TABLE OF CONTENTS Issue 22, July 2014 FROM THE EDITOR Editorial, July 2014 John Joseph Adams FICTION The Black Window Lane Robins Talking in the Dark Dennis Etchison Death and Death Again Mari Ness The Misfit Child Grows Fat on Despair Tom Piccirilli NOVEL EXCERPT Object Permanence John F.D. Taff NONFICTION The H Word: Misunderstood Monsters Janice Gable Bashman Artist Gallery Galen Dara Artist Spotlight: Galen Dara Wendy N. Wagner Interview: Del Howison of Dark Delicacies Bookstore Lisa Morton AUTHOR SPOTLIGHTS Lane Robins Dennis Etchison Mari Ness Tom Piccirilli MISCELLANY Coming Attractions Stay Connected Subscriptions & Ebooks About the Editor © 2014 Nightmare Magazine Cover Art by Galen Dara www.nightmare-magazine.com FROM THE EDITOR EDITORIAL, JULY 2014 John Joseph Adams Welcome to issue twenty-two of Nightmare! It seems like it’s been ages since I told you about a new anthology I had out. Er . well, I guess it was actually only about two months ago. But nevertheless! July marks the publication of HELP FUND MY ROBOT ARMY!!! and Other Improbable Crowdfunding Projects! As you may recall, I Kickstarted this anthology in late 2013, inspired by the eponymous story by Keffy R.M. Kehrli, which was published in the October 2013 issue of Lightspeed. In case you missed it, HELP FUND MY ROBOT ARMY!!! is an anthology of science fiction/fantasy stories told in the form of fictional crowdfunding project pitches, using the components (and restrictions) of the format to tell the story. This includes but is not limited to: Project Goals, Rewards, User Comments, Project Updates, FAQs, and more. The idea is to replicate the feel of reading a crowdfunding pitch, so that even though the projects may be preposterous in the real world, they will feel like authentic crowdfunding projects as much as possible. The anthology is on sale now. To learn more, visit johnjosephadams.com/robot-army. • • • • With our announcements out of the way, here’s what we’ve got on tap this month: We have original fiction from Lane Robins (“The Black Window”) and Mari Ness (“Death and Death Again”), along with reprints by Denis Etchison (“Talking in the Dark”) and Tom Piccirilli (“The Misfit Child Grows Fat on Despair”). We also have the latest installment of our column on horror, “The H Word,” plus author spotlights with our authors, a showcase on our cover artist, and a feature interview with Del Howison of the legendary Dark Delicacies bookstore in Los Angeles. That’s about all I have for you this month. Thanks for reading! ABOUT THE AUTHOR John Joseph Adams, in addition to serving as publisher and editor-in-chief of Nightmare, is the series editor of Best American Science Fiction & Fantasy, published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. He is also the bestselling editor of many other anthologies, such as The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination, Armored, Brave New Worlds, Wastelands, and The Living Dead. New projects coming out in 2014 and 2015 include: Help Fund My Robot Army!!! & Other Improbable Crowdfunding Projects, Robot Uprisings, Dead Man’s Hand, Operation Arcana, Wastelands 2, and The Apocalypse Triptych: The End is Nigh, The End is Now, and The End Has Come. He has been nominated for eight Hugo Awards and five World Fantasy Awards, and he has been called “the reigning king of the anthology world” by Barnes & Noble. John is also the editor and publisher of Lightspeed Magazine, and is a producer for Wired.com’s The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy podcast. Find him on Twitter @johnjosephadams. FICTION THE BLACK WINDOW Lane Robins The house looked like a sand castle after the tide had come in. Except sand suggested a crumbling grayness, and the tall, narrow house was a fresh white. A front porch was large enough for a swinging bench if I could bear that level of domesticity. Blue shutters marched from the ground floor to the third, and above that— “. a finished attic,” the Realtor told me. The house was . nice. Nothing I’d ever wanted. I loved my job, loved that my years were split between sublet apartments and archaeological digs around the world. But things had changed. New job, new town, new responsibilities. “There are four bedrooms, two bathrooms,” he said, and ushered me in. The house was simply laid out—a hallway, a room on either side, stairs at the end of the hall. The kitchen was to my left, and it might have been updated since the thirties, but nothing else seemed to have been. The floor was scarred hardwood, and the doors had actual keyholes. The dining room was dark. Windowless. “That’s unusual,” I said, roused to comment. The Realtor sighed. “The house was bigger once. There was even an attached stable. But time takes things away.” That was the first utterly true thing he’d said. Six weeks ago, I’d been a daughter. Now, I was a parent to my fourteen- year-old siblings, Maddy and Aiden. Now, I was an orphan. Six weeks ago, I’d been a footloose archaeologist. Now, I was trying not to let my grief sink me, starting a job as a community college teacher in Missouri, and taking on a mortgage. The twins needed stability. I wished I could have kept them in their Chicago home, but our parents had double- mortgaged and I couldn’t afford the payments. “There’s even a garden,” the Realtor said. “You like to dig, right?” You like to dig. That was one terrible way to sum up my now-dead career as a field archaeologist. It wasn’t worth correcting him. Controlling my grief had ground me down to the essentials. I had to be strong for the kids. I had to make it work. The second floor echoed the first: a regular bedroom on one side, a windowless bedroom on the other, stairs and bath at the end of the hall. “Isn’t there a law about windows in bedrooms?” “Grandfathered in,” the Realtor told me. It was good enough. A week later, we moved in. • • • • “Holly,” Maddy yelled from the floor above, “I’m claiming this room!” It was the first thing she’d said to me since I’d told them about the new house. A miscalculation on my part. I’d accepted the necessity of moving; I’d expected them to have done the same. But Maddy had shrieked, thrown her purse at me, and stormed into her room, where she posted her displeasure on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, tagging me so I’d know I was ruining her life. Even Aiden had complained, just once, but bitterly—you’re getting rid of Mom and Dad’s house? I’d been furious and hurt. Didn’t they understand what I’d given up? Didn’t they think I missed our parents, too? Didn’t they know I was doing my best? So now, with Maddy laying noisy claim to a room, I took it as a good sign. Maybe she’d forgiven me. Aiden stood beside me, contemplating his sneakers. When I nudged him, asked, “Don’t you want to pick a room?” he looked at me blankly. His new normal. He used to be an expressive kid. There were pictures boxed somewhere in storage to prove it. Another shout from above. “Holly, I can’t get a signal! I need the internet!” “I’m working on it,” I shouted back. The local cable company had made soothing noises about super-fast cable, made less soothing noises about how soon it could be connected. “Can you wait a week?” A wordless shriek was my answer. Aiden didn’t weigh in one way or another. Then again, his laptop had broken and he wouldn’t let me get him another. Not even a tablet. Aiden had been in the car when the truck plowed through the intersection. Dad had died behind the wheel, and Mom . Aiden had been playing with his laptop when the truck hit. His laptop had torn through the car like a missile, breaking Mom’s neck. “C’mon,” I said. “Let’s go pick a room.” He pulled away when I touched his shoulder. Maddy had picked the second-floor bedroom with the wide window, alongside the larger of the two bathrooms. It was a nice day and sunlight radiated brightly enough to penetrate through the hall and into the dark bedroom. I put my head in. Not as grim as I remembered. Still, I wanted Aiden to have real light if possible. I urged him upstairs. Maddy said, “Why can’t he be down here with me?” “Don’t you want your own bathroom?” “I’ll have to share with you,” Maddy said. Her grimace made it clear what she thought of that. I shook my head. I wanted to be on the same floor as Aiden. He needed looking after. “You can have it all to your lonesome.” That didn’t make her happy either. She scowled and trudged up the stairs after Aiden. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong now, and gave up trying to figure it out. Aiden ignored both third floor rooms, and peered up the narrow stairs. “There’s an attic? I always wanted to live in an attic,” he murmured, as if he’d nearly forgotten that desire. As if he’d nearly forgotten how to want things. We went on up. The attic was spacious, shadowy beneath the slanted eaves, but dry and clean. The floorboards had been painted white, and unlike the lower floors, the west side of the attic had a window.