Black Static #46 (Magazine)
Gareth Jones
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Edited by Andy Cox
Published by TTA Press
A thread of familial relationships and parenthood seems to run throughout issue 46 of Black Static, which opens up its fiction offerings with So Many Heartbeats, So Many Words by Steven J. Dines. Here, our narrator – a struggling writer who lives with his wife, Sue, and verbally underdeveloped toddler son, Alfie – finds the security of his home life teetering on the brink of collapse due to resentment, disempowerment, and the horrendous black mould that grows on the walls inside their property, causing health problems for all of them.
Dines’ novelette is an incredibly bleak portrait of family life gone wrong – stretched to breaking point by a multitude of inconveniences and hidden scars, all tied together under a banner of desperation. Excellently written (especially when it comes to deciphering Alfie’s vocalisations), So Many Heartbeats, So Many Words is an exercise in desolation that is more leaden than it is outright scary – save for one instance of some truly unsettling imagery. “Feel good” this is not – coming across as a darkly personal piece for the author… and just when it seems like some light might just be in reach for this particular family, Dines slams that door shut with a nihilistic zeal that plants his tale solidly in the soils of pure human despair. Bonus points go to this one for its quick tie-in with his previous Black Static entry, Men Playing Ghosts, Playing God, from issue 35.
Next up, Neil Williamson delivers a love letter to classic horror stories with The Secret Language of Stamps, wherein a tender relationship begins to form between guest house owner and lonely war widow Hilda Geddes and her long-term tenant, Ernest Harman. Said relationship is formed just before he is forced to depart overseas for business, however – but not before he promises to remain in touch, leaving Hilda a book that references clandestine meanings behind the placement of stamps on envelopes and postcards during the Victorian era.
Seems that in those days, the exact position and orientation of a stamp could be used to send messages of affection to one’s hidden beau without raising suspicion – and sure enough, Hilda soon begins to receive postcards from various countries, each bringing with it a message, and promise, of love.
And then things go wrong, and The Secret Language of Stamps builds to a classically terrifying ending that makes it feel lifted straight from a Pan Book of Horror Stories from yesteryear – and believe me, I say that with the highest accolade. The characters of Hilda and Ernest are thoroughly likeable, and Williamson’s writing brings the spark between them to life with a corresponding spark in his prose. Effortlessly readable, thoroughly engaging and, ultimately, grimly horrifying, The Secret Language of Stamps is a total winner.
Damien Angelica Walters goes deep, in more ways than one, with Falling Under, Through the Dark — a short tale of grief and mental breakdown that focuses on a bereaved mother, obsessed with drowning after losing her young son (and subsequently her marriage) in a drowning incident in the backyard pool. Plagued by panic attacks that include hallucinations of being submerged in water, the woman becomes convinced that if she could return to the pool, she could somehow gain another chance to save her child – but things don’t work that way in reality, and her attempts uncover yet more devastating truths than she is already forced to deal with.
Like with Dines’ opening tale, as an author Walters delves deep into the tumultuous mindset of his protagonist, making for a story that is mired in despair. Here, though, things feel somewhat more predictable, with the interspersion of quoted facts about drowning (which our protagonist uses to help keep herself grounded in the midst of one of her panic attacks) being an interesting injection of character, but not completely raising it above the bar for such a tale. In the end, Falling Under, Through the Dark is a dark and harrowing read, but not a particularly memorable one.
Gary McMahon’s My Boy Builds Coffins sets the hooks of intrigue in early on, with the mother of a young boy discovering a perfectly crafted, miniature wooden coffin with an inscribed plaque reading “Daddy” on it in her son’s bedroom drawer. Happily admitting to having made the little coffin for his father, the boy is nonplussed – but it’s a different story for his parents, who see it as not only an ominous message, but a complete mystery as to how an eight year old could craft such a fine piece of work.
Later, as expected, a second coffin makes its way into the household – this time for “Mummy”, and the parents take it upon themselves to discover exactly where their son got the materials for his craft… a place which he calls the “magic hole”, located at the end of the garden.
The finale to McMahon’s tale is at once horrifying and disappointing. It’s a solid idea, perhaps diluted by over-description, weakening the punch – but within the same ending prose are nuggets of dark genius that send a chill up the spine and pledge further horrors to come. In leaving more questions than answers, however, it doesn’t quite meet the promise offered by the thoroughly engaging setup.
Sarah Read’s Magnifying Glass enters the family arena once more, as a mother and her son hole up in a new house, recently acquired after the death of its elderly owner, which sports an entire wall made of glass panes. Seems the woman has absconded with her son, whose legal place has been deemed to be with his father, and so reluctance to contact the police is a regrettable factor when it becomes apparent that a prowler seems to be stalking the property.
An ominous letter found stuffed into a light fixture and a particularly unsettling overnight occurrence set the scene for an ending that glints with promise (and a grander mythos of sorts), but is too abrupt and diminished in impact given its presentation and unwillingness to fully engage with the supernatural elements that the story teases at.
Finally, Ralph Robert Moore takes us off the deep end with Men Wearing Makeup, a jarring second person narrative which places you in the shoes of Chris — a reluctant, downtrodden worker who sets off for a forest ramble with his self-satisfied, domineering boss named Charles. After getting lost and becoming the receiver of one accusation too many, Chris – I mean, you – decides to make the way back on his own. Along the way, he comes across a clown who invites him to a nearby riverside clown camp – but the rules state that he must be a clown himself, if he is to be welcomed. If not, the best he can look forward to is becoming the main course for dinner… because clowns are, indeed, habitual cannibals.
The short time at the camp is fraught with peril, tension and eventually a catharsis of sorts – an outpouring of bitterness, disappointment and worldly weariness that stirs the heart of even the roughest. Acceptance is a possibility, even granted… or is it?
Giving nothing more away on this one is paramount, as it’s quite simply brilliant. Off the wall, for sure, but perfectly so and in no way detrimental to the core sentiment that drives it. A must read, and packing an ending worthy of the certain kind of vocal exclamation that tends to mark a story that has done its job very successfully indeed. This one gets a standing ovation.
This issue also features an extensive Q&A with Moore, alongside the usual excellent columns from Stephen Volk and Lynda E. Rucker, backed up by a swathe of DVD and book reviews – the latter this month focusing on Lovecraftian fare and adding plenty to the ol’ shopping list.
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