Black Static #5

Few horror publications still offer a breadth of terror that satisfies the widely diverse palates of the mature and experienced audience. Too often, splatterpunk takes center stage: blood curdling screams, sexy blonde teenagers running from a dripping blade. While this reader does not discredit the gore scene—it is as foundational to contemporary horror as apple pie is to small town America—still, the subtleties of gothic horror have their rightful place as well. Contemporary audiences have diverse tastes, and fortunately, issue #5 of Black Static, edited by Andy Cox, aims to please. There’s something for everyone: gothic, gore, psychological and eclectic terror, discomfort, and wit.

Haunting graphics by David Gentry accompany seven short stories and six features, including a candid interview with Jack Ketchum. With an occasional pacing or characterization pit, issue #5 as a whole breaks social conventions and crosses genre boundaries. Pouring an unflinching essence of human fallibility into the reader’s mind, it stirs this dark elixir among the gray matter, creating a most wicked of concoctions and the best of recipes, as the mind, a shadowy playground, is the medium for terror. Be warned. The stories here are street-smart, infecting, and they are not likely to go home of their own accord. They will play past dinnertime; they will play past bedtime; they will stay with you.

“How Deep Is His Loneliness” by Kathleen Winter opens the issue with an introduction to Malcolm Morgan, a lonely retiree, who sits in his apartment day after day, pining over the loss of his dog and spying on the neighbors across the way. Discomfort immediately ensues with an exchange between Malcom’s son, Norm, and Norm’s friend, Geoffrey:

“Go easy on your old man,” I say. “It could be worse. He could be looking at all the women in the building, in their underwear.”

“Or all the boys.”

The prose moves with a nice pace and well-appointed language that unfurls its details masterfully, keeping the reader guessing along the way. Certainly, a moral exists here; however, the narrator does not moralize. The plot involves the reader as scenes and situations invoke strong reactions, expectation, and consideration. This is not a lazy read. It is interactive, using social mores to build tension and twist expectations.

In “The Second Death of Johan Kluge” by Tim Casson, Johan describes in up-close detail his own demise:

It was like being engulfed in a flapping black tent torn from its guy-ropes by a foul smelling gale, the sounds throaty grunts and hog snorts. I felt a needle-like agony deep inside my kidney. I screamed—a high, piercing sound that I had never known myself capable of uttering. Then a thudding blow to the side of my head cut short the scream, and a second later the ground was hurtling up at me, smashing tender flesh and bone, knocking all the air from my lungs.

After being attacked, Johan finds himself on a journey to a new land. There, he meets a group of people: logical, driven in their goals, and wanting to start anew. Only their motivations derive from a startling origin. The premise borders on the cliché, but it works surprisingly well. The main plot features twists and picks up the pace at an integral point to effectively distract the reader and push the story along. With a few highly climactic scenes and a creative spin, this tale entertains; splatterpunk and classic monster aficionados will not be disappointed.

However, “The Second Death of Johan Kluge” is not without its flaws. The pacing slows inappropriately within certain passages, most notably when cyclical speculations ensue, as though in an attempt to distract the reader—which might have worked better if they hadn’t been so dragged out. A few transitions are rather abrupt, and the language, sometimes reminiscent of classic cadences, echoes of high fantasy and occasionally dumps description—although this is not the reigning tone, which mostly indicates that this story needed some smoothing of its narrative voice. Generally, some fine tuning would have brought a well-plotted style to better fruition. Also, the protagonist, while sympathetic, sometimes reacts in an understated manner that jars, as his characterization is not fully developed early enough to support this literary technique, and the setting is also a bit nebulous, hinting of possibly nineteenth century origins, but without any definitive icon for placement—a general earmark of high fantasy. Finally, the conclusion, though climactic, is foreshadowed too obviously, and therefore, while it has punch, it falls short of its potential impact.

In “Night Game” by Tony Richards, Menway, a traveling businessman, finds himself stranded in a small town. Seeking lodging at the Sycamore Hotel, he can’t find anyone at the desk so follows a sign that leads him to the local football stadium (soccer to Americans) where a night game is in progress, and all of the town’s residents are in the stands.

This Twilight Zone-esque scenario of a man in a strange place is redolent of postindustrial wastelands, time lapses, and social mores. Menway increasingly feels sucked into the postindustrial haze of the town and their beloved game and must struggle not to succumb. With several witty, in-depth descriptions, the narrative voice engages the reader, although the story arc could have used more rounding at the end. The conclusion, while echoing the prevalent theme appropriately, felt abrupt and unsettled.

With interior monologues and witty characterization, Daniel Kaysen introduces Amy, a young woman with an interesting gift, in “The Rising River,” a psychological spin on ghost talking. Entertaining, spooky, and at times, humorous, Amy is a sympathetic character that engages the reader with sometimes discomforting expectations. As Amy divulges her extraordinary situation, her emotions feels organic and yet strangely inappropriate, which creates an enticing and tight in-the-moment feel. And it is sometimes the unspoken details that create the most suspense.

Shuttling the reader back and forth then back again with sharp prose against a backdrop of quick scene changes, Kaysen’s use of simple, direct language changes perspectives in a snappy narrative structure as he offers frank and candid characterizations of Amy and her flatmate without any flowery language. With strong pacing and tight prose, Kaysen brings to light the ugly little things that people do not want to talk about. Highly recommended.

In “Winter Journey” by Joel Lane, a Fox Hollie cop investigates a local disturbance:

Our contacts began to pick up rumours of a homeless boy who was stalking local people, stealing food from the take-away shops, occasionally biting someone or tearing their clothes. The word “feral” was used more than once.

Once they find the “feral” boy, they take him to jail and learn his history. The protagonist develops a personal interest in the boy’s plight and begins to investigate the case with a more than professional gusto, looking for clues to the boy’s involvement with a mysterious club singer. This transformation story speaks of morals and chance, as vices bring characters to their brutal, unyielding ends.

“Slap” by Gary McMahon is a revenge story of age differences, urban myths, and responsibility, with the cell phone as its supernatural medium, flipping right and wrong like a coin. It opens with Blane witnessing a group of teenagers engaged in a prank:

[He] feels the familiar sinking feeling that plagues him whenever he sees such a group. His mouth dries out and his eyes begin to prickle. Danger is imminent, and his body responds by becoming lighter, trying to become unnoticeable by blending into the crowd.

Once a witness, now a victim pursued, he tries to destroy all connections. Through choices that blur the edges of justice, he becomes irreconcilably involved with the “group.”

McMahon’s premise has an interesting urban feel, but his descriptions are overdone at times, and his pacing could be tighter. The supernatural treatment has a Stephen King feel, yet falls short, with a conclusion that left this reader wanting more in closure or climax, perhaps both.

H.P. Lovecraft speaks from his deathbed in “Less A Dream Than This We Know” by Christopher M. Cevasco. Dying of intestinal cancer, Lovecraft lies in a hospital bed with a distended belly, speaking to his dead mother, and imagining that the creatures from his stories have come to visit him.

Darkness surrounded him—a murky, half-darkness in which his eyes could sense motion but very little of shape. These were living entities, though, of that he was certain. Entities that would have been too large for his eyes to encompass in their entirety even if the light had been sufficient to the task.

One creature in particular attaches itself to him, thereby releasing toxins that plague his body. Both interesting imagery as well as an interesting treatment of Lovecraft, as he was thought by some to be a hypochondriac for much of his life—until, of course, his final ailment took hold—Cevasco’s perspective of Lovecraft’s symptomatic and creative musings provides a critical and central look into Lovecraft’s artistic motivations. Lovecraft fans will no doubt find this story not only enjoyable but also full of cameos from Lovecraft’s works and life. As a homage piece, the language suits nicely, and the visual imagery entertains.

[Disclosure notice: The Fix is brought to you by TTA Press, publisher of Black Static.]