Righteous Blood

Praise for Righteous Blood:

An astonishing feat of fictive shape-changing…an amazement to behold…Cliff Burns plays his hand well and the whole book’s a surprise well worth the reading.

Edward Bryant, Locus (USA)

"Righteous Blood by the Canadian writer Cliff Burns has two quirky novellas…the author expertly manipulates the reader’s sympathy within a very murky ethical system."

Ellen Datlow, Editor

Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror

On the strength of these stories I’ll be keeping a close eye out for this author, who has just been added to the small list of ‘must read’.

Andy Fairclough (U.K.)

Cliff Burns has been disturbing readers for around twenty years, crafting dark explorations into the hearts and motivations of characters who, through the clarity of the author’s prose and unique, imaginative aplomb, speak to readers’ fears and fascinations with the dark possibilities of the world around us and the conflicting worlds within…provocative work in an age of lackluster fluff.

William P. Simmons (U.K)

"In ‘Kept’ the unexpected and unpredictable elements make this one of the best stories I’ve read this year. Unconventional and exciting, Righteous Blood gets a big, fat thumbs up!"

John Berlyne (U.K.)

Two very quirky and strange tales, peopled with characters that are startlingly imagined…memorable, original, energetic…a bold and inventive work.

Claude Lalumiere (Locus On-Line; USA)

Righteous Blood

(Two Novellas)

Cliff Burns

Copyright © 2016 by Cliff Burns

Second Printing.

All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design: Chris Kent

Cover art: Red Skies by Cliff Burns

Interior layout and design: Susan Veach

Published by Black Dog Press ([email protected])

Printed by Lightning Source

ISBN: 978-0-9938721-1-2

Also by Cliff Burns:

Disloyal Son

Sex & Other Acts of the Imagination

So Dark the Night

Of the Night

The Last Hunt

Exceptions & Deceptions

Stromata: Prose Works

New & Selected Poetry (1985-2011)

The Reality Machine

violins in the void (poems)

for Sherron

Contents:

Introduction

Living With the Foleys

Kept

Story Notes

And so upon you will come all the righteous blood that has been shed on earth...

Matthew 23:35

Introduction to the 2016 Edition of Righteous Blood

by Cliff Burns

All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

This book was originally published as a limited edition in 2002, nearly fifteen years ago.

I remember it as a dark period, professionally speaking. Still struggling to draw attention to my work, sensing that all the years of hours I’d devoted to writing came down to nothing more than a hopeless, misguided waste of time and energy.

And I was fed up with the genre of horror, as well, sickened by the splatterpunks and puerile pornographers who’d hijacked the field and turned it into their own personal latrine. The rise of so-called graphic horror, which basically gave hacks license to excrete all manner of revolting, misogynistic rape fantasies under the guise of exploring the dark side of human nature. And they left no rock unturned, no outrage uncommitted, going into great detail and relishing their God-given ability to make readers squirm.

I, on the other hand, have always contended that the best tales of horror, dark fantasy and suspense take a cerebral approach to their subject matter, carving away at the psyche with a scalpel, not a meat cleaver. The ones that stay with us longest are the most subtle, narratives that rely on atmosphere and psychological insights to enhance verisimilitude and believability. I’m thinking of the finest novels and stories by past masters like Richard Matheson and Charles Beaumont, movies like Roman Polanski’s The Tenant and David Lynch’s sublime Eraserhead.

But the gore hounds turned their backs on that fine legacy, earning my undying ire.

And so there’s a lot of anger in Righteous Blood—anger, frustration, contempt. It just came boiling out of me. I had nothing to lose and held nothing back and, as a result, I think this is, by far, my most terrifying and disturbing book to date.

Ya wanna see something really scary?

Conceived, in part, as a great big FUCK YOU to those aforementioned pornographers and the stupid fans who supported their juvenilia, Righteous Blood also reflected the bleak mindset of its author (c. 2001-02), an increasing realization that thoughtful, original prose had no place in a world that was fast becoming post-literate, the printed word losing ground to gadgets and digital gimcrackery.

Seen in that light, is it so surprising that the subject matter of the two novellas is so dark, why there’s such an obsession with, well, evil throughout? Evil thoughts and evil deeds, a slow corruption that causes good people to do Bad Things; no one is immune to its enticements.

And by evil, I mean something that is conscious, not arbitrary; acquired, not inherited. Intention is essential—negligence, apathy or indifference are vices of a whole other order.

There are legal and ethical distinctions between an active participant and a passive observer (it is the difference between assault and actual battery).

Evil isn’t supernatural, but it is innate (and therein lies the confusion). It is the part of us we try to deny or rationalize. Born of ignorance and fear and for that reason it will always evade scientific method and definitive cures. We might be able to play around with the software a little, but the hard-wiring forever remains inviolable, sacrosanct.

In the final analysis, we are what we are: animals. Higher order animals, but animals just the same. Prone to involuntary, irrational responses. Fight or flight. Baring our teeth when angry, making claws of our fingers, growling low in our throat.

You’d think we’d never been to the moon…

* * * *

Special thanks to Pete Crowther: back in 2002 PS Publishing took a chance releasing two extremely weird novellas by a little known Canuck scribbler with a reputation for being, ah, difficult. Pete treated Righteous Blood and its prickly author with unfailing courtesy and respect, even going to the trouble and expense of securing first class cover art by the late, great Richard Powers. I’m happy to report he sold out the entire print run, paperback and hardcover, which necessitated this new edition.

A tip of the hat, as well, to Tim Lebbon, who was press-ganged into writing the original introduction and did a smashing job (you were right, Tim, the element of surprise is critical to my oeuvre).

…and my continuing and undying gratitude to my wife, Sherron, who has helped me endure some lean, mean times by virtue of her endless reserves of patience and her unshakeable faith in the miraculous, healing properties of unconditional love.

Living With the Foleys

The rattle and grind of the automatic garage door opener woke Phil from a deep, dreamless sleep, the metallic racket having a predictable effect on his booze-soaked system.

Immediately, his head started pounding, a vein somewhere near his left frontal lobe bulging, threatening to burst. The headache, nausea and massive dehydration were a lethal combination, producing a level of discomfort that would not have been unfamiliar to a terminal cancer patient. He almost groaned.

But he had to be careful, didn’t want to risk the slightest sound or movement, any indication of his presence in the garage and thus ruin what had been, up until then, a very sweet set-up.

The owner of the garage—and the house it was attached to—was heading in to work, a bit earlier than usual as it turned out. Adam Foley was a dedicated employee and an excellent provider for his family, eager to get ahead in the world, ambitious for a top spot in the firm.

As far as Phil had been able to ascertain, Adam was some kind of money manager, an advisor or financial consultant or whatever it was they called themselves these days. He put in long hours, often not returning home until after supper or well into the evening. But look at the rewards: a hefty salary, lovely house with heated double garage, currently occupied, though the Foley family had yet to realize it, by Phil Poile, ex-teacher, at present an unemployed (and unemployable) street person.

Finding the place had been a rare stroke of good luck. It was a bitterly cold, miserable day and he had been trying to escape a steady, sleet-like rain and a wind from a particularly glacial ring of Hades. He huddled against a garage to escape the worst of it, saw a door, tried it...and found himself inside, warm and snug as a bug. One side of the garage was crammed with old furniture, boxes and assorted detritus intended for a future yard sale, but what Phil saw was a fully furnished suite in a good neighborhood, within easy walking distance of the necessary amenities (confectionery, liquor store, etc.).

It sure beat the hell out of SROs and shelters. Somewhere to lay his head for the foreseeable future, as long as he didn’t blow it.

—say by doing something really stupid like, for instance, staying out late partying, then stumbling back here, stinking of cheap booze and cigarettes.

What if Adam smells something and decides to come over and check it out?

Phil discovered that he had a number of sometimes conflicting memories of the night before. In one of them, unless he was very mistaken, he and Fiona were kissing and enthusiastically groping each other. As if in punishment, a searing lance of pain behind his eyes.

It was a cool morning, the warm air in the garage rushing out, swiftly dissipating. He burrowed deeper into the pile of old coats he used as bedclothes. Adam Foley backed his Toyota Camry down the driveway, never once looking in the direction of the shivering heap of discard clothing on the sofa.

The garage door descended until it bumped against the floor, a good, tight seal. Mercifully, the light switched off a few minutes later and Phil could once again suffer in darkness.

More images from the party: arguing with a very drunk and belligerent Albert Bach about something—what? He couldn’t remember. Alondra reading his palm and predicting with a bass chuckle: You will get very, very loaded tonight, mon. Then carrying on with Fiona, giving in to vibes and inclinations that had smoldered for months. Finally pulling back breathlessly from one another, stunned they had gone as far as they had, quickly rearranging their clothing, an unspoken agreement confirmed with a glance, a conspiracy made in silence.

Cripes, talk about your unwanted complications.

He was parched, dried out from all the booze he had consumed, a drink of water only a few steps away, just a matter of going through that door, taking down a glass from the cupboard and filling it with clear, refreshing water—

—shouts of discovery, "who the hell are you?", running from the shrieking house, reduced once more to a life spent huddled on park benches and heating grates, at best a lonely room at the Oregon Hotel, listening to his neighbours howling through the night, in the thrall of addict dreams—

No thank you.

He laid there, enduring his hangover and listening in as the Foley family went about its usual morning routine.

The kids, Patty and Simon, would leave for school around 8:30. Occasionally they left together, normally they couldn’t be bothered. Simon had been withdrawing more and more of late, increasingly sullen and uncommunicative. Phil recognized the signs and wished he could set up a parent-teacher interview with Adam and Brenda. Patty, on the other hand, was becoming downright obnoxious and rebellious, cruelly dismissive of her parents. There had been some mighty rows. Her folks were convinced she was running with a bad crowd, heading for trouble. But how do you control a teenage girl with the willpower of George S. Patton?

Phil had eavesdropped on numerous occasions as Adam and Brenda discussed their options. Due to certain peculiarities in the design and placement of the heating ductwork, sound carried from just about every part of the house out to the garage. The reception was amazingly clear and thanks to an air vent situated directly above the couch, Phil had had a cozy, ringside seat to many family scenes.

Once Patty and Simon left, departing within a few minutes of each other, he had to wait for Brenda to get on with her day.

Brenda was your classic bored housewife. She had tried, over the time he had known the Foleys, to sustain an interest in gardening, tai chi, Qi Gong, feng shui, real estate, gourmet cooking, the internet and some kind of volunteer work (she wasn’t sure about that one yet). Adam naturally, was the one who footed the bills for these short-lived enthusiasms and could often be heard grumbling at the expense: registration fees, textbooks, a host of lawn and garden products...and let’s not forget the brand new computer she insisted on buying and which they mostly used for games or sending e-mail.

She was humming as she dressed. She had aerobics five days a week and after that she went to breakfast with some of the other women, and then she’d do some shopping...

But it was getting awfully old to Brenda. She wanted to accomplish something with her life, forge her own identity. She was thinking about taking some classes at the community college. Adam was dubious. What interested her, what would she like to focus on? Maybe landscaping. Or something in the travel field. She couldn’t make up her mind. She only knew that she wanted some kind of change, a new direction.

Phil sensed that in the past couple of months the situation had gotten worse, Brenda more and more frustrated and resentful, distancing herself emotionally from her family.

A car horn honked outside; her ride had arrived. As soon as she was gone he heaved a sigh of relief—at last he had the place all to himself.

Phil threw off his makeshift covers and lurched toward the door connecting the garage to the house. He used his spare key to open it; quite often a careless family member would forget to lock it on the way out and he wouldn’t have to bother with it.

The kitchen still smelled of breakfast and his stomach reacted with a reproachful toss. He went to the sink, ran cold water and drew up cupped handfuls, slurping like an animal. Stuck his head under the chill, running stream, trying to drown the hangover in chlorinated city water.

Now some coffee, kept piping hot in the Proctor Silex unit on the counter, compliments his considerate hosts. Brenda liked her java strong, God bless her; the caffeine provided a healthy jolt to his torpid system.

Following that, a shower, a gorgeous, long-anticipated shower. The Foleys had a state-of-the-art showerhead, one of those variable spray buggers that gave you everything from a good soaking to a massage by needlepoint.

Phil knew from past experience that he was master of the house until at least one in the afternoon and intended to take full advantage of that fact. He dried himself off, his aches and pains dulled by healthy doses of ibuprofen and hot water, a therapeutic regimen that seemed to agree with his system.

He stuffed the towel under the rest of the laundry, thought about it, then started a load. No reason why he shouldn’t pull his weight around here, if only for Brenda’s sake. Phil sorted through the pile, tossed in some more towels, a couple of Adam’s shirts, a crusty bottom sheet that had to be Simon’s, then sauntered into the living room, anticipating spending a happy hour or so watching a vintage Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea rerun on the Space Channel or