On October 7th, Tachyon Publications are due to release The Essential Horror of Joe R. Lansdale, a collection of the author’s acclaimed short horror fiction. To mark the occasion, and give readers a taste of what’s in the book, the publisher has allowed CR to share an excerpt from one of the stories, “Fish Night”. Before we get to that, though (and a short introduction from the author), here’s the book’s synopsis:
In this career horror retrospective, World Horror Grandmaster Joe R. Lansdale (Bubba Ho-tep; Hap and Leonard) tackles racism and human cruelty as deftly as he conjures demon nuns and Elder Gods. Featuring an original introduction from Joe Hill, this much-anticipated volume showcases the best of Lansdale’s terrifying short stories — menacing, astute, and wildly inappropriate.
Bestselling author Joe R. Lansdale is known for his gritty mysteries and his eccentric horror. As an eleven-time Bram Stoker Award winner, Joe Lansdale cooks up an inimitable recipe of Southern Gothic and Southern fried chicken that continues to delight his many fans and influence generations of horror legends.
Lansdale mashes up crime, Gothic, mystery, fantasy, and science-fiction, filtered through a raw, violent world of dark humor and unique characters. Lansdale is one of the early American horror writers to portray racism not as abstract but as realistic, intimate, and impossible to ignore.
In Lansdale’s nightmarish visions, you’ll discover psychotic demon nuns, a psychopathic preacher, cannibals, 80-year-old Elvis, undead strippers, flying ghost fish, Elder Gods, possessed cars, and the worst evil of all: mankind.
[A full Table of Contents is included at the end of this post.]
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Fish Night
This is possibly my first truly good short story, though “White Rabbit” certainly showed that I was moving in my own direction and opened the door for this one, different as they might be. Nostalgia can hide some ugly facts. Wishful thinking isn’t always what you think it might be if your wish were granted. I was inspired to write this story by a silver fish mobile my wife bought for us. I was lying on the couch looking at it when I drifted off, and the general idea of this story appeared. Stories, they come from anywhere and everywhere.
It was a bleached-bone afternoon with a cloudless sky and a monstrous sun.
The air trembled like a mass of gelatinous ectoplasm. No wind blew.
Through the swelter came a worn black Plymouth, coughing and belching white smoke from beneath its hood. It wheezed twice, backfired loudly, died by the side of the road.
The driver got out and went around to the hood. He was a man in the hard winter years of life, with dead brown hair and a heavy belly riding his hips. His shirt was open to the navel, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The hair on his chest and arms was gray.
A younger man climbed out on the passenger side, went around front too. Yellow sweat explosions stained the pits of his white shirt. An unfastened, striped tie was draped over his neck like a pet snake that had died in its sleep.
“Well?” the younger man asked.
The old man said nothing. He opened the hood. A calliope note of steam blew out from the radiator in a white puff, rose to the sky, turned clear.
“Damn,” the old man said, and he kicked the bumper of the Plymouth as if he were kicking a foe in the teeth. He got little satisfaction out of the action, just a nasty scuff on his brown wingtip and a jar to his ankle that hurt like hell.
“Well?” the young man repeated.
“Well what? What do you think? Dead as the can-opener trade this week. Deader. The radiator’s chickenpocked with holes.”
“Maybe someone will come by and give us a hand.”
“Sure.”
“A ride anyway.”
“Keep thinking that, college boy.”
“Someone is bound to come along,” the young man said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Who else takes these cutoffs? The main highway, that’s where everyone is. Not this little no-account shortcut.” He finished by glaring at the young man.
“I didn’t make you take it,” the young man snapped. “It was on the map. I told you about it, that’s all. You chose it. You’re the one that decided to take it. It’s not my fault. Besides, who’d have expected the car to die?”
“I did tell you to check the water in the radiator, didn’t I? Wasn’t that back as far as El Paso?”
“I checked. It had water then. I tell you, it’s not my fault. You’re the one that’s done all the Arizona driving.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the old man said, as if this were something he didn’t want to hear. He turned to look up the highway.
No cars. No trucks. Just heat waves and miles of empty concrete in sight.
They seated themselves on the hot ground with their backs to the car. That way it provided some shade—but not much. They sipped on a jug of lukewarm water from the Plymouth and spoke little until the sun fell down. By then they had both mellowed a bit. The heat had vacated the sands and the desert chill had settled in. Where the warmth had made the pair snappy, the cold drew them together.
The old man buttoned his shirt and rolled down his sleeves while the young man rummaged a sweater out of the back seat. He put the sweater on, sat back down. “I’m sorry about this,” he said suddenly.
“Wasn’t your fault. Wasn’t anyone’s fault. I just get to yelling sometime, taking out the can-opener trade on everything but the can openers and myself. The days of the door-to-door salesman are gone, son.”
“And I thought I was going to have an easy summer job,” the young man said.
The old man laughed. “Bet you did. They talk a good line, don’t they?”
“I’ll say!”
“Make it sound like found money, but there ain’t no found money, boy. Ain’t nothing simple in this world. The company is the only one ever makes any money. We just get tireder and older with more holes in our shoes. If I had any sense I’d have quit years ago. All you got to make is this summer—”
“Maybe not that long.”
“Well, this is all I know. Just town after town, motel after motel, house after house, looking at people through screen wire while they shake their heads ‘no.’ Even the cockroaches at the sleazy motels begin to look like little fellows you’ve seen before, like maybe they’re door-to-door peddlers that have to rent rooms too.”
The young man chuckled. “You might have something there.”
They sat quietly for a moment, welded in silence. Night had full grip on the desert now. A mammoth gold moon and billions of stars cast a whitish glow from eons away.
The wind picked up. The sand shifted, found new places to lie down. The undulations of it, slow and easy, were reminiscent of the midnight sea. The young man, who had crossed the Atlantic by ship once, said as much.
“The sea?” the old man replied. “Yes, yes, exactly like that. I was thinking the same. That’s part of the reason it bothers me. Part of why I was stirred up this afternoon. Wasn’t just the heat doing it. There are memories of mine out here,” he nodded at the desert, “and they’re visiting me again.”
The young man made a face. “I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You’d think I’m crazy.”
“I already think you’re crazy. So tell me.”
The old man smiled. “All right, but don’t you laugh.”
“I won’t.”
A moment of silence moved in between them. Finally the old man said, “It’s fish night, boy. Tonight’s the full moon and this is the right part of the desert if memory serves me, and the feel is right—I mean, doesn’t the night feel like it’s made up of some soft fabric, that it’s different from other nights, that it’s like being inside a big, dark bag, the sides sprinkled with glitter, a spotlight at the top, at the open mouth, to serve as a moon?”
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Here’s the full Table of Contents:
- Introduction by Joe Hill
- “The Folding Man”
- “Hoodoo Man and the Midnight Train”
- “God of the Razor”
- “My Dead Dog Bobby”
- “Tight Little Stitches in a Deadman’s Back”
- “By Bizarre Hands”
- On the Far Side of the Cadillac Desert with Dead Folk
- “Love Doll: A Fable”
- “Mister Weed-Eater”
- “The Bleeding Shadow”
- “Not From Detroit”
- “The Hungry Snow”
- “Dog, Cat, and Baby”
- Bubba Ho-tep
- “Fish Night”
- “Night They Missed the Horror Show”
Joe R. Lansdale’s The Essential Horror of Joe R. Lansdale is due to be published by Tachyon Publications in North America and in the UK, on October 7th.
Civilian Reader 