face, and what he revealed wasn’t Elvis. It wasn’t even human. Beneath the mask was a head like that of a puffy grave worm. It lolled obscenely, surveying the crowd, then gave a strange, warbling cry.
Kathryn’s skin landed on the floor with a wet sound.
The thing on stage turned toward Finley, and then he saw.
He saw it. He found it.
Roger Finley screamed.
“Excuse me?” The bum shuffled forward.
“Just ignore him, Marianne. If we give him money, he’ll hound us the whole way to the harbor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas,” the woman scolded her husband. “The poor fellow looks half starved. And he’s articulate for a street person!”
The bum shuffled eagerly from foot to foot while she reached within her purse and pulled out a five-dollar bill. She placed it in his outstretched hand.
“Here you go. Please see to it that you get a hot meal, now. No alcohol or drugs.”
“Thank you. Much obliged. Since you folks were so kind, let me help you out.”
“We don’t need any help, thank you very much.” The husband stiffened, wary of the homeless man’s advances.
“Just wanted to give you a tip. If you like the theatre, you should take your wife to see Yellow .”
He pointed at a nearby poster. The couple thanked him and walked away, but not before stopping to read the poster for themselves.
Roger Finley pocketed the five dollars, and watched them disappear into Fell’s Point, in search of the Yellow Sign. He wondered if they would find it, and if so, what they would see.
***
This is, of course, a tribute to Robert W. Chambers’ classic of the same name. But you already knew that because you’ve read the Chambers’ story, right? Nope. I’ve got twenty bucks that says half of you have never even heard of Robert W. Chambers. And that, my friends, is just wrong.
True story. Thirteen years ago, at the first Horrorfind Weekend Convention, J. F. Gonzalez and I were approached by a young man; probably in his early twenties. He shook our hands and said nice things about our books, and called us inspirations. How the hell we, two of the lynchpins of the so-called gangsta horror movement, were inspirations is beyond me, but hey, the kid was sincere enough to buy Jesus (which is J.F.’s real name) a beer and me a shot of tequila. We started talking about writing, and we were trying to give him some advice. The conversation turned to the masters of the genre, and we were horrified to learn that this kid had never read Chambers, never read Hodgson, never read James, never read Machen, and had only a dim knowledge of Lovecraft. The final straw was when we moved to the more modern era, and the kid admitted that he’d never heard of Karl Edward Wagner.
Once I’d removed J. F.’s hands from around his throat (“How can you not know who Karl Edward Fucking Wagner is?” he screamed while throttling him), we sent the young writer on his way and proceeded to grumble about “These damn kids!” for the rest of the day.
If you don’t know those names I mentioned above, you need to correct that. Now. Horror fiction has a rich history, and it is your heritage as a fan, as a reader, and especially if you’re a writer. Seek it out. Learn from it. M. R. James. William Hope Hodgson (one of my favorites). Lord Dunsany. Arthur Machen. Clark Ashton Smith. Edward Lucas White. Ambrose Bierce (another one of my favorites). Hell, explore the modern era, with John Farris and Robert Bloch and so many others. And for God’s sake—learn who Karl Edward Wagner was so that J. F. Gonzalez doesn’t throttle you next. Seriously, go look for this stuff. Read it. You’ll be glad you did.
As for the story itself, I got the idea while walking around Fell’s Point in Baltimore. At the time, I was still shocked that the kid had never read Robert W. Chambers. Things came together and the story came out in one sitting. It was originally published in one of John Pelan’s Darkside anthologies and was reprinted in my
Kathryn’s skin landed on the floor with a wet sound.
The thing on stage turned toward Finley, and then he saw.
He saw it. He found it.
Roger Finley screamed.
“Excuse me?” The bum shuffled forward.
“Just ignore him, Marianne. If we give him money, he’ll hound us the whole way to the harbor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas,” the woman scolded her husband. “The poor fellow looks half starved. And he’s articulate for a street person!”
The bum shuffled eagerly from foot to foot while she reached within her purse and pulled out a five-dollar bill. She placed it in his outstretched hand.
“Here you go. Please see to it that you get a hot meal, now. No alcohol or drugs.”
“Thank you. Much obliged. Since you folks were so kind, let me help you out.”
“We don’t need any help, thank you very much.” The husband stiffened, wary of the homeless man’s advances.
“Just wanted to give you a tip. If you like the theatre, you should take your wife to see Yellow .”
He pointed at a nearby poster. The couple thanked him and walked away, but not before stopping to read the poster for themselves.
Roger Finley pocketed the five dollars, and watched them disappear into Fell’s Point, in search of the Yellow Sign. He wondered if they would find it, and if so, what they would see.
***
This is, of course, a tribute to Robert W. Chambers’ classic of the same name. But you already knew that because you’ve read the Chambers’ story, right? Nope. I’ve got twenty bucks that says half of you have never even heard of Robert W. Chambers. And that, my friends, is just wrong.
True story. Thirteen years ago, at the first Horrorfind Weekend Convention, J. F. Gonzalez and I were approached by a young man; probably in his early twenties. He shook our hands and said nice things about our books, and called us inspirations. How the hell we, two of the lynchpins of the so-called gangsta horror movement, were inspirations is beyond me, but hey, the kid was sincere enough to buy Jesus (which is J.F.’s real name) a beer and me a shot of tequila. We started talking about writing, and we were trying to give him some advice. The conversation turned to the masters of the genre, and we were horrified to learn that this kid had never read Chambers, never read Hodgson, never read James, never read Machen, and had only a dim knowledge of Lovecraft. The final straw was when we moved to the more modern era, and the kid admitted that he’d never heard of Karl Edward Wagner.
Once I’d removed J. F.’s hands from around his throat (“How can you not know who Karl Edward Fucking Wagner is?” he screamed while throttling him), we sent the young writer on his way and proceeded to grumble about “These damn kids!” for the rest of the day.
If you don’t know those names I mentioned above, you need to correct that. Now. Horror fiction has a rich history, and it is your heritage as a fan, as a reader, and especially if you’re a writer. Seek it out. Learn from it. M. R. James. William Hope Hodgson (one of my favorites). Lord Dunsany. Arthur Machen. Clark Ashton Smith. Edward Lucas White. Ambrose Bierce (another one of my favorites). Hell, explore the modern era, with John Farris and Robert Bloch and so many others. And for God’s sake—learn who Karl Edward Wagner was so that J. F. Gonzalez doesn’t throttle you next. Seriously, go look for this stuff. Read it. You’ll be glad you did.
As for the story itself, I got the idea while walking around Fell’s Point in Baltimore. At the time, I was still shocked that the kid had never read Robert W. Chambers. Things came together and the story came out in one sitting. It was originally published in one of John Pelan’s Darkside anthologies and was reprinted in my
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