“The Stiff” (Review)

Tags

Comic, Graphic Novel, High School, Jason Bradley Thompson, Novel, Webcomic

The Stiff
by Jason Bradley Thompson

Note: I should say in advance that the media reviewed is as of yet incomplete.

As a high school freshman myself, I find horror stories about high school fascinating. It’s not like you need that much embellishment. High schoolers already have to deal with mental/emotional shifts, a sense of discomfort in their own body, vicious social structures practically designed to screw people over, the conflict between a longing for childhood irresponsibility and a hunger for being recognized as mature, a gnawing sense of existential dread, the growing desynchronization of the mind-body/childhood-adulthood dichtomies…

Ahem. Well, this is not a confessional booth. Suffice to say, high school is generally unpleasant for most people, and usually stressful, so its not that hard to imagine horror in that setting.

At least, not hard for Jason Bradley Thompson, whose webcomic* The Stiff is the best high school horror story I’ve yet to read.

The Stiff follows Alistair Toth (prepare yourself for the references!), a student** at Larkspur High who is obsessed with horror film, fiction, and the like. He’s also, as the title suggests, a bit of a stiff: he claims to be asexual, doesn’t drink or smoke, and seems utterly disgusted by the idea of sex. The closest thing to a friend” he has is Jamie Etchison, who (unlike Alistair) is not only open to things like sex but is actively exploring her newfound sexuality.

Things get complicated when new student Alice Hoffman arrives at school. She actually begins to stir up some feelings in Alistair, leading to several fantasies of his which we see depicted (him and her being the last two survivors of a zombie apocalypse, etc.). But this isn’t a normal crush. Something much more subversive and disturbing is at work.

Things really go into a tailspin when Alistair is temporarily hypnotized at a party. Social problems created by this incident aside, he becomes fascinated by hypnotism, and, one day when he’s home with a fever, suffering from frenzied nightmares, he chooses to hypnotize himself.

To say anything more would be a spoiler.

The story is slow. Thompson allows it to move at its own pace, jumping back and forth in time, showing the same events from different perspectives. This really helps build character and setting. By chapter four of the work (as of right now, there are five chapters, an unfinished sixth chapter, and a prologue) I felt firmly rooted in the lives of the major characters. They’re all likable people, particularly Alistair (when he’s not being pretentious!) and Jamie. Their conversations aren’t forced, the dialogue (despite a few misspellings) feels real. They act like normal people (well, most of the time. Alistair has a few things going on, so it’s not out of place.) and I feel like I know them.

Alistair’s struggle with his crush for Alice Hoffman can be interpreted as…well, what it is: a crush. It can be strange (and certainly frightening) to develop a crush on someone for the first time, especially when one is so conditioned against the concept of romance as Alistair is. Of course, in Alistair’s case, things are a little more unusual, but on the whole Thompson very effectively replicates the tumultuous emotions that go along with having a crush.

The horror itself is still in the shadows, and even after reading all of it I still don’t know what’s going on. That’s a wonderful feeling, though, isn’t it? The ambiguity of what’s really going on (and there is a lot of it!) is the very best kind of torture. Thompson is building an atmosphere, layer by layer, and the mystery of what the threat actually is is what makes it so haunting.

For this reason I hesitate to call The Stiff: Part One complete horror. The slow burn and the sheer unnaturalness of what is going on puts it more in line with modern weird fiction, or with Robert Aickman’s idea of the “strange story”, than with what I’ve come to know as horror. (Although, really, who needs demarcation lines for genre?)

The allusions, though, are unmistakable. There’s a student called Shirley Jackson, a dog named Sredni Vashtar. Even Larkspur, the genus that gives Alistair’s high school its name, is entirely toxic. This is the decidedly “meta” (and certainly tragic) twist to the story: Alistair is trapped in a scary story and doesn’t realize it, just like the hapless protagonists that he’s so fond of reading about.

Now onto the art. Ah, the art. Jason Bradley Thompson had already proved his artistic merit to me when I started reading The Stiff: Part One with his absolutely incredible adaptation of H.P. Lovecraft’s The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath (which you can, and most certainly should, buy here). This project doesn’t offer up monsters or splendor, except in Alistair’s dream/fantasy sequences and the title pages of each chapter (which are drawn with obvious relish).

Chapter five title page

The art makes use of bold outlines and sharp crosshatching, leading to a claustrophobic sense of darkness. The characters, on the other hand, stand out bright white against the page, sometimes ugly, other times beautiful. When the horror comes a-creeping it is visibly shown in the panels: gnarled, decaying blotches of darkness ooze into the panels and indeed into the characters themselves. It made me feel physically uncomfortable at times, which is saying something.

There’s also so much attention to detail that it borders on obsessive. If you look at the panel of Alistair hypnotizing himself, you can read the title of more or less every book on his shelf. There’s a magazine called Film Threat on his dresser, and a mug of some liquid on the floor. It must take quite some time to cram so much into a single panel, but it certainly pays off.

Thompson once worked at VIZ Media, co-wrote a (quite entertaining, even for someone not particularly interested in the subject) column called House of 1000 Manga, and designed an acclaimed game called Mangaka, so its no surprise that his art can show the manga influence at times. His characters’ expressions, in particular, can be reminiscent of traditional Japanese comics. This is not a bad thing; on the contrary, I found it to be a bit of a breath of fresh air, given the style that most major American comics are drawn in.

The art does start out a bit rough, but greatly improves over time. Thompson himself noted this in his comments to the second page of the prologue: “the art in the early pages […] is old and sometimes a little embarrassing. […] Part of me wants to redraw these early pages, but recently I’ve come to the conclusion that artists going back and redrawing/rewriting their old stuff is a waste of time creatively”. It’s a matter of this (in chapter one):

Versus this (in chapter six):

It’s worth sticking with.

It would probably be pertinent to mention at this point that, unfortunately, The Stiff (in its webcomic incarnation) has been canceled. Writes Thompson:

I set myself up with an artstyle [sic] too detailed and a plot too long to finish in the format I chose. […] thinking of the tremendous time investment it would take to draw those 750+ remaining pages, I think of the dozens of other, newer projects I’d rather do with that time. And when I think of leaving the sad, dangling possibility that *someday* I’ll finish drawing it, I think of other unfinished-but-never-officially-canceled comics that have bugged me and my friends over the years […]Inasmuch as possible, I’d rather not be part of such company, and have The Stiff[***] be a dead webcomic rather than an eternally-waiting-to-be-finished comic.

This was sad news to me when I initially read it, but not all hope is lost. “I’m going to finish The Stiff[****] as a prose novel,” he says in the same post. “Prose has vastly different requirements than comics and the resulting work will surely be different than a graphic novel would have been, but at least in prose I can honestly say that it *will* get done.”

It will be interesting to see The Stiff in a prose format, and how the comic will play off the writing. I am, however, wholly invested in it. God knows when it’ll be done, but I can wait.

Even in its current, half finished state, I can confidently say that The Stiff is one of the best weird fiction stories I’ve ever read, period. Yes, I’m going there. In my opinion, Thompson is in the league with the best of Lovecraft, Robert Aickman, Laird Barron, Matthew M. Bartlett, Ramsey Campbell, Michael Wehunt, Nathan Ballingrud, et al. Even if the story were to remain unfinished, it would still remain one of the best things I’ve ever read.

It just checks off everything that makes a really effective weird tale: compelling characters, disturbing horror/menace, the unknown, modern sensibility, and all the others. Part of me is worried that I might be overselling it, so keep your expectations low…but I’m not overselling it. At least, not in my opinion, which I recognize isn’t everyone’s.

I’ve gushed quite enough, and, it being a Sunday, I have school tomorrow. I’ll walk down the hall, go to my classes, doodle pentagrams in the margins of my notebook and scribble them out, and try not to let the day-to-day fear of death get to me. After reading The Stiff, though, that’s just a little harder…and I couldn’t be more glad for it.

You can (and most certainly should!) read The Stiff (so far) starting here. You can also just browse Mr. Thompson’s website, which is brimming with wonderful art and comics. The Comics Archive is a good place to start.

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ANNOTATIONS

*For those who don’t know, a webcomic is defined as “a series of comic strips published online”, though it generally means any form of graphic media (not just comic strips) that one can read online.

**I hesitate to write freshman/sophomore/junior/senior because I’m sure I’d get it wrong, given that the story kind of hops around in time and space. Just…read the comic.

***My italics.

****My italics.

Sean M. Thompson’s “The Demon”: Chapter Nine

Tags

Sean M. Thompson, Serial, The Demon

Sean M. Thompson’s
The Demon

Groggy from lack of sleep, a presence seemed to be wandering around Cort’s thoughts. It wasn’t a mere string of thoughts – it was like a dream of a different mind, separate from his own, and the thoughts it might have.

His chest itched, felt irritated. He made a mental note to check out the skin on his chest by the end of the day.

About 7:30 he walked off to the train station. A wicked wind blew, the buildings acting as a wind tunnel. He did his best to appear cool and collected, having just murdered and ate another human being. Not just anyone either, but a person that he loved.

Not to mention having just seen little weird monsters eat her remains. No, I’m doing remarkably well. Pat yourself on the back, buddy. You are a model citizen.

The police station came up on his left. Cort stopped, and stared at it. He could just turn himself in. He gritted his teeth, and part of him knew turning himself in was the right thing to do. He definitely wasn’t fit to walk the streets. He’d assaulted an old man, and then gone on to kill a woman he’d been romantically involved with.

Despite his guilt, he kept walking.

Cort turned the corner, and saw the subway stop ahead. Something dark passed through his peripheral vision. He turned his head quickly to see, but he only saw pedestrians: nothing out of the ordinary.

There hadn’t been much snow, and the sidewalk wasn’t too bad. He’d made good time, despite being a bundle of nerves.

Down the stairs he descended. The journey lower felt fitting. A symbolic gesture, a subterranean landscape to match the black waters flooding his psyche.

There was something about the station which raised the hairs on his neck. It was a quality he couldn’t define, couldn’t articulate.

Everything appeared normal. The passengers all looked normal, acted normal. A guy playing an acoustic guitar strummed a remarkably boring, cliché song about working hard to earn money for his lover. Men and women in business attire. A few students with backpacks, or messenger bags. A typical scene for a Monday in the subway.

So why were his guts churning like he’d just found a bomb?

His train arrived. Cort took a seat at the far corner. The car quickly filled to capacity: a tall guy and a short Indian women having to stand, while a woman in a burqa sat near with a baby in a stroller.

I wonder what that baby would look like if I threw it onto the tracks –

“No!”

The other passengers stared at him, and he realized he’d just said that out loud.

Oh Jesus, keep it together Cort, cool your shit, man.

He tried staring out the window instead, hoping the buildings and vehicles might get his mind off his fellow passengers. There was a reflection in the glass. A passenger sat behind him. Cort focused on this man – a black guy, pretty big from what he could gather. As he watched, the man’s mouth began to open wide. His jaw bones snapped in unison, and his arms and legs broke in tandem. The man slid to the floor in the reflection, and continued to slide over towards him.

Cort cranked his neck around. The seat across from him was occupied by a Chinese girl, who looked to be a student, reading an engineering textbook. She gave him pretty much the look he was expecting.

Cort turned back to the window, shutting his eyes tight, listening intently for his stop.

***

The office building looked like some kind of angry god of glass and metal, staring down at him with thousands of eyes. The angles were all wrong, the way the place tilted down towards him. Realistically, Cort knew that the building would have toppled over into a heap of rubble had it really been at such a pronounced lean.

The whole world had gone sharp and insane over the course of a few nights, and now he had to walk around pretending like he either wasn’t possessed by a fucking demon, or  like he wasn’t so profoundly batshit that they should lock him up and throw away the key.

As he entered the building, he swore he saw an overweight woman on the street in a black dress and heels wink at him.

Once inside, the security guard looked normal, but many of the office drones stared at him with feral eyes, sizing him up. They looked like they wanted to devour him whole. The ones staring at him seemed to be whispering something, but he couldn’t make out what.

Cort rushed to the elevator, hit the button for the second floor. Many of the people in the lobby stared at him as the doors shut.

When he got to his floor, he rushed out, heading to the relative safety of his desk.

A short janitor, with a long scraggly beard and a blue baseball hat rolled a mop and yellow bucket on wheels into the elevator. He was whispering something, over and over, as he passed Cort. It sounded like the same thing the office workers downstairs had been whispering, but he still couldn’t hear well enough to decipher the words.

The janitor giving him one solitary wave, before the doors shut.

Cort walked by cubicles on the way to his own. Every employee stared intently at their computer screens, the glow off the monitors shining in their eyes. None of them were typing anything, or clicking mouses. They simply stared at the monitors, enraptured, moths hovering before a porch light.

He thudded into his desk chair, and rolled around to find Jake staring at him like an escaped lunatic.

“Jesus, Jake!”

“You know there isn’t much time left, right?”

Cort squinted quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you feel him inside you.”

Cort backed the chair away, as far back as it could go until it thumped into his desk. A cold weight was sinking in his stomach.

“I, uh, have to get some work done, Jake, so I’d appreciate it if you – ”

“You killed anybody yet?”

Cort froze. “What?”

“Oh, don’t play coy. I have. A lot of us here have. I’ve done so many things, Cort.”

Jake rolled towards him, and trapped, Cort could only watch in horror as his cube mate inched closer, and closer.

“Necrophilia, bestiality, cannibalism, these are a few of my favorite thiiiiiings,” Jake laughed in a sing-song voice.

Cort stood, and Jake grabbed him by the hips, forced him back to his seat.

“I know you killed a woman, buddy. And that’s okay. Because she was only a human. And the new world, the one on its way, it’s filled with people like us. People with his voice, with his will.”

“No…no. This is wrong.”

He tried to stand again, and Jake held his shoulders so he couldn’t.

“Wrong is a human concept, Cort. We’re better than that. We’re more than morality. We hail from a place of ancient decay and darkness, a spiritual plane as black as the dead stars in the frozen heavens.”

Cort stomped on Jake’s foot, and the man let out a surprised cry, which was filled with laughter, even through the pain.

“There’s nowhere to run, Cort. This world is ours now. It’s only a matter of time.”

He hurried to the elevator, feeling their eyes upon him, and hearing the same whisper, only now he could make out what the words were.

Hail Satan.

His heart thudded against his ribcage hard. They all stared at their screens, and there was no desire within him to stay.

Hail Satan.

He burst out the door, stumbling across the pavement.

Hail Satan.

He hailed a cab, told the driver his address. Out the window of the cab, the buildings sagged down towards the street, in a sky that was markedly darker than before.

***

Cort woke on his back. The sun was bright. His skin was warm, and a gentle breeze rustled through the field, a barely perceptible susurration of the flowers all around him. Someone called his name. It was difficult to see through the light, blurred by the glare shining through the cloudless blue sky.

“Cort,” Janet said.

Cort stood, the image of Janet clearing into focus with every second his eyes adjusted. They stood in a field of daisies that stretched far as he could see.

Janet being here seemed wrong. Cort couldn’t remember why. Something bad had happened to her, hadn’t it? Something terrible.

And then everything came back to him. Wracking sobs escaped his throat, as he struggled for air through his grief.

“Jesus, Janet, I’m s-so fucking sorry. I – I didn’t…”

Cort coughed, tried to steady his voice through the tears. His chest ached with sorrow. Seeing Janet brought everything to the surface. The distractions of all the craziness of the past few days washed away, and left only this. Only the terrible crime he had committed. Only the life he had taken.

“Cort, listen. You’re the only one who can stop him,” Janet said flatly.

He breathed deep, looked her in the eye. “What? I’m the only one who can stop who? I – Jesus, Janet, I killed you.”

She sighed. “You weren’t yourself, Cort.”

“I ate a piece of you!”

“That wasn’t…wow, really?”

“I blacked out, I – ”

“Look, that – that wasn’t you, Cort. That’s…that’s really fucked up, but that wasn’t you.”

“But they were my hands! I should have known – ”

“You love me, right?”

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation. He loved Janet, and she’d been taken from him, by him. What was he going to do now?

“You have to make this right,” she said.

“How could I ever?” he asked.

“There’s a man in Boston who isn’t a man at all.”

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“No one knows his name,” Janet replied, beckoning him over with her hand.

They walked in silence for a time, the field of daisies sloping gently down, for miles in either direction. Cort loved her, and somehow she’d been returned to him. He didn’t deserve to ever see her again. He should be rotting in prison for what he did.

“Should I turn myself in?” he asked.

She held him by the shoulders.

“Cort, this is real. This is me. I’m not exactly sure how this works, but I’m alive again, in…this place. There are a lot of good people, innocent people, who need your help. You don’t want anyone else to die, do you?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Good. Because you need to avenge my death.”

“But…but I was the one that killed you!”

“For the last time, it wasn’t you, Cort! You have to believe me that I know you would never do something like that!”

“And how do I know that I’m not crazy? That I’m not just dreaming?”

She hugged him. Cort felt the warmth of her body as her arms wrapped around him. It felt real enough.

“You need to trust me, Cort. This is real.”

“Where are we?” he asked.

“I…I don’t know,” Janet said, though there was a tinge of apprehension in her voice.

“So you don’t know where we are, and you don’t know the name of this…guy I have to stop.”

“He’s not a man,” Janet said.

The flowers seemed to go on indefinitely. This place was beautiful. He never wanted to leave.

He tried to focus. Tried to piece everything together. All the concepts were muddled, like recollections after a drunken night. Nothing entirely made sense.

“If he’s not a man, what is he?” he finally asked.

“He’s the creature inside of your head, and he’s the one behind the computer virus. He made you kill me. He may not be a ‘he’ at all, but when he walks, he does so with human legs. His tongue is the Serpent’s, and his is the Voice of the Deep.”

Cort paused, feeling sick. “Satan?”

“No. Not him. He’s an emissary, a servitor. A soldier, leapt straight from Hell onto Earth.”

“So what am I supposed to do about it? I’m not exactly a master assassin! I’m not special in any way, Janet!”

His anger bubbled within him, boiling water left too long on the stove. Where the fuck was this, and why was Janet here? He was so confused, and scared, and full of grief and guilt.

Her death was his fault. No matter what she told him, it was his hands had done the terrible work.

“You are special, Cort. That’s the only reason you were able to travel here. That’s the only reason I’m able to talk to you now.”

He stared at her in confusion for a few moments, before finally sputtering out “What?”

She reached out, slowly, and placed her hands in his.

“There are people that inherit a certain…predisposition. Not many do. Don’t ask me how I know, I’m not entirely sure myself. But when I came here, I just…knew. Just like one person can grow up to be good at math, or can have a wonderful memory, others are able to see and process things most can’t. You’re one of those people, Cort. When you sense someone calling and know exactly who it is, that’s not a coincidence. When you somehow knew my hometown without me telling you when we first met, you didn’t overhear it. You just knew it. You were able to pick it out of my mind.”

“This is such bullshit,” he said, frustrated. None of this made any sense whatsoever. He was in an endless field of flowers with a woman he’d just murdered, (willingly or not), and now this dead woman, miraculously alive was telling him he was what? A psychic? Spiritually gifted? Had ESP?

That was fucking ridiculous.

“You can get inside his head, Cort,” Janet said softly.

“I work a low level data entry job, and I can barely remember to bring my wallet with me half the time. You’re trying to tell me I’m gifted? I have a hard time believing that. Granted, demonic possession is equally hard to wrap your head around, but being able to…what are you actually saying to me?”

“I’m saying you can travel, Cort. I’m saying you can find this thing that wears the flesh of a man, and get inside its mind.”

“To what end? Even supposing this isn’t just me being a crazy person, having a crazy person dream, being stuffed to the brim with delusions of grandeur – even assuming this is real, what could I possibly get out of hopping into the mind of a goddamn demon?”

She smiled, and motioned for him to sit. Cort did, sighing. Janet’s eyes held him rapt.

“The only way you can stop this is if you find him, and kill him. You’re one of the few with him inside your head who can actually fight back, who can block him out. The others can’t do that, Cort. You need to block him out, and you need to search for him.”

“And why can’t someone else do it? You just said there were a few!”

“Cort, they could be children. They could be elderly. I have no idea how many others there are, or how to access them. But I know you can do it. You need to have faith.”

“You’re trying to tell me in the entire city of Boston there’s not one other person who can do this?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

He sighed, rubbed his forehead. This was totally absurd. Was he supposed to believe that he was some sort of “Chosen One”, a Stephen King character? It was so out-of-the-question…and yet when he looked at Janet, there was such a real earnestness in her eyes that he couldn’t help but be moved.

After a pause, he said “How am I supposed to find him?”

“You’ll know when the time is right.”

They sat in silence. Cort leaned in and kissed her.

“I failed you,” he said, feeling the guilt well up in him again.

“You can make this right,” she replied.

“I miss you so much.”

“I know.”

This place was so beautiful. Janet looked radiant. Cort realized she was wearing the same dress he’d seen her in on the night they first met.

“If I’d only fought harder,” he said, feeling like he might break down again, “maybe you’d still be alive.”

She hugged him, and pressed her nose against his, so close her eyelashes tickled his forehead when she blinked.

“This wasn’t your fault, Cort. This thing…it’s pure evil, just like the Beast himself. The world is in danger. You have to fight back.”

“Will I ever see you again?” he asked, crying again, only distantly aware of the tears sliding down his cheeks.

“When your days are at an end. When you leave your first life for the next. When you pass over, you’ll see me again. And we’ll walk hand in hand, on this field that goes forever.”

They stood in silence for a time. And he kissed her again, hard, wrapping his arms around her. Cort prayed he’d never have to let go. He wished more than anything he could stay in the sun, in this field, with the woman he loved. He dreamt of a life with her here, and knew it would be a long time before he’d ever see this place, or her, again.

His work wasn’t finished yet.

“Forever,” Janet said.

The field blinked out of existence, and he fell through endless night; never stopped falling.

***

Cort came to, gasping for air, lying on the floor of his apartment. His chest itched like crazy. He got up, slowly, wandered to the bathroom. Took off his shirt, and stared at his chest in the mirror.

An upside down triangle of a rash was flaring up, a blood red.

Cort caught movement behind him, turned, but there was nothing there.

He rushed to the front door, and confirmed it was locked. Again, the movement of something out of his peripheral vision, by the wall. Yet, when he looked, nothing.

I wonder what Stacy’s up to, he thought, and the words felt like buzzing wasps inside his brain.

Leave her out of this! he thought, fully himself, confronting that other voice that mimicked his own.

And all of a sudden, a strange sensation. His inner monologue just…stopped. No thoughts, no voices. It was like someone getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar, freezing up. His mind was completely blank.

Cort sat on the couch, and gradually his thoughts returned. They seemed to be more or less normal.

Cort called the office and made up an excuse about an aunt dying, saying he’d need to use up the rest of his sick time for the next week. He assured them on the message he’d call them back tomorrow. Went on to say he’d email them to confirm.

Stacy’s probably home right now, he thought, and went to the kitchen to pour himself a stiff drink.

***

“That’s a whole lot of food, mister,” the woman behind the counter said.

Rosy’s was mostly empty, save for a few cooks in the back, and this girl, her nametag indicating her nomenclature was Shondra.

He stared at her, letting the silence work its magic. Silence was a powerful tool. Silence could kill a person slowly from the inside out, and make them do all manner of delicious things.

Finally, he spoke.

“Darrell, has he found a new job yet?”

Shondra frowned.

“How do you know my husband?”

“Oh, I know a whole lot of things, Shondra. For instance, I know that Darrell has been working very hard, but not to find a job. Tell me, how well do you know Sofia?”

“My neighbor? How do you know about my neighbor?”

His smile could freeze the rain.

“Mister, you better cough up some answers. I got pepper spray in my purse, and I’m not afraid to use that shit.”

“Darrell has been working very hard with Sofia for the last month, sometimes twice a day. While you’re here, hard at work, trying to keep a roof over your head, over his head, he’s been fucking your neighbor. And he hasn’t just been fucking her, he’’s been falling in love with her. As we speak, they have plans to get married in the next six months, and he’s been trying to get up the courage to leave you for the last week.”

She started to cry, and looked like she was about to say something, and stopped.

Inside of her head, he continued.

Shondra, you deserve so much more than such a lousy deadbeat. So here’s what I think you should do. I think you should go home, and you should open up your closet. On the top, behind a box of old DVDs, there’s a small handgun Darrell purchased last year. The bullets are beside it. Now, Darrell will be in Sofia’s apartment, giving the old one-two to her, and he won’t hear you come in. If you aim at his back, you can kill two birds with one stone. Sofia has five thousand dollars stuffed into a shoebox under her bed. Take the money, and get out of there as soon as you can. You’ll have a few minutes. Your other neighbor, the elderly woman, she won’t be able to hear the shots, and the man at the far end of the hall has a warrant out for his arrest, so he won’t be inclined to tattle.

A dreamy look on her face, Shondra said aloud, “Why are you telling me this?”

He leaned in a bit, and in his eyes, Shondra saw flames. They were hypnotic, the way they danced, and they relaxed her. She could stare into his eyes for hours.

“I’m telling you this because no one deserves to be walked on, Shondra. Now, go tell your boss you have to leave early.”

She turned, and, suddenly thinking of something, he clapped his hands to get her attention. Shondra cried out, and turned back around.

“Almost forgot, can you put extra hot sauce in there?”

To be continued
April 13th, 2017.

Orford Parish Books Publications 1 – 4 (Review)

Tags

Anthologies, Chapbooks, Collections, Conspiracy Theories, Dreams, Folk Horror, Joseph Pastula, Matthew M. Bartlett, Occult, Orford Parish, Orford Parish Books, Tom Breen

Orford Parish Books is what I guess you’d call a “boutique press” that publishes books generally centered around author Tom Breen’s fictional locale of Orford Parish. I decided to review all four of their released books (so far) in one go, so without any further ado…

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Orford Parish Murder Houses: a Visitor’s Guide
by Tom Breen

This book hit me like a rock.

I was expecting it to be a collection of linked short fiction – that’s generally what these types of things are, right? – or, less likely, a mosaic novel in the style of Bartlett’s Gateways to Abomination.

What I got was one of the biggest shocks I’ve ever received – an amazing, fully fleshed out, well-written, frightening, hilarious faux-tour guide.

Let me step back a bit.

There is a town in Connecticut called Orford Parish. Like any other small town, it has a local newspaper, quaint people, mediocre restaurants.

It also has an ancient tree that will answer any question it is given, groups of children repeating the word “Despair” over and over while playing in the snow, and more murders per capita than any other place in the United States.

Of course, as First Selectman Norman Dimble reminds us, there’s “‘More than murder – but plenty of murder'”!

This book purports to be a collection of short descriptions each centered around the history and folklore of a specific “murder house” in Orford Parish. Each description includes the name and address of the house, a story recalling the history of it, and a quick write-up on the best restaurants in the area. No, I’m serious. It’s all quite funny, but when you peel back the skin of it you begin to see something more unnerving.

For example, what’s so funny about the cannibalistic rage that enveloped the NuLove Hippie Commune? Who’s laughing at the Lathrop House, home to one of the most disturbing and mysterious murders ever set to paper? And there’s certainly nothing funny about the priest who stared into the void that is God…

It’s hard to talk about my favorites in this book without giving anything away. The NuLove one was probably my favorite, followed closely by the aforementioned Borden-inspired Lathrop House entry (which genuinely had me looking over my shoulder for the rest of the night). The book knocks your expectations out of the park with the very first fragment, which totally subverts your idea of “murder” and presents quite a puzzling conundrum until the truth (?) of the matter is revealed…

Breen’s writing is precise; it ranges from elaborate to sharp depending on the intended voice. The wistful narrator of “Armorica”, the only traditionally structured narrative in the book, does genuinely seem to be reminiscing her childhood, while Norman Dimble’s infectious enthusiasm for his blood-soaked city leaps off of the page. On the whole humor and wit shines in every narrative; you will find yourself laughing a lot during the reading of this book, which contrasts with the horror and, in doing so, makes that horror more effective.

I honestly don’t know how much more I can say about this book without spoiling its effect. Suffice to say that this made my “Best of 2016” list for a good reason: namely, that it is inventive, funny, dark, and all-in-all surprising in the best possible way.

If you don’t read this – and I really, REALLY mean this – you are doing yourself a disservice. Buy Orford Parish Murder Houses: a Visitor’s Guide here.

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Little Oren and the Noises (Picture Books for Weird Kids, Vol. 1)
by Joseph Pastula

Again, hit me like a rock.

When I heard the second release from Orford Parish books would be a picture book, I was surprised but not necessarily deterred – okay, it was a little bizarre, but they’d pulled that off with Orford Parish Murder Houses, right? I checked out the author’s webcomic Silkworms, which made me feel unusual for a while after – a good sign. Still, I was more than a little doubtful when I opened up the package…

Let me describe Little Oren and the Noises in the simplest way I can. If Thomas Ligotti wrote a picture book, this would be it.

The story follows an Orford Parish man who doesn’t like noise, and who goes to very extreme lengths to avoid it. To say anything else would be to ruin the nasty surprise this book has waiting for you. Joseph Pastula’s pictures are uncomfortable in the best way, and I felt more than a little disturbed when I saw the, um…noises.

The story is simple and uncomplicated, but coupled with the pictures the whole thing becomes an eerie experience that left me claustrophobic and upset.

I can’t say too much about this book, as its mostly pictures and the story is very easily spoiled. But I can say that anyone, even adults, will enjoy this – if they enjoy such bizarre, uncategorizable works of weird fiction. And really, who doesn’t?

You can buy Little Oren and the Noises here.

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Old Gory: Two Tales of Flag Horror
by Joseph Pastula and Tom Breen

(Note: I can’t find a high-rez image of the cover, so this promotional image will have to do.)

This is the first in a series of so-called “split chapbooks” which are essentially tiny, themed anthologies with just two or three stories. In keeping with its recurring theme of “doing something really, really strange”, Orford Parish Books’ first themed chapbook is Old Gory: Two Tales of Flag Horror, which is – you guessed it – Orford Parish horror stories relating to the flag of the United States.

The “hit me like a rock” phrase is getting overused, but again, it’s the only adequate way to describe my feelings on discovering the theme of this slim volume. Orford Parish Books’ previous publications both effectively explored the fringes of weird horror, but I didn’t know how one could possibly make the American flag scary. However, I was catching on, and I figured things were going to be interesting (if not anything else). My expectations were, again, exceeded.

Joseph Pastula’s cover is quite eye-catching – there are skulls in the white lines, the red is reminiscent of blood, and the stars are all inverted pentagrams. These themes are expanded upon in the erudite faux-introduction “The Flag, and How it Got that Way” by an Orford Parish professor of demonology. This was a welcome surprise. It’s a funny little thing, and adds to the delightful oddness of the book.

We kick this book off with Joseph Pastula’s story “Orison for the Departed”, which is not set inside Orford Parish but just outside of it. Its a sort of ghost story, more or less, about a house covered in flag paraphernalia, and the man who finds out why. For some reason this story reminds me of the Winchester Mystery House, but this is probably just a cosmetic connection. Pastula’s prose is slightly more baroque than Breen’s, but it suits the story quite well and provides nice contrast to the second offering. His development of atmosphere is quite skillful, and I look forward to seeing more full prose offerings from the author.

The second story is Tom Breen’s “Our Heart’s Blood Dyed in Every Fold”. It follows an Orford Parish “flag club” (as it were) composed of fathers whose children have gone missing, and who blame a group of astral warriors for taking them. Drawing on a curious old witchcraft custom of Europe, the story evokes both laughter at the absurdity of the situation and pity for the poor, deluded (or are they?) men whose children have been taken. Breen cultivates a very strong voice for the narrative, whose sarcastic comments and snarky asides provide most of the humor in the tale.. No-one’s laughing at the end, though, in a sad and disturbing conclusion with an ambiguous final line that still has me puzzling.

One would think that Pastula’s baroque ghost story would clash with Breen’s dark comedy, but they don’t. The one actually compliments the other (and vice versa), highlighting the good qualities in the story it sits alongside.

The book ends with an appendix that echoes the introduction and gives a more thorough account of Orford Parish flag history. It’s a fascinating bonus, one of the little touches that (like the introduction) really make this book shine.

On the whole, I was thoroughly surprised and impressed by this addition to the Orford Parish Books canon, and was eagerly looking forward to the next book.

You can buy Old Gory: Two Tales of Flag Horror here.

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Three Moves of Doom: Weird Horror from Inside the Squared Circle
by Matthew M. Bartlett, Joseph Pastula, and Tom Breen

Split chapbook, round two!

When I heard that the next book’d be themed after wrestling, I was no longer surprised. That is, it’s not that I was expecting the book to be about wrestling, but I was expecting the book to have a somewhat unusual theme, and that’s what I got.

I also no longer had any doubt in my mind that the book’d be quality. Orford Parish Books had won me over; I was excited for the release and couldn’t wait to see what the team would do.

Speaking of the team, a new member was brought on: the reputable Matthew M. Bartlett, who we might’ve talked about before. This ratcheted up the excitement from ten to fifteen, and when the package finally arrived I tore it open like a ghoul going at a throat.

We jump right into the (mat) action with Bartlett’s “The Dark Match”. It tells of an unnamed man desperately fleeing his hometown of Leeds (and we all know what goes on there!) for the relative safety of a seaside town named Hulse (Bartlett names it in an interview, but not in the story). There he meets a bizarre old man who proceeds to tell him a remarkably grisly story of Hulse’s underground late-night wrestling shows. After the story is finished, our narrator realizes Hulse may not be as safe as he thought. The tale has an intense conclusion that leaves the reader disturbed.

Bartlett’s in fine form here, with his signature brand of surreal horror on full display and an eerie, rapturous prose that draws the reader across the page. It’s also nice to see a change of scenery from Leeds (as much as I love it!) with the decrepit seaside town that this story takes place in. I hope we see a lot more of Hulse in the future! This is a very strong start.

Then we have Joseph Pastula’s truly gruesome “A Severance of Roots”, a shudder-worthy title I didn’t realize the meaning of until writing this post. Our narrator finds an obscure mention of a particularly brutal wrestler called “the Great Hakai” and goes to great lengths to find out more about them. To say anything more would be to spoil the story and its effect. While there is no supernatural element, or even a direct threat to the narrators, the story is possibly the most unsettling in the book. The last paragraph, which isn’t even really a twist, left a cold feeling in my stomach. It mimics the horror of looking back at some terrible past event, the sharp shock of an unexpected monstrosity. I often get this sensation when reading Ambrose Bierce, who could write a horror story like no-one else. In a surprise knockout this entry wins my favorite of the book, despite the incredibly high caliber set by the other two entries.

Finally, we have “The Vision of James Lee Dawson, King of the Death Matches” by Tom Breen. This forms a nice middle ground between the quiet horror of “A Severance of Roots” and the balls-to-the-walls surrealism of “The Dark Match”. It follows a grizzled wrestling veteran to one of his last matches. His eerily quiet opponent, however, isn’t interested in the script. This is probably the biggest treat for those who actually watch and enjoy wrestling. It provides the thrill of the match with the horror promised by the book, and Breen’s characteristically sharp sentences are perfect in their succinctness (another Bierce-like trait). This also has a surreal scene, one of the most utterly strange images in the book (and “The Dark Match” is in this book, so that’s saying something) and a powerful defining image for this slim volume. The ending itself is quite poignant. It rounds things out wonderfully.

There’s another darkly comic faux introduction (attempting to answer the question “Is wrestling real?”), some funny fake bios, and incredibly creepy/hilarious interstitial material taking the form of 1950s-style ads. The services and products advertised are truly bizarre, and (like the bonus content found in Old Gory) add something special to the book.

Wrestling fan or not (and I’m not!), this book is for everyone. Really. I genuinely think anyone can enjoy this book. There’s compelling characters (“The Vision of James Lee Dawson, King of the Deathmatch”), chilling scenarios (“A Severance of Roots”), complete insanity (“The Dark Match”), and some comedy thrown in to lighten the mood (introduction/interstitial material/author bios). It’s an excellent volume that belongs on every shelf.

You can buy Three Moves of Doom: Weird Horror from Inside the Squared Circle here.

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And that’s everything OPB has released so far.

Their line-up is exciting. They’ve a folk horror anthology edited by S.J. Bagley coming out (submissions are still open, if you’re interested!) and their next split chapbook, Letters of Decline: Four Tales of Job Interview Horror (with Pastula and Bartlett returning, with the excellent Jonathan Raab and our very own Sean M. Thompson joining the crew), looks very promising.

Orford Parish Books is the breath of fresh air that the weird horror community needs. It’s funny, it’s weird, it’s scary, it’s quality, and it finds horror in the most unusual of places. I highly recommend you visit their website and their Facebook page.

Or, perhaps, you’d like to visit Orford Parish itself. Sure, it has a Facebook page too, but you want the town itself. I know a fellow who can draw you a map, if you’re willing to pay. He’s at the gas station, drawing circles in his blood, muttering about the ghost worms that eat his wife at night. Or something like that, no-one can understand his language anyway. But when you get the map, you just drive, and you’ll find your way there. You’ll never want to leave.