But he felt something hot on the wrist where the girl held him. He looked down. He saw that her fingers had all melted together, blurring into some kind of flipper shape. And now those fingers were melting against his flesh, joining him to her.
The Uncle Fester head groaned.
A mouth. The thing has a mouth. At least it has a black opening.
It had only taken seconds. Will kept screaming at it.
No. No. No.
Over and over.
Until he heard James’s voice again.
Right there, in his ear, above the bubbling and the clicking.
James had looked in Will’s face and told him clearly, calmly:
“Turn away from it, Will. That will be your only chance. Turn away.”
The burning was worse. Flesh melting into flesh.
The red-black membrane spread above him, above the head, the girl, whose body rocked left and right with horrible spasms of this hellish birth.
Will closed his eyes.
Did he feel his bone rubbing against the girl’s bone, joining?
He turned against the wall.
He closed his eyes.
The clicking, the chattering …
The teeth were everywhere. The universe was teeth. His other hand felt the bag.
“God help me,” he said.
And he opened his eyes .
.
.
* * *
DARKBORN
A Mid-book Reverie
By
Rick Hautala
All right … you’re about halfway through
Darkborn
, and it’s time for a little break … an intermission, if you will. And I’ll say this right up front: You can skip this and keep going with the book. I know I would because things are heating up, are they not? You’re hooked. Admit it.
But I want to take a moment of your time to reflect a bit on what you’ve already experienced and hint at what’s in store for you.
(I promise: “No spoilers.”)
I’ve known Matt Costello for a lot of years. I consider him closer than a brother. We and our families have been through a lot of ups and downs together, personally and professionally. The fact that this book is dedicated to me should lead you to believe that I have nothing but good things to say about Matt and his writing.
For the most part, that’s true; but in this brief pause, I also want to include some of the reasons why I
don’t
like Matt Costello OR his writing. Why I can’t stand him personally and why I cannot abide his writing.
The intention, of course, was to be humorous because that’s one thing about Matt that everyone who knows him knows. He is funny. I don’t mean droll or dry. I mean whack-a-doodle, bust-a-gut funny. Even at the most inappropriate times, Matt is there with a comment that comes out of left field and catches you unawares.
Now I could say something about how Matt at least once in a while should get serious, but levity is rarely a flaw, much less a crime.
We all need to laugh because, let’s face it, boys and girls, life is one damned serious mutha-fucka.
When he’s not being funny — or even when he is — Matt is also an intelligent, caring, and sensitive person who has helped me deal with a lot of things that have happened in my life. He has, as they say, “always been there for me,” and I hope he feels I have always been there for him.
So I can’t mock Matt’s personality.
How about his writing?
Even if you’ve never read a Matthew J. Costello novel until now, you’re halfway through
Darkborn
, and you know the boy can write.
But you must have noticed something about Matt’s writing style.
His sentences are short.
And his paragraphs?
Short.
Maybe even choppy.
Or fragments.
Like what I’m doing now.
The English teacher in me wants to complain about this and tell him to write full sentences, damnit, and not to rely on fragments and phrases when a full sentence will do.
Sure, this economic style gives Matt’s stories a crackling energy that compels you to keep reading. You’ve already experienced that. Your eyes fly down the page. The images (fragmentary though they are) hit you with the random power of thought.
But what good is that?
I’m kidding.
It’s amazing because Matt doesn’t just do it in short bursts, like I’m doing here.
He sustains it through an entire novel. His style gives his story a punch (well, several punches, really) that deliver the goods much faster and much better than long, meandering sentences and ruminations that
some
writers (present company included) rely on to (eventually) get their points across.
So now, what about
Darkborn
?
Are you enjoying it?
Are you into the story?
Are you getting anxious about what’s going happen next?
For one thing, I’ll tell you that this isn’t your “typical” horror novel (if there ever was or is such a thing). Okay. I’ll confess. Matt is hitting on certain horror tropes, like the “coming of age” story and the “summoning the devil” story that results in chaos, but the characters, you have to admit, are unique while familiar at the same time. With Matt’s swift style, they are also beautifully drawn and given life with a minimum of words.
We
know
these guys.
For the men reading this book, perhaps we
were
these guys … even if we didn’t go to a Catholic high school or grow up in Brooklyn.
But you have no idea what you’re in for in the second half of this book.
I’d say: “Fasten your seatbelts, boys and girls,” but you might think this was a bunch of hooey, some bullshit, log-rolling hype because Matt’s a friend, and I
do
love this book, and not just because Matt dedicated it to me.
(Okay. I’ve mentioned that fact twice now, and
of course
I’m thrilled to have my name associated with this book in any way. I’m proud to have this book dedicated to me.)
But trust me on this, boys and girls: If you think at this point that
Darkborn
is not your “typical” horror novel, wait. You are in for some special treats as you finish the book.
Yes. There are more “horror tropes” to come. You still have the scene with “the rats” … and the one with “the ants” … and … Owww, the scene with that
thing
at the door!
(Those aren’t spoilers because they’re completely out of context.)
This book was, after all, marketed as “horror,” but Matt does something here that I believe — and I mean this sincerely — is pure genius.
Yeah.
You heard me.
Pure genius.
Because this isn’t your mother and father’s horror novel. It’s so much more than that. I promised no spoilers, and I meant it, but if when you get to the end of this book, you don’t sit back in your chair and let out an audible gasp, you missed something truly amazing.
The fault will be yours, not Matt’s.
Now, how Matt came up with this idea to end the story is a mystery … I think even to Matt.
And that is the one thing I can genuinely say irritates the hell out of me about Matt Costello.
His fertile imagination and creativity make the rest of us writers look like we’re trying to farm a bumper crop while gardening in the Mojave Desert.
Ideas for novels and stories and screenplays and games pop out of his mind like a Jiffy Popper on a rampage. I can say with all honesty and sincerity that I have never met another person — writer, artist, or musician — who gets ideas at the rate Matt does. And they’re almost always really good ideas. (Okay, there was that one time… but I won’t discuss it …)
And in a person who — to be honest — I admire and envy for his creativity, I will say that “in my humble opinion” (as many an egoist will say),
Darkborn
is the most amazingly creative and compelling story Matt Costello has ever written.
And that, my friends, is saying a lot!
So why are you listening to me yak away?
Get back to your reading, and once you finish it, tell me I’m not right.
I dare yah!
Westbrook, Maine
2:25 p.m
.
Hallowe’en Day
October 31, 2010
* * *
Kiff
* * *
20
It was the last cookout of 1992, the last time you could wear short-sleeved shirts and a baseball cap. The last time you could sit outside and feel the sun on your face and hope that winter would never come. The last time you could imagine that there was no such thing as snow and ice and dark, ugly clouds.
But Indian summer was no summer at all, and the deceptive warmth of midday gave way to long shadows that sprouted too early on Will Dunnigan’s backyard lawn.
The breeze carried the smoke of the barbecue away too quickly, as if eager to be done with this nonsense.
Will pressed down on the burgers, cruelly squeezing juice out of them that splattered down to the gas-fed pumice stones. A small blanket of flame came to life above the stones and licked at the sizzling meat.
Will liked tending the barbecue, though he eschewed the usual accouterments of chef’s hat and goofy apron.
Give the chef a kiss!
Will knew why he liked it, and so did Becca .
.
.
He picked up his beer, a warmish Coors Light, took a sip, and looked at Becca. She was sitting with a bunch of their friends gathered around her. She was laughing and making them laugh. Two things that she was very good at.
Becca was, they both recognized, the complete opposite of him. With all her natural exuberance, her openness, her warmth, Will was at the other end of the universe.
I’m the yin to her yang, he’d joke. And that was true enough. She thrived in social situations. The more the merrier. She put everyone at ease, made absolutely sure that everyone knew the name of all the other guests. She’d introduce people two and three times, until everyone felt like old friends.
Parties and picnics were her natural element.
And then there’s me, Will thought.
Though his few personal friends from Legal Aid wouldn’t say so, Will felt handicapped in any crowd larger than two. The social wheels just don’t spin for me, he thought.
Which was why he liked tending the grill.
It gave him something to do. People might come over and jokingly
ask the chef
how things were coming. Stand there a moment and inhale the aroma of charbroiled burgers blackened to a primitive state of carbon. But Will could squeeze and flip the burgers, and generally keep busy.
His daughters played hostesses. Sharon, the older, walked around with tacky little wieners wrapped in dough that she insisted just had to be served at the picnic.
She wore a long dress and no shoes. Her brownish-blond hair caught every bit of sunlight God was sending down.
And she was beautiful. Will ached with love nearly every time he saw her like this, at a distance, as if she were someone else’s kid.
And thought: She’s my daughter.
There’s something halfway decent I turned out.
He took another sip of his beer.
Then there was Beth, named for Becca’s mother just a year before she died.
Except Beth, at six years old, was no Beth. More of Larry .
.
. more of a Moe.
She had no interest in the long dresses or beautifully combed hair. She tended to mutilate her Ken and Barbie, removing legs and heads as her play bordered on the Frankensteinian.
And what gift did Beth have?
That was easy. Laughter. It didn’t always come when they appreciated it. More than once they stormed out of a restaurant, fed up with Beth rocking in her seat, laughing at the food, or the service, or the other patrons.
She had a thing for bald-headed men.
Made jokes about their egg-shaped heads.
Sharon would laugh or grow embarrassed, whatever was her ladylike wont for the day. While Will often felt prisoner of Beth’s wicked, out-of-control sense of humor.
Which left Becca to do the disciplining.
Will flipped the burgers. This first batch was nearly ready.