to do to the couple.

Still struggling to understand how the couple hadmanaged to overwhelm them, Bennett grunted. It just didn’t seem possible. Justas it didn’t seem possible that the old man had been responsible for the damageto Pinky’s face.

“Did you see the thing hanging from the old woman whenshe was leaning over you? What the hell was it?”

Sam shuddered, gritting his teeth. “It was obscene.”He looked as if he was going to be sick. “It couldn’t have been real.”

Bennett wasn’t so sure. It had looked real to him, toobloody real.

            They searched the room. There waslittle furniture inside it, a set of drawers and a cheap plywood wardrobedating from sometime in the 1950s. They contained nothing more than a fewsheets. No sign of any acid or anything else corrosive - or anything that mighthave been used to carve Pinky’s face.

            “What happened to the bits that aremissing?” Bennett said.

            Reluctantly, Sam looked again attheir friend’s body. Most of Pinky’s nose and the whole of one side of his facehad gone, as if scooped away.

            “It must be somewhere,” Bennettsaid.

            But where? And why had the man doneit?

            “You don’t think he ate it?”

            “Ate it?” Bennett seriously wonderedif his friend had been unhinged by what had happened.

            Sam frowned. “Makes you wonder ifthey might have killed that lad the landlord told you about.”

            “If they did, why did they? And whatdid they do with the body?”

            Sam shrugged. “Questions no one willanswer now.”

            “I suppose not. We better get out ofhere.”

            “And Pinky?”

            “Leave him here. It’ll be agesbefore anyone investigates this place.”

            Already Bennett was working out whathe and Sam would do once they left. They would return to his house, have adrink or two to relax their nerves, then make sure they had the same story. Theless said the better.

            Bennett grunted to himself. At leastthere’d be no more tramps sitting in the park. Having little empathy, even forhis friends, he was not bothered by what had happened to Pinky. He was just oneless person he could share his time with at the pub. Beyond that he knew hewould barely miss him.

            “What was that noise?”

            There was a quaver in Sam’s voice. Nerves,Bennett thought. He was always the weakest, always the one most ready to cutand run.

            Annoyed, Bennett stopped andlistened though.

            Despite his scepticism, he couldhear something too. Not loud, more a rustling, like stiff rushes.

            They returned to the room in whichSam had been held. The old man’s legs were still twitching. There were othermovements too further up his body, beneath the cardigan on his chest. For thefirst time Bennett began to feel afraid. He could tell that these movementswere wrong. There was no sense to them.

            “What the hell is it?” Sam said,echoing his fears.

            It was as if something – perhaps alot of somethings, all small and spindly – were moving under the oldman’s clothes. Bennett snatched up the couch leg from where he had discarded it.He edged nearer the old man even though he wanted nothing more than to turn roundand run.

            “Don’t.” Sam whispered. “Leave itbe.”

            But he couldn’t. He couldn’t justleave it. He had to see. With a certainty of movement that belied his fear,Bennett pressed the couch leg against the bottom of the old man’s cardigan, usingit to push the garment further up his chest. The wool caught on a splinter,making the task easier, till Bennett saw what he was exposing. Neither hard andstraight like an insect’s legs nor bonelessly muscular as in an octopus, the thickred tendrils writhed in the open air. They were long – longer than he hadexpected, with mouth-like suckers at their ends. One unexpectedly whipped out athim with uncanny accuracy, and he flinched away from it, dropping the couch leg.

            “Get out of here.” Sam tugged hisarm. As they turned, one of the tendrils sprang and coiled like a rustybedspring around Sam’s wrist, clenching tight. He cried out in pain and grabbedat it with his free hand, trying to take hold of it and tear it free, but hisfingers could not get a grip on it.

            “Help me,” Sam cried. His facefilled with terror. A second tendril whipped out at him.

            Bennett recoiled. Already he couldsee them climbing free of the old man’s chest like a nest of spiders, all legsand no body. A deep cavity lay where they had been. He could see the old man’sribs inside it.

            “Help me,” Sam pleaded. He tugged atthe tendrils, but more of them were fastening themselves to him all the time.They were ridiculously long, as thick as a man’s middle fingers, and tough,covered in a kind of carapace. Bennett looked for something other than the couchleg with which to defend himself, but there was nothing.

            “I’ll get something downstairs,”Bennett said, “a knife.”

            Ignoring Sam’s pleas Bennett fledfrom the room; the air quivered behind him. Tendrils snatched only inches fromthe back of his neck, trying to grasp him. Sam shouted, begging for him to stopbut Bennett slammed the door shut. He ran to the stairs, stumbling down umpteensteps at a time till he reached the hallway. He did not stop till he had leftthe house and run on, staggering, past the park. Almost blind to everything aroundhim he continued to the town centre, bumping past what few pedestrians there wereand almost getting himself run over as he recklessly crossed road after roadtill he reached his home. Slamming and locking the door behind him, he leanedagainst it, gasping for breath. His chest hurt and he knew he had pushedhimself to the brink of a heart attack. All but falling into his living room hepoured himself a large brandy and gulped it down. It burned his throat but helped.He drank a second, more slowly this time as he sank onto the sofa, his handsstill shaking. He could not to believe what had happened. It was like anightmare. He shut his eyes, unable to remove the sight of those hideoustendrils. He could see them lashing themselves round Sam’s arms.

            It was nearly an hour later as Bennettpoured himself a fifth brandy when someone knocked on the door.

            Spilling most of the alcohol on hislap, Bennett leapt to his feet.

            “Bennett, you bastard, open this fuckingdoor!”

            It was Sam, his voice furious.

            “You double crossing cowardlybastard. Open this door or I’ll kick it in.”

            Bennett scowled. No one had spokento him like this for years.

            Slamming his glass on the tableBennett strode to the door. What relief he felt at his friend having escaped wastempered by the man’s anger. What right had he to accuse Bennett of anything?

            Bennett swung the door open. Sam stood,dishevelled, his coat stained with blood.

            “God, man, you look like youmurdered someone. Get off the street, for heaven’s sake. You’ll get us arrested.”

            “Good of you to think of that.” Sam’svoice was sour. He pushed his way in and glanced at Bennett’s brandy by thesofa. “See you wasted no time.”

            “Have one yourself. You look likeyou need it.” Feeling his anger fade, Bennett followed him in.

            Slumping onto an armchair, Sam reachedfor the brandy and poured it into an empty glass. His hands shook so much mostof it slopped onto the carpet. Sam looked down at it and smiled. “Sorry aboutthat, old man. It’s been a trying night.”

            Bennett sat on the sofa.

“How did you escape?”

            “Escape?” Sam grimaced as if thebrandy tasted bad and put it down.

            Bennett tensed, feeling uneasy as hestudied his friend. Sam’s coat was still dripping. The front of it was soakedwith blood.

Sam glanced across at him and reached for the buttonsdown his coat. His fingers were red.

            “It won’t make much difference,” Samsaid as if this explained everything. “We can still continue just like before, onlybetter, stronger.”

            Bennett’s face drained of colour. Hedarted a look at the door into the kitchen. He had knives in there, carvingknives. If he reached them he could kill Sam with ease.

            His friend grinned at him.

            He pulled his coat open, poppingbuttons. Coiled like a bundle of dark red brambles, nesting tight against hischest, the creature stirred.

            “Those old hippies were hard forthem to work with,” Sam said. “They had to be pushed and threatened, forced to kill.It went against their principles, you see, the soft old bastards. Damn nearstarved these creatures to death.”

            Bennett rose to his feet.

            “It’ll be easier with us. We don’tmind killing, do we? We love it, in fact.” Sam grinned. “There are benefits,” headded. “Those hippy bastards were over a hundred years old, you know. Youwouldn’t have guessed it, would you? They were, though. It’s quid pro quo, don’tyou see? There’s a payoff. Benefits. Benefits in kind, I suppose. Things workboth ways. No more aches and pains. No more muscles creaking with old age. No morebones turning fragile as the years pass by. We’d feel young again, Bennett. Youngand strong.”

            Bennett looked at his friend’schest. The blood was already beginning to clot. There was barely any sign ofwhat hid inside other than a vein pulsing across his chin.

            Bennett stared at the creature on Sam’sblood-soaked lap. It was already starting to straighten its legs.

Sam’s grin broadened.

The Best of Lovecraftiana Magazine will include The Psychic Investigator

The Best of Lovecraftiana Magazine will include my story The Psychic Investigator, which is likely to be the last of my Grudge End tales as it brings them to a post-apocalyptic end. 

A New Advert Designed for Swords & Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy

This is the latest advert designed for Swords & Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy, in full colour above and in greyscale below. The artwork on all the covers is by award-winning artist Jim Pitts:

Lucilla - a novella is now also available as a Kindle eBook

Lucilla - a novella, serialised last year in Bewildering Stories, is now available as a kindle eBook as well as in hardcover.

The kindle version is £2.99 in the UK and $3.70 in the United States.

It was just another standard day at the Women’s Refuge until the arrival of Lucilla. Then Miranda’s world was never the same again.
Unaccountably influenced by what the girl needed, her job, her friendships, even freedom itself were of no importance. It was not until her niece’s life was at risk that Miranda knew she had to act.
But what could she do against someone who had such a tight, insidious grip on her?

amazon UK £13.99 in hardcover/£2.99 in kindle

amazon.com $17.85in hardcover/$3.70 in kindle

 

Swords & Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy Volume 6 reviewed in the latest issue of Phantasmagoria Magazine

Trevor Kennedy, editor and publisher of Phantasmagoria Magazine gives a great review of the 6th volume in our Swords & Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy anthology series. 

Many thanks to Trevor for giving us permission to quote his review in full:

NOW IN ITS sixth volume, editor and publisher David A. Riley and illustrator Jim Pitts’ “Swords & Sorceries” series of high fantasy anthologies returns with more of the sort of swash-buckling tales of epic heroes and dastardly villains, sorcerers, witches, gods and monsters that its fans have come to expect, some novella length, and penned by a team comprising of several of their regular contributors, alongside some newbies.
Proceedings get off to a very impressive start with Dev Agarwal’s ‘Land of the Dead’, an imaginative entry involving his recurring characters of the Stone Snake and Princess Irene being imprisoned as we join the adventure, and one which also features the haunting “Land . . .” of the title. This is followed by ‘The House of Bones’ by Carson Ray which sees his hero Knox out for vengeance against the delightfully monikered “Doctor Grimm”. Andrew Darlington’s ‘A Place of Ghosts’ is a superb story with a neat twist of an immortal being sent on a mission by a mage, while one of the S&S genre’s
finest sons, Adrian Cole, is featured in the series once more with his Atlantis-set ‘God of the Dreaming Isles’.

Other highlights would be ‘Wardark and the Siren Queen’ by Craig Herbertson, Tais Teng’s ‘Raiding the Graveyard of Lost Ships’, which is accompanied by a very nice illustration by the author, and ‘Golden Witch of Adzelgar’ by Scott McCloskey.
With no shortage of swords-for-hire, blood-soaked gore and battles, well thought out world-building, creatures of myth and legend, and other tropes aficionados of this particular brand of epic fantasy will surely enjoy, Riley and Pitts’ series continues to grow and give a platform to some of the best writers within this particular field, certainly contributing strongly to a resurgence of sorts within it at the same time.
I think it can be safely assumed that the Swords & Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy series is currently in a healthy position, with several more volumes in the planning stages, something that its regular readers will welcome with open arms, and swords and shields at the ready.
Swords & Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy Volume 6 is published by Parallel Universe Publications and is available to purchase from Amazon and other outlets. For more details please go to:
paralleluniversepublications.blogspot.com
—Trevor Kennedy

Phantasmagoria Magazine is available online from amazon and in certain selected shops, including some branches of Forbidden Planet. 270 pages of articles, interviews, reviews, fiction and loads of first-rate illustrations for a mere £13.99.

 

New advert for Swords & Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy Volumes 1-6

Prior to opening up submissions for Swords & Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy Volume 7 on the 1st October, here is the latest ad for the first six volumes.