The problem with being a pioneer is that you often die out before your settlement thrives. You’re in the ground for years before the village becomes a town; decades before the town becomes a city. Matheson, thankfully, got to see countless kinds of success. It’s always nice to be able to say a writer enjoyed the fruits of his labor. How rare is that? Let’s celebrate it.
But the other issue with being a pioneer is that the generations who come later may forget the ground you tilled, the innovations you brought into being. You hear Matheson’s name on the lips of so many greats, from Stephen King to Joe Hill. (A little family joke I just couldn’t resist.) But he deserves to be spoken of by so many more. His stories became the bedrock of many genres: thriller, horror, science fiction, fantasy, so essential it’s almost impossible to really grasp how much he accomplished. How many people take a moment to give thanks for the sidewalks and highways? Yet most of us couldn’t get anywhere without them.
The other reason this may be the case is that Matheson had such an effortless, clear writing style. He threw the reader into the story and made very little attempt to force attention on himself as Author. This is great for stories, but not so good for getting credit. Writing is like life: too often we praise the show-offs, the ones who wink at us when they toss out some abstruse word. Many tend to think of this as artistry, but I’m less inclined. Or maybe I only mean to highlight the grace, and confidence, of a writer like Richard Matheson. Clarity can be artistry as well. It implies confidence, too. You won’t notice much of what he’s doing the first time you tear through these stories, but on your second pass you should take your time.
His central concern is survival. What threatens your existence? Even more important, what will you do to get through? Think of the man in “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet” who risks popping open the emergency window of an airplane at cruising altitude so he can fire a gun at the being he’s seen tearing at the plane’s engine. He’s nearly sucked out into the night sky, but he must do something. He, and the other passengers, must survive. The ordinary meets the monstrous and every life is at risk.
But let’s not only talk of the classic stories, the ones you no doubt know; they’re worth the price of admission alone, but Matheson has so much more here to offer. There’s my personal favorite find, a story called “Witch War.” Matheson plays out the idea of a conquering army powered only by the occult abilities of a handful of teenage girls. In between decimating the opposing army they talk smack about one another, they mock and joke, by the end they even revel in the fear they cause to the men they’re meant to defend. It’s a subtle and stunning little tale and it shows off another aspect of Matheson’s talent: he can be wickedly funny.
Then there’s “Dance of the Dead.” I don’t want to spoil anything for you, but it’s straight up disturbing. It’s a kind of postapocalyptic undead tale that also predates, even anticipates, the reprobates of A Clockwork Orange. (It was also made into a deeply troubling and memorable episode in the Masters of Horror anthology series, written by Matheson’s son, Richard Christian Matheson, and directed by Tobe Hooper.) Where Richard Matheson often had his stories come out on the side of safety or triumph, this one has no time for such treacle. This one wants to hurt you. And it, too, is a product of the same singularly gifted mind.
The depth and variety of the man’s imagination seem nearly unparalleled. His influence exists even for those who have never read him. He’s in the DNA of too many other writers to count. When you enjoy science fiction and fantasy today, when you read modern horror, you are still reading Richard Matheson.
5
The next morning I decided not to skip school. This also had to do with the fact that Tasha—with whom I was now smitten—told me she couldn’t cut twice in one week. So I showed up at my bus stop right around 7:45, and sure enough the cheese bus turned the corner a few blocks west, right on time. But then Cedric’s living room window opened and he leaned out looking as blasé as always. Yet again he had on my Champion sweatshirt, one of many articles of clothing I’d lent him, never to be returned. He leaned on his elbows and watched me quietly for about the count of three.
“All right then,” he said, keeping direct eye contact. “You want to see?”
Did I? In that moment I didn’t really know.
Cedric opened the front door. I walked into the house with my head down, my curiosity tinged with dread.
The living room looked like it hadn’t been cleaned—or even occupied—since me and Tasha had been there yesterday. The couch cushions still in disarray. Cedric walked ahead of me. He entered the kitchen and I hesitated.
“Well?” he called out.
I moved toward the kitchen, but I can’t say it was my choice. I felt compelled to take a step. Pulled in, drawn closer. As I moved I heard the pantry door’s lock click and a faint groan as it swung open. At the same time I smelled it again, what Tasha had been talking about the day before. A kind of rot so strong I experienced it as a wave of heat that made my eyes flutter. And still I stepped through the threshold and entered the kitchen.
“This is my mom,” Cedric said.
There’s a look to ships that have sunk to the bottom of the ocean and remained there for decades. When they’re brought to the surface they’re scaly with barnacles and orange with rust. They look vulnerable and indestructible, simultaneously. A sunken ship, now risen, Cedric’s mother seemed much the same.
As I said, it was the Crack Era and I recognized what had torpedoed this woman. I tried to greet her but there wasn’t time. Cedric’s mother came at me, her hands dug into my coat pockets, she yanked my book bag off from where it dangled on one shoulder and, right in front of me, she unzipped it and tossed everything out on the floor.
“Ma!” Cedric shouted, but he didn’t try to stop her. He’d never looked so young.
Each of us must’ve outweighed Cedric’s mother by two hundred pounds but I knew I didn’t have the strength to challenge her. She tossed through my things and sucked her teeth and both us boys just watched her.
“Ma,” Cedric said again, but much softer this time. “Please, Ma.”
Then she turned and leapt at him, her own child, and sent him flying backward. He went to the ground. She climbed right up onto his chest, that’s how I remember it. She pulled at the sweatshirt, my sweatshirt, and I heard the fabric tear. I went down on a knee and tossed everything back into the bag and that’s when Cedric cried out, I swear I thought it was an infant wailing from another room. When I looked up she’d torn open his sweatshirt and her hands dug at his flesh. I saw blood. I thought she might devour him right there.
And there I’d finally reached my Matheson moment. The ordinary was over. The monstrous was here. I wish I could say I helped him, but I didn’t. I picked up my bag and I scurried backward. If someone was going to survive, better it be me. Even today I can still hear him whispering, pleading, that same single word. “Ma. Ma.”
I got to the living room and crawled to the front door. I opened it and pulled the door shut behind me. I stopped skipping school after that. I told Tasha about what happened and, bless her, she believed me. But when I went back to the house, knocking for what seemed like hours, Cedric didn’t answer. I’d never seen a place look so lifeless. Lianne told Tasha she couldn’t reach him. She’d call the house, but the phone only rang and rang. I never saw him pop his head out his front window ever again.
Obviously I’ve turned this history into a story, my homage to Richard Matheson, to my old friend Cedric, and even to his mom. While some of this tale is indeed fiction, there really was a monster living in that house.
Which brings me back, one last time, to Richard Matheson. What did this son of Norwegian immigrants, who spent the majority of his life writing in California, know about the Crack Era nightmares of a black boy from Queens? On the surface I’d say nothing. Superficially he and I could hardly seem further apart. But then why, when I wrote o
ut what happened between me and Cedric and his mother, did I hear the echoes of so many of Matheson’s tales? I’m not talking about the plot points but the essence. The fight for survival, the monstrous breaking in on the ordinary, no one holds the sole rights to such real estate. But Richard Matheson tilled the soil long before me and, likely, long before you, too. He even built a house in which so many of us still dwell. All hail the architect! Now come on inside.
VICTOR LAVALLE
BORN OF MAN AND WOMAN
X—This day when it had light mother called me retch. You retch she said. I saw in her eyes the anger. I wonder what it is a retch.
This day it had water falling from upstairs. It fell all around. I saw that. The ground of the back I watched from the little window. The ground it sucked up the water like thirsty lips. It drank too much and it got sick and runny brown. I didnt like it.
Mother is a pretty I know. In my bed place with cold walls around I have a paper things that was behind the furnace. It says on it SCREENSTARS. I see in the pictures faces like of mother and father. Father says they are pretty. Once he said it.
And also mother he said. Mother so pretty and me decent enough. Look at you he said and didn’t have the nice face. I touched his arm and said it is alright father. He shook and pulled away where I couldnt reach. Today mother let me off the chain a little so I could look out the little window. Thats how I saw the water falling from upstairs.
—
XX—This day it had goldness in the upstairs. As I know when I looked at it my eyes hurt. After I look at it the cellar is red.
I think this was church. They leave the upstairs. The big machine swallows them and rolls out past and is gone. In the back part is the little mother. She is much small than me. I am I can see out the little window all I like.
In this day when it got dark I had eat my food and some bugs. I hear laughs upstairs. I like to know why there are laughs for. I took the chain from the wall and wrapped it around me. I walked squish to the stairs. They creak when I walk on them. My legs slip on them because I dont walk on stairs. My feet stick to the wood.
I went up and opened a door. It was a white palace. White as white jewels that come from upstairs sometime. I went in and stood quiet. I hear the laughing some more. I walk to the sound and look through to the people. More people that I thought was. I thought I should laugh with them.
Mother came out and pushed the door in. It hit me and hurt. I fell back on the smooth floor and the chain made noise. I cried. She made a hissing noise into her and put her hand on her mouth. Her eyes got big.
She looked at me. I heard father call. What fell he called. She said a iron board. Come help pick it up she said. He came and said how is that so heavy you need. He saw me and grew big. The anger came in his eyes. He hit me. I spilled some of the drip on the floor from one arm. It was not nice. It made ugly green on the floor.
Father told me to go to the cellar. I had to go. The light it hurt some now in my eyes. It is not so like that in the cellar.
Father tied my legs and arms up. He put me on my bed. Upstairs I heard laughing while I was quiet there looking on a black spider that was swinging down to me. I thought what father said. Ohgod he said. And only eight.
—
XXX—This day father hit in the chain again before it had light. I have to try pull it out again. He said I was bad to come upstairs. He said never do that again or he would beat me hard. That hurts.
—
XXXX—I got the chain from the wall out. Mother was upstairs. I heard little laughs very high. I looked out the window. I saw all little people like the little mother and little fathers too. They are pretty.
They were making nice noise and jumping around the ground. Their legs was moving hard. They are like mother and father. Mother says all right people look like they do.
One of the little fathers saw me. He pointed at the window. I let go and slid down the wall in the dark. I curled up as they would not see. I heard their talks by the window and foots running. Upstairs there was a door hitting. I heard the little mother call upstairs. I heard heavy steps and I rushed in my bed place. I hit the chain in the wall and lay down on my front.
I heard my mother come down. Have you been at the window she said. I heard the anger. Stay away from the window. You have pulled the chain out again.
She took the stick and hit me with it. I didnt cry. I cant do that. But the drip ran all over the bed. She saw it and twisted away and made a noise. Oh mygodmygod she said why have you done this to me? I heard the stick go bounce on the stone floor. She ran upstairs.
—
XXXXX—This day it had water again. When mother was upstairs I heard the little one come slow down the steps. I hidded myself in the coal bin for mother would have anger if the little mother saw me.
She had a little live thing with her. It walked on the arms and had pointing ears. She said things to it.
It was all right except the live thing smelled me. It ran up the coal and looked down at me. The hairs stood up. In the throat it made an angry noise. I hissed but it jumped on me.
I didnt want to hurt it. I got fear because it bit me harder than the rat does. I hurt and the little mother screamed. I grabbed the live thing tight. It made sounds I never heard. I pushed it all together. It was all lumpy and red on the black coal.
I hid there when mother called. I was afraid of the stick. She left. I crept over the coal with the thing. I hid it under my pillow and rested on it. I put the chain in the wall again.
—
X—This is another times. Father chained me tight. I hurt because he beat me. This time I hit the stick out of his hands and made noise. He went away and his face was white. He ran out of my bed place and locked the door.
I am not so glad. All day it is cold in here. The chain comes slow out of the wall. And I have a bad anger with mother and father. I will show them. I will do what I did that once.
I will screech and laugh loud. I will run on the walls. Last I will hang head down by all my legs and laugh and drip green all over until they are sorry they didn’t be nice to me.
If they try to beat me again Ill hurt them. I will.
—
X—
PREY
Amelia arrived at her apartment at six-fourteen. Hanging her coat in the hall closet, she carried the small package into the living room and sat on the sofa. She nudged off her shoes while she unwrapped the package on her lap. The wooden box resembled a casket. Amelia raised its lid and smiled. It was the ugliest doll she’d ever seen. Seven inches long and carved from wood, it had a skeletal body and an oversized head. Its expression was maniacally fierce, its pointed teeth completely bared, its glaring eyes protuberant. It clutched an eight-inch spear in its right hand. A length of fine, gold chain was wrapped around its body from the shoulders to the knees. A tiny scroll was wedged between the doll and the inside wall of its box. Amelia picked it up and unrolled it. There was handwriting on it. This is He Who Kills, it began. He is a deadly hunter. Amelia smiled as she read the rest of the words. Arthur would be pleased.
The thought of Arthur made her turn to look at the telephone on the table beside her. After a while, she sighed and set the wooden box on the sofa. Lifting the telephone to her lap, she picked up the receiver and dialed a number.
Her mother answered.
“Hello, Mom,” Amelia said.
“Haven’t you left yet?” her mother asked.
Amelia steeled herself. “Mom, I know it’s Friday night—” she started.
She couldn’t finish. There was silence on the line. Amelia closed her eyes. Mom, please, she thought. She swallowed. “There’s this man,” she said. “His name is Arthur Breslow. He’s a high-school teacher.”
“You aren’t coming,” her mother said.
Amelia shivered. “It’s his birthday,” she said. She opened her eyes and looked
at the doll. “I sort of promised him we’d . . . spend the evening together.”
Her mother was silent. There aren’t any good movies playing tonight, anyway, Amelia’s mind continued. “We could go tomorrow night,” she said.
Her mother was silent.
“Mom?”
“Now even Friday night’s too much for you.”
“Mom, I see you two, three nights a week.”
“To visit,” said her mother. “When you have your own room here.”
“Mom, let’s not start on that again,” Amelia said. I’m not a child, she thought. Stop treating me as though I were a child!
“How long have you been seeing him?” her mother asked.
“A month or so.”
“Without telling me,” her mother said.
“I had every intention of telling you.” Amelia’s head was starting to throb. I will not get a headache, she told herself. She looked at the doll. It seemed to be glaring at her. “He’s a nice man, Mom,” she said.
Her mother didn’t speak. Amelia felt her stomach muscles drawing taut. I won’t be able to eat tonight, she thought.
She was conscious suddenly of huddling over the telephone. She forced herself to sit erect. I’m thirty-three years old, she thought. Reaching out, she lifted the doll from its box. “You should see what I’m giving him for his birthday,” she said. “I found it in a curio shop on Third Avenue. It’s a genuine Zuni fetish doll, extremely rare. Arthur is a buff on anthropology. That’s why I got it for him.”
There was silence on the line. All right, don’t talk, Amelia thought. “It’s a hunting fetish,” she continued, trying hard to sound untroubled. “It’s supposed to have the spirit of a Zuni hunter trapped inside it. There’s a golden chain around it to prevent the spirit from—” She couldn’t think of the word; ran a shaking finger over the chain. “—escaping, I guess,” she said. “His name is He Who Kills. You should see his face.” She felt warm tears trickling down her cheeks.