Suspended In Dusk Read online

  SUSPENDED IN DUSK

  Edited By Simon Dewar

  SUSPENDED IN DUSK offers a delicious assortment of chills, frights, shocks and very dark delights!” ~ Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of Fall of Night and V-Wars

  Disquieting and at times terrifying, SUSPENDED IN DUSK shows that horror can, and should, have substance.” ~ Kaaron Warren, Shirley Jackson Award winning author of Slights, Mistification, and Walking the Tree.

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  LOVE READING?

  Sign up for BOOK-ie and find the best deals.

  It's free!

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of reprinted excerpts for the purpose of reviews.

  Ebook & Cover Design by James Roy Daley

  Edited by Simon Dewar

  SUSPENDED IN DUSK

  BOOKS of the DEAD PRESS

  Collection Copyright 2014 by Simon Dewar

  For more information, contact: [email protected]

  Visit us at: Booksofthedeadpress.com

  “Change, like sunshine, can be a friend or foe, a blessing or a curse, a dawn or a dusk.”

  William Arthur Ward, 1921 -1994

  Table of Contents

  Jack Ketchum - Introduction

  Simon Dewar - A Note from the Editor

  Alan Baxter - Shadows of the Lonely Dead

  Anna Reith - Taming the Stars

  Armand Rosamilia - At Dusk They Come

  Icy Sedgwick - A Woman of Disrepute

  Rayne Hall - Burning

  Chris Limb - Ministry of Outrage

  Toby Bennett - Maid of Bone

  S. G. Larner - Shades of Memory

  J.C. Michael - Reasons to Kill

  Ramsey Campbell - Digging Deep

  Brett Rex Bruton - Outside In

  Karen Runge - Hope Is Here

  Tom Dullemond - Would To God That We Were There

  Wendy Hammer - Negatives

  Shane McKenzie - Fit Camp

  Sarah Read - Quarter Turn to Dawn

  Benjamin Knox - A Keeper of Secrets

  John Everson - Spirits Having Flown

  Angela Slatter - The Way Of All Flesh

  About the Editor

  About the Authors

  Acknowledgements

  Books of the Dead Press

  Introduction

  Jack Ketchum

  News of your first published novel is a hell of a moment for any writer. Of course it is. Simple reason. What it means is that you’ve established beachhead on one of the most sought-after, disputed, out-of-the-way islands in the creative world. To a lesser degree, so’s your first published story. It means you’ve gotten off a very crowded boat. And you’re headed toward shore.

  Whether you’re in the business of writing or not––but especially if you are––you know this. A First means something. A First is to begin to unravel promise, trajectory, maybe even a future. It’s time to throw your hat in the air, kiddo. You’ve done something.

  It seems to escape most of us that the same is true of editing your first anthology. It doesn’t seem to be quite as big an accomplishment somehow, does it. We seem almost to think anybody could do it. All you need is the publishing connection and a bunch of good stories, right? You pick the best of them. So what’s the big deal?

  Ask any good writer who’s been at it for a while now, who’s appeared in more than just a few anthologies in his day.

  The big deal is the company.

  Not the corporate company, for god’s sake. The people. The other writers you’re surrounded with.

  And there’s only one way to get really good company.

  Your editor. Who elicits and then selects the company. His or her intelligence, sensitivity, and taste. His or her determination that this is going to be special, as special as that novel you know you’ll remember for years to come. That good. That strong. That extraordinary.

  There are editors working today who have been devoted to digging out the extraordinary for years now––and among those of us who write horror and suspense, their names are practically legendary. Ellen Datlow, Richard Chizmar, Tom Monteleone, Stephen Jones, Peter Crowther, to name a few. Then there are younger, newer editors planting their own solid flag on the beach. I’m thinking of guys like K. Allen Wood, who edits SHOCK TOTEM, Michael Bailey, editor for CHIRAL MAD and Richard Thomas, editor of THE NEW BLACK.

  If really powerful, really imaginative short horror fiction is thriving these days––and it is, friends, amazingly so over the past few years––I hold editors like these largely responsible. They’re favored with great good taste. They’re not throwing together the biggest names or the theme antho du jour and calling it a good day in publishing. They’re working to find the best. There’s a real devotion, a hunger in the blood, to show us how really good it can be.

  SUSPENDED IN DUSK is Simon Dewar’s first anthology and as such, should be celebrated––because I’m scenting that same fine hunger to deliver up the best and brightest in this one. It’s an auspicious debut.

  Many of the writers in this book––in fact, most of them––are pretty new to me. In and of itself cause for personal celebration on my part, because I love being surprised by the new guys. I welcome them into the fold. The more the merrier.

  Back in 2003 I wrote an introduction to Tim Lebbon’s WHITE AND OTHER TALES OF RUIN, in which I mentioned an evening a few years back sitting around at the bar of some convention or other, with a bunch of us old-fart writers bemoaning the shallow, derivative, by-the-book junk we’d been seeing lately and wondering where the hell the new blood was.

  At the time it seemed a serious question. We were all of us somewhere in our fifties. Stephen King, Richard Laymon, Thomas Tessier and T. M. Wright were all born in 1947. F. Paul Wilson, Tom Monteleone and I were born in ‘46. Peter Straub and David Morrell were three years older than us. And Charlie Grant, four years older still.

  We were getting up there.

  So where was the new generation? Where were the torch-bearers? Where were the kids?

  We named names and couldn’t come up with many. Edward Lee. Graham Joyce. John Skipp. John Shirley. A couple of others.

  We grumbled into our beer.

  And then, not much later, that quiet, exuberant explosion of writers born in the 1960’s and ‘70’s occurred. Tom Piccirilli, Neil Gaiman, Brian Keene, Christopher Golden, Tim Lebbon, Gary Braunbeck, Bentley Little, Sarah Langan, and Joe Hill among others. Inventive, serious writers who knew how to scare you and have fun with you, challenge your mind and engage and break your heart.

  Since then they’ve spawned enough healthy offspring to fill the pages of the books and magazines mentioned above and quite a few others. SUSPENDED IN DUSK sits squarely within those healthy parameters.

  You’re in good hands here.

  * * *

  Over the span of years I’m talking about, another important expansion has taken place. We horror readers in the U.S. have finally gotten our short-form British Invasion.

  Twenty years ago I dare you to have found a new U.K. horror novel published here in the States that wasn’t written by James Herbert, Graham Masterton, Ramsey Campbell––whose story included here is a dilly, by the way––Clive Barker, or Brian Lumley. I dare you to have found any anthologies whatsoever.

  SUSPENDED IN DUSK is proof positive that those days of want are over. Of the nineteen stories Dewar has collected here only five come from Americ
an writers. Four are by Australians, three are South African, and seven from writers in the U.K.

  One of the reasons I’ve always enjoyed Martin Cruz Smith’s Arkady Renko novels––GORKY PARK, POLAR STAR etc.––is that while as a reader I’m perched on the tried-and-true ground of the hard-boiled detective novel, I’m also a total stranger in a strange land, culturally speaking. Smith’s Moscow is as unfamiliar to me as the moon. And much more interesting. Likewise Stieg Larsson’s Sweden or Rogert Smith’s Cape Town. If you’re at all like me, in these books, unfamiliarity enriches the experience of reading them. As it does in so many of the stories, ahem, SUSPENDED here.

  So let’s see what we’ve got.

  Some fine, all-new stories––did I mention that they’re creepy as hell? They are.

  Fresh voices speaking from fresh locations.

  And a brand new editor in town staking his claim on the territory.

  Me, I’m good with that.

  Congrats on your First, Mr. Dewar. Here’s to many more.

  Jack Ketchum is the author of over thirty books––novels, novellas, story collections, essays, poems, reviews and plays. He is translated in twelve languages, is the four-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award and a Shirley Jackson Award nominee. Five of his novels have been made into feature films—THE LOST, THE GIRL NEXT DOOR, RED, OFFSPRING and THE WOMAN, the last of which was written with film maker Lucky McKee and which earned him and McKee the Best Screenplay Award at the Sitges Film Festival in Spain. His novella THE CROSSINGS was cited by Stephen King in his 2003 speech at the National Book Awards. In 2011 he was chosen Grand Master by the World Horror Convention.

  A Note from the Editor

  Simon Dewar

  After such a fantastic introduction from Jack, I’ll keep this short and sweet. I was very honoured to work with a fantastic bunch of writers on this project. Check out their other works, you won’t be disappointed.

  When I began the SUSPSENDED IN DUSK project, I sorted through the stories, reading and pondering—wondering how they’d coalesce together into something more. It wasn’t long before the stories themselves told me what the anthology was to be about.

  When I looked at the diverse collection of stories, many of which were about dusk or were set at the time of dusk, something else occurred to me. As much as they were about a change in the time of day—they were about change itself.

  In some cases the stories collected here were about a character’s experience through a period of great change. Or about a person—or even a society—that is trapped on the brink of change. Trapped in the dying days of something—like dusk is the dying light of day. Like dusk is the time between the light and the dark. A time between times.

  Some of the stories are about people who trap or collect things. Others are about people who trap themselves.

  Some of these stories are very literal interpretations of the title theme; some are metaphorical. Some are obvious, and others are little more obscure. Keep an eye peeled and see if you can spot the connections I made, or perhaps see what connections you can draw yourself.

  But more importantly, dim the lights, get comfy and enjoy the ride.

  * * *

  Thanks to Amenah and Habibah for their love and support. Without you none of the good things are possible. Nerine Dorman for her patience in teaching me the basics, and for setting me on a good path. The Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild peeps (and extended family), for all their encouragement and support. Roy for giving me a shot. Dallas, Kaaron and Jonathan for your time and kind words.

  Shadows of the Lonely Dead

  Alan Baxter

  His eyes are tight with pain as he turns away from me, buries his frustration in the pillow.

  “Something I said?” I ask nervously. “Or did?”

  He shakes his head, rustling against the duvet pulled up tight under his chin. “I’m sorry. It’s not you… I can’t… This has happened before, I… I don’t know why.”

  “It’s okay. We don’t have to. No pressure, you know.”

  He sniffs, turns it into a humourless laugh. “Sorry. I’m damaged goods.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder, remove it quickly as he stiffens. “Oh, Jake, don’t say that, it’s okay. It happens to loads of guys, but no one ever admits it. Stay here, just sleep, you know.”

  He nods. “Maybe in the morning?”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  I don’t push for anything in the morning. Something difficult is happening and I like him too much to scare him off. I make coffee and bring it to the bedroom. He’s beautiful, a wave of dark hair half obscuring his face, cheeks dusted with two day’s growth. He smiles softly as I creep up to the bed.

  “I’m awake.”

  “Hi there.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, still getting used to how the other looks, everything so new.

  “Sorry about last night,” he says. “First time I stay and I can’t…”

  I hold up one hand, pass the coffee with the other. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got plenty of time, right?”

  His smile comes back. There’s an edge of melancholy that seems to live behind his eyes, but that smile pushes it away like a breeze behind clouds. “I guess so. Thanks.”

  “Take your time getting up, have a shower and stuff if you want. I need to get ready for work. I start at ten.”

  * * *

  The hospice is quiet as I enter. Mary offers me a subtle nod from the reception desk and I push through double doors into the smell of carpets, disinfectant and death. Claire Moyer catches my attention, coming the other way.

  “Mr Peters last night,” she says. “About three.”

  I nod. “Thought so. His family there?”

  “No. No one.”

  I shrug and walk on, drop my coat and bag in the nurse’s station. Poor old Mr Peters. His daughters stopped visiting about two weeks ago, when he started to spend more time asleep than awake. It doesn’t really matter. We all die alone.

  Even people surrounded by loved ones are utterly alone as they slip away, the sea of grief around them unnoticed. Death is the only truly personal thing there is. No one can ever understand it, even someone like me. I’ve seen death take people hundreds of times, held their skeletal hands as the darkness closes in and their breaths stretch further and further apart until they don’t breathe again. But I have no idea what it’s like.

  I check the roster, see who needs medication, bathing, feeding, simple company. I knew Peters was leaving last night. I hope he didn’t realise his daughters had stopped coming, but it’s surprising what gets through the haze of terminal illness. Even as their minds go and they forget the faces of people they’ve known their whole lives, moments of clarity spike through the deterioration like lighthouses sweeping the night and they ask, “Where’s my wife?” “Where’s my son?” And they know they’re alone whether those people are there or not and the last of their resolve crumbles as they slide into that stygian unknown.

  Edie Sutton is on my list. She needs a wash, and a feed if she’s up for it. Doubtful she’ll eat, she hasn’t managed more than a couple of teaspoons of jelly a day for almost a week now.

  I’m surprised to see her awake as I enter, eyes wet and frightened in the glare of spring through thin cotton drapes. I take a sponge lollipop, dip it in the glass of water beside her bed and gently press moisture to her cracked lips. Her chin quivers as the liquid rolls over her desiccated tongue. “That taste good?” I ask quietly.

  Her eyebrows rise, the almost translucent skin stretched tight across her skull wrinkling like tissue paper. “Tired.” Her voice is barely audible, but you get used to listening for their words, every syllable a struggle.

  “Had enough, huh?”

  Tears breach her red, sagging eyelids and she nods ever so slightly.

  “You can go whenever you like, love,” I whisper.

  A moment of softening around her eyes. “Can I?”

  “Of course you can. You’ve see
n everyone you were waiting to see.”

  “My Damon?”

  “He’ll be here at lunchtime.” Her son. Visits regularly as he works nearby, sits with her every evening for hours. “Another couple of hours.”

  She closes her eyes and her exhalation is slow and weak, like heat escaping a long summer day. She’ll be gone soon, I’ll have to keep a close check. I lift her hand, a collection of brittle sticks loosely attached to an arm like old bamboo wrapped in papyrus, check her radial pulse. Barely there and so slow. I let my mind pass through my touch, search out the decay and failing organs, take the shadows of her dying softly into myself. I can’t cure her, but I can collect the scourge, its malice.

  A dark stain spreads into me and I store it away.

  * * *

  The day goes slowly and quietly. It’s usually quiet here, except those moments when someone cries out, sudden terror giving voice to weakened lungs as they momentarily face their mortality without the softening armour of fatigue or drugs. Or the howls of grief, sometimes from friends and family, sometimes from the sick themselves. Sometimes both.

  I clean up Kathy Parsons, who’s been uncontrollably shitting viscous blood onto plastic sheets for more than a week now, check her meds. She exudes the sickly sweet, cloying odour of death. She’s terrified. Only forty-eight years old, eyes always wide in child-like fear, but she’s got a little while to go yet. A little while to reach some kind of acceptance, though not all of them do. Some are gasping in disbelieving horror, even with their last breath. Almost everyone dies scared, especially the young ones. Some people are calm and accepting, content as they drift away, but they’re rare, usually very old. Everyone has time to think as they lie here, suspended in the last darkening hours of their life. It’s good that some find peace in that mortal dusk.