Jeff Gelb: Seeds of Fear

"Scream Queen" copyright (c) 1995 by Ronald Kelly

"Hideyhole" copyright (c) 1995 by Billie Sue Mosiman

"High Concept" copyright (c) 1995 by J. N. Williamson

"Just a Phone Call Away" copyright (c) 1995 by John F. D. Taff

"Black and White and Bed All Over" copyright (c) 1995 by James Crawford

"Handyman" copyright (c) 1995 by Jeff Gelb

"Airhead" copyright (c) 1995 by Michael Newton

"Five Seconds" copyright (c) 1995 by J. L. Comeau

"Sympathy Call" copyright (c) 1995 by Michael Garrett

"Overeaters Ominous" copyright (c) 1995 by Stephen R. George

"Grub-Girl" copyright (c) 1995 by Edward Lee

"Hunger" copyright (c) 1995 by Kathryn Ptacek

"The Watcher" copyright (c) 1995 by Rex Miller and Jeff Gelb

"Lullaby & Goodnight" copyright (c) 1995 by Wayne Allen Sallee

"I Am Joe's Penis" copyright (c) 1995 by Scott H. Urban

"What You See" copyright (c) 1995 by Paul Dale Anderson

"The Beast" copyright (c) 1995 by Larry Tritten

"See Marilyn Monroe's Panties!" copyright (c) 1995 by Bentley Little

"Devil with a Blue Dress" copyright (c) 1995 by P. D. Cacek

Welcome back!

This, the latest in the Hot Blood series, represents the fifth «date» for our blooming relationship.

We're proud that the Hot Blood series has proven to be more than a mere one-night stand. We're gratified we've developed an intimate connection with you, the reader. We're happy you've made the commitment, and we hope you'll be with us till death do us part.

Or later.

This time around we're pleased to present a foreword by Brinke Stevens, world-renowned "Scream Queen," who offers her uniquely informed perspective of eroticism and horror. Within these pages you'll also find first appearances in the series by several notable authors, as well as lurid tales by those who have been with us before. All in all, it's another stimulating package of goose bumps and ants-in-the-pants stories in the Hot Blood tradition.

So relax and travel with us, from somewhere south of the Twilight Zone to your own erogenous zones, through stories that would make even Masters and Johnson blush.

And finally, thanks for making this series such a success. It's been good for us, and we hope our performance has satisfied your sexual appetite as well.

Jeff Gelb Michael Garrett

A strange thing happened to me during late October of 1993. For two weeks I was staying at a Hyatt Hotel near San Francisco. Every night I was top-billed as a horror movie celebrity at The Scaregrounds, a Halloween theme park. Thus, I obligingly penned my autograph and posed for countless photos. Called a "Scream Queen," I'm a popular, well-respected ac tress among all those horror B-movies fans. If you like to stay up late watching scary low-budget films on TV, you've probably already seen me at least a dozen times. often in steamy shower scenes, or murdered by a crazy driller-killer, or suddenly transformed into a bloodthirsty demoness.

At midnight the crowds wandered home at last. I traded my spike heels for sensible flats, trudged across the empty parking lot to my rental car, and drove too fast up the freeway toward «home»… my small hotel room. First, I ripped off my long raven wig and slithered out of my familiar black «Evila» costume, then washed the makeup off my face. Now I looked nothing like the glamorous vamp who'd been worshiped by panting fan-boys. Finally I collapsed onto my bed — deeply exhausted, and feeling an inevitable letdown after six hours of intense admiration. But once the outer public mask came off, I was armed and ready for.. my own private fix!

A dozen or so lurid fiction paperback books filled my suitcase. Ah, pulp fodder for my secret midnight vice! Among them were Hot Blood, Hotter Blood, and Hottest Blood. Really, who could resist such promising titles? Besides, I've known editor Jeff Gelb for almost twenty years — and so I'd dutifully amassed all his anthologies on my dusty library shelf. It wasn't until my Halloween junket that I found enough time in my busy schedule to actually read them.

Each night I promised myself I'd just read ONE story and then fall asleep. But by 3:00 A.M. (and five or six stories later), I realized my relaxation plan was self-defeating. The stories were too sexy, too exciting, too scary! The erotica bordered on pornographic (but that's not necessarily a bad thing!), and the horror was pure and unadulterated. After two weeks of devouring those tasty Hot Blood books, I lost a lot of sleep — but I gained a new obsession.

Often it seems standard B-movie fare involves nudity, terror, sex, and gore — after all, it is tried-and-true commercial formula. I've routinely worked with killers, corpses, blood, and guts. and loved every minute of it! So saying, my own films might be considered the cinematic equivalent of erotic horror literature. You may enjoy reading my own insights and perspectives on what I do for a living — as a modern woman who's written and starred in dozens of "erotic horror" exploitation films.

I believe that erotic horror stories, for the most part, are grown-up versions of Grimm's Fairy Tales (though the original stories are hardly for children, as you well know). They are little morality plays, revenge stories, tales of what happens when we lose control. Or — more to the point — when we take advantage of something that seems too good to be true. In Teenage Exorcist (a screenplay I also wrote), I eagerly rented an opulent mansion at bargain-basement rates — and soon paid the dire consequences for it, when the evil ghost of a dead occupant possessed me. And in Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity, my seductively generous host, Zed, later turned the tables on me. An unfortunate case of hospitality turning to homicide!

In a similar vein, the «revenge» factor in horror fiction is a holdover from Tales From the Crypt comics of the 1950s, wherein the wronged murdered husband returns to snuff his killer (usually an unfaithful wife, you will notice). It is a zombified «karma» sort of deal, often reflected in cinema, as well. In Haunting Fear I clawed my way out of a coffin in the basement while my husband was climaxing with his sleazy blond mistress in our bed. Needless to say, I was slow, brutal, and quite exacting while taking my revenge on them both!

Sex and horror do go together. Sex is a one-way door that, once entered, cannot be exited. It is also an imitation of death. The French, after all, call an orgasm "the little death." People don't like to talk about sex any more than they like to talk about death. Sex is a part of that old reptilian brain. Seemingly, the rational mind turns off. and Something Else appears. There is a roar of a dinosaur behind every moan between satin sheets. Sex is mythic (and let's face facts, seldom as good as we think it's going to be), just like horror. You know, the truth shattering the fantasy like glass in an automobile accident. Like the supposedly vampish Brinke admitting to a preference for flannel sleepwear rather than silky lingerie… as a way of telling the reader that everyone has expectations about sex and eroticism, but they are predicated on images that may or may not reflect reality.

And no one ever tells the truth about sex. It's too personal. It is something that unfolds between lovers. Hence, even more potential horror. finding out that your true love is into really odd stuff, or is not exactly what you'd expected. How many times, in erotic horror stories and films, has this theme been a subtext? Just take a look at Nightmare Sisters, in which I'm among a trio of hopelessly nerdy college girls who are ridiculed by cruel frat boys. After holding a seance one dark night, we suddenly transform into voluptuous dolls — and then gleefully slay the same would-be suitors who once rejected us. There's a chilling episode of Dark Romances, too, wherein I play a gorgeous woman who seduces many great artists… and later collects their very souls. A hidden agenda can be a powerfully frightening thing, indeed.