Praise for Skull Full of Kisses
“A dark, diverse and delicious page-turner of a collection not to be missed!”
~Fran Friel, Bram Stoker Nominated Author of Mama’s Boy and Other Dark Tales
“(Michael West) gave me nightmares!”
~Anne Boedeker, E! -Entertainment Television
“This is damned serious stuff, and it’s scary, suspenseful, and sweat-inducing; but more importantly – perhaps most importantly – it’s all disturbing as hell, and cannot be easily forgotten.”
~Gary A. Braunbeck, author of Coffin Countyand Mr. Hands (on Dark Harvest)
“(Michael West is) definitely one to keep an eye on.”
~Maurice Broaddus, co-author of Orgy of Souls
“Michael West draws the reader in with a director’s touch. With a deft hand, West creates wonderful characters who live and breathe on the page.”
~Bob Freeman, author of Cairnwood Manor (on The Wide Game)
“Michael West proves himself to be a masterful storyteller, flawless in building momentum, and his skills in characterization match or even often surpass some of the most successful writers in the business.”
~Nicholas Grabowsky, author of Halloween 4: the Return of Michael Myers, and The Everborn
(on The Wide Game)
“You could feel the fear!”
~Horror Web (on The Wide Game)
“Just remember the name Michael West because he has a future in the horror genre.”
~Brian Yount, Wicked Karnival Magazine
Skull Full of Kisses
by
Michael West
Skull Full of Kisses
Published by Graveside Tales
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address
Graveside Tales
P.O. Box 487 Lakeside, AZ 85929, USA
www.gravesidetales.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 Michael West
Cover Art by Bob Freeman
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Disappearing Act
An Introduction by Gary A. Braunbeck
Near the end of “Dogs of War” (one of my personal favorites in this collection), there is a passage that reads:
“The creature rose suddenly on muscular legs, limp coils of rope sliding down its scaly torso. Before Ray had time to ponder how it had managed to loosen the knots, a claw blurred out, sharp talons carving bloody trails as they skated across his cheek. He fell backward, his forehead striking the edge of the kitchen table. Pain rang through his skull and the murk of the cabin was lit by sparks.”
Don’t worry, I’m not letting any cats out of the bag by revealing that there’s a particularly nasty demon/monster in the tale (you find this out in the first sentence), but I wanted to quote that particular passage because of its clarity, its momentum, its imagery, and, most of all, its confidence; at this point, the story kicks into high gear for the type of final confrontation that, in the horror field, separates the writers from the self-deluded hobbyists – the kind of creative typist who thinks that all you need is blood and violence and a good shock or two before the final gross-out and – viola! – you’ve got a horror story.
The flip side of that coin is even worse: the horror writer who is embarrassed to be a horror writer because he/she believes that her/his particular gift for language and worldview of the human condition is really better suited to a more respectable genre than the one in which they currently toil, so they hide behind self-consciously “important” themes with buckets of Sturm und Drang thrown in for good measure in the hopes it will prevent anyone – including themselves – from realizing that their talents (if indeed they possess any) will never reach a more than journeyman level so long as they believe they’re better than the genre they’re writing for.
In both these cases (presented, admittedly, as extremes here) the one thing that makes their writing stand out is the all-too obvious need for it to be recognized as their writing, something unique to them, something that a reader can immediately recognize as a So-and-So’s story within the first few lines. This need is often so intense that one gets the impression while reading said writer’s work that he or she might have actually hurt themselves getting words down onto the page.
You’re not going to find any of that here.
Michael West’s prose never pulls a muscle trying to draw attention to itself, never once degenerates into the kind of “Look, Ma, ain’t I writing good?” school of prose that is too often affected by apologists who claim they’re trying to “transcend” genre – because, of course, the best way to transcend any genre is to simply not write in it.
Michael West loves being a horror writer, is in fact proud to call himself one, and that love of the genre, and his feeling such pride in being a part of it, is evident in each story in this splendid (and sometimes quirky – in the best sense of the word) collection.
Now this is traditionally the part of the Introduction where comparisons will be made between the author of the collection and a handful of better-known writers: “…reminiscent of Stephen King,” “…the next Brian Keene,” “…cut from the same mold as Robert McCammon,” “…the new Peter Straub,” “…once arrested with John Skipp and Jack Ketchum,” that sort of thing. I’ve always found such comparisons to be tricky at best; on the one hand, it’s always flattering to some degree to have one’s own work favorably compared with that of another writer whose work one has admired; on the other hand, such comparisons risk trivializing the work of the writer who has just been compared to one of the Big Names; it’s almost as if you’re saying (without actually saying it) that this particular writer’s work doesn’t possess anything to make it stand out on its own merits, so why bother killing brain cells when you can go the obvious, lazy, (and now-clichéd) route of the comparison?
But I’m going to make a comparison, nonetheless.
Michael West may very well be the Stephen Root of the next generation of horror writers.
Even from where I sit, here in Ohio, I can hear your unspoken Huh? Who?
Stephen Root is not – repeat, not – a writer. He is an actor. Specifically, he is an extraordinary actor (look up his resume on IMDB) who has appeared in numerous television series (News Radio, Pushy Daisies, True Blood), mini-series (Stephen King’s Golden Years), voiced characters on several animated series (King of the Hill and Tripping the Rift, to name but two), and been in a staggering amount of motion pictures such as No Country for Old Men and – perhaps the only role people would recognize him from – Office Space, where he spent most of the film in pursuit of his stapler.
Stephen Root is the type of actor who is classified in Hollywood as a “character actor” – meaning that his looks do not encompass the traditional leading-man attractiveness, so he’s given much more interesting and varied roles, the kind of roles that enable an actor to call upon all of his gifts and make the audience forget they’re wat
ching an actor perform a part. His is a face you’ve seen dozens, maybe even hundreds of times, but whose name you don’t know; he’s one of those “Oh, yeah – that guy!” actors who will be dazzling and entertaining audiences decades after the latest twenty-something hunk from the recent genre franchise of films is appearing only as a mug shot on The Smoking Gun after his latest arrest for DUI. And Root will prevail for one simple reason: he has that rare ability to completely disappear into his roles so, as I said, you forget you’re watching someone act; there is an authenticity to his work that makes it look easy, if indeed you stop to consider its difficulty at all. It’s Root’s ability to effortlessly pull this kind of disappearing act time and again that guarantees the longevity of his career.
Go back to that passage from “Dogs of War” that I quoted at the beginning and give it a good, long look. Looks easy, doesn’t it? To present something that deftly, that concisely, that clearly, must be a breeze. It isn’t – trust me, I’ve been doing this for over twenty-mumble-mumble years and I can say from experience that not only is it not easy, it never gets any easier.
Yet because Michael West, like Root, can so effortlessly pull off that disappearing act time and again, it looks easy. But Michael West has far too much love for the horror genre to value anything above the story, even a desire to have a “voice” that is instantly recognizable be at the forefront. No, for him, the story is all, and if he has to disappear into the narrative in order to make the reader forget that they’re reading a story that a specific writer has written, he’s got no problems with that. And the result?
The result is the compact and terrific collection you now hold in your hands, filled with delightful, scary, sometimes funny, and always entertaining stories into which their creator has disappeared in order to give that love for and pride in the horror genre the authenticity it sometimes leaves by the wayside.
This is the Good Stuff, folks. Traditions and tropes appear throughout, yes … but never in quite the way you think they will. It will be simple for you to not pay attention to the man behind the curtain, because these stories will make certain you never once think about who wrote them. For my money, that’s as good as you can ask for.
—Gary A. Braunbeck
Lost in Ohio
July 30, 2009
For Sara Larson, my harshest critic and greatest fan
Thank you for making me a better writer.
And for my wife, Stephanie
Thank you for making me a better man.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to: my family, for their understanding, their patience, and their encouragement; Dale Murphy and the entire staff at Graveside Tales; Bob Freeman for his amazing artwork; Gary A. Braunbeck for his time, his incredible generosity, and, most of all, his friendship; my army of pre-readers: Dione Ashwill, Jerry Gordon, Sara Larson, David Lichty, Marc Morriston, Natalie Phillips, Brenda Taggart, Ryan Tungate, Chris Vygmont, and Nora Withrow; all the Indiana Horror Writers; and, of course, my faithful readers everywhere.
And thanks to the following individuals for their guidance and their support, both personally and professionally: Julie Astrike, Ericka Barker, Louise Bohmer, Maurice Broaddus, Tim Deal, Kelli Dunlap, Fran Friel, David Garrett, J.F. Gonzalez, Bill Hardy, Kyle Johnson, Brian Keene, Michael Knost, Alethea Kontis, Debbie Kuhn, Michael Laimo, Tom Moran, Rex Scott, Katrina Shobe, Jason Sizemore, Lucy Snyder, Scott Standridge, Douglas F. Warrick, Wrath James White, and Brian Yount.
“In the dead of night, when the moon is high, and the ill winds blow, and the banshees cry, and the moonlight casts an unearthly glow...arise my love, with tales of woe!”
—Opening incantation used to summon Indianapolis horror host Sammy Terry, 1962-1989
Skull Full of Kisses
Jiki
When Koji Ogawa saw the creature staring at him from across the room, he nearly dropped his end of the body. Its eyes were red, its pupils elliptical...a dragon’s eyes.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a Jikininki,” Takashi told him, the cigarette he had pinched between his lips bobbing up and down as he spoke. “Come on, brother, this fucker’s heavy.”
Takashi and Koji shared no blood. The Yakuza was one big family.
They moved deeper into the basement, Boss Yamamoto’s dead weight filling the black dufflebag between them, and Koji found that he could not take his eyes off the thing. It sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, and at first glance, had the appearance of a nude woman—golden skin; full, supple breasts; the face of a pop idol from a magazine cover—but leathery wings folded against its back, and a trio of twisted horns sprouted from its long, raven hair. Koji was tempted to believe that these monstrous aspects were just bits of costume, until he saw those wings stretch and flap.
“This is far enough.” Takashi let go and the bag fell to the concrete with a soft thud. When he took the cigarette from his lips, a coughing fit took hold of him. He bent over, putting his hands on his knees until it subsided.
“You okay?” Koji asked, his fingers still clutching the canvas, keeping the back end aloft.
Takashi nodded. After a moment, he spat on the floor, then managed to stand erect, wiping the sweat from his brow with his tattooed forearm. He was ten years older than Koji, and dragging this body around had evidently been more exertion than he was accustomed to.
Satisfied, Koji’s eyes returned to the creature, his disbelieving gaze shifting from its face to its wings and then back again. “What did you say this thing was?”
“It’s a demon,” Takashi told him, his tone oddly matter-of-fact for such a declaration. “We’ve been calling it Jiki.” He rubbed his lower back, his lips curling into a humorless grin. “Creepy, isn’t it?”
Koji shrugged, not wanting his friend to know just how unnerved he was. The demon had not blinked once since they entered the room, nor had it paid any attention to Takashi or the bag they had been carrying. And the way it stared at him...It was as if it had seen him before and was trying to remember where. The thought made Koji shiver a little. “What’s it doing here?”
“An old priest caught it up in the Rokko Mountains.” Takashi took another drag from his cigarette, his nostrils venting a long cloud of smoke toward the light bulb that hung from the ceiling. “He gave it to Boss Sokaiya, wanted to thank him for his generosity, his earthquake relief efforts.”
Koji nodded. The Sokaiya-gumi was well organized. In the aftermath of last year’s devastating quake, it moved more quickly than the Japanese government, providing much needed services for this ravaged community. As a result, many considered the protection monies paid and gifts given to the Yakuza well earned.
“After a funeral,” Takashi went on, “the priest was standing watch over his temple when this thing came to eat the bodies.”
Koji gave him his full attention. “Eat them?”
“That’s what they do, they eat the dead.” Takashi put his cigarette back between his lips and knelt down to unzip the dufflebag. Boss Yamamoto’s elderly corpse slid out onto the concrete. There was a neat round bullet hole in his aged forehead, and his wrinkled face was streaked with the rust of drying blood.
The creature stood, allowing Koji to view the thicket of sable curls between its legs. He had not seen a woman naked in over a year, not since his lover Emiko...
He forced himself to look away, and his gaze fell on the sharp, black talons of its scaly feet, reminding him that this was not really a woman at all. This was a monster. He saw the thing make a move toward them and instinctively retreated a step, his eyes snapping back up to meet its face.
It was drooling.
Koji reached inside his trenchcoat for a weapon, but Takashi held up his hand.
“Don’t,” his friend ordered, then calmly added, “If you have a pulse, you’ve nothing to fear from Jiki.”
While Koji was not entirely convinced there was no danger, he took his hand from his coat and returned his attention to the demon, greatly relieved to find
its focus had shifted to the corpse on the floor.
“You could have sat down with Boss Sokaiya,” Takashi told Yamamoto’s deaf ears. “Could have shared some sake and done the right thing. Now look at you.” He stood up and kicked the body in its lifeless ribs.
Koji grabbed his friend by the shoulder. “Show some respect.”
“He hasn’t earned it, brother.” Takashi flicked his cigarette onto the floor, snuffed its flame beneath the toe of his boot, then motioned to the creature. “He’s earned this.”
The demon growled—a low, rolling rumble of hunger. Its mouth opened wide, as if its jaw had suddenly come unhinged, becoming a gaping maw lined with glistening fangs. With great enthusiasm, it cupped Yamamoto’s head in its claws and bit into his scalp. Koji heard the crunch of splintering bone as the dead man’s skull was forced open, followed by a horrid wet smacking sound.
Takashi laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Jiki loves brains,” he said.
Koji stood in frozen silence, his mind trying to deny what he was seeing. His stomach rolled, but his unblinking eyes refused his silent plea to block out this desecration.
When the creature lifted its head, clumps of crimson-gray tissue slid off its chin. It spit something in Koji’s direction. The object bounced off the far wall, rolled across the floor, and came to rest just centimeters from his feet.
“What the fuck was that?” Takashi wanted to know.
“The bullet,” Koji told him, and then he vomited all over it.
***
“You’ll go to prison for this,” Emiko warned him. She was trembling, her pink scarf and jet-black hair blowing like streamers in the breeze.
“I can’t marry you without a ring.” Koji kissed her, then climbed in through the jewelry store’s broken window, avoiding its crystalline teeth. He found the front of the shop was three feet higher than the rear, but not by design. The quake had cracked the building in two, the rising earth lifting half the foundation on its rocky shoulders. Valuable cases lay smashed all around him, the priceless gems they once displayed now buried beneath drifts of splintered glass. He turned back to Emiko. “Give me your hand.”