‘The Garage’ (a flash fiction horror story)

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Introduction to “The Garage”

Craig Terry gave me the idea for this story. He didn’t own a garage.

I met Craig in the 1990s. I was working at a newspaper, editing copy, putting together sections, and Craig was hired as a staff artist. He was also a talented political cartoonist but I worked with him on illustrations for my feature sections. Through our interactions we came to be friends. I didn’t find out later that he and his wife were friends with my mom. Small world.

At one point Craig expressed an interest in getting into comics. I had dipped a toe into that world, thanks to my friendship with Dave Dorman and Lurene Haines, and it also happened that I was working on a project called “13 Seconds,” a collection of 13 very short horror stories – all under 1,000 words – that I was hoping to sell to Joe Pruett at Negative Burn. I asked Craig if he wanted to illustrate them and he said yes.

In talking with Craig about “13 Seconds” I mentioned I was scrounging for another idea for a story. That’s when he told me his idea about a messy garage. I can’t remember the details but what emerged from that conversation was this story, “The Garage,” about a man with perhaps the world’s messiest garage – and oldest stash of hoarded goods – in the world.

We sent a couple of sample stories to Joe and he passed on the project, but as luck would have it Stefan Dziemianowicz was editing a collection of very short horror stories for Barnes & Noble, “Horrors! 365 Scary Stories.” I submitted all 13 of my super-shorts and seven made the cut, including “The Garage.”

So there you have it, a story about a man whose garage is packed with junk The farther back you go, the older the junk gets, until it gets really old.

Who knows what else might be lurking in the musty confines of that storage space?

—

THE GARAGE

By Del Stone Jr. and C.M. Terry

“It’s a beauty, ain’t it?” Parker glowed, his voice equal parts admiration and pride, the voice of a man who had just shit the world’s biggest turd – and would now sell his story to Ripley’s Believe It or Not.

But Samuelson had to admit: It did have a certain grandeur, the way train derailments or airplane disasters unfold with strange beauty, layered within the horror.

The messiest garage he’d ever seen.

“Come on; let’s take a look,” Parker insisted, speaking in a reverent whisper.

Parker’s garage was a disaster, the chintzy bastard. Didn’t he every throw anything away? Samuelson’s gaze traveled over the Escher-like arrangement of junk: bicycle parts, wheel rims, sacks of aluminum cans, lampshades, a seamstress’s dummy, wire mesh crab traps, leaning towers of newspapers – oh God, the eye refused to take it all in. It gathered in drifts at the corners, rode the walls and scrunched against the ceiling, a critical mass approaching some terrible implosion.

“I’ve got a ’67 Eldorado somewhere under all this stuff,” Parker grinned. “But the best part is back here.”

He led Samuelson down a narrow path to the back of the garage. There, he wedged his shoulder against a door Samuelson hadn’t noticed and pushed. The door groaned and gave way. Parker flipped on a light.

It was another room … filled with junk. Old ice boxes, ironclad electric ranges, fans, Life magazines, wooden crates filled with empty Coke bottles. …

“The previous owners left this stuff here,” Parker beamed. “Lots of antiques. I’m gonna make a fortune.”

Samuelson could see the dollar signs glowing in Parker’s eyes. He gazed across the room, where he saw another door. “What’s back there?”

Parker frowned. “I dunno. Never noticed it before.” He tiptoed through the clutter and forced open the door.

Another room. Filled with junk. Crockery chamberpots and blackened andirons and dusty bottles and wooden boxes. Parker had his hands on his hips. “Jesus! I didn’t know this stuff was here, but God, look at it! Ain’t it great?”

But Samuelson was staring at the opposite wall. Another door. Parker noticed, and his jaw dropped. “Holy shit! That’s impossible! The house doesn’t go back that far!”

The room was filled with spears and quivers and hairy mounds of animal skins. The walls were covered with charcoal scrawlings of bears and lions and mammoth-like creatures.

Parker’s voice was filled with wonder. “I don’t understand it,” he said, spreading his arms to take in the room, “but it’s – it’s – terrific! Stone Age junk! Can you guess what this stuff would sell for? Can you? Millions, I’d bet!”

Samuelson grabbed Parker’s arm and began to haul him back. There, at the back of the chamber, was another door, an opening, really, blocked by a fall of stones. Behind the stones Samuelson could hear a scritching sound, and a basso rumbling, as if something very large waited on the other side. A cool finger of dread began to work its way up the knobs of Samuelson’s spine.

“C’mon,” Parker hissed, jerking away and stumbling off-balance across the room. “Let’s check it out.”

“No, goddammit,” Samuelson whispered. “Can’t you hear it? Can’t you hear it?”

But Parker was already shoving rocks out of the way and shouting over his shoulder, “C’mon, man! This is my lottery ticket! This is my ship coming in!”

Then the rocks at the top of the opening tumbled loose, and something – Samuelson could not say what – reached through and yanked Parker off his feet and into the gap so that Samuelson saw only Parker’s boots vanish into the darkness, trailed only by a snapped-off scream. …

And as Samuelson turned and sprinted for the door, a sickening image arose in his mind, an image of the lock somehow ratcheting into place behind them as they’d entered the chamber, because from the opening rocks were being hurled out of the way, and something with a growl that sounded a million years old was trying to break free.

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 .

Introduction to “The Hole”

I wrote this story as part of a project I called “13 Seconds,” a collection of one-page horror stories, each with an accompanying full-page illustration. Alas, that project never saw the light of day.

But the stories did. I sold seven to the Barnes & Noble anthology “Horrors! 365 Scary Stories.” The others found homes across a wide spectrum of publications. This story, for instance, was published in Dark Raptor.

What I tried to accomplish with “The Hole” was to glimpse the inner thoughts of a sexually repressed misogynist. In this case, he’s using the telescope sight on a rifle to spy on his sexy neighbor, who’s exercising and won’t sit still. Anybody who’s ever used a telescope sight knows movement will carry the targeted image out of the sight instantly, so it’s imperative they remain still.

In his zeal to get the woman to stay still so he can ogle her, the man gets carried away and … well, something unfortunate happens.

And yes, the word “hole,” as used in this story, has more than one meaning. The protagonist is a misogynist.

—

THE HOLE

Bobby blinked and strained to focus on the wobbling image in the binocular’s eyepiece.

He wanted to see if she had the hole.

But he couldn’t see. Peering from the sliding glass door that let out of his apartment bedroom onto the narrow, vestigial balcony … peeking through the slats of aluminum vertical blinds stained with cigarette smoke and the sharp exhalation of pent-up breath … the bedroom lights off so that if she glanced his way, across the apartment complex commons, a stray look that might snag on the glint of a reflection or his black shape superimposed against the lighter wall. …

But she didn’t look, and he couldn’t see … if she had the hole – the hole that all women who hated him had.

He cursed the binoculars. He tossed them onto the bed, where they bounced like a dead trampolinist. He needed magnification. He needed power.

He needed the scope on the Enfield.

He pulled the rifle from the closet and slid off the protective covering on the sight. He used the barrel to force aside – just barely – one of the blinds so he could peek through. The building facade jerked across his field of view, then a dizzying blur of patios, until he found her patio, at first unfamiliar because of its closeness. But he recognized her potted geraniums, her director’s chair, her faux copper wind chimes swaying from the crossbeam that traversed the patio.

And then he saw her.

Bouncing in the bedroom, an exercise video playing on the TV. Smooth and long-limbed and elegant – not pretty, not beautiful, but … sexy, the way some women transcend those overheated adjectives men use when they are together and talking dirty. She was wrapped in a skimpy pink lycra body suit, like some rare, imported confection, and her dark, dark hair was bound up into a pony tail that was tied off with a bandana, and she was bouncing and swaying and kicking in a way most men would have found sexy.

But Bobby wanted her to sit still.

Because he couldn’t see if she had the hole.

He twisted the focal adjustment screw and tried to zoom in on her, but she was moving so fast, her legs kicking out behind her. And then she was bending, up and down, up and down.

Bobby closed his eyes and swore under his breath. If she would just sit still for a moment. A moment was all he would need.

He slid open the sliding glass door. Now, with only a thin screen blocking his view, he might see better.

But she was doing the deep-knee bend thing, up and down, up and down, and he could not see – he couldn’t see, dammit.

“Sit still, bitch,” he muttered, and slapped the screen door open. It slammed against the frame and made a loud, clattering sound. His heart jumped and he yanked the rifle snout out of the blinds, afraid she might have heard and turned this way.

But no. She had her hands above her head and was bending at the waist, first to the left, then to the right, first to the left –

“Sit still, you fucking bitch,” he seethed and yanked the rifle against his shoulder to squint harder through the scope.

She was bouncing, bouncing, the exercise video seeming to bounce with her –

“Sit still, goddammit – “

Bouncing, bouncing –

“Goddammit – “ he couldn’t see, he couldn’t see –

 – bouncing –

He squeezed the trigger and the gun kicked and for a moment he could hear nothing but an eerie, feverish ringing. He squinted through the scope, and finally he saw her. …

Slumped over the television, her arms dangling, as if she had exercised herself to death.

But she was still, at last, and he saw it. The hole. The hole that all women had who hated him or ignored him or could care less if he even existed. What was this now? The tenth? The eleventh woman he had found with the hole? Someday, all the women with holes would be gone, and only women who cared about him would be left. He would see to that. He would make sure. They would be gone if they had the hole.

The cratered, steamy hole surrounded by a splash of blood.

The hole.

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 by Oakley Originals of Flickr. https://www.flickr.com/photos/oakleyoriginals/

Introduction to “The Thing in the Dark”

I’ve always been afraid of the dark. To this day, I’m hesitant to go outside at night. We live in a dark neighborhood. I don’t care how many streetlights they install, it still looks dark dark dark at night.

You never know what’s hiding out there.

I remember one night – I must have been about 14 – Mom ordered me to take out the garbage. Our garbage cans were up next to the fence on the side of the house. Next door the house was vacant. It had been empty for awhile and leaves had piled up in the yard and weeds were getting tall.

I carried the paper grocery bag full of trash through the carport and out to the garbage cans. As I lifted the metal lid from the can, I heard the telltale crunch, crunch, crunch of somebody walking through leaves. The people on the next street over had their backyard porchlight on. I could see, in the glare of that light, an eclipse moving toward me, a human-shaped shadow approaching out of the dark.

The hair on my arms stood on end. My skin froze. I think my heart stopped.

Then suddenly, I was free. I dropped the garbage and the lid and sprinted for the front door. I burst inside the house, slammed the door and locked it.

Mom asked me what was wrong. I told her, “Somebody’s out there!”

I had a shotgun, an old 20-guage bolt action, hanging from a wall rack in my bedroom. She told me to go get it. I did. It wasn’t loaded, but that didn’t matter.

Together, we went back outside, Mom hefting that ridiculous shotgun.

“All right, you son-of-a-bitch! I’m gonna blow your goddamned brains out!”

Silence.

“I’ll blow your brains out!” she shouted again.

I picked up the bag of garbage where I’d dropped it, hurled it into the can and slammed the lid closed. Both of us hightailed it back to the house.

Months later, we found out that somebody had been living in the crawlspace under the vacant house. They had a mattress and a flashlight set up under there. The idea that somebody was there, watching us come and go, still creeps me out. And that’s what prompted me to write “The Thing in the Dark.”

It was one of 13 under-a-thousand-words stories I created for a project called “13 Seconds” I hoped to sell to a comic book publisher. My friend C.M. Terry planned to illustrate each one.

Alas, that project didn’t sell, but along came “365 Scary Stories” from Barnes & Noble. I submitted all 13 stories and they bought seven, including this one.

The others are the following:

“And Baby Makes 13”

“Crisis Line”

“Mall of the Dead”

“The Garage”

“In the Wilds of the Suburbs”

“The Tooth Fairy”

“The Thing in the Dark”

—

THE THING IN THE DARK

Danny scrunched his eyes shut and pulled the covers over his head, entombing himself in darkness and silence.

On this night he would see nothing. He would hear nothing. He would spend the night in his bedroom without once screaming for his mother, his voice climbing the panicky octaves until even the sound of his own shouts frightened him.

Nothing would breathe beneath his bed. Nothing would growl behind the closet door. Nothing would scratch the window behind the curtains. It was all in his imagination, he told himself, reciting the mantra that had been drilled into him by his exasperated mother. How many nights had she staggered into his bedroom, her breath sickly sweet with bourbon, to dump herself on the edge of the mattress and yank back the covers and blabber at him drunkenly about his foolish, childish fear of the dark? How many times had she come into the room angry, then seen the look of stark terror in his eyes and try to salve her anger with sloppy kisses and stern but gentle insistences that he look under the bed, or in the closet, or through the part in the curtains?

 Always, he had checked. And always, nothing was there.

But it was the light that chased them away, he told her, and then her anger would return and she’d stalk from the room, slamming the door behind her, and he’d try to sleep with the light on until sometime later when she’d snatch the door open – a loud rasping that always sent his heart jumping into his throat – and flick it off.

The terror would begin anew.

But tonight he would put it out of his mind. That scrabbling sound beneath the bed – that was the floorboards vibrating from a passing truck. The shudder from the closet door – it was not the furtive movement of the runner within the track as a clawed hand slowly drew the door ajar. And he did not hear a soft thumping at the window, as something out there tested the glass for a way to get inside. These things were all perfectly normal occurrences that the darkness transformed into mysteries, things that would go totally unnoticed in the blessed light of day. In fact, if he peeked at the closet door he would see it was shut, as he’d left it. If he yanked back the covers and hung his head over the edge of the mattress, he would see a jumble of toys beneath the bed and nothing more. From the window, he would see the soft glow of lights brightening the neighborhood windows.

If he peeked – if he peeked – he would see that it was all in his imagination, and that he had nothing to be afraid of. If he peeked.

He slitted an eye and eased the covers back.

The closet door was open.

The mattress shimmied ever so slightly, and the pressure of the bedspread on his legs decreased as something lifted the corner and began to probe softly for something to – something to grab and haul beneath the bed, an ankle, a calf, the arm of a trembling 9-year-old boy –

Bobby hurled himself from the bed and hit the light switch.

Nothing there. Closet door, closed. Toys beneath the bed.

And then he heard it. A tapping at the window.

He tiptoed across the carpet and paused at the curtains, knowing with dread certainty that if he dared look out, something horrible would look in –

“Bobby! Let me in!” the whisper snaked through the glass.

It sounded like his mother.

“Bobby? Are you there? Let me in! I heard a noise outside. I went to check and – and I locked myself out! Let me in!”

It really did sound like his mother. But Bobby hesitated.

“Let me in, dammit,” the voice whispered. “I think there’s someone out here!”

What if it weren’t his mother?

Bobby, there’s someone out here – I hear them!”

What if it were something using his mother’s voice to trick him into opening the window?

“Open the goddamn window!” the voice said, louder this time, a tremble of fear wiggling through the words. “Bobby, please!”

And if he opened the window, it would reach in with its claws and grab him around the throat –

“Bobby – oh, Bobby – ” the voice wailed.

– and the blood would splatter the walls and the bedspread and the closet door –

He heard a scream and a low-throated growl, and then a thrashing sound, as if some kind of struggle were being waged outside.

He stepped away from the curtains. He padded back to the bed and slipped beneath the covers. He could hear his heart pounding. It might have been a monster’s heart pounding.

But he would get through this night without calling his mother. Because it was all in his imagination.

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 Tubi.

“Lowlifes” Starring Amanda Fix as Amy, Matthew MacCaull as Keith, Brenna Llewellyn as Savannah, Elese Levesque as Kathleen, Josh Zaharia as Jeffrey, and Richard Harmon as Vern. Directed by Tesh Guttikonda and Mitch Oliver. 1 hour, 30 minutes. Rated TV-MA. Streaming on Tubi.

Plot summary: A family borrows grandpa’s RV for a vacation in the country. They encounter a couple of hillbilly locals. Terror ensues.

Spoilers: None

If you’ve been avoiding Tubi TV because you don’t like movies being interrupted by commercials, you should (a) sign up for commercial-free premium Tubi or (b) get used to it, because you’re missing some damn good streaming entertainment, especially if you’re a horror fan.

One example is “Lowlifes,” a nasty little frolic from Al Kaplan, author of other comedy-horror projects like “Zombeavers,” “The Drone,” and “Critters: A New Binge.” “Lowlifes” is a Tubi-original film, part of the streamer’s attempt to fatten its horror lineup.

In “Lowlifes” a Southern California family borrows Grandpa’s broken-down RV for a trip to the country. There, they encounter a couple of local hicks who are looking for trouble. Events predictably proceed downhill from there.

I won’t say anything about what happens next because the movie serves up a “Sixth Sense”-style plot twist that will blow your mind. Suffice it to say you’ll laugh, you’ll puke, you’ll forget about this movie 10 minutes after watching it. But what a fun hour and a half of entertainment until then!

Grade B.

Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.

Image courtesy of Raw Pixel.

Introduction to “The Tooth Fairy”

This story was based on an actual experience, though I didn’t run into any Freddy Krueger-style monsters from dreamland.

We had a grocery store in town at the time – Food World – which was my go-to destination for cheap beer and cigs. Yes, I smoked back then – this would have been in the ’90s, and you could still get a carton of cigarettes for about $10. They put them in display cases that were accessible to the public. It was a much more trusting time.

One night I headed over to Food World for something – I forget what. I don’t think it was cigarettes, but it might have been. Food World stayed open until 9 p.m.; otherwise, I would have had to do my cigarette shopping at a convenience store.

I remember walking into the store and thinking: This is strange. Something about the bright fluorescent lights overhead throwing everything into stark, electric contrast, made me feel as if I were walking through a Dennis Etchison short story. Not only that but the store was ghostly quiet. Hardly anybody was shopping. You could hear every creak and groan of the building.

As I said, strange.

I got whatever I was looking for and went to the cash registers. Only one was open, and there was a person ahead of me. I remember seeing all those packages of meat rolling down the conveyor belt to be scanned and bagged. Why would somebody come to a grocery store late at night to buy lots and lots of meat?

All kinds of thoughts sprang to mind, thoughts that only a writer of scary stories would consider, all of them involving caged beasts back at the house, or something with a taste for blood, or maybe an evil presence in one’s dreams, foreshadowing the awful things it had planned for you once you fell asleep.

Unless you were already asleep and this was part of your nightmare.

Is the Jimmy of “The Tooth Fairy” asleep and dreaming these events? Has the nightmare invaded his waking hours? I’m not sure. I will say I’m not a fan of ambiguity in horror stories, but in this case I think it works.

One more thing: When you were a kid and your mom and dad told you about the tooth fairy who comes at night and finds that tooth under your pillow and gives you money for it, did they ever say why the tooth fairy wants your tooth?

Did they ever tell you what the tooth fairy does with that tooth?

I didn’t think so.

And I’m not sure I want to consider the possibilities.

—

THE TOOTH FAIRY

A pack of cigarettes. That’s all Jimmy wanted. A pack of cigarettes, and the safety of his townhouse, and sleep.

 But sleep brought the Tooth Fairy, and that was no good. The Tooth Fairy … a monstrous vision of teeth clicking and snapping at him from his nightmares, set within a face as pale as moonlight on dead flesh, surrounded by a field of black, as if Jimmy’s fear of the world had taken on a predatory life of its own.

 So Jimmy couldn’t sleep, and after reaching for the pack of Marlboros on the nightstand and coming up empty, he’d climbed into his blue jeans and sweatshirt and had driven to the 24-hour Food World across town, a careful visit to the grocery store, a  foray into a realm he tried to avoid. The world was full of horrors, yes: murderers and thieves and liars. But it was the little deaths that nibbled at his soul: the petty indifferences and incessant sales pitches and the all-consuming, voracious demand for his attention that warped him and transformed him into something unnatural, so that his time away from home became a gauntlet of senseless noise and chaos, and his time at home took on the quality of a siege. What lay between had become one thing:

 The Tooth Fairy.

 But if he remained awake all night he might eventually collapse into that merciful land of exhausted unconsciousness that lay beneath fearful dreams. So.

 The supermarket was electric and weird this time of night, the lights as bright and the aisles as quiet as an oncology ward. They kept the cigarettes up front where the store manager could watch for shoplifters. But nobody was there. Jimmy yanked a pack from the kiosk and walked straight to the express lane.

 Another customer was already there, dressed in a broad, gray duster that brushed the linoleum floor. He was unloading groceries onto the moving belt in front of the register, and the teen-aged cashier was running them across the scanner. Big cuts of meat, bloody and shiny in the preternatural light.

Jimmy sighed and scanned the racks of tabloids. Famous actor is really a vampire. Woman gives birth to 17 babies. Rendering of Mr. Spock found in Egyptian tomb. Jimmy shook his head. Nothing shocked or amazed him anymore. It was all a blizzard of images and sounds.

 The scanner beeped. Steaks and flanks trimmed in opaque fat. The man certainly liked his meat, Jimmy thought, watching him stoop over the shopping cart and extract packages and set them down on the belt. The girl whipped them across the scanner and as Jimmy studied her, he noticed she would not look up, not even once. A fellow sojourner, he decided. Probably waiting to start her weekend.

 The man slapped down dripping packages. Jimmy peered around the sweep of the man’s duster and saw heaps of meat still in the cart, cuts of meat he’d never seen before. The man dropped a shrink-wrapped package on the belt and the scanner bleated. The girl waved it across the laser three more times, and each time the scanner refused to ring up the price. She gazed at the bar code with an exasperated look. Then her face went white.

 She dropped the package. She snatched her fingers away and wiped them on her apron. She glanced up at the man, then, and her lips trembled, as if a scream were forming behind them but refused to come out.

 The package contained an assortment of jawbones.

 Jawbones studded with perfectly normal incisors and canines and molars. One of them had a gold filling.

 Jimmy felt a part of his brain go numb, like a pot roast that had thawed on the outside but remained frozen on the inside, and a tiny gasp escaped him so that the man turned and looked down at him, and Jimmy recognized the bloodless pallor of that face and the picket fence of teeth that sank into his sleep, and he knew this time he would not awaken in his bed, the sheets drenched with sweat, to wonder how he might keep the world at bay another day.

 “Hurry home,” the man whispered in a tissue-soft, dreamlike voice. “Hurry home and go to sleep. I’m hungry.”

 The cigarettes slipped from Jimmy’s fingers and went bumping down the belt, where they joined the man’s other possessions.

As the world sank its teeth in, and would not let go.

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 by Zarina Khalilova for Pexels. CC license. https://www.pexels.com/@zarina-khalilova-207741792/

Introduction to “When She Cries”

Back in the ’80s America held a lively conversation with itself about self-defense.

Several high-profile cases had come to pass where wives had shot and killed abusive husbands, girlfriends had killed abusive boyfriends, and children had killed abusive parents.

Were there limits to self-defense? Was there a line that should not be crossed where self-defense became plain old-fashioned murder?

With “When She Cries” I wanted to examine two things:

1. Instances where self-defense becomes a kind of execution. This story illustrates that concept. Was the protagonist defending himself or was he executing his antagonist to prevent future abuse?

2. What about the mental toll exacted by killing another human being, warranted or not? Would the shooter be able to rationalize his or her actions as self-defense, or would they be crippled by the knowledge they had killed another human being?

This story demonstrates that not all horror tales require a monster.

Sometimes the monster lies within.

—

WHEN SHE CRIES

A scream like broken glass, cutting a jagged edge against the shower’s hiss. David heard it. The air was suddenly unbreathable. Then a thud, a dull sound, worn sawteeth drawn across the bones of his spine.

Evie –

He wrenched down the faucets and cupped a hand over the shower nozzle.

Feet trampled the hallway. Another lunatic scream, amplified into the throat of the hallway and echoing madly.

“DAVID!”

A snare-drum brace of fists pounded the door. He threw back the shower curtain and shimmied wet and lathered into his shorts, too quick for any thought but the sick panic she had screamed into him. He jerked open the door and Evie lunged at him, a shuddering angina of terror, just escaped from monsters and her eyes, her face bald from the fright of it.

She screamed, “It’s BUDDY!” She dug needlelike fingernails into his arms. “He’s lost it! He’s lost – my God! – he’s got an ax – he’s gonna – oh, Jesus! – he’s – he’s – ”

Buddy. The old boyfriend. Who drove the truck – with the oversized tires, shotguns mounted in the back window. Big Buddy. Big, big Buddy. A wad of tobacco perpetually wedged between his cheek and jaw. Ditched over the phone by Evie. That was nice. “I’m gonna make you wish to hell you were never born,” Buddy seethed at her from midnight telephone calls. Even nicer.

Crazy, crazy Buddy.

From the living room came the sound of something thick and stubborn flying apart. The door. A short, guttural bark; Evie’s eyes peeled white, and David grabbed her, terror twisting his stomach. He spoke in a strangled whisper, “The bedroom! Run!”

He shoved her out of the bathroom, her hip smacking solidly against the door molding. She ran sideways, David shoving from behind, half-running, half-staggering across the hallway until they had made it to the bedroom. David slammed the door, locked it and backed away as if it might try to grab him. Evie crouched at the foot of the bed.

“Gun,” she whispered. David turned, and she was pointing at the gun cabinet, at his father’s .38. It hung from the corner, holstered, dark and slippery with oil, too slippery for his mind to grip what she was saying.

“Get the damn gun!” she whispered again and David stared down at her, numb.

“I can’t shoot anyone. …”

Something smashed loudly against the door and sank to the bone, wooden ribs snapping, then squeaked as smooth metal was jerked away. Somebody was laughing, a crawling lunatic snake of a sound. Evie curled into herself and twitched when the door boomed again. Wood cracked. A shark’s tooth of ax blade chewed through the facing.

David threw back the cabinet door and grabbed the pistol; he almost dropped it. It seemed too heavy, too dirty, and he held it as he would have held something infected. He turned to Evie. She swallowed, took a shuddering breath, and lost herself to a sudden palsy of tears.

“Sh – shoot through the door.”

Again, the thought misfired, and he stared at her lamely, not a hint of understanding in his expression, the gun dangling limply in his hands.

The spine of the door broke and the ax blade chewed cleanly through to their side, wood strips broken and cartwheeling away from the hole. The blade twisted and worried itself from the door.

David rotated on his heel, almost fell, pointed the gun at the door, both hands on the butt and his fingers sweaty around the trigger. His heart pulsed and he felt it with his entire body. He squeezed on the trigger but he could not pull it – he couldn’t do it and they would be killed, but My God, oh Jesus I can’t do this please help me Jesus –

He heard a back-of-the-throat grunt and an agony of shattered wood – the door exploded into flying pieces that spun crazily into the walls and cabinet. Evie lunged at David, screamed “SHOOT! SHOOT! SHOOT!” Screamed all thought from him, the terror, until he could not see or hear or even understand what it was he had been afraid of and could only pull the trigger.

The shot was a bomb going off – the gun bucked fire and curdled smoke – the ax spun straight up, then fell and thunked to the floor. Silence.

Oh. Oh. …

Then … thrashing. Angry, meaningless thrashing, a bellow that sounded like a truck horn. David peered uncomprehendingly into the smoke spreading across the hallway. Evie peeked over his shoulder.

Buddy lay midway between the door and the bathroom, his arms and legs working back and forth, clawing at air, kicking, his fists clenching and unclenching, grabbing at unseen throats. He jerked to one side – David backed away – and a reddish-black spray of blood spattered the floor. He coughed and shouted, and against the narrow walls his deep voice resonated spastic hate.

David watched, horror caught in his throat and impossible to swallow; he felt pain in his arm and saw Evie hanging there, fingers hooked into him, her eyes marbled and moonlike. She turned to him.

“He’s not dead yet.”

David nodded, not taking his eyes from the hall. Buddy kicked with his foot and the ax went tumbling.

“Again,” she murmured. David stopped breathing.

“Again,” she said.

Buddy coughed blood, coughed and sucked a gurgling breath, coughed again and sputtered a growl.

“Again?” David frowned at her.

“AGAIN! Shoot him again! Dammit He’s – he’s – ” Her face tightened with hysteria. “We won’t – I won’t – be able to live – ” Her voice dissolved into a warbling sob. “They’ll – they’ll save him – and – and – he’ll come – back.” She began to cry, a sound utterly without hope, shot with remorse. “That is not,” and she punctuated the “not” by squeezing his arm, “how I – I – want to live.”

He shut his eyes and opened them. The gun was still pointed at the hall. He shook his head. Barely.

“I can’t – I – can’t. …”

She grabbed his chin, turned his face to hers. She squeezed hard.

“Shoot him again.”

He started to back away, new terror in his gut.

“Shoot!”

The hallway was strangely quiet. David looked into the gloom. He saw Buddy watching him, his eyes narrowed and incandescent, something beyond understanding – monstrous and preternatural – lurking within the dead stare. It was a hungry, predatory look, as if he would shake off the effects of the wound, his purpose restored, and finish what he had come here to do. David watched, spellbound, falling into those eyes, sucked down and falling, losing his sight, his senses. …

Then smooth hands were wrapping around his, smooth as smoke, a woman’s hands, Evie’s, tightening in a grip that was both repugnant and irresistible.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

They pulled the trigger.

—

She’s crying again.

And I hate it – I hate the sound. Mothers grieving, wives alone, sounds of deserts inside people. It’s too much to bear. It eats at the soul – you hurt in all the same places. Sometimes I think we share too much.

It’s not as if we did a bad thing. Buddy was crazy. He would have killed us. I’m sure he would have killed us. Hacked us with an ax – forty whacks. Crazy. He wrecked his place before he came here – his truck. With an ax – forty whacks. Putting his life into disorder. We were forty-one.

Shoot him. I didn’t have the nerve – I don’t know … maybe, if he’d gotten into the room … I don’t know. Would I have done it? I mean, would I have really made the decision myself? Would I have been quick enough? Would I –

Dear God.

She made me do what had to be done. I see that now. “Self-defense” the investigating officer called it. “Simple self-defense.” No jury in the world would have moved for a conviction. But there was no jury, because there was no trial. The D.A. did not press charges. “Self-defense,” he said.

Self-defense.

I wish she would stop crying. I hate the sound – I hate it. I don’t know what to do.

She shouldn’t make us hurt over this. What’s the point? Tears aren’t penitence. Remorse. Fear. What is it she’s feeling? If she would only say. Pain. Useless, squandered pain.

She cries like this every day, it seems, and I don’t know what to do. It isn’t fair; she’s killing me … us … slowly. It hurts.

I don’t know what to do. But I’ve got to do something. I’ve talked to her but she won’t listen. Blame … she has to see blame. Why does there have to be blame? There is no blame. We did what we had to do.

This thing is eating at her, at me. She won’t let it go. She – she needs to let it go. For my sake, if nothing else.

But I don’t think she’ll want to do that, and don’t know what to do.

She’s crying. I hate the sound of crying. When she cries, I get these … urges – I don’t want to talk about it. If she would only stop – If I could make her stop crying.

I – I don’t know what to do. If she would say. If she would tell me.

Maybe she will tell me, again. When the hurt is unbearable, when it eats the heart, the life right out of her. Maybe then she will tell me … I will wait for her to tell me, and this time, I won’t be indecisive. I swear to God, I’ll do it. Just what she tells me.

If I could only make her stop crying.

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 Warner Bros.

“The Conjuring: Last Rites” Starring Vera Farmiga, Patrick Wilson, Mia Tomlinson and others. Directed by Michael Chaves. 2 hours, 15 minutes. Rated R. Theatrical release.

Plot synopsis: Paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren are drawn into a final investigation when their daughter becomes involved with a family being stalked by demons inhabiting a cursed mirror.

Spoilers: one large spoiler toward the end of the review.

Del’s take

Mladen was out of town and I was bored, so I decided to throw in with Spooky Season and catch an afternoon showing of “The Conjuring: Last Rites.” Good thing it was daylight. I was the only person in the theater, which was scary enough. I would not have wanted to walk to my car in the dark!

Why hasn’t Vera Farmiga won an Oscar? She’s clearly a terrific actor, bringing expressiveness and pathos to her characters, no matter if she’s Norman Bates’ mother in “Bates Motel” or the two-timing Alex Goran of “Up in the Air.” She is the warm heart and brighter soul of the very dark “Conjuring” franchise, which includes:

“The Conjuring” (2013)

“Annabelle” (2014)

“The Conjuring 2” (2016)

“Annabelle: Creation” (2017)

“The Nun” (2018)

“The Curse of La Llorona” (2019)

“Annabelle Comes Home” (2019)

“The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It” (2021)

“The Nun 2” (2023)

“The Conjuring: Last Rites” (2025)

In “Last Rites” she continues a series of excellent performances as Lorraine Warren, the real-life paranormal investigator who, with her husband Ed, brought the idea of ghostbusting into the mainstream by way of their involvement in the Amityville Horror in which a New York couple claimed their house was inhabited by a violent demonic presence. That case itself led to the production of a series of movies and best-selling books.

“Last Rites” suggests an end to the “Conjuring” series but do you seriously believe any movie studio in its right mind would shut down a franchise in which the most recent installment generated $440 million in box office receipts? If anything “Last Rites” works as a springboard to launch a whole new series of spooky investigations – but with new characters.

Patrick Wilson’s Ed is ready to call it quits after suffering a near-fatal heart attack and his wife, Farmiga’s Lorraine, is on board with retirement. But daughter Judy (Mia Tomlinson) finds herself under constant psychic attack by ghosts and demons, brought into renewed fury by a haunted mirror picked up at a thrift shop by the Smurl family of blue collar West Pittston, Pennsylvania. This same haunted mirror has a history with Judy, having almost taken her life at birth. Judy and fiancé Tony (Ben Hardy) are drawn into mortal peril when Judy sees the Spurl’s predicament on TV and recognizes her connection. In the process she convinces her parents to take on one last ghostbusting gig and events proceed downhill from there.

The story is told through a series of flashbacks that bounce back and forth from periods of Judy’s childhood to the present, which is set in 1986. While it would seem to focus on the Spurl’s haunting, and Judy and Tony’s terror-cladded involvement, it’s really about Ed and Lorraine’s last hurrah. And we know it’s their last hurrah because at the end of the movie Ed – brace yourself for a spoiler – hands the key to the room containing the Warren’s haunted curious and artifacts to Tony. Expect future “Conjuring” installments starring the Judy and Tony duo.

“Last Rites” requires a bit of attention from the audience due to its constant shifting of viewpoint but overall it’s a decent piece of work by Chaves, who has helmed other “Conjuring” installments.

But is it scary? I’m hesitant to answer that question. Few horror movies scare me these days – my friend Hawk tells me that’s because I’m a horror writer and my senses have been dulled to all things that go bump in the night. I thought “The Ring,” “The Grudge” and “It Follows” were very scary, but horror movies that require gore or jump scares to frighten their audiences don’t do much for me. I thought there were a couple of scenes in “Last Rites” that were definitely creepy but overall I didn’t find it scary so much as long. At 2 hours and 15 minutes it seemed to go on forever.

Still, it’s a decent movie and I wish some of you had been in the theater with me as I wouldn’t have been so creeped out by the idea that there was nobody present to hear me laugh – or scream!

I’m giving “The Conjuring: Last Rites” a solid B. If you want to see it in theaters you’d better hurry – it’s been in theatrical release for awhile and will move on soon.

It’s a terrific movie for Spooky Season – if you don’t go alone.

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.

Image courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures.

“Weapons” Starring Julie Garner as Justine, Amy Madigan as Gladys, Cary Christopher as Alex, Josh Brolin as Archer, Benedict Wong as Marcus, and others. Directed by Zach Cregger. 2 hours, 8 minutes. Rated R. Theatrical release.

Plot summary: A town is rent asunder when 17 of its children disappear, all from the same elementary school classroom. A teacher, a parent, a cop, a druggie, and a principal are enveloped by strange happenings as the saga of the missing kids devolves.

Spoilers: None

Mladen’s take

“Weapons” is a maybe. Maybe the recently released film is a horror flick. Maybe it’s a thriller. Maybe “Weapons” is slasher-y. Maybe it’s a good movie. And, maybe, I’ll never again see a film that Del recommends.

Yet, somehow, for some reason, the film has me bewitched. It’s the score. Every bit of music is matched perfectly to the scene it depicts. I’m telling you, no matter the combination of floating electronica or the talent of real musicians playing real instruments, the score made the movie’s etherealness palpable. I heard the eeriness, not as a complement to what was happening on the screen, but as its own story. As an aside, dear reader, a film’s score and its soundtrack are different animals. In this case, the soundtrack is sufficient.

What other recent movie scores accomplish the feat of making their films as aurally vibrant as their pictures? “Guns Akimbo.” “Dune.” “Blade Runner 2049.” “Ad Astra.” If you’re a streamer, listen to the soundtrack for “The Swarm.” Magnificent.

“Weapons” secondary merits are fairly abundant, too. The film is a slow burn that has you wondering what comes next. Also done well is the way the director blends “chapters,” each dedicated to one of our central characters, into a complete story with, of course, a climatic ending that brings all of them together. The way the director tells the story, as connected vignettes, was helped by very good acting. All the characters were well developed and both likable and unlikable.

The trouble with “Weapons?” The first had nothing to do with the film – I bought Del’s ticket to reciprocate a measly favor he did for me – but the others do.

I dislike movies where children are in peril or victimized or evil doers, even if they had no say in what they are doing. “Weapons” is that from beginning to end. It’s OK if high schoolers or young adults get whacked. In movies, as in life, they’re useless. But kids, “The Exorcist,” “The Omen”, “Children of the Corn,” come one. And, frankly, the ending ain’t all that cheerful, either.

What can I say? Depending on your taste or distaste, you’ll enjoy the movie or you won’t. For me, “Weapons” is a B-. I just don’t like seeing children in jeopardy, though I sure as hell adore the soundtrack that forced me to like a type of film I would normally disparage.

Del’s take

“Measly” favor my backside, Mladen. I figure you owe me an ADU in your back yard, maybe a Bentley. But I’ll agree with your B- grade of “Weapons” but not for the same reasons. Hear me out.

NPR says “Weapons” is a “terrific and terrifying movie.” No, it isn’t. It’s an OK movie with occasional moments of real tension, but as the curtain falls you’ll be asking yourself if it was worth the fuss.

I do appreciate the way the story was put together. As Mladen said, it’s divided into “chapters,” each one told from a different character’s viewpoint, and the chapters overlap, which at times explains inexplicable events from preceding chapters. Its structure reminded me of a Christopher Nolan movie.

The evolving inexplicabilities were more puzzling than frightening. I’ve seen that done effectively – the vastly underrated “The Crazies” springs first to mind. And that’s the problem with “Weapons.” It’s pitched as a horror movie but for me it wasn’t scary, and that’s a shame because the trailers were actually very creepy. It was over-the-top gory but I don’t conflate blood with tension. If you’d like to watch a REAL scary movie check out “The Innocents” on YouTube, with Deborah Kerr. THAT movie is terrifying, and not one skull was crushed in the process although Mladen would hate it because again, children are placed in peril.

I wasn’t as sold on the soundtrack as Mladen. It followed the modern sensibility of using music you don’t normally associate with a horror movie, and in my opinion it didn’t amplify the sense of foreboding, which I thought was the purpose of a horror movie soundtrack. They did include one very cool George Harrison song I’d never heard. I’ll be looking that up and adding it to my YouTube music playlist.

Quite a few of the characters were unlikeable. The lead viewpoint character, Julie Garner’s Justine, was a quarrelsome, argumentative alcoholic who helped her ex cheat on his present girlfriend. Josh Brolin’s Archer was an enraged finger-pointer in the MAGAt style, and Benedict Wong was an appeaser with questionable taste in lunch (Six hotdogs and a bowl of Cheetohs? C’mon!). The only real sympathetic character was the little boy, Alex (Cary Christopher), who just begged for a responsible adult to swoop in and rescue him from his horrible situation.

Amy Madigan was splendid as Gladys. I didn’t recognize her. I’ve never seen her in a role like that and she nailed it. Kudos … and maybe an Oscar nom?

But alas, not scary. At the movie’s climax people in the audience were laughing, for good reason. Events bordered on comical, and it wasn’t the intentional humor relief necessary to keep the audience invested in a scary story.

So yeah, Mladen, a B- for “Weapons.” Not a bad movie but not a scary Spooky Season movie either. I’ll save my shivers for “The Conjuring.”

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.

I got this email the other day from a man who had read my story “Lighting the Corpses,” which was published in “Robert Bloch’s Psychos” in 1997.

I thought it might be fun to reproduce his question and my response, as we talk about some of the internal mechanics of the writing process.

Not to worry. I checked with him first and he gave me the OK to do this. I’ve withheld his name for privacy purposes.

What follows is his email and my response.

Hello Mr. Stone. I was just thinking about a short story of the above title (“Lighting the Corpses”), which was included in a collection by Robert Bloch, adequately named “Psychos.” It has left a lasting impact on me, as I believe that more insight must be utilized in not only researching the making of a so-called “Human Monster”, but the inclusion of those who have helped shape the individual where punishment is concerned. After all, if it is discovered that a skyscraper toppled and caused mass injury and death due to a contractor cutting corners by using cheap rebar or watered-down concrete, said contractor would be the one to pay, no? As such, I can feel for the character of Zeke, having been not only laid bare for prey at the hands of his father but literally handed over by his mother in order to save the daughter from the same sick abuse. You captured an extremely common rug-sweep here with a decent understanding of who Zeke was. Still, the line which resonated deeply with me was Zeke’s words to Father Baptist: “What you fear about yourself is true. You are your Devil”. Quite an interesting interpretation of the seemingly traditional theological beliefs. This story is a phenomenal work of art imitating life, and I thank you for the entertainment and insight it provided. Might I inquire as to what inspired you in writing this? It’s been a pleasure talking to you.

Hi (I withheld his name for privacy reasons),

Thanks for your email. It’s great knowing something I wrote decades ago has reached across the years to touch another person. I guess that’s one reason writers write.

Your question prompted me to remember why I wrote this story, because at first, I couldn’t, not until I thought of my life circumstances of that period.

I think everyone experiences one great love of his or her life, a person or relationship that rises above all others. When those relationships go bad they do so in spectacular fashion, something that could be likened to a pyre – in this case a pyre of emotion. Sometimes the emotion is grief; other times it’s anger. In my case, it was a toxic combination of both. I had just ended an unhealthy, co-dependent relationship with the love of my life and I was staggering through the stages of grief. “Lighting the Corpses” was the anger stage, ha ha. (I wrote another story, “The Googleplex Comes and Goes,” that took place in the grieving stage.) I’d finally reached a point where I could admit I wasn’t blameless in our failure … in fact, maybe it was mostly my fault.

I then began to wonder about the nature of rage. Was it a kind of evil, an evil that could be handed down, like an inheritance, to one’s descendents? That conversation with myself, coupled with my years of experience working at a newspaper, which gave me insight into the God-awful things people can do to each another, compelled me to write “Lighting the Corpses.”

I didn’t think much of “Corpses” at the time and I hated the title, but over the years it’s grown on me. I think it’s overwritten but also it’s wildly inventive, which I appreciate more these days. I’ve learned to forgive and embrace my youthful excesses. What’s the old bromide – youth is wasted on the young? Something like that.

It’s the only story that ever paid me royalties apart from the stories I wrote for all those Barnes & Noble horror anthologies. I attribute that to the Stephen King story in “Psychos.”

Thanks so much for writing to me. I have a writing page on Facebook and would like to reproduce your letter and my response – don’t worry. I won’t use your full name or include your email address. If you’d rather I not, drop me a line and I won’t.

Thanks,

Del

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 Warner Brothers.

“Sinners” Starring Michael B. Jordan, Miles Caton, Saul Williams, Andrene Ward-Hammond and others. Directed by Ryan Coogler. 2 hours, 17 minutes. Rated R. Theatrical release.

Plot summary: Twin brothers Smoke and Stack return to their Mississippi hometown to open a juke joint after working for Al Capone in Chicago. That decision leads Smoke, Stack, and several of their relatives and friends into a confrontation – not just with racial prejudice and the poverty of Depression-era America, but a more sinister, otherworldly oppressive force.

Del’s take

Ryan Coogler channels “From Dusk Till Dawn” and “In the Heat of the Night” to make statements about racial prejudice, poverty and oppression with his new horror movie “Sinners,” out now in theaters.

The prolific writer, producer and director of films like Marvel’s “Black Panther” series, “Fruitville Station,” the “Creed” movies and even “Space Jam,” pulls no punches with his look at racism in Depression-era Mississippi, and the transformative power of music both within and outside the black community.

“Sinners” is a competent and entertaining movie, and if it sounds like I’m damning it with faint praise you are correct. While I think “Sinners” is a good movie, it has problems which I think stand in the way of it being a great movie.

The story follows twin brothers Smoke and Stack, both played in a remarkable performance by Michael B. Jordan, who have returned to their Mississippi roots to open a juke joint with money they “earned” by working for gangster Al Capone. They buy an old sawmill owned by a local white supremist and transform it into a backwoods dive bar after recruiting several of their former friends, family members and lovers to help.

But on opening night, music emanating from the joint reaches the wrong ears – a troika of vampires led by a centuries-old Irish bloodsucker, Remmick, who lays siege to the bar. Before the night is over scores of newly converted creatures of the dark are stalking the surviving humans with the intention of creating a “new world” where everyone is “equal” – equally dead, that is.

“Sinners” in some ways resembles “From Dusk Till Dawn,” the George Clooney, Quentin Tarantino and Danny Trejo vampire thriller of the 1990s, in that it uses the premise of a siege at a backwoods bar to explore complicated themes. But “Sinners” is more aspirational, sometimes poetic, sometimes confuddling.

Suffused throughout is music – not just blues but other kinds of music – hymns, Irish folk songs and the kind of raucous, dance-worthy music one would expect from a juke and jive joint. Clearly the message is that music possesses the power to transform and uplift. But the sword of song has two edges in that can also enslave and oppress. That part of the commentary, I think, is represented by the vampires, who appreciate a good dance tune themselves.

And what of those bloodsuckers? They’re symbols – for slavery, discrimination, prejudice, and the sense of futility that overcomes a group of people who are hopelessly oppressed. They offer an egalitarian future where everybody is hobbled by the same, soul-denying limitations. I see parallels between that message and the choices we Americans are being forced to make by an oppressive and autocratic regime that would have us all become well-behaved consumers of state-approved commodities, services and ideas.

Performances are mostly very good. As I said, Michael B. Jordan is remarkable as twin brothers Smoke and Stack, somehow evincing two distinctly separate personalities for the men. Miles Caton as the callow Sammie, a gifted guitarist and singer who throws in with Smoke and Stack despite his pastor father’s admonition that music will lead him down a sinful path, is also effective. My personal favorite was Wunmi Mosaku, Smoke’s former lover, a hoodoo practitioner who reminds us that Smoke is more than just a gangster. She impressed me with her authenticity and sympathy.

The score was terrific, a memorable, powerful presence in the movie. Be sure to stay in your seat through the credits – a Marvel-style coda, this one musical, awaits.

But the movie is not without its problems.

“Sinners” takes place during the height of the Great Depression yet everybody seems remarkably flush with cash, and nobody appears to be suffering. The movie conveyed little to none of the desperate poverty of that era, a sticking point for me. Also, the dialogue was often hard to hear or understand, maybe because I’m unfamiliar with black idioms, maybe because my hearing ain’t what it used to be. Full disclosure: I use closed-captioning for all videos I watch on Netflix, Apple TV and Prime.

I think director Coogler failed to resist the temptation of stereotyping, both black and white. The whites were a little too Southern for my sensibilities, if that makes sense. I understand the concept of murderously racist people but I’ve lived in the South practically my entire life and rarely have I encountered anyone like that. Meanwhile, even the black ne’er do wells leaned a bit saintly.

I couldn’t figure out what I call the “Irish connection.” Irish vampires, Irish music, Irish beer … what did it mean? Was Coogler drawing parallels between the black community and how Irish immigrants were treated in this country? I couldn’t decide.

My biggest gripe is that “Sinners” is too ambitious. Its message about music would have sufficed by itself, but to attack oppression, racism, poverty – many of the themes of human suffering – was almost too head-spinning for me to take in as a viewer. Kudos to Coogler for trying, but I was confused by the different elements competing for my heart.

Overall, “Sinners” is well put together and holds your attention for its 2-hour, 17-minute run time. Mladen and I caught a Saturday afternoon matinee and while the theater wasn’t empty, it was sparsely attended – nothing at all like our viewing of “A Minecraft Movie.” I believe all movies should be seen in a theater, at least the first time. We have the rest of our lives to stream them on little boxes in our hands.

I give “Sinners” a score of B on the strength of its ambitions, music, and technical achievements. I’m lowering my score for some logic and structural flaws.

It’s not perfect, but it’s pretty good.

Mladen’s take

The best musical made to date is poignant “Fiddler on the Roof.” The best vampire film made to date is a stunner from, of all places, Sweden. “Let the Right One In” combines friendship and menace with the most thoughtful end-of-movie slaughter recorded on celluloid.

“Sinners,” which Del correctly described to me immediately after we saw the film as a vampire musical but then avoided using it in his review, threatens neither for the title. “Sinners” is watchable. The music is terrific. Jordan handled the dual role of playing Smoke and Stack very nicely. All the supporting actors were top notch. Still, “Sinners” left me somewhat dazed and a bit unsatisfied.

Let us start with the movie’s violence. There was too much arterial bleeding depicted. It seemed like every other wound was obliged to squirt a lot for a long time. Be it a bite or a gun shot, the blood pulsed from bodies in streams like someone turning a water spigot on and off again and again. Necks gushed. Limbs sprayed. One abdomen geysered from a place where there are no major arteries. Sheesh. And, yeah, there’s a scene where, I don’t know, a dozen bad guys with pistols, revolvers, rifles, and shotguns were able to hit one of our protagonists only once and that was late in the gun battle. He, of course, put an end to all of them.

Also, there were two gratuitous sexual encounters in the movie. In the first instance, a deep, soulful kiss would have better represented two lovers finding each other after a long absence than the mating scene that unfolded. The second encounter was perfectly pointless.

Maybe the most irritating part of the movie was that a major plot point was revealed after some of the credits rolled. This wasn’t to set up sequel. The reveal actually had a direct link to the movie that had ended a couple of minutes earlier.

“Sinners” touches many themes. A young man torn between chasing a dream and staying on the right side of God as his preacher father interpreted God’s will by referencing the Bible. Slavery was abolished after the Civil War but Jim Crow reigned in Mississippi, where Smoke and Stack opened a juke joint in 1932 so that blacks could enjoy a bit of fun and freedom after the cotton had been picked. Is it better to stay human and endure social injustice spawned by something as biologically inconsequential as skin color or should I sacrifice my soul for a shot at righting wrongs such as the Ku Klux Klan?

“Sinners” illuminates or tackles these issues and others. But, that’s also what makes the film somewhat viewer unfriendly. It tries to do too much. At one point, the movie sallies deep into the past and far into the future and I’m like what the hell just happened?

“Sinners” is a movie with a conscience. It offers a unique, ambitious perspective on Mankind’s fallibilities. “Sinners” is also tough to follow, hitting the filmgoer with so much kinetic energy that they’re knocked off balance and beyond the capacity to absorb the issues it raises.

The movie is a B-.

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.