belly now, and it was thrashing. The tennis shoe flew off and slapped against the stairs. Harold could hear a loud gurgling sound coming from the Fat Man's stomach, and a voice saying, " Ahhhh , ahhhh ."
Halfway up the steps came the Fat Man.
Harold palmed the wall, inch by inch.
Nothing happened.
He jerked a glance back again.
There was a burping sound, and the Fat Man's mouth opened wide and out flopped Joe's face, skinned, mask-looking. Harold could also see two large cables inside the Fat Man's mouth. The cable rolled. The mouth closed. Taloned , skinny hands stuck out of the blue tattoo and the fingers wriggled. "Come to Papa," said the voice in the Fat Man's stomach.
Harold turned, slapped his palm on the wall time and time again, left and right.
He could hear the Fat Man's tread on the steps right behind, taking it torturously slow and easy.
The wall opened.
Harold dove into the boxes and cartons and disappeared beneath them.
The Fat Man leaped high, his dive perfect, his toes wriggling like stubby, greedy fingers.
Poof, into the boxes.
Harold came up running, kicking boxes aside.
The Fat Man's back, like the fin of a shark, popped the boxes up.
Then he was gone again.
Harold made the clearing in the floor. The house seemed to be rocking. He turned left toward the door and jerked it open.
Stepping out on the front porch he froze.
The Fat Man's swing dangled like an empty canary perch, and the night . . . was different. Thick as chocolate pudding. And the weeds didn't look the same. They looked like a foamy green seaâputrid sherbetâand the house bobbed as if it were a cork on the ocean.
Behind Harold the screen door opened. "There you are, you bad boy, you," said the voice in the belly.
Harold ran and leaped off the porch into the thick, high weeds, made his way on hands and knees, going almost as fast as a running dog that way. The ground beneath him bucked and rolled.
Behind him he heard something hit the weeds but he did not look back. He kept running on hands and knees for a distance, then he rose to his feet, elbows flying, strides deepening, parting the waist-level foliage like a knife through spoiled cream cheese.
And the grass in front of him opened up. A white face floated into view at belt-level.
The Fat Man. On his knees.
The Fat Man smiled. Skinny, taloned hands stuck out of the blue tattoo and the fingers wiggled.
"Pee-pie," said the Fat Man's belly.
Harold wheeled to the left, tore through the tall weeds yelling. He could see the moon floating in the sky and it looked pale and sick, like a yolkless egg. The houses outlined across the street were in the right place, but they looked off-key, only vaguely reminiscent of how he remembered them. He thought he saw something large and shadowy peek over the top of one of them, but in a blinking of an eye it was gone.
Suddenly the Fat Man was in front of him again.
Harold skidded to a halt.
"You swore on a dead cat," the voice in the belly said, and a little wizened, oily head with bugged-out eyes poked out of the belly and looked up at Harold and smiled with lots and lots of teeth.
"You swore on a dead cat," the voice repeated, only this time it was a perfect mockery of Joe.
Then, with a motion so quick Harold did not see it, the Fat Man grabbed him.
Author's Note on On a Dark October
Â
T his was one I wrote for Twilight Zone , but T. E. D. Klein thought it too dark. I sent it to The Horror Show , edited by David Silva, and he liked it, and bought it, with some reservations for the same reason.
Considering other things I've written, I was a little surprised at this concern. And, we were talking horror. It has just a bit of social commentary in it, and that was what was making them nervous. They said so. Maybe you'll see it. I think it was necessary to give the story the impact it deserved.
It's not a well-known story of mine, or doesn't seem to be. I don't hear it mentioned much. But it's actually been reprinted quite
Halfway up the steps came the Fat Man.
Harold palmed the wall, inch by inch.
Nothing happened.
He jerked a glance back again.
There was a burping sound, and the Fat Man's mouth opened wide and out flopped Joe's face, skinned, mask-looking. Harold could also see two large cables inside the Fat Man's mouth. The cable rolled. The mouth closed. Taloned , skinny hands stuck out of the blue tattoo and the fingers wriggled. "Come to Papa," said the voice in the Fat Man's stomach.
Harold turned, slapped his palm on the wall time and time again, left and right.
He could hear the Fat Man's tread on the steps right behind, taking it torturously slow and easy.
The wall opened.
Harold dove into the boxes and cartons and disappeared beneath them.
The Fat Man leaped high, his dive perfect, his toes wriggling like stubby, greedy fingers.
Poof, into the boxes.
Harold came up running, kicking boxes aside.
The Fat Man's back, like the fin of a shark, popped the boxes up.
Then he was gone again.
Harold made the clearing in the floor. The house seemed to be rocking. He turned left toward the door and jerked it open.
Stepping out on the front porch he froze.
The Fat Man's swing dangled like an empty canary perch, and the night . . . was different. Thick as chocolate pudding. And the weeds didn't look the same. They looked like a foamy green seaâputrid sherbetâand the house bobbed as if it were a cork on the ocean.
Behind Harold the screen door opened. "There you are, you bad boy, you," said the voice in the belly.
Harold ran and leaped off the porch into the thick, high weeds, made his way on hands and knees, going almost as fast as a running dog that way. The ground beneath him bucked and rolled.
Behind him he heard something hit the weeds but he did not look back. He kept running on hands and knees for a distance, then he rose to his feet, elbows flying, strides deepening, parting the waist-level foliage like a knife through spoiled cream cheese.
And the grass in front of him opened up. A white face floated into view at belt-level.
The Fat Man. On his knees.
The Fat Man smiled. Skinny, taloned hands stuck out of the blue tattoo and the fingers wiggled.
"Pee-pie," said the Fat Man's belly.
Harold wheeled to the left, tore through the tall weeds yelling. He could see the moon floating in the sky and it looked pale and sick, like a yolkless egg. The houses outlined across the street were in the right place, but they looked off-key, only vaguely reminiscent of how he remembered them. He thought he saw something large and shadowy peek over the top of one of them, but in a blinking of an eye it was gone.
Suddenly the Fat Man was in front of him again.
Harold skidded to a halt.
"You swore on a dead cat," the voice in the belly said, and a little wizened, oily head with bugged-out eyes poked out of the belly and looked up at Harold and smiled with lots and lots of teeth.
"You swore on a dead cat," the voice repeated, only this time it was a perfect mockery of Joe.
Then, with a motion so quick Harold did not see it, the Fat Man grabbed him.
Author's Note on On a Dark October
Â
T his was one I wrote for Twilight Zone , but T. E. D. Klein thought it too dark. I sent it to The Horror Show , edited by David Silva, and he liked it, and bought it, with some reservations for the same reason.
Considering other things I've written, I was a little surprised at this concern. And, we were talking horror. It has just a bit of social commentary in it, and that was what was making them nervous. They said so. Maybe you'll see it. I think it was necessary to give the story the impact it deserved.
It's not a well-known story of mine, or doesn't seem to be. I don't hear it mentioned much. But it's actually been reprinted quite
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