Jack's Magic Beans

‘The King’, in: YELLOW

The man stood rotting on the corner. Frayed rags hung from his skeletal frame and ulcerated sores covered his exposed flesh, weeping blood and pus. He stank. Sweat. Infection. Excrement. Despair.

Finley considered going the long way around him, but Kathryn waved impatiently from across the street. He shouldered by; head down, eyes fixed on the pavement. Invisible.

He can’t see me if I can’t see him.

“Yo ’zup,” the rotting man mumbled over the traffic. “Kin you help a brutha’ out wit’ a quarta’?”

Finley tried ignoring him, then relented. He didn’t have the heart to be so cold, although Kathryn’s yuppie friends (they were supposed to be his friends too, but he never thought of them that way) would have mocked him for it. He raised his head, actually looking at the bum, meeting his watery eyes. They shone. He glanced across the street. Kathryn was incredulous.

“Sorry, man.” Finley held his hands out in a pretense of sympathy. “I’m taking my girl to dinner.” Feeling like an idiot, he pointed at Kathryn, proving what he was saying was true. “Need to stop at an ATM.”

“S’cool,” the vagrant smiled. “Ya’ll kin hit me on da way back.”

“Okay, we’ll do that.”

He stepped off the curb. The man darted forward, grasping his shoulder. Dirty fingernails clawed at his suit jacket.

“Hey!” Finley protested.

“Have ya’ll seen Yellow?” the bum croaked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Finley stammered, clueless.

“Afta’ ya’ eat, take yo’ lady t’ see it.”

Cackling, he shambled off toward the waterfront.

Kathryn shook her head as Finley crossed the street. “So you met the Human Scab?”

“Only in Baltimore,” he grinned.

“Fucking wildlife,” she spat, taking his arm. “That’s why I take my smoke breaks in the parking garage. I don’t know what’s worse—the seagulls dive-bombing me, or the homeless dive-bombing me.”

“The seagulls,” Finley replied. “How was your day?”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Roger. Christ, you’ve become so liberal. What happened to the conservative I fell in love with?” She paused and let go of his arm, lighting a cigarette. In the early darkness, the flame lit her face, reminding Finley why he’d fallen in love with her. “But since you asked, it sucked. How was yours?”

“Alright, I guess. Pet Search’s site crashed, so I had to un-fuck that. Fed-Ex dropped off my new back-up server. On Days of Our Lives, John is still trying to find Stefano and Bo found out about Hope’s baby.”

“Wish I could work from home. But one of us has to make money.”

“Well isn’t that why we’re going out to dinner? To celebrate your big bonus?”

They crossed Albemarle Street in silence. Ahead, the bright lights of the Inner Harbor beckoned with its fancy restaurants and posh shops. The National Aquarium overlooked the water like an ancient monolith.

Kathryn’s brow furrowed.

“Beautiful night,” Finley commented, tugging his collar against the cold air blowing in across the water. “You can almost see the stars.”

Kathryn said nothing.

“What’s wrong?”

She sighed, her breath forming mist in the air. “I feel—I don’t know—old. We used to do fun things all the time. Now it’s dinner on the couch and whatever’s on satellite. Maybe a game of Scrabble if we’re feeling energetic.”

Finley stared out across the harbor. “I thought you liked coming home every evening with dinner made, and spending a quiet night around the house.”

She took his hand.

“I do, Roger. I’m sorry. It’s just—we’re both thirty now. When was the last time we did something really fun?”

“When we were twenty-one and you puked on me during the Depeche Mode concert?”

Kathryn finally laughed, and they walked on, approaching Victor’s.

“So why did your day suck?”

“Oh, the lender won’t approve the loan on the Spring Grove project because the inspector found black mold in some of the properties. Of course, Ned told him we were going to rip out the tiles during the remodeling phase, but he—”

Finley tuned her out, still nodding and expressing acknowledgement where applicable. After ten years, he’d gotten good at it. When was the last time they’d really done something fun? He tried to remember. Didn’t this count? Going out to dinner? Probably not. He tried to pinpoint exactly when they’d settled into this comfortable zone of domestic familiarity. By mutual agreement, they didn’t go to the club anymore. Too many ghetto fabulous suburbanites barely out of college. They didn’t go to the movies because she hated the cramped seating and symphony of babies crying and cell phones ringing.

“—so I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Kathryn finished.

“You’ll be fine,” Finley nodded, squeezing her hand. “You can handle it.”

She smiled, squeezing back.

The line outside Victor’s snaked around the restaurant. Finley maneuvered them through it; thankful he’d had the foresight to make reservations. The maitre d’ approached them, waving.

“Hello, Ms. Kathryn,” he said, clasping her hand. “I’m delighted you could join us.”

“Hello, Franklin,” she curtsied, smiling as the older man kissed both her cheeks. “This is my boyfriend, Roger.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard much about you.”

He winked and Finley grinned, unsure of how to reply.

“Give them a good view,” Franklin told the hostess, and turned back to them. “Sheila will seat you. Enjoy your meal.”

“I come here a lot for lunch,” Kathryn explained as they followed Sheila to their table. “I told Franklin we’d be coming in tonight. He’s a nice old guy; a real charmer.”

“Yes, he does seem nice,” Finley mumbled, distracted. Not for the first time, he found himself surprised by how little he knew about Kathryn’s life outside their relationship. He’d never thought to wonder where she spent her lunches.

In many ways, they were different. Strangers making up a whole. She was the consummate twenty-first century yuppie—a corporate lioness intent upon her career and nothing else. He was the epitome of the Generation X slacker, running a home-based web-hosting business. They’d been together almost ten years, but at times, it seemed to him as if they were just coasting. The subjects of marriage and children had been broached several times, and usually deflected by both of them. He needed to devote his time to developing his business. She wasn’t where she wanted to be in her career. Despite that, he thought they were happy. So why the disquiet? Maybe Kathryn was right. Maybe they needed to do something fun, something different.

“—at night, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “What’d you say hon?”

“I said the harbor really is beautiful at night.” They were seated in front of a large window, looking out towards the Chesapeake Bay. The lights of the city twinkled in the darkness.

“Yeah, it sure is.”

“What were you thinking about, Roger?”

“Honestly? That you’re right. We should do something fun. How about we take a trip down to the ocean this weekend? Check out the wild horses, maybe do a little beach-combing?”

“That sounds great,” she sighed. “But I can’t this weekend. I’ve got to come in on Saturday and crunch numbers for the Vermont deal. We close on that next week.”

“Well then, how about we do something Sunday? Maybe take a drive up to Pennsylvania and visit some of the flea markets, see the Amish, or stop at a produce stand?”

“That’s a possibility. Let’s play it by ear, okay?”

They studied their menus, basking in the comfortable silence that only long-time partners share. That was when Roger noticed the woman. She and her companion sat at the next table. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on her sallow face. She was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Heroin, he wondered, or maybe Anorexia? She obviously came from money. That much was apparent from her jewelry and shoes. Her companion looked wealthy too. Maybe she was a prostitute? No, they seemed too familiar with each other for that.

What caught Finley’s attention next was the blood trickling down her leg. Her conversation was animated, and while she gestured excitedly with one hand, the other was beneath the table, clenching her leg. Her fingernails clawed deep into her thigh, hard enough to draw blood. She didn’t seem to care. In fact, judging by the look in her eye, she enjoyed the sensation.

Kathryn was absorbed with the menu. He turned back to the couple, and focused on what the woman was saying.

“And then, the King appears. It’s such a powerful moment, you can’t breathe. I’ve been to Vegas, and I’ve seen impersonators, but this guy is the real thing!”

Her companion’s response was muffled, and Finley strained to hear.

“I’m serious, Reginald! It’s like he’s channeling Elvis! The King playing the King! The whole cast is like that. There’s a woman who looks and sounds just like Janis Joplin playing the Queen, and a very passable John Lennon as Thale. The best though, next to the King of course, is the guy they cast to play the Pallid Mask. I swear to you Reginald, he’s Kurt Cobain! You can’t tell the difference. It’s all so realistically clever! Actors playing dead rock stars playing roles. A play within a musical within a play.”

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and Finley leaned towards them.

“The special effects are amazing. When the Queen has the Pallid Mask tortured, you can actually see little pieces of brain in Cobain’s hair. And they have audience participation, too. It’s different every night. We each had to reveal a secret that we’d never told anyone. That’s why Stephanie left Christopher. Apparently, he revealed a tryst he’d had with a dog when he was thirteen. She left him after the performance. Tonight, I hear they’ll be having the audience unmask as well during the masquerade scene!”

He jumped as Kathryn’s fingertips brushed his hand.

“Stop eavesdropping,” she whispered. “It’s not polite.”

“Sorry. Have you decided what you’re going to have?”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” she purred. “I’m going with the crab cakes. How about you?”

“I think I’ll have the filet mignon. Rare. And a big baked potato with lots of sour cream and butter.”

Her eyes widened. “Why Roger, you haven’t had that since your last visit to the doctor. What happened to eating healthy, so you don’t end up like your father?”

“The hell with my hereditary heart disease and cholesterol!” He closed the menu with a snap. “You said we need to start having more fun. Red meat and starch is a good start!”

She laughed, and the lights of the bay reflected in her eyes. Underneath the table, she slid her foot against his leg.

“I love you, Kathryn.”

“I love you too.”

The woman at the other table stood up, knocking her chair backward, and began to scream. Silence, then hushed murmurs as the woman tottered back and forth on her heels. Her companion scooted his chair back, cleared his throat in embarrassment, and reached for her. She slapped his hand away with a shriek.

“Have you seen the Yellow Sign?” she sang. “Have you found the Yellow Sign? Have you seen the Yellow Sign?”

She continued the chorus, spinning round and round. Her flailing arms sent a wine glass crashing to the floor. Her date lunged for her. She sidestepped, and in one quick movement, snatched her steak knife from the table and plunged it into his side. He sank to the floor, pulling the tablecloth and their meals down with him. The other patrons began screaming as well. Several dashed for the exit, but no one moved to stop her. Finley felt frozen in place, transfixed by what occurred next. Still singing, the woman bent over and plucked up her soup spoon from the mess on the floor, then used it to gouge out her eyes. Red and white pulp dribbled down her face. Voice never wavering, she continued to sing.

Kathryn cringed against Finley. He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the exit. Franklin the maitre d’, and several men from the kitchen rushed toward the woman. As he hurried Kathryn out the door, he heard the woman cackling.

“I found it! I can see it all! Yhtill, under the stars of Aldebaran and the Hyades! And across the Lake of Hali, on the far shore, lies Carcosa!”

Then they were out the door and into the night. Kathryn sobbed against him, and Finley shuddered. The image of the woman digging into her eye sockets with the soup spoon would not go away.

After they’d given their statement to the police, they walked back to Kathryn’s building.

“How could a person do something like that?”

“Drugs maybe,” Finley shrugged, “She looked pretty strung out.”

“This city gets worse every year.”

They arrived back at her office building, and Finley walked around to the side entrance leading into the parking garage. He’d taken the bus, so that they could drive her car back home. Kathryn didn’t follow, and he turned to find her stopped under a streetlight.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.”

“Yeah, me either. Let’s go home and get you a nice, hot bath. Maybe you’ll feel better after that.”

“I need a drink.”

“We can stop off at the liquor store—”

“No,” she cut him off. “I need to be around people, Roger. I need to hear music and laughter and forget about that insane bitch.”

“You want to hit a club?” He heard the surprised tone in his voice.

“I don’t know what I want, but I know that I don’t want to go home right now. Let’s walk over to Fell’s Point and see what we can find.”

Part of Baltimore’s harbor district, the buildings in Fell’s Point had been old when Edgar Allan Poe was new to the city. By day, it was a tourist trap; six blocks of antique shops and bookstores and curio dealers. Urban chic spawned and bred in its coffee shops and cafes. At night, the college crowd descended upon it, flocking to any of the dozens of nightclubs and bars that dotted the area.

They strolled down Pratt Street, arms linked around each other’s waist, and Finley smiled.

A figure lurched out of the shadows. “Have ya’ll seen Yellow?”

Finley groaned. He’d forgotten about the homeless man—the Human Scab. He thrust his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a rumpled five.

“Here,” he said, offering it to the rotting man. “I promised you I’d get you on the way back. Now if you don’t mind, my girlfriend and I have had a rough evening.”

“Thanks yo. Sorry t’ hear ‘bout yo night. I’m tellin’ ya’, take yer girl ta’ see Yellow. Dat’ll fix ya right up.” With one dirty, ragged finger, he pointed at a poster hanging from a light pole. “Ya’ll have a good ‘un.”

The bum shuffled off into the darkness, humming a snatch of melody. Finley recognized the tune as “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” He shuddered, reminded of the crazy woman at the restaurant, raving about the Elvis impersonator that she’d seen. He tried to remember what it was she had been singing, but all that came to mind was the image of her gored face.

The eight by ten poster had been made to look like it was printed on a snake’s skin. Over the scales, pale lettering read:

The breeze coming off the harbor chilled him. This was what the crazy woman had been talking about—actors depicting dead musicians depicting characters in a play. This play. The same play the bum had recommended. The coincidence was unsettling.

“Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?” Kathryn asked. “You should have tipped him more money.”

“Only in Baltimore can the homeless get jobs as ushers. Come on, let’s find a pub.”

“No, let’s go see this! Look, they’ve got actors pretending to be dead musicians playing actors. How cool is that?” She giggled, and looked at him pleadingly.

He told her what he’d overheard the woman say.

“Then that’s all the more reason,” she insisted. “Once people read about the connection in tomorrow’s Baltimore Sun, we won’t be able to get tickets because of the demand. People love morbid stuff like that!”

“Don’t you think it’s odd that this all happened in the same night? You said you wanted to forget about what happened. Don’t you think that attending a play that this same woman went to will just make it that more vivid?”

“Roger, you said that you agreed with me; that we never do anything fun anymore, that we’re not spontaneous. Here’s our chance! How much more spur-of-the-moment can we get?”

“Kathryn, it’s almost eleven-thirty! It’s late.”

“The poster says it doesn’t start until midnight.”

Finley sighed in reluctance. “Alright, we’ll go to the play. You’re right, it might be fun.”

He allowed her to lead him down the street and into Fells Point.

The R. W. Chambers Theatre wasn’t just off the beaten path—it was far, far beyond it. They picked their way through a maze of winding, twisting streets and alleyways, each more narrow than the previous. The throng of drunken college kids and office interns vanished, replaced by the occasional rat or pigeon. Kathryn’s heels clicked on the cobblestones, each step sounding like a rifle shot.

This is the old part of the city, Finley thought. The oldest. The dark heart.

The very atmosphere seemed to echo his discomfort, accentuating it as they went farther. There were no streetlights in this section, and no lights shining in the windows of the houses. The buildings crowded together; crumbling statues of crumbling nineteenth century architecture. The street smelled faintly of garbage and stale urine, and the only sound was that of dripping water, and of something small scuttling in the darkness. Kathryn gripped his hand tightly, and then—

—they emerged onto the corner, and the lights and noise flooded back again. A crowd milled about in front of the theatre. Finley’s apprehension dissipated, and he chided himself for being silly. At the same time, Kathryn’s grip loosened.

“Look at this crowd!” Kathryn exclaimed. “It’s more popular than we thought.”

“Word of mouth must have spread fast.”

“Maybe your homeless friend has been pimping it.”

Finley grinned. “Maybe.”

They took their place at the end of the line, behind a young Goth couple. The theatre had seen better days. The water-stained brickwork looked tired and faded. Several windows on the second floor had been boarded over, and the others were dark. Some of the light bulbs in the marquee had burned out, but HASTUR PRODUCTIONS’ YELLOW and the show time and ticket prices were prominently visible. One side of the building was plastered with paper billboards promoting the play. Others advertised bands with names like Your Kid’s On Fire, Suicide Run, and I, Chaos.

The line snaked forward, and finally it was their turn. Finley stared at the man behind the glass window of the ticket booth. His skin was pale, almost opaque, and tiny blue veins spider-webbed his face and hands. Gray lips flopped like two pieces of raw liver as he spoke.

“Enjoy the performance.”

Finley nodded. Placing his arm around Kathryn’s waist, he guided them into the building. The usher in the lobby had the same alabaster complexion, and was slightly more laconic than his sullen ticket booth counterpart. Without a word, he took their tickets, handed back the stubs and two programs, then silently parted a pair of black curtains and gestured for them to enter.

The theatre filled quickly. They found a spot midway down the center aisle. The red velvet-covered chairs squeaked as they sat down.

“I can’t get over it,” Kathryn whispered. “Look at all these people!”

Finley studied the program booklet. Like the posters, it was designed to appear as if it had been bound in serpent skin. He struggled to read the pale lettering.

Kathryn stirred next to him. “You know what this reminds me of?”

“What?”

“When I was in high school. At midnight on Saturdays, we’d go to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It has that feel to it.”

“Maybe they’ll sing ‘The Time Warp.’”

She reached over and squeezed his hand, and Finley felt good. Happy.

The lights dimmed, plunging them into darkness. The crowd grew silent as a burst of static coughed from the overhead speakers. Then, an eerie, unfamiliar style of music began. A light appeared at the back of the theatre. The performers entered from the rear, each of them carrying a single candle. The troupe walked slowly down the center aisle, singing as they approached the stage.

“Have you seen the Yellow Sign? Have you found the Yellow Sign?”

As they passed by, Finley forcibly resisting the urge to reach out and touch them. The resemblance to their dead alter egos was uncanny. The actress playing Janis Joplin (playing the Queen) was a perfect duplicate, down to the blue-tinged skin that must have adorned her face in death. Following her were Jim Morrison (a bloated Aldones) and John Lennon (a Thale with fresh bloodstains on his clothing). Mama Cass, Jimi Hendrix, Sid Vicious—the procession continued, until two-dozen actors had taken the stage.

“Look at that!” Kathryn pointed to the quarter-sized drops of blood left in the Lennon actor’s wake. “Gruesome. I can’t wait to see what they did with Kurt Cobain…”

Finley shuddered. “Good special effects, that’s for sure.”

The singing swelled, the upraised voices echoing like thunder. “Have you seen the Yellow Sign? Have you found the Yellow Sign? Let the red dawn surmise what we shall do, when this blue starlight dies and all is through. Have you seen the Yellow Sign? Have you found the Yellow Sign?”

They repeated the chorus two more times. On the last note, the candles were extinguished and the lights on the stage grew brighter.

The first part of the play concerned the intrigue of the royal court. The aging Queen was pestered and plied by her children: Cassilda, Alar, Camilla, Thale, Uoht, and Aldones, all claimants for the throne to Yhtill. They vied for the crown, so that the dynasty would continue, each one claiming to be to be the rightful successor. Despite their efforts, the Queen declined to give the crown away. Mama Cass began to sing, and Finley’s skin prickled.

“Along the shore the cloud waves break. The twin suns sink behind the lake. The shadows lengthen, in Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise, and strange moons circle through the skies. But stranger still is lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing, where flap the tatters of the King, must die unheard in dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead, die though, unsung, as tears unshed shall dry and die in lost Carcosa.”

The crowd applauded, enraptured with her performance. Then the Cobain character appeared on stage, his face hidden beneath a pallid mask. When he turned his back to the audience, the crowd gasped. Hair and skull were gone, offering a glimpse of gray matter.

Finley had trouble following the plot after that.

Cobain’s character, the Phantom of Truth, pronounced doom upon the Queen and her subjects. The threat apparently came from a non-existent city that would appear on the other side of the lake. Reacting to this news, the Queen ordered him tortured.

Though Kathryn seemed enraptured, Finley grew restless as it continued. He found it incoherent to the point of absurdity. One moment, a character professed their love for another. The next, they discussed a race of people who lacked anuses, and could consume only milk, evacuating their waste through vomiting. The characters rambled on, and Finley slipped into a half conscious state—his mind adrift with other matters but the actor’s lines droned on in the back of his head.

“There are so many things which are impossible to explain! Why should certain chords of music make me think of the brown and golden tints of autumn foliage?”

“Let the red dawn surmise…”

“Aldebaran and the Hyades have aligned, my Queen!”

“What we shall do…”

“Sleep now, the blessed sleep, and be not troubled by these ill omens.”

“When this blue starlight dies…”

“The City of Carcosa has appeared on the other side of Lake Hali!”

“And all is through…”

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that; head drooping and eyes half shut. Kathryn’s light laughter and the chuckles coming from the rest of the audience startled him awake again. He checked his watch; then glanced around at the other patrons. Immediately, his attention focused on a couple behind them. The woman’s head was in her lover’s lap, bobbing up and down in the darkness. Before he could tell Kathryn, he noticed another display; this one in their own row. A man at the end was lovingly biting another man’s ear, hard enough to draw blood. His partner licked his lips in ecstasy.

“Kathryn—” he whispered.

She shushed him and focused on the play, her face rapt with attention. Her cheeks were flushed, and Finley noticed that her nipples stood out hard against her blouse. Without a word, her hand fell into his lap and began to stroke him through his pants. Despite the bizarre mood permeating the theatre, he felt himself harden.

Just then, there was a commotion at the back of the theatre, as another actor entered. The crowd turned as the actors pointed with mock cries of shock and dismay. He wore a gilded robe with scarlet fringes, and a clasp of black onyx, on which was inlaid a curious symbol of gold. Though his face was hidden beneath a pallid mask identical to the one Cobain was wearing, there was no mistaking the trademark swagger. He swept down the aisle, pausing as the crowd burst into spontaneous applause.

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

He bowed to the audience, and then took the stage in three quick strides.

“Behold, the Yellow Sign upon his breast!” cried the Queen. “It is the King of Carcosa, and he seeks the Phantom of Truth!”

Hendrix, Lennon, and Vicious entered the audience, each with a burlap bag slung over their shoulders.

“Masks!” they called. “Everyone receive your masks! No pushing. There’s plenty for everyone!”

Finley pushed Kathryn’s hand away in alarm. They were passing out knives—real knives rather than stage props. The lights glinted off the serrated blades.

“Kathryn, we—”

His statement was cut short as her mouth covered his. Greedily, she sucked at his tongue, her body suddenly filling his lap. The scene replayed itself throughout the theatre. Men and women, men and men, women and women. Couples, threesomes, and more. Clothes were discarded, and naked, glistening bodies entwined around each other in the seats and on the floor. All the while, the dead rock stars waded through the crowd, dispensing knives.

“Kathryn, stop it!” He pushed her away. “Something is really fucked up here.”

“Have you found it, Roger? Have you seen the Yellow Sign?”

“What?”

She slapped him. Hard. Then, grinning, she slapped him again.

“Now, you slap me,” she urged. “Come on, Roger. You said you wanted to do something different. Make me wet. Hit me!”

“No!”

“Coward! Pussy! You limp dick mother-fucker! Do it, or I’ll find someone else here who will!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

It’s like she’s hypnotized or something! All of them are! What the hell happened while I was asleep?

On stage, what appeared to be a masked ball scene was underway.

“You have questioned him to no avail!” Elvis’ voice rang out through the hall, echoing over the mingled cries of pain and ecstasy. He was addressing the actors, but at the same time, the audience as well. “Time to unmask. All must show their true faces! All! Except for myself. For indeed, I wear no mask at all!”

As one, the crowd picked up their knives and began to flay the skin from their faces. Some laughed as they did it. Others helped the person sitting next to them. Finley turned, just as Kathryn slid the blade through one cheek. A loose flap of skin hung down past her chin.

“Kathryn, don’t!”

He grabbed for the knife and she jerked it away. Before he could move, she slashed at his hands. Blood welled in his palm as he dodged another slice. Then he slapped her, leaving a bloody handprint on her cheek.

“That’s it baby!” she shrieked. “Let me finish taking my mask off, and then I’ll help you with yours.”

“All unmask!” Elvis boomed again, and Finley turned to the stage, unable to look away. The King removed the Pallid Mask concealing his face, and what he revealed wasn’t Elvis. It wasn’t even human. Beneath the mask was a head like that of a puffy grave worm. It lolled obscenely, surveying the crowd, then gave a strange, warbling cry.

Kathryn’s skin landed on the floor with a wet sound.

The thing on stage turned toward Finley, and then he saw.

He saw it. He found it.

Roger Finley screamed.

“Excuse me?” The bum shuffled forward.

“Just ignore him, Marianne. If we give him money, he’ll hound us the whole way to the harbor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas,” the woman scolded her husband. “The poor fellow looks half starved. And he’s articulate for a street person!”

The bum shuffled eagerly from foot to foot while she reached within her purse and pulled out a five-dollar bill. She placed it in his outstretched hand.

“Here you go. Please see to it that you get a hot meal, now. No alcohol or drugs.”

“Thank you. Much obliged. Since you folks were so kind, let me help you out.”

“We don’t need any help, thank you very much.” The husband stiffened, wary of the homeless man’s advances.

“Just wanted to give you a tip. If you like the theatre, you should take your wife to see Yellow.”

He pointed at a nearby poster. The couple thanked him and walked away, but not before stopping to read the poster for themselves.

Roger Finley pocketed the five dollars, and watched them disappear into Fell’s Point, in search of the Yellow Sign. He wondered if they would find it, and if so, what they would see.

This is, of course, a tribute to Robert W. Chambers’ classic of the same name. But you already knew that because you’ve read the Chambers’ story, right? Nope. I’ve got twenty bucks that says half of you have never even heard of Robert W. Chambers. And that, my friends, is just wrong.

True story. Thirteen years ago, at the first Horrorfind Weekend Convention, J. F. Gonzalez and I were approached by a young man; probably in his early twenties. He shook our hands and said nice things about our books, and called us inspirations. How the hell we, two of the lynchpins of the so-called gangsta horror movement, were inspirations is beyond me, but hey, the kid was sincere enough to buy Jesus (which is J. F.’s real name) a beer and me a shot of tequila. We started talking about writing, and we were trying to give him some advice. The conversation turned to the masters of the genre, and we were horrified to learn that this kid had never read Chambers, never read Hodgson, never read James, never read Machen, and had only a dim knowledge of Lovecraft. The final straw was when we moved to the more modern era, and the kid admitted that he’d never heard of Karl Edward Wagner.

Once I’d removed J.F.’s hands from around his throat (“How can you not know who Karl Edward Fucking Wagner is?” he screamed while throttling him), we sent the young writer on his way and proceeded to grumble about “These damn kids!” for the rest of the day.

If you don’t know those names I mentioned above, you need to correct that. Now. Horror fiction has a rich history, and it is your heritage as a fan, as a reader, and especially if you’re a writer. Seek it out. Learn from it. M. R. James. William Hope Hodgson (one of my favorites). Lord Dunsany. Arthur Machen. Clark Ashton Smith. Edward Lucas White. Ambrose Bierce (another one of my favorites). Hell, explore the modern era, with John Farris and Robert Bloch and so many others. And for God’s sake—learn who Karl Edward Wagner was so that J. F. Gonzalez doesn’t throttle you next. Seriously, go look for this stuff. Read it. You’ll be glad you did.

As for the story itself, I got the idea while walking around Fell’s Point in Baltimore. At the time, I was still shocked that the kid had never read Robert W. Chambers. Things came together and the story came out in one sitting. It was originally published in one of John Pelan’s Darkside anthologies and was reprinted in my out-of-print short story collection Fear of Gravity.