Brian Keene - Jack's Magic Beans

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that; head drooping and eyes half shut. Kathryn’s light laughter and the chuckles coming from the rest of the audience startled him awake again. He checked his watch; then glanced around at the other patrons. Immediately, his attention focused on a couple behind them. The woman’s head was in her lover’s lap, bobbing up and down in the darkness. Before he could tell Kathryn, he noticed another display; this one in their own row. A man at the end was lovingly biting another man’s ear, hard enough to draw blood. His partner licked his lips in ecstasy.

“Kathryn—” he whispered.

She shushed him and focused on the play, her face rapt with attention. Her cheeks were flushed, and Finley noticed that her nipples stood out hard against her blouse. Without a word, her hand fell into his lap and began to stroke him through his pants. Despite the bizarre mood permeating the theatre, he felt himself harden.

Just then, there was a commotion at the back of the theatre, as another actor entered. The crowd turned as the actors pointed with mock cries of shock and dismay. He wore a gilded robe with scarlet fringes, and a clasp of black onyx, on which was inlaid a curious symbol of gold. Though his face was hidden beneath a pallid mask identical to the one Cobain was wearing, there was no mistaking the trademark swagger. He swept down the aisle, pausing as the crowd burst into spontaneous applause.

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

He bowed to the audience, and then took the stage in three quick strides.

“Behold, the Yellow Sign upon his breast!” cried the Queen. “It is the King of Carcosa, and he seeks the Phantom of Truth!”

Hendrix, Lennon, and Vicious entered the audience, each with a burlap bag slung over their shoulders.

“Masks!” they called. “Everyone receive your masks! No pushing. There’s plenty for everyone!”

Finley pushed Kathryn’s hand away in alarm. They were passing out knives —real knives rather than stage props. The lights glinted off the serrated blades.

“Kathryn, we—”

His statement was cut short as her mouth covered his. Greedily, she sucked at his tongue, her body suddenly filling his lap. The scene replayed itself throughout the theatre. Men and women, men and men, women and women. Couples, threesomes, and more. Clothes were discarded, and naked, glistening bodies entwined around each other in the seats and on the floor. All the while, the dead rock stars waded through the crowd, dispensing knives.

“Kathryn, stop it!” He pushed her away. “Something is really fucked up here.”

“Have you found it, Roger? Have you seen the Yellow Sign?”

“What?”

She slapped him. Hard. Then, grinning, she slapped him again.

“Now, you slap me,” she urged. “Come on, Roger. You said you wanted to do something different. Make me wet. Hit me!”

“No!”

“Coward! Pussy! You limp dick mother-fucker! Do it, or I’ll find someone else here who will!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

It’s like she’s hypnotized or something! All of them are! What the hell happened while I was asleep?

On stage, what appeared to be a masked ball scene was underway.

“You have questioned him to no avail!” Elvis’ voice rang out through the hall, echoing over the mingled cries of pain and ecstasy. He was addressing the actors, but at the same time, the audience as well. “Time to unmask. All must show their true faces! All! Except for myself. For indeed, I wear no mask at all!”

As one, the crowd picked up their knives and began to flay the skin from their faces. Some laughed as they did it. Others helped the person sitting next to them. Finley turned, just as Kathryn slid the blade through one cheek. A loose flap of skin hung down past her chin.

“Kathryn, don’t!”

He grabbed for the knife and she jerked it away. Before he could move, she slashed at his hands. Blood welled in his palm as he dodged another slice. Then he slapped her, leaving a bloody handprint on her cheek.

“That’s it baby!” she shrieked. “Let me finish taking my mask off, and then I’ll help you with yours.”

“All unmask!” Elvis boomed again, and Finley turned to the stage, unable to look away. The King removed the Pallid Mask concealing his face, and what he revealed wasn’t Elvis. It wasn’t even human. Beneath the mask was a head like that of a puffy grave worm. It lolled obscenely, surveying the crowd, then gave a strange, warbling cry.

Kathryn’s skin landed on the floor with a wet sound.

The thing on stage turned toward Finley, and then he saw.

He saw it. He found it.

Roger Finley screamed.

“Excuse me?” The bum shuffled forward.

“Just ignore him, Marianne. If we give him money, he’ll hound us the whole way to the harbor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas,” the woman scolded her husband. “The poor fellow looks half starved. And he’s articulate for a street person!”

The bum shuffled eagerly from foot to foot while she reached within her purse and pulled out a five-dollar bill. She placed it in his outstretched hand.

“Here you go. Please see to it that you get a hot meal, now. No alcohol or drugs.”

“Thank you. Much obliged. Since you folks were so kind, let me help you out.”

“We don’t need any help, thank you very much.” The husband stiffened, wary of the homeless man’s advances.

“Just wanted to give you a tip. If you like the theatre, you should take your wife to see Yellow .”

He pointed at a nearby poster. The couple thanked him and walked away, but not before stopping to read the poster for themselves.

Roger Finley pocketed the five dollars, and watched them disappear into Fell’s Point, in search of the Yellow Sign. He wondered if they would find it, and if so, what they would see.

This is, of course, a tribute to Robert W. Chambers’ classic of the same name. But you already knew that because you’ve read the Chambers’ story, right? Nope. I’ve got twenty bucks that says half of you have never even heard of Robert W. Chambers. And that, my friends, is just wrong.

True story. Thirteen years ago, at the first Horrorfind Weekend Convention, J. F. Gonzalez and I were approached by a young man; probably in his early twenties. He shook our hands and said nice things about our books, and called us inspirations. How the hell we, two of the lynchpins of the so-called gangsta horror movement, were inspirations is beyond me, but hey, the kid was sincere enough to buy Jesus (which is J. F.’s real name) a beer and me a shot of tequila. We started talking about writing, and we were trying to give him some advice. The conversation turned to the masters of the genre, and we were horrified to learn that this kid had never read Chambers, never read Hodgson, never read James, never read Machen, and had only a dim knowledge of Lovecraft. The final straw was when we moved to the more modern era, and the kid admitted that he’d never heard of Karl Edward Wagner.

Once I’d removed J.F.’s hands from around his throat (“How can you not know who Karl Edward Fucking Wagner is?” he screamed while throttling him), we sent the young writer on his way and proceeded to grumble about “These damn kids!” for the rest of the day.

If you don’t know those names I mentioned above, you need to correct that. Now. Horror fiction has a rich history, and it is your heritage as a fan, as a reader, and especially if you’re a writer. Seek it out. Learn from it. M. R. James. William Hope Hodgson (one of my favorites). Lord Dunsany. Arthur Machen. Clark Ashton Smith. Edward Lucas White. Ambrose Bierce (another one of my favorites). Hell, explore the modern era, with John Farris and Robert Bloch and so many others. And for God’s sake—learn who Karl Edward Wagner was so that J. F. Gonzalez doesn’t throttle you next. Seriously, go look for this stuff. Read it. You’ll be glad you did.