Weirdbook “Horror around the Bend” by Franklyn Searight
Reviewed by C.D. Lewis
Weirdbook’s 39th issue offers readers twenty-eight new stories. The works themselves offer dark imagery and outlooks on the future of the story characters or their world; some have a traditional story structure, and some are satisfied to evoke the dark weird vibe they were designed to create. Jarringly, the text from pages 51 through the middle of 54 repeats from the middle of 54 through page 58; this does not appear to be an artistic decision to retell scenes for artistic purpose, but an error possibly unsportsmanlike to hold against an author. Whether this volume is for you turns entirely on your attitude toward the creepy, weird, and dark.
A word on the weird. Many of these stories have a structure closer to Lovecraft’s than to any hero’s journey: creepy impressions mount into a conviction of impending doom while the onlooker stands helpless, with no climactic rescue. Often, no discernible climax exists because passive characters fail (or are powerless) to act and watch their world crumble. Readers who demand story structure may struggle for no other reason than that weird works often decide they’ve made the creepy impression they intend, then stop—their work, done. But horror readers will get a bang out of the suspense, the betrayals, and the dark reversals that characterize the works.
To leaven things, Weirdbook #39 includes some outstanding comedy, some of it dark and some of it a parody of the dark.
Franklyn Searight opens the “Horror Around the Bend” in a campground bordering a cemetery. The nasty, mutilated corpses and the slow-moving, unhelpful law enforcement officers seem like they should have more power to inspire a nice sense of horror, but the protagonist’s emotional disengagement and on-the-nose dialogue seem to set up a parody of a horror than draw the reader’s sympathy to a horror victim. Alas, it is not a parody. The protagonist finally engages emotionally and must alone resolve the problem of the missing companion who disappeared on the way to the latrine. It looks promising for a while; it really does. But it takes long enough to require a patience that may not be safe to assume. And some details seem just too hard to believe: an overflowed pit-style toilet the police drain to discover a labyrinthine catacombs stretching all the way to the cemetery? Inhabited, after it’s drained at least, by the evil adversary? Maybe it’s mis-described and the author intended to depict something more susceptible to suspended disbelief, but I could not help wondering what kind of equipment we were to believe the police could bring to the scene to drain so much raw sewage, and where we were supposed to imagine they’d put it without polluting the park. I wanted to enjoy it as a parody but couldn’t.
At about 500 words, Samson Stormcrow Hayes’s “A Tiny Cut” follows Twain’s advice, with two parts real for everything made up. It mixes a trivial little injury with completely believable horrors involving efforts to access effective medical care, and treatments for ailments one knows actually exist from real-world news. A head-fake of apparent respite, and a vicious counterpunch. This horror short is absolutely worth the time to indulge.
Marlane Quade Cook’s comedy “Posthumous” depicts an author’s visitation upon the man claiming authorship of the deceased’s work. Conflict embraces such visceral horrors as alternative spellings, trends in word usage, the work of editors, vanity–there’s something in it for you. Funny, but especially to writers.
Darrel Schweitzer divides “Pages from an Invisible Book” into chunks that demand the reader intuit the person and perspective of each chunk, some in first person, some in third, drawing the reader in by the reader’s own effort. This fantasy suggests a mythic-scale protagonist shrugging off eons of confusion to undertake his dark purpose. As it continues, the seeming-protagonist becomes an observer of another’s tale, and the reader is left to judge the characters and their choices. This dark tale not only presents its characters a moral quandary but challenges readers on the rules by which they judge humans—and whether their own judgment encourages awful behavior we’d prefer to avoid.
Presented in English translation, Lorenzo Crescentini’s “That Name was Evoc” is a fantasy that depicts a pair of beings that fight each other endlessly in reincarnation after reincarnation, each time inhabiting different species. They meet as post-humans who’ve evolved psychic powers, and make peace. Much stronger in mood than in story. Some of the work drags with exposition that might feel more immediate were it shown as action. One wonders if it might be stronger in the original language.
Jackie Bee’s “Misdiagnosed” presents a fantasy romp clad in the trappings of SF horror. Once we see where the twist is going it’s all about lighthearted just-desserts comedy, which is a fun place to go. Hard to discuss a ~1500-word piece without spoiling anything, but if you like rags-to-riches you’ll love brooms-to-breathing-fire.
Readers of Frederick J. Meyer’s “Dog Drool” must be able to parse and understand the “English” found in poorly-translated tourist pamphlet copy found in Korea, on which (according to the author’s note) the work’s style is modeled. Carefully-crafted awful short fiction can be hilarious—there’s even contests for it. One risk in building humor atop intentionally-flawed writing is making the text too inaccessible to be appreciated: the inserted errors ought not make a chore out of parsing the text itself, lest the reader simply give up in simple frustration. In the case of “Dog Drool” the text may faithfully reproduce the word-salad texture of literally translated (or mis-translated) Korean tourist pamphlet copy, but building an entire story from hard-to-parse piles of adjectives may drive away some readers before they get to the Cthulhu references and local vigilantes bent on the violent suppression of practices intended to return the Old Ones. A specimen sentence illustrates the reader’s challenge (ellipses as in the original): “Arcane promontory sheared, lurid cobalt fiery boll ejaculated into pitched hued heavens… where he previously reposed…a hexagonal slice, like an eldritch phallic symbol, convulsively plunged deeply into an insane wind & current sphincier, sucking, churning vulvaish vortex of ocean.” While a story told in the foreign-sounding English of a foreign land (or from a dart-ridden thesaurus or even an English-Hungarian dictionary) is certainly fun in concept, it’s challenging to consume at the intensity with which this one was executed.
“The Venusian Mantis” by Teege Braune is a just-desserts tale spun from a series of who-is-the-villain reversals spiced with gender reversal. Since the story’s progress arises generally from reveals, they’re not susceptible to discussion without risking spoilers. Those triggered by gender violence, or uncertain where the tale may go, could benefit from the reminder that the preying mantis is a cannibalistic predator in which the female not infrequently eats her mate. The Venusian Mantis doesn’t operate quite the same way, exactly, but near enough to warrant the name. Fun for those who enjoy just-desserts horror.
Set in a world of Lovecraftian horrors, Ken Heuler’s “The Colors of the Gods” shows how synesthetes become the chosen of the Great Ones: by seeing colors when they hear sounds, they perceive the messages of their dark overlords. If you enjoy Lovecraftian horror, this story has it all: the creepy setting, the inevitable onslaught, and the dark outlook for the planet. Unlike Lovecraft’s work, which typically follows some hapless mortal through a horrific discovery of dark forces that promise impending doom, Heuler’s shows its protagonist become the founder of the murderous cult that rings in the end of days. Beautifully executed, brilliantly dark, and delightfully weird.
Instead of following story-structure conventions like scene conflict driven by revealed motivation, Hannah Lackoff’s “Spawning Ground” relates a series of vignettes with a feel more like literary fiction, requiring some work (and perhaps a re-read) to understand as a story. “Spawning Ground” is so immersed in the protagonists’ point of view there’s hardly a spare word for the horrific response of onlookers had the protagonists been caught. Missed connections take on the shape of narrow escapes. If you feel like a piece that slowly invites you to draw yourself a picture of lighthearted mermaids ashore hunting mortals for a mating/murder binge, Lackhoff provides.
Lily Luchesi’s “Curse of the Dark Queen” is a buddy-cop short that pairs a know-it-all intern with a hardened detective with a mummy phobia, assigned to investigate a murder spree at a mummy exhibit. (Fans of Jim Butcher’s undead-fest Dead Beat will enjoy this return to the Field Museum.) Luchesi paints some funny scenes with a detective feigning logical analysis while sweating bullets with superstitious fear, while needled by the Captain’s smartass daughter. Ever wonder what happens when you taser an undead mummy? The humor sets up hopes for an upbeat ending, which the Dark Queen dashes. The dark end would feel stronger without overt declarations about the story’s moral.
Rebecca House’s “Monika Unraveling” follows a new vampire rediscovering the home where her family was slaughtered. Since there’s no antagonist, the piece is less a story than a vignette sketching the character’s self-discovery as she leaves her bewildered ex-human self behind and takes on the outlook of a fledged vampire. Instinctive initial uses of vampire powers will please vampire fans. The ambiguity whether voices she hears are people or hauntings or her own memories needn’t be resolved to enjoy the work: it shares with the reader the character’s initial confusion, which could irritate some readers but works here in part because of the weird paranormal setting. Dark and unsettling.
“Crawling With Them” by Jason A. Zwiker is dark near-future horror. Reference to a disastrous “Prosperity Act” is somewhat distracting, as both Canada and the United States have had actual or proposed statutes with a similar name, which tends to make one connect what one knows about real-world policies to the story problem, and try to discern a political message. Forgetting specific statutes from the real world allows one to use the statute for its likely intended purpose: to compare the local-scale hypocrisy of community leaders to later nationwide mismanagement that blighted the whole story world. Delightfully awful imagery amplifies an oppressive environment (drug addiction, protection rackets, rampant poverty) to create an outstanding backdrop for a terrible end, which Zwiker delivers. A horror story, it doesn’t present a traditional story structure—it feels like a three-act story cut short before the climax, which is perfect for a weird dark short. “Crawling With Them” is unusual in having no fantasy element; the fictional pests and the treatment that controls them are plausibly SF elements, though the tale will appeal to horror fans rather than to SF readers.
Set in the Seven Sisters neighborhood of North London, James Machin’s “Seven Sisters” follows an unemployed editor hoping to appear to his wife to have work by writing a book on local history. The reader is presented several pages of the narrator’s experiences in the neighborhood while looking after his toddler, which expose them both to physical evidence of the neighborhood’s history. As the narrator intimates in the lead paragraph, the project “promised to generate neither income nor interest.” While some readers may find the unemployed editor’s thesaurus-driven voice entertaining by itself, readers not susceptible to being so engaged may find it wearying. On page 4 the audience reader discovers a ten-year-old anecdote about a weird incident involving a youth performance of a summer play. The weirdness and horror come—they do—and when it does the languorous pace and florid prose recall Lovecraft’s narrators, with lines like “The firmament was littered with a ghastly pox of black, suppurating stars.” The madness-inducing secrets-Man-was-not-meant-to-know and weird gateways to hideous otherworldly realms also recall Lovecraft, and eventually the style and the story appear to match. “Seven Sisters” concludes as classic Lovecraft: the protagonist helpless before awful powers he cannot comprehend, and a world oblivious of an invasion it will not see until it is too late to resist. Readers who enjoy Lovecraft’s pace and structure will enjoy Machin’s tale of a hapless unemployed editor whose make-work project accidentally dooms the world.
Michael Washburn’s “The House in the Mountains” mixes weird horror with a just-desserts revenge tale to present the long arm of supernatural justice in the form of a cult dedicated to maintaining balance in the Universe. Naturally, since this is horror, the protagonists discover themselves on the wrong side of the cult’s patient plans. The shape of the cult’s plans is never fully revealed, as visions of the possible future lay disconnected to the story’s present-day events. In the near term, we see the tit-for-tat scheme to exact justice by sending wrongdoers into the teeth of the next round of often-violent scale-balancing. The piece has a reassuring trajectory for a horror story, though it is certainly dark and weird: the story’s world is being guided to balance by sorcerers who share the reader’s zeal to see justice done, and the illusion of consequence-free lawlesness is merely a side-effect of the plan’s secrecy—not, in fact, evidence wrongdoers get away scot-free. Readers who react strongly to sexual violence against women should be aware this piece depicts some threats and some harassing physical contact.
Thomas Vaughn’s “Eyes Without a Face” opens on a home invasion of a minimalist household whose owners have no valuables to offer their violent attacker who demands to be appeased with valuables. It comes off quickly as horror: it cements the protagonist’s helplessness by presenting a narrow point of view which follows the husband of a college sweetheart and father of a daughter of six, both of whom are threatened with death while he reels from surprise after an attack and is cuffed by the intruder to an object from which he can mount no rescue. Religious references—prayers to Jesus, oaths by Satan—eventually give the impression that divine power is an illusion for gullible yokels, whereas profane power is actively wielded in the mortal world to practical effect. The story escalates its offense to common sensibilities by suggesting that rape is an illuminating experience that transforms a woman’s life and outlook for the better. The ending leaves one wondering whether the protagonist was the victim of a premeditated betrayal by a spouse in league with his attacker (in which no sexual assault occurred at all), or the victim of a supernaturally powered crook employing dark powers to control women’s minds. While the creepy dark detail that explains the story’s title could make an effective grace note to a dark tale a reader could enjoy, the suggestion the female character had no agency but was merely a prize to be traded between men and could be won in a rape is so offensive that it’s hard to appreciate elements the piece did well.
Richie Brown’s “Clartley Chowder” follows a henpecked man herded into a dinner party he’d rather avoid. Between the constant correction by his wife and the increasingly miserable circumstances, the outlook for the evening quickly transforms into a kind of horror, the stakes of which are so commonplace as to represent comedy. By the tale’s close, the awful consequences of being too polite to decline undesirable invitations and too polite to leave terrible parties have never been clearer. By the time the full scope of the nasty meal becomes clear, it’s too late. Dark comic horror.
Richard J. O’Brien opens “Dominion over Abbadon” on a therapist protagonist whose friend and neighbor has discovered a grimoire of arcane rituals that suddenly appeared in his home. A brief overview of the friend’s objectionable family explain why the tome’s discovery appears such a godsend. The nonbeliever narrator observes with growing horror—and belief—until compelled to intervene. But who really believes in magic? A beautiful dark twisted tale spiced with betrayal.
Frank Schildiner’s narrator in the “Divine Wind of the Dark” begins by explaining how he’s known since birth how, when, and why he would die. The piece demonstrates the scope of what an author can hide behind the first-person narrator: only in the end do we understand what war killed him, and what colors he flew—until then only that his real enemy lay worlds away. Although Lovecraftian horrors threaten the world, the narrator’s successful efforts prevent this from feeling anything like a Lovecraft. Readers of secret history will like this. Weird and enjoyable.
In Bekki Pate’s “Skrik” the narrator pursues hypnotherapy to discover what his mind shut off from the day, which he then relives in his nightmares, and why his mind closed it from his recollection. Although the creepy images and impressions raise questions about the kind of world he lives in and the forces acting in it, no fantasy element ultimately appears in the story, the darkness of which is only too readily accessible in the mundane world. The story’s force comes largely from a reveal, which the reviewer prefers not to spoil. Tragic dark realistic horror.
Ed Burkley’s “The Ferryman’s Journal” is a cursed-book fantasy narrated by a supernatural guide of dead souls into the afterlife, which discusses the job (and its rules) and how the office is passed. Those interested in afterlife mythology will enjoy the imagery from the various scenes one can view on the job. It’s more a discovery tale than a traditional structure involving a story antagonist, and will please those who enjoy the form.
Mark A. Fitch’s “Demiurge” follows an aspiring-writer-bartender in the discovery of a weird world-shaping power apparently managed by a jerk customer. This got-what-you-wished-for tale is dark and disturbing and a reasonable addition to your list of evidence against making wishes anyone could grant. Beautiful work developing creepy imagery. Since it’s straight-up horror, readers won’t be pleased if they expect a story structure involving climactic character-defining choices that prove the heroic nature of the protagonist. Fitch’s “Demiurge” presents a cautionary tale against exploring the supernatural as a noncommittal tire-kicker—creepy, dark, and horrible. If that is your bag, this is your story.
Narrated by an Australian keyboardist gigging in Venice, Kyla Lee Ward’s “And In Her Eyes The City Drowned” depicts an artist trying to build a career while obliged to play tired tunes for tourists within earshot of musicians competing for attention before the season changes and tides cover the plaza. The mood shifts between playful and despondent, terrified and exuberant—a wild ride of emotions and images and sounds. Instead of depicting descent into madness as a failure of will or a rebellion against an oppressive force of normalcy, Ward shows the narrator’s eager reach toward it—or at least her reach despite it—as an artistic triumph. Weird and exhilarating. Recommended.
Narrated by an outcast from a culture of lionlike warriors, John R. Fultz’ “Clouds Like Memories, Words Like Stones” opens upon the arrival of an alien wizard in the Valley of Secrets. This tragedy about enslavement to tradition uses a language and pace that recalls myths with the narrator’s personal reactions and the story’s impact on her own life. Perhaps fittingly for a myth, the antagonists and the values they represent are easy to dismiss as dated and deserving of replacement. The pride’s problem isn’t resolved finally by outsiders or their local students of alien sorcery (though they provide a catalyst), but by adherents of the old culture using its traditional tools at their own personal cost.
Adrian Cole opens “Up The Lazy River” near a year-old human colony on an alien planet with the news of three disappearances. Initially, the narrator sounds like a rural-dwelling prepper finally announcing I Told You So about peacenik city-dwellers. Unfortunately the slow weight of backstory works against the action thriller momentum one might build on a hostile planet predominantly occupied by frightened refugees from other disasters. Retired Soldier Rescues Archaeological Expedition From Aliens For Beer Money could be a fun story, but we find a slow-developing yarn about an emotionally uninvested contractor willing to manipulate terrified targets for what may be simple amusement, then lie about their disappearance to avoid facing accusation. Vonnegut’s advice was, give readers at least one character they can root for. It’s good advice. For a self-sufficient loner, the narrator seems strangely willing to passively accept undesirable and potentially dangerous duty assigned by a local government he otherwise seems to dismiss (as he trades in the wilds). The narrator’s perspective and unconcern regarding the risks impacting others, work against the impression he’s ever at risk of any stakes that matter to him, or concerned about his future. Readers can’t seriously anticipate a cautionary tale from his account, since his suppositions seem always to prove correct even though the viewer is never given a shred of evidence to ground his impressions. Since the narrator never fears for his own fate, and we see no stakes for him in any decisions he makes, one wonders where the story tension should be found. Consequently, the story seems poised to attract the reader solely based on the mystery presented by the disappearances—or not at all. The end-fight contains components that suggest fantasy elements—equipment seems to come to life, animated, and attacks; the enemy may be an incorporeal eater of emotional energy. The ending raises the possibility the narrator has been taken by the alien force himself, and may have been steering humans into their hunters’ grasp all along. The fact he doesn’t seem for twelve pages to care about this circumstance—or the real explanation, whatever it is—raises the question why readers should suddenly care either.
Chad Hensley opens “Sylvan Simulacrum” with a delightfully creepy oblivious-parent moment that permits a child to bring home a found doll plucked from a forest fairy ring. The potential for weird awful is sure to hook anyone susceptible to such things. Five hundred words, and the truth about the start of the fairy invasion.
Russ Parkhurst’s “Mister Dorton’s Cats” is a poem masquerading as a short story. Its use of rhyme and its poetic language could be an asset to some readers, or a distraction. The piece is fantasy about a cat fancier whose cats have all passed away, put to the choice of more life without cats or his afterlife with them. Cat lovers know how this one ends. Fun, short.
Kurt Newton’s “The Autumn People” opens with the entertaining impression of presenting a just-so story explaining the phenomenon of snowbird vacationers. It follows a young boy exploring the empty next-door house with its unkempt back yard, evoking Boo Radley’s house even down to the creepy game with the unseen playmate. This story isn’t for a reader who needs to understand how the autumn-people’s powers (curse?) works and what its rules are. For the reader who’s looking for a short dark creepy piece that comes to an unsettling end, this is it.
C.D. Lewis lives and writes in Faerie.