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Knowledge is power.
A universal truth, so cliché we repeat it ad nauseam, drilled into our cultural lexicon and memory. A talisman against ill fortune—if we can only manage to wrest control of information away from those who hoard it, settled high on their treasure of currency in the form of understanding. Then we’ll be safe. We’ll prevent the tragic outcomes we read about in fairy tales, urban legends, and our phone screens as horrific events unfold around the world. It seems in keeping with the current trend that we would, as a society, lose sight of some of our simplest truths. That we are all equal. That we are all one. That each person has a right to bodily autonomy and safety. Freedom from genocide. Is anyone surprised that at a time when information is more accessible than ever before, those hoarders of wealth are in favor of book bans?
We’re told all the time that nobody reads anymore. Depressing statistics showing declining interest in books. Strange though, because if no one is reading, then why do we need to ban books at all? Won’t they just die off, dry up and eliminate the risk? True, books are not the only source of powerful information. We are barraged daily with sources of digital media—click-bait articles about “ungrateful immigrants” (don’t call them refugees; that might imply they’re humans in need of help) designed to separate us further. Both-sidesing articles splashed across the pages of what used to be respected journals. Social media rants and blogs and videos elbowing each other for our attention, our clicks, our thirsty minds. Yet the narrative is so often controlled by faceless machinators with an agenda we can only guess at. The Library of Alexandria, it’s not. Instead of providing light in the darkness, it’s an uncontrolled and dangerous blaze. Yet that knowledge is there, readily accessible to the human race, so why would anyone concentrate on books as the source of the problem?
I think I know why. Because books give us a broadened opportunity to understand. It’s not simply the enlarged format that allows a more comprehensive transfer of knowledge, although that helps. It’s the ability to reach one another on a grander and more immersive scale. I like to say we know each other best through our stories—when we choose to gift one another without words and our time, it’s the most precious kind of knowledge exchange. It’s true for any genre you can name—romance, sci-fi, crime. Literary, spiritual, and certainly poetry. But I’m a horror hound, and this is a horror anthology. Call me biased if you will, but I’ve long believed horror gives us the greatest opportunity to open our hearts to one another. Every story we read has an effect on us, whether we enjoy it or not. We are a tapestry of the tales that have touched our hearts.
Folks outside the genre often express surprise that horror fans are so friendly, warm, and supportive. (There are exceptions to this, as in any sweeping generalization, but I choose to believe there is hope for everyone to find a path back.) It has a lot to do with the humanization of horror. Opening the door to someone else’s darkened closet, their eerie cellar,
or the attic where something won’t stop scratching—that little peek tells us so much about one another. Someone we’ve always seen as outgoing and friendly may reveal a deep-seated fear of loneliness. The most loving and gentle parent you know might live in terror of restarting a cycle of abuse or be suffering in silence with postpartum depression. Someone who’s always seemed aloof may be struggling daily with the wounds of a toxic upbringing. Seeing those fears, understanding them, and acknowledging the impact they have on what makes that person who they are and act the way they do, brings them out of the abstract.
That only scratches the surface—when you make an effort to read diversely, you unlock the breathtaking gift of expanding your understanding. Folklore from other cultures reveals all-new legends and cryptids to take flight through your mind. Reading a trans woman’s story about the insidious fear of choosing a public bathroom splashes you with metaphorical cold water, opening your eyes to the knowledge that what you take in stride might be someone else’s greatest challenge. Communication via books is one long love letter to the human species, so naturally those invested in making us afraid of one another must insert themselves into the equation. Arbitrarily deciding what knowledge is safe and acceptable for the masses, attempting to sway public opinion about all the corrupt, dirty nastiness in books that bare our hearts and souls. They don’t want us to know each other better. To understand intrinsically, when we look across the ocean at a person unlike ourselves, that they carry the same stardust inside as we do. Better to make us feel shame before we open pages and see ourselves on them, and know that we are not alone, that there are people just like us with all our quirks and kinks and oddities. Because it’s always an attempt at purity culture, isn’t it? Perfection as defined by a very narrow segment of the population, designed to make anyone who doesn’t fit that mold feel further isolated. Anything that doesn’t fall into ever-changing parameters is burned before our eyes, and the threat is clear. Just look at any one of a hundred urban legends showing the danger of curiosity, making a Bluebeard’s chamber out of the entire world. Tsk, tsk, shouldn’t have gone looking. That’s what you get. Never mind the clear risk associated with what’s been redacted and the way hidden knowledge
veritably screams at us to discover it.
Which paves the way for an anthology of the horrible ways information currency can go wrong. The way we hide truths about ourselves to mitigate the perceived damage others could do to the tender parts of us. The way we hide it from others, those we might recognize as kindred spirits if only we were brave enough to let someone see our flaws. Entire communities hidden away in a desperate attempt to keep the inhabitants free of the taint of the outside world. Misconceptions about who holds the power—sometimes it is the very knowing that undoes us, casts a fate of suffering. Love and hatred both hidden, and perhaps most disturbing of all, the blatant choice to reject information and understanding. The dead-eyed stare of someone who should know better, firing shot after vicious shot into our soft middle, refusing to believe in our pain no matter how loudly we scream. And the last great mystery—the hidden view behind the veil. What awaits us when our spirits are stripped bare, nowhere left to hide.
The anthology you hold in your hands is that love letter to the human race. An offering from each of the talented authors who bled on the page for the stories you’re about to read. A dream of what could be, a nightmare of what is. A light in the darkness of a ban on books, hands joined to protect one another and our precious gifts of knowledge. Join them—join us. Hold tight and know the hands that hold yours, be they never so rotted or clawed or slippery with gore, belong to hearts formed of the same swirling nebulae of stardust. No matter how dire things look, be that flame in the dark.
After all, if books didn’t give us superpowers, then why the hell are they so afraid?
Holy shit, we’re driving down to North Carolina to get Nathan Ballingrud’s horror recs. Once the thought locked in our collective heads, there really wasn’t any getting rid of it. Wasn’t like Asheville was all that far away, anyhow. We’re talking seven—maybe eight hours, tops. Straight shot down I-240. Who wouldn’t make a pilgrimage to meet The Man? The Legend?
Nathan Fucking Ballingrud.
The idea came about on our couch, about four tokes after my friend Benji mentioned Ballingrud worked in a bookstore.
“Yeah, right,” I said. “That’s some cockamamie, fanboy bullshit if I’ve ever heard some.”
“Hand to God, man. . . I read it somewhere. Reddit, I think.” He repeated himself, just under his breath, a record skipping: “Readitonredditreaditonredditreaditonreddit. . .”
“Dude’s a horror icon,” I said. “What the fuck does Ballingrud need a day job for?”
“Keeps him real,” Benji said.
“He’s got a book coming out from a top five publisher—”
“Allegedly.”
“That’s some six-figure shit right there. The hell’s he doing working at a bookshop?”
“Maybe he just likes books.” Then Benji did this thing with his fingers, wriggling them in my face like they’re a bunch of haunted hot dogs or something. “Scaaaary boooooks.”
“Knock it off.”
“You think he just sits behind the counter all day,” Benji wonders out loud, “then when some customer comes up and asks for a recommendation, he like, recs his own stuff? I would.”
Here, I imagine Ballingrud saying, Try this book. I think you might like it. . .
“Dude doesn’t need to recommend his own books.” I felt like I needed to defend Ballingrud’s honor. Not that he needs it. He’s got his rep locked down tight. The man doesn’t do conventions. Doesn’t make public appearances. Doesn’t show up for the Stokers or accept whatever award he nabs. The dude doesn’t even do interviews. Not anymore. No social media presence whatsofuckingever. He’s got one author shot—the same damn photo for over twenty years now. “People probably just come to him. Bet they bring copies of his books all the time.”
“He’s classier than that. Bet you he’s got, like, a no autograph policy when he’s working.”
“Damn straight.”
Benji discovers something tucked between the couch cushions. A shard of a potato chip. Still crisp from the crunch of it. “Wouldn’t it just blow your fucking
mind to walk into that bookshop and spot Nathan Fucking Ballingrud behind the register? Like he’s just waiting for you?”
Waiting for me. You made it, he’d say, I thought you’d never come.
“I’d lose my shit,” Benji said, “Dude’s a legend.”
“An honest-to-God legend,” I agreed, “Bet he recs so much scary stuff. Like, books you’ve never even heard of before. . . Books that would just shatter your mind into a million pieces.”
“No doubt. Nathan Fucking Ballingrud.”
“Nathan. Fucking. Ballingrud.”
“Legend,” Benji said.
“God, what I wouldn’t give. . .” And there it was, all teed up, the idea formulating from the fog in my mind just as the words abandoned my mouth. “How about we go find him?”
Who the hell is Nathan Ballingrud, you ask?
Dude’s a fucking legend. Anybody who’s dipped their toe into contemporary horror lit knows about North American Lake Monsters. That short story collection is a fucking classic. Canon, man. They’ll be teaching that shit in college lit for centuries. Why Hulu had to change the title of the TV show was a dumb fucking move. Now nobody knows it’s based off his book. They’re, like, actively denying their own core audience demographic. But they’ve been fucking us fans over from like the get-go, you know? When it comes to Ballingrud, you’ve learned a little about heartbreak. Ever read Wounds? His batshit insane novella? Trick question, asshole. If you were a real fucking fan you’d know that it wasn’t called Wounds until they made the movie. Its original title is The Visible Filth, published back in 2015. Don’t come at me like you’re some Nathan Ballingrud aficionado if you don’t know the difference between Wounds and This Visible Filth. Fucking amateur hour, man. You and Armie Hammer fucking deserve each other.
When word got around that Ballingrud was finally writing a novel, I nearly shat myself. Finally, at long goddamn last, fans were getting a full-blown masterpiece
from our main man The Notorious N.F.B.
Not that most folks would have a chance to read it.
The book got pulled five months before its release date. Before that shit even hit shelves, the publisher got all weak-kneed and yanked it. Nobody knows why. Not really. I’ve heard dozens of reasons—beta-readers losing their shit, bloggers vomiting, Bookstagrammers posting suicide selfies—but I’m calling BS on all of that. His move into the mainstream was always going to cause some ripples. Like Dylan going electric. Whatever the hell it was, you’d have better luck nabbing the Holy Grail than an advanced reader copy of Ballingrud’s new novel.
Like I said: legend. The man’s mythic.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’ve spent a few late nights traipsing through AbeBooks. eBay. Amazon. I even peeked at the pirate sites. Just to see if somebody out there’s selling a copy.
Nothing. Not a single goddamn PDF. That shit simply doesn’t exist.
“Is it Ballingrood or Ballingruud?” Benji asked somewhere around Kingsport, Tennessee.
“I hear you pronounce it Ballingruhd.”
“I think it’s grood.”
“The hell, man?” I grip the steering wheel, ready to pull this piece of shit around right then and there on Interstate 40. “It’s got to be gruhd. Who says grood? It’s uhd. Uuhd.”
The humidity has climbed to neck-sweat proportions by the time we cross into Carolina. The A/C doesn’t work so well, spitting out dribs and drabs of cool air, so I roll my window down. There’s a shrill hiss in my ear, eclipsing our conversation. We’ve got to holler at each other now.
“That’s how I heard it,” I shout over the wind shear. “With one of those l’il umlaut-thingies.”
“Dude’s not Motley Crüe. It’s grood. Ballingrood.”
“Grüd with an umlaut.”
“Fuck off with that umlaut-bullshit. . .”
“Five bucks says it’s Grüd.”
“You’re on.”
We’d been driving nonstop for about six hours by then. No pitstops, no piss breaks, fueling ourselves up on Mountain Dew and Andy Capp’s Hot Fries. We didn’t want to lose any momentum. At the rate we were going, we’d reach Asheville with a few hours to spare before closing time. Maybe Ballingrud would want to hang with us after he locks up. Maybe he’d shoot the shit for a bit, tell us what he’s working on next. There’s just no telling what he’d want to do.
And maybe, just maybe. . . he’d have an advance reading copy of his new novel, The Weird, from uncorrected proofs, just tucked under the cash register. Not intended for resale. Please check any quotes for review against the finished book. Final cover to be revealed.
Benji really needed to pee. “Bladder’s about to burst.”
I told him to go in his bottle. No way I’m pulling over. Not when we were this close. I could nearly feel the gravitational pull of Ballingrud, reeling us deeper into the Blue Ridge like the man was some cosmic black hole in the mountains, rupturing the whole horizon. My bleary eyes could nearly see the skyline distorting into blurred bands of pink, purple, and green. An oil spill in space, blotting out the cosmos, all because Ballingrud’s fans demanded his new book.
We’d already gone through his stories. Picking which one’s Ballingrud’s best. “The Monsters of Heaven.” Obviously. The dude won a Shirley Jackson award for that shit, so you know it’s top shelf. Benji said his favorite was “Skullpocket.” Fine. I’m not going to quibble.
“You think he gets people coming in all the time?” he wonders. “Asking for autographs?”
“Maybe, maybe not. . . Maybe we’re like, the chosen ones. Like, not everyone’s got what it takes to make this quest. Maybe only a few select fans even go on the journey. . . and maybe not everybody makes it. Reach the mountaintop or mecca or whatever the hell Asheville is.”
“We’re totally Frodoing this shit,” Benji shouts.
“Hell yeah, we are!"
“One ring to rule them aaaaall, bitches!”
All we wanted were his horror recs. What book is Nathan Ballingrud going to point to and say, Hey, yo, this is some scary shit. If he says it’s terrifying, then you know it’s true. Fucking Ballingrud seal of approval. Slap that sticker on the cover and see how fast it flies off the shelf.
Or, maybe, just maybe, he’s got something else. Something special.
Something just for me.
Why all this fuss over some author? Why Nathan Ballingrud?
Dude. If you even need to ask. . .
You get guys like John Langan. Or Laird Barron. Or, sure, even Paul Tremblay. Kick ass writers. Fucking A-list cosmic shit. But none—and I mean none—of those guys are putting themselves out there like my main man Nathan Ballingrud is. Do you see Tremblay working behind the counter of his local B&N? Nope. I mean, I heard he teaches high school math somewhere. But still. You think Barron is putting himself out there? On the consumerist front lines? Fuck no.
Only Ballingrud. You just got to find him. Make the effort. Come to me, he’s beckoning.
Who’s listening?
We are. Me and Benji over here, sitting shotgun. Damn straight we’re answering the call. This all had to be more than just some job for Ballingrud. Dude’s got Hulu money. He doesn’t need to work at a bookstore. There’s got to be a secret reason, some under-the-counter specialty, he’s hiding. He’s putting out this psychic evite to his fans, and we’re RSVPing: WILL ATTEND. Only those who are brave enough, willing to put in the pilgrimage, are going to get his horror recs. His real recs. Not a Goodreads list or some algorithmic suggestions from Amazon.
The real fucking deal. The truly scary shit.
Or maybe, just maybe,
, a little something-something. For my eyes only. Not even Benji. I’d really love to hear your thoughts, I imagine him saying. You’re one of the first to read it. . .
Me. The first. The chosen.
The Weird.
So, we didn’t actually know what store he works at. Malaprops was the obvious call. That’s the shop everybody knows. But by the time we walked in, they’re all like Ballin-who? Fucking kid behind the counter’s acting like he didn’t even know who Nathan Ballingrud was.
“He lives here,” I told him. “He’s like, your neighbor and all. You don’t know who Nathan Ballingrud is?”
“Does he know you’re in town? Can’t you call him?”
So, it turned out Ballingrud doesn’t work at Malaprops. Fuck. Where else could he be? How many other bookstores can one Podunk town even have? Two? It’s not like it’s a big city. It’s just some rinky-dink mountain town. Crusty granola hippy-dippy shit. Artsy-fartsy yoga shit.
Where the fuck was Ballingrud?
Turned out there’s another bookstore. A used one. Made sense, if you thought about it. Of course Nathan Fucking Ballingrud is going to work at a used bookstore. None of that new shit. He’s surrounding himself in dusty editions. Low lighting. Yellowing pages all around. Books stacked so high, reaching the ceiling. Pull the wrong one off and they’ll all come toppling down.
Now we just needed to find it.
Nobody seemed to know where this used bookstore was. Or if it really even existed. The fine citizens of Asheville sure didn’t seem to take too kindly to us guests and our goddamn quest. It got to the point where it felt like everybody’s just fucking with us. Acting like they don’t know. Never heard of it, they all said. You sure you’re in the right town? We couldn’t even get a name for the place. Like the locals didn’t even realize
they had a used bookshop to begin with.
“It’s an act,” Benji whispered. “Bet they’re just protecting him.”
“Ballingrud?”
“Hell yeah. He’s, like, a hometown hero. They want to keep the fans away, you know? Total Salinger-style.”
Made sense. They’re all in on it. All of Asheville. Somebody was probably calling Ballingrud that very second, wherever he was hiding, tipping him off that we were here.
“We better hurry,” I said. It’s not like there are many roads to pick from. The town’s on a mountain. Go too far in any direction and the switchbacks spit you right out in the valley below.
We’d been driving for an hour before Benji spotted a wooded turnoff. “Stop the car.”
“You see something?
“Turn around,” he shouted, leaning his head out the window. “Turn around, turn—"
“Where? There’s nowhere to—”
“Just turn the car around!”
I perform a three-point-turn in the middle of a highway, dumb fucking call, but I circle back and turn onto a backroad I didn’t even notice before and immediately we’re immersed in a new neck of Asheville. Crabgrass chokes the shoulders. Trees on either end. The pavement crumbles the further we go and now we’re plopped into a ghost town. Not exactly a ghost town.
There’s only one building. That’s it. Just one.
Looks like it’s been here for centuries. General store-style shop selling sarsaparilla and shit. Gold rush shit. Old fogie in a rocker on the front porch shit. Banjoes and six-shooters shit.
No name on the storefront.
But this has to be the place. Where else is there? I can nearly feel it calling to me. Feel him. His name’s whispered through the mineshafts at our feet.
Ballingruuuud.
In we go.
The front door’s got one of those brass bell thingies that rings when you open it. I’m hit with mildew as soon as I step in. Smells like a library that sprung a leak in its roof, drenching all the books below. The air is thick. Fungal. There’s some NPR playing over the sound system, but the music’s all muffled because the speakers are buried behind stacks of yellowed paperbacks.
There he is.
Standing right behind the front counter. Pricing out some paperback.
Holy mother of God, it’s him. Actually him.
Nathan Fucking Ballingrud.
He almost looks like his author pic. Almost. If I squint, he sort of resembles the dude in the photo—only the man in front of us is way older now. Thinner now. We’re talking gaunt. He’s got that same bald pate from the photo. His beard is a little longer, but the colors are sort of the same. Tawny mustache. White chin whiskers. He looks like a cigarette after someone’s taken a long drag, nothing but a slender column of ash now, gray skin barely holding the rest of himself together. One simple blow would send Ballingrud just toppling right over, crumbling into dust.
“Let me know if I can help you with anything,” he says, totally nonchalant. No big deal. He doesn’t even look at us for long, glancing back at the stack of paperbacks he’s pricing.
Nathan Fucking Ballingrud.
“It’s you.” What else can I say? It’s all that makes sense to me in that moment. We’ve come so far, crossed state lines, ascended the mountaintop. We answered Ballingrud’s call.
I want to fall to my knees. I want to weep.
Now Ballingrud takes both me and Benji in. Sizes us up. Weighs our souls on the scale. Determine if we’re worthy. “Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”
My throat’s all dry. I want to say, yes, yes, but it comes out like a croak. I cough a bit, clear my throat, but I can’t speak. I fantasized about this moment—this exact second—going over what I’d say in my head a million times, but now that I’m here, actually here, in his presence, I’ve got nothing. I’m all empty. The words are just not in me anymore. Fucking fail.
Benji speaks up for the both of us. “We came for you.”
“I’m sorry. . . ?” The dude doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand.
It’s a test. Got to be.
“We’re here for your horror recs,” Benji says.
But it’s more than that. Let’s be honest with ourselves here, I want to say. This isn’t just
about getting Ballingrud’s top reads. This is about getting his book. The book. The novel I was promised before Penguin pulled it. I didn’t come all this way just for a recommendation.
“I want The Weird,” I blurt out. Whether Benji was ever aware of it or not, I don’t know. Don’t care. He can pick up as many paperbacks as he pleases, but I’ve come here for one book and one book only, the forbidden publishing fruit, the fucking book I was promised months ago.
I came so far. I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go home without it.
Ballingrud doesn’t say anything. Not a fucking word. All sound gets absorbed by the surrounding books, sponging our exhales up. I can’t breathe anymore. He must get this question a million times. Does he know who we are? What we’ve done just to be here? Are we worthy?
Then Ballingrud asks, “Are you sure?”
Who says yes first is up for grabs. Maybe me and Benji answer at the same time, but Ballingrud grins. He slips out from behind the counter, nodding his head toward one shoulder.
“Then follow me.”
I turn to Benji and attempt to telepathically broadcast: Can you believe this shit? It’s happening! Actually happening! But something about Benji’s expression throws me. My boy looks nervous. He’s not saying anything. Just staring at me. Eyes wide. Like we shouldn’t go.
The hell is that all about? There’s no turning back now. Not when I’m this close.
Ballingrud leads me down an aisle. There’s a turn I hadn’t noticed before. It leads to another aisle, which then connects to another aisle. How big is this shop? Definitely didn’t seem this expansive from the outside. Maybe it’s carved into the mountain or something.
Benji’s behind me. We don’t say anything. We just follow. We want to be, uh, deferential. Respectful, you know? Simply being in Ballingrud’s presence makes us hush. We’re waiting for him to say something, but the dude picks up his pace, slipping down the aisle and turning again.
The bookshelves tighten. Constrict. The aisle tapers, closing in on itself. Books brush against both shoulders the deeper I go. I have to actually turn, side-stepping now, nearly crab-walk down the aisle, for fear my shoulders might knock these books over and cause a cave in.
Ballingrud is way up ahead. He’s moving at such a quick clip; I’ve really got to hoof it. I almost ask him to slow down, wait up, but then Ballingrud turns down yet another fucking aisle.
Where in the hell is he going?
Where’s he taking us?
The lighting is dimmer now. I glance up and I see the books reach the ceiling, eclipsing the florescent lighting from the neighboring aisles. It’s colder here. Got that subterranean climate vibe, you know? Like when you’re in the basement and the temperature just drops? ...
