Philip Fracassi is the Bram Stoker-nominated author of the story collections Behold the Void (named “Collection of the Year” from This Is Horror) and Beneath a Pale Sky (named“Collection of the Year”by Rue Morgue Magazine).His novels include A Child Alone with Strangers, Gothic, and Boys in the Valley.
Philip’s work has been translated into multiple languages, and his stories have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Best Horror of the Year, Nightmare Magazine, and Black Static.
The New York Times calls his work “terrifically scary.”
A Child Alone With Strangers comes out September 27, 2022 from Talos Press. It is currently available for preorder from all retailers including Amazon, BN.com, Bookshop.org, etc. Signed copies are available for preorder through VJ Books.
For more information, go to Philip's website: https://pfracassi.com/a-child-alone-with-strangers
Philip is offering signed bookplates for all pre-orders and can be reached through his website: https://pfracassi.com/contact
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Wilson Tafferty was done with kids. Done with their condescending, disrespectful remarks, their long, snarky glares as they watched him work. Picking up their filth.
But mostly, done with their gum.
If he had to scrape one more petrified pink ball of Bubble Yum off a desk bottom he was gonna make one of them little squirts swallow it.
They were nothing but a bunch of pack animals, shitting everywhere and on everything. Vandals, all of ‘em. He knew it was Bill Hartnett, that little bastard, who broke the window outside Room 230. He knew it was him. He wanted to say something to the little punk, grab him by the collar of his windbreaker and shake the truth out of him. But no, he had done what he was supposed to do and told the main office. Of course, the main office only asked the kid, “Did you break that window?”
What’s a boy gonna say?
“Yeah, sure, that was me. What, did I forget to run over here and tell you all that? I’m sorry, but yes man, yessir, that was me all right. Funniest thing, I threw a baseball at the sucker and I’ll be goll-damned dipped in honey if that frackin’ thing didn’t crack like Charlotte’s motherfuckin’ web.”
Nah, he just looked at the vice principal, Ms. Terry, a pretty little thing that all the older boys got crushes on (and some of the teachers, to boot), and gave her big eyes and said, “Nooo mam, not me. I have no idea how it happened.”
When the boy had left the office, Wilson had been right there waiting. Waiting to see the smug little bastard’s face crunched up into tears, all red and humbled like the little shit-stain he was. But he hadn’t been crying. He wasn’t even worried. When he’d gone by Wilson, the boy smiled at him. Not a cruel smile, not even a mean smile. Just a hey, what’s up ya old piece of shit kinda smile. Like he didn’t give a damn whether he was the floor janitor or a mutt waiting to be let outside. Wilson figured he was lucky Billy-boy didn’t smack him on the rump as he went by, all friendly like.
Yeah, yeah, he was sure sick of those kids. But soon it’d be summer, and Wilson would be cut back to part-time, and he’d go see his sister in Sacramento. Take the bus up most likely, make a vacation out of it. Stop in that garlic town, or do some wine tasting up there in Napa. Hell, maybe it was time he listened to Barbara and move out there and live with her, Robert and the kids. Sis was still young and healthy, a working girl, and Robert had more money than those kids could spend in a year of playing in the arcade or buying all them new clothes they were so proud of. They could take care of him, sure. Even had a room there for him, all done up like a mini-apartment.
He could retire.
Hell, yeah, he liked the sound of that more and more. Yessir, re-tire. Sounded real nice.
But then he’d remember who he was, and how he was. About how when he’d visit, he’d stay a week or so… and he’d get itchy. Cagey, like. Ready to move on, get to work, take care of things. He supposed that meant he wasn’t ready to retire. Retire meant you could do nothing and not give a damn that you weren’t doing nothing. But for Wilson, that kind of thing got old real quick. Plus, the school needed him. He’d been there twenty-three years. More than anyone but that wonderful old lesbian Ms. Auerbach, the English teacher. She’d been at Liberty since the 1950’s and showed no sign of slowing down, no sir. He’d miss their coffee times if he retired. Miss seeing the other teachers, too, some of whom were friends. He’d miss Principal Hodge and Ms. Terry, both of who were real kind, and easy on the eyes, yessir. Ms. Terry, that was.
But he sure as hell wouldn’t be missing those kids. Hell no. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be missing their gum, their nasty looks and their even nastier graffiti. Not that. Not a scratch.
Wilson looked up, surprised to see he was almost back home. He’d walked to and from the school, a good mile, twice a day, every weekday, for every one of those twenty-three years. He knew the walk so well now he was surprised he didn’t look down and see a curved groove in the sidewalk from the path he’d tread. He knew the walk so well he swore to heaven he could have done it blindfolded, without slowing a step or bumpin’ a knee.
Well, it would be good to get home. It was Friday, and that meant he could sleep-in a bit tomorrow, at least until Fix woke him up wanting her breakfast. Damn cat knew how to open cupboards and windows, how to lift the toilet seat and do her business in a box the size of an Oxford dictionary, but the dummy couldn’t feed herself if her life depended on it. For that reason, and that reason alone he was sure, old Fix kept Wilson around. Put up with him, as it were.
Wilson laughed to himself. By God he was turning into a bitter old pill. And him still a few good years shy of seventy. Too young to be so damned cranky, he thought. Well, he’d take care of that old cat when he got home, and then he’d make himself a little something, nip a little more of the Amaretto he’d been given as a Christmas present from Principal Hodge and savored and saved like it was heaven’s own elixir, which in many ways he figured it was. It surely was.
He pulled the heavy ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the door to the lobby of the small 12-unit building, almost as beaten-down and old as he was, and headed for the stairwell; still too proud, after all these years, to use the elevators for what a single flight of stairs would accomplish just as well. He thought of the warm liqueur waiting for him, and it brought a smile to his face. The faces of Bill Hartnett and all those other grimy little bastards faded away with each stair he climbed to his second story apartment, toward home.
As he rounded the stairwell and came up onto his floor, he paused. Now that’s funny, he thought. Why all them damned lights out?
It was nearing seven o’clock, and the sun was settling into the Pacific, but the hallway window in Wilson’s building faced east. So there was hardly any light coming through there now, and the fluorescents lining the hall were all – oddly – off. Wilson knew there was no switch for the lights, he also knew for a fact they was all on a timer. And the timer, all year-round, was set for 5 p.m. sharp. On at 5 p.m., off at 9 a.m. in the morning. Been that way every day since he moved in. But now… now they were all, most certainly, for no good reason he could fathom, off.
He craned his neck up toward the third floor, could see the hall lights spilling onto the stairwell above. He looked down to the first floor, not trusting his own memory at the young age of 67, and saw that, yes, like he’d thought, those lights were going strong, too. So not a power outage. No, no… it was just his floor that was off. His floor, along with the three other folks and families that lived on this level, that had been left in the dark.
“Humph,” he grunted, debating whether to go back downstairs and call the super. But it was getting late, and he’d had a long day, and he could all but taste that sweet, warm Amaretto on his dry tongue. Hell, if he could walk from Liberty Elementary School to his home blindfolded, through busy streets and around all them other obstacles, then he could surely make it the fifty paces to the end of the hallway and the door of Unit 8. Yes, yes, he liked the sound of that. The lights could wait. He’d tell that janitor part of his brain to shut the hell up, because the non-janitor part of him wanted to turn on the television, kick up his feet, pet his kitty, and have himself a little nip of the sweet stuff. Yessir, time to get home.
Wilson waved a hand casually, letting the universe know that it could go on and fornicate with itself a good long while, and made his way down the shadowy hall to Unit 8.
A few feet from the door, he pulled out his massive ring of keys once more, extended the thick bunch of metal from the retractable-string of the clip on his belt, and began feeling for the right key with the pads of his weathered fingers.
But God it’s dark down here, he thought, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck come to half-mast. He scolded himself for getting the willies, but he’d never been fond of the dark, truth be told, and he didn’t much like walking through…
Something creaked behind him.
He turned, his mouth hung open, his eyes wide. The hairs on his neck were at full attention and saluting now, and the gooseflesh crawling up along his arms were marching right along to whatever bugle his frayed nerves was blowing.
“Probably that damn cat,” he mumbled, referring to the Willoughby’s fat orange tabby, the one he and Fix didn’t care for; no sir, not a bit. “Run on now,” he said, trying to sound strong. To sound in control.
His voice sounded like a dead thing in the empty hall.
At the far end, past the stairs, he could see the window and the day outside turning the color of a plum, and now even the stairs themselves were nothing but a fuzzy shadow at the end of a long dark tunnel. “This is bullshit, is what this is…” he said, and turned for his door. Moving quickly now, he pulled the keys away from his belt once more, his fingers moist, and the heavy ring of metal got loose, slipped and zipped back to slap his bony hip.
“God DAMN,” he said, more loudly than he’d intended, hearing the first jingles of fear in his ears, the first fingertips of dread walking up his spine, sharp nails at the end of strong fingers crawling like a spider onto the back of his neck.
Fumbling, he jerked the keys out again.
There! There was that noise again.
But this time Wilson didn’t turn, he could feel the right key in his fingers, like a magician pulling the right card from a thick deck. He gripped the key and thrust it cleanly into the deadbolt, twisted it, then pulled it out and stuck it into the handle down below. With a turn of the handle and a shove the door swung open and Wilson all but leapt inside, slamming the door shut behind him and springing the bolt before…
Something grabbed his leg.
He kicked out, screaming. “Aaahh!” he yelled, twisting so violently he felt something tweak out of place in his back. He pushed his shoulder against the door and flipped on the light, praying oh god in heaven please let the lights come on.
And they did.
“I’ll be double-dipped damned, Fix!” he said as he stared down at what had reached out for his leg in the dark, his heart hammering in his thin chest. “Damn it, cat, you nearly killed me.”
Fix, overly eager to see the man who brought him food, sat innocently on the linoleum of the kitchen floor, a few feet of safety between him and the human’s boot, which had so rudely shoved him away. Fix licked attentively at one forepaw, eyes veiled, not giving two-shits for the scare he’d put into good ol’ Wilson.
Wilson felt blood pounding in his temples, and realized he wasn’t breathing. He let out the held breath, and it came with a gush sound. His chest relaxed, his heart slowed, and he felt his body lose the tension.
He unclipped the key ring from his belt and dumped the thick wad of metal unceremoniously onto the kitchen counter. He bent down, stroked Fix’s head. The Siamese, as if just now deigning to acknowledge the old man, looked up at him with her lovely blue eyes, meowed a few times, then upped and did some figure-8’s through his legs. The universal sign that it was feeding time, and if the old man did what needed to get done, there’d be no problems.
“Okay, okay, my friend,” Wilson said, and moved into the kitchen to retrieve a can of tuna-turkey pâté for his kitty. “You first, then me. I see how it is,” he said, and smiled as he pulled open the cupboard.
When he turned back around, the smile fell from his face like an anvil slipping off the ledge of a high cliff.
A man stood in his kitchen.
(C) Philip Fracassi 2022