What, me worry about a few dinosaurs, taco stands and incoming asteroids?

Guess what I read?

I read that someday in the future, an asteroid might hit Earth.

I was munching peanuts and swigging a glass of apple juice, and when my brain got hold of those words the peanuts and apple juice sort of mixed together the wrong way and clogged in my throat, and I thought the asteroid had landed on my head.

It’s true, folks. It has to be true because I read it in a national science magazine, although I can’t recall which one it was. An asteroid may pass very close to or strike Earth, and I am now looking into the possibility of buying waterfront property in Kansas.

If this sucker hits, it’s supposed to make Krakatoa look like a cap gun. Odds are it will impact in the water, which means a huge explosion, cubic miles of vaporized water, tidal waves, earthquakes, storms, floods – all those fun things we look forward to on weekends.

To give you a sense of perspective, some experts believe the Gulf of Mexico was formed by just such an asteroid strike.

Another theory currently in vogue is that an asteroid struck Earth long ago, and wiped out the dinosaurs. As everyone should know from watching “One Million Years B.C.,” dinosaurs are very tough characters. You can shoot them, spear them, drop rocks on them and shove them into volcanoes and they bounce back every time, annoyed and ready to eat Raquel Welch.

What’s even scarier is that the dinosaurs didn’t have a TV cable system that goes off the air when it rains, or cars that break down if you presume to drive them. An asteroid hits now and you can forget about “Miami Vice” … or even Miami.

OK. So it might hit. The question that first comes to my mind is: Why should I worry about it? In 150 years I will have been dead for 149 years, unless somebody figures out an easier way for me to work quadratic equations, which as I write this are driving me to the edge of insanity.

In 150 years my grandchildren will not be worrying about an asteroid striking Earth because I have no intention of having any grandchildren, since I wouldn’t want to bother them with the worry of buying waterfront property in Kansas.

A lot of things could change in 150 years. Look how far we’ve come since 150 years ago. Now we have purple hair, TV dinners, plastic vomit, farmers who are paid not to grow anything and tinfoil Christmas trees. Who knows what wondrous advancements will take place between now and then?

The people of the future probably will get their hands on this asteroid and turn it into a cheap tourist attraction. It’ll have its own McDonald’s, one of those miniature golf courses populated with cement dinosaurs who survived all previous asteroid strikes, a water slide, a few thousand T-shirt shops and a couple of greasy taco stands.

The prophet, Chicken “Nostradamus” Little, warned us about all this centuries ago, but we wouldn’t listen.

Now, all the choice waterfront property in Kansas is bought up.

But it’s still not too late for a greasy taco stand.

This column was originally published in the Playground Daily News in 1985 and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Image courtesy of De Paolis In.Co.R. Studio.

“The House by the Cemetery” Starring Catriona MacColl, Paola Malco and Ania Pieroni. Directed by Lucio Fulci. 86 minutes. Not rated.

Del’s take

“The House by the Cemetery” is a film only a horror purist could love, and love it they do, in gushing online paeans that celebrate its blood-drenched genius. Written by legendary screenwriter Dardano Sacchetti and directed by the Godfather of Gore, Lucio Fulci, “House” is itself a paean to violence, splashing its audience with viscera, maggots, and other gory tropes of Italian horror cinema.

It is part of Fulci’s Gates of Hell trilogy, which also includes “City of the Living Dead” and “The Beyond” – entries in a catalog of horror movies, spaghetti westerns and comedies that make up the erstwhile communist agitator’s body of work. Fulci passed away in 1996 due to complications from diabetes after suffering a life nearly as tragic as his horror films, but he has developed a cult following over the years and many of his fans rate “The House by the Cemetery” one of his best works.

The story is about a young academic, Dr. Norman Boyle, who brings his wife and son to a small, rural town so that he may resume the work of a colleague, identified only as Dr. Petersen. Petersen was researching the notorious Dr. Freudstein, a 19^th century medical practitioner who allegedly conducted forbidden experiments resulting in disfigurement, death and, shall we say, supernatural complications. During his investigation, Petersen inexplicably loses his mind, kills his girlfriend and hangs himself from the rafters of the town library. Now Dr. Boyle has arrived to finish Petersen’s work. He has even moved his family into the house that was previously occupied by Dr. Freudstein.

The Boyles are joined by Ann, ostensibly a babysitter for young Bob, the Boyles’ blindingly blonde-haired son. But she may be in league with the supernatural forces that rule the Freudstein house. Bob’s mother, Lucy, seems to sense something is off about Ann. In fact, she knows something is off about the entire house but she soldiers on, the loving if weary spouse of an obsessed academic.

The Boyles’ presence rekindles the ghostly inhabitant of Freudstein House and all manner of jump scares, sudden spooks and not-so-ethereal attacks commence, culminating in an inevitable showdown between man and boogeyman.

The film was released in 1980, which dates it. More substantially – and jarringly –  its Italian roots, and its Italian horror sensibility, establish a distance between movie and audience that “House by the Cemetery” may not be able to overcome in the United States. Its case is not helped by the oceans of blood and horrifically graphic violence that, even by today’s standards, will present a challenge to weak-stomached audience members. It could have been worse. According to lore, Fulci was mandated to slay at least some of his darlings to keep the movie at an R rating in the U.S.

More puzzling are the weird lapses in cognition experienced by the characters. For instance, in one scene a woman is brutally (and bloodily) murdered. Her body is dragged across the kitchen and down into the cellar, leaving a blood trail wide as an interstate highway. The next morning Ann, the suspicious au pair, sets about cleaning up the mess (without inquiring as to its cause, which to my mind casts her in league with the devil). Lucy walks into the kitchen, sees Ann down on the floor with her bucket and scrub brush, and asks her what she is doing. Ann says, “I made coffee,” and that answer seems satisfactory to Lucy, who turns and heads toward the stove. Blood trail? What blood trail? The movie is rife with such oversights.

Replete with overly dramatic acting, a musical score that will strike Americans as intrusively silly, and inexplicable gaps in storytelling, “House by the Cemetery” falls more into grindhouse mockery than art house storytelling.

For those reasons I won’t recommend it. I watched out of a sense of duty to Fulci and Sacchetti, but in retrospect, “House by the Cemetery” wasn’t very good.

If you are a horror purist or a collector of oddball cinema, you might enjoy the movie. Otherwise, try something a bit more modern, and a lot more consistent with reality.

“House by the Cemetery” is available on Shudder.

I rate it a D+.

Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.

Image courtesy of Karolina Grabowska of Pexels by way of a Creative Commons license. https://www.pexels.com/@karolina-grabowska/

To watch Mom iron is to watch a carpenter join pieces of wood into something that ill be handed down, parent to child, for generations. It is watching an artist imbue blank canvas with timelessness. It is watching a craftsman at her trade, doing a thing I will never be able to do.

It is almost seeing art done.

She shoulders me aside – amused by my fumbled attempt to press a pair of pants – and takes the iron in hand. Suddenly it is endowed with power, supernatural, no longer inanimate but a living thing. She wields it as if it weighed nothing. She never hesitates.

The pants are splayed on the ironing board, impossible wrinkles over every square inch. They couldn’t be straightened. The thought of even trying leaves me giddy.

Mom sets to work.

“It’s important that you stretch the pants over the board,” she says, her voice stretched too, as she pulls the pants over the board’s tapered snout and spreads them flat. She sprays starch over them, then presses with the iron. It plows into the wrinkles, smoothing them. Steam rises from the fabric as the iron is drawn back, and a hot, electric smell fills the kitchen.

She gets to the pocket and pulls the pants away from the board, grabs the pocket the way one would handle an unruly child, and spreads it flat. “Always iron the pockets before you iron the outside. If you don’t, you’ll leave an imprint of the pocket on the outside.”

I wonder why I never noticed imprints of pockets on my bachelor friends’ pants. Do they know?

She shows me how it happens and, just as she explained, the imprint is there. She irons the pockets steaming flat, then flips the pants over and irons the outside. No imprint. Maybe I would’ve discovered that for myself. Maybe not.

Then she starts on the legs. She holds the pants vertically, matches the seams at the bottom. “Line these up as closely as possible,” says she, eyeballing her work as if she were about to cleave a gemstone. “They have to be matched just right or the crease won’t come out the way it’s supposed to.” I believe her. But I don’t see how she’ll manage it.

The legs are twisted beyond hope. She lays them on the board, lifts the top leg and lets it dangle over the front; she sets upon the bottom leg. Starch and steam. She moves the iron at impossible angles, finds all the lines, smoothes them under heat and pressure into a flat plane. Up the leg, over the seam and down the other side. The pants are beginning to look like pants, the improbably magically becoming possible.

She pulls the dangled leg, lays it flat against the other, then goes to work on it, too, with baffling certainty, pushing the iron over the cloth, making it presentable. She puts a crease in this leg, and it is a match with the other.

The whole business is flipped over and she starts from the opposite side, doing away with the last bit of disorder. Then she peels the pants from the board, holds them up for final inspection, slides the legs carefully through a hanger and hands them to me.

“That’s how you iron a pair of pants.”

I hang them in the closet, careful that they don’t touch the other clothes there. I’m not sure I want to put them on. They look too nice to wear.

I’ll never get the hang of it.

Mom has left the ironing board in the kitchen, and I, the understudy to some Florentine realist, am only too happy to do the easy part, to put away the artist’s easel.

This column was originally published in the Playground Daily News in the early 1980s and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, Ello and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Image by Flickr user Greg Virtucio by way of a Creative Commons license. https://www.flickr.com/photos/gregvirtucio/

I opened into my personal computer file the other day and there, at the top of the list, was a short story with a message especially for me written above it. The message read: “Good news, Del.” A little farther down was written: “Del, I just knew this would make your day.” Tom Conner, our state editor, had left it for me.

The story was about the Cuban Death’s Head Cockroach. To quote The Associated Press: “The Cuban Death’s Head Cockroach, a three-inch, thumb-sized monster, has migrated from its native Caribbean to South Florida.”

That’s just great.

Del’s run-in with a rat.

The story went on to say most of the 2,000 species of roaches already live in Florida, but the new roach claims all prizes for size.

Wonderful news. Clint Eastwood couldn’t have done as much to make my day.

You are reading the words of an adult male who is mortally terrified of cockroaches. I will let snakes crawl up the sleeves of my short, pick up insects of all description, touch assorted creatures slimy and horrible, but I cannot stand the thought of a roach coming near me, the thought of breathing the same air as a “three-inch, thumb-sized monster.” The minute bug experts begin describing new cockroaches with hyphenated words, you may look for me booking it to the next county.

Del turned on the light and something moved.

I have heard horror stories about cockroaches, and I have my own to tell, but none has ever involved a “three-inch monster,” though I would say some looked a strapping 6 feet in the paralyzingly dispassionate aspect of midnight.

Consider:

– A roach somehow gained entry to a sealed envelope and was mailed from Washington, D.C. to somewhere like Nebraska; I am certain the person who opened the letter must have had all of his suspicions about bureaucracy forever confirmed.

Mom vs. the snake around her neck.

– I once covered a town commission meeting that I thought would never end – until a giant Cro-Magnon roach scurried across the wall behind the commissioners. The place emptied in about 30 seconds. And I was the first one out.

– I was at a party when a palmetto bug – not a roach but about as close a relative to a roach as, say, a rat is to a squirrel – crawled across the ceiling above the food table. Our considerate hostess swatted it and that was that, until the next day when she informed me she had found a leg the size of a well-fed mastodon’s in the French onion dip. Had I eaten any of that?

Wild Kingdom at the golf course.

– Once, as I stepped into our outdoor utility room, a roach dropped from the ceiling, slipped down the sleeve of my tank top, crawled across my ribcage and, unbeknownst of me, dropped out of my shirt and vanished to parts unknown. When they found me, I had eaten myself into a coma.

– I was riding in a car when the driver suddenly shrieked and nearly ran us through a telephone pole. A roach, she screamed, had crawled across her foot. Then I screamed. One would have thought a swarm of killer bees had moved into the glove compartment, we were out of that car so fast.

– My premier roach story involves former Daily News reporter Steve Chew. One unforgettable Sunday night, Chew found a very large, very dead cockroach on the floor in our backshop. He appropriated said cockroach and hid it beneath my keychain in a way that I could not see it. As we got ready to leave, I reached across my desk and picked up the keychain. Perversely, the roach’s rigor-mortic leg hooked on my thumb. I raised my hand and the nightmarish thing dangled from it, penduluming back and forth, a torment to me even in death. A bolt of pure fright shot up my spine and I threw down the keys, strangling on a scream I couldn’t get to come out. Chew was paralyzed with laughter.

“Three-inch monsters” invading South Florida, eh. Something tells me my days in this state are numbered.

This column was originally published in the Playground Daily News in 1983 (est.) and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

THE CLOSET

A short horror story

By Del Stone Jr.

—

Introduction

This story violates one of the big rules of horror – never place a child in peril.

Which is odd. I see movies do it all the time. “Pet Sematary” anyone?

Be that as it may, in 1982, which is when I am guessing I wrote the first version of this story, I didn’t know about a prohibition against placing children in peril. I wrote what I thought was a scary story. (Actually it’s not so much a story as a vignette, but again I’m splitting hairs.)

Even in 1991, when I obviously revised the story after Operation Desert Storm, I didn’t know about such a prohibition. I didn’t start selling professionally until 1992 and it was then I learned about the no-kids-in-peril rule.

These days, with demon-possessed children, zombified children, vampiric children and God alone knows what else horror moviemakers do to kids, I think this story, about a boogeyman that may or may not be in the protagonist’s imagination, will be OK.

Who knows? Maybe it’ll influence some irresponsible parent into being a better Mom or Dad.

One can hope.

—

THE CLOSET

There. She heard it again, recognition sinking in with an ache, the voice touching her like a stone cast into a deep, dark pool. That small voice calling against the torrents of dark that had come spilling over the apartment as afternoon slumbered into twilight. He called that way every night, lately. Something had changed in the boy. He was afraid.

Aereal wrapped herself against the cold crouching at the edge of her thoughts. The apartment seemed big. Too big. And empty. Max filled the place, made it a home – when he was here. He took away the cathedral silence, the echo that lurked at the edge of every sound she and Kelly made, and filled the place so that it seemed too small for the three of them. Until the next six months when he’d be gone.

“Momee.”

Blink.

His voice dug at her. She moved without thought across the living room, her feet tracing a quiet, susurrating path through the deep, blonde carpet.

Where the hell is Qatar anyway?

Mother had warned her. Ever wise, mother, with that patronizing, self-satisfied I-told-you-so smile, her eyes glittering with an almost predator smugness. “Mark my words,” she’d said. “You’ll regret setting up house with that young man. His line of work? You’ll be lucky if you see him three months out of the year. He may be a good man, but that isn’t everything, Aereal. You know? I’m talking about companionship. How will you ever get to know a man who’ll be gone as often as he will? How will you ever know what he’s up to?”

Mark my words. …

The memory of her mother faded. Aereal was standing in the hallway, a huge tunnel of dark. Somewhere at the end of that pit was her son. Her hand automatically went to the light switch.

Oh, it hasn’t been that bad, she tried to tell herself. The longest he’d been gone was what? Six months? Eight months? Not like some of those husbands who go remote for a year or more. And after this Qatar thing he was supposed to get an assignment stateside.

“Momee!”

Blink.

She said in a hushed voice, “Yes, kiddo. I’m coming.”

It hadn’t been that bad. She had the Military Wives meeting on Thursday night, and the batik classes.

Kelly had come along somewhere between Panama and Dakar, she thought. Wasn’t it odd she couldn’t remember … only five years ago. And thank God Max had gotten extended leave to stay with her that first six months. Otherwise, she couldn’t have done it. Not alone.

I don’t want to depend on him so much.

She closed her eyes.

But I need him.

And Kelly. Lying here in the dark. Didn’t he need his father too? Because they were both afraid; she had tried to convince herself otherwise, had tried to deny the fact with distractions and phony bravado, but even through the most elaborate curtains of self-duplicity she could still see a light of fear burning, a fear of being left alone.

“Momee!”

Her fingers curled around the door jamb, finding the light switch and flicking it on. She raised her hand against the sudden brilliance and hurried into the room, shielding her eyes. The boy began to emerge from under the covers.

“Momee?”

At first she only saw a blonde thatch of hair, flattened on the sides and tousled into a chaos of curls on the top. Eight fingers, then all ten gripped the top of the bedspread as it were a trapdoor into which he would flee.

All at once, Aereal was filled with awe, and a helpless, crazy love. Had she and Max really made this perfect creation?

“Momee, Momee – ”

The tightness in his expression was working out, shifting and smoothing to relief, then love. She felt herself going soft and helpless. She sat on the edge of the mattress. Kelly reached out, took her hand and gazed at her.

“Momee, I saw a monster. In the closet. A real monster.”

Aereal smiled and let out a pent-up breath.

Blink.

A monster. She knew the feeling.

“It was a big one,” he added, his head bobbing in an exaggerated nod. “In the closet.”

She began running her fingers through his hair, straightening the curls.

He’s too young to look like Max. Yet … she stared hard. Those eyes … she blinked and smiled.

“And why would there be a monster in the closet?” she said softly.

“I saw it.”

“And what did this monster look like?”

The boy began to think; his forehead drew lines of concentration. When he spoke, it was in a slow, careful voice, as if he were describing an image that might change if the words didn’t come out just right.

“It was big … very big … like a gorilla. And it was hairy, and it had all these sharp teeth with gooky stuff dripping off. And its face was all yucky and ugly.”

He paused.

“And it had big yellow eyes that glowed in the dark.”

Areal chuckled to herself. Sounds like your father when he gets up in the morning.

“ – as big as a monster. And he’s in there right now, Momee.”

Aereal stood up, walked over to the closet. Kelly squealed, “No, Momee! It’s in there! An’ it’ll eat you all up!”

She held up a hand, shushed him and smiled. When she spoke, her voice was like fingers running through his soft hair.

“I want to show you something.”

She pulled the closet door open. The boy gasped.

Blink.

Izod shirts; neat, unmoving rows of Hagar slacks for boys; Levis; Ocean Pacific; Roos shoes; a plastic ‘65 Mustang which, if the battery hadn’t gone dead, could shine its headlights – ”right into your eyes and probably blind you,” or so Max had said, quoting Aereal’s mother when she had given it to Kelly.

“See? No monsters.” Aereal smiled.

Blink.

No monsters. Not in the closet.

She saw the terror going out of him, saw him fill with bafflement, as if she had pulled off some arcane magic trick.

“There never was a monster,” she explained. “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

The boy looked confused. “But I saw – ”

“You had a bad dream.”

And his eyes seemed to say: a dream?

She went to his side and took his hand. “A dream. You dreamed it. There’s no such thing as monsters. Besides, how could a monster the size of a big, hair gorilla fit inside your closet?” She giggled and cuffed his chin. He smiled uneasily. “That teeny-weeny closet? Why, a monster would squash himself to death trying to fit in there.”

The boy smiled broadly, a spontaneous grin that said all was understood. Aereal bent, kissed his forehead, her lips barely brushing his cooling flesh as he dodged shyly.

He’s so small. She stood, a thread of unease pulling at the corners of her smile. God, I wish Max were here.

“Now you go to sleep, young man. And I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about monsters – or this’ll be the last time you eat Showbiz pizza before bedtime.”

“Does pizza make you have bad dreams?”

“Sometimes spicy food makes you have bad dreams, yes. So if you see another monster, it’ll just be the singing gorilla you saw at Showbiz.”

Blink.

“`Night, Momee.”

He was pulling the covers up around his neck, wriggling beneath the sheets in a boneless squirm. She slid the closet door shut, paused at the bedroom door, and whispered, “Good night! Sleep tight! Don’t let the bed bugs bite!” The boy giggled. Then she turned out the light.

The darkness lunged at her, grabbing her and threatening to swallow her. She frowned. Had she turned off the living room lamp? It seemed darker. She felt another tickle of disquiet stir inside her, something she couldn’t quite scratch. She touched a finger to the wall and traced her way along the hall. Then she was walking on carpet, in light, and she let out a tiny, keening sigh of relief.

Where the hell is Qatar? When is he coming – no, don’t think about it anymore. There’s no point making yourself miserable … more miserable.

She curled into the La-Z-Boy. A Time magazine hung over the armrest. She curled her feet beneath her and began to rock … gently. The magazine plopped to the floor, the pages flipping open to a photograph of Saddam Hussein, still in power, shaking a defiant fist at the rest of the world.

Blink.

“I am not built for solitude,” she whispered to herself. She crossed her arms and tried to squeeze warmth into her. I thought I could deal with it … all those other wives who hold down the fort while the troops are off in some God-forsaken little stinkhole country. How in God’s name do they stand it? Aren’t they in love?

Darkness seeped in around the window panes and beneath the door. Across the room it took the form of a mist, coming no closer than the light.

Can they turn it off, like I could turn off this lamp? She did not move her head; her eyes rotated in their sockets until she was staring at the shade. She reached for the lamp switch –

Where the hell is Qatar? Where the hell is Max?

“Momee!”

 – and snatched her hand away as if it had been bitten.

Did I make a mistake, or am I just being selfish? Oh God, why couldn’t Mother have just kept her mouth shut … putting those thoughts in my head. Christ! Why can’t I be sure of myself? So he’s gone six months out of the year … eight months … that’s OK. Not great but OK. I should be able to cope. If it weren’t for these … fears? Qatar. Tank traps and mustard gas and Scuds. Maybe something will happen. Maybe I won’t be able to handle it.

She squinted against a sob. There were tears here, somewhere. She felt them oozing into focus, as everything else began to slip out of focus.

“MOMEE!”

I love Max. She flipped on the TV. CNN was airing a feature story. But damn it, I need him here … with me … God, I’m too small for this loneliness. I can’t beat it –

“MOMEE!”

Blink.

CNN broke into its broadcast with a telephone report from correspondent Peter Arnett. Explosions were occurring over Baghdad. Aereal’s blood turned to slush. Something whipped out of her, a shout of fear, blind and unintentional. She blinked uncomprehendingly, shook her head, and yelled, “Kelly! What is it?”

“MOMEETHE MONSTER IS BACK! THESHOWBIZMONSTERHE’SGONNAGETME – ”

Something serrated and feral, a growl, took the darkness at the end of the hall and ripped it to shreds, mixing the pieces into something darker and more terrifying.

Blink.

What in the name of God was that?

“MAW – ”

The wall thudded, the sound of something soft and ripe splattering against hard sheetrock.

Bombs were falling over Baghdad.

Horror drove through Aereal like a knife. It penetrated every nerve, every muscle, until it engulfed her body, finding all the soft parts, snaking around her throat in reptile bands of tightness, squeezing, squeezing –

Blink.

I can’t breath –

She moved with surreal slowness. The living room seemed to flicker out of focus. A wall came at her and she grabbed it.

And then she screamed.

She ran into the hall, felt the scream come back at her from crazy angles, rebounding from the pits of shadow in terror-filled pulses. The hallway seemed to unwind into a tunnel, a throat, ringed with cartlidge, swallowing her. She ran; she tripped and stumbled.

Blink.

She crashed into the door. The knob hit her between the ribcage and pelvis. It drove the wind from her, sent spangles of raw pain thumping up through the middle of her brain, the burning trails momentarily erasing thought.

Blink.

She winced and lunged at the door knob, attacking it, twisting and battering at the door until it gave way and she stumbled into the room.

Blink.

An ingot of pallid light fell through the thick, greasy air. Aereal raised herself on one elbow, grabbed a corner of the bedspread and tried to haul herself up. The bed started to pull itself away from the wall but she was up, overbalancing, toppling toward the sheets. Momentum drove her face-first into the mattress.

It squished.

Blink.

“Kelly?”

The bed was empty. From the living room she could hear the tinny CNN announcer saying: bombs, air strikes, bombs, air strikes. … Terror settled over her like rigor mortis, clotting her thoughts. She forgot to breath. Her hands scuttled automatically, pulling at the sheets, which were heavy, reluctant, slicked down in. …

Blink.

What?

Oily and black, like tar, in the half-light. She held up her hand and stared at the palm, stared into it as if something were crawling beneath the flesh, stared glassy-eyed as a reddish-black drop oozed across the palm, gathered at the lip of her hand and then dripped, splashing against the Ninja Turtles on Kelly’s pillowcase.

Blink.

“KELLY!”

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Her terror multiplied three-fold, four-fold, became something primal and uncontrollable, something she could not understand. It was beyond Kelly now. Beyond Max. Beyond any fear she had known. And it was growing.

Blink.

 – Max –

Blink.

 – Kelly –

Blink.

 – me –

She began to scream. It seemed to peel her, diminish her, make her smaller and more vulnerable. So the cold could creep in. The terror.

Behind her, the closet door began to slide open.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Image courtesy of PickPik by way of a Creative Commons license.

TELEPHONE CALL

A short horror story

By Del Stone Jr.

—

Introduction

“Telephone Call” is one of my earlier horror stories, written in 1982 or thereabouts.

I was in love with the genre. Stephen King had brought new luster to horror with books like “’Salem’s Lot” and “The Shining,” but there were others, too – Whitley Streiber, Dennis Etchison and Anne Rice, to name a few. It seemed horror was the fashionable thing to read.

I remember wanting this story to be well-written. I labored over every sentence, struggling to imbue the prose with vivid imagery and realistic dialogue. What I accomplished was something far different.

When I read this story now I cringe, because I see I violated John Carley’s rule.

Who, you’re asking, is John Carley?

He was a columnist who wrote for the newspaper I worked for, a retired Army general and a super nice guy. We had lunch one day after I had begun writing a weekly column of my own, and he told me something about writing I’ve never forgotten:

He said that one day I’d know all the big words and would see the beauty of the small words.

You can see that lack of understanding in “Telephone Call” because it is shot through with big words and even bigger writing when something less would have done a better job. They call this “overwriting” and it’s a problem I’ve struggled with my entire writing career. Whenever I write anything I have to go back and slay slay slay my little darlings.

Finally, now, at age 68, I understand what John Carley was trying to tell me. I don’t feel bad about that; some people never learn.

So I now present to you this cautionary tale about overwriting – “Telephone Call.” Not a bad little horror story and certainly in the old gotcha style of horror storytelling, but yes, overwritten.

That’s the way things were for me in 1982.

—

TELEPHONE CALL

Light, swimming out of the nether-darkness like fluorescent goldfish, rattling their gill plates and incandescent scales and luminous, translucent fins, then corkscrewing back into that black plasma. Motes of incandescence, gathering just beyond reach, receding into the black hole of the subconscious. Inertia-less acceleration. He is drawn into that eddy of self. …

Brrring.

The cyclone is fractured – scattered under the weight of its own spin. Light dispersed into hazy shoals of anemic brilliance that spread across his subconscious field of vision like a rainbow sheen of oil on brackish water.

Brrring.

A pinprick of dawning awareness gnaws at his wounded reality. And there is perception of another impression, black and unwelcome. The sensation is discomforting. He attempts to subdue it.

Brrring.

The light fades.

Brrring.

His world collapses.

—

When Larry awakened, he didn’t know where he was.

Brrring.

A sound he thought he recognized … something he had heard on countless occasions – so often, in fact, that now, here in the dark, he was confounded by its familiarity and could not attach meaning to it.

Brrring.

God, the phone, asshole. With a focal point to which he could anchor himself and gather in memory, understanding returned to him – in disconnected snatches. His room – the unfamiliar shapes of a chest of drawers, book shelves, nightstand, filling in the gloom, giving the shadows substance – he remembered. The new apartment (in that exclusive building) Mom and Dad said he’d never be able to afford (He’d tell them about the promotion tomorrow, maybe …).

Brrring.

The telephone rang again, a rakish, shrill intrusion of obscene noise that violated the pre-dawn calm. He groaned, struggled to shift his weight from a numb shoulder. The radium leer of the clock said 2:47.

“Ohhh … oh Gawd …” he moaned. “Who in Christ’s name cou’ be callin’ this time o’ night – uh – mornin’ – ahhh — whatever. …”

Brrring.

A memory flared, a speck of light against a slate-gray wall, then shrank to a dull ember.

“Do – do I have to answer it?” And he tried to suppress a shudder. Once before, on a night that would forever remain stamped upon his brain, he had heard those same words spoken in equally harmless context – his mother had said it – when they were calling her from the plant down on Chillicuth to tell her that Dad had lost his right hand in a contour stamper while working the graveyard shift and could she please be at the emergency ward waiting room at Jonquil Medical in half an hour, that yes, he was quite all right, and what? No, he wasn’t in shock, although he’s looked better at times, that the doctor said he could go home in a few days and would eventually he’d be good as new. Well, almost.

Brrring.

Good as new. As much as a one-handed man could feel.

The memory was sour; it filled Larry with a disquieting sense of unease. He told himself: Yes. I got to. …

While asleep, he had wound the bedcovers about him into a linen sarcophagus. Now, as he peeled away the layers his warmth evaporated, was replaced by a chill that seemed to work its way beneath the flesh, down, down, into the marrow itself. He shivered.

Brrring.

He swung his feet off the bed. The shock of standing jarred him; blood coursed to his numb legs in a stinging tide that made him think: My God, am I getting old? He grabbed the door jamb to support himself, sighed, started to reach for the light switch and then thought better of it.

“No, no … don’t turn that damn thing on – ”

Brrring.

“Awright, awright,” he muttered. “I’m coming – I think.”

The bedroom opened onto an abbreviated hallway that fed into the kitchen and, ultimately, the living room. Larry knew the floorplan of the apartment well enough – had had every virtue pointed out to him by the agent who had shown him the unit. It wasn’t as if he were committing himself to unfamiliar territory.

Still … something was different. Something to which he could not attach a name. The air was oppressively heavy – humid, perhaps; it seemed charged with a … mood, or a presence that he couldn’t identify. The hall looked forbidding, festooned with mottled patches of wan, pale light reflected through the bedroom window and variegated strips of nebulous shadow. The doorways to the kitchen and living room were bottomlessly and uncomprisingly black. They concealed from him their interiors, their secrets.

Larry couldn’t name the faint stirring that was working inside him, but he did know that now, here, in the dark, turning on the lights hadn’t been such a bad idea, that he wanted them on –

Oh, for Christ’s sake! You’re acting like a goddamn kid! The thought again sent him remembering his boyhood, and lying awake late at night in the changed-over attic bedroom he and his older brother had shared, listening to Roy, who was all the time telling him, “And if you’re not asleep by eleven, you know, Loogey (that was his nickname), the boogerman comes with his boogerdogs, and he pries open the window downstairs,” (Here, he would furnish appropriate sound effects) “CREAK, CREAK, CREAK – and he comes down the hall until he gets to your bedroom door (‘Please Roy … it’s dark’) and he peeks through the door (‘Roy!’) and … HE GETS YOU!” He remembered how he had lain in heart-thudding terror, watching the very same alarm clock he had glanced at only moments before, praying he would be asleep before eleven.

Jeez … whatever happened to. …

(He wished fear could again be reduced to the simple common denominator of a boogerman, as it had been for him as a child.)

Brrring.

The sound jolted him out of his reverie, brought a new chill. A part of him still wanted the lights on, but stubbornness and adult pride and just a hint of shame forced him to wade into the soupy, nocturnal gloom (his arms outstretched, his hands crawling along the walls that should have by now become familiar to him but for some reason defied intimacy, for some reason felt alien and unnatural – as if they were …).

Brrring.

“Yeah, I’m coming!” And he thought: What’s that? The fifteenth ring? The twentieth? Shit! Why don’t the guy hang up and call back tomorrow?

Still, the phone had rung that way the night they called about –

Larry quickened his pace, and jammed his toe against the hall sideboard. He felt it strike wood, heard the lip-curling thud of flesh and bone suddenly compacted, and waited for the aftershock of pain.

Brrring.

“Ohhh, Goddammit! All right, all right!” Muttering imprecations, he turned into the dark kitchen, blindly flogged empty space. It seemed larger than he had noticed. Stupid damn idiot. Too late, he saw something loom out of the murk (a phantom shape that made his breath catch in his throat), and banged his head against a Club aluminum pan dangling from the wrought-iron rack. This set off a cacophony of clankings and rattlings among the other pots and pans hanging there that pierced the darkness, made him somehow feel vulnerable. Angrily, he snapped on the light switch and waited impatiently for the muttering fluorescents to sputter into life. (They did so with a delicate, chime-like sound, and filled the kitchen with ghostly, blue-white light.) The phone was snugged up against the wall, flush with the cabinets. He grabbed the receiver before it could ring again.

“Yeah. H’lo?”

“Lawrence J. Crockett?” The voice was dry, harsh, the sound of winter branches scraping against roofing shingles on a cold, windy evening. It rang of some terrible authority.

“Yeah, uhhh, yes, this is Larry Crockett,” he answered warily. “Whaddya want?”

“Lawrence J. Cockett of Gabled Arms Condominiums, Unit 3-C?”

Larry winced, held the receiver away from his ear. The caller had a peculiar way of enunciating each syllable so that it seemed to “click.” Words that might have been shaped by a fleshless mouth, Larry mused. They elicted various distasteful images that he refused to speculate about any further – at least not here, in the quasi-dark.

“Telephone number 234-2444?”

“Yes. Yes it is.” He frowned. Dumbass. Isn’t that the number used to get me?

“Mr. Cockett, I need to meet with you.”

Larry stared at the wall. Meet with me? A maelstrom of conflicting emotions whirled through his head. The first, and most distinct, was dread. Dread, followed by indignant anger (The gall of this bastard. What does he mean, calling me at three o’clock in the morning –). Lastly, there was curiosity. …

“What? Who – who is this, anyway?”

The line was silent a moment. Then, with dire calm: “This is Death calling, Mr. Crockett. I need to meet with you.”

Fear – the squirmy, nameless kind of fear a pseron might feel if he ever reached out into the darkness from the warmth and safety of his bed and encountered something cool and pliant that twitched beneath his touch – settled in Larry’s spine. He listened in fascinated horror, then slammed the receiver back onto its hook.

“A prank,” he whispered breathlessly to his fluttering heart. He grinned at his reflection in the glass-fronted china cabinet, took a breath. “That’s all it was. A prank.”

Brrring.

His heart missed a beat, then hitched into a loud yammering of sledgehammer blows.

He couldn’t have redialed that quickly.

“Hello?”

“I need to meet with you –”

“Leave me alone,” Larry cut in, a ragged edge of panic in his voice. “Leave me alone. Get off my telephone or I’ll call the police.” A person in the adjoining apartment thumped on the dining room wall and shouted for silence; Larry jumped. “Leave me alone!”

“I need to meet –”

He hung up, half-walked half-staggered into the kitchen where the light was better, and snatched a Dixie cup from the dispenser.

God! What’s the matter with you, Lar? You’re shaking like a goddamn schoolgirl on prom night. The Dixie cup quivered in his hand. Calm down, my man. Hell! You were spooked before you even picked up the damn telephone. He went to the refrigerator, jerked it open. The profile of his face was framed against a black background with spectral light. Where’s the orange juice? There isn’t any goddamned orange juice. He crushed the cup; shingles of wax flaked off into his palm. Then he dropped it into the trashcan and brushed his hands.

Get a grip on yourself. …

He stared at the phone as if it were a living thing, as if at any moment it might disengage itself from the wall and come stalking him.

I don’t think he’s gonna call ba –

Brrring.

Leave me alone.

Brrring.

Leave me alone!

Brrring.

Brrring.

Brrring.

The telephone was ringing. He let it go five minutes, ten, then fifteen; between each bell he held his breath, prayed the next would not come.

And when it became too much for him – when the ringing had pried its way into his brain and he began hearing bells even when the telephone was not ringing and he knew he must answer it or tear it off the wall – he worked up the courage, the anger, to storm across the kitchen –

– Wait –

He stopped, hand on receiver.

Brrring.

The phone quivered within his grasp.

Maybe – maybe you’ve been going about this all wrong. … He leaned against the counter, wrapped his arms about himself as if he would squeeze out a thought. His features were creased with a concerned frown. Humor the kook and maybe he’ll leave you alone. Maybe. Give it a try. You let ’im know you’re scared and he’ll be calling back all night, the shit.

Brrring.

He turned to the telephone, lifted the receiver from its hook (thinking: Be cool, now) and said, “Hello?”

“Mr. Crockett? I need to meet with you, Mr. Crockett. I need to meet with you, Mr. Crockett. I need to meet with you, Mr. Crockett.”

Larry’s skin crawled, as if an invisible hand had pressed frigid fingers against the base of his spine. He swallowed hard. That – that voice. There was no dealing with it. It evoked … images. Flesh stripped away, revealing the intricate ridges of vales – the convoluted topography of a skull. Cavernous eye sockets. Blank, yet somehow seeing. Not so much as a hint of cartilage about the nose. And those awful teeth, clicking and snapping as words chattered through them with the sound of a tree branch being raked across the rotten slats of some weather-blistered picket fence, clinging to the mandible and maxilla long after the gums had peeled away.

A voice from the grave.

Larry felt his gorge rising. His strategies were seared to fly ash and blown from memory, leaving him defenseless again.

“Look,” he spoke into the mouthpiece. The words came out coated with chalk. “This has been loads of fun – I’m sure you’ve enjoyed yourself – but I think we oughta call it a night, you know?” Oh God, what are doing? Don’t encourage him to say anything! Very quickly, he continued. “I mean, uh, I’ve had a rough tday and all that and I’m really worn out, you know, and I gotta get up early in the morning and to work, so could you please … please … just. …”

A brief silence. Then, “Mr. Crockett, I need to meet – ”

“GODDAMMIT NO! NO! If I have to tear this – this fucking – ” (He had to force the word out.) “– phone off the wall to keep you from calling here, then – then – ” He couldn’t trust himself to speak any further. His anger was evaporating, leaving in its place a residue of fear he would have hated seeing in himself.

“I need to meet with you, Mr. Cockett,” the voice responded with a creaking cadence that set Larry’s teeth on edge. “I need to meet with you.”

“Please. …” He was moaning now.

“I need to meet with you, Mr.Crockett.”

“Please … just leave me alone. Please?”

“Mr. Crockett, I need to meet with you.”

Quietly, almost solemnly, he set the receiver on its hook. If the telephone rang again he would not answer it – not for any reason. He would taking no more calls this evening.

Brrring.

He had expected it, but still his muscles locked. He tried to ignore the sound. He’d let it ring all night. Maybe the guy next door would come over and handle it. Let’s see how good he could do. He wheeled on stick legs and turned off the lights in the dining room and kitchen; darkness crashed down around him like a series of collapsing walls, smothering him in a cyclone of vague, shadowy forms and shapes. His eyes smarted with the afterimage of light.

Brrring.

He set his jaw and waded into the black hell that was the hallway, felt his way along still unfamiliar walls and door moldings.

Brrring.

Ignore it. Just don’t pay any attention to it.

Brrring.

His room: a sinkhole of shadows, funneling in monolithic darkness, implacable and less compromising than he had ever remembered it. This, complemented by flawless silence, stifling and oppressive, not unlike the calm found within a sealed mausoleum. Even the clock was hushed. …

Strange –

He felt his flesh begin to crawl again, felt his skin scrunch up into goosebumps. A cool breath of dread blew against the spot on his back between his shoulder blades; the hairs on his neck came alive like tiny scintilla. He held his breath.

Something was wrong. The telephone had stopped ringing and something was wrong. He knew it just as surely as he knew he was standing there now, terrified beyond articulation, not sure why and wanting only to run and hide, to pull the covers over his eyes and listen to his thumping heart (praying to God it was his heart and not someone – or something – else’s) beating so loudly, wanting desperately to hear Roy chuckle and say, “Come on, kid, stop bawlin’ for Chrissakes – I was just kiddin’. I was just having a little fun. That’s all – all – all. …”

Get into bed.

So close, the sanctuary of the bed. He could just cross the threshold and make his way around the corner of the headboard (Under the sheets and Roy youcansayanythingyouwantonceI’munderthesheetsbecausenoonecanseemeorhurtme – ) –

Something touched him on the shoulder.

He recoiled in italicized horror. The room was already occupied, but not by any childhood boogerman who, after leaving his trusted hounds at the window, had come creeping-crawling up the staircase to spirit him away at the stroke of eleven. No, this was a thing so remorselessly cold that it could hardly be considered alive.

“Hello, Mr. Crockett.”

Larry screamed.

—

UNFINISHED ALTERNATE ENDING

Author’s note: At some point I wrote, or least began, an alternate ending to “Telephone Call.” I don’t remember what I was thinking at the time, but I can guess where I was going with this:

Larry tells the entity on the phone to come on over, then alerts the doorman to approaching undesirable. But what Larry doesn’t know is, the telephone caller has already arrived at his home.

—

Larry blurted, “Come now!” and tried to stifle a malicious giggle. He had had an idea, a foolproof plan, something he knew could not fail, if things worked out the way he expected them to.

The voice said uncertainly, “Are you sure, Mr. Crockett?”

“Yes! Yes!” he answered breathlessly. “Come right now! You know the address?”

“Of course.”

Larry dropped the receiver onto the hook, sprinted across the dining room, the living room (slipping from brilliant light into smoky tendrils of shadow). He found the call box on the wall to the left of the door, jammed his thumb against the button, and shouted, “Fulton! Fulton!” During one of his many conversations with Fulton, he had discovered that the doorman had once worked as a bouncer in a nightclub. If Fulton could delay the man until the police arrived. …

It took a moment. Then came the tinny, metallic response. “Yes sir. Mr.Crockett, is it?”

“Yeah. Lis – ”

“What you doin’ up so late, Mr. Crockett?” the man asked in a paternal tone.

“That’s what I’m trying to explain. Listen: This freak, this pscyho’s been calling my place for the past thirty minutes – really bothering me, you know? At first, I thought it was one of those prank calls. But this guy’s certified nuts. Well anyway, he knows where I live, and he said he was gonna come over – ”

“When’s he s’posed to get here?”

“That’s just it,” Larry said, pressing his mouth as closely to the speaker as he could get it. “He said he was coming over now!”

“Don’t you worry yourself none, Mr. Crockett,” Fulton told him, lapsing into heavily accented black dialect. “I’ll be ready for him.”

“Good. Good. Look, I’m gonna call the police – ”

“Shiiit! Don’t need no cops!” the man growled. “I’ll just get ol’ Fred and that McKinney kid from buildin’ security. We can handle it.”

“Yeah but – but I don’t want this weirdo bothering me anymore. Tonight may be the only chance we’ll have of catching him – ”

“Like I said, Mr. Crockett. Don’t you worry ’bout a thing. We’ll fix it so he don’t bother no one for a long-ass time. You jus’ get yourself back to bed.”

Larry chuckled. “All right, Fulton. Have it your way. And thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

“I know.” That, with mock indignation.

“I really appreciate this – hey! I’ll buy you and your buddies a drink sometime. OK?”

“I just might take you on the that, Mr. Crockett.”

“Yeah. Well, thanks again.”

“Uh huh. Goodnight, sir.” And the box was silent.

Larry turned away, smiling, and strode across the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen.

I wonder what they’re gonna do to him?

He punched on the light over the sink, extracted another Dixie cup from the dispenser. A roach skittered across scuffed linoleum, vanished the stove.

Funny. I thought these apartments were supposed to be clean. The refrigerator door opened with a begrudging sigh. He remembered

—

That’s where the manuscript ended. My expectation is Larry returned to his bedroom, where he encountered Death waiting for him.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Science and mathematics are filled with misconceptions that are held to be immutable truths. I would like to debunk these myths so that we may get on with the business of learning about our world.

Myth No. 1: What goes up must come down.

What about taxes? They go up, but do they ever come down? No. They keep going up, and even if one does go down, half a dozen others you didn’t know about go up to compensate for it.

Myth No. 2: A body in motion tends to remain in motion, and a body at rest tends to remain at rest, unless acted upon by an outside force.

That isn’t true. I can be lying in bed and suddenly, for no reason at all, I’ll wake up – usually when I’m in the middle of a juicy dream. If I’m being awakened by an outside force I’d sure like to know what it is, because I lock my door before I go to sleep, and my alarm clock never wakes me up.

Myth No. 3: Matter can be neither created nor destroyed.

Whoever said that should take a look at our coffeemaker. I can pour a pot of water into the filter spout and a pot-and-a-half will come out. I’m usually three rooms away when I remember I have to be there, cup in hand, to catch the overflow.

Myth No. 4: The sun is the center of the solar system.

Many years ago, long before many of our big sisters were born, a man named Ptolemy believed Earth was the center of the solar system. This was called the “geocentric theory.” Then along came a man named Copernicus, who believed the sun was the center of the solar system. This is called the “heliocentric theory.”

None of this is true, however, because I submit to you a third theory, called the “egocentric theory,” which holds that certain pushy individuals are the true centers of the solar system, or at least they think they are.

Myth No. 5: It is impossible to travel faster than the speed of light.

Have you ever stood outside a school when the sixth-period bell rings? Don’t tell me it’s impossible to travel faster than the speed of light. Those kids have infinite mass.

Myth No. 6: For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction.

This theory may be partly true, but I think it should be amended to say, “For every action, there is an opposite and disproportionate reaction.” For instance, if you wax your car, it rains the next three days. If you overdraft your checking account by 2 cents, you’re penalized $7. These aren’t “equal” reactions.

Myth No. 7: Distance is equal to rate multiplied by time.

No, it isn’t. I can drive from Florida to Michigan and trip takes, oh, a couple of hours. But when I drive from Michigan to Florida, the trip takes several days. And it’s downhill all the way. And I have to stop to go to the bathroom more often. I don’t understand that.

This column was published in the Playground Daily News in the 1980s and is used with permission.

One advantage of living in an area with low-power television stations is that any time I feel like it, I can relive those happy hours of my childhood spent watching some dumb animal save the world.

You know what I mean. How often were Bud and Sandy steered clear of harm’s way and onto the path of moral righteousness by that smiling dolphin they call Flipper? How many grandmothers were dragged from burning muffin parlors by Lassie?

At this point you might ask: What gives those animals the right to take the law into their own paws, for fins? You or I try to do that and we’d be called vigilantes.

It irks me to see animals portrayed as having anthropocentric motives.

Those shows were so improbable that a person could interchange the animal actors and nobody would notice the difference. Let’s say Lassie has come down with distemper and the producers are using Flipper in Lassie’s place. This is how the show would go:

June Lockart is talking on the telephone to her husband, who is at the ranger station.

“Darling, Flipper was marvelous today. First, he dug out a prospector from a mine cave-in, and then he put out 14 forest fires, and then he flopped over the Rocky Mountains to get some little girl’s cat out of a tree, and now he’s fighting a pack of grizzly bears out in the front yard.”

“That’s nice, dear,” June’s husband says. “What’s for dinner?”

“Dolphin Helper.”

Of course, Flipper defeats the grizzly bears and then goes on to rehabilitate an arsonist and wraps up the day’s adventures by performing the Heimlich maneuver on an elk.

Or, let’s say you’re watching “Flipper,” only Flipper has sneaked off for a stolen weekend with some manatee floozy, so Lassie is substituting for the wayward dolphin.

Bud is pacing back and forth along the dock, anxiously staring out over the water. His father approaches.

“What’s wrong Bud? You seem worried.”

“It’s Lassie, Dad. He’s been gone a long time and I’m starting to worry.”

“Why, Bud, didn’t you hear?” his father says. “Lassie swam to Portugal to save the crew of a submarine trapped on the ocean floor.”

“Gee, Dad. I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true. And then he’s going to kill Orca, look for survivors of the Titanic and take his orals for his master’s at SeaWorld.”

Bud cogitates upon this. “But Dad, how is Lassie going to have time for me? After all, he is my dog.”

“No, Bud, he’s not your dog,” his father corrects. “He hangs around for the free squid. When the free-squid ride ends, he’ll be off in the Gulf Stream somewhere, butting heads with Jaws. Lassie is definitely his own dog.”

“Gee, you’re right, Dad,” Bud declares. “Can I have a buzzard instead?”

Honestly, Benji leading the heat to the bad guys. Crime-fighting bears and housecats? Animals are no fools. Are we?

This column was originally published in the Playground Daily News in the 1980s and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

CC license.

We will warn you for the 3,418^th time this year that the dreaded Asian cockroach is raping and pillaging its way up the Florida peninsula and will arrive in YOUR home precisely three minutes after you read this, because that is the way it always happens in monster movies.

The presence of yet another Asian import on American shores raises several important questions, mainly, “What’s in it for me?” and “How can I turn this tragedy into a personal profit-making venture?”

We’ll try to answer those questions. If we don’t, it means you’re asking the wrong questions.

Q. Are we paying import tariffs on the Asian cockroach?

A. No, we are not. The importation of Asian cockroaches is what we in the business refer to as “an act of God,” which means anything that cannot be taxed, regulated or killed by a neutron bomb also cannot be subject to import tariffs.

Q. Why should I worry about the Asian cockroach?

A. If you do not mind waking up at night unable to breathe because cockroaches have named a net in your nostrils, then you have nothing to worry about.

Q. Where are these roaches right now?

A. They are probably right outside your front door, waiting for you to put down the newspaper and let them in.

Q. No, really. Where are they?

A. They came to this country through the port of Tampa, which is not exactly one of your major industrial nerve centers of the free world. From there they migrated to, of all places, Lakeland, where many of them retired and died of old age. Now they are spreading across the United States and Canada, hitching rides on the many Winnebagos that pass through Tampa and Lakeland on their annual spring migration to the frozen North.

Q. How are these roaches different from American roaches?

A. First, Asian roaches aren’t afraid of you. When you walk into the kitchen at night and turn on the light, instead of babbling apologies and scurrying off to hide, these roaches demand money.

Second, they are avid fliers. American roaches are too lazy to fly unless they have been coated with an inch-thick layer of insecticide and are half-crazed out of their tiny, BB-size brains. Asian roaches, on the other hand, will happily swoop down to build nests in your nostrils.

Third, the Asian roach reproduces at a much faster rate, although this has caused some dissension among female Asian roaches.

Q. Why can’t the government do something about this?

A. The government IS doing something. Busy government scientists are down on their hands and knees, studying these roaches and producing reams of invaluable data that will be handsomely bound into a final report-to-end-all-reports. This report will be used to smash roaches as they swoop down to build nests in scientists’ nostrils.

This column was published during the 1980s by the Playground Daily News and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

This is why I don’t like flying:

You walk into a metal cylinder that resembles an iron lung, but rather than helping you breathe, this lung prevents you from performing that basic function. It is too small and too narrow and too confining.

If one person dares to stop in the aisle, you cannot get past him, not even if you push. The aisle is simply too small.

You stare out a window as important-looking people walk around the airplane, kicking the tires and scratching their chins over fluids dripping out of the engine. You have seen that look on the faces of mechanics wondering why your car died in the middle of the freeway.

Then the engines start and the plane shudders – a sound louder than your knees knocking together. You palms are slick; your heart yammers and you can feel it with every cell of your body.

The plane taxis to the runway. The wings wobble back and forth, and you suddenly remember the soft drink cans you’ve bent in half by working them back and forth, back and forth, until metal fatigue sets in and the cans tear. You hope the wings aren’t made of soft drink cans.

The airplane’s snout points at the dragstrip runway and the pilot steps on the gas. You’re slapped back into your seat as the plane trundles over bumps in the concrete. Your speed increases and you realize you’re going faster than you ever went in your car. The Lord never meant for you to go so fast.

The nose rises. The fuselage doesn’t want to follow it, but everything is whizzing by so quickly now that if you don’t become airborne, the plane will go off the runway.

The thudding stops as the jet claws its way into the air. The belly wallows sickeningly. You hear pops and bangs as the gear comes up. You don’t want to look out the window. You don’t want to see what’s happening. You really don’t.

The plane ascends for several minutes, and then the pilot throttles back. The change in engine pitch is enough to convince you something terrible has happened.

You cruise for a long, long time. Time stands still in an airplane. Then the engines change pitch again, the nose of the plane points earthward and you stretch into your seatbelt as your airspeed decreases. This is the crash you’ve been dreading, but the pilot announces final approach to your destination.

More pops, bangs and rattles. The gear is coming down. Weird flaps and such are moving on those flopping wings. The plane tilts this way and that. You see houses beneath you, buildings, highways with safe people in their safe cars on the blessed ground.

The plane touches down with a thud, the main gear first, then the nose wheel. The pilot switches on the thrust reversers and the plane slows as quickly as it accelerated on takeoff.

Your palms are below zero. Your heart is about to explode. You swear you’ll never fly again.

But you always do.

This column was published in the Playground Daily News during the 1980s and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .