Introduction to What We Talk About When We Talk About Horror and Other Stories

What I’m about to write won’t sound like your usual introduction to a collection of short stories, especially not someone’s first collection. For one thing, I’ve decided to write it myself instead of asking someone like Clive Barker, Stephen King (like either of them would say yes), or Hal Archibald. Don’t know that last name? Not many people have, not even the people who voted to give the Stoker Award to the title story of this collection a couple of years ago.

I guess I shouldn’t say anything else without first thanking all of you who helped make “What We Talk About When We Talk About Horror” the winner that year. I feel tempted to call you all dumbasses, but I remember how warmly you applauded when you saw me climb onto the stage, a shy girl with greasy hair hanging over her eyes, probably looking disheveled, like she just crawled out of a well or a forgotten grave in a lonely field somewhere, probably with bugs crawling all over her skin. Walking onto stage and accepting an award doesn’t come easy for someone like me, so I hope you all can understand why I didn’t give a speech or say anything after shaking hands with Mr. Arnzen. I stumbled away as fast as possible, leaving Mr. Arnzen with the awkward task of filling in the silence that followed. As for what Mr. Arnzen said, I have no idea. Maybe something like, “There she goes, ladies and gentlemen, Anabelle Claude.” Clap, clap, clap.

Not long after that, I started getting letters with questions about that story, as well as the others in this collection. Not the usual thing, like where do your ideas come from. More like: Are you the girl in the story?

Okay. Since you either bought this book or checked it out (support your local libraries, people!), you deserve to know.

Yes. I am the girl who shows up to the meeting in “What We Talk About When We Talk About Horror.” By the time I accepted the Stoker Award for that story a few years after that, I changed very little from the girl who walked into that tiny conference room in the public library hoping to hear a scary story, only to find out that she walked into a pack of actual werewolves in the act of preparing a ritual that would turn them into gnarly monsters right in front of her eyes.

Oops, spoiler alert in case you haven’t read the story. But seriously, fuck you, because if you don’t know how the title story ends, you definitely don’t know the important facts about Hal Archibald.

Nor should you necessarily. When I saw his flier in the library, I didn’t know him, either. By that time, he’d published a couple short stories, solely in non-paying markets. Still, he tried to pass himself off as some kind of accomplished literary type, the sort that warranted holding a talk at the public library—All About Writing Horror, promised his flier. That sounded like something special to my ghoulish little brain. Hear Local Horror Author Talk Shop, it went on to say. I interpreted these words as a promise that someone would tell me a scary story. Who can resist that? Like the girl in the story, I’d just reached the age of fourteen, but I read well above my grade level, though I faked having much poorer skills in schools, hoping that would help me better fit in, or at least not get picked on so much. Plus, I had real taste for the weird and macabre, and the skull graphic on the flier called to me, telling me I needed to show up to that conference room on the scheduled afternoon (free and open to public), thinking I would experience something truly inspiring, and do it within my nonexistent budget. I wanted to hear stories that made me feel something for a change.

But one look at Hal Archibald told me I made a mistake. Yes, I based the author in my story on him, and perhaps I described him in an unkind way. The character in the story appears short and portly, but actually, Hal Archibald stood at medium height and had a decent build. Not fat at all. Plus, he had all his hair.

In any case, I didn’t make up the words on his sign: What We Talk About When We Talk About Horror. Later, I would learn that these words riffed on a title by Raymond Carver, a much more renowned writer than Hal Archibald. I liked that title. Obviously, since I used it for the title of the story and eventually this book.

Take note, future literary historians!

Naturally, no one turned into a werewolf. I made up that part. Nor did I think of myself as an innocent “Little Red Riding Hood” in a room full of hungry. I’m sure as fuck not innocent, which you will soon find out.

Besides Hal Archibald, only two other people occupied the room, the conversation already cooking. One of them, a male college student, fawned all over Archibald, pretending to know his work in order to curry favor. Later, I would come to know that virtually no one had ever read a single word by Archibald. The other person was a woman in her forties, apparently someone who hoped to escape the rut of her life by starting a writing career, and she wanted to pick Hal Archibald’s brain to find out how to do that exactly. Unlike the college fanboy, she made no secret of the fact that she’d never heard of Archibald’s work.

“Where can I find your writing?” she asked him. “Can I check it out here?”

Of course, she couldn’t. I doubt any libraries carried any of the two publications that contained Hal Archibald’s name in the table of contents.

My grand entrance occurred right before this stage of the conversation. Unlike the girl in my story, no one made me go inside that room, no grandmother with an armful of books, impatient for alone time and thus eager to pass off her recalcitrant charge onto a group of adults gathered for their own special purpose. Abandoned to the wolves, you might say.

Nothing like that. No one even drove me to the library. I walked there on my own two feet. I entered the room at my own free will.

But something felt wrong, almost from the start. No, not felt. Smelled. I could sense it like an animal can smell fear or the threat of violence.

Maybe I was the real werewolf.

It didn’t help that Hal Archibald noticed a trace of hesitation in me as I entered the room. Maybe he smelled something, too. The three of them sat at a conference table in a room with one glass wall, and he gestured to the empty seat next to him, his demeanor like that of a friendly uncle who carries broken glass in his pocket instead of candy.

I maintained the posture that kept me alive until that point, the one I practiced to perfection: my shoulders slightly slumped so that my hair covered my eyes and no one could ever see me.

(I overheard Mr. Arnzen say that he felt “creeped out” while giving me the Stoker because he couldn’t see my eyes. He also didn’t see me standing behind him when he made that remark. He did, however, hear me when I leaned forward in his direction and whispered boo! That caused him to spill his red wine all over his nice tie. I hope you can forgive that little joke, Mr. Arnzen.)

Hal Archibald continued talking while I took a seat next to him, but both people in his audience regarded me uneasily. Looking back, I wonder if they suspected something staged, like Hal Archibald and I planned my entrance together. Not to sound too overdramatic, I must have looked like something out of a horror story myself, this girl with oily skin and uncontrollable acne, not all prettied up like a princess.

I abhorred pretty princesses then. I still mostly do.

If they expected my head to turn completely around, I couldn’t have accommodated, but I could at least look sullen. I certainly didn’t want to appear eager to sit in their presence and bathe in the glow of Hal Archibald’s presence. Did I, on the other hand, want to hear stories of glorious murder and knife wounds glistening red under a harvest moon? Of course.

But I couldn’t bring myself to say such things. Not even when a natural pause occurred in the conversation and Hal Archibald turned to me so he could ask, “What about you? What do you like to talk about when you talk about horror?”

What did I like to talk about? He was the author, after all, not me.

But what things I could talk about now! I have a whole list. Mostly names of pretty princesses, which you’ll learn about shortly.

But back then my tongue froze. With my eyes cast down, hidden behind my own hair, I simply nodded. On the table sat a leather-bound notebook that belonged to Archibald. I stared at that, waiting out the silence, which Archibald finally broke by giving them advice on where to find markets for short stories, how to write a good cover letter, and so on. I listened, even absorbing a few things, but ever aware of the tension created by my mere presence. Keeping my gaze on that notebook kept me centered, the way school counselors taught me when they tried to keep me out of trouble. I wonder if Archibald noticed where my eyes landed because he started referencing his notebook, talking about how he scribbled outlines and sketches on its pages, later typing them up and sending them out for publication.

Each time he tapped its cover with the tips of his fingers, it seemed to glow, taking on a special aura. It held secrets, I sensed, the kind of stories I hungered to hear, the whole point of me coming to this gathering in the first place, the reason I walked all those blocks with cars whizzing past me, waiting for yet another driver to toss an empty bottle of beer at me (that happened a few times, I’m sad to report).

But it turned out that I withstood that hardship just to hear him prattle on, trying to impress a lonely woman and a stupid college kid. What a monumental waste of time.

Finally, the woman asked a question, and Hal Archibald said, “Why, I can show you a resource for that. They keep the latest edition of The Writer’s Market Guide right here in the reference section.”

His two-person audience expressed excitement over such a profound revelation. Quite suddenly, everyone got up from their seats, eager to follow their fearless leader to the stacks to find this remarkable tome of information.

Everyone but me.

And he left his notebook behind. Just sitting there within reach.

So I took it.

I’d never stolen anything before, aside from things I needed—a few dollars out of my mom’s purse, a carton of milk from the school cafeteria (only I think the lunch lady let me do that). Nothing like this notebook, though. I imagined that it might even burst into flame the moment I touched it, as if it were a sentient thing and sensed fingerprints belonging to someone other than its rightful owner. I stood frozen momentarily with it in my hand, wondering if I could go through with doing what I really wanted to do.

I could see Hal Archibald and his acolytes through the glass, their backs to me, all looking down at the golden object in this hand.

At any moment, they would return.

So I pressed the notebook to my flat chest and ran. I ran past the shelves, past the circulation desk and the twitchy librarian who sat there, watching me with jittery eyes as I headed toward the parking lot and the litter-choked county road and the long walk back to my bedroom. Only when I made it there safely did I dare open the cover of the notebook and look inside.

Reader, you probably know that my stories began appearing a short time later. Not right away. It took some work to decipher the scrawl I found inside those pages. Only then did I realize what he meant by “outlines and sketches.” Any thought I had about simply reading them for pleasure went out the window. They needed a lot of work. I almost didn’t notice the names, but when I did, they stopped me cold.

Julia Martin

Mary Augustin

Briana Buckley

Three pretty princesses. You can tell just from the names. But I knew one of them, Julia Martin, because she went to my school, just one grade above me, though that didn’t stop her from acting cruelly toward me. One time, she saw me steal a carton of milk from the cafeteria, and she ratted me out before I could get even so much as a sip out of it. At the time, I figured that Julia could have pretty much anything she wanted at home and never had to steal anything out of necessity. I resented her a great deal for what she did, especially when detention resulted from her squealing. Even worse, afterward, she made fun of me relentlessly. Not everyone could have clothes as fancy as those worn by Julia Martin, or clear skin or silky hair too shiny to hide behind.

But I’ve let go of any grudges or resentment after Julia Martin disappeared. Fliers appeared with her name and picture, including in the library.

At first, I considered the possibility that Hal Archibald came across Julia’s name when he came in to do one of his talks for college students and bored adults. Maybe he liked the name and planned to use it for a character in a story. Maybe he wanted to write a story about her disappearance.

I thought of all those things, but what about the other names?

Well, that called for some research, so I braved the county road again, hoping no one would throw anything at me this time. I also worried about running into Hal Archibald himself. No doubt he wanted that notebook returned to him. Imagine the fury and confusion he must have felt when he returned to the meeting room, his ego blazing with the adoration of his followers, only to have it all deflate when he found his notebook gone, along with me. What if that happened to you? Wouldn’t you question everyone in the library? Wouldn’t you interrogate the librarian at the circulation desk, threaten to slide a white-hot poker up one of her tender orifices until she divulged information about the weird kid with stringy hair who ran out of there like her life depended upon it? No doubt he got into his car and drove up and down the roadways, on the watch for my scrawny ass. Only a miracle accounted for the fact that he didn’t find me.

And when I used a library computer to look up the other names, I realized I needed to make sure he never did.

Every one of them, a pretty little princess. Vanished little princesses. Likely dead little princesses.

Once he knew I took his notebook, he must have kicked open the door to the women’s room, looking for my feet under the stall doors. He probably told the fawning college kid and the bored housewife to fuck off and scram because he had a real emergency to deal with. He probably scared them, later regretting that he let his temper get the best of him, not wanting to seem suspicious.

After researching the other two names, I quietly stood up, ready to exit the library for the last time, vowing to never return again.

But I paused, remembering how I saw them standing in the reference area, looking at the library’s copy of the Writer’s Market Guide.

It probably seems foolish now, but a half-formed idea compelled me to look for it. Maybe I expected to uncover a clue. Either way, I flipped through the pages and found a dog-eared section, one that listed markets for horror fiction, including the first one that would publish my work. Next to these listings, I saw little notations written in the same light pencil that characterized the script in Hal Archibald’s notebook. My idea formed a little more clearly, so I jotted down their titles and contact information, making sure that I spelled the editors’ names correctly.

I remembered hearing that particular piece of advice from Hal Archibald himself. Make sure you spell the editor’s name correctly. I also remembered what he said about keeping the cover letter brief and what to say and what not to say.

Then I got to work, going through the stolen notebook and piecing together the outlines and sketches. Using an old typewriter my grandma kept in her closet, I hacked away slowly, sometimes mistyping a word here or there, but essentially staying true to the narrative skeletons he left for me to find.

(Skeletons. So appropriate, we think of stories in terms of bones. Trust me, the stories in this collection have some real bones associated with them.)

It turned out I had a decent sense of how to tell a story. Apparently, all that time I spent alone with books paid off. I managed to improve upon a few of Hal Archibald’s ideas.

But the biggest change I made involved the protagonist. I made her a woman for one thing. Then I changed her name to Julia.

That story appears first in this collection, and you might wonder how I can claim sole credit for it.

I’ll tell you why. Because I didn’t write it for fame or for money or for awards (thank you again, Mr. Arnzen).

I wrote it because I wanted Hal Archibald to know what I knew. And it was a warning to him, a warning to stop killing the pretty little princesses.

Sure, I had my differences with the pretty princesses (they never treated me nicely, after all), but I now knew what he did to them—that he’d murdered them and buried them in a field somewhere. Probably several fields, because I saw enough in that notebook to know that he sawed off their body parts and scattered those parts around. In one case, he dissolved the body in acid, but that proved a little too messy for his sensibility.

Anyway, I finished that first story and sent it off in the mail along with a self-addressed stamped envelope, just like Hal Archibald told the bored housewife. I didn’t want to email it because that meant going back to the library, and I needed to lie low for a while, not knowing when Hal Archibald might return there hoping to find me. Which he no doubt would.

After mailing the story, I waited. And waited.

I almost gave up, ready to reject all that stupid wisdom Hal Archibald imparted that day. Meanwhile, another pretty princess went missing, this one from a mall. Not only that, but some bored teenagers came across human remains in the woods just off the county road near my grandma’s house. Even without a positive identification, the authorities sounded certain they’d found the defiled corpse of Briana Buckley.

If the editors to whom I sent that story realized that life and death depended upon a swift reply, do you think they’d get back to me faster?

Not like I could put that in a cover letter.

I did the only thing I could: I re-opened the notebook and looked for another outline. Using that, I started another story. That one appears third in this collection under the title, “Slasher’s Paradise.”

Aside from a few fragments, most of that one came from my scrawny little brain, including the name of the final girl: Theresa Carter. You probably already guessed that I named her after the latest victim.

Once I finished that story, I set off on foot to the nearest post office to buy more stamps and envelopes. My grandma gave me the money this time, saving me the trouble of stealing my mom’s drinking money. Unfortunately, being half blind, my grandma couldn’t drive me. I’d have traded anything for a lift.

Because I imagine him everywhere now, behind every flagpole, every tree, around the next corner, always there, waiting for me to show myself. Maybe not a pretty princess, but the person who had his notebook. Evidence.

And after I bought my postage, the unthinkable happened. I did see him. For real.

Just sitting on a bench with his back to the sketchy businesses that shared the strip mall with the post office. I almost didn’t recognize him. He looked haggard, like he’d lost weight and forgotten how to shave. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees as he watched the road, like he knew I might come along at any time. It must have driven him crazy to not know where to find me or know what happened to his notebook.

I kept my head low and maintained what I did best: blending in and remaining unnoticed.

Only he’d seen me before. He knew how to recognize my oily skin, my greasy hair.

I nearly made it to the corner before I felt his eyes burrow into me. That feeling nearly stopped me cold. Even then, I couldn’t resist a look back.

Our gazes met. He rose to his feet. He began a brisk walk in my direction. At the same time, I started running, thinking if I could just make it around the corner, I might survive.

Not far from me was a bus stop, where one last passenger slowly made her way up the steps to pay the driver. The door started to close. I dared not look back, knowing that any change in my speed might give him time to catch up. I summoned all the speed at my disposal, my shoes practically falling off my feet, the worn shoelaces untied, nearly tripping me and leaving me prone on the blacktop of the parking lot.

The bus started to pull away, and I shouted, waving my arms as I ran. With a lurch, it stopped. I could have hugged the driver for taking pity on such a pathetic-looking kid, but I knew that showing emotion didn’t usually work in my favor. I had just enough change from the post office to pay my fare, which I did and sat down.

What would have happened if he’d not stopped? Certainly, no writing career. No collection of stories. At least not by me.

Maybe by Hal Archibald.

I turned to see him standing where I nearly fell, watching the bus roll away. I could still feel his gaze, and he stood close enough for me to see the rise and fall of his chest, not solely from physical exertion, but from anger and fury as well.

I cowered on the seat, wondering if he would follow the bus. I didn’t feel safe.

Instead of riding all the way home, I disembarked at the next stop and walked the rest of the way to my grandma’s, even though that meant walking through the shadows at dusk.

If I made it home alive, I would call the police, hand over the notebook, tell them what I knew.

What do we talk about when we talk about horror? A girl, walking home alone, expecting someone to slice her up and bury her dead body in a lonely field. Even if she wasn’t a pretty princess. As for those girls, let the police save them.

But you know what I found when I arrived home?

An acceptance letter, not to mention a check in what, for me, amounted to a sizable amount.

That quickly, my plans changed.

I held on to the notebook for one thing, using more of the material to type out another story. All that adrenaline now worked as fuel for my imagination. And it kept burning inside me, so once I finished that story, I started another one after that. And then another. For each one, I used enough material from his notes and sketches to make sure that when he read it, he would know it came from me. That I beat him. And each story would convey the same message: stop hurting those girls. Each story contained the name of one of his victims. Whenever I heard about a new pretty princess gone missing, I would name a character after her, just so he knew I kept tabs on him.

And publications started happening more quickly.

When I received my first contributor’s copy, I decided to take it to the library and offer it as a donation. But first I decided to use some of the money I earned to buy some new clothes. Nothing fancy, though. Just something to make me look less recognizable. I also bought a pair of sunglasses and wore them to a hair stylist, where I asked the lady to make my hair short.

She looked at my greasy locks and offered to turn me into a pretty princess.

“No the fuck way,” I said. “Just make it short. Nothing noticeable.”

For one thing, I didn’t want to look that way out of personal preference. For another, I wanted to stay alive. Becoming a pretty princess could mean a death sentence.

The lady went along with what I wanted. Afterward, I took the walk to the library, where I slapped my contributor’s copy down onto the circulation desk. Through my dark lenses, I studied the librarian’s expression. Thanks to my new appearance (my badass look, I called it), she failed to recognize the old me, the sketchy kid with the greasy hair. I even perched the glasses on my nose and winked at her when she said she would try to get my donation into circulation. “You be sure to do that,” I said.

For the first time in my life, I felt truly free and powerful. Like I mattered. I started coming back to the library without fear, verifying at one point that my contributor’s copy of Fearful Tales made it to the stacks. Meanwhile, I logged into a computer to check the news sites, noting when another pretty princess went missing, and then another. I added their names to Hal Archibald’s notebook, just like he would have done, but I did it, so I would remember to include them in stories eventually. I had not yet exhausted his notes and outlines, but with each story, I relied on them less and less.

On one trip to the library, I saw an empty space on the shelf where I should have seen Fearful Tales. Someone checked it out, and I didn’t need to break into any records to know who did.

Hal Archibald.

I felt exhilarated, imagining how finding that book and opening it would drive him to spasms of panic. I could picture him standing in the library aisle, perusing through those pages and coming across his story. How he must have flipped out right there, pulling at his hair, his mouth forming a grimace of anger and consternation. No doubt, he could barely remove his library card from his wallet in order to present it to the librarian. Then the anxious trip home, where he would go to the shed or basement or wherever it was that he kept his latest victim chained.

Busted by me, he would need to let her go, unharmed.

Buoyed by my victory, I practically skipped to the reference section, intending to check the Writer’s Market Guide for information about book publishers. After all, Hal Archibald’s notebook contained one or two ideas I thought I could stretch into a novel.

My eyes beheld something unexpected: a new edition, freshly updated.

Quickly, I opened it to see the horror listings.

A neatly folded piece of paper fell to the floor.

Even without opening it, I knew what it was.

A note for me.

From him.

A confession maybe? A promise to stop committing such gruesome murders? Though the news reports avoided grisly details, his story notes gave enough hints for the rest of my imagination to fill in. I knew he dismembered the bodies of the pretty princesses, keeping them alive as long as possible, right up to the moment when he sawed off their heads. He liked the sounds they made as he cut through the flesh, all the way up to the moment he cut through their vocal cords. I don’t think a confession would do anything for his soul, but I sure hoped that was what I found.

But no. Sure, it consisted of a note addressed to me, using my author’s name, only not a confession at all. Instead, it said:

Dear Anabelle,

I wish to congratulate you on your recent success. On that day in the post office, I could not have imagined that I’d found something with such a fine literary sensibility. Such a skill with words you have! Clearly, I underestimated you, and I must admit you did a fine job with my material. Or, should I say, with our material. Indeed, I now realize that I’ve discovered a collaborator, someone inspired by my own feeble efforts at wordsmithing. I realize now that I should leave side of our endeavor to you and focus upon the work I truly find rewarding. But I want you to keep writing, as you have inspired with your spirited tale. As a token of gratitude, please visit the shelf that contains your book. Take a peek behind the other books on the shelf. I have left you a little gift that, I hope, will spark your imagination.

Yours ever truly,

Hal Archibald

Breathing heavily, I returned to the place in the stacks that housed my prized contributor’s copy. My hands shook as I removed the other books, assuring myself that this was a trick. A prank to scare me.

Maybe I had it all wrong about Hal Archibald. Maybe my first impression of him as a sad, failed writer was the correct one. All that stuff about him kidnapping pretty little princesses and dismembering their pretty bodies came from my own twisted imagination. I would find nothing behind those books.

Oh, no, I found something all right. A little box, just big enough to hold a D-sized battery, decorated with a pretty pink bow.

I didn’t open it there, of course. I returned the books to their place on the shelf, and with the box pressed to my chest, I once again bolted past the circulation desk, wishing I still had long greasy hair I could hide behind. Only after I made it to my grandma’s house did I go into the bathroom and open the box and find what he left for me as a gift, the thing he hoped would inspire me to write more.

A pinky toe, bloodied from its rough removal. Though it had begun turning gray, the nail polish remained bright and shiny, matching the color of the bow.

For a while after that, I stopped writing. I watched a lot of television at my grandma’s, always skipping the local news, not wanting to hear about anyone else gone missing. Letters came back from editors, mostly rejections, but some with contracts that I tore up and threw away. I let my hair grow long, making sure that it once more covered my face.

I stopped going to school. I walked past the library without going inside, sometimes going nowhere, sometimes going to a convenience store, where I learned what to say and do to get burly men in pickup trucks to go inside and buy me a cheap bottle of wine or a six-pack of beer. A lot of times, I didn’t walk back home afterward. Instead, I’d walk to a lonely field, where I’d fall asleep, only to wake up to the feeling of insects crawling over my face, as if I were a corpse. Often, I would think about how much will-power it would require to dig a hole in the ground and bury myself alive. If I actually dug that hole, I wondered, would I uncover the remains of a pretty princess? That thought usually stopped me cold.

I did bury the toe in that field, however. I’d kept it for such a long time that it finally deteriorated so badly that I didn’t know what else to do with it. I couldn’t bring myself to just throw it away. It needed a proper burial. If you’re reading this and work in law enforcement, I can still find the spot. Just contact my publisher, and they’ll put you in touch with me.

Obviously, I eventually started writing again. At one point, I got so drunk that I really did try to bury myself alive. I managed to pull enough dirt on top of myself that it covered my face and nose, causing me to lose consciousness. Dumbed-down with enough booze to drown a horse, I planned to let myself quietly and painlessly suffocate.

Not long after everything fell into blackness, I opened my eyes, finding myself no longer inside a hole but underneath the sky glowing orange with a new dawn. It took me a moment to figure out what happened.

A brand-new notebook, wrapped in a pink and left next to my head, gave me the answer.

He found me and dug me up. On top of that, he left me a gift. New notes and outlines, along with an inscription inside the cover, addressed to me by my real name. He also printed up some new market listings for me to try, along with some personal emails of editors he knew.

Unable to die successfully, I got to work.

It turned out he left me some excellent material this time. Apparently, my efforts inspired him.

You might be wondering what the inscription said. I won’t write it verbatim. It basically said that he realized that he had more potential as a muse than as an author himself, and as long as I kept writing, he would keep us both busy—enough for him to stay out of the business of killing and me trying to die.

Of course, we both have our weaknesses, our limits.

Whenever I run out of material, I wind up trying to bury myself again, knowing that he’ll find me and dig me up. In the morning, I’ll find a fresh notebook perched next to my groggy head. By the same token, I might hear about a pretty princess gone missing.

We both slip up, but everyone has a weakness.

Maybe he always wanted to put one of those pretty princesses back together, and before I came along, he just didn’t know how to do that.

Who knows!

Anyway, you can start reading the stories now. Please leave a review. We like to check social media for that sort of thing. Keep tabs on who likes us and who doesn’t.

And the more good reviews and awards I earn, the more I’ll keep writing.

Which is probably for the best.

About the Author

Douglas Ford’s short fiction has appeared in a variety of anthologies, magazines, and podcasts, as well as three collections, Ape in the Ring and Other Tales of the Macabre and Uncanny, The Infection Party and Other Stories of Dis-Ease, and most recently, Let\'s Cut Up Dad! and Other Stories of Transgressive Madness. His longer works include The Beasts of Vissaria County, Little Lugosi (A Love Story), The Trick, and Who Dies First. He lives on the west coast of Florida.