Sefira& Other Betrayals!

Today is the official release day for my third collection, Sefira and Other Betrayals (which is available in paperback from Amazon here and in hardcover and paperback from the publisher, Hippocampus press, here).  Although I’ve been planning it for some time, this one took a while to arrive, in no small part because what was supposed to be the original, title story turned into an actual short novel in the writing, and then the other original story I decided had to be in it became a novella.  Thanks to everyone who’s been waiting for the book for your patience.

If you don’t mind, I’d like to include the book’s Acknowledgments page here, because you can never say thank you enough times for the good things in your life.  (I know, some of this is redundant, but what the heck?):

Acknowledgments

With this latest book of stories, I am reminded once again of my debt to my lovely wife, Fiona, for her love, support, and patience.  Thanks, Love, for all of it; here’s another bouquet of dark flowers.
The love and support of my sons, Nick and David, is a constant and ever-surprising joy. Thanks, guys; I look forward eagerly to the art you’re making.
Laird Barron and Paul Tremblay remain the brothers I never knew I had, their regular phone conversations one of the highlights of my week. They continue to do amazing work, which inspires me to try to do better in my own fiction. Nadia Bulkin, Michael Cisco, GlenHirshberg, Stephen Graham Jones, Sarah Langan, and S.P. Miskowski arepretty cool, too.
I continue to consider myself fortunate in my agent, the indefatigable Ginger Clark, as well as her assistant, Tess, and the film and foreign rights folks at Curtis, Brown. As the story notes indicate, I owe most of these pieces to invitations from editors, and I’m grateful for the support John Joseph Adams, Ellen Datlow, Nick Gevers and Jack Dann, and S.T. Joshi showed these stories by first publishing them. Thanks, too, to Derrick Hussey and Hippocampus Press for the fine work they did with my last collection, and for publishing this one.
Finally, thanks to you, whoever you are, for the gift of your time and attention (and in many cases, patience—I know this book has been a long time coming). You make books such as this one possible, and I’m grateful for that.

 

 

Also:  that Santiago Caruso:  am I right, or what?

Advertisements

Errata

I’ve known Ross Lockhart, the driving force behind Word Horde Press, which published The Fisherman, for about a decade.  When his wife contacted me the other month to ask if I’d write a little something for his imminent birthday, this is what I came up with:

Errata

by

John Langan

Most of the errors in my books are my fault, either to begin with, or because I wasn’t paying sufficiently close attention during the proofreading stage and missed something. The majority of readers are pretty forgiving of such slip-ups; although it seems there’s always going to be someone to e-mail me explaining the difference between “insure” and “ensure” or between “principal” and “principle.” (I can’t decide if they’re taking pleasure in correcting the English teacher, or if they’re English teachers overly conscious of the scope of their powers and responsibilities.)

Without doubt the strangest example of this kind of e-mail appeared in my in-box about a month after the publication of my second novel, The Fisherman. Instead of identifying the usual sorts of errors, this writer (a Mr. Jyotisha of Seattle) took me to task for something new. The typography of page 85 of my novel was, he wrote, an utter and absolute disgrace, rendering the text all but indecipherable. Whoever had been responsible for laying out the page, he went on, appeared to have done so on top of another piece of printed material, an error he could not comprehend in this day and age of digital everything. Lest I think he was engaging in some form of bizarre jest, Mr. Jyotisha had attached a photo of the offending page of his book. Without considering whether it might be safe to do so, I clicked on the file. (In my defense, if this was a form of phishing or other e-scam, it was pretty specific.)

The image was pretty much what had been described, the words of my novel printed over other text. The resolution on the picture wasn’t great, but it looked as if what lay beneath this section of my novel was a mix of words and images, the former elongated characters too narrow to be runes (though that was what they reminded me of), the latter sets of concentric rings scattered around the page. The effect of the under-text on the sentences floating over it was weird, difficult to describe. Where the long characters intersected my words, they seemed to pull them into bizarre, semi-abstract patterns that reminded me of pictographs; while the rings under my words seemed to bend them into one another, blending them into strange new lexemes.

I closed the file and reached for my copy of The Fisherman. I’ll admit, when I turned to page 85, I was half-expecting to find the jumble I had been looking at repeated, an error of such magnitude I couldn’t imagine how I could possibly have let it slip past me. (The perils of the same overactive imagination that had led to me writing the novel, I suppose.) In my book, however, the page was fine. The best thing for me to do, I decided, was to forward the e-mail to my publisher, Ross Lockhart, and see if he could work something out with Mr. Jyotisha, maybe send him another copy of the book. This I did, cc’ing Mr. Jyotisha in my e-mail to Ross.

As I didn’t hear from either reader or publisher, I assumed the matter settled. At some point thereafter, I must have deleted Mr. Jyotisha’s e-mail, because when I searched for it this past month, it was nowhere to be found. The reason I had gone looking for the message had to do with another book Ross had published, Orrin Grey’s new collection, Guignol & Other Sardonic Tales, which I was reviewing for Locus. (From what I read of it, it’s terrific.) When I arrived at page 94, I initially thought that the weird page layout was part of the story I was reading. For I’m not certain how long, I stared at the narrow characters branching among Orrin’s words, making them parts of odd figures, the circular distortions warping his sentences into long curves of letters that almost cohered into new words, before I connected what was in front of me and the e-mail I had received a little more than two years before. When the lightbulb glowed over my head, I set the book down and turned to my computer. I was thinking I would compare what was on the page of my ARC with the photograph Mr. Jyotisha had sent me. But, as I’ve said, I could find no trace of the message.

While mildly annoying, this wasn’t an especially big deal (nor much of a surprise: the number of e-mails whose deletion I’ve had cause to regret is embarrassingly [and frustratingly] large). Still, I thought I should drop Ross an e-mail, in case what had seemed a one-time printing glitch was in fact a sign of a more systemic and sustained problem. If nothing else, I figured he’d be amused by the coincidence of my encountering the same problem twice.

In the past, it’s taken Ross a little bit of time to answer my e-mails, usually a few hours, once in a while as long as a day or two. On this occasion, his reply chimed in my inbox within five minutes. The subject line read, “Skype?” The message itself read “Give me ten minutes,” which was followed by a number. I hadn’t known Ross to engage in any form of video-conferencing, which is to say, I hadn’t known him to engage in it with me, so I didn’t see anything too unusual in his request. I propped my tablet on my writing desk (these days, my desktop’s too old and unreliable for much beyond word-processing and basic internet surfing), opened Skype, and waited.

The video feed, when I accepted it, was poor. The picture kept freezing, then lurching into motion that was a half-second or so behind what Ross was saying. “John!” he said.

Hey Ross,” I said. “What’s going on?”

These books of mine,” he said with a laugh. At least, I think that’s what he said: a buzzing echo made him difficult to understand.

Yeah,” I said, “it’s pretty weird. Do you have any idea what happened?”

Ross’s eyes bulged, his face stilled. A long burst of feedback threatened to cohere into a sentence in a deep, rasping tongue. When the picture returned to motion, Ross was in the midst of speaking: “—from that church, or the one he found in the crypt beneath it.”

I’m sorry,” I said, “I missed the first part of what you were saying.”

Another blast of noise, this one sufficiently loud to make me wince and lean back from the tablet. Ross’s face was caught in a rictus of either manic laughter or rage. Then he was talking, his features calm: “—because Norway doesn’t have a formal extradition policy with the US, so he thought he’d be safe there.” He shook his head. “You can file that one under irony.

When I left to start Word Horde, I assumed I’d be okay, which seems pretty stupid, now. But at the time, I still didn’t believe what he’d told me, not really. I was more concerned about money. I had the job at the bookstore to help pay the bills, but that might not be enough, depending on what happened. Anyway, there was one night, my last month working for the two of them, I stayed late to finish the cover design and layout for a book I was pretty sure wasn’t going to be published. For a moment, I was positive there was someone staring at me through one of the windows. I looked up, and saw a face…”

A face?” I said.

I don’t know,” he said at last. “There was no way anyone could have been on the other side of the window, because we were four storeys up. At least, that was what I thought. Now…”

Wait,” I said, “what did you see?”

It could have been a mask,” Ross said, “made out of some kind of paper, vellum or something. The surface was faded in spots, smeared with dirt. There was moss growing on one cheek, into one eye. The other eye was dull, cloudy. The face was wrinkled…” He glanced away, exhaled. “All of it was…wrong. The worst part—” A humming buzz replaced whatever he was about to say next. The video feed stuttered, Ross’s face shuttling among half a dozen expressions. The sound went on for so long, I thought I was going to have to end the call. The connection righted itself in time for me to catch him saying, “—with a sacred book, any kind of textual mistake would have a real world effect. Think of this thing as a kind of errata made flesh or…whatever.

Like I said, though, I didn’t believe any of what I’d been told. I took the face at the window for a trick of the light, a consequence of too much time staring at Nick Gucker’s cover art. If a little part of me wondered whether there might be some truth to Jason’s story, I assumed I was safe. I mean, he was the one who’d removed the page from the book, not me.

I’m still not sure how he…transferred the thing to me. I did have to fill out some paperwork when I left. I flipped through the packet, but I didn’t read all of it. Who does? Maybe some page in there assigned the thing to me. How trite, right? I can’t believe I would have fallen for something so hackneyed, so clichéd. I mean, it’s a digital era: come up with something new. Whatever, it was a hell of a severance package.

It took me a while to figure out what was happening. I had to see that vellum face another—” Although his mouth continued moving, a low buzz replaced the next several sentences.

Ross,” I said, “I’m having trouble—”

The audio cut back in, Ross going on as if he hadn’t heard me (which made me wonder if the problems with the connection went both ways). “The idea was to disperse it,” he said, “spread it among dozens, hundreds of books. The effects on the individual reader would be negligible. As long as they weren’t exposed to more than one of the exits, they probably wouldn’t notice anything.”

Struggling as I was to assemble the fragments I had heard into a coherent narrative, Ross’s words sent ice water down my spine. “Wait,” I said. “These exits—what if someone saw two of them?”

That could be a bit of a problem,” Ross said with an apologetic smile. “Each successive exit has an exponential effect on the one before.”

I don’t understand what that means,” I said.

A tumult from the closet to my right made me jump out of my chair, heart leaping. The lower portion of the closet is crowded with stacks of books, overflow from my office’s five bookcases. Three of those paper towers had fallen over, in the process dragging a pair of brown slacks and a white shirt down from the clothes rack above them, pushing open the closet door. Shirt and pants formed a flat, headless figure that looked as if it had lunged out of the closet toward me. A coincidence, but unnerving all the same.

When I glanced back at the tablet, the screen had gone black. Ross’s voice said, “I’m really sorry,” and cut out. I pressed the power button a couple of times, to no effect. (Later, the repair guy in town would tell me the device was hopelessly dead, its circuits melted. “What’d you do to this?” he asked; I had no good answer for him.)

Since then, despite numerous attempts, I haven’t been able to contact Ross. He hasn’t replied to my e-mails, my Facebook messages, or my direct messages on Twitter, this despite him maintaining a relatively active presence on social media, posting pictures of his dog, his day job at the bookstore, the books he’s going to be publishing. I made an attempt to locate Mr. Jyotisha, which was no more successful. I couldn’t bring myself to finish Orrin’s collection, which is a shame, because what I had read, I enjoyed. But I couldn’t bear to open the book again, even if what Ross had told me was patently ridiculous, impossible. There’s a bookcase in the lobby of our local post office where you can donate and pick up used reading material. I contemplated recycling Guignol there, only to decide against doing so, my excessive imagination prompting me to place the book in one of my bookcases, between my copy of Laird Barron’s Occultation and M.R. James’s Selected Stories.

The same overactive faculty must be why I saw the face in the bathroom window two nights later, as I was rinsing my toothbrush. It was as Ross had described it: dun-colored, the left cheek and eye furred with moss, the entire surface mapped with wrinkles. He hadn’t mentioned the tremendous rage, the sheer hatred the thing projected through the glass—my addition to the text, I suppose. The window was empty almost the moment I registered the face, but the resulting shock was enough to send me hurtling out of the bathroom and upstairs to bed without performing my usual nightly duties, rinsing whatever dishes remain in the sink and setting up the next morning’s coffee. When my wife remarked on this the next morning, I didn’t know what to tell her. I’d seen a scary face at the bathroom window?

A day or so after that, I received an e-mail from Arley at Locus headquarters, asking if I’d like to have a look at a couple of Word Horde’s forthcoming titles. Something thumped in the hallway outside my office door. Heart in my throat, I stood to check it. Of course, the hall was empty. Although I had been eagerly looking forward to Carrie Laben’s first novel, I wrote Arley that I would have to pass.

For Fiona, as always, and for Ross, Happy Birthday!

MVHBF 2018, or, A Glimpse into the (Nearer) Future

This coming October, I’m pleased once again to be returning to the Merrimack Valley Halloween Book Festival.  It’ll be held on Saturday, October 13th, 2018, from 10am to 4:30pm at the Haverhill Public Library, which is in Haverhill, MA.

Here’s the official description:  Merrimack Valley Halloween Book Festival 2018 will feature more than SIXTY authors, artists, and filmmakers. Panel discussions. Brand new book debuts. And, of course, Trick or Treat candy. Authors include…

(*Asterisk denotes FIRST TIME attendees…and look at that list!)
Owen King*
Jennifer McMahon*
Laird Barron*
Kelly Braffet*
Grady Hendrix*
Jeff Strand*
Lynne Hansen*
Nadia Bulkin*
KL Pereira*
ML Brennan*
Stephanie M. Wytovich*
Charles R Rutledge*
Gene Doucette*
Gregory Bastianelli
Matt Bechtel
Stephen R. Bissette
Lisa Bunker
William Carl
Glenn Chadbourne
Jason Ciaramella
Joseph A. Citro
Tom Deady
Kristin Dearborn
Rachel Autumn Deering
Barry Lee Dejasu
JG Faherty*
Amber Fallon
Dan Foley
Doungjai Gam Bepko
Craig Shaw Gardner
Larissa Glasser
Christopher Golden
Scott Goudsward
Catherine Grant
Mary Hart
Laura J. Hickman
Kat Howard
Christopher Irvin
Kameryn James*
Pete Kahle*
Nicholas Kaufmann
Brian Keene
Toni L.P. Kelner
Ed Kurtz
John Langan
Izzy Lee
Bracken MacLeod
John M. McIlveen
Hillary Monahan
James A. Moore
Lindsay Moore*
Errick Nunnally
Jason Parent
Philip Perron
Leigh Perry
David Price
Mary SanGiovanni
Cat Scully
Rob Smales
Sarah Smith
Thomas Sniegoski
Laurie Faria Stolarz
Morgan Sylvia*
Tony Tremblay
Trisha Wooldridge
Douglas Wynne
Rio Youers

 

It’s some pretty heady company in which to find yourself.  Thanks to Chris Golden for inviting me once again to be part of the event.

 

Summer 2018 Part 5: NYC

And now, a brief glance into the future:  this coming Wednesday, July 25th, the Honey Badger and I will be traveling down to NYC to take part in two horror-related reading events.  Both will feature writers Nadia Bulkin, Livia Llewellyn, and Paul Tremblay.  The first takes place at Bryant Park, and goes from 12:30 to 1:45pm.  The second takes place in the new McNally Jackson Bookstore in Williamsburg, and goes from 7:00pm to who knows when?  If you’re around, please stop by and say hello.

Snazzy poster!

 

 

 

 

 

Summer 2018 Part 3: Quincy

The weekend of July 12-15 brought me back to Quincy, MA for Readercon 29.  With Boskone, Readercon is one of the conventions I try my darnedest not to miss, and it was great fun to re-connect with friends from Readercons past, as well as to meet new ones.  Probably the weirdest thing about the convention for me was the absence of several of my usual co-conspirators:  Laird Barron, Jack Haringa, and Paul Tremblay in particular.  But this was made up for by the chance to meet and spend time with a number of newer writers, from Nadia Bulkin to Teri Clarke to Mike Griffin to Gwendolyn Kiste to Farah Rose Smith to Justin Steele to Marcus Tsong to Brookelynne Warra.  Not to mention, more time with the terrific Alexa Antopol, Matt Bartlett, Brett Cox, JoAnn Cox, Ellen Datlow, Gemma Files, Karen Heuler, Nick Kaufmann, Veronica Schanoes, and Chandler Klang Smith and Eric, her pet halibut.  Oh, and who could forget Michael Cisco literally stepping out of an angle, cup of coffee in hand?  (Not me, no matter how hard I might try.)

Highlights of the convention included my Thursday night reading, which was smack-dab in the middle of a sequence beginning with Karen Heuler, continuing to me, then moving on to Brett Cox and finishing with Scott Edelman.

Image may contain: 1 person, sitting and indoor

(photo courtesy of Michael Griffin)

Despite the opening-night-scheduling, there was a substantial audience in attendance, as there was for my coffee-klatch the next day.  I had the great good fortune there to sit at a table with a number of up-and-comers, from Teri Clarke to Stephen Mazur to Marcus Tsong, and to engage in conversation that I found fascinating and rewarding.  Also on Friday, I participated in two scheduled panels, one each on Seabury Quinn and E.S. Nesbit.  (On Sunday, I also took part in a panel to which I was added later-than-last-minute, on endings in horror fiction, and  managed to try the collective patience of my fellow-panelists by complaining at length about the idea that horror narratives are supposed to impart some kind of lesson or moral to their audience.  Oy:  sorry about that, folks.)  Saturday took me to Tony’s Clam Shop, there to be interviewed by Scott Edelman for his Eating the Fantastic podcast.  (Which, I have to admit, was a bucket-list item of mine.)  The only other scheduled event I took part in was Sunday’s Shirley Jackson awards, where my introductory duties included the sad task of briefly memorializing both Kit Reed and Jack Ketchum, friends to the award and fine writers both.  Possibly the highlight of the award ceremony was Michael Kelly’s emotional win in the anthology category.

A good part of the weekend consisted of meals and conversations with various groups of people, a couple of them held at the Royal Hot Pot restaurant, which I highly recommend.  Chandler Klang Smith is frighteningly smart, and we had a brief but appreciative discussion of Dan Chaon’s Ill Will.  I also had the opportunity to listen to Nadia Bulkin discussing Michael Cisco’s theory of weird fiction with him, while I nodded sagely and acted as if I was keeping up with them.  Phil Gelatt and Vicki Dalpe attended their first Readercon, and solidified my judgement that Vicki is one of the funniest people, ever; but I also got to listen to Vicki discussing Experimental Film with Gemma Files, particularly its treatment of motherhood, and to hear Gemma talk about what she’s working on for her follow-up novel.

Image may contain: 9 people, including Brett Cox and Matthew M. Bartlett, people smiling, people sitting, table and indoor

Royal Hotpot!

(photo courtesy of Nick Kaufmann)

Once the con was done, I drove Michael Cisco and Farah Rose Smith to the train station in Beacon, enjoying the usual blend of intelligence and sheer ridiculousness I’ve come to expect from him on these yearly jaunts.  Cisco also came up with a story that I am not at liberty to speak about, but that I expect will be appearing soon.  Indeed, I would bet my ass on it.

 

Summer 2018 Part 2: North Bennington

The afternoon of June 30th, I drove up to North Bennington, Vermont to take part in this year’s Shirley Jackson Day festivities.  It’s been about a quarter of a century since I’ve visited the Green Mountain state, and I forgot how lovely  a place it is, and immediately regretted that I would be there for only a few hours.  Somewhat ominously, when I tried to call home to let my wife know I’d arrived at my destination safely, my cell didn’t have service.  Not at all like the beginning of a Shirley Jackson story…

The event was held at the Left Bank, a lovely open space hung with art by local artists done mostly in a weird vein.  Before the reading, Brett Cox, Sam Miller, Sam’s husband Juancy, and I had a nice meal across the street, and then we joined Matt Bartlett in reading from Jackson’s and our own work to a packed house.  In a pleasant surprise, local author John Goodrich came to the event, and we had a fine time chatting afterward.  Many thanks to the fabulous Jennifer Rozycki, director of the John G. McCullough Free Library, for making all of this happen.

 

Brett Cox, Sam Miller, Matt Bartlett, and myself under the watchful gaze of Brown Thomas, the Goat with a Thousand Siblings.

(photo courtesy of Matt’s long-suffering wife, Katie)

Image may contain: one or more people and people standing