Fear the Reaper

A WORD FROM THE EDITOR

Let me start out by thanking you, the reader, for spending your hard earned cash on this book. I know how hard it can be at the end of each month to decide which book to buy next, so I tried to make it as affordable as possible.

I’d also like to thank all the writers and artists who spent days and weeks of their valuable time to bring this book to life; not to mention all the hours spent guest blogging and promoting the book. A special thanks to Rena Mason, for her hard work in spreading the word about Fear the Reaper amongst members of the HWA, and for the wonderful bookmarks she made.

Thanks to Adam Lowe for donating his wonderfully creepy poem and Will Jacques for his amazing interior artwork.

A very special thanks to Christopher Golden and Holly Newstein Hautala, who ensured the inclusion of Rick Hautala’s story after his untimely death.

These are all people I’ve met online and would love to meet in person, before our inevitable demise, which of course is the theme of this book you’re currently holding. Yes, one day we’ll flip through the pages of this book and see that it truly was history in the making, as, in time, the writers (myself included) will pass away, leaving others behind.

It’s with that thought that I pay tribute to Rick Hautala, who I only had a few brief conversations with about this project. Sadly, it was only in his death and in the words of those who knew him, that I grew to know and truly respect the man.

So whether you’re one of the very first readers to buy this book, or buying it second-hand decades later, know that the men and women in this book tapped into their deepest emotion, which is not just fear but fear of dying, when they wrote these wonderful tales. Make an effort to read more of their books and stories.

One last thought: like me, you might not be as scared of death as others. I certainly believe that I have a say in where I go after I die, but what scares me is the lack of control I have in the process of dying, the amount of pain and humiliation that goes with it, and when it will place its cold grip on my shoulder.

I hope you enjoy Fear the Reaper.

Joe Mynhardt

Bloemfontein, South Africa

26 November 2013

(DON’T) FEAR THE REAPER: A BRIEF INTRODUCTION

Remember That You Will Die

I have a personal fascination with the concept of the memento mori in art and literature. It’s a Latin term, of course, meaning remember that you will die, but in broader terms the memento mori is an artistic or symbolic reminder that we’re all destined for death. Whoever we are, whatever we do, no matter how rich or famous we might be, we’re all going the same way, and there’s no such thing as a happy ending.

The origin of the phrase is possibly anecdotal: according to the early Christian author Tertullian in his Apologeticus, in ancient Rome a Roman general was parading through the streets celebrating victory in battle. His servant stood behind him chanting the phrase "Respice post te! Hominem te esse memento! Memento mori!: Look behind you! Remember that you are a man! Remember that you’ll die!"

It was the servant’s task to remind the general that although he had won on this day, tomorrow—or any day—he could just as easily be brought down. Nice work if you can get it.

The momento mori became increasingly popular in Medieval Europe, especially when it was adopted by Christianity, with its emphasis on divine judgment. Heaven, Hell, the salvation (or damnation) of the soul pushed these thoughts to the forefront, and many works of religious art were produced to reflect this theme.

To the Christian, the prospect of death serves to focus upon the emptiness and fleetingness of earthly trappings, and also as an invitation to think about the appealing prospect of the afterlife. Thus there are a lot of examples of this kind of thing in funeral art and architecture: decaying corpses carved onto tombs, representations of winged skulls, skeletons, angels snuffing out candles... and scattered around Europe there are also great ossuaries—chapels made of bones; in music, we have the danse macabre, with its accompanying image of a boogying grim reaper; and countless ancient clocks and public timepieces portraying the fleetingness of life and the inevitability of death.

Cheery stuff. But to a miserable bastard like me, this kind of thing is golden.

Memento mori was also an important literary theme. Famous meditations on death in English prose include Sir Thomas Browne’s Hydriotaphia, Urn Burial and Jeremy Taylor’s Holy Living and Holy Dying. These works were part of a Jacobean cult of melancholia (my kind of club) that marked the end of the Elizabethan era. In the late eighteenth century, literary elegies were a common genre; Thomas Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard and Edward Young’s Night Thoughts are typical examples.

It could be argued—if one were inclined—that the entire canon of work comprising the horror fiction genre is simply a huge, complex memento mori. This idea certainly fits in with my own thinking on the matter. But I’ll leave it to greater minds than mine to labour that point.

We Bones, Lying Here Bare, Await for Yours

The Grim Reaper—the image of death in sentient human form—has existed in many societies since the beginning of recorded history. From the 15th Century onwards, he was depicted as a skeleton with a scythe in a black cloak and hood—surely the most well-known representation as we know it. Even the bible refers to the Angel of Death when he reaps Egypt’s firstborns.

In modern popular culture, there is the classic depiction of a melancholy, chess-playing Death in Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal—the film also features a gleeful danse macabre near the end. My own strongest and earliest recollection of the Reaper was the classic Ray Bradbury story The Scythe. More recently, there’s been another twist on the theme of death-as-sentient-being in the much-better-than-expected Final Destination films. I haven’t even mentioned the Blue Oyster Cult song from which this book takes, and inverts, its title... There are hundreds of other examples, but I’m sure you get my point, that the notion of the Grim Reaper has saturated popular culture.

As you can see, this is fertile ground for any artist, and the authors in this book are no slouches: they have each given the concept of Death their own creative spin, crafting from it a truly personal vision.

The opening poem, by Adam Lowe, sets the tone nicely, with a melancholic beauty all its own. In the first story, Mark Sheldon takes as his starting point the birth of death. Jeff Strand—among others—spins us a yarn about cheating death. Stephen Bacon’s death-by-sleep will keep you awake for hours with its mordant lullaby. Taylor Grant’s Spectres will never leave you, and you might never leave the place they take you. Jeremy C. Shipp offers up a typically strange vision of a near-future, where nothing is predictable—even death and what happens after. My old sparring partner Gary Fry offers us The Final Peace, but it isn’t what you’re thinking. With him, nothing ever is.

Introductions don’t usually mention the cover art, so let me buck that trend here. Ben Baldwin’s rendition of the Reaper is elegant, beautiful, and terrifying in its force and immediacy; surely the work of an artist at the top of his game.

This short piece of mine amounts to nothing but a sample, a mere teaser for the wonderful stories inside the book. So why don’t you stop reading this introduction and dip in, feeling the darkness wash over you in a soft black wave?

Just do me a favour and remember—always remember—one little thing:

One day you, me, and everyone you’ve ever known or loved or hated, will die. There’s no getting away from it. So until then, be sure to make the best of things. Don’t waste a single second of this life and treat each day as if it might be your last. Live large, read lots, create bravely, and treasure those closest to you. Ignore the bullshit and embrace the strange. In stark contradiction to the title of this volume, don’t bother to fear the Reaper. He’ll find you in the end, however you feel about him (or her!).

With this happy thought, I leave you.

Gary McMahon

Yorkshire

2013

HECATE

—ADAM LOWE—

At the gates she lingers, bearing

a torch in the dark. She sings in infant’s

voice, with the rush of breaking waters;

she sings of your return and

your departure.

All crossroads are hers;

she feels the wander of your troubadour

feet, tracing the routes of her veins;

she guides you across the chasm

back to the hearth.

Her arms bristle with burning dawn candles

spelling out your name; her eyes are coals

to warm you in the dark between worlds.

Come back, she whispers, as she mantles

over soil, a secret, amniotic wench.

She rides black stallions, flows along

the coils of jewelled snakes,

and wears cow’s horns and boar’s tusks.

Mistress of thorns, she tangles you,

cuts deep with loving lips: her love is fierce.

In the darkness she waits.

THE LIFE OF DEATH

—MARK SHELDON—

Long, long ago—in a time that even Time itself has forgotten—humankind knew not the pangs of death, and lived forever in immortality. Kind of like elves, only not as pansy.

In this epoch, there lived a husband and wife named Tuoni and Morrigan. The happy couple had twelve, beautiful children. The parents were not particularly creative or original, so they named the children (in order from first-born to twelfth born): Abacus, Balthazar, Calantha, D’Artagnan, Eadoin, Fabunni, Galilea, Hezekia, Imogen, Jabari, Kamarion, and Larry (poor little Larry, the runt of the litter, was often the brunt of his elder siblings’ jokes and pranks).

For several years, the little family lived in quiet, happy contentment. Then it transpired that Morrigan was, once again, ripe with child. At first, the family saw this as a happy blessing, and they were overjoyed.

Sadly Morana—the midwife who had helped bring their first twelve children into the world—had since moved to a neighboring country, so Morrigan had no choice but to find a new midwife to assist her with the pregnancy and birth. They found a lovely young woman named Macaria and hired her on the spot.

Macaria was a little less conventional than Morana had been. Macaria was very interested in what today’s linguistics might label new age medicinal arts. For example, she had read an article by Doctor Ogbunabali which stated that if you wanted your child to be a strong, strapping young buck of a lad, you should drink half a glass of cyanide with each meal. If you wanted your child to be a beautiful, charming little princess of a girl, you should wash down three leaves of hemlock with a glass of arsenic before bed each night (in these days before death, cyanide and arsenic were common beverages—perhaps equivalent to modern times’ Dr. Pepper or Appletini—and hemlock was an ingredient prevalent in most Italian cuisine, especially lasagna).

Morrigan did not particularly care one way or the other if her baby was a boy or a girl and so, being the practical woman that she was, she took to taking both prescriptions. She figured that even if the practice resulted in a hermaphroditic birth, they would still love the child just as much.

For the first several months of the pregnancy, no one suspected anything was wrong, and the family continued to rejoice over the forthcoming bundle of joy’s arrival. Morrigan, naturally, was the first to suspect that something was amiss, but not until about five months into the pregnancy, when the baby started kicking. For one thing, it was a little later than the other twelve children had started kicking. More to the point, it hurt quite a bit more when this baby kicked. It literally felt as if someone were stabbing her with a knife from the inside.

Around the same time, the nightmares started. They came every night, and were always the same: Morrigan was being chased by a hideous monster unlike anything she had ever seen. The creature was not formed of flesh, but some sort of pale white rock. It had a horrible, wide grin, and where its eyes should have been were only empty, gaping, black sockets.

Most of us today would most likely recognize this monster for what it was, having grown up with images of it in science classes and Disney cartoons. But for Morrigan, the horror of this enigmatic phantasm was cripplingly terrifying.

Morrigan kept her fears to herself for several months. But as the ninth month of pregnancy drew steadily closer, her fear consumed her. She confessed her worries first to Macaria, and then Tuoni, both of whom assured her it was just anxiety and that she had nothing to worry about.

The ninth month came and passed. The baby did not come. Macaria and Tuoni both assured Morrigan that the baby was just still cooking.

The tenth month came and passed. The baby did not come. Macaria assured Morrigan that this was a sign that her baby was meant for greatness, and that the gods were simply giving it extra time to grow into that greatness. Tuoni, at this point, was not so sure.

When the eleventh month passed and the baby had not come yet, even Macaria was becoming concerned.

By the thirteenth month of pregnancy, Morrigan was confined entirely to her bed, and was therefore thoroughly relieved when at last she went into labor.

After twelve births, Morrigan believed that she knew what to expect, as far as the pain. She was wrong. The fact that it had been a thirteen-month pregnancy actually had very little to do with the extra pain. As painful as the other twelve births had been, all twelve of those babies had at least been soft, if not at all conveniently shaped or sized for the process of birth.

But this one... this one felt... sharp... hard... jagged.

At last, after a searing, scraping burst of pain, the thing was out, and Morrigan lay sweating and bleeding upon the birthing bed. For several seconds, there was silence, but then an inhuman, rattling wail rang throughout the room. Morrigan weakly raised her head off of the sweat-soaked pillow and for the first time saw the look on Macaria’s face—it was a look of shocked, nauseated horror.

Sh-show me my child, Morrigan wheezed in between gasps of pain.

Ma’am... I-I would suggest you wait until—

Show me my child! Morrigan commanded.

Hesitantly, with a look of upmost revulsion upon her face, Macaria raised the child into Morrigan’s line of sight. As her tired, weary eyes rested on an infant form of the monster from her nightmares, Morrigan released a brief scream of terror, and then promptly died from fright.

Macaria found herself at a total loss. She called out to Morrigan, but Morrigan did not respond. She shook Morrigan, but Morrigan did not move. She felt for the pulse of a heart, but no pulse was to be found.

Forced to accept that whatever had befallen Morrigan was beyond her skills and abilities to cure, she turned her attention to the child. She wrapped the wriggling, screaming, fleshless child up in a blanket, placed it in a bassinet next to the birthing bed, and then crossed the room to the doors leading out into the hall where Tuoni waited with the twelve children.

Macaria, Tuoni said, anxiously jumping up when he saw her enter the hallway, I heard Morrigan scream! Is everything alright? My child, is my child alright?

Morrigan... Macaria began, not knowing how to describe what had happened, "I’m sorry sir, but she did not... make it."

A look of bewildered confusion fell across poor Tuoni’s face.

What do you mean? he asked the midwife.

I cannot explain it, Macaria responded meekly, but she is... gone... somehow...

Where did she go?

I do not know, sir. Her body is still in the bed, but she is... without life...

What nonsense do you speak? You mean that she sleeps?

No, sir, she sleeps not, Macaria responded, growing meeker by the minute under the increasing frustration of Tuoni. She sleeps not. She wakes not. Her heart beats not. Her soul is simply... gone, sir.

"That’s not possible, Tuoni replied in disbelief. Let me see my wife," he said, pushing past the petrified midwife, who crumbled to the floor.

Morrey, Morrey, Tuoni called, running across the room toward the blood-soaked bed where his wife lay, motionless.

He climbed upon the contaminated bed, he shook the body of his wife, he yelled at her, he screamed, he cried, he held her bloody corpse to him and wept to the heavens, but Morrigan did not awaken.

As the pangs of his grief—the first grief—finally began to subside, Tuoni became aware of the rattling cry coming from the bassinet.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tuoni released the grip on his wife’s corpse, and slid off the end of the bed, shakily making his way toward the bassinet. As his eyes fell upon the blanket-wrapped monstrosity in the crib, Tuoni fell to his knees and promptly retched.

"What is that... that... thing?" Tuoni called to Macaria, who still lay crumpled upon the floor of the doorway.

I... I don’t know sir... it is... it is your child...

Tuoni shuddered with revulsion.

And... what happened to my wife?

I do not know that, either, sir. It is as I said. She is gone.

He could not comprehend that concept, but it appeared that the midwife’s words were correct: Morrigan was gone, and it seemed as if she would not be coming back.

Father, what’s wrong? asked Abacus, his oldest son, poking his head around the door.

Take them away, for the sake of the gods, Macaria, take the children away from here!

Of course, sir, right away, Macaria said, finding new strength upon seeing Abacus’ innocent face. Come children, come with me. Quickly, now.

Is Mommy going to be okay? Imogen asked as Macaria shepherded the twelve youngsters away.

I don’t know, sweetie, I don’t know, Macaria answered, and then she and the children were out of Tuoni’s hearing range.

He sat on the floor of the birth room, tears pouring down his face, as he tried to think of what to do. The screams coming from the bassinet were not helping him clear his head.

He could always wait for nightfall, take the monster down to the bridge, and throw it into the river. He had oft heard tales of unwanted children being disposed of so, and being swept out to sea where they were raised by the beasts of the ocean. Or perhaps, if he were lucky, the monster would meet the same fate as Morrigan and... cease to be. He did not believe he could be so ‘lucky’ however. What happened to Morrigan was obviously some tragic fluke of nature, some sort of cruel punishment from the gods, and most likely would never happen ever again.

He did not know how to explain Morrigan’s disappearance to the villagers. No one would ever believe him if he told the truth. They would probably accuse him of throwing both wife and infant into the river to be rid of them.

He decided he and the children would have to relocate to another town. He may have to put off getting rid of the... infant for another day or so, to put his affairs in order first. If anyone in town inquired about Morrigan and the baby, he could just lie and say that they were still waiting for the baby to come. Morrigan had been bedridden for over a month already, so no one would yet notice her absence. Once they were ready, he could get rid of the monster, then he and the children could flee to start a new life somewhere far, far away. Macaria would have to come with them, of course. For one, he wouldn’t be able to leave anyone behind who knew the truth of what had happened, for another he knew that he would need help raising the twelve children.

He knew not how he would explain the presence of twelve children and no mother (in those happier times, divorce was just as unheard of as death). But he decided he could say that he had adopted them all out of the goodness of his heart from unwanting parents, and thereby saving them from a life of being raised by octopi. That would be infinitely easier than trying to explain the absence of a baby and a wife if he and the children stayed in their current village.

His plot decided, he pulled himself off the floor and looked, once more, upon the infant within the bassinet. As he looked upon his offspring, however, his resolve crumbled. As if sensing the turmoil of emotions its father was feeling, the infant chose that moment to giggle. It wasn’t the typical cheerful sound of an infant’s giggle, but a raspy, grating sound (Tuoni briefly wondered how the child was able to produce any sound at all without vocal chords, but considering the plethora of anomalies confronting him on this day, that was one that he decided was rather low on the totem pole of priorities). Nonetheless, the emotion behind the sound was clear, and what little was left of Tuoni’s plot to dispose of the infant melted away in an instant.

Monster or not, it was his child, and he could not bring himself to cast it away. He would have to figure something else out, but he could not get rid of this last connection between himself and Morrigan.

Keeping the child would make relocating an unnecessary complication, as no matter where they moved, the child would be greeted with horror. They would have to figure some way of staying where they were, and concealing the presence of the unusual family member.

After some time, which Tuoni spent gazing with alternating horror and growing affection upon his child, Macaria returned to the birth room, and tentatively approached her master.

Sir? she whispered nervously, fearing another angry out lash.

Yes, Macaria? Tuoni responded, in barely more than a whisper.

What... do you wish... to...

... do with the child?

Yes, sir.

I shall keep it. Whatever it is, it is my child, and I will not abandon it.

Macaria merely nodded her head solemnly.

I would not ask this of you, Macaria, Tuoni said, still almost silently, "but I will need help. Raising twelve children alone would be a challenge unto itself, but raising twelve children, and... this... I cannot do it alone. If you do not wish to stay, I will understand. I dare say I could not blame you. But I hope that you will find it within your heart to stay and continue to help us. We will all need you."

Macaria gulped nervously, contemplating Tuoni’s request for several minutes, before responding, Yes, sir. I will stay.

Thank you, Macaria, Tuoni said, gratefully clasping her hands in his.

They stared in silence for several moments at the child in the bassinet, who apparently had fallen asleep (it was impossible to tell for sure, as the child had no eyelids).

It... I mean, he... she... it... needs a name, Macaria said at last, stumbling over the difficult task of identifying the gender of a creature born without any identifying genitalia.

Yes, I suppose you are right, Tuoni replied, deep in thought.

As with their previous twelve children, he and Morrigan had not discussed names prior to birth. It felt almost sacrilegious to name the child without Morrigan, but that was clearly unavoidable.

He wanted to continue the pattern that he and Morrigan had started together. As they had named their previous child Larry, this child’s name should start with an M. But was it a boy, or a girl? He had no way of knowing, for although a modern archaeologist or biologist could have told him the child’s gender by simply looking at the pelvis, no one in Tuoni’s time had ever seen a skeleton before, and so there was no basis for comparison.

But, as a decision needed to be made, he looked upon the child and searched his heart, which told him it was a boy.

I shall call him, Tuoni said at last, Mortimer.

*    *    *

After some debate, Tuoni was convinced by Macaria to tell the truth—or at least part of it—about what happened to Morrigan. One of the Town Elders was called to the house to investigate (back in these times before death, there were no doctors so any issues of health—which were rare—were investigated by the Elders). The Elder was as flummoxed as everyone else by Morrigan’s bizarre fate.

We will have to name this phenomenon, of course, the Elder said, his voice slow, ancient, and wise. Everything must be named, for that without a name cannot be explained, and that which cannot be explained is unknown, and that which is unknown is dangerous. I see she ‘dyed’ the bed sheets in her leaving of this world, so perhaps we shall call it ‘dying.’ Perhaps, to alleviate potential confusion, for the past-tense we should spell it ‘d-i-e-d’ instead of ‘d-y-e-d.’ Yes?

As you say, Elder, Tuoni responded. He really could care less about what the old man decided to call it. He just wanted to know if it could be reversed. The Elder’s complete loss, however, banished what little hope Tuoni had been clinging to that his wife could be brought back.

You said this happened during childbirth? the Elder asked.

Yes, Macaria replied, quietly, from the corner where she stood, nervously observing and listening to the proceedings.

Curious. And what of the child?

Tuoni and Macaria shared a silent, momentary glance, before Tuoni replied, The child met the same fate as Macaria. I threw the... body into the river, for I could not bear to look upon it any longer.

Curious. Very curious indeed, the Elder said, and then was lost to his thoughts.

In truth, at that moment Mortimer was up in the attic, being watched over by Abacus and Balthazar. The family had all come to an agreement that it would be best if the villagers did not know of Mortimer’s existence. The passing of Morrigan had cast enough of a shadow over the family in the villagers’ eyes, they did not need anything to cast an ever darker shadow.

As it transpired, the shadow cast by Morrigan’s death actually helped keep the child’s existence a secret. Once word had spread around town about Morrigan’s unprecedented fate, the townspeople avoided the family as if they all had died and then come back to life, and were conspiring to spread their abnormality to the rest of the village.

The downside, of course, was that the twelve older children all had to be pulled out of school, for they had all become the subjects of relentless bullying and teasing. But Tuoni was forced to admit that this was probably for the best anyway, as the younger children could not necessarily be trusted to keep quiet about the secret of Mortimer.

It was several years before the family realized that Tuoni had incorrectly guessed the gender of his child. The final, determining indication being that Mortimer’s voice—once she started talking—was of a noticeably higher register than would normally be associated with a boy. Also, as she got older, Mortimer tended to lean more towards dresses and tea parties as opposed to pants and guns (although, even in those ancient times, that was not necessarily a guarantee of one’s gender). By that point, they had all grown so accustomed to calling her Mortimer that they decided against changing her name, as they did not wish to confuse her. Instead, they settled on the somewhat more androgynous nickname, Morrey.

And so, the little family lived in quiet isolation. But they were not entirely unhappy. They made it work. The older children would help with the housework