Nightingale Songs (27 page)

The thing had stopped.

Liam finally approached it, his chest tight with pain, and tried desperately to fill his lungs with all the breath they were demanding. Around him, almost unnoticed in his struggle, the air grew heavy as dirt and tiny rocks were swept up in a growing
eddy. It swirled higher and faster, stinging
his face with debris. He raised his hands to protect his eyes.

Then, it collapsed, and the material returned
to the forest floor. He looked around. A few feet away he saw the faint marks of another path, and as the pieces fell
into place he recognized where he stood. He had been led to the spot where he had last seen Marcia. He ran to the new path, the one she had taken the year before, and tried
to follow where it led. The decaying
leaf matter hid most of it, and it was overgrown, but he managed to find bits of gravel on the edges of the unkempt path.

It was not as travelled as the one Liam had followed. Branches, solid from years of interrupted growth, stuck into him as he squirmed past and scratched
his legs and arms. The wounds though were barely noticed as his drive to discover the truth grew to a fervor.

The ground was wet under the dense
clusters of trees, and his shoes began to stick in the mud each time he rested a moment. He had to keep moving, had to pay attention to everything
he saw or felt.

The way ahead of him cleared somewhat, the trees spreading further apart, but Liam saw at the end of his journey a thick of bushes and trees. The path petered out and was gone before it reached them. Liam slowed to a stop, and his feet sank
beneath him. He wandered a moment, confused, looking
for some evidence the path continued elsewhere.

He checked his watch. It was midday, and the sun above was strong, but he barely felt it. Every inch of him was cold, and his lungs hurt; his breath tasted
vaguely of blood as he panted. He sat down upon a fallen tree and covered his face.

He felt lost.

Then something
took hold of his hand.

He opened his eyes and initially saw nothing. Then, after a moment, he thought he saw, just barely, a pale amorphous shape before him. Its grip on him didn't feel like anything, really -- just a force, like the wind, tugging
him gently. It stroked his face, brushed
his hair aside, and dried
his eyes. He stood and it pulled him back to where the path had been.

"Marcia? It's really you, isn't it? Where are you taking
me?"

It said nothing, but whispered so quietly Liam could not hear the words clearly. He followed without further questions, letting
it guide him, sure that he was to find the answers he had felt so empty without.

They came to the thick of bushes, and the faint shape pulled him forward, into the tiny branches. They scrapped Liam's face and hands only for a moment, and when he opened his eyes, he was in a small clear area, the sun bright above him, and was overlooking
a valley below.

"I saw you here," he said. "A year ago. This is where I last saw you."

Still, it said nothing, but it did not release his hand. It continued to pull him forward, to the edge.

"What is it, Marcia? What do you need me to see?" He followed, and stopped when he saw
the edge of the precipice was a decline too steep to take safely.

"Did you fall? Is that what happened? Oh, Marcia, are you down there?" The pale shape tried to coax him further toward the slope.

"I can't go any closer, relax. Let me go get help," he said, but still it gently pulled at him, then tugged harder. He took a step back, confused, and the shape increased its pull.

"What are doing? Marcia, what are you doing?" He tried to shake his hand free, but it was held tight. He was pulled harder and harder. Liam managed to back an inch further away from the precipice.

"What are you doing? I love you!" He raised his other arm to the shape, trying
to ward it off. "Please, please stop!" Instead, the thing
split into two, then more, multiplying
before his eyes into a pale haze, too many to count, their translucent forms glittering
like thousands of tiny buzzing
wings. They took him by his hands, by his legs, anything
they could grab, and pulled
him towards the edge. He scrambled backward, fighting
to remain upright, screaming, "Why?" but they took his feet out from under him. His head hit the ground, gravel and rocks cutting
deep, and his vision blurred. He kicked hard as they dragged him, but he could not break free, and they would not stop.

Even when he went over the precipice's edge.

I suspect the single fact that unites all writers is that they all go about the art of writing differently. Each has his or her own methods, each has his or her own pet interests. Where one prefers stories about the real, the other prefers those of the fantastic. Where one writes each morning before work, the next writes during, and the third after. All these writers working at once, all trying to produce a work that will embed itself in the reader and leave him or her fundamentally changed. Perhaps it will be by revealing a truth that alters the way the reader sees the world, perhaps it will be by uncovering an aspect of humanity that proves enlightening. It could even be as simple as giving the reader an escape from his or her dreary life, opening a door in the darkness. At the end of the day, no reason, no method of conveying those words is better than the next. It's all about what works best for the writer and inspires the muse to sing.

Some writers hear their muses sing different songs, and write accordingly. These writers can work in different genres, different styles of prose, sometimes being clever mimics of others. I, however, have always been the kind of writer who is interested in a single aspect of fiction, and I'm more than happy to work only within it, inspecting and exploring its every nook and cranny. Not all readers or editors enjoy that about my work. If you're the sort that likes your characters from a mixture of social circles and economic classes you'll have likely found that this collection of tales is a bit narrower of scope. Sure, the locales change, and the basic plots vary, but at the end of the day this book is primarily concerned with relationships: how the fail us, how they affect us, how they move us. I would argue that all good fiction is about relationships in some way, and to focus on them is to focus on the intrinsic part of us that makes us who we are. Relationships define everything about us. Even their lack says something.

Nevertheless, on occasion I get accused of obsessing TOO much about relationships. When I hear this charge levied I can't help but wonder about what I should be writing instead. What else is there? Whether it's the story of a boy meeting a girl, a man loving his wife, a woman losing her father, or any other variance between persons or people, stories are about relationships. Relationships make us who we are, and I can think of no more interesting or varied topic. I suspect I could write about them and only them forever.

Many of the stories included here are the best I have ever penned. They are a synthesis of my hopes and fears and desires -- an amalgamation of the various influences that run through my head, influences that individually might have been distinct in my precious collections but here are simply part of a whole, indivisible from one another. One might see it in tales like "An Indelible Stain on the Sky", which seems on the surface to belong to the "oily" fiction of my first collection, but instead reaches far beyond and into the character-driven work of my second. Or perhaps in the tale "Everything Floats" which sacrifices some of the overt strangeness and surreality to instead offer up a subtle painting in atmosphere.

This collection came together in less time than either of my previous books, and yet is the strongest due solely to my constant attempts to unify the different aspects my fiction, and to increase my understanding of how my muse works and what she wants. Her song is clearer than ever to me now, and I only have to transcribe all her melodies to find solace from their haunting notes. Whether it's a thudding piano or a beautiful voice singing in the night, I hear the sound. I hope you can hear it too, echoing through the darkness. It asks only that you break free of your delicate shells and spread your wings. You are now free to fly.

I would like to extend a special thanks to Richard Gavin, Ian Rogers, Michael Kelly, Laird Barron, John Langan, Joseph S. Pulver, Stephen Jones, S. T. Joshi, and everyone else who has helped support me and my work over the years. May your songs never end.

This book is for my wife, Frances.

# # #

Publishing History

"Out of Touch" originally appeared in Cemetery Dance, issue 64

"Her Father's Daughter" originally appeared in Strange Tales, Vol. III

"The Deafening Sound of Slumber" originally appeared in Chilling Tales, Vol. I

"Unreasonable Doubt" originally appeared in Postcripts 20/21

"Pale Light in the Jungle" originally appeared in The First Humdrumming Book of Horror Stories

"Something New" originally appeared in All Hallows, issue 42

"Everything Floats" originally appeared in Shadows & Tall Trees, issue 1

"When Sorrows Come" originally appeared in At Ease With the Dead

All other tales are original to this collection

SIMON STRANTZAS is the author of the critically-acclaimed
Cold to the Touch
(Tartarus Press, 2009), a collection of thirteen tales of the strangeand supernatural. His first collection,
Beneath the Surface
(reprinted by Dark Regions Press, 2010), has been called “one of the most important debut short story collections in the genre”. Strantzas’s stories hav eappeared in
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror
,
Cemetery Dance
,and
Postscripts
. In 2009, his work was nominated for the British Fantasy Award for Best Short Fiction. He lives in
Toronto
,
Canada
, with his wife and an unyielding hunger for the flesh of the living. Please visit his website at
www.strantzas.com

Dark Regions Press

Dark Regions Press is an independent specialty publisher of horror, dark fiction, fantasy and science fiction, specializing in horror and dark fiction and in business since 1985. We have gained recognition around the world for our creative works in genre fiction and were awarded the Horror Writers Association 2010 Specialty Press Award and the Italian 2012 The Black Spot award for Excellence in a Foreign Publisher. We produce premium signed hardcover editions for collectors as well as trade paperbacks and ebook editions for more casual readers. We have published hundreds of authors, artists and poets such as Kevin J. Anderson, Bentley Little, Michael D. Resnick, Rick Hautala, Bruce Boston, Robert Frazier, W.H. Pugmire, Simon Strantzas, Jeffrey Thomas, Charlee Jacob, Richard Gavin, Tim Waggoner and hundreds more.  Dark Regions Press has been creating specialty books and creative projects for over twenty-seven years.

The press has staff throughout the country working virtually but also has a localized office in
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,
Oregon
from where we ship our orders and maintain the primary components of the business.

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