Inflictions Read online

  INFLICTIONS

  By John M. McIlveen

  A Macabre Ink Production

  Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2014 / John M. McIlveen

  Cover image from Shutterstock

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  John McIlveen…

  A: Has five daughters

  B: Is the O&M/MEP Coordinator at MIT’s Lincoln Laboratory

  C: Lives with Roberta Colasanti in Marlborough, MA.

  D: Has had more than forty stories published.

  E: Is on the Necon committee (www.campnecon.com)

  F: Can be found at www.johnmcilveen.com, www.facebook.com/mcilveen, and @jmcilveen.

  G: All the above.

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  Dedication

  For Roberta …

  who woke up my heart.

  Tha gaol agam ort. Tha thu bòidheach.

  Acknowledgements

  Trying to write an acknowledgements page is much like trying to pour an ocean into a bathtub, but here goes…

  There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship. — Thomas Aquinas

  A very special thanks to Christopher Golden, who consistently goes above and beyond the call of friendship; buddy, brother, coach, mentor, comic-relief… the list is endless.

  To James A. Moore, another dear friend; for the support, kind words, and too many bro-hugs to count.

  To my daughters, Heidi, Heather, Kayleigh, Kyrie, and Lara, who often leap from my heart into my writing.

  To David Niall Wilson and David Dodd for making this book happen.

  And most importantly, to Roberta, who showed up when I was about to give up. Your love, support, and belief in me, got my heart going and my words flowing.

  Infliction originally appeared in Borderlands 5 (2003 Borderlands Press) and From the Borderlands (2006 Warner Books)

  Paint It Black originally appeared in Buzzy Mag (2012 Buzzymag.com)

  Jerks originally appeared in Jerks and Other Tales from a Perfect Man (2012 Necon eBooks)

  Make a Choice originally appeared in Epitaphs (2011 Shroud publishing)

  Playing the Huddys, originally appeared in Jerks and Other Tales from a Perfect Man (2012 Necon eBooks) also appeared in Mister October: A Rick Hautala Tribute (2013)

  A Mother’s Love originally appeared in 21st Century Dead (2012 St. Martin’s)

  Succumb originally appeared in The Monster’s Corner (2011 St. Martin’s) and also appeared in Devils & Deviants (2014 Crowded Quarantine)

  Nina first appeared in Dark Hall Press Ghost Anthology (2013 Dark Hall)

  Confession of a Confirmed Has Been originally appeared in Childhood Nightmares: Under the Bed (2011 Sirens Call)

  Signs originally appeared in Jerks and Other Tales from a Perfect Man (2012 Necon eBooks)

  Smokey originally appeared in Suffer the Little Children (2012 Creuntis Libri)

  Saddled Vengeance originally appeared in Jerks and Other Tales from a Perfect Man (2012 Necon eBooks)

  Desolation originally appeared in Dark Moon Digest (2014)

  Finding Forever originally appeared in Canopic Jars: Tales of Mummification (2013 Great Old Ones Press)

  Devotion originally appeared in Once More … Into the Woods (2012 HOTIP)

  The Bore originally appeared in Eulogies II (2013 Horror World)

  A Perfect Man originally appeared in Twisted Magazine (1996)

  Images in A Perfect Man courtesy of David Reynolds Jr. and Catherine Sargent.

  INFLICTIONS

  CONTENTS

  Pull No Punches - Introduction by Christopher Golden

  Paint It Black

  Infliction

  Jerks

  Make a Choice

  A Mother’s Love

  Smokey

  Roundabout

  Succumb

  Portraits

  Nina

  The Confession of a Confirmed Has Been

  Signs

  Simon Says

  Desolation

  Hope

  Saddled Vengeance

  Finding Forever

  Hell to Pay

  What If …

  Devotion

  The Bore

  A Perfect Man

  In Defense of …

  Playing the Huddys

  A Moment of Reflection – Afterword by James A. Moore

  Pull No Punches

  An Introduction

  By Christopher Golden

  Compared to John McIlveen, I’m a lightweight. Over the years I’ve written my share of gruesome scenes, not to mention my share of scenes in which I set out to inflict emotional pain on both characters and readers. The darkness awaits us all, and I never flinch from pointing out the doorway that leads into it. Sometimes I’ll open the door and show you what lies beyond. Occasionally I’ll step over the threshold and take a few tentative steps beyond, shine a light into the worst of it just to let you know how bad it can get. After that, I retreat as quickly as I came, but I don’t do that just for me. It’s not purely out of cowardice. I retreat because I know that’s what most of you want me to do. It’s the best thing for us all.

  John McIlveen never retreats. I won’t say he lives in the darkness. Anyone who has met him will realize that’s impossible, that a man as kind and aw-shucks genial as John McIlveen can’t possibly live in the darkness.

  But he does rent a little apartment there.

  Just a cute little two bedroom place, a fourth floor walkup with hot and cold running sorrow and a lovely view of the fiery rivers of Hell. He likes it there. It’s his getaway from the world, a quiet place where he can forget about his troubles and ruminate on the ugliness so many of us encounter—or carry beneath our skins—every day. John’s not afraid, you see. He pulls no punches. He doesn’t turn his back on the horrors that spring from humanity; he forges mirrors and holds them up, forcing us to look.

  The bastard.

  You need go no further than my favorite story in this collection, the vengeance tale “Paint it Black,” or the apocalyptic “Desolation” to understand what I mean. The author is never afraid to gaze into the abyss. It may gaze back, but John is
unflinching. In all of those horrific news stories, reporters interview neighbors who say “He seemed like such a nice man.” If any of John’s neighbors dare to read this collection, they will most certainly be saying the same thing. He seems like such a nice man.

  He is, my darlings. That’s why it’s called fiction.

  He’s also got a wicked sense of humor, but we’ll get to that in a moment.

  Back to the pain. “Infliction” is a brutal tale about dark secrets, a theme which recurs throughout this collection. “Roundabout” is a haunting story that puts the telescope onto the worst sins of the father, and “Portraits” is a close cousin. The darkness in these stories bleeds over into the twisted sexuality of “Succumb” and “Make a Choice,” the latter of which also blurs the lines between horror and humor.

  “Jerks” is full of humor and horror, tragedy and comedy. “Playing the Huddys” and “Saddled Vengeance” are just all kinds of wrong. They say that comedy is seeing someone slip on a banana peel and tragedy is when it happens to you. “The Bore” walks on the razor edge between them quite artfully, making you laugh even as it fills you with a sense of real sadness. It’s one of the most sorrowful stories I’ve ever read.

  I’d not intended this introduction to tick off the stories one by one, but the urge to do so is almost overwhelming, because what makes John McIlveen a terrific writer is not just his skill as a storyteller but his range. “A Mother’s Love” and “Smokey” and “Nina” all have themes of abuse, of broken people and a culpability that echoes through their lives. There is love and humanity underlying the horror of these stories. But in these pages you’ll also find masterfully clever short shorts like “Simon Says,” the beautiful sweetness of “Hope,” the perfectly executed be-careful-what-you-wish-for warning of “Finding Forever.”

  Some of these stories will make you laugh and some will hurt you, possibly at the same time. Little parts of you, tender bits deep inside, may be broken. But they’ll heal. If you need any help healing them, save the heartfelt and lovely “Devotion” for last. I won’t say it isn’t a sad story—it’s about love and family and a plane crash—but somehow McIlveen makes it all okay.

  Which makes me wonder if that isn’t what he’s been doing all along as he’s written these stories for magazines and anthologies over the years. He may hold up the mirror to show us the darkest, ugliest parts of humanity and ourselves—and sometimes it can be so hard to look into that mirror—but maybe it’s that he knows someone has to do it. Someone has to have the courage not to look away so we never forget how vicious the darkness can be…but also so that we know that even when things are at their darkest, we’re not alone.

  It’s all going to be okay. Trust me.

  Trust John McIlveen.

  He won’t protect you. Not really. But he’ll pick you up when you fall and he’ll put you back together again if you break.

  The best writers always do.

  —Christopher Golden

  Bradford, Massachusetts

  October 11th, 2014

  Paint It Black

  She dabbed her paintbrush against the palette and applied it to the canvas, blending and feathering with quick, bold strokes until she achieved the exact effect she desired. Stepping back, she appraised her work and returned to blend a spot with her thumb. A pleased smile spread across her tired yet regal face.

  Her Masterpiece.

  Eight feet wide and six feet tall, the painting was nearly as large as a garage door. A painstaking endeavor, more than four years in the making, she worked on it only during times of utter solitude—moments when she could forget that anything else existed, ignore the pulls of marriage, parenthood, and grandparenthood, and devote herself entirely to her art. She needed to be utterly focused, or the outcome of her work would be jeopardized. It was different from anything she had painted. It was for two people, for two very different purposes, and to accomplish this, every detail had to be perfect.

  Justice, a name tagged by her overly patriotic Marine dad, removed her paint-dappled apron and wiped her hands on it. She then folded the cloth, wincing as an arthritic jolt lit her knuckles, and placed it on her workbench.

  Using old rags as glides, she carefully slid the cumbersome painting across the floor of the huge basement. The canvas itself was light, but the painting was quite heavy due to the frame, which she had specially fabricated from a Russian hardwood. As heavy as it was, it was still lighter than it would have been if made of steel, yet just as hard, and could be finished to a high black luster. It shined like a brand-new Lincoln. Covering it with a king-size blanket, she wrestled it up the basement stairway and into the den.

  Vast and contemporary in mode, the den was a showcase of light oak furniture, pristine white walls, and gold-veined, white Grecian marble. Large windows, shrouded in elegant maroon and gold drapes, framed a view of well-kept gardens and expansive lawns to which an elaborate, side-lit doorway granted access. A lifetime of portraits and photographs telling the story of an accomplished man festooned the walls on either side of the majestic fireplace lined in marble—the same material of choice for the bar top at the opposite end of the room. A thick maroon carpet patterned with gold and three matching scatter rugs covered most of the oak parquet floor, so highly glossed, it shone as if it were under an inch of water.

  Justice went out to the garage and brought back tools and hardware. She knocked along the wall trying to differentiate between studs and hollows. The painting, being taller than she was, would need the added support. Her first two tries missed either side of a stud, but on the third attempt, the screw gun drove firmly into wood.

  Justice hefted the painting onto the wall, trying to ignore the pain that gnawed along her spine. She moved back to view her work.

  Perfect.

  Stepping lightly to the bar, Justice selected a bottle of Domaine Leflaive chardonnay from the rack. She opened the bottle, filled a wineglass with the mild golden liquid, and took a sip. A glorious blend of apple, pear, and lime, with an oaky underpinning enlivened her senses, as it should at $450 a bottle. Normally, she would feel guilty, but not tonight. She carried the glass upstairs to her bedroom and set it on the nightstand.

  Propping her pillows against the headboard, she sat down and withdrew a small brown bottle from her nightstand drawer.

  Justice was never fond of taking pills, finding them difficult to swallow, but tonight was special. Tonight she was celebrating two things: the completion of her masterpiece and her freedom.

  Freedom and art.

  Free art form, she thought.

  Freedom and all for Justice! She chuckled.

  She spilled the contents of the bottle onto the bed and pushed the little blue capsules around with a long index finger.

  Thirty-seven, she counted.

  She lifted three, placed them on her tongue, and swallowed them with a sip of chardonnay. She repeated this procedure eleven more times—thirty-six little blue pills.

  She left the last pill on the nightstand, so her weapon of choice would be obvious. Justice did not like to create unnecessary work for others.

  This brought up another thought. She walked to the bathroom, relieved herself as completely as possible, and then washed her nether-regions thoroughly with a Huggies wipe. She would leave this place with as much dignity as the situation allowed.

  Returning to her bed, she could already feel a heaviness blanketing her and some tingling throughout her extremities. She lay down, took a deep but easy breath, and then faded into a sleep from which she would never wake.

  Felix Henneman returned home to Seattle from San Diego late Wednesday evening. He pulled his Mercedes to a stop before one of three garage doors, but instead decided to park it outside. He looked up at the bedroom where a mellow glow seeped from the window shades. Justice, predictable as clockwork, was probably waiting for her husband’s return.

  Felix flew to his offices in San Diego for three days every other week, with a quick stopover to his L. A. offices one
day each month.

  Henneman Systems, founded by Felix in 1991, was a statistical analysis software firm that had risen through the ranks of the industry with record speed and provided Felix with an unforeseen fortune. Due to sly and sometimes ruthless business practices and more than proficient programming experts, Henneman Systems prospered even through the meager years subsequent to the new millennium. Condominiums in both L. A. and San Diego allowed Felix the luxury of necessities and multiple wardrobes at all three dwellings. Felix carried no luggage, only his briefcase.

  He stabbed a five-digit code into the keypad near the side entrance. The door lock released with a firm clack, and he pushed his way into his house.

  The customary smell of acrylic paint, a smell he now regarded as almost synonymous with home, greeted him as he entered. He shuffled lazily up the hallway and into the den and dropped his briefcase onto a blond Corinthian leather recliner.

  At the bar, he filled a small snifter with an expensive cognac. As he took his first sip, he noticed the new painting.

  How could he have missed it—mounted on the wall like some billboard?

  “What the Christ?” Felix said. He approached, transfixed.

  It appeared to be just an array of black strokes, globs, and gobbets on canvas. Why the hell would Justice hang something like that?

  Has the old bird finally lost her bearings? He wondered, though at sixty-eight, he was twelve years the “old bird’s” senior.

  He moved a few steps to the left to view the picture from a different angle. Still nothing—just a flat field of black; it looked like the entrance to a cave. He decided to go upstairs and inquire about Justice’s latest cultural addition.