Necrotic Tissue:

Best Of Anthology

Edited by R. Scott McCoy

This anthology is dedicated to the writers. The ones that are about to take the first step, those that took the plunge and are filled with doubt, the ones that just got their first acceptance, those that just opened the box of contributor copies for their first novel, all the way to the writers who have given of themselves for decades and are questioning if they should continue. Regardless of where you fall on the continuum, know that you aren’t alone.

NECROTIC TISSUE: BEST OF ANTHOLOGY

Necrotic Tissue was a quarterly horror short fiction magazine that ran from 2007-2011 and put out 14 issues. These are the editor’s pick for the best stories from those issues.

First Edition

Copyright 2011, Stygian Publications, LLC

Cover art, Caroline O’Neal

Technical Editor, Lee Pederson

Technical Editor, Jimmy M.F. Pudge

Book Design and Layout, El Remo

Print ISBN: 978-0-615-24528-7

Stygian Publications, LLC

PO Box 787

Forest Lake, MN 55025

www.necrotictissue.com

Contents

First, Last Words By R. Scott McCoy

The finality of the title for this section never hit me until now. I hope these are not my final editorial words. I think I have more to offer, but time will tell.

I created Necrotic Tissue at a time when I needed an outlet and escape from my day-to-day life. My father had been in the hospital for 5 months and it was starting to look like he would never leave. He hung on until May of 2008, in time to see the second issue of a magazine that I dedicated to him. I’d been writing for a couple of years and learned some things about the business. I believed that the Horror community needed stable short fiction markets for writers to first learn their craft and later show off their stuff and help promote their other work.

I still believe this, but I’m no longer convinced there are enough fans to support multiple markets in horror. True, it didn’t help that I started the mag just as the economy was about to crash, but even in a robust economy, there is only room for so many magazines that are able to break even, let alone turn a profit.

I’ve received a lot of compliments from writers at all levels about the quality of NT, and I appreciate it. I think all of the Staph did a fantastic job achieving the goals I had set out. Those goals were: Publish the best stories regardless of who the writers were; read every story that is submitted completely; give feedback for all rejections; and turn around both rejections and acceptances fast.

During the four years and 14 issues of NT, we published 298 stories, from 241 writers. Of those, 21% were women. The most appearance of any writer was 6 by a master of the 100-Word story form, writer Robert C. Eccles.

During that time, we also sent 2,677 personal rejections, with an average turnaround time of 16 days. Of those, 266 writers took the time to send a thank you email. Most expressed thanks for the feedback or praised our turnaround time. These 266 emails reside in a folder I called “Sunshine”. It wasn’t meant to be sarcastic. The fact is we also got a small percentage of angry, abusive and foul emails telling us how bad we sucked and how stupid we were for not recognizing the brilliance of their writing. I didn’t keep track of or count them, but there were a lot less than 266.

I am proud of the fact that of the 241 writers that have appeared in NT, we were the very first publishing credit for 60 of them. Some of those 60 will go on to write many more short stories and some will even put out novels. Some will do no more than dabble, submitting here and there, and that’s ok. This is art, not a competition. If NT is the only publishing credit some writers ever get, it is just as important a contribution to the genre than if that writer went on to publish hundreds of stories.

Some of those 60 writers, I have gotten to know. I have met a few at conventions, but most others, I only see online. I see their posts and track their progress with pleasure. A few have gone from getting their first short fiction credit to publishing a novel in less than three years. How cool is that?

I listed my goals for NT, but I would also like to explain my motivation. As a writer, I wasn’t frustrated with editors for not publishing me. Sure, I was frustrated because I was getting a lot of rejections, but the frustration was directed inward. I was the one that was putting out sub standard work, not the editors. I knew my stories weren’t quite there, but I didn’t know why. What frustrated me was the amount of time it took to get rejections and the form letters that gave no hint if I had missed the mark by an inch or a mile.

I’ve read heated posts from editors who furiously declare that it is not their job to tell writers what is wrong with their stories. They are not teachers they are editors. Not all, but some of these same editors also complain at the quality of stories they must endure while doing their jobs. To this, I say BULLSHIT!

First of all, most editors barely read the first page of any submission. How much suffering can there be in one page? It is their job and they did post a call for open submissions, so I think they need suck it up and quit whining, especially if they refuse to give the writers a clue as to why the stories are being rejected.

I have a lot of respect for the Canadian magazine OnSpec. They are a speculative fiction and don’t publish a lot of horror. They do an excellent job selecting quality stories. They are also the first market to ever give me feedback. Just three short lines, but it made a huge difference. When I reread my story after reading the feedback, something clicked.

Now I am not saying that overnight I became an amazing writer.

In reality, I think I am a solid short fiction writer that has not yet written his best. I will say that what I wrote improved dramatically after receiving that feedback and that it was a major turning point in my progress as a writer.

I have no idea if NT ever had that profound of an impact on any of the people we sent rejections to, but if we helped even one writer the way I was helped, I will be content.

I would like to convince other markets that the NT way is better for the genre and in the long run better for their own magazines. Helping develop writers is actually a selfish act. It ensures that the quality of submissions will improve over time and it increases the number of quality writers those magazines can publish.

Okay folks, that’s it for the lecture/rant. If you see me in person, I may give you an earful of a variation of these themes, but for now, I’m done.

I’m sorry to see NT end, but I am proud of what we accomplished. I want to thank all of the writers who submitted over the years, the artists who contributed their disturbing images and all the fans who subscribed and bought individual copies.

I also want to thank my wonderful Staph.

My sister Paige McCoy and my brother in law Eric Silvernale for helping me get NT off the ground, John P. Wilson for all his hard work as technical and associate editor and head editor for issue #11, my uncle Lee Pederson for doing a fantastic job as our Proof Reader, Daniel I Russell for his work as technical editor, associate editor and head editor for issue #12, Jodi Lee and Doug Murano for being great associate editors in the last year and most of all, a huge thank you to Dan Barter (aka Remo), for his tireless, thankless work doing the layout and design of every issue and all of the art in the first several issues. There wouldn’t have been an NT if it wasn’t for Dan, and it means even more to me because he just plain doesn’t like horror.

I hope to someday come back with another project that spotlights fantastic short horror fiction. I love publishing it almost as much as I enjoy writing it, and short fiction will always be my passion. Until then, please keep reading, writing and submitting to and supporting the markets that are left.

How to Make a Brain Soufflé By Justin Pilon

Zombies make lousy chefs. What a terrible misconception! Sure, with the twitching and the irresistible desire to glut themselves on human flesh, it can be tough for a zombie to prepare a decent meal. But impossible? I think not! My name’s Aldrich Byrne, zombie writer extraordinaire, and here is an easy seven-step recipe that’s sure to put a smile on your loved one’s face (even if it is rotted straight through).

Step One: Hunt Them Down.

The recipe, as any good recipe should, calls for humans. Three to be exact. A magic number? Some bizarre holy trinity necessary for the soufflé to rise? Don’t bother yourself with the details. It just takes three. Big- brained, small brained, any size brained— men, women or children— it really doesn’t matter, as long as the number is three, got it?

Now be warned, humans are crafty little creatures. They’re naturally top-heavy— that is to say they have frighteningly large brains and can actually use them to think. But do not despair my dumb, dumb zombie friend. Intelligence is overrated. And I, good Samaritan that I am, have prepared the key techniques for outwitting even the smartest of their breed.

Here’s a little secret I’ll let you in on: humans are hopelessly, uncontrollably, despairingly attracted to the dull, blue glow of TV screens.

Have you ever seen a moth bouncing off a light bulb? Well, like that. Turn on a TV and PRESTO! As if by magic, they appear! It’s like going fishing with a flashlight at midnight. Most definitely not rocket science and most definitely not beyond you, no matter how congealed that rotted brain of yours might be. And sure… it’s frowned upon by the hunting community, but, hey, we’re not in this for the sport. We want to make a damn brain soufflé, remember?

Step Two: Hack Those Suckers Up.

I know! I know! Back in the good old days we would have just dug right in. Forgotten the table manners. Forgotten the formalities. Forgotten the whole ritual of dabbing one’s mouth with a napkin. But those days are long gone. It is time, my zombie friend, to get with the times. Have some common decency. Show some class. That whole sashimi fad went out of style eons ago. But the Japanese zombies this… The Japanese zombies that… Well, I don’t care what the Japanese are doing! Over here we cook our meat, got it?

If you want my professional advice, forget their bodies and just take their heads. That’s all we’ll need for this recipe. It may seem wasteful to leave the bodies lying there for the rats and roaches, but honestly, why conserve? Humans, I’ll remind you, breed like rabbits.

Step Three: Pop the Tops.

This step might seem like a given. Trust me, it’s not! The human skull is a touchy thing, nothing to joke about. Have you ever tried cracking a hard- boiled egg? It’s similar. Use a hammer and you’ll be eating porridge. Use a saw and you’ll be picking bone fragments out of your gums for weeks. I’ve done the latter my fair share of times, and let me tell you— not fun!

A corkscrew is just about the most perfect tool any zombie chef could possibly ask for. It’s cheap, you can find it pretty much anywhere, and more importantly it doesn’t take too much in the way of motor skills. Because let’s face it, we zombies will never be able to paint the Mona Lisa or put together a rocket ship. Hell, I once saw a zombie spend three weeks trying to pick up his own severed arm. He kept kicking it as he leaned down to pick it up— a regular Charlie Chaplin.

One more thing I should warn you about, those little human skulls are much tougher than they look!

Especially the male branch of the species.

They have the thickest skulls of all. I once spent seventeen hours trying to pry one open. It’s true that later someone pointed out to me that it was in fact an orangutan head, but you know… monkeys, humans, orangutans…

Who can tell the difference?

Step Three B: Pop the Tops [Alternate Methods]

I should also note here that a large nut cracker would also do just fine as a substitute to the corkscrew, but good luck finding one of those! The Nutcracker Suite ended long ago on Broadway, and though I have heard there are still some giant nutcrackers hanging around in the area, good luck getting over there with the uptown zombie traffic. More likely you’ll end up falling over and being stampeded by the zombie hoard.

I’ve also seen some of these younger zombies trying the whole Joe- Peschi-Raging-Bull-head-in-the-door technique. I have one word to say. NO! Come on, that’s not civilized, not even by diminutive zombie standards. And even worse, it makes a lousy soufflé! So if you want your soufflé coming out like pudding, go ahead. But as for me, I’m gonna quote my French zombie brethren and say, “non, non, non!”

Once you do get past the hard exterior (regardless of what technique you use), scoop the sweet brain matter into an oven dish (an ice cream scoop or plain old ladle will do the trick). Do not lose heart, my little zombie, you are halfway there!

Step Four: In a Separate Pot Make a Béchamel Sauce.

“A Béchamel whatta?” you say. Jeez! Please, please, please try not to be so… well… uhmm… zombie-like! Add butter, flour, and milk into a hot pan and stir. When it thickens, take it off the heat and add three egg yolks and grated cheese. Stir again. When cool, add 4 egg whites and pour it over the brain mixture.

Where do you get all this stuff?

Must I answer every single, little question??? Go to the local supermarket.

Grunt and moan a little. Raise your arms in the air, dangle your fingers, and scream “brains! brains! brains!” until every last human eye is upon you.

Your arrival will undoubtedly freak them out (they’re a rather sheepish race). Inevitably, they’ll run for the door. Guess what? Now everything is free. Can you say “sweet?” Oh yeah and one last warning, stay away from the Twinkies, they’re not healthy and, honestly, zombies are genetically prone towards addiction.

Step Five: Beat the Brain Matter.

Easy right? Think again! On average only one out of ten thousand zombies can screw in a light bulb. You know why? Because zombies, invariably, have the tendency to spasm and jerk. Sound familiar? Hell, even I, zombie chef extraordinaire, tend to jerk a little. Luckily for me, it turns my girlfriend on.

Beating the brain matter will most likely be the hardest part. You must beat the mixture lightly! I repeat—LIGHTLY! DO NOT TWITCH! DO NOT SPASM! DO NOT JERK! Because if you do, it will all be ruined. I find, personally, that it helps to let myself slip into a meditative state. I imagine myself in a Zen garden raking sand under the shade of a banyan tree.

Lost you there? Never mind. Then just be still, for Pete’s sake. I know! I know! The jerking is involuntary, but seriously, if you beat the brain matter too much, if you ignore my advice on this one, you’ll end up with chunky scrambled brains rather than light, fluffy, delicious brain soufflé. And that sure as hell ain’t going to impress the lady.

Step Six: Twenty Minutes in the Oven.

It may seem superfluous to mention this. Again, it’s not! It has been scientifically proven that the average zombie attention span is approximately thirty nanoseconds. We’re talking twenty minutes here!

That’s twenty minutes of resisting your most primordial desires. Twenty minutes of ignoring that unquenchable appetite of yours!

I don’t care if you see a human with a brain the size of a watermelon walking down the street. You must stay with the damn soufflé! If you leave, the soufflé will burn. And guess what? So will your house! Where will you live then, smart guy? Don’t expect little Miss zombie neighbor to let you live with her. I’ve been living in this post-apocalyptic world long enough to know that it’s every zombie for himself.

Step Seven: Serve and EAT!

Pull out your silverware and golden plates. Sprinkle a little salt and pepper, a little parsley, a little parmesan, and of course prepare yourself a nice chilled glass of wine (white goes best with brains). Maybe a little mood music. Maybe a little candlelight. And that’s it! Congratulations!

You’ve done it! You’ve prepared the perfect romantic zombie evening for you and your loved one. Now relish in the mighty brain soufflé, epitome of zombie class!

HOW TO MAKE A BRAIN SOUFFLE, By Aldrich Byrn

Aldrich Byrn was turned on the 18th of October 2010. His body, a miracle of science, has succeeded in producing unique antibodies that combat the zombification process. And though he looks as rotted as the next zombie, he has man- aged to keep some of his intellect and motor skills. Because of this, Aldrich has dedicated himself to the noble pursuit of “elevating” the zombie race by means of literature. He is also the best-selling author of the books: How to Reignite the Flame in your Frigid Wife and Why do Foul Gases Keep Escaping my Husband’s Every Orifice? Look for these in your local ransacked bookstore.

Bless Me Father By Matthew Phoenix

Father Tom took the seat across from his oldest friend and made space at the table by stacking half-eaten TV dinners and pushing aside empty liquor bottles.

“I killed her,” Adam said, fidgeting with a dirty glass of whiskey and running his hand through his greasy hair. Food stains blotched the thick stubble around his mouth, and dark patches underlined his bloodshot eyes.

Father Tom knew that widowers often blamed themselves, but Adam’s lack of personal hygiene alarmed him.

“I’m glad you asked me to come over. I’m worried about you. A lot of us are.”

“Did you hear me? I said I killed Helen.”

“It sounds like the first line of one of your old stories. It’s called ‘the hook’, right?”

Father Tom heard a sound like a faraway backfire. Adam shot a look toward the cellar door and then downed the contents of his glass.

“I killed her, Tommy. I’m not kidding.”

Father Tom recoiled at the stench of body odor as Adam reached for a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“When was the last time you left the house? Or even this kitchen? Isn’t that what you wore to the funeral? It’s been more than a week.”

Adam didn’t respond, and Father Tom said, “The world is worse without Helen, and I’m sorry. But you can’t let her death ruin your life. She wouldn’t want that.”

“She didn’t want me getting her killed, either.”

“Helen had a heart attack. It’s an awful tragedy, but it’s the truth. And as confusing as it may be, it’s also part of God’s plan.”

Helen was only thirty-five and in great shape, but the Thursday before last, her heart had simply stopped. Father Tom had also heard that if she had somehow managed to survive the coronary, the nasty fall down the cellar stairs probably would have killed her.

Father Tom put his hand on Adam’s. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

“You’re right. Once it started, there’s nothing I could’ve done. I keep telling myself that.”

“Right. See? Now you’ve got to pick up the pieces and get on with your life.” Father Tom stood and gathered trash from the table. “Go take a shower and change your clothes. I’ll clean up down here.”

A loud bang from the cellar caused Father Tom to drop the stack of empty TV dinners. While he was down on his hands and knees using the edge of a tray to scrape apple cobbler off the floor, he felt a low rumbling beneath him. “You should get your furnace checked. It sounds ready to die.”

“It’s not the furnace. It’s the demon.”

Father Tom looked up and found Adam staring out the window over the sink.

“Pardon?”

Adam turned to look at him. “The furnace is fine. The demon’s making that noise.”

Father Tom rocked back. The floor rumbled beneath him. He stood up, wiping finger trails of apple cobbler and cranberry sauce on his black linen pants. He opened his mouth to speak. Failed. Tried again.

Nothing. Finally, he uttered, “What?”

“I summoned him,” Adam said, plainly. “I was researching magical incantations for a story, and I stumbled across one of the documents found with the Gospel of Judas. I printed it out, then read it. I don’t know how, it was no language I’d ever seen, but it was as easy to read as Dick and Jane.”

Father Tom’s face scrunched up in disbelief. “Come on. This is not H.P.

Lovecraft. You can’t just Google up the ‘Necronomicon’ and summon a demon. Do you even hear yourself?”

“Helen thought I was nuts, too.”

“This was going on before she died?”

Father Tom, incredulous, dropped into the chair, rested his forehead against his palms, elbows on his knees. Now he understood why Helen had kept trying to reach him.

“At the beginning, everything was fine. Great, actually. I wrote a dozen stories in the first four weeks after summoning him. I haven’t written that much since before I got married. And every one sold. All these editors who’d been sending me form rejections for years were now begging for more. The demon was my muse and good luck charm all in one.” Adam let his eyes drift like a child being scolded. “Then he demanded payment.”

Father Tom sat up. “What do you mean, payment?”

“I don’t know how to say this, but...he wanted a cat.”

Father Tom thought about the recent surge of signs posted around

Riverview. His stomach churned as he thought of the grainy pictures, some offering rewards, some just begging for help. These were family pets, pets with names. They belonged to the boys and girls he preached to on Sundays. He groaned, prayed silently, and then asked, “You sacrificed cats?”

“No.”

“Thank the Lord,” Father Tom said, slumping in relief.

“I mean, not right away. See, these editors kept calling me, emailing me. Then eight checks arrived in three days. Checks for my stories. Stories

I’d written. I couldn’t let it stop, I had to do it.”

Despite all his training, Father Tom found himself becoming emotional.

“You sacrificed cats?”

“It’s not like you think. I didn’t carve them up on an altar and dance around naked under the full moon. At first, I’d just wait outside the dump and lure strays into potato sacks with catnip. Once I had one, I’d leave the sack in the cellar. Then, when the demon was done, I’d bury the corpse or wrap it in newspaper and send it out with the trash. It wasn’t until later I drove around looking for cats people had put out for the night.”

Father Tom found himself trembling, nauseated. This was not some freak on the five o’clock news he would work into a cautionary sermon, this was Adam, and Adam had cracked.

“You need help,” Father Tom said. “There’s this place I know. They’re good at keeping things quiet.”

“Tommy, you’re helping me just by being here. I don’t need anyone else.” Adam glanced toward the cellar door. “Besides, it’s hard for me to leave. He doesn’t like it.”

“Listen, let me take you there. I won’t tell anybody you killed the cats.

Nobody has to know.”

“I told you, I didn’t kill them, he did.” Adam grunted and waved his hand in the air, as though shooing a bug. “They’re not the point, anyway.

Who cares about the damn cats? That’s not why I called you.”

Father Tom thumbed his temples. “Why, then?”

“Because it wasn’t enough to just sell my short stories. You know what

I wanted, what I’ve always wanted – to write books. Novels.”

Father Tom remembered his best friend holding court over the neighborhood kids. Adam always told stories--at sleepovers, around campfires, at scout meetings, on the way to and from school. Everyone assumed he would grow up to be a writer. He had the amazing ability to incorporate his surroundings into his stories, sucking in the listener, getting him to ignore obvious explanations in favor of irrational, mystical, and supernatural ones. The hoot of an owl became a psychopath’s signal to his accomplice. An exploding pine knot, a sniper’s near miss. Rustling trees, an approaching army of giants.

The magnitude of Adam’s gift became clear when Tom’s little brother, Danny, came down with leukemia. Adam became a regular at the hospital.

He visited Danny almost daily, sitting next to him in that sterile white hospital room, spinning an epic yarn. In the tale, Danny wasn’t dying, he was being pulled away to a world called Shim. The people of Shim needed him to lead a group of rebels against the evil sorcerer overlord. The story went on for months, and toward the end, the nurses and sometimes the doctors found excuses to come in and listen. As Danny wasted away on

Earth, he grew in power on Shim, and the day before he passed away, he defeated the overlord and ascended the throne of Shim.

Tom couldn’t cope with becoming an only child at age fourteen, so

Adam resumed his tales of Danny’s adventures. But that didn’t stop the depression, the skipping of school, the fistfights, or the secret drinking. Nor did it prevent Tom from swallowing a whole bottle of sleeping pills. But as he lay in bed waiting for sleep to take him forever, Tom kept thinking about how Danny was trying to root out a traitor among his advisors, each of whom had saved his life repeatedly during the ongoing defense against the invaders from the faraway continent of Maeror. If Tom were gone, Adam would stop telling stories of Shim, and Danny would be dead for good. In both worlds. Tom couldn’t let that happen. He had run to the bathroom and stuck his finger down his throat to spew out his insides, heaving himself dry. After that, life slowly improved. He stopped stealing booze, his grades picked up, and Danny’s army repulsed the forces of Maeror.

As they grew older, Adam’s written stories were continually rejected, and eventually he stopped talking of becoming a novelist. It had been years since Adam had even spun a yarn, but Father Tom realized that was exactly what he was doing now, and as always, Adam was folding real-life events into the tale. He wasn’t an insane cat-murderer, he was a storyteller again.

Father Tom felt tension drain from his body. He wanted to laugh with joy, but he knew it would unravel Adam’s yarn, so he stood and gathered the trash from the table once more.

Adam looked up, raised an eyebrow.

“I’m just cleaning up. I’m listening, though. Go on.”

“Well, I figured since my stories were finally selling, perhaps my book might, too. It wasn’t getting any better locked in the drawer, so I sent it off to Bantam, down in the city. It was pretty stupid. I mean, I had no agent, and I had sent it to their corporate headquarters, which I found out later is nowhere near the editorial department.”

“You wrote an entire book in the last few weeks?” Father Tom asked as he peeled open a large, black trash bag.

“Of course not,” Adam said. “I sent them ‘Floral Armageddon.’”

“The one where the aliens come down and bring the plants to life?

Where the entire population of Hawaii is wiped out by angry pineapples?”

Adam’s face reddened. “Yeah, that one.”

“That book was awful. You said so yourself.”

“Yeah, but look at all the garbage they publish nowadays.”

If Father Tom had any lingering doubts about this being a yarn, they were gone now. Adam generally refused to acknowledge the existence of

“Floral Armageddon,” and he would never send it to a publisher.

“Anyway, four days after I sent it, Sheldon Katz, senior editor at

Bantam, called. He loved the book, said it was a sure hit and promised to get me a contract immediately.

“He wasn’t kidding, either. The next day, a rep. from Bantam showed up. He had me sign a contract, and then handed me a cashier’s check for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Three times what I make in a year, for something I wrote ten years ago.

“It was a dream. I could quit my job and write full-time. I pictured the book tours, the radio interviews, the modest way I would write personal notes to each fan at book signings. I might have stood there all afternoon, practicing my signature with an air pen,” Adam said, waving his hand through the air, signing imaginary paper, “if he hadn’t interrupted. He said only two words, but that was enough. Enough to shock me back to reality and destroy my life. Two little words.”

At the sink, where he was scraping dishes and loading them into the dishwasher, Father Tom listened, but Adam said nothing. Adam had baited him, and it had worked. Father Tom needed to know those two words. He turned and asked, “What--”

“Your wife,” Adam said, a tear spilling from his eye. He turned away and whispered, “Your wife.”

Father Tom crossed the kitchen and reached out.

“Don’t!” Adam snapped over his shoulder. “Just let me finish.”

Adam took a deep breath and continued. “I knew what he wanted, but

I wouldn’t pay. The price was too high.”

Father Tom heard anguish in Adam’s voice. It was hard to stand by and do nothing, but he knew this was part of Adam’s catharsis.

“Helen was at Emily DeMarco’s that day, scrapbooking. I had no idea how far the demon’s power reached, but I couldn’t chance it, so I grabbed my keys and raced out to the car. The second I was outside, my head started throbbing. I floored it all the way down Main Street, right past Town Hall and your church. By then, the throb was a full-blown migraine. As I was about to turn on School Street, I had to pull over for an ambulance. When it turned down School, I just about died. I rode its tail so close, I passed the

DeMarcos’ and had to turn around.

“I turned wide, ended up on the lawn, and barreled through the front door screaming Helen’s name. I was surrounded by all these women with their scissors and albums and coffee cups and stacks and stacks of pictures.

They were all looking at Helen, and she was glaring at me. I grabbed her and dragged her out to the car, stammering something.

“Once we were in the car, she laid into me, but I heard nothing through the pain. I told her about the advance and that we were going straight to the airport to take a trip to celebrate. Anywhere she wanted, even her mother’s in Florida. Dear God, the pain was intense.”

Adam grabbed his drink, downed it, shook his head, and sighed.

“She’d forgotten her wallet in her other purse. How anybody can leave the house without ID is beyond me, but we came home to get it, and I made her promise to stay in the car.

“The second I was inside, the headache vanished. I ran upstairs, and just as I grabbed her purse off the dresser, I heard the screen door slam.

‘Let’s go to Paris,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll get the passports.’

Our passports are in a shoebox in the cellar.

“I raced downstairs, yelling at her to get out, but I was too late.

“The cellar door was wide open, and she was still screaming when I reached the kitchen. It was pitch black down there. I flipped the switch, but no lights came on. As soon as I put my foot on the top stair, she made an awful gurgling noise, and the screaming cut out.

“I fell backward into the kitchen and just lay there, his stench and the sound of his breathing drifting up from below. I don’t know how long I stayed there crying, sobbing, contemplating suicide.”

Upon hearing the word “suicide,” Father Tom spun, barking his shin on the open dishwasher. The pain raised his voice to a shout as he said,

“You’ll go to Hell!”

“That must have hurt,” Adam said. “Come sit.”

Father Tom hobbled over and rubbed his shin. He reminded himself this was only a yarn, part of Adam’s coping process, although he was astounded that Adam had made Helen’s death into a horror story.

“I won’t lie to you, Tommy. I thought about killing myself, I really did.

But I started thinking that’s exactly what he wanted. I mean, he easily killed Helen, but for some reason, he hadn’t touched me. I thought maybe he couldn’t, and it gave me strength. I shouted at him, taunted him, dared him to kill me, but he didn’t even respond.

“In the end, the phone snapped me out of it. It was the agent the Bantam folks had hooked me up with. They wanted to make Floral Armageddon into a movie . I told him to do whatever he wanted and hurried off the phone to call the police.

“I expected him to kill the sheriff and the medical examiner, but he seemed to vanish while they examined and removed Helen’s body.

“When they left, I decided to leave, too. Just take my advance and get out. But the second I was outside, the migraine came rushing back. It expanded like a balloon with every heartbeat, splitting my skull from the inside. I stumbled to the car but was so crushed by pain I couldn’t hold the key and finally had to retreat back inside.

“That’s when I realized I was a prisoner, trapped in my own house. I can’t even get the mail without my head feeling like it’ll explode.”

The bells at St. Catherine’s began their top-of-the-hour cadence.

When the twelfth knell faded, Father Tom stood and said, “I have to conduct Mass at 12:30. Go clean yourself up, you’re coming.”

“I told you, he won’t let me leave.”

“Uh-huh, but you made it through the funeral just fine. Did he give you a pass on that, or did I maybe find a hole in your story?”

“Ken Spencer drove me to the funeral. I was totally doped up on Vicodin.

Even so, by the time we left the cemetery, the pain was overwhelming the drugs, and I was ready to jam something through my ear.”

“Okay, but while I’m poking holes, what about the check? If you went into the bank with a check that big, everyone in town would know.”

Adam pulled a balled-up piece of paper from the pocket of his filthy dress pants and pushed it across the table. Father Tom flattened it out and saw it was a check made out to Adam for “one hundred fifty thousand dollars and zero cents.”

“You said you submitted it to Bantam. This says Random House.”

“They own Bantam,” Adam said. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“The check’s really nice. You can do amazing things with computers today,” Father Tom said as he dropped the check on the table. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the story, and I feel so blessed you chose to share it with me, but no, of course I don’t believe you. Also, it feels unfinished. I mean, what, you’re stuck in the house for the rest of your life? That’s pretty weak.”

“It’s not finished.”

“It’s not? Well, I need to be there in less than half an hour, and you need to at least change your clothes, so tell me quickly, how does it end?”

Adam fished a hair off his tongue, wiped his fingers on his shirt, and said, “I couldn’t live as a prisoner, yet I didn’t think it was my time to die-

-God’s plan and all that--so I asked him the price to be free.”

Father Tom waited for Adam to continue. He waited for what seemed like forever before saying, “Come on, we don’t have time for you to bait me. What was the price? What did he want?”

“A first-born virgin.”

Father Tom laughed and clapped. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? What else could it be? Now that is a good ending.” He snorted. “You know, you are truly gifted. I came over to help you, but all I really did was listen while you helped yourself. It’s just like with Danny, and, uh--with me, too.” Father Tom put his hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Your stories saved my life, Adam, and whether or not they make you rich, nothing will change that.”

Adam lowered his head, said nothing.

Father Tom shook off the seriousness of the moment, and snickering, said, “Anyway, what’re you going to do, lure a nubile young girl into your house and toss her into the cellar?”

Adam looked up, tears running down his face. “What? No, I--” He looked everywhere but at Father Tom. “I planned something else,” he said, voice cracking.

Father Tom pulled Adam to his feet and hugged him closely, tightly.

As Adam sobbed against him, Father Tom realized his friend was letting go of his fantasy, letting the truth about Helen sink in.

“It’ll be alright. You’ll get through this,” Father Tom said. “We’ll get through this.”

Adam mumbled something.

“What?” asked Father Tom.

Adam lifted his head, sniffed, and ran his arm under his nose.

“You’ve got to get out of here.”

“I can stay a few minutes. We’ve still got time.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Adam said, pulling away. “You’ve got to go.” He shoved Father Tom toward the side door. “Go! Get out!”

An explosion shook the house like an earthquake. Bottles rolled off the table and smashed on the floor. The window over the sink shattered, raining glass on the counter. Bits of plaster tumbled from the ceiling, and Father Tom fell against the table as Adam dropped into his chair.

“I think your furnace just blew.”

“Please, you need to get out. He’s angry.”

“What? The demon? Cut it out, Adam. The story’s over.” Father Tom hauled Adam out of the chair by his grimy shirt. “Come on. The whole cellar’s probably on fire. Let’s go.”

Adam pulled away. “He won’t let me leave, but it’s not too late for you,” he said, pushing Father Tom toward the side door again. “Get out while you still can. I’m sorry I lured you here, sorry for everything.”

“There’s no demon!” Father Tom shouted, shoving Adam aside and reaching for the cellar door. “Look, I’ll show you.”

“No!” Adam cried. He grabbed for Father Tom but slipped and fell.

Father Tom whipped the door open, pulling an acrid, black cloud into the kitchen.

“See? There’s noth--”

In the split-second before he was yanked into the cellar, Father Tom realized he had made a terrible mistake.

Adam lowered his head and closed his eyes. He heard a heavy thump.

Then another. He wept when the screaming started.

When the screaming finally stopped, Adam was still crying. He cried or a long time before something from the depths of the cellar rasped,

“Freeee.”

Adam opened his eyes, stood up, and kicked the cellar door closed.

He ran his hands along the length of his face, rubbing away tear- streaked dirt and grime. He looked around his filthy kitchen and then walked in a daze up the short hallway past the parlor to the front door. He put his hand on the tarnished brass knob and then let go, crossed himself, mumbled a quick prayer, opened the door, and stepped out onto the porch.

He stood motionless, eyes closed, waiting for the pain to tear through his skull. He counted slowly to fifty. To one hundred. The pain didn’t come.

He was free.

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