Chapman Acquired Taste

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-83541-080-6
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten

A startling, witty and downright terrifying collection of 25 short stories from the '21st century's Richard Matheson' (Richard Chizmar, Chasing the Boogeyman.) Perfect for fans of Paul Tremblay, Rachel Harrison and Eric LaRocca. They're feeding on you too. A father returns from serving in Vietnam with a strange and terrifying addiction; a man removes something horrifying from his fireplace, and becomes desperate to return it; and a right-wing news channel has its hooks in people in more ways than one. From department store Santas to ghost boyfriends and salamander-worshipping nuns; from the claustrophobia of the Covid-19 pandemic to small-town Chesapeake USA, Clay McLeod Chapman takes universal fears of parenthood, addiction and political divisions and makes them uniquely his own. Packed full of humanity, humour and above all, relentless creeping dread, Acquired Taste is a timely descent into the mind of one of modern horror's finest authors.

Clay McLeod Chapman is the creator of 'The Pumpkin Pie Show' and the author of Rest Area, Nothing Untoward, and The Tribe trilogy. He is the co-author, with Nightmare Before Christmas director Henry Selick, of the middle grade novel Wendell and Wild. In the world of comics, Chapman's work includes Lazaretto, Iron Fist: Phantom Limb, and Edge of Spiderverse. You can find him at claymcleodchapman.com.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Chapman, Clay

Leseproben

the fireplace

The thought of tossing our baby in the fireplace first popped into my head a month or so ago. Around September, I’d say. Autumn was on its way, so—one lazy weekend, I figured I’d go ahead and get a leg up on winter and finally clean out that chimney. Get the flue all prepped for our first fire in our new house.

We were still only five months deep into our domestic bliss back then—no crisp nights curled up around the fire just yet. But before we even bought this place, all the way back when Chrissy and me first took a tour of the house—before it was ours, or anyone’s really, lingering within that liminal space between seller and buyer, with all those hopeful families wandering about its rooms like ghosts; inspecting every nook and cranny in some spectral attempt to decide whether or not this is the house we would want to haunt—I remember waltzing into the living room for the very first time and locking eyes onto that inglenook. Its thick brick. The oak beam reaching across the top. Its swan-necked ironworks looked like the blackened ribcage of some prehistoric beast burned to its bones, the charred chest cavity the only remnant of its primitive existence left behind. Whatever it had been.

Check out the fireplace, I said. Bet we’ll save a fortune on our heating bill with that thing.

Was that an offer I just heard? Chrissy whispered, hoping not to alert any of the other prospective homeowners that we were interested. ’Cause if it was, I can go find the realtor…

Down, Simba… Take it easy.

I hadn’t banked on the owners accepting our bid, to be honest. We were well beneath the listed asking price. I did it for Chrissy—but I knew there was no way in hell we’d ever get a house like this. Not on our annual income.

I mean—come on. An 1855 Victorian? With five bedrooms? Hardwood floors? There’s no way we could call this place home. Not with that fireplace beckoning. We’re talking the original chimney here. Nearly two hundred years old. The oldest part of the house at this point, I bet. The rest may have been remodeled over the years, but its brick bones remained, a spinal column of red clay holding this home upright.

We were crazy to’ve come to the open house in the first place. But Chrissy had begged to check it out. Outright begged. She’s always had real estate lust, spending her Sundays sifting through every last email alert agents send her way.

It felt wrong, being here. Playing house like this. Getting her hopes up. Watching her eyes widen the deeper into the house we went, deciding which room would be whose—this one’s ours, this one will be the baby’s—I knew, I just knew we were cruising toward heartbreak. She kept rubbing her belly like there was a genie in there, ready to grant her wish.

Don’t do this to yourself, hon, I warned her. Don’t get yourself all worked up.

But the owners saw something in us, I guess. Our family-to-be.

Me, Chrissy.

And Colin. Nothing but a bump in his mama’s tummy back then. He still had a few months in the oven to go before—Ding! Baby’s served…

* * *

I’d never cleaned a fireplace before.

Never had an actual fireplace to clean—so there you go. First time for everything, I guess… I am a man who now owns a fireplace, therefore I have become a man who must scrub it.

Chrissy had been feeding Colin in bed, so I had the inglenook all to myself. Gave us a chance to get to know each other a little bit better.

It had a molded shelf embedded into the rear wall with a hinged spit-rack. A grand ol’ rack. Had to date back to when this house was originally built, all those years ago. Turn of the turn of whatever century. They must’ve roasted enormous joints of meat back then. Could’ve fed a whole coven with what they cooked on there, I bet.

Kneeling before the hearth, I pulled the fire dogs out to scrub the floor. The grate weighed a ton. Took both hands just to tug that iron giant’s ribcage out. Broke a sweat before I’d even started scrubbing, taking this metal-bristled brush and scraping at the interior walls. Swiping the soot away.

I was inside the fireplace now, on my hands and knees. Working on the rear wall. Tight, circular motions. Wax on, wax off… The grime never seemed to go away, though. Ten minutes of brandishing that brush over brick and it looked like I was just sweeping circles in the soot. This nibbling-on-tin sensation settled into my teeth. I could feel the steel bristles all the way up in my jaw, like chewing aluminum foil. Skrchskrchskrch. Throbbing right through me. My bones.

An exhale spread over my spine. I swear I felt somebody’s breath drop down my neck.

I turned around.

No one was behind me. The living room was completely empty.

Then I felt again. This time on my temples.

Glancing up, I felt a stray draft creep across my cheeks.

The chimney flue had been left open, that’s all. Just the wind, as they say.

Then something shifted.

Up there.

I couldn’t see very far up, couldn’t see much of anything—but my eyes tightened in on a pale shape centered within the brick funnel. A gray nimbus hovering in the darkness.

A baby.

I saw a baby. Trapped in the shadows. Its fetal form was curled into itself, crammed in the sooty womb of the flue. Its pale skin was covered in a layer of ash.

I reached up to touch it.

That’s what people do in these situations, yes? If you see something that shouldn’t be there—you poke it. Who cares about common sense? I’m staring at a baby stuck in my chimney, for Christ’s sake. Of course I’m going to touch it.

The pressure from my pointer was enough to dislodge the infant from its floating position and fall onto my face with a hefty exhale of soot. I turned away from the plummeting bundle just as it dropped, so impact was actually on the back of my neck. I felt the softest thud, punctuated with a puff of ash, before it tumbled onto the bricks below.

I was breathing in way too much soot, coughing uncontrollably now. There was a solid three seconds of blurred vision. That cloud of ash slowly dissipated, clearing away to reveal—

A possum.

It must have been trapped in the chimney. Must’ve crawled down months ago and got itself stuck, starving itself to death up there. Its body was petrified, all its fur having fallen away, leaving behind its withered skin, covered in soot. Nothing but a mummified thing now.

Just a possum.

I figured it was best to get our little squatter out of the house before Chrissy saw it. She was not a fan of our furry four-legged neighbors, so I escorted the crispy critter by its shoestring tail, giving him a proper burial in our trash can among all the dirty diapers and coffee filters.

When I came back in, I could smell dinner cooking.

Buttery pork belly.

The halls were filled with it. My mouth was watering by the time I found Chrissy in the living room, bouncing Colin on her knee like a bucking baby bronco.

What’s cooking, good-looking?

Nothing as far as I know… Had my hands a little full here.

What’s up with the smell? I’m starving.

Chrissy gave me a look that would be put into constant rotation soon enough, hereunto categorized as—What the fuck are you talking about?

Sure enough, the oven wasn’t on. Our kitchen was still a work in progress. Most of our appliances hadn’t found a cupboard yet, still living within their moving boxes. A dozen cardboard nested dolls claimed any and every inch of free space. All our cutlery and dishes remained stacked in quick-pickable piles along the countertop for easy take-out meals.

Not that the smell was coming from the kitchen, anyhow.

It was in the living room. From the fireplace.

Bacon fat frying in the pan.

You practicing for Santa or something? Chrissy asked. You’re all covered in soot.

I was cleaning the fireplace, I said. More to myself, but Chrissy answered anyway—Hate to break to it you, hon, but… I think the chimney won.

* * *

The house feels cold now.

Has for months. I’ve futzed with the thermostat and nothing seems to lift the chill. Every room I walk into, it feels as if I’m plunging into the tundra. My breath spreads out above me when I’m lying in bed. I’ve had to bundle up like it’s the middle of winter, two or three layers thick, pulling out the parkas from their moving box, just to keep from freezing. In August. It’s actually warmer outside than in. Chrissy looks at me like I’m nuts, which is the new norm now.

I could really use your help here, she muttered. Can you take Colin? Just for a minute?

What do we know about the house?

It’s old. She shrugged, irked at me for not spotting the immediate problem at hand. I know that much… Could you just take him? Please? I’ve got to start thinking about dinner. What’re you hungry for?

Colin was nothing but baby fat. Gripping him, I felt my hands sink into his sides. That plump swell of his pudgy tummy filling in around my fingers, like cement sealing us together.

Squishy brick and mortar.

When Colin was first cleared to come home from the hospital, I had given him the grand tour. This is your room, I whispered. Most were still overwhelmed with moving boxes back then, the walls eclipsed in cardboard. Our plans for unpacking before Colin was born were quickly...