The Night Listener and Others (47 page)

By the time darkness fell and the footsteps of passersby ceased, his pockets and the bowl were full. McBride got to his feet, the blanket still over his head, and shuffled off the bridge and down beneath it again. There he distributed the coins to the people there, who bowed their gratitude but did not speak. Then McBride lay down again on the blanket and slept until just before dawn, when he went above and sat beneath the blanket on the bridge.

His days passed in this way. He gave away the coins he was given, and bought nothing to eat or drink. At night he would sit and watch the lights on the river until he fell asleep, then arise in darkness and sit all day beneath the blanket.

It was the first time that Ted Sechrist had been in Kyoto since the summer meeting after which Dennis McBride had disappeared. Three months had passed since Sechrist’s colleague had vanished from the hotel, leaving behind his packed luggage in a room into which he had just moved.

McBride’s fate was still a mystery, both to the police and to Sechrist, and a discomfiting one. As a resident of Japan, he had felt responsible for Dennis, which, he had to admit, was a bit absurd in light of Dennis’s single-minded intensity when it came to business. Accompanying Dennis had been akin to babysitting a tiger, albeit a quiet one.

Sechrist could come up with no explanation for Dennis’s disappearance. He hadn’t seemed overly depressed, but suicide was always a possibility, especially after a breakup. Still, no body of a foreigner had been found, even after boats had searched the river, which Sechrist suspected was too shallow to drown in without great determination.

Now, back in Kyoto, sitting alone in the bar of the hotel from which Dennis had vanished, Sechrist thought back over the last day he had spent with Dennis, searching in his mind for any clue he may have overlooked or forgotten in those hours when he was questioned by the police. He had told them that Dennis had seemed introspective, and had mentioned the breakup with Claire, but he hadn’t mentioned Dennis’s comment about wishing he had given something to the beggar under the blanket.

Sechrist’s drink paused halfway to his lips, and he set it down. What if— and it was a crazy idea—but what if Dennis had gone back to look for that beggar, to give him some money? The odds were that the man, covered as he was, wouldn’t have seen Dennis anyway, but what if he had? He might have been the last person to see him before his disappearance.

Sechrist left a 500-yen-coin on the bar and went outside into the cool October air. He climbed into a cab and told the driver, “
Sanjo-hashi
,” and the car headed for the bridge.

Sechrist stopped the cab at the end of the bridge and got out. It was dark, but there were still many people afoot, and the bridge was well lit. Sechrist started across it, and was almost relieved to see the figure of the sitting man covered by a blanket several yards ahead. He stopped in front of the man, took a handful of coins from his pocket and dropped them into the man’s begging bowl with a loud clatter.

“Sumimasen,”
Sechrist said.
Excuse me. “Shitsumon wo kitte ii no?” May I ask you a question?

There was no reply, so Sechrist forged on.

“Sankagatsu mae
…“ Three months ago …
“Segatakai gaikokujin ha nani ka agemashita ka?” Did a tall foreigner give you anything?

Still no response.
“Sumimasen?”
Sechrist repeated. There was no reply, no movement.

In his desperation for an answer, Sechrist performed an act that he knew, as a long-time resident of Japan, was the height of rudeness. He touched a stranger. Leaning down, he gently pressed the man’s shoulder, and jerked back his hand. Something had not felt right. It was as if his fingers had contacted not flesh but a stick beneath the cloth.

“Sumimasen!”
he said, loudly now, but still there came no answer. Bracing himself, Sechrist grasped the blanket and yanked it away from the sitting figure.

He gasped, as did several passersby who had surreptitiously slowed to watch the unaccountable drama. One woman gave a short, sharp scream at the sight of the corpse, clothed in garments that had been soiled and eaten away in places by the decaying tissues they had encased. Dried skin clung in strips to several of the yellow bones, but the flesh of the face had long since disappeared.

An autopsy determined that the body was that of a Japanese man in his mid-forties, and of small stature. Only a few teeth remained, and a positive identification could not be made.

I should become a savior to all beings. I shall release them from their sufferings.

—The Vows of the Boddhisattvas

Story Notes and Sources

THE NIGHT LISTENER (
Twilight Zone,
July-August 1984)
This is one of those personal stories that comes from lying awake late at night and wondering if those creaks are just the house settling, or something else. I’m not a believer in the supernatural, although I love to use it in fiction, but it really didn’t make its way into this story. What I
do
believe in is the foolishness and self-destructiveness of man, which did.
SEASON PASS (
Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine
, October 1984)
The amusement park in this story is based on Hershey Park (I’ll never be able to think of it as “Hersheypark”), a leisure staple of my childhood. All my life I’ve lived no more than ten miles away from Hershey, Pennsylvania, and when I was a kid we’d go to the park nearly every summer weekend. There was no admission fee in those long-gone days, rides were a quarter, and the entertainment was free. By the time I wrote this story, the park had gone the route of most others and charged admission, thus the season passes of the title.

The story was a final nominee for the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Award, and my wife Laurie and I went to New York City for the ceremony, though I didn’t expect to win, since living legends Donald E. Westlake and Lawrence Block were among the other nominees,
and
my story was really more fantasy than mystery. My low expectations made for a relaxing evening, and we were seated with Westlake and Block and their spouses, as well as my friend,
Playboy
fiction editor Alice K. Turner. Westlake seemed cheery, and Block rather tense, though he won.

But for us, the surprise of the evening got set up when we were leaving the Algonquin Hotel to go to the banquet. We were trying to get a cab, when the doorman hailed one, but not for us. A tall old lady climbed in, leaving us to walk to the banquet. Once there, we were amazed to see that the old lady was also there. She turned out to be Eudora Welty, who received the Raven Award that night for Reader of the Year. Jeez. She could have offered to
share
.…

NIGHT DEPOSITS (
University Man
, April 1988)
This is a “lost” story, in a way, since I never saw a copy of the magazine in which it was published. My agent at the time, Jim Allen, sold this story to a new market,
University Man
, about which I knew nothing except that they paid well. Though I got my check, I never got a copy of the magazine, and by the time Jim submitted another story, they had folded. Try as I have, I’ve never been able to find a copy of the magazine. The story was reprinted in
Necon Tales
(1990), and in a couple of Marty Greenberg’s “100 Little” anthologies. It’s set in an earlier version of my native Elizabethtown, and is a dearly gory little thing that must have felt very out of place in
University Man
. And if any readers come up with a copy of the issue, I’m prepared to trade handsomely…
TO FEEL ANOTHER’S WOE (
Blood Is Not Enough
, ed. by Ellen Datlow, 1989)
The genesis of this tale was the several months in the mid-seventies when I lived in New York City just after I’d gotten my Actors’ Equity card (which I still have and use), trying to get an acting job. I roomed with my friend, Ren Reynolds, and went to what felt like dozens of audition interviews a week. That experience helped me conclude that writing would be more pleasurable, since editors aren’t rejecting
you
as much as a single story, while at auditions they’re rejecting
you
. No wonder many actors (including me when I wear that suit) are so insecure.

“To Feel Another’s Woe” was also, so far as I’m aware, the only story of mine to be blatantly plagiarized. A “writer,” who will remain nameless here, had reduced my story from 5,700 words to 3,200, and changed it from first person to third, retaining my plot, characters, action, and dialogue, scene by scene. This person was then foolish enough to submit it to Ellen Datlow for Scifi.com, apparently not realizing that Ellen had bought the original story. Ellen recognized it, of course, and reported the plagiary to me. My attorney took care of the rest. Those who wish to read the whole unpleasant story may find it in Dave Langford’s Ansible 158 online.

To end this story note in a more positive vein, I was tickled to find that in
Last Words: The Final Journals of William S. Burroughs
, Burroughs had written: “Very good story: “To Feel Another’s Woe,” by Chet Williamson— twist on vampire theme.” Thanks, Bill!

“YORE SKIN’S JES’S SOFT ‘N PURTY,” HE SAID (Page 243) (
Razored Saddles
, ed. by Joe R. Lansdale and Pat LoBruto, 1989)
My ole pard Joe Lansdale and I have been friends ever since we met at a World Fantasy Con and heard each other read aloud our stories from Dave Schow’s
Silver Scream
anthology. Joe wrote the intro for my first collection, and I’ve appeared in a number of anthologies edited by the Lansdale clan, as well as acted in
Christmas With the Dead
, based on Joe’s story. When he invited me to contribute to an anthology of weird westerns, I decided to get very dark, and this story was the result. One of the cruelest, yet most romantic pieces I’ve ever written. In his intro, Joe said, “This one is like looking down the cold, dark interior of a rifle barrel.” I’d love to see it done as a graphic novel someday, with painted versions of Eustace’s illustrations, maybe by the great Tim Truman. The story was a final nominee for both the World Fantasy Award and the HWA’s Stoker.
THE CONFESSIONS OF ST. JAMES (
Night Visions 7
, ed. by Stanley Wiater, 1989)
For me, the novella is the perfect form for weird fiction. It provides enough length to get into your main characters in depth, and allows you to create tension that’s difficult to sustain at novel length. I had a wonderful time writing this piece, and one of the joys was during the research process (pre-Internet), when I went down to my local library and gave the librarian a list of books I needed from interlibrary loan. The librarian saw that I wanted books on cremation, curing and drying meat, and careers in the ministry, raised her eyebrow, and said, “This is going to be a
strange
one, isn’t it?” It was, and my attempt to reach as deeply as I could into the character of the Reverend St. James was aided by frequent snacks of really good beef jerky, pieces of which I let sit in my mouth like fleshy communion wafers while I wrote.

The theme of this novella is obviously how people can use religion to excuse
anything
, a concern that’s as pertinent today as it was when I wrote it back in the late eighties. I’ve explored it in greater length in my novel,
Defenders of the Faith
, and consider it one of the great problems not only in America but in much of the world today. It’s incredible that so many people in our 21st century rationalize their own prejudices with millennia-old books of tribal laws. And even more incredible that we let them get away with it.

THE ASSEMBLY OF THE DEAD (
Noctulpa # 4
, 1990)
I first tried to market this story to
The New Yorker
, to which I’d sold, in 1983, “Gandhi at the Bat,” a humorous short story which has been reprinted numerous times and was in
Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing From The New Yorker.
Trying to parlay a humor sale into a sale of dark fiction was difficult, as shown in the response from
New Yorker
writer and editor Roger Angell (who had bought “Gandhi”), which stated in part: “.…ur editor, William Shawn, would not be able to read this story the whole way through; he is open-minded, but death and dismemberment are not at the top of his list, to put it mildly.” The suggestion that I could have not only offended the legendary Mister Shawn, but also given him the vapors, makes this my favorite rejection letter.
THE HEART’S DESIRE (
Weird Tales,
Fall 1990)
One of my biggest thrills in my writing career has been the publication of a special Chet Williamson issue of
Weird Tales
, which has always been my favorite pulp magazine. And why not, with its dark and vibrant history beginning in 1923 and continuing to the present day? My friend Darrell Schweitzer interviewed me for the issue, and three of my stories appeared in it, one of which was “The Heart’s Desire,” about the lies that can sometimes take over our lives.
THE PACK (
Masques IV
, ed. by J. N. Williamson, 1991)
Credit for this grisly tale has to go to my wife Laurie’s Uncle John Kerr, who is not a fan of horror fiction. “Why,” he once asked me jokingly, “don’t you ever write about puppies and kitties?” Be careful what you wish for, Uncle John—you may just get it. I should also add that Uncle John’s playing of the musical saw is always one of the highlights of Kerr/McCandless family gatherings. It’s the ideal instrument with which to silence annoying music critics.
THE SWING OF THE KNIFE (
Narrow Houses
, ed. by Peter Crowther, 1992)
My first professional sale, “Offices,” (
Twilight Zone Magazine
, Oct. 1981) was about my experiences in the business world, and this story continues that tradition. The knife that Nichols toys with was mine, and I would spin it in precisely the same way at those dull, endless, pointless meetings. Mine didn’t have quite the same result as Nichols’s knife, fortunately. This particular story was also instrumental in introducing me to this current volume’s editor, Pete Crowther.
Narrow Coffins
was, I believe, his editorial debut, and an excellent one, due for reprinting.
THE PEBBLES OF SAI-NO-KAWARA (
Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
, Feb. 2004)
For over ten years, Japan was a second home to my son Colin. He studied in Osaka for a year, and received a degree in Asian Studies at Temple University’s Tokyo Campus. He worked at Anchor Inc. for a year as a videogame designer and translator, then went to Square Enix, where he spent several years before returning to the states, where he worked with 17-Bit and now with Shinra Technologies. Laurie and I went to Japan for several weeks in 2001, and have been back twice since. We’ve seen the tourist Japan, but we’ve also seen as much as we can of the
Japanese
Japan, slurping noodles in cellar ramen joints, dipping into the local baths, and frequenting the districts in which few if any
gaijin
are seen.