I first met Patrick when he signed up for my Short Story Mechanics class. I’ve been an author for fourteen years now but have only been teaching for about ten. Quite often when I teach this class I see a range of talent and effort—some come into it, see the assignment, get the feedback, and disappear. These students form about 25 percent of the class. Others complete the individual lessons, but never turn in the final story—another 25 percent. And then the rest (50 percent) turn in the final story. It’s these students I keep an eye on, to see if they might have what it takes. I contemplate their voice, their choices, the depth of story, and whether or not they applied what was taught and improved over the class. I’m looking to see if they have any talent, any vision, any originality. Patrick was one of those authors. Not only did he turn in his story, and do well, but he went on to take my other classes—Contemporary Dark Fiction and my Advanced Creative Writing Workshop. (And he’s signed up for my novel-in-a-year class as well, for 2023). What does this all tell me about Patrick? Quite a few things. Let me elaborate, and maybe it’ll help to see why he may be an author you want to keep an eye on as well, an emerging voice, a talent.
One of the things I’ve always admired about Patrick, going back some four years now, is his work ethic. He put his butt in the chair, did the heavy lifting, and didn’t complain. Those are the best students, and, I’ve found, usually the best authors—because they understand it’s not easy to write short stories. Patrick turned his work in on time, embraced each assignment, and really worked hard to make the most of every opportunity. He did the extra work, perused the secondary articles and stories, and bought books by those voices that inspired him. It’s that energy and discipline that often leads to success.
Another aspect of Patrick’s study has been his openness to criticism, lessons, and suggestions. Over the years, as Patrick has grown and improved as an author, I’ve seen him apply what’s been offered. I teach Freytag’s Triangle (or Pyramid) as the structure for fiction, and it’s been exciting watching Patrick put it all together—the title, narrative hook, inciting incident, internal and external conflicts, rising tension, climax, resolution, change, and denouement. Along the way I’ve seen the lightbulb moments, the aha revelations as he figured out how to complete a story with all of the essential elements. I’ve seen him hone his craft, putting in his 10,000 hours in order to improve and evolve. I’ve spoken with Stephen Graham Jones about this in the past, and we both had that moment somewhere around the fiftieth story we wrote, where we said to ourselves “Oh, now I think I know how to write a short story.” It takes practice, it takes imagination, and it takes vision. Not only have I seen Patrick put it all together over my classes, but I’ve seen him continue to grow and evolve on his own as well. This collection is a perfect example of that hard work.
I think the third part of Patrick’s study and craft that I really admire is his imagination and willingness to take chances on the page. I’ll get into more specifics in a minute when I discuss the collection, but I’ve always admired the way Patrick has tapped into the expectation and requirements of various genres while still pushing to be original and unique. It’s not easy to find that intersection between classic and innovative, between accessible and surprising. Over the years, I’ve edited a magazine (Gamut) and a small press (Dark House Press), and one thing I see all the time is fiction that is cliché, expected, and unoriginal. New authors, or writers who aren’t quite as talented, start out writing (in my experience) by imitating others, by tapping into classic myths, monsters, and plots. And there is nothing wrong with that. I mean, we all have to start somewhere. But if you want to break into a top market like Nightmare or The Dark or Cemetery Dance or Clarkesworld, you have to build from that original inspiration and then do something original with it—you have to do more, you have to go farther. And that’s something I’ve always enjoyed in Patrick’s work—he pulls me into his stories with character, tension, setting, and conflict, but then surprises me with his unique visions, his variations on themes, his originality and depth. That’s not an easy thing to do.
As I continue to read Patrick’s work, I’m excited for the future. I know that he’s just getting started, which is already very impressive. I know that I became a different author before and after watching Black Mirror and various A24 films, such as Hereditary, The Witch, Enemy, and Under the Skin. I know I changed as a writer after reading China Miéville, Haruki Murakami, Cormac McCarthy, Jeff VanderMeer, Jack Ketchum, Chuck Palahniuk, Priya Sharma, Usman Malik, Brian Hodge, Alyssa Wong, Benjamin Percy, Kelly Robson, A. C. Wise, Brian Evenson, Craig Clevenger, and the aforementioned Stephen Graham Jones—just to name a few. So as far as Patrick’s work and voice? He’s just getting started.
Let’s talk about this collection,
shall we?
The first part of this collection I’d like to talk about is what I call the “classic” horror stories. These are tales that lean in and nod toward the past, tapping into elements of the genre that are to be expected—the places and monsters that we’ve come to associate with horror. What I like about these stories is that they are familiar, and by “familiar” I mean accessible. They pull you in with a comforting presence, tapping into aspects of slashers and old school horror stories, this embrace you recognize from past encounters. Now, that doesn’t mean they stop there, only that these are the access points, right? When I talk to my students about genres—whether it’s horror, fantasy, science fiction, thrillers, magical realism, transgressive fiction, neo-noir, new-weird, or literary stories—I ask them to make sure they are fulfilling the expectation of the genre. What does horror ask of us? What does it promise to deliver? What do I mean by that? If you went to McDonald’s and ordered a Big Mac, you’d expect to get a Big Mac whether you were in Chicago, New York, or Paris, correct? Now, if you ordered that Big Mac and got a venison burger with brie on top, you might not be very happy. But at least it’s a cheeseburger, right? It’s a variation on a theme. And it might be good. Now, if you ordered that burger and got sushi, I expect you would be upset, even if the sushi was good. But what if you ordered that cheeseburger and got a screwdriver? Now that would be disappointing. Frustrating. Infuriating. That’s what I’m talking about here. Its’s easy to see the classic horror that inspired stories like “There Is No Bunk #7”—I mean, summer camp, yeah? That’s Friday the 13th territory, and so many other books and films. But as this story leans more into The Cabin in the Woods and otherworldly possibilities, we go beyond the usual slasher fare and into uncharted territory. Set in a similar world, we have “The Giallo Kid in the Cataclysm’s Campgrounds.” Without spoiling much here, as it’s in the opening lines, I like the update of the Homer Simpson mask, which immediately puts us in an uncomfortable place, between classic animation and the masked horrors of films like The Strangers, The Purge, and Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Who doesn’t want to root for the last final girl, and other classic elements of horror? Twists and turns keep us on our toes. When it comes to zombies and the undead, as well as ghosts, I love the originality in what could have been a derivative tale in “Rose from the Ashes,” where the visual of snorting the dead’s ashes leads to some surprising encounters. The bargaining, the danger, the unexpected—a fun ride for sure. We tap into another ghost story in the title tale from this collection “Pre-Approved for Haunting.” So much has been done with ghost stories, but the idea that the haunting hasn’t been cemented yet, that the horror is still coming, that the main characters can see the future, but may be unable to stop it? I hate it when that happens. That’s classic horror, and it gets under my skin every time. The mariachi band, the recurring presence and themes, the way it rolls forward, the desire to avoid it—such a compelling story. One of my favorites in the collection. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk about the variation on a theme that is “Iggy Crane and the Headless Horse Girl.” The setting here is a nice twist on a standard summer camp—the riding lessons, the four girls that partner together as one, Iggy being pulled into the story, her lust and desire for the headmistress, and the inevitable truth behind the video the kids have shared with her. Another story that really stayed with
me, starting with the classic imagery of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and then taking it in an updated, contemporary direction. These are all stories that begin someplace we recognize, but then do something fresh and different, luring us in with promises of familiar horrors, before pushing us into the shadows where something else entirely lurks, waiting to surprise and unsettle us.
Another group of stories that really appealed to me were tales that start out someplace grounded in realism, but end up somewhere supernatural. When I think of the films and books and stories that have really stayed with me over the years, especially in horror, I think of those that set up the narrative in a realistic way, overflowing with authority and authenticity, building a world defined by science, society, rules, and laws. It could be the opening scenes of The Shining, where we see the car driving up the mountain, the family dynamic unfurling, a history of abuse, the father going to a job interview, all of it feeling grounded in the normal—a man and his wife struggling to get by, a kid who has suffered at his father’s quick tongue and uncorked violence. But there is so much coming, way beyond the solitude and isolation of a snowed-in hotel in the off-season. I think of the opening to The Exorcist—not Regan peeing on the floor in the middle of the dinner party. No, go back farther in your memory. I’m talking about the archaeological dig in Iraq, the calls to worship at the end of the day, dogs fighting in a feral frenzy as a statue of the demon Pazuzu is unearthed. We see the struggle, the violence, the heat, and it resonates, it ripples with a pulsing horror that fades as we transition to a house in Georgetown. But it is not forgotten. I’m thinking about the opening to Stephen King’s The Stand, as a family flees a lab experiment gone wrong, crashing into a gas station, the virus spreading outward. When we start with something as simple as the story “Lost Boy Found in His Bear Suit,” we laugh at the kid, who is unwilling to take off the costume, just glad he is alive. But as we look at the details—the child sticky with honey and salmon smeared on his lips—we start to wonder what exactly they are bringing home, and if it’s still a boy. And while we might think of The Picture of Dorian Gray when reading “A Portrait of the Artist as an Angry God (in Landscape),” this story is something else entirely. Quite possibly my favorite story in the collection, the bloodline from father to son, the paintings and all they have to offer, the slow descent into madness and uncertainty—it all pulses and ripples outward in a gradually building, slowly unraveling, eventually disturbing story that pulls no punches. It reminds me of the art by Simon Stålenhag that went on to inspire the television show Tales from the Loop. The depth and layers in “The Crack in the Ceiling” start out with the unsettling opening line of, “At the end of every week, our town hangs burning bodies from the Ceiling so we’ll remember what stars looked like.” You’re already grounded in one reality rife with tension and horror, but it’s not until we get to the final words of the last line that the truth is revealed with a disturbing note reminiscent of the end of The Mist or The Village—so disturbing, expanding outward in a growing horror. There is a similar vibe in the story “Putting Down Roots,” which gives Arbor Day a whole new meaning. It’s always interesting to revisit our roots in fiction, to have the horror story go home, for a reunion, or gathering, or special event. But if we look at tales like Midsommar or Get Out, we can see how these quite often go horribly wrong.
The final set of stories I wanted to talk about have to do with cosmic horror and the new-weird. In the last couple of years, I’ve written quite a few stories that fit into this category, tapping into the uncanny, the unsettling, the weird, and Lovecraftian. Everything from old gods to expanding chaos to doppelgangers and the unknowable. It’s one of my greatest fears, when it comes to horror—insanity, things on the periphery of my vision, the idea that this is all an illusion, the visions and creatures and people that aren’t quite right, as I stop to wonder if there might be something else entirely going on here. “Have You Seen My Missing Pet?” is a good example of how the weird gets rolling, starting with a rainy night, an old man, and a missing pet. We of course keep thinking dog, but he continues to correct us: “I never said he was a dog.” We go from leash to dog to something more, and then when it appears, when the baby is in danger, when it all goes to hell, then what? It’s like a nursery rhyme in a class horror movie—it takes on a whole new life, these lyrics and melodies, or when you utter a phrase like “… the makings of a very good boy.” Truly unsettling, as it telescopes out into the future, the horror continuing. There is the metafictional story, “I Will Not Read Your Haunted Script,” which invites us in with the humor and intimacy I mentioned before, joking about this history of repeated events as it starts to go south, escalating into something much more. I always think of sly, grinning, intimate horror (such as the work of Stephen Graham Jones) as pulling us in closely so that, instead of the monster stabbing us in the back or some killer shooting us from a great distance, the darkness leans in close as it slides the blade between our ribs, up close and personal, laughing the whole time. It’s coming from within the house! Soylent Green is people! Turns out it was the father, the neighbor, the coach all along. Done right (and I think Patrick has achieved that here), the inclusion of the script in the story, the formatting looking great, the haunted words on the page pulling us in closer, then out of the script, then back into it again, until we are trapped, too close, under its spell? Brilliant. I tried to do a similar thing in my story, “In His House,” getting you to recite a phrase three times (like saying Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!) so that the spell was invoked, the promises made, the deal signed and closed, forever. This has that feel, that constriction, that claustrophobia. Another favorite in this collection, for sure. The only thing worse than paranoia is when the fears come true, right? In “The Other Half of the Battle,” we aren’t sure which side are the “good guys,” as we go back and forth between bullies and soldiers, to heroes and allies, balancing the realism of kids playing by a freezer with the war unfurling just out of sight finally come home to roost. It’s easy to make fun of conspiracy theories in the dark, deep corners of the woods, until the tank comes rolling over the hill, pushing down trees, the reality emerging from the mist in all its horror and glory. Then what? You pick a side? One of the visuals I hate the most in horror is cutting, punctures, and self-abuse of any kind—everything from the carrot scene in Color Out of Space to the nail on the steps in A Quiet Place to the pica in Swallow. So, of course, “Shattered” is a story that really pushed my buttons. What starts as mere body horror with the broken glass in the opening scene, turns into something much more—an uprising that comes out of breaking a glass ceiling, using the shards to transform, reminiscent of the film Men. It doesn’t matter if Norman says no. He does as he is told. A lesser author would have stopped with the visceral, unsettling imagery. But as I’ve said before, one of Patrick’s strengths is pushing beyond that, into new territory, the initial unsettling feeling not nearly enough, wanting more for his readers—a chill, a haunting, a memory that causes the skin to flush, an image that can’t be shaken, as we keep one eye on the shadows forming in the upper corner of our bedroom, the other on the closed door, with the knob that just started to move.
I hope my comments here have given you some indication of the breadth, depth, originality, and emotion that goes into Patrick Barb’s work. Think of this like reading an early copy of Carrie, the one Stephen King’s wife pulled out of the trash. She smoothed out the wrinkled pages, dusted it off, and sat down to read it. Turns out it was pretty good. There are stories in here that will stay with me for a long time. And yet … I feel like Patrick’s best work may still be ahead of him. So sign up, get on board, strap in, and buckle up. There are horrors in these pages that pay homage to past classics, while pushing into new space. There are uncanny tales that keep shifting and morphing the longer you look at them, refusing to sit still. There are moments that feel like they could be happening to you, today, or next door, ...
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