When They Came Back

By Christopher Conlon

It's winter 1899 in Hardgrove, Nebraska—a lonely little village in the middle of nowhere. Nothing ever happens in Hardgrove; farmers farm, shopkeepers tend to their shops, men gather at Mr. Henry's Tavern to drink and discuss crop prices.

But things are about to change. It begins with a mysterious rain—an oily black rain that falls from peculiar green clouds and burns the skin. Then, one after another…the people return.

People who are supposed to be dead.

When They Came Back marks the first collaboration between writer Christopher Conlon, "one of the preeminent names in contemporary literary horror" (Booklist), and visionary art photographer Roberta Lannes-Sealey. It's a story of the living dead told in words and photographs that's unlike any you've ever encountered. 

Brace yourself…for When They Came Back.

"This reads like a lost tale, a found narrative, gorgeously written and photographed in such verisimilitude that you will wonder if this tale is true, or partly so. It won't take a great deal of time to read, but this novella will stick in your head like a particularly vivid nightmare."
-- countgore.com

"Here's a poetic tale set in 1899, Nebraska, dealing with a strange black rain that not only burns people's skin, but manages to bring the dead back to life. However, this is no zombie story and it's anything but a typical apocalyptic romp; it's yet another fresh creation that can only come from the mind of Christopher Conlon. Highlighted by Roberta Lannes-Sealey's moody and eerie photographs, Conlon's irresistible storytelling pulled me through this in one sitting. Short, sweet, and highly recommended."
- The Horror Fiction Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: BearManor Media
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393760498

Christopher Conlon

Christopher Conlon’s poems, stories, and articles have appeared in such diverse publications as America Magazine, Poet Lore, The Long Story, Filmfax, Dark Discoveries, and Poets & Writers. He is the author of three previous books of poems (Gilbert and Garbo in Love, The Weeping Time, and Mary Falls: Requiem for Mrs. Surratt) as well as a novel, Midnight on Mourn Street, which he recently adapted for the stage. As an editor his credits include He Is Legend: An Anthology Celebrating Richard Matheson, Poe’s Lighthouse, and The Twilight Zone Scripts of Jerry Sohl. A former Peace Corps Volunteer, Conlon holds an M.A. in American Literature from the University of Maryland. Visit him online at http://christopherconlon.com.

Book preview

1.

When they came back

it was the night of black rain

after the day of black rain

when farmers reached their palms

to what fell from the luminous

green clouds turbulent

above them to find their flesh

covered with dark streaks,

like oil but not really:

more solid, beads of black mercury.

No one had ever seen rain like that

in Hardgrove, Nebraska, Jackson

County, in the Year of Our Lord 1899,

or any other year, or any other

place. The mud it made

seemed to glisten and glow.

Cows hid from it in barns, and horses.

Children ran out to play, only to turn again

to their houses, complain to their mothers

that it burned. It rained all day like that

and through the night. It was still raining

when they came back.

2.

Gideon Boone opened his door at midnight

to a knock. Nobody ever knocked.

He lived miles from anyone. There

in the lamplight was his wife Obedience —

Biddie — her pale blue dress torn

and smeared with filth. It was the dress

they were to bury her in on Sunday. Her face

was sunken, starved, her cheeks

worm-white and hollow; her eyes dim

black pebbles. (They had been blue, too.)

Her golden hair was askew, like that

of a madwoman, spraying out

in all directions, clumped with mud.

She reeled, nearly fell. Her mouth

moved, gaping, as if trying to capture

air, or to speak. Her palms, sheened

with black rain, opened as if beseeching

her husband of thirty years to tell her

what she was doing there. Boone drew back

into the kitchen, stumbled against the table

he’d built for her long ago, fell

into a chair, wordless, worldless.

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3.

Olivia Wheeler stood at the foot of her sister’s

bed in the attic room they’d shared. Waking

to darkness, Winifred, aged eight, saw her

blackglowing in the night and sat up wide-eyed.

Livy? Lightning flashed, odd,

green-tinged, and Winnie saw for an instant

Livy’s sick countenance — dark pockets

under her eyes, blue and black shadows

smothering her neck, shoulders, face.

She wore her white nightgown, streaked black

now like bruised tears. Livy!

Winnie leapt from bed, hugging the silent

girl. She kissed the cold cheeks,

grasped the cold hands in her own.

She’d not known such happiness

ever in her life, even if Livy’s eyes

seemed dark, distant. Still, it was her.

Livy, Livy, Livy! Then quickly,

holding her close, she pressed her finger

to her sister’s