Best of Shadow Tales: Early and Reprinted Works

Preface

The book you are about to read may scare you. Seriously though, the following collection spans my entire writing career up to date. I began writing seriously when I was about eighteen. I’m now forty-six and have had the ups and downs any writer has. I’ve gone through traditional publishing and solicited agents, I’ve been published in the small press world and have had a few collections and co-written books unleashed on the public. These days I’ve done a mix of self-publishing and traditional publishing, which I believe the correct label is a hybrid writer. Sounds something like one of those hybrid cars, doesn’t it?

I’ve always loved writing, since I was a wee young lad and of course I turned to my favorite genre of all time—horror. Growing up on a steady diet of Creature Double Feature, The Twilight Zone and Tales from the Darkside sparked my love of all things scary. So, when I read the classic horror and gothic novels in school, Dracula, Frankenstein, and many others, it seemed only natural to want to join those writers and pay homage to the dark.

Every writing assignment in school always seemed to produce a short story about the creepy house at the end of the street, or the monster that lived in the well or the maniac that stalked the woods. These were the stories I wanted to tell. When I thought about being published and getting read by readers who weren’t my mother or friends, I settled down and wrote my first real short story, The Heirloom.

That story was my first one ever accepted for publication by a magazine at the time called Chapter One. Now, to my knowledge, the magazine folded before the story was published, but I’ve always considered The Heirloom my first published work even if it didn’t actually come out. That story appears in this collection, revisited and polished.

The short story form is my favorite type to write in. I’ve written novels and novellas and some of them are for sale out there in the world but I always return to the short story. I love reading a good story collection and I love writing them. For me, you get to visit many different worlds and many different people between the covers and it’s also a chance to experiment and see what I can come up within the confines of a short space. It’s like a favorite TV series where a different tale is told each week. I find that fun and creative.

So in this collection, you’ll find some of my earlier published short horror and fantasy tales alongside some from the more recent years. They range from when I first started writing in 1989 all the way to 2013. So take my hand and let me walk you down my memory lane and hopefully you’ll find the experience as fascinating and thrilling as I did in crafting it.

—John Grover

January 2017

Acknowledgments

After The Rain first appeared in the author’s collection A Beckoning of Shadows, 2011 by Naked Snake Press

The Unclean first appeared in the author’s collection A Beckoning of Shadows, 2011 by Naked Snake Press

The Men’s Room first appeared in Something Wicked Online

Sugar Shack-first appeared in the author’s collection A Beckoning of Shadows, 2011 by Naked Snake Press

Melissa’s Wagon first appeared in Whispers from the Shattered Forum #13, 2003

Beauty Ritual-first appeared in Ante Mortem, 2011 by Belfire Press

Bog King-first appeared in Anthology Year One, 2012 by The Four Horsemen LLC

Riding the Heat Wave –first appeared Alien Skin Magazine 2008

Candy Dish-first appeared Screaming Dreams Christmas Edition 2009

Unnatural Selection-first appeared in the Zombology Anthology, 2009 by Library of the Living Dead Press

The City by the River first appeared in the Vicious Shivers Anthology, 2004 by Undaunted Press

Resurrection first appeared in Savage Night Online Magazine

Shunned first appeared in the In the Bloodstream Anthology, 2013 by Mocha Memoirs Press

Windblown Shutter first appeared in Epitaphs, the New England Horror Writers Anthology, 2011 by Shroud Publishing

Piney Hollow first appeared When Night Darkens the Streets, 2013 by Black Bed Sheet Books

The Mute People first appeared in Flesh and Blood Magazine #14, 2004

To Summon the Shadows first appeared in Aurora Wolf Journal of Sci-fi and Fantasy, 2010

The Heirloom first accepted in Chapter One Magazine 1989

Three- First Appeared in Savage Night Online Magazine

The Keswick Oddity first appeared in the author’s chapbook Whispering Shadows, 2009 by Rainfall Books

Introduction

John Grover is one of those authors I spend a good amount of time being jealous of. Able to flip between genres like any one of us flips through TV channels, John has stayed busy keeping his readers on their toes. From zombies and post-apocalyptic settings to high fantasy and pulp, John can tackle virtually any concept and weave it into an enthralling, edge-of-your-seat story.

At the same time, there is no dissonance. When you read one of John’s stories—whether it’s about an elf on a quest in a D&D-inspired universe, or a robotic priest in outer space, you know exactly what you’re getting: deep, complicated characterization, a twisted, yet entirely believable, plot, and enough drama and high adventure to thrill even a hardcore Robert E. Howard fan.

Make no mistake; it’s not easy to construct a good story. It’s even more difficult to switch between multiple genres. In many ways, it’s the most difficult way to nurture a good writing career. Most writers simply choose a genre and stay the course. In time, they become known for their particular style of writing and the genre they favor. But, of course, that is the easy way. It takes an extremely flexible and talented writer to throw over those old-fashioned constructs and take the long, snaky road to success, constructing story after story while shaking off the shackles of any one genre, style or even voice. John does an admirable job of it. Talented and professional, his imagination will take you to worlds you’ve never even dreamed existed.

I’ve had the pleasure and honor of reading several of his works before they saw publication, and I have never once been disappointed in the way John excavates through the many levels of human nature to reach the deep, dark pit at the heart of things. His characters almost always have a secret, a dark one, but, at the same time, they struggle with their own humanness and a need to appear as normal as possible to the rest of the world. But make no mistake—they have monster faces that will soon be revealed little by little to the rest of the world.

His high fantasy shines, and it’s perhaps this aspect that makes me the most jealous, because high fantasy—any fantasy, really—is no small feat to create, even for seasoned authors. Fantasy can have the broadest, farthest, reach when it comes to storytelling, but John tackles the bloodiest battles for freedom—and even a simple cross-country quest—with the talent of a born storyteller. His horror is, likewise, both diverse and complicated, delivering a plethora of delights to the reader—everything from the hungry ravages of zombies to the mad, frenetic vision of a spade-wielding madman that may or may not be entirely human.

But more than his horror, gore, or mystery, he also has a keen insight into the innate goodness of his protagonists—people just like you and I who are trying to hold back the forces of the night. Like all creatures everywhere, they struggle, and sometimes they don’t even succeed, but they are the most human part of his fiction, and you would need to look far and wide to find comparative authors.

I can’t recommend this collection enough for those readers who are looking for their next literary obsession. Just be warned: It may change the way you look at your once normal, shining world.

—K.H. Koehler

After the Rain

In my dream, the rain is blood. It pours from the heavens in thousands of crimson droplets. I am terrified. Terrified because I know they come next. The puddles, left behind once the rain has finished, grow in mass, surrounding me on all sides, sinister, foreboding, ripe with malice, black and malignant.

I run to the front door of my house, and to my horror, I find it locked. I’m trapped outside as thick, red liquid coats my body and streams down my face, a rotting stench filling my nostrils. The blood seeps into my mouth, making me want to vomit. I feel a scream rising, but it is trapped in my throat as blood pours into it.

I pound on the door in a fury, shearing the skin from my knuckles, and scream at the top of my lungs as puddles already begin to form. I see them from the corner of my eye. Damn abominations. Why must they always—

Thunder rocks my dark bedroom and I bolt upright from another nightmare, breathing fast and heavy, my body bathed in cold sweat. It’s morning already and I feel like shit. I turn to look out my bedroom window and see the sky is a sickly gray, but alive with electrical energy. I can smell the charge in the air of my room.

Christ, it’s going to rain today, and I’m terrified.

###

Standing at the window and watching the rain fall, I sip coffee to calm my nerves. My car sits dormant, soaked and streaked, the water beading all over it. How am I supposed to get to work? I know I have to go. I have to keep my chin up and my gaze away from the ground. I can do this … I know I can.

The sky lights up in a brilliant flash. More thunder cracks and the floor vibrates beneath me. It’s one hell of a storm. The tempestuous gray clouds stir like boiling soup, ready to pour over the Earth and drown it.

I can delay no more. They will begin to suspect. I am always late on days when it rains. Takes me so damn long to get up the courage because they are always out there, waiting for me, hoping I’ll slip up. They always form in just the right places. Goddamn puddles.

My trench coat is wrapped tight, my umbrella is ready, and my briefcase is secured, but still I hesitate. Ah hell. I inhale a deep breath, mustering all the courage shoved deep down inside, and grab hold of the front door, throwing it open with renewed vigor. A gust of foul wind blasts me head-on, stirring my dark locks and lashing at my recently shaven face. I can actually feel it burn.

Stepping out into the elements is like Armageddon for me. With each step I take, my life is in my hands, but I am brave. I must push on. I must take control of my life and be a man. The trees around the neighborhood sway like cowering children, and the rain beats at me like the lashes of a hundred bullwhips. With the umbrella wide open and acting as my shield, I make a valiant dash to my car, keeping my eyes fixed on the door, away from the ground, away from them.

I don’t even know if any are around me, snaking into my yard and pooling beneath my front step in the hopes that I will fumble, that I will make that one mistake and look into them. I will not allow it to happen. They will not get me.

As I pull into the parking lot of my office, the huge gray building in the distance seeming more like a prison than corporate headquarters, I notice the conspiracy that has formed against me.

This is too hard … It’s just too hard. They stalk me everywhere … after every rain. I’ll never find peace.

The rain subsides, but they gather now, larger than before and more ominous and conniving than ever. In front of the main doors to the building, massive puddles await me. I slam my car door shut, keys jingling in my trembling fingers, and just stare. The building seems miles away, but the puddles are close and getting closer all the time.

How am I going to get in the building?

Raindrops trickle from my umbrella and patter underneath my car. I hear them pound on the asphalt. I watch them fall in slow motion. Is that a tint of red I see?

The back … there must be a back way in.

I start through the lot, one foot in front of the other, and make my way to the far corner of the building, steering clear of the damn things blocking the way in.

My God, there are more! Around me other puddles slither from around car tires, building up on both sides … from my left and from my right. I can feel them following me. There’s something sentient about them; they are aware. Darkness fills them, but some glimmer on the surface with rainbow colors, car oil mixing with vile water in an attempt to seduce me and draw me over with a tantalizing kaleidoscope that masks their true essence.

No, I can’t look. Not for one second. If I look into just one puddle and see my reflection, I will die. Faster and faster I push myself onward, away from the evil that surrounds me.

The air is heavy with the stench of death. The smell after it rains is so nauseating and rancid. Gloom has saturated everything. Colors are drab and light fights a losing battle to break through, but it’s useless. They have sucked all the joy out of this world.

At last I escape their reach, leaving them to fester in defeat, and discover another entrance to the building. Good, a new escape route has presented itself. I must get as creative as possible to avoid looking into them. They never blocked the front door before. Each time it rains, it’s something new. They are truly cunning.

After shaking the excess rain from my umbrella and hanging my coat up, I sit at my desk and turn on my computer. My fingers shake as I pull the keyboard into reach and settle down to program endless lines of code. Nothing glamorous, but it pays the bills.

Then the light of my life appears in my view. Sandra heads toward my cube, a wide smile on her face. She is the one true peace I have in this world. We met here about three years ago, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. The day she accepted my marriage proposal was the happiest day of my life. Without her warmth and understanding, I would have gone utterly insane.

You just made it, she says, her voice soft and soothing, a chorus of angels, a sweet melody that calms me. The rain again?

How did you guess? I return and attempt to smile, but I’m still a bit shaken with the way they puddles gathered at the doors.

Charlie, you really need to get over your phobia. One more late morning and Mister Stanley is going to write you up.

It’s not a phobia, Sandra. You should know that by now. It’s real. I know it will happen, and so do you.

Charlie, you won’t die if you see your reflection in a puddle. It’s just a fear like flying or heights. There’s no basis for it.

There is. I can prove it to you. How can you doubt me after all this time? You’re the only one I’ve ever breathed a word of this to. You’re everything to me.

Charlie, I’m just concerned about you. I think you need to get some help.

I don’t want to talk about this now. I’ll see you at lunch.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. She’s so precious and sweet. How can I even be mad at her, even for a second? I love you, she whispers in my ear and plants a soft kiss on me.

My whole day just got brighter despite the horrors that stir outside. I turn and look up at her, a smile now on my face. I love you too.

We kiss again before she sashays back to her desk. Thank God for Sandra. What would I do without her?

###

So are you going to prove it to me?

Her question dissolves within me, passing through my skin and clinging to my soul. All I can do, all I want to do is stare at her and watch her eat her tuna sandwich with the crusts cut off. She tears it into smaller pieces with thin, delicate fingers so she can nibble on it with small bites. She’s so adorable.

The ring I gave her catches the light and twinkles, causing me to get a bit dizzy. It’s the perfect size for her, just right for those small hands. I still remember the look on her face when I gave it to her.

Well, she demands through a couple more bites.

Sorry, honey, I was daydreaming again. I wish I didn’t have to prove it to you. I just wish you would believe me when I tell—

Maybe talking about it will help you get over it and realize your fear. I mean, you can’t keep—

It’s not just a fear, Sandra honey. It’s not a phobia. I saw it happen … I saw it. I can feel something dark swirling inside me. The power they have over me is frightening and astounding. It’s all I can do to keep myself from screaming as I remember it. It’s like it just happened. I am standing there, all color sucked right out of me. I will never forget that day …

###

The field was lush and vibrant green. All around us, trees blossomed with life, thick and rich in color. It had just finished raining. The air smelled clean and new. It was more than refreshing; it infused us with energy and joy.

Our backyard was a paradise, a garden of plenty. A huge grassy field stretched out to an encompassing forest of pines and evergreens. We were one with it, Billy and I. The animals of the forest ran with us, and the field was our playground. Billy loved to play after it rained, especially near puddles. He loved to jump in them.

We followed one of the trails in the forest; it sloped on an incline and twisted off into shadow and shade. Flurries of butterflies and hummingbirds danced in the distance. Tiny puddles lined the trail as we walked, and Billy made a point to stomp in each one as we walked, laughing as the water splashed across his sandaled feet or speckled his knobby knees.

We came to a fork in the trail. It tore in two different directions like a serpent’s tongue. In the middle of the fork sat a huge puddle. The shade of the trees shivering above us colored it black; it was the blackest puddle I’d ever seen.

Billy ran to it immediately, drawn to it in some mystical way. He was much younger than me and easily fascinated by the most mundane things. But that puddle was far from mundane. I could feel it deep in my bones, down to my every fiber. I shuddered when I first laid eyes on it.

Billy, come out of there. Mom will be so mad at you! I called, attempting to get my brother away from the pit of black water.

Charlie, this is awesome! Come jump with me. Billy splashed and danced, letting the puddle soak him. He watched waves fly through the air with every stomp and crushing jump.

With his last jump, the last one I would ever see him do, Billy looked down into the rippling puddle. I can see myself, he called with a giggle. Boy, do I look funny.

Billy, don’t, I tried to warn. I tried to stop him. I did everything I could. Stop staring at yourself. You know what happened to that Greek man in that story Mom read us. He stared so long he drowned.

Ah, don’t be dumb, Charlie. It’s funny. Look at me. He stuck his tongue out at himself and waved his hands at his reflection. Then, suddenly, a strange expression washed over his face. His eyes widened in terror. He looked up at me briefly. Charlie … was all he managed to whisper as he collapsed into the water, its blackness wrapping around him like a funeral shroud, like oily tendrils sucking the life from him.

His face was pale and his eyes stopped moving. I’d never seen him look that way. I stood frozen, too scared to move, too shocked to call out for help. I didn’t know what to do. I stared at him, at his lifeless body lying in the middle of that deep, black puddle.

I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Crippled by my own fear, I was mute. Slowly, whimpers came until I was crying, tears soaking my face. My hands clenched into fists so tight that my fingernails bit into my palms, drawing blood.

The puddle rippled. I swear to God it knew I was there. Billy’s eyes glared at me, empty and terrible, asking me why I hadn’t helped him. Why I hadn’t saved him from the darkness that had slithered into our lives.

I ran … ran from the scene … ran from my little brother. I didn’t know how long or how far I ran; I just knew it would never be far enough from those damn puddles …

###

Sandra looks at me with pity and tenderness. I love her so much. I think she understands now. Oh, honey, she says. Your mother told me a long time ago that your brother was born with a heart condition. She never told you when you were children. It was your brother’s heart … not the puddles. You must know that now.

I don’t care what my mother said. I was there. She doesn’t understand, not at all. Now her eyes reflect suspicion and judgment, as if I am nuts. "Well, what about my father, then? You can’t just explain that. He was found face down in a puddle—face down in the street. Don’t you see? These things