"Creepy Paperback"
Sit still now, John's about to hit you with a story, bruh
Hey friends, it's the last week of the month, and I've randomly decided that this will be the normal spot for my fiction. Moving forward, as each month wanes, I plan to subject you to my short stories, with the podcast version being read by myself and perhaps others. And like I said in my first chapter, I'm inspired by Harlan Ellison's "Dangerous Visions" books, so when appropriate, I'll be preceding the story with my commentary. A peek behind the curtain. Where I was and what I was thinking when I wrote it.
And what better way to start off than with a story I don't really much remember writing. I do remember what inspired it, which was the horror paperbacks of my childhood. I would troll the shelves of horror books in Waldenbooks and B. Dalton, Booksellers in MetroCenter Mall in the 80s, looking upon their illicit covers, which were all a) black, b) embossed, c) ripping off Stephen King's font, and d) probably more interesting than the stories within. Those covers fascinated me as a kid, and got my imagination jumping. That was the way things were for me as a kid, though, the covers of books, comics and VHS tapes used to scare the bejeezus outta me. I had grizzly visions that every horror movie looked like a snuff film, rather than a slick, Hollywood production. Come to find out later in life, most of those movies weren't nearly as gory or scary as the cover art made them seem. Same with the books, I'd plonk down my hard-earned allowance money for a book with a werewolf or other monster on the cover, get a couple chapters in, and just be bored to tears. Of course, Stephen King and Joe Lansdale would come along later and change that for me.
"Creepy Paperback" was written in April of 2013, when my daughter was two years old. I was tired. I was trying to keep my fire going, writing as many scripts and short stories as I could push out of myself, but working editing jobs round the clock and being a dad was exhausting. I'd challenged myself to write fifty short stories, and this was one that emerged during that period. Which, ultimately, turned out to be more like fifteen stories than fifty. Like I said, I was tired.
I think the reason I don't remember much is I wrote it pretty quickly, maybe even in an evening. I didn't know where I was going with it when I started, I mostly just had the title and the basic idea of a collector opening an envelope containing a vintage book he'd bought off eBay. Which, y'know, I knew something about. I also had some vague idea about trying to capture the tawdriness and grossness of those 80s books.
I'd been sending some my stories out to publications, and had a couple of successes, and this one I sent out to a press calling for horror stories for an anthology titled "Plague." It asked for new and different ways to interpret plague or disease horror. Since there were no fees to submit, that seemed legit enough, so I figured why not. I wondered if my particular interpretation of "disease" would actually fit the parameters, but then, lo and behold, I got selected for the anthology! Which delighted me, until I saw the actual anthology itself a few months later, and I wondered if they just accepted everyone who submitted. I like to think there was at least a basic hurdle to jump for entry.
Now, I don't base this on the quality of the stories, 'cause the truth is, I didn't read most of 'em. No, I got my copy of the anthology, which I had to pay for myself, which can probably tell you where the editors were planning to make their money from. Anyway, I got my copy, and I found myself looking at the author bios.
Again, I know nothing about the skill or talent of the writers who I share the anthology with. All I know is, some of them really need to cut down their bios, man. The bio pages, very plural, go on and on, with some authors listing every detail they can think of about their lives. Some took the time to describe what they think about writing, or how they go about writing, or lists of stuff they've written that hasn't been published yet. One of them even mentioned in their credits the very anthology the bio was printed in. All I can think of when I see these is when Stephen King, who really could fill paragraphs with all the work he's done, had a bio in the 90s that read something like, "Stephen King lives in Bangor Maine." THAT'S IT. So seeing some of these multi-paragraph bios sent a red flag up in my brain, then and now.
Mine, on the other hand, might be the shortest one in there. It reads, "John Patrick Nelson is an Emmy-nominated editor of Project Runway and Jim Henson's Creature Shop Challenge." His writing can be seen at the Popcorn Fiction website. He lives in Los Angeles."
(Nowadays I'd probably cut the Creature Shop credit to make it even shorter, but I had just finished working on it, and was very proud of it. And the Popcorn Fiction site is sadly defunct, so might as well cut that too. Look how short! Amazing.)
Anyway, thanks for taking this journey with me. And now, prepare thyself for the grossness and tawdriness that is "Creepy Paperback."
Creepy Paperback
by John Patrick Nelson
Virgil tore open the thick brown envelope, dropping the paperback as it slipped out.
"Shit!" he said, sticking out his foot to try and keep the book from getting damaged as it fell, but only succeeded in kicking it across the room. Puffs of grey stuffing coughed out from between the layers of the packing envelope, and he had to brush it off his hands before he picked up the book. Goddamn thing had cost enough, and he'd hate to dirty up his prize.
He lumbered over and carefully scooped it up, holding it delicately with his fingertips, admiring the cover. He'd seen a photo of it online, but it was even better in person. They didn't do 'em like this anymore, this was the kinda crap that could've only been churned out during the 80's horror glut. "Blood Machine," the title screamed in jagged, embossed red letters, a flaming skeleton against a black background. He had no idea if the art was commissioned specifically for the book, but he doubted it. More likely it was from the files, the kind they'd just slap on and shoot out the door, because they had a hundred other splatter books to put out that month. He doubted a flaming skeleton played anywhere into the book's central narrative.
The author's name was on the bottom of the cover in small silver letters, practically an afterthought. "Ken Morton." The 80's horror answer to Jim Thompson, he'd shit out a book every six months, rain or shine, rife with misspellings, run-ons, goofy plots, weird-ass characters, and the bloodiest murders you'd ever heard of. Most deaths in a Morton book were described as "wet," and went downhill from there. Legend had it he'd get drunk or coked or whatever, write for seventy-two hours straight, wake up a week later with a hangover that would send the devil to church, and a fresh manuscript waiting on his desk. He'd shrug, stick it in an envelope and send it to his publisher, who'd apparently just turn around and print that thing, misspellings and all. Yeah, ol' Ken Morton was a regular rogue, didn't give two shits what the critics thought, and if you didn't like his work, you could go right on ahead and fuck yourself with yer fist.
So it'd been something of a shocker in the literary world to find out Ken Morton was really Terry Lawrence, award-winning author, who only put out books every ten years or so, the kind of dreamy prose poems critics loved, and nobody bought. It'd only come out after Terry Lawrence had apparently decided being a critically-acclaimed author wasn't enough reason to go on living and shot himself in the brains. Maybe it was the shame of his semi-successful secret alias, or the failure of his quote-unquote "real" writing that drove him to suicide, but by all accounts, he was not a very happy dude outside of the work: two divorces, kids who hated him (reputedly for pretty good reason), a very real alcohol problem, and a long line of creditors who were extremely pissed when he tapped out without paying his tabs. Ken Morton enjoyed something of a renaissance for a brief moment, as critics studied his work with a new eye, trying to add metaphor and nuance, discovering it didn't really work, then both Ken Morton and Terry Lawrence more or less faded from the public eye for good.
Virgil had read everything by Terry Lawrence, and almost everything by Ken Morton, "Blood Machine" being the Holy Grail that had, until now, eluded him. He thought Lawrence had a gift with words, a piercing eye for character, and was as boring as watching shit dry. Ken Morton, on the other hand, wrote directly and starkly, like with every page he was trying to kick you in the balls. Even the misspellings and primary school grammar added to the sense of danger, like a street thug had found a typewriter and just started pounding his insane ramblings on it. Lawrence was airy and imagistic, Morton was visceral and in your face.
The book was thin. Virgil carefully flipped to the back page to see the number. If it was over a hundred and fifty, he'd eat the envelope it'd come in. Sure enough, 137 pages, big print, and enough white on the page you could doodle between the sentences. You could do that in the 70's and 80's, have a "novel" that these days would barely count as a short story. Virgil had no idea when it'd become mandatory to write like you were getting paid by the word. Most of the best pulp works ever written had been getting paid by the word, and still clocked in shorter than the Great Gatsby.
He flipped it to read the back cover. In the same blood-red lettering as the title, only smaller: "She discovered the way to revenge... WAS WITH THE DEVIL'S OWN TOOL!"
Virgil snorted, muttered, "The devil's own tool." He wondered if whoever wrote the copy was in on the joke, or if it was some wage slave who genuinely thought they were helping this crap fly off the stands. Virgil thought that would've made a way better book cover, a cartoon Satan with a giant veiny red erection.
He read the synopsis, hoping it was just as goofy as the slugline:
Tina lived a life of quiet desperation, afraid of her own shadow...
until she found the book and said the words, awakening an ancient... and very evil... machine.
Now, she finally controls her life...
while everyone else is losing theirs.
"Boooo," Virgil said, shaking his head. He'd read about this one on the internet, of course; most of Morton's works were accounted for, though in spare detail. This one had sounded like it might be a half-decent "Carrie" rip-off, but this synopsis kinda put the bullet in those hopes. Doubtless there'd be plenty of cheerfully-rendered gore, and cheerleaders with sopping wet panties getting railed in exquisite detail, but if any heart or decent character work crept in there, Ken Morton would make sure to beat it to death with sloppy plotting. The build-up would be awesome, but then the climax would be abrupt and forgettable. Hell, he'd ended one book with a brain-slurping demon getting stabbed in the eye, black ichor gushing all over the hero's face... boom, the end. Did the hero end up divorcing the wife he still loved but was cheating on him? Did his daughter ever build up the courage to tell her parents about her unexpected pregnancy? Apparently, Ken Morton's answer was, "Who gives a good shit? Demon ichor, bro!" Later, some Morton apologists theorized it to be a printing error, omitting the pages that were obviously intended to be there. Others insisted it was an ironic statement about how unsatisfying modern genre fiction is. Still others thought it was Terry Lawrence mocking his audience, daring them to come back for more.
Some, like Virgil, thought it was because he got so drunk he forgot he wasn't finished before he sent it off.
Virgil felt a familiar pang in his stomach. He usually got that feeling after he'd spent a mountain of cash he didn't really have to pay for one of his geeky collector obsessions, and the juice of finally acquiring the thing had passed. It'd seemed too good a deal to pass up, a genuine first edition Ken Morton paperback, one that didn't have the covers torn off or pages missing, for only two hundred fifty bucks folding cash. It was one of the few that hadn't been reprinted or turned into an ebook, so the only way to read the stupid thing was to get an actual copy.
But now his caveat was emptoring. Two hundred fifty bucks would've taken a decent chunk out of his credit card debt. Or paid for real groceries instead of yet another case of Top Ramen or Taco Bell takeout. Jesus, he could've asked Patty Giust from Human Resources out on a halfway impressive date, and when she shot him down, he could've bought an expensive bottle of whiskey to drown his sorrows. Man, anything sounded better right then than plodding through a shitty horror hack book.
But geek obsession was nothing if not compulsive and completist, and two minutes later, Virgil was sitting on his dogshit-smelling coach, the book perched on his lap, using his fingertips to gingerly spread it open, trying to do as little damage possible in the reading of it. Which was ludicrous, the thing was in laughable condition, the spine was cracked and creased, pages were tanned and dog-eared, and the book had a weird warp to it, meaning it'd either been damp or left in the heat, or both. Terry Lawrence would laugh his ass off to see Virgil treating it like the Mona Lisa. Then throw up from drinking too much.
Virgil carefully turned to the first page, and began.
"Tina froze in her tracks as the scream pierced her brain..."
Hour One
The book was crap, that was pretty clear from the jump, but it certainly had that Ken Morton spirit. There'd been two pretty good fuck scenes already, and a grisly accidental power drill death. And Satan's Tool hadn't even shown up yet, hyar hyar. Despite himself, Virgil found himself pitying Tina, the beleaguered heroine, first losing her father in the power drill mishap, then suffering the indignities of being bullied at school. He was almost on the edge of tears, then the book inexplicably shifted into the POV of the mean girls tormenting her, ostensibly to show they were human and insecure, but mostly to provide an excuse for them to get fucked six ways from Sunday by their meathead boyfriends.
About a half hour in, Virgil became aware that he'd had an itch on his nose for awhile now, but had been too engrossed to scratch it. This was par for the course, he'd be marathon playing some video game, notice he had to piss, then two hours later, realize he'd never gone, and his bladder was bloated to the bursting point. The thought made him snicker. He'd scratch his nose soon as he turned the page.
Well, the next page.
Hour Three
Virgil had gotten to the halfway point. The Devil's Tool had shown up at last. Tina had indeed read the words in the book, and boy howdy, had hell broken loose in that burg. Decapitations, disembowelings... one poor sap even had a rake shoved all the way up his backdoor, while his face got hacked off by a lawnmower.
Virgil realized he'd forgotten something, something he'd meant to do awhile ago. Did it have something to do with how feverish he felt? Shit, just what he needed, to get sick on his day off. He shifted in his seat, thought vaguely that his ass felt damp, probably from sitting too long and sweating. He turned the yellowed page with a ginger fingertip, pressing on.
It probably would've alarmed him to be told that he'd pissed himself. Twice. And that his body temperature was somewhere around one hundred and four degrees.
And rising.
Hour Nine
Something was wrong. Virgil knew it, and couldn't stop it. The book had him, held him firmly in its grip. He wanted to put it down, but couldn't take his eyes off its pages. He hadn't even been reading words for the last two hours, now it was just images flying through his brain, slowly melting it. He could feel the heat radiating out of his skull.
His legs hurt, sore beyond reason. He hadn't moved them in hours. He stank of shit and piss. He couldn't tear his eyes away to look, but if he could've, he would've seen his skin sloughing off in chunks, slopping to the couch. Blood dripped like tears from his eyes. Wasn't laughing about the Devil's Tool now, was he?
The book. The damn book was doing it to him. He knew it, and still couldn't stop it, couldn't tear himself away. Was Morton doing this to him? Revenge from beyond the grave, read the book and you die? But that was stupid, he'd be killing the only people that gave a shit about him. Maybe that was what he wanted? Kill the fans that kept Ken Morton alive, punish them for not appreciating Terry Lawrence?
It was hard to keep his thoughts together. The shit he was seeing now, the visions flashing on the backs of his eyes, the blood and murder and carnage repulsed him, and he'd asked for all of it, he'd wanted to read a bloody Ken Morton book, he'd paid for the privilege, and now, here it was, every gruesome thing that Ken Morton ever imagined and more. Was this what he saw in those last hours, before he blew his brains out?
He heard white noise in his ears then, like an air horn blasting. Blood dripped out of his ears. One ear was melting, dribbling down his neck with the blood, mixing into a waxy swirl.
Maybe it wasn't Ken Morton at all. Maybe it was something more obvious, like the guy who sold him the book infected it with something. Ricin, Anthrax, one of those fancy killer chemicals. But he'd never heard of symptoms like these. He couldn't see himself, could only imagine what he looked like, but he had a pretty good idea, and he started to cry then, tears mixing with blood. He should've asked out Patty Giust, he should've spent the money on women, or liquor, or good food, he should've done something, anything more with his life than buying stupid hack books. They were going to find him after he'd rotted away, the stink so bad the neighbors would call the cops, and they'd see how fat he was and the shithole he lived in, and they'd laugh, they'd laugh, goddammit, and they'd be right, because who the fuck died from reading a shitty 80's horror book?
He didn't know what he could do to save himself, but he had to do something, he couldn't just let this thing kill him. Jesus, if he looked half as bad as he felt, life wasn't worth living anymore, but he wasn't gonna lay down for a goddamn book. He'd wasted his life doing that already, maybe it was too late to take it back now, but the world was gonna know he fought, at least.
But how? Destroy the book? He couldn't even open and close his fingers anymore (the ones he had left, and it would've freaked him out to know how few there were). Maybe if he could get to the kitchen, he could use the gas stove to light the fucking thing on fire. God, that sounded so far away. The front door was closer, maybe he could just toss it out. But no, then somebody else might find it, a kid even, and whether the thing was haunted or poisoned, he couldn't curse somebody else with this.
He realized he was thinking too much. There was only one step required right now, only one thing that could save him.
He had to close his eyes.
They'd been open so long they were brittle and cracked. He didn't even know if he could see out of them anymore. But living in darkness for the rest of his life was better than seeing the shit he was seeing now. He focused, felt like he was driving a sixteen-wheeler going a hundred miles an hour and had to stomp down hard on the brakes. Slowly, every muscle in his body tensed and aching, he put everything he could into this one, tiny, all-important act...
With all of his might, he squeezed.
A bolt of pain launched through his head. His eyes weren't even halfway closed, he'd felt something crack and flake off, maybe the front of one of his eyeballs. Every nerve ending felt like they'd been sliced with a scalpel.
But the images had slowed. The blood, the murder, it was murkier now, faded like an old VHS tape, the sounds that were so razor clear, now muddied and echoing.
He didn't want to. But he had to do it again. He clenched his body, and squeezed again.
He felt something inside him burst, felt something slide out of his nether regions (he hoped he'd just shit himself again, and that it wasn't what he feared, his guts slipping out his asshole). But his right eye was closed, the other held open by gummy resistance. The images were dying now, he could barely hear them, the white noise was fading too, like tinnitus after a metal concert. God, if he could just do this, if he could just get in one last good squeeze...
He pushed with everything. His eyeball felt like it was being sawed off by his closing eyelid, but it finally shut with an audible crunch.
He collapsed on the couch, into a puddle of shit and blood and melted flesh. The book dropped to the floor by his bloated foot, the same one that'd kicked it earlier, now swollen three times its normal size, the skin tight and purple and shiny.
Hour Zero
He awoke days later. It took hours of painful, punishing crawling on his melted body, but he was able to drag himself to the bathroom, pull himself up to the toilet where he kept a box of matches, and using two of his remaining fingers, slowly burned the book to ashes. It took many tries, as he could only see out of one eye, and that one only barely, the tiny match flame hurt even being near his flayed skin, and the ozone singed his nostril cavity where his nose used to be.
He could swear as it burned, he could hear it screaming, but it was hard to tell with the piercing ring in his ears.
After another day's crawl, he made it to his phone on the coffee table and called the cops.
When they broke down the door and saw him, they initially thought he was dead, hacked up by some psycho.
The bookseller was investigated and released. There was no evidence that he had tainted the book.
Virgil lost his job. He lost over 100 pounds because food held no taste for him and the very act of eating was, itself, painful. His HMO provided him with a crappy wheelchair and cheap prosthetics. The prosthetics hurt so bad he stopped wearing them.
Of course, he found religion. It started at a local church, who took him into their fold despite his affliction, when no one else would have him. His fellow parishioners saw past the melted husk of his body, and saw the good, lonely man within. By then he had burned all his books, video games and DVDs in a manic frenzy. He started speaking at the church about the evils of entertainment. The likes of Ken Morton were top of his list.
His voice and message carried, naturally given weight by his startling appearance, and soon he was appearing regularly on the 700 Club. As his audience grew larger, the speaking engagements became more and more profitable. He was able to buy a new wheelchair to carry his damaged body, and shiny sunglasses to cover his ruined eyes. When he spoke of the Devil's Tool to full stadiums, he never laughed. He didn't laugh much anymore.
Now hundreds of women wanted to be with him, good Christian women. And it wasn't like he could sin with any of them, because his prick had melted off. Eventually, he married a beautiful God-fearing woman named Debra, who was relieved that he could never engage sexually with her, and she joined him in his crusade.
He had never had purpose like he had now. He was no longer plagued by guilt, or doubt, or any of the weakness that laid him low in his previous life. He had been through the fire, and the fire had made him strong.
And because of Virgil's speeches and loud calls to burn the "evil trash" that had tested him, Ken Morton enjoyed newfound fame. To read his books was to court death, or so the readers told themselves. Morton's resurgence made his widow and children rich.
The movie adaptation of "Blood Machine" opens this May.
Creepy Paperback © 2013
Introduction © 2023
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