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  BORDERLANDS 4

  Edited By Elizabeth E. Monteleone and Thomas F. Monteleone

  A Macabre Ink Collection

  Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright 2014 / Elizabeth E. Monteleone and Thomas F. Monteleone

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Editors

  Elizabeth Monteleone has been the guiding force behind Borderlands Press since 1990. It is her sincerest wish that you enjoy the many books we have produced during that time.

  Tom Monteleone has been a professional writer since 1972, and four-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award. He has published more than 100 short stories in numerous magazines and anthologies. His stories have been nominated for many awards, and have appeared in lots of best-of-the-year compilations. He is the editor of seven anthologies, including the highly acclaimed Borderlands series edited with his wife, Elizabeth. Borderlands 5 won a Bram Stoker Award in 2003.

  He has written for the stage and television, having scripts produced for American Playhouse (which won him the Bronze Award at the International TV and Film Festival of New York and the Gabriel Award), George A. Romero’s Tales from the Darkside, and a series on Fox TV entitled Night Visions.

  Of his thirty-six books, his novel, The Blood of the Lamb received the 1993 Bram Stoker Award, and The New York Times Notable Book of the Year Award. His four collections of selected short fiction are Dark Stars and Other Illuminations, Rough Beasts and Other Mutations, The Little Brown Book of Bizarre Stories, and Fearful Symmetries (2004), which won the 2004 Bram Stoker Award. His novels, The Resurrectionist and Night of Broken Souls, global thrillers from Warner Books, received rave reviews and have been optioned for films. His omnibus volume of essays about the book and film industries entitled The Mothers And Fathers Italian Association was published by Borderlands Press (www.borderlandspress.com) and won the 2003 Bram Stoker Award for Non-Fiction. He is also the author of the bestseller, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing a Novel. His books and stories have been translated into fifteen foreign languages.

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  General introduction, acknowledgments and author/story introductions copyright © 1994 by Elizabeth E. & Thomas F. Monteleone.

  “A Wind from the South” Copyright © 1994 by Dennis Etchison.

  “House of Cool Air” Copyright © 1994 by William F. Wu.

  “Morning Terrors” Copyright © 1994 by Peter Crowther.

  “Circle of Lias” Copyright © 1994 by Lawrence C. Connolly.

  “Misadventures in the Skin Trade” Copyright © 1994 by Don D’Ammassa.

  “Watching the Soldiers” Copyright © 1994 by Dirk Strasser.

  “One in the A.M.” Copyright © 1994 by Rachel Drummond.

  “A Side of the Sea” Copyright © 1994 by Ramsey Campbell.

  “Painted Faces” Copyright © 1994 by Gerard Daniel Houarner.

  “Monotone” Copyright © 1994 by Lawrence Greenberg.

  “Dead Leaves” Copyright © 1994 by James C. Dobbs.

  “From the Mouths of Babes” Copyright © 1994 by Bentley Little.

  “The Late Mr. Havel’s Apartment” Copyright © 1994 by David Herter.

  “Union Dues” Copyright © 1994 by Gary A. Braunbeck.

  “Earshot” Copyright © 1994 by Glenn Isaacson.

  “Fee” Copyright © 1994 by Peter Straub.

  BORDERLANDS 4

  CONTENTS

  Introduction—Elizabeth E. Monteleone & Thomas F. Monteleone

  A Wind from the South—Dennis Etchison

  House of Cool Air—William F. Wu

  Morning Terrors—Peter Crowther

  Misadventures in the Skin Trade—Don D’Ammassa

  Circle of Lias—Lawrence C. Connolly

  Watching the Soldiers—Dirk Strasser

  One in the A.M.—Rachel Drummond

  A Side of the Sea—Ramsey Campbell

  Painted Faces—Gerard Daniel Hourner

  Monotone—Lawrence Greenberg

  Dead Leaves—James C. Dobbs

  From the Mouths of Babes—Bentley Little

  The Late Mr. Havel’s Apartment—David Herter

  Union Dues—Gary Braunbeck

  Earshot—Glenn Isaacson

  Fee—Peter Straub

  Introduction

  It never seems to get any easier.

  The fourth volume of the Borderlands anthology series represents almost eighteen months of reading, editing, arguing, and decision-making. The process to make this book happen takes a lot more time than we should ever think of devoting to it. More than 1,000 short stories from countries as distant and diverse as Slovakia, Australia and Japan have been read and all but seventeen of them were rejected (one writer opted out of the ebook edition—that’s why there’s only sixteen to follow). It’s hard work, and if you think we’re trying to impress you, you’re right.

  Each year, stories from Borderlands are selected for various “Year’s Best” anthologies; they are nominated (and sometimes win) for various short fiction awards; and entire volumes receive acclaim and nominations for “best anthology.” Many of the cover letters accompanying submissions imply we are the premiere venue for original, imaginative fiction, and that to appear here is indeed a prestigious event. Maybe these writers are trying to suck up to us, and maybe they’re sincere … But the fact is this: if the Borderlands anthologies have garnered a reputation for excellence in short fiction, it’s because enough readers like you have enjoyed the stories and you’ve told your friends. That’s how it works.

  We have tried, as usual, to keep the contents page of Borderlands from becoming yet another compilation of the Usual Suspects in dark fantasy, horror, and suspense fiction. There will always be some recognizable, even “famous” writers included here, but there will also be some writers you’ve never read before. We believe it’s important to keep varying the mix, to continue shaking things up. The working philosophy here on the Borderlands is that the short story must not only survive as a literary form, but in doing so it must also take risks.

  That’s why Borderlands, as the name implies, is seeking material that explores new ground rather than furrowing deeper into familiar earth. That’s why you won’t find stories here about clanking ghosts, serial killers, vampires, serial killers, zombies, serial killers, werewolves, serial killers, mummies, serial killers, demonic children, or … yeah, serial killers.

  And that’s why it’s not getting any easier. It seems as if writers are having more difficulty surprising us, intriguing us, disturbing us. The search for the truly original tale is evermore elusive.

  So much so, that we cannot hold to an annual schedule for the Borderlands series as it continues. While it would be great to publish a new volume every Fall, we are finding it impossible to find enough stories to define a book within a reading period of only six months. In fact we are still trying to find material for volume 5, and we should have been finished many months ago.

  Because of this, we are not certain when the next volume will appear, only that it
will eventually.

  Enough preamble. It’s time to get your imagination stretched; no doubt it can use a little time on the literary wrack. Read the following stories in the order we arranged them. It’s part of the whole gestalt thing, you know, and is intended to contribute to the entire reading experience.

  So what are you waiting for? Turn the page …

  Elizabeth E. Monteleone

  Thomas F. Monteleone

  Baltimore MD, August, 1994

  A Wind from the South

  By Dennis Etchison

  It is the exceptional writer who can create and sustain a career by writing short fiction almost exclusively. Most of us turn to the novel because it provides the income necessary to earn a living by writing and it reaches the widest possible audience. There have only been a handful of writers who’ve made their reputations and their money primarily by the short story. Lovecraft, Bradbury, and Ellison are probably the major practitioners, but native Californian Dennis Etchison also deserves mention in that elite group. His stories are subtle yet seething with dark energy. His prose is clean, crisp, and always literate. “A Wind from the South” is a perfect example of what makes his fiction special. It is an excerpt fro his new novel California Gothic. The story is his first appearance in Borderlands; we hope he plans a few encores.

  As Evie ran through the house, the morning light followed her. There was a white burst in each window, as if her passing had triggered a row of flashbulbs outside. Near the bedroom, she thought she saw a tall, dark outline squeeze from one pane to the next, pacing her, but the glass was so old that it flowed with distortion and she was unsure whether anyone was really there. It was not until she had peeled off her top and shorts and was about to step into the shower that the doorbell rang.

  “Eddie, could you…?”

  But of course he couldn’t. Her son had already gone, on his way to meet his friends and then to the mall.

  “Dan?” she called, hoping that her husband would hear.

  She stood with one hand on the hot water faucet and the other on the edge of the shower curtain, and waited. But Dan was still in the backyard. Too far away.

  The bell rang again.

  She reached for her robe. It was not on the back of the door. That’s right, she thought, I put it in the laundry basket to be washed.

  There was no time to get dressed. Should she ignore the bell? No, it might be United Parcel with a shipment intended for the store; then she or Dan would have to make a special trip just to pick it up.

  She found his terrycloth robe in a heap at the end of the bed, where he had left it.

  “Coming!” she shouted, tying the robe closed, and padded through to the living room.

  She went first to the front window and peeked around the curtain. She could see only half of the porch, but it appeared to be empty, except for a long shadow cast by the overhang. Then something skittered across the lawn. She turned her head quickly, following a small pile of leaves that blew past on the sidewalk. Farther down the street, the mail truck rounded the corner, and a compact car idled under the stop sign. The car looked familiar. Was it Dan’s? That meant he had already left, without saying good-bye.

  She let the curtain fall and opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  A young woman stood there in profile, as though about to give up and move on. Beyond her, the lawn crackled with oak leaves. A wind had come up, as if from nowhere.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said uncertainly, “but…”

  Evie had never seen her before. At least there was no sample case in her hand; with any luck, she was not selling anything. That was a relief.

  “It’s all right,” said Evie, relaxing slightly. “What can I—?”

  “Well, you see…” She was hardly more than a girl, in her late teens or early twenties at most, though with the noonday sunlight behind her it was hard to be sure. Her hair was short and plain and she wore a loose, knee-length cotton dress several sizes too large, and no belt, as if to conceal her figure. “What street is this?” she asked finally.

  “Stewart Way.”

  “Oh. I was afraid I took a wrong turn.”

  Did that mean she had, or hadn’t?

  “What address are you looking for?”

  She had no reason to hide her body. From what Evie could see of her, long wiry arms, no stomach and short-toed pink feet, she was a perfect size four.

  “I don’t know. The school.”

  “Greenworth Elementary?” Was she walking? Barefoot? “You’re almost there. Take a left at the corner, and then another left. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.”

  She made no move to leave, but lingered as though she had not yet said what was on her mind. Was she really going to the school? Maybe even a size two, thought Evie. I used to be that thin, once.

  “Is there anything else?” Where was her watch? She had taken it off in the bathroom. “Because I’m kind of late. I was supposed to meet someone at twelve-thirty. For lunch.” She gave the younger woman—girl?—a friendly but dismissive smile and started to shut the door.

  “Is it far?”

  “Just around the corner.”

  “I mean, where you’re having lunch.”

  “What?” Evie wondered what business it was of hers. “Not really. Just over the hill.”

  “That’s good.” The girl looked at her wristwatch. “It’s only eleven-fifteen.”

  “Is that all?” said Evie, surprised. “I thought it was twelve, at least.”

  The girl continued to stand there, the yellow-white light behind her, as the oak trees across the street shook down more leaves. Evie heard a scrabbling on the roof, twigs or tiny claws. The kitten? She felt a rush of radiant heat from the porch, moving the hair over her forehead, brushing the nap of her robe. Dan’s robe. She retied it more securely.

  “Do you think…?”

  “What?” asked Evie.

  “Could I please have a drink of water? The wind, it’s so hot…”

  “It’s a Santa Ana.”

  “A what?”

  “It always comes this time of year.”

  “Why?”

  She was not from around here. “I’m not sure. But it’s a warm wind from the south—Mexico, I think. Below the border, anyway.” As the trees rustled and waved, Evie opened the door wider. “You don’t have to stand out there. Come in.”

  As she closed the door, the whispering chorus of leaves was silenced. Evie felt better; it had made her uneasy. Then she heard a ceiling beam creak, hammering into place over them. There was a faint scurrying from the fireplace as the wind rearranged the ashes in the grating. It had found a way to get into the house. She would have to tell Dan to close the flue.

  “I’ll get your water.”

  She started for the kitchen, then glanced back. The girl was standing awkwardly by the sofa. Was she looking for a place to sit? Evie paused to remove the morning newspaper from the cushions.

  “My name’s Eve, by the way. Eve Markham.”

  “I know.”

  She was dark, probably Hispanic, Evie noticed. Or was it only a deep tan? “How?”

  “From the mailbox.”

  The odd moment passed as easily as a skipped heartbeat.

  She expected the girl to offer her own name in return.

  She waited.

  “Oh,” Evie said after a few seconds. “Well, hi.”

  “Hi.”

  She went to the kitchen, took down one of the tall glasses, filled it quickly and returned. “I didn’t ask if you wanted ice.”

  “What? Oh, no. This is fine.” The girl took a sip, that was all, and set the glass on the table in front of her.

  She was seated comfortably on the sofa and the hastily-piled newspapers were nowhere to be seen. Had she moved them? Where? Evie wondered if she might be a housekeeper, looking for a job. But that made no sense. Why this house? Evie put it out of her mind.

  “Do you live in the neighborhood?” Evie asked,
sitting down in the easy chair.

  “I’ll be moving in soon. As soon as I find the right place.”

  Evie heard a car pass through the intersection at the corner, going away. She lowered her eyes while she tried to think of something else to say, and saw her knees poking out under the robe, as though it were not Dan’s but her own short one instead. She covered her legs, and noted the backs of her hands. They made her look older, middle-aged. She was aware of the blood pulsing in her wrists, which were glistening. She touched her face, her neck. Her skin felt hot. It must have been the wind. Now she needed that shower more than ever. Why was there no clock in the living room?

  “You have a child at the elementary school?” she asked.

  “Not yet. I wanted to see the other children first. Is that when they have their lunch, at noon?”

  It had been so long—a year? no, more—since her own son had gone there that Evie could hardly remember. The school was close enough that Eddie had come home for lunch most days, even when she and Dan were at work.

  “I think so. But there aren’t any classes today, only the playgroup.”

  The girl took another small sip of her water. Was there something wrong with it? Sorry I don’t have bottled, Evie thought.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, “but I really should—”

  There was a wrenching sound from the backyard, and something fell with a terrible crash.

  She hurried through the long house to the back porch.

  The yard looked different somehow; at first she could not be sure why. For one thing, there was more sky showing than there should have been. Then she realized that one of the trees Dan had planted between the house and the garage had fallen over. No, not fallen but broken, the top half lying in a pile of dry, misshapen branches and withered, unborn fruit, near the two dwarf palms. The trunk was split sharply and the bark stripped back to expose the soft white center, like a ragged piece of chicken meat that has been peeled away from the bone.