Horrorshow

By Nathan Allen

Riley Haig is a mild-mannered wage slave returning to his hometown following a decade-long absence. From the moment he arrives, everything feels off by a degree or two. Dark secrets lurk behind every corner, long-forgotten figures re-emerge from his murky past, and he is haunted by the eerie notion that something terrible could happen at any given moment.

Then the bodies begin piling up.

Langdon Pryce is a bestselling novelist in creative freefall, in the middle of writing a story about a mild-mannered wage slave returning to his hometown following a decade-long absence. A crisis of confidence forces him to re-examine his own life and values, spurring him on to produce what he hopes could be his greatest work to date.

Then things get weird.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathan Allen
• Release date: Jan 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463987285

Nathan Allen

A purveyor of nonsense that occasionally vomits out something profound.

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Horrorshow

By Nathan Allen

Copyright 2021 Nathan Allen

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by VectorArtist@99designs

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Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends, family, frenemies and foes. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.

Hazard by Richard Marx copyright 1992 Capitol Records. No permission given but Richard Marx seems like a cool guy who wouldn’t sue.

This novel is mostly a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s psychosis. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely regrettable.

The immoral right of Nathan Allen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Credits

Statement from Langdon Pryce

Statement from Nathan Allen

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Interlude I

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Interlude II

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Interlude III

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Interlude IV

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

...

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Further Reading

Statement from Langdon Pryce

In my bestselling seventh novel, Black Tongue, the hero Derrick Galton is forced to defend his neighborhood from an invading horde of alien shapeshifters that look, sound and act like normal human beings, but are in fact giant leech-like organisms that have taken humanoid form. The choice of hirudinean worms as the insidious force was deliberate, as it was inspired by the sheer number of leeches that I have had to contend with in the years since I first began to enjoy success as a writer. Fighting off bloodsucking parasites is a sad but inevitable part of the job, whether that be deluded cyber-stalkers spreading unfounded allegations on social media that I have stolen their idea, to long-lost family members emerging from the woodwork to ask for a handout, to Hollywood studios cooking the books to avoid having to pay royalties owed.

Nathan Allen, a failed writer whose career achievements to date could be listed on the back of a postage stamp, is possibly the biggest leech of all. Despite the fact that he and I have never met, he has still managed to plunder my work and shamelessly pass it off as his own in what I can only assume is a ludicrous attempt at jumpstarting his own career. While I can’t pretend to be surprised that someone would sink so low and behave so unethically in the shameless pursuit of fame and financial gain, it still saddens me to see a writer treat a fellow scribe in such a way.

As I write this, the battle for the Horrorshow credits is still before the courts, however I am confident the final outcome will rule in my favor and state unequivocally that I am the sole author of the work you are about to read.

Statement from Nathan Allen

The story of how Horrorshow came to be in its current form is a long and at times complex tale. It is one that I will attempt to clarify in the limited space I have here.

As I understand it, Langdon Pryce authored the original manuscript during one week of frantic writing activity in June 2015. According to my sources, when he re-read what he had written several weeks later, he was dismayed at the poor quality of his own work. The manuscript was tossed into the proverbial bottom drawer, where it remained for two years.

In 2017, ownership of the manuscript was transferred to a third party (who has requested anonymity) in exchange for the canceling of an outstanding gambling debt. That person then approached me in late 2019 to ask if I would be interested in purchasing said manuscript from him. After negotiating an agreed-upon sum, the requisite paperwork was drawn up and Horrorshow legally became my property.

Despite Mr. Pryce’s claims, the story has not been stolen from him. It is impossible in this day and age for one writer to steal the work of another and pass it off as their own. The chain of title documentation clearly states that I have obtained this work through legal means. Mr. Pryce was acting on his own free will when he relinquished the rights, he was of sound mind, and was in no way coerced. This appears to be nothing more than a case of seller’s remorse.

Once I became aware of Mr. Pryce’s dissatisfaction I was more than happy to resolve the issue through mediation, however Mr. Pryce appears to have a sue first, ask questions later disposition.

Another falsehood perpetrated is that I have contributed zero work to the story you are about to read. This could not be further from the truth. The manuscript was in no way publishable when I first took possession of it, a fact confirmed by the previous owner, who spent two years unsuccessfully shopping it around to various publishers before approaching me. The original document was purported to have been written in one week, and, to put it bluntly, it shows. The copy I received was barely readable. An entire year was spent rewriting the story and shaping the confused stream-of-consciousness ramblings into something resembling a coherent narrative. Numerous spelling, grammatical and punctuation errors were corrected. Several outdated terms were removed or replaced with more acceptable alternatives (mulatto changed to biracial, Chinaman to person of Asian origin, and so on). The fictional automobile manufacturer Vektehr was created to avoid potential libel suits, and several inflammatory references to the Israel/Palestine conflict were excised completely.

Despite our disagreements, I have magnanimously agreed to a compromise allowing co-authorship of this work. The title will now read Langdon Pryce’s "Horrorshow" by Nathan Allen, in order to accurately reflect the contributions made by both writers. I have also agreed to include a statement from Mr. Pryce, as shown on the previous page. I was under no obligation to do either of these, however this is my attempt at meeting Mr. Pryce halfway. It is my hope that we can resolve this matter without needlessly clogging up the courts with further legal action.

Ultimately, it will be up to the reader to decide which writer deserves the lion’s share of credit. I encourage everyone to read both my own work and Langdon Pryce’s to draw their own conclusions.

Langdon Pryce’s

Horrorshow

By Nathan Allen

Chapter One

Riley Haig hated his job. For the best part of two years he had worked for Xakli Insurance – pronounced exactly, as in, No one knew exactly who came up with a name as stupid as Xakli. This was by far the longest he had ever held down regular employment.

For the past six weeks he had been a claims assessor. He was part of the sales team prior to that, cold-calling civilians at random and guilting them into taking out overpriced policies that they probably didn’t need. He was offered a promotion after his boss informed him that he was one of the team’s top performers, and that his work ethic suggested he had the potential to thrive if he was presented with a greater challenge. As far as Riley could tell, the only thing he had done to earn this praise was not quit.

Riley Haig hated his boss. Stefan Asher had slicked-back bleached blonde hair, and he wore heavy gold jewelry around his neck, wrists and fingers. He engaged in the infuriating habit of foot-tapping and desk-drumming when others were trying to work. At twenty-three, Stefan was six years younger than he was. To have become regional manager so early in his career meant that Stefan was either prodigiously talented or the beneficiary of nepotism. As it so happened, Stefan was the son of the company’s senior vice president.

Riley was in no position to pass judgement, though. His older sister Shelley was the director of operations at Xakli’s head office. This was a fact he went to great lengths to hide from his co-workers. She had given him the sales job because she wanted to keep tabs on him.

He had been summoned to Stefan’s office on this Friday afternoon. Stefan began with small talk, or his idea of what small talk was. Rather than asking anything about Riley’s life – how his day had been, how he was finding the change in duties, what his plans were for the weekend, etc. – he talked exclusively about himself. Riley soon heard all about the Tesla Model S he had recently purchased, and his upcoming two-week vacation to Ko Pha Ngan.

Finally, after thirteen soul-destroying minutes: I’ve brought you in here today to discuss the Marjory Taylor case, Stefan said. What can you tell me about that?

This was a life insurance claim that Riley had assessed earlier in the week. He took a moment to recall the specifics.

Marjory Leanne Taylor died in October of the previous year, aged fifty-six. Her third husband was Norman John Taylor, aged sixty-three, also deceased. Their marriage was tumultuous from the beginning. Norman had a volatile temper and a decades-long criminal history, and he was known to have been violent with his previous wives. He was a manic-depressive who had recently stopped taking his medication, as well as a firearms enthusiast whose drinking had increased substantially since losing his job three months earlier. In simple terms, he was a tragedy waiting to happen.

On that fateful day in October, the husband and wife engaged in a vicious screaming match that lasted hours. This in itself was nothing out of the ordinary; police had conducted several welfare checks at their address in recent months following reports of a domestic disturbance. But this one escalated faster and further than most. At one point, Norman locked himself in the bathroom with a bottle of 100 proof gin and a loaded revolver for company. When Marjory located the spare key and stormed in to continue their quarreling, she found him in the tub with the gun between his teeth.

Neighbors reported hearing the gunshot just after four p.m.

So far so tragic, and a story that had played out too many times before. But it didn’t end there.

Norman was facing away from Marjory when the trigger was pulled. The gun was a Smith & Wesson Model 29 Classic; a weapon so powerful that the back of Norman’s skull offered barely any resistance to the bullet as it was propelled from the chamber. It continued on and struck Marjory in the shoulder, rupturing her right subclavian artery. She tried crawling for help, but the blood loss was too severe. Four minutes later, husband and wife were both dead from the same bullet. It was the freakiest of freak accidents, a one in a million occurrence.

Marjory had taken out a life insurance policy with Xakli earlier that year. The claim landed on Riley’s desk for assessment. After reviewing all the facts, he decided that it was fairly straightforward: Marjory’s death was an accident, and her policy covered accidental death. He approved the payout to her two adult children.

Stefan half-listened as this was explained to him, and half-texted like a tween who had just received a new iPhone for Christmas. When Riley had finished, Stefan slid a sheet of paper across the desk.

Read out that section, Stefan said, tapping it with his finger.

Riley leaned forward to glance at the document. It was page eleven of the product disclosure statement for Xakli’s life insurance policy. One sentence had been marked with yellow highlighter. The policy will be declared null and void in the event of a suicide within the first twenty-four months, he said.

So what does that tell you? Stefan said.

It means we can reject the claim if the claimant takes their own life in that period. Riley finished speaking, hoping what he said was self-evident and required no further elaboration.

Stefan looked at him like he was expecting more.

But ... she didn’t die by suicide, he continued. Her husband did, but the coroner ruled Marjory’s death was accidental.

"Yes, but pay attention to the wording – ‘in the event of a suicide’. A suicide was directly responsible for Marjory Taylor’s death. It doesn’t say anywhere in the T’s and C’s that it has to be her suicide."

Stefan grinned like a child who had successfully tied his shoelaces for the first time. It took Riley a few seconds to catch on to what was being suggested here.

"Are you telling me you want to deny the beneficiaries their payout due to a technicality – a literal reading of the terms and conditions?"

Riley, please. Xakli is a business, not a charity. Stefan was using his most patronizing voice. Making a profit always has and always will be our primary concern. We’re not here to provide a community service.

The family are not going to be happy. He wanted to voice his objection in more expressive terms, but that was all he could come up with.

No. I imagine they won’t. Stefan recommenced texting.

It might even end up in court. Riley felt a tremendous urge to force-feed him that phone.

And? You really think these people have the resources to take us on?

But what if the media get involved? Will all the negative publicity really be worth it, just to avoid having to pay out a few hundred thousand dollars?

"Riley, relax. That’s a tomorrow problem. Or a next week problem, or next month. Whatever it is, it’s not your problem. Just worry about doing your own job properly."

Stefan continued talking, or monologuizing, for several more minutes, which segued into one of his interminable pep talks. Riley had heard this speech many times before, or some variation of it. This was the one where Stefan told him that he had the potential to succeed, and with hard work, determination and the right attitude he could one day be sitting where he was, on the power side of the desk, but he needed to keep his eyes peeled and his ears open at all times, think outside the box, and be aware of what was going on around him. Meaningless platitudes and bromides regurgitated straight from whatever TED talk he happened to watch earlier that day.

That’s how you move up the hierarchy, Stefan said. That’s how I got to where I am today.

That, and being the son of the senior vice president. Riley battered away the sarcastic comment in his head. I’ll just have to try harder in future, he said instead.

Stefan smiled again. It almost caused Riley physical pain to return the gesture.

The longer he stayed here, the more he hated his job.

Xakli Insurance first came into existence eight years ago. Despite its relatively short history, it was one of the fastest-growing firms in the financial services industry. Its popularity was due in part to its now-infamous life insurance products, stating that policies could be taken out on anyone, anywhere, regardless of whether the policyholder had an existing relationship with the insured person. This generated a great deal of controversy when it was first launched. It was claimed that insuring total strangers and benefiting financially from their death was immoral, in poor taste, and could potentially lead to exploitation and murder. The company was quick to dismiss these concerns, insisting the scenarios suggested by critics belonged to the realm of fantasy, and would never occur in the real world.

Many believed the anyone, anywhere product was little more than a marketing gimmick, and by Xakli’s own admission very few individuals had taken out policies to insure someone they did not know. Those that had were mostly people participating in celebrity death pools, or sports fans insuring their team’s most important player.

That night, skulls invaded Riley’s sleep. Not the hard-boned type seen in books on archaeology or human anatomy. These skulls were ghoulish caricatures, their mouths contorted into demonic grins, with gaping black holes where their nose and eyes should be. Disembodied heads floating atop amorphous bodies, following his every step. They were everywhere he turned.

He tried to run and he tried to hide, but the skulls were never more than a few paces behind, tethered to him by an invisible cord, taunting him and letting him know there was no escape. They were demons that could not be outrun.

A pounding on his front door brought an end to the torment.

He was surprised to see daylight creeping in from behind the curtains. It felt like his head had just hit the pillow.

He stayed where he was for a minute. Like most people, he had experienced anxiety dreams from time to time, but this one seemed different. More vivid, and much more intense. Ominous, like it was loaded with greater significance. Like his subconscious was trying to tell him something – or trying to warn him.

Further pounding on the door. Ignoring it did nothing to make it stop. It only became more persistent, the visitor knocking with greater determination and ringing the bell with increased fervor. Whoever it was, they wanted him to know they were not leaving until he answered.

He threw off his damp sheets and stumbled out of the bedroom.

He flung the door open, bleary-eyed and bed-headed, expecting to see an old lady shaking a charity tin or an old man holding a bible and promising to save his eternal soul. Instead, he was confronted with a sight much worse. Something he was definitely not prepared to face this early in the morning. It was his sister Shelley.

You’re not ready? she said.

Her speaking and shrieking voices were more or less indistinguishable. She held a takeaway coffee in each hand. One was thrust in Riley’s general direction.

Ready for what? he said. He accepted the hot beverage, against his better judgement.

Don’t waste my time, Riley. I’m really not in the mood. She pushed her way inside without waiting for an invitation. The wedding’s at two, and we have a long drive ahead of us. I want to be in fone.ONE by midday. Hurry up and get dressed.

A feverish chill passed through him. The wedding. Oh god. That was today.

Shelley’s husband Doug trailed wordlessly a few steps behind. He was wearing his one suit – the one he dusted off for every formal occasion for as long as Riley had known him. Doug was a creature of habit, and a man of few words and simple tastes. Someone who, despite earning a doctor’s salary, saw no reason to throw away good money on something that would only be worn a handful of times in any given year.

By contrast, Shelley had squeezed her Pilates-toned, juice-cleansed figure into a brand-new Chanel outfit; one that probably cost as much as a small car and would most likely never be worn again. Her hair had been styled by some flamboyant Euro coiffure artiste, and her freshly-Botoxed face was as smooth and as cold as a frozen lake. As well as being nine years older than Riley, Shelley had inherited their parents’ curse of premature aging – grey hairs at twenty-seven, crow’s feet at thirty. A small fortune had been lost in the years since trying to reverse the process.

Shelley, I’m not going to the wedding, Riley said. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear.

He dropped into his recliner chair. It was the only seat in his cramped apartment, leaving Shelley and Doug no choice but to remain standing. Aside from the low rent, the size of the place was its most attractive quality. It was too small for hosting visitors, which suited him just fine.

Doug busied himself by flicking through a dog-eared paperback sitting on the TV cabinet. It was a Langdon Pryce potboiler, left behind by the ex-girlfriend Riley was currently trying to erase from his memory.

I don’t have time for your games, Shelley said. She cast a critical eye over the unwashed dishes piled up in the sink, the dust lining the shelves, and the carpet that had gone months without seeing a vacuum cleaner. You’re coming to the wedding today. End of story.

And if I refuse? It’s not like you can force me to go.

Do you really want to find out? Her eyelids twitched a little. Riley got the impression she was trying to raise her eyebrows, something she was incapable of doing so soon after her last Botox appointment. There’s two of us and one of you. I think we’d have a pretty good shot of getting you into the car.

He rubbed his eyes. It was too early in the morning for this. His brain was still half asleep. This felt like a continuation of the previous night’s bad dream.

The coffee in his hands was smelling pretty good right about now. He was tempted to take a sip, but he resisted. He didn’t want to give Shelley the satisfaction.

Incredibly and improbably, the fact that his twin sister Izzy was getting married today had slipped his mind. For some reason he thought it was next weekend. He had put the invitation up on the fridge when he first received it, only to toss it out a few days later. He wouldn’t be attending, and all it did was remind him of his own failures. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go; he would love nothing more than to be able to. It was just that he couldn’t return to his hometown of Krumbleton. That was out of the question. Too many traumatic memories.

He had skipped his father’s funeral seven years ago, and his mother’s four years after that. Izzy’s wedding would be one more important event he would miss out on, resulting in months of self-loathing and further alienation from his family.

I thought we both agreed you were coming today, Shelley said.

How did you possibly arrive at that conclusion after I said no the first twelve times? he said. "At no point did I say I was going. I told you right from the start that I was not going. But, as usual, you invented your own narrative in your head, and you only heard what you wanted to hear."

For weeks she had badgered him after the invitations were sent out. At first he was non-committal, trying to delay giving an answer, and then he said no outright. When this failed to end the discussion, he stopped taking her calls and replying to her texts. That was a short-term solution to their incessant arguing, but also his biggest error in judgement. Being unresponsive was never going to be a deterrent for Shelley. She was going to do as she pleased, with or without his permission. Ordering him around was second nature, and something she’d spent most of her life doing. She had become much worse after their mother’s passing. Shelley had seamlessly stepped into that role to provide him with all the nagging, shaming and guilt-tripping he could ever hope for.

She arranged the job for him at Xakli Insurance just so she could keep an eye on him. He only accepted because he had no other prospects.

Honestly Riley, I’ve had just about enough of this, she said, planting her hands on her hips. I don’t know why you refuse to come back to fone.ONE.

"Would you please stop calling it fone.ONE?"

That’s the official name of the town. It’s been known as fone.ONE for several years now.

I know, and it’s ridiculous and I refuse to acknowledge it.

"Well Krumbleton, fone.ONE, whatever you want to call it. I just don’t understand what your problem is. I understood – I sort of understood – why you didn’t want to return for the funerals. That was an emotional time for everyone, and grief takes different forms. But this is different. This is your sister’s wedding, and one of the most important days of her life. It should be the most joyous. She wants nothing more than for you to be there. If you don’t come today ... She shook her head, and she trailed off. We’ve tolerated a lot from you. A lot. You’ve tested our patience, you really have. But this is too much, I’m afraid."

Doug stood by and observed from the opposite side of the room without comment. His body language was a wordless apology. Riley had always got along fine with Doug, and it was clear he had no say in any of this. This was more or less how their marriage operated. Shelley did whatever she wanted, and it was easier for Doug to go along with it.

Shelley, you can lecture me all you want. Riley finally gave in to temptation by taking a sip of the coffee. You can get angry with me, and you can try to coerce me, but I’ve made up my mind. I’m not coming to the wedding, and I’m not going back to Krumbleton. End of story. And guess what? There’s nothing you can say or do that will get me in that car.

Chapter Two

As it so happened, there was one thing Shelley could say to get Riley into the

Reviews for Horrorshow

[grandpahobo · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a really good story. The first third of the book is a bit slow and sometimes tedious. But once you turn that corner, everything changes. The plot gets much more interesting and the action speeds up. Its as if you were riding in a horse and buggy and suddenly find yourself in the middle of the Indy 500. And you don't want to miss the ending!