Magic Man Plus 15 Tales of Terror Read online

  Also by A.P. Fuchs

  Undead World Trilogy

  Blood of the Dead

  The Axiom-man™ Saga

  (listed in reading order)

  Axiom-man

  Episode No. 0: First Night Out

  Doorway of Darkness

  Episode No. 1: The Dead Land

  City of Ruin

  Of Magic and Men (comic book)

  OTHER Fiction

  A Stranger Dead

  A Red Dark Night

  April (writing as Peter Fox)

  Magic Man (deluxe chapbook)

  The Way of the Fog (The Ark of Light Vol. 1)

  Devil's Playground (written with Keith Gouveia)

  On Hell's Wings (written with Keith Gouveia)

  ANTHOLOGIES (as editor)

  Dead Science

  Elements of the Fantastic

  Vicious Verses and Reanimated Rhymes: Zany Zombie Poetry for the Undead Head

  Non-fiction

  Book Marketing for the

  Financially-challenged Author

  Poetry

  The Hand I've Been Dealt

  Haunted Melodies and Other Dark Poems

  Still About A Girl

  * * * *

  MAGIC MAN PLUS 15 TALES OF TERROR

  by

  A.P. Fuchs

  Published by Coscom Entertainment at Smashwords.com

  This book is also available as a paperback at your favorite online retailer like Amazon.com, or through your local bookstore.

  * * * *

  The fiction in this book is just that: fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead or known horrific events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-926712-52-9

  Magic Man Plus 15 Tales of Terror is Copyright © 2010 by Adam P. Fuchs. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce in whole or in part in any form or medium.

  Published by Coscom Entertainment

  www.coscomentertainment.com

  Text set in Garamond

  eBook Edition

  Cover Art by A.P. Fuchs and Roxanne Fuchs

  Cover Photo by Roxanne Fuchs

  * * * *

  For Keith Gouveia: colleague, fellow dreamer, and friend.

  * * * *

  The Program

  Introduction

  Magic Man

  The Exchange

  Setting it Right

  Introduction to a Magical Origin

  The Little Boy Who Would

  Desecration of Is

  Shedding the Skin

  Spinning Room

  In the Rearview Mirror

  A Perfect Date

  The Man in the Woods

  Booth 2

  Woodchips Stirring

  Not There

  Like a Worm

  Below

  Theatre of Skulls

  Beneath the Sand

  The Beat

  Rag-man

  Mr. Jitterbones

  * * * *

  MAGIC MAN PLUS 15 TALES OF TERROR

  * * * *

  Introduction

  If this collection is anything, it's a snapshot of a writer's early attempts at fiction.

  To quickly recap:

  I started in this game in 2000 after my plans to draw comic books fulltime didn't pan out. Aside from scripting pages for my classmates at the animation school I attended, I began writing short stories, the idea of tackling a full-blown novel right off the bat something far too daunting for me. I mean, really, me write a book 250-plus pages? No thanks. But write something 5 or 6 pages long? Sure, I could handle that.

  Never really had any formal training. I learned to write---and still am learning---by reading and writing and keeping myself inspired to keep reading and writing by watching other writers and what they're doing. Short stories, actually, were how my career as a novelist began. I wrote a couple---which are both contained here, more on those in a moment---then I started what was supposed to be 5 or 6 short stories to hopefully be published in serial format, each story leading into the next. What ended up happening was a huge accident and something that changed my career forever: those 5 or 6 stories became the prologue to my first novel, A Stranger Dead, which is now out-of-print but might be resurrected someday when I have the time.

  What you have here in Magic Man Plus 14 Tales of Terror is what could be called the first chunk of my career, back when I wrote more short stories than novels, sent them out to wherever I could, sometimes accepted, sometimes rejected, eventually all published.

  What I'm really pleased to include here is my first short story, Rag-man. This was the first story I wrote when I got serious about writing fulltime. When I pulled it from the archive, it was rough around the edges so I've cleaned it up for this collection, likewise the second short story I penned, A Perfect Date. Actually, all of the stories within have been re-edited since their original publication, most notably the main clump of stories under the Magic Man umbrella.

  I've got to tell you, reading and editing those stories after having not looked at them for many years was a great joy. There's a raw honesty in these tales and a certain eagerness to them from a young writer who wanted nothing more than to make a career out of telling stories and making stuff up. There were many times where I went, "Whoa, cool." Other times where I said, "Oops. Got to fix that." And yet others where I thought, on some level, that I might not ever be able to write this way again. That last part is true, I think, by the way. Like all crafts, writing is one of evolution and adaptation, a writer's stories acting as a mirror to what was going on in their lives at the time the stories were written. Couple that with their skill set at that time and you have something that a writer cannot duplicate later on. Those are two variables that are constantly in motion and never retreat back to the way they were.

  This collection, I'm hoping, will give you a thrill as you read good old-fashioned horror stories---especially Theatre of Skulls, a story that gave me a horror fanboy thrill as I edited it after who knows how many years since first typing it---all meant to entertain, enlighten and just plain have a good old time in a genre that I fell in love with some 12 years ago.

  Thanks for reading.

  - A.P. Fuchs

  Winnipeg, MB

  June 14, 2010

  Ps. Some of you who took the time to count the number of stories in the table of contents would have noticed there are more than 15 listed despite this book's title. To clarify my reasoning on why the title of the book is, Magic Man Plus 15 Tales of Terror, is because I counted the 2 stories, 1 poem, stream of thought and intro under the 'Magic Man' label as one overall story, with the rest intended to remain separate despite the Magic Man sequel titled, Below.

  So, if I haven't confused you enough, grab a drink, a warm blanket and enjoy the stories to come.

  * * * *

  Behind the veil of filth and rot

  He takes you down, takes all you've got

  Your heart escapes; chains are placed

  Runs out your back without pity or grace

  It hasn't really hit home, this game he plays

  Just keeps on going days upon days

  Smearing a street with gore and flesh

  With fetuses escaping from their mothers' flesh

  And still slick of caul and goo

  Babies of light, with life set to do

  The Magic Man knows when you'll ask

  For him to heal you, to change the past

  Tempt your fate, if you will

  But you'll lose your stomach and fall ill

  To a dying soul of resignation pure

&n
bsp; You can take part but be confident you're sure

  That you're prepared to give anything

  Everything

  All

  * * * *

  The Exchange

  When the strange man approached Barry Snyder, he seemed to have appeared from nothingness. Barry was rounding a corner in the Exchange, the old part of Winnipeg, when the peculiar man stepped out from the shadows beneath an awning and extended a thin hand toward him.

  "I can make her come back," the stranger said.

  It took Barry a moment to realize the man was talking to him. There was no one else around.

  "Excuse me?" Barry said.

  "I said, 'I can make her come back.'"

  Barry thought for a moment. Margaret? Is that who he's---No.

  He eyed the man quizzically. The fellow wore a tight-fitting purple suit, with white candy stripes running vertically all the way from the collar to the pants' cuffs. Long brown hair hugged his face like a scarf, and a purple fedora, without the stripes, topped it all off. A wide white feather stood up proudly from the fedora's headband, something similar to the quills folks used to use as pens. The man's clothes reminded him of a magician's outfit, the kind that entertainers wore at carnivals.

  "Sorry," Barry said and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his autumn coat. He walked around the man. A weight descended upon him, the reminder of losing Margaret heavy not just in his heart, but all over. "I'm not interested."

  The words "bring her back" brought Margaret's memory to life. Barry had dated her in high school and for two years after that, while both attended the University of Manitoba. Barry had studied psychology and Margaret was in education. Toward the end of their second year, Margaret announced she didn't want to be with him anymore. He couldn't understand it, what with the talk of marriage and all. Turns out a week later, when he asked some of her friends if they had any ideas as to why she left him, Margaret was seeing another guy by the name of James Fielder. Worse, she had been seeing James behind Barry's back.

  His heart shattered.

  Margaret's betrayal haunted him for years until one day he gave up on the hope that, given a miracle, Margaret would come back to him. This was the very same day he found out Margaret and James got married and moved away to somewhere in the States.

  The years went on, but Barry never forgot her, never forgot that girl with the blonde hair and dark eyes who he dated for four years. But that was just a memory, now. Even so, Barry never forgot her, never let her go. Not completely. Not a day went by when he wouldn't look up into the sky and pick a cloud, wondering if, by chance, Margaret was looking at the same cloud somewhere else. Of course, he knew that was impossible. Cloud cover ranged from region to region, so there was no way Margaret, if she was looking at a cloud, was looking at the same one. Regardless, the idea she might be gazing at the same puff of white in the sky was encouraging. It always calmed his aching heart.

  There were times when, while in bed, tears dampened his eyes at the thought of her. He never stopped missing her, never stopped thinking about her.

  Never stopped loving her.

  He was thirty years old now. He was on his lunch break from work and nipped down to the Exchange District for a coffee. That's when he rounded the corner and met the man in the purple suit, saying he could bring her back.

  When Barry was thirty paces away from him, the man called after him.

  "I can bring her back, Barry. I promise."

  Barry stopped in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder. The fellow looked straight back, hands raised shoulder-high in an apparent offer of friendship, his purple suit clashing with the browns and grays of the buildings.

  Barry turned and kept walking, Margaret's face hovering in the fore of his thoughts. Whenever he thought of her, he always pictured how she looked during that second year of university, so full of youth and eagerness, excited to start a career as a teacher once she graduated. Sometimes he would think about what she looked like now, eight years later. She would look the same, but there would be a maturity about her, an evident expression containing wisdom from the years.

  Suddenly, the man stepped in front of him. "I can bring Margaret back, Barry."

  How---? He looked back over his shoulder. The spot where the man had been standing was empty. "How'd you---how'd you do that?"

  "Doesn't matter," he said. "What does matter is I can bring her back. You want Margaret back, don't you? You want to be with her again. You can say it isn't so, but it's written all over your face. Your eyes gloss over immediately upon hearing her name. When I look at you, I see her."

  "How do you know that? How do you know my name?" The whole thing was surreal, like being stoned and experiencing life through a fog. How often Barry had wished someone would walk up to him and guarantee just what this man said. How much he had wished someone would say they would bring Margaret back into his life and assure him their relationship would never end again.

  "I've heard your prayers," the man said. "I can do this for you. If you let me." The man's hands were still raised, open, evidence of trust.

  Heart beating hard and quick, Barry exhaled slowly. And, for a moment, he didn't care if this was real or not, if he was dreaming or awake.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "I'm whoever you need me to be. I just want to bring her back, almost as much as you."

  Magic Man, Barry thought.

  "Magic Man?" the man said. "Well, I suppose that's as good a name as any. Magic Man, it is."

  "How did you---"

  The Magic Man offered a warm smile. "You don't need to know, but do know that I'm here for you."

  Barry swallowed the lump in his throat. If this was truly happening, then this was his only chance to see Margaret again. To take back what James Fielder stole from him. What the Magic Man had in mind to accomplish such a thing, he had no idea. But, like earlier, he already decided to go along with it, no matter how strange this all was.

  "How . . . . How do you plan on doing that? How do you even know about her, anyway?" Barry said. The wind picked up and swept through his thinning brown hair. He smoothed it back down with his palm.

  "Like I said, I've heard your prayers. You wanted someone to make that ache in your heart go away. You wanted someone to simply say, 'Here you go. Here she is. Now go and be happy.' Well, I'm that someone. I can bring her back."

  For a long moment, Barry considered his offer. Perhaps the Magic Man really could do what he said? After all, he somehow vanished from where he had been standing and suddenly appeared in front of him. No one could do that. No one human, anyway.

  "Are you . . . God?" Barry asked. It was a foolish question, one that escaped his lips before he could restrain it.

  The Magic Man laughed. "No, Barry, I'm not. And I'm not the devil, either, if that's what you're thinking. Which you are, by the way."

  Barry's spine tingled. He did just think this guy was the devil.

  "I'm just a good Samaritan," the man said, "and I want to help you." The man looked him in the eye. "What do you say?" He extended his hand for a handshake.

  Barry thought of Margaret and how his heart burned when she said she didn't want to be with him. He thought of the sleepless nights for months afterward, kicking the sheets and bringing his fists down on the mattress, wondering why she left him for James. He never hated her, but was only frustrated by the ever-present pain she caused. He remembered dating other girls and how he ended those relationships because they never felt right, none of those girls ever measuring up to the standard Margaret set. Remembered his all-consuming desire to have her back, anything to ease the permanent pain in his heart.

  "Sure," Barry said. "Might as well. I've got nothing left to lose." He took the Magic Man's hand in his. "You gotta deal. Anything for Margaret."

  * * * *

  Barry had been here for so long, he didn't know what day it was. Worse, he didn't even know what year it was. Nearly every calm moment was spent regretting meeting the Magic Man.
And nearly all moments, even during the searing pain of the Magic Man's torture, were spent thinking of Margaret.

  It had been a long road.

  Barry prayed it would soon be over. After meeting the Magic Man in the Exchange, the moment after shaking the Magic Man's hand, Barry knew he made the wrong decision. Yet, it couldn't have been completely wrong, could it? No.

  This was for Margaret.

  It was all for Margaret.

  It would always be for her.

  That day in the Exchange, the Magic Man led him around the corner and then around another into a back alley. Steam rose from the sewers and the alley was dark, even for the middle of the day. Garbage and old newspapers littered the ground, stirring in the light wind that swirled through the alley like water in a funnel.

  "Wait right here," the Magic Man said.

  Barry stood and watched the man in the white-striped purple suit squat down before a mound of garbage next to a BFI bin. With a thin hand, he pawed at the pile, pushing the garbage aside, revealing a rusted iron handle. The man turned it to the left, then all the way backwards in a circle. There was a low ka-chunk that echoed through the ground. Barry felt the same dull ka-chunk in his chest.

  His heart skipped.

  The man glanced over his shoulder and winked at him, then, curling his long fingers beneath the bottom rim of the BFI bin, the man hoisted the garbage bin up at a forty-five degree angle. Then he let go, and the BFI bin remained suspended in the air, without any support save for its opposite end that was still planted on the ground.