Wrathbone and Other Stories Read online

  PRAISE FOR WRATHBONE

  “From the eerie opening tale to the grisly closer, and all of the wonderfully mean-spirited tales in-between, Wrathbone is a winner!” —Jeff Strand, author of Dead Clown Barbeque

  “ This is horror of the mind at it’s very best … Very dark, very atmospheric, very powerful writing. Excellent stuff … Only the second time ever that I have given every story in a collection five stars. This one is going to be hard to beat.” —Nev Murray at Confessions of a Reviewer and Scream Magazine

  “Wrathbone and Other Stories is a hard-hitting collection that you can completely immerse yourself in. The title story is a beautifully written period tale of love and tragedy.” —Mercedes M. Yardley, author of the Bram Stoker Award winner Little Dead Red .

  “Jason Parent channels the darkness. Wrathbone and Other Stories offers a glimpse into the twisted mind of a gifted storyteller, whose characters are every bit as vivid as the demons that haunt them. Parent’s definitely an author to watch!” —Michael McBride, author of Subterrestrial and Burial Ground

  “An elegantly written novella of madness, murder, and demons, Jason Parent’s Wrathbone reads like Edgar Allan Poe’s take on ‘Jacob’s Ladder.’” —Adam Howe, author of Tijuana Donkey Showdown, Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet , and Black Cat Mojo

  OTHER WORKS BY JASON PARENT

  Novels

  What Hides Within

  Seeing Evil

  Novelettes

  Unseemly

  Where Wolves Run

  Collections

  Bad Apples

  Bad Apples 2

  Bad Apples 3

  Dead Roses

  First Comet Press Trade Electronic Edition, October 2016

  Wrathbone and Other Stories copyright © 2016

  by Jason Parent

  All Rights Reserved.

  This edition copyright © 2016

  by Comet Press

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Print ISBN 13: 978-1-936964-64-2

  Visit Comet Press on the web at:

  www.cometpress.us

  facebook.com/cometpress

  twitter.com/cometpress

  For those who wish to see their (fictional) worlds burn.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  * * *

  I have many people to thank for making this collection a reality, with Cheryl Mullenax, Randy Chandler, and the entire staff at Comet Press at the forefront for outing my words into this collection you have before you today. I would also like to thank Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi for her belief in my work; Kimberly Yerina for being the person I can always turn to for an honest critique, a beta read, and a friendly ear; and Evans Light for inspiring me to produce only my best work, even if that means less of it.

  Specifically, I’d also like to thank:

  Wrathbone: Kimberly Yerina and author Evans Light for their beta reads and Stefanie Spangler Buswell, Irene Steiger, Lynn McNamee, and the Red Adept Editing team for their editing contributions. I must also send a huge thanks out to author and historian, Caleb Jenner Stephens, whose non-fiction book, Worst Seat in the House, served as the inspiration for my tale.

  The Only Good Lawyer : Author Gregor Xane and Sarah Carleton for their editorial contributions.

  Dorian’s Mirror : Author Elizabeth Los and Patricia Kearney for their editorial contributions. And of course, one of the greatest authors and wits ever to exist, Mr. Oscar Wilde.

  For the Birds : Nev Murray and Jo Harwood for inspiring the story, and for being two of the most fantastic, genuine people I have met since submitting my first work for publication. Nev and Jo, this story is clearly for you, and for Kimberly for her editorial contributions.

  Revenge is a Dish : Patricia Kearney for her editorial contributions.

  As you can see, a lot of people came together to create these stories, and I treasure all of them. Writing is always more enjoyable when there are people with whom to share it. With that said, thank you, the reader, for allowing me to share these tales with you.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PARENTAL ADVISORY:

  INTRODUCTION BY KEALAN PATRICK BURKE

  WRATHBONE

  THE ONLY GOOD LAWYER

  DORIAN’S MIRROR

  FOR THE BIRDS

  REVENGE IS A DISH

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PARENTAL ADVISORY

  KEALAN PATRICK BURKE

  * * *

  I get asked to write introductions a lot, or to otherwise bestow kind words upon the work of young up-and-comers, many of whom I’m not familiar with until they reach out to me. It’s a tricky proposition, and a situation I never imagined being in when I first started out and was myself desperate to get the blessing of established writers. And I remember thinking, back when Norman Partridge, Poppy Z. Brite, Michael Marshall Smith, David B. Silva, Bentley Little, and other writers were kind enough to lavish praise on something I’d written, that I would be more than happy to return the favor later on should new writers ever come looking to me for such favors. Alas, what seems simple in theory seldom is, and as I got older and established a foothold in the business, I realized that it’s not always possible to be kind to the next generation of writers, no matter how much you might want to. And the reasons for this are simple. One, time is a commodity and if I’m plowing through a novel and/or battling multiple deadlines, I’m not inclined to break away from it to read someone else’s work or write something I’m not under the gun to get done. It’s just not always possible or economically viable for those of us who do this for a living. Two, and this is the worst part: the reality is that sometimes the work you’re being asked to endorse is, to put it mildly, not yet ready for primetime. And sometimes, it’s just terrible. Digital publishing has made this a common scenario. Now, writers don’t need editors and publishers to see their work in print. Self-publishing means you can just whip a book together and throw it up on Amazon. Sometimes this results in some terrific and unjustly overlooked work getting its due. Often, it means the virtual shelves end up cluttered with dreck.

  So it is always with some trepidation that I tentatively agree to take a look at something. In the case of Wrathbone and Other Stories , I was familiar with Jason Parent as a name that kept cropping up on Goodreads or Amazon or on Facebook, and from the handful of anthologies in which our stories have appeared alongside each other. We’d exchanged a few emails in the past, but I did not have the kind of familiarity with his writing one needs in order to form an honest endorsement.

  Now that I’ve read this collection, it is with no small measure of relief and delight that I can, wholeheartedly recommend to you this book and Jason’s work as a whole. But of course, such things are easy to say, and I could simply have started this introduction with that claim and saved you all some time. Allow me then to tell you a little bit about why I dug Wrathbone , as that is, after all, why we are here.

  First off, the title novella is worth the price of admission alone. I’m a sucker for antique horror, those tales told in the dry, florid, sometimes manic tone that popularized the best work of Lovecraft and Poe and Blackwood. Here, Parent utilizes the unreliable narrator trope to wonderful effect to document the suffering of his protagonist in the wake of President Lincoln’
s assassination. In the process, he gets to flex his creative muscles and bring to us some wonderfully descriptive and inventive set-pieces, some of which call to mind such unexpected influences as the Evil Dead movies, and all of which is enhanced by the ambiguity that underscores the narrative. Is our character witnessing all of this insanity, or is Henry Reed Rathbone simply enduring a particularly violent form of PTSD? Of all the stories contained in this collection, this is far and away my favorite and serves as a great example of the author firing on all cylinders.

  The rest of the stories in Wrathbone are short, sharp shockers, all of them set in contemporary times, all of them laced with the kind of wry cynicism and over the top horror that will be familiar to fans of such E.C. Comics-fare as Eerie , Vault of Fear , and Tales from the Crypt . In some, you can pretty much see where you’re being led, but while in the hands of another author that might ruin the effect, Parent seems to know you know where he’s going and has a lot of fun taking you there. For example, all you need to know about “The Only Good Lawyer” is implied by the title, but it sure is a hell of a ride seeing just how poor old Bradley Walsh gets his just desserts.

  Vanity is always fertile ground for horror, and Parent has a blast cataloguing the particularly cruel descent of his self-obsessed protagonist in “Dorian’s Mirror,” a gruesome tale that, of all the stories here, would have made a terrific fit for HBO’s late, lamented anthology series, Tales from the Crypt . So much so, one can almost imagine The Cryptkeeper’s introduction: “Hello kiddies, you’ve caught me in a bit of a reflective mood (giggle) … just like poor Dorian, who wants nothing more than to save face (giggle) …”

  It’s hard to talk about “For the Birds,” another nasty little piece, without giving the game away, so I’ll just advise that you don’t eat anything while you’re reading it. And now that I’ve read it, I’m going to be crossing macaws off my want-list.

  The collection closes with a lengthy story, “Revenge is a Dish,” which starts off seeming like one type of story, but then shifts gears completely right around the midpoint and becomes impossible to predict. Much like “For the Birds,” this was not at all predictable, but is just as gruesome as all the other tales in this book. More disturbing still, it made me hungry.

  There is much to admire about the work Jason Parent has done here, but if there’s an overarching impression to be gleaned from the writing, it’s that rarest of things, the one quality that indicates longevity, and that’s confidence . I can’t tell you how much work I have read over the years (including my own early efforts) that wear too much of their influences on their sleeves, with no identifiable signature inherent in the prose, that are rote, typical, devoid of passion. Frail imitations of work already done, and done better. There is no voice, no brand, no hint of who the writer is or will grow to be. Confidence separates the lifers from the pretenders, and as evidenced by the stories in Wrathbone , Parent has that in spades. He knows how to tell a good story, knows the tropes, the rules, and how to work with them and around them. He has a distinctive voice and knows how to get you to listen. He knows how to develop a scene, how to draw you into it and keep you there. He is, not just a good horror writer, but a good writer, period. And he’s an entertainer.

  So why don’t I get out of the way and let him entertain you.

  You’re in for a wild ride.

  —Kealan Patrick Burke

  Columbus, OH

  June 2016

  WRATHBONE

  BASED ON ACTUAL EVENTS

  * * *

  I.

  I am not a good man.

  I am not even close to the man I sought to be. Husband, father, soldier … all are parts of a former self, lost to time, misery, and something far more sinister. My mind is but the shambles of thought, plagued by grief, the last stubborn embers of a fire long ago smothered.

  She had been the flint that sparked its flames. She had been the kindling that kept it raging. From the ashes of tragedy, the phoenix rose, our bond flourishing from a horror only we had shared. And when all seemed lost, she—my Clara, my sweet, unfaltering, beautiful Clara—set purpose to life and bestowed love where undeserved. She was my reason to persevere.

  Yet the cycle of life and death shall always come full circle. These twenty-some odd years—it could have been thirty—I have wasted away behind these walls of human construct. Since I … since Clara left this world, I persevere still. Neither strength nor purpose compel my hollow existence, but anxiety keeps me vigilant. Terror coerces my fight.

  A dark force, evil hiding in shadow, has hunted me for half a lifetime. The barrier shielding this holy ground is crumbling. Saint Michael’s Cathedral, with its massive bronze doors depicting the fall of man on the left and his salvation on the right—a door I have never seen opened—and its adjoining monastery have been my stronghold. From here, I exist, nothing more, but that is more than enough. In this church-turned-asylum, men, bad men, those who would serve the darkness, have taken residence. Evil has found its way in. I fear they will soon claim what they seek.

  Now, as I pen this testament, the ghosts of the past howl at the barracks of my psyche, shaking their foundations. My keepers call it madness, but what do they know of it? They say I suffer from a sickness of the mind called “melancholia.” What a funny word this is, science’s attempt to explain what logic cannot. But reason and scientific process dictate that all hypotheses must be proved or disproved. These keepers of mine willfully ignore the apparitions over their shoulders and the demons under their feet. My delusions, they say, derive from internal failings, but it is they who fail to disprove the external. I had believed that on this once hallowed ground, where scriptures and sermons were prevalent, put forth by the faithful who bathed in God’s light, the evil that had afflicted me would no longer thrive. I had thought the priests could fight it or, at the least, understand it.

  Alas, they are no different than the men of the world, smiling men who discuss one’s deepest failings in hushed voices when they think him out of earshot. My keepers always talk behind hands so that I cannot read their lips. Madness, melancholia … they will call it what they will. Perhaps they are correct, in part, for my fate has been aligned with tragedy.

  I alone know the truth of it, for I have seen what they can—or will not. I alone have glimpsed the depths of hell, where my failures await me.

  I grow weary. I fear my perseverance has reached an end. When two dogs fight over a bone, one eventually authenticates its claim whilst the other skulks away, defeated, its tail tucked between its legs. The bone is my soul, and I am the skulking dog, for the bone is lost as soon as I close my eyes for the last time.

  Maybe I have always been that dog. Now, though, my once-full auburn hair is all but a memory. My teeth—the few that remain—are black with decay. My gums bleed after every meal. My skin sags as if it has predeceased me. And my once-strong bones and lean soldier’s body now ache from the slog of burdens piled ever higher.

  Still, they persist. After Clara’s death, their clamoring ceased for a time, and I was certain they had all they wanted from me. With my own demise so near, I suspected they had come to revel in their victory. Or have they come to provide me escort into the darkness? They, the vile spirits, batter at my body and mind, always after my soul. I fear this unrelenting force shall have it.

  In truth, I have always known it would.

  I know not why I fight. Without Clara, I love nothing. I love no one. I am nothing. I am no one. Forgotten.

  My shame lingers. It resides within and without, like the mark of an adulteress emblazoned upon my chest, a cross jutting from my heart, the curse of all things human. The curse of love.

  As I sit in these gardens, far away from my birthplace and the children who once loved me, I hear the dead whispering through leaves, sighing with the wilted flowers, screeching behind the birdsong, ever calling me home. The light is dimming.

  Soon, the devil shall come.

  Am I ready? A sickly feeling clogs my th
roat—vomitous, wretched, and violent. I cannot choke down the taste. With its bitter flavor comes the harsh truth that I deserve what will be. My place in the next world has been decided.

  I am not a good man.

  I knew such a man once, a man of great import. His legend, though existing well before his death, never altered his humility. I knew no finer man. He was everything I had striven so hard to be. And in one catastrophic moment, I failed him, and with him, an entire country.

  It is not peculiar that his death gave rise to the demons. At Antietam and Fredericksburg, thousands died before my very eyes as American slaughtered American on divided soil. Their deaths came in all forms of abomination. Bayonets gutted men like pigs. Horses ground bone beneath their feet. Minié balls ripped through flesh as if the corporeal form were an affront to their existence. Worst of all, those black globes of agony, pulverizing and maiming, rent limbs from bodies as they bounded across the landscape. Some men had died quickly. Others had wailed long after the battles had ended, crying for help that would never come.

  But America, not I, had failed those men. On April 14, 1865, my failure cost a great man his life. That date, I could never forget, could never move past, and in hindsight, I see I was but a marionette in the vilest of machinations.

  I know now that Lucifer was present that day. He recognized the weakness in me and tricked me into a wicked game I could not forfeit, for my soul was the prize. He set his denizens upon me, preying upon my guilt and self-contempt. Even now, they mock me, assail me with what-ifs and thoughts of what could have been. They want me to suffer, and that is punishment I deserve.

  Yet their efforts are needless. I have toiled ceaselessly over the events that occurred that night at Ford’s Theatre. I must have relived that moment a million times.