One Hand Screaming: 20 Haunting Years

Copyright © 2024 by Mark Leslie Lefebvre

Cover Design © 2024 Juan Padron

Original cover concept © 2004 Stephan Gaydos

Interior artwork by Vanesa Garkova

––––––––

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Stark Publishing

Waterloo, ON

www.markleslie.ca

––––––––

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the authors’ imagination. Real locales and public and celebrity names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is either completely coincidental or is used in a completely fictional manner.

––––––––

One Hand Screaming / Mark Leslie—1st ed.

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-9983310-2-4

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-9983310-1-7

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9983310-3-1

Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-9983311-0-9

First paper printing October 2024

​​​​​DEDICATION

For Sean Costello.

Thank you for the inspiration, mentorship, and most of all, the friendship.

Cover of the 2004 Edition by Stephan Gaydos

SILENT SCREAMS: 20 Years Later

I’ve screamed a lot in the twenty years since the first volume of this book was published.

Sometimes it’s been a scream of frustration.

Occasionally I’ve screamed in absolute terror. Usually that scream comes at the feel of a creepy crawly skittering across my bare skin. Or perhaps when I’ve been startled. I might look like an intimidating badass, but I’m far from the bravest person you’ll encounter. And the high-pitched wail I let out is the furthest thing from manly you might ever hear.

I’m not ashamed to admit I’m still afraid of the monster under my bed, the bogeyman hiding in my closet, and whatever strange noises I swear are emanating from the dark shadows in a corner of the basement.

But there have also been countless screams of delight at the incredibly good fortune I’ve had in my writing, my career, and my personal life.

I’ve long had difficulty separating those three things.

After all, since about the age of thirteen, I knew I wanted to be a writer. And almost every single career choice and life choice I’ve made has involved being as close to books, publishing, and the writing life as possible.

I started working in the book industry in 1992, the same year my very first short story was published. And I’ve continued to grow as both a writer and book industry representative, having worked in almost every type of bookstore (independent, chain, big-box, online, digital), and having performed the roles of President of the Canadian Booksellers Association, Director of Self-Publishing and Author Relations for Rakuten Kobo, board member for BookNet Canada and chair of the Professional Advisor Committee for the Writing and Publishing Honors program at Sheridan College. And in the summer of 2024, I received my Masters in Creative Writing with a concentration in Publishing from Western Colorado University.

But let’s get back to those screams for a moment.

I introduced the first edition of this book talking about the screams, mostly the silent screams in my head, that led to many of the stories I wrote. I published it in October 2004; and it was my very first book.

Here’s what I said:

I scream a lot.

Silent screams bounce around inside my head like an impending storm, brewing into a force that will escape in a wild dance of chaos and be lost forever if I don’t stop to jot them down.

I’m a condemned man. Condemned to write.

But don’t get me wrong; I love it.

For centuries, philosophers have been plagued with the question: What is the sound of one hand clapping? But, due to my curse, my deeper, more morbid musings, I am doomed to consider: What is the sound of one hand screaming? Why ask? Why delve into the darkness? Why pursue fear and terror?

There’s really no answer. I merely respond to a call both from within and from without. Human beings have been eagerly devouring notions of evil and horror since we dwelt in caves and jumped at the shadows and noises occurring just outside the comforting range of firelight. History is wrought with examples of people standing alone, facing a vast, empty void, and questioning both themselves and the universe.

Canadians, especially, have always been concerned with notions of what lies beyond our normal existence. From the days when we had still to explore the uncharted west and northern territories to a time when our very cities seem to be a futile attempt to light up the dark, we are both intrigued with and fearful of the unknown.

One Hand Screaming explores one man’s journey into the unknown and dealing with such universal elements. At a basic level, it documents the early evolution of a writer cursed to churn out morbid musings, spin dark tales that question the ideas of evil and of sanity. It is a collection of fiction and poetry, but it can also be seen in an autobiographical sense if you decide to read the final chapter of story notes. I purposely separated them from the stories and poems to ensure that those readers who prefer not to see the strings behind the writing can simply skip them and still enjoy the tales.

But regardless of how you choose to enjoy this work, I trust that if you try really hard, you’ll be able to hear, almost out of perceptible range, a series of silent screams.

Don’t worry—it’s just me.

I scream a lot.

- Mark Leslie, February 2004

I thought it might be interesting to look at those words, written in the winter of 2004, and see what might have changed from that younger writer I was to the writer I am today.

For one, I don’t write as much horror as I used to.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy writing macabre tales. It’s more that in the same way I’ve always loved to explore the darker side of what if I have continued to venture into other territories, other genres; it’s about the journey itself, not about the destination.

In both my short fiction and my novels, I’ve continued to peek into those dark corners; but I’ve also looked at other aspects of it in the past two decades.

The only actual horror novel I’ve published so far is I, Death which originally came out in 2014 from Atomic Fez Publishing, now an imprint of Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy. It was inspired by a short story of the same name that I wrote when I was in high school but had never published.

Interestingly, another short story that was never published in the traditional sense, This Time Around, led to what, at the time of this writing, is an eight-book Canadian Werewolf series.

And even though the main character of that series is a werewolf, the books are not horror. They are a combination of urban fantasy, adventure, and humor, with an underlying layer of romance just to throw another curve at an already frustrated reluctant hero. Many readers of the Canadian Werewolf series are surprised to discover that the tales are more about the man behind the monster, and some have described Michael Andrews, the narrator of these books as the thinking man’s werewolf.

You might find a similar bend to many of the tales within this collection. Yes, there are times when the terror is brutal and dark, or when the blood practically splatters across the page, particularly when I’m going for the shock value. I often find myself dancing to the compelling beat of dark humor in a horror tale; even when the darkness is quite thick. But there are other times when the horror is quiet, brooding, or introspective, and is an attempt to hold a mirror up to the world itself, spotlighting some of the best, and worst parts of humanity.

If horror is not your cup of tea, you are still likely to find some of the tales in this collection to your liking. Your reaction may even result in thinking: that’s not horror. And you might be right. Or it might just be a different type of horror than you imagined or expected. To paraphrase Douglas E. Winter, horror is not a genre, it is an emotion.

The reason I wrote these stories is an attempt to make you feel something. Sometimes a tale will place you somewhere along the spectrum of fear. Other times, it will spark your own curiosity and sense of wonder. And, if I’ve done my job properly, you will finish the story and be left with a desire to reflect on either yourself or the world around you.

This collection, like you, and like so many others, contains multitudes.

And just like this introduction contains the full original introduction from the 2004 edition of One Hand Screaming plus original fresh content, this book itself contains all twenty-three of the original stories and poems, but also includes an additional twenty-six stories and poems (14 of which have never been previously published), as well as all-new brief introductions to each piece and a section at the end exploring in-depth stories-behind-the-stories.

Like I said in the original introduction, one might be able to read this collection as partly autobiographical. I do share quite a bit about the writer behind the stories in these pages.

Whether or not you go as far as to read those detailed notes, or merely to enjoy the stories and poems, I want to thank you for taking the time to let me bend your ear for a little while.

But, alas, my friend, enough of these introductory musings.

It’s time for us to venture forth into the swirling darkness that I have attempted to capture on paper—dead tree, digital, and otherwise—and explore the shadows, the what ifs and that sense of wonder.

Please, take my hand, and allow me to lead you on this journey, and remind you that though this is the revised and expanded version of a book I wrote twenty years ago, that the journey harkens back more than forty-two years. And that it started with a skinny young lad who was afraid of the dark and took pen to paper, and fingers to an old Underwood typewriter in his very first attempts to capture all those silent screams on paper.

Let’s go check out what he’s been up to all these haunting years.

—Mark Leslie, June 2024

A Note About This eBook

Because I’m a fan of the old The Twilight Zone television series, I quite enjoy the moment when, just prior to the story unfolding, the host, Rod Serling, would step onto the stage and share a brief introductory note to what you were about to see and hear.

For that reason, prior to each piece you will be treated to a short page of introductory text meant to denote that moment. Consider it my nod to Mr. Serling.

INTRODUCTION TO: The Exquisite Taste of a Book-Aged Skull

Craft beer lovers know the exquisite pleasure of a barrel-aged craft beer. Stored for months or even years in wooden barrels that once housed bourbon, whiskey, or other spirits, they absorb a unique enhanced essence in the process. Could the same be done, then, with the skulls of book lovers?

The Exquisite Taste of a Book-Aged Skull

Alas, Great Uncle Nathan, Herb triumphantly stated, holding the pale orb on an extended arm a few feet from his face. There is nothing quite like the exquisite taste of a book-aged skull. There wasn’t the faintest hint of an echo, as his words were absorbed by the insulating effect of the packed bookshelves.

He moved his focus from the empty eye sockets of the skull he’d been holding to gaze in admiration at the book spines, occasionally broken by the pale ironic grin of a human skull. Twenty-three human skulls of die-hard life-long readers; housed on shelves alongside a prestigious collection of first edition books.

The result of a lifetime of collecting.

It had started off innocently enough, with just a single skull, long before it evolved into a collection.

And that first one was a very special skull, indeed.

When Herb considered the origin of his little obsession, it was startling how book collecting and skull collecting had snowballed that one into what it had become. That odd weathered and cracked book; and how it had led to his unique experience with this particular skull he was holding in the middle of his secret basement library, in a pose he imagined might be reflective of Hamlet in the graveyard.

This skull was older, drier. And it was relatively light. Maybe between two and two-and-a-half pounds.

It hadn’t always been light, of course. When he’d first received it, it had to have been at least twice the weight it now was.

You’d be surprised, his Great Uncle Nathan had whispered to him across the table of an old Irish pub. How much fat and liquid are in human bone. It can grease out for years. The old man had gone on to describe how skulls, as they aged, continued to dry, and became lighter.

Which was exactly what had happened to the skull he was now holding.

The skull had been a gift. From that same uncle. His Great Uncle Nathan. It was a strange gift, from a strange man. Of course, it wasn’t just the gift itself that was weird, but also the way it had been gifted to him.

Uncle Nathan hadn’t done anything normal.

Strange seemed to be his modus operandi.

This was the same uncle who had single-handedly turned Herb onto reading and a love of books in the first place. Completely out of the blue. Herb hadn’t been interested in reading at all. Except maybe for those Fightin’ Army comic books he had enjoyed. But he didn’t really read those so much as browse through them to look at the drawings of army tanks and jeeps, and planes in action. The other comic books, the funny ones, the superhero ones, none of them had interested him. Nothing about reading had interested him, in fact; not until Uncle Nathan placed that book in his hands.

It’s almost as if the book itself had had some sort of spell on him.

Because the strange old man, and that book hadn’t just introduced Herb to the love of reading, they had ushered him into what had inevitably became a lifelong obsession. An all-consuming one that dominated Herb’s professional and personal life.

Well, technically, the books were dominant in both his professional and personal life.

And even though the two were connected, the skulls never made it over onto the professional side—at least not as far as anyone else knew.

That fateful day where that first important book exchange occurred was as vibrant and bright to Herb now some fifty years later as it had been on that hot and windy August afternoon when he and his folks had been spending a few days at his uncle’s cottage.

Of any of the books in my collection, Uncle Nathan had said, placing the worn and slightly tattered paperback copy of The Unending Tale by Michael Stoppe into Herb’s eight-year-old hands. This is the one I think you will truly love, Herbert.

Herb had just stared at the old man, confused and, to be honest, a little frightened. The elderly man had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Even at eight years old Herb was baffled by the fact that the old man, who didn’t so much walk as shuffle his way about, could come up behind him without the boy hearing a single thing. Not the pull-drag sound of his slipper-covered feet on the hardwood floor of the cottage. Not the creak of those old floorboards that effectively announced, in no uncertain terms, the movement of anyone from anywhere inside the four-room cottage to anyone else inside. You simply couldn’t take a single step without the anguished shriek of those weathered and rustic joints of wood protesting.

And yet, while Herb had been standing at the bookshelf—wondering why and how anyone would want to have anything that boring-looking taking up so much space; row after row of spines of books that lined the shelves from floor to ceiling—the man had somehow snuck up on him and placed one of his hands softly upon the boy’s shoulders.

Looking for something to read, Herbert? Uncle Nathan had said in a voice that sounded like a ceramic mug of gravel and marbles being slowly stirred.

Y-yes, Herb said, the lie coming out of his mouth before he’d even turned his head to look up at the old man.

Good, the man said in a hoarse whisper, dragging out the pronunciation of the word as if it contained at least three, perhaps four syllables instead of one.

That’s when the eldritch man—his grandmother’s brother—slowly lifted his hand up to the top shelf, a spot that was still a couple of feet higher than Herb could reach, adeptly plucked a small hardcover book from the shelf, and placed it into the boy’s hands.

This is the best book ever, the man said in that same gravelly voice with a strength and conviction he had never before heard in another person. It will introduce to you the power and magic that books can offer—the worlds, the possibilities, the wonders of the universe.

The book was old, weather worn, dry and cracked.

Herb briefly felt the cool and dry cracked skin of his uncle’s hand as it brushed against his own tender and now moist palms while handing it over to him. The feel of the book was as brittle and desiccated as the man’s hands, almost as if it were an extension of the man’s own skin.

At the time, Herb had no idea how accurate that observation truly was.

The memory of that pivotal moment in his life was still strong in Herb’s mind. He dwelled on it often. The way the man had managed to sneak up on him while walking on a surface that never didn’t creak. The serious tone in his voice, as if he were handling a volatile explosive. Because he later learned that the book had only been produced a couple of years earlier, and yet the copy his Great Uncle had handed to him had seemed ancient—hundreds of years old; like the old man himself.

At the time, though, he had been more fixed on the man’s words and the way he described the book with such passion and conviction.

Herb looked up from the book and up at the old man’s wrinkled and leathery face.

This book, his uncle went on, and his eyes pinned Herb to the spot—he didn’t think he could move one inch even if a handful of spiders were tossed onto the back of his neck and started crawling in all directions. Could be the only book you ever need to read. Because it contains, within it, every single other book, every single other story ever told, ever to be told, or ever to even be imagined.

He raised one gnarled hand up to the side of his own face and tapped the side of his head near the temple.

"The only other vessel that can hold even more stories, even more magic, even more wonder, even more endless possibilities is this one. All that we know about the universe, all of the sciences, the philosophies, the literature, the music, the art that graces our world, was first imagined within this sphere of bone.

Books have been, and will likely remain, the most efficient way to capture and relay all of those things from generation to generation. But never forget, Herbert, that they were made possible because of the infinite universes that exist inside of our skulls.

Herb looked down at the book, then back up at his uncle.

Never forget that, the old man said, again tapping on the side of his head.

That same head which had been delivered to him by courier, without the hair, flesh, muscles, or eyes, fifteen years later. It had come in a beautiful and stylish hat box, with a brief hand-written note from his uncle.

The same skull Herb held in his hands now, as he reflected on that day.

The way the man had spoken about that book, as if it were some sort of religious artefact, compelled Herb to want to immediately crack the cover and begin to read it; to see what secrets and treasures it held. He hadn’t even balked at the fact that there were very few illustrations in it.

And he’d read the book in almost a single sitting. Technically, it had been three sittings, but to Herb it felt like a single sitting with two frustrating interruptions: one of them agonizingly long.

He’d shuffled over to the armchair in the corner of the main cottage area and started reading the book. He stopped only when his mother called him for dinner. And, immediately after excusing himself from the table he returned to that chair, and the book, and didn’t stop again until the adults were turning out the lights and ushering him off to bed. Because the cottage was so small, and there weren’t doors to the rooms, he hadn’t been able to sneak off to get the flashlight to read the book, and so, instead, he willed himself to sleep so he wouldn’t have to lay in agony thinking about the book that he just wanted to keep reading. And when the first hint of morning sunlight came, enough that he could make out the words on the page, he popped out of bed, grabbed the book, and sat with it again until he had finished it.

It was amazing, Uncle Nathan, Herb had said, standing at the old man’s side while the elderly gentleman sat on the stool at his desk in the taxidermy workshop attached to the front entrance of the cottage.

I knew you would like it, the man had said without stopping the puttering he was doing.

What should I read next?

All of it.

All of it?

Yes. The old man continued to talk without once turning his head to regard his nephew. Now that you’ve had a taste of what a book can truly be, or the magic and all the possibilities that a single book can possess, you have unlocked the potential to see the greatness of any book, no matter who has written it, no matter what it is about.

Any book?

Any book. All the books. Fill your head with as many books as you can in your lifetime. Absorb them all, regardless of the content. And the secrets of the universe will be yours.

And that was how it began.

Herb’s love of reading was something he carried all through school and his career. His parents were astonished to see his grades dramatically improve when he had returned to school less than a month after Uncle Nathan had implanted this love of reading and books into the child. And his grades kept getting better the more he worked at increasing his reading. He ended up progressing so quickly that he skipped a grade.

You are expanding your mind, the static of the phone line leant Uncle Nathan’s gravely and hoarse old man voice, an additional eeriness to it. Herb stood in the kitchen, the phone held to his ear in one hand, his other hand clutching the curly phone cord, all while leaning forward as if that would help him hear his uncle’s words more clearly.

With every single book you are increasing your brain’s capacity, not just for knowledge and imagination, but for empathy, for compassion. Books make you a better, more well-rounded person, Herbert. Go forth and read. Fill that skull of yours. Herb could picture the man tapping at the side of his head as he continued. Fill this glorious vessel with as many of the books as you can, young man.

And Herb had done so.

But he not only read more books, he kept reporting to his uncle how he was progressing.

Though he only saw the old man on average about three times a year; during Christmas, at Easter, and during the summer break, whenever Herb and his parents visited Uncle Nathan’s cottage, they spoke on the phone and wrote one another regularly.

Most of the talk between the two was about the greatness of books. And the greatness of the human mind, the imagination, the untapped potential that only books properly unlocked.

Herb read every book he could get his hands on. He dedicated his life to books. He started working at an independently owned bookstore when he was still in high school, and continued to work there all through college where he studied, aptly enough, English Literature. He had already read most of the works they were studying in the class, so he used that time to devour other books from the same authors, or the same time periods. By the time he had graduated college, he was the assistant manager of the store, and the day Uncle Nathan had taken the long train ride into the city where Herb worked to visit him at the store had been one of the proudest moments of Herb’s life.

But it had also been a bit unnerving, too. The old man had looked far more decrepit, weathered, and ancient than Herb’s earliest recollection of the man. When Uncle Nathan had shuffled in through the front door of the bookstore, Herb had two rapid-fire thoughts on his short walk to greet him. One, that he looked almost like a zombie, except for the life still evident in the man’s eyes as he gazed around the shop, not yet having spotted Herb. Two, that perhaps the man already had died a few hours, a few days, or even a few weeks ago, but the message about that termination hadn’t quite made it all the way to the man’s brain.

Uncle Nathan! Herb said as he approached the man.

Herbert, my boy. So good to see you. The voice sounded like it was pushing up through the loose gravel recently tossed onto a fresh grave. Look at this marvelous place you work. So much hope, so much wonder, so much marvel in a place like this.

I couldn’t agree more.

It was Cicero who said that a room without books is like a body without a soul.

Herb nodded.

What then, the old man asked, is a head without books?

Herb didn’t get a chance to answer. He had been called, via the store’s intercom, to the cash desk to key in a manager code override. He excused himself to go attend to the need, but when he returned less than three minutes later, he could have sworn that his uncle, who had moved deeper into the store and was carousing the shelves, was standing straighter and at least a quarter of a foot taller. He was moving a bit more quickly now too. And there was a much richer brightness in his eyes as well as a warm hue to this face that hadn’t been present when he’d first walked in. He looked more alive, more vibrant. Herb wondered if it might have been a trick of the light, but then the man said something under his breath that drove the realization of the transformation home.

So many books I haven’t yet consumed. And he paused, tilting his head up like a dog sniffing the air. Oh yes, I can sense them calling to me.

Being in the presence of new books to read was like a sort of nourishment to the man’s very essence.

Later that same day, his eyes still bright and frisky, Uncle Nathan had explained a theory he had been working on over dinner at Anderson’s Pub.

It’s like this bourbon barrel-aged stout, he’d said, holding the glass filled with dark thick liquid in front of his face. This uniquely rich and delicious drink is created because of the transmission of flavor between the liquid and the vessel that holds it. At first, the bourbon itself soaks flavor in from the various chemical compounds present in the wood. These are the lactones, which provide floral elements, the phenolic aldehydes, which create vanilla, and the simple sugars, which make a caramel taste. But then, those same barrels, which helped to remove the harshness of the alcohol while adding a unique essence to the aging bourbon, are used by beer breweries. And when they age a beer in the barrel, the flavor that was produced within the barrels is absorbed and part of the barrels themselves. And that essence is what infuses itself into the beer, creating this unique taste.

He tilted the glass to his lips and took a long slow drink.

"Ahh, delicious. Now, you see, the human skull is like the wood of these oak barrels. Bones absorb liquids. And, as you well know, books are flowing with knowledge, inspiration, imagination, wonder. The ideas the books hold are quite fluid. They have flowed from the writer to the page, and from the page to your mind. And from your mind, those same elements are absorbed by the bone that contains the brain.

"Our heads are like those aged bourbon barrels.

So imagine if we could be similarly infused with knowledge the way that beer can be infused with the flavors from the bourbon they had once stored.

The theory had come back to Herb in a flash not two years later as he had stood holding Uncle Nathan’s skull after pulling it out of the hat box it had been shipped in, and reading the handwritten note in his uncle’s hand that had been enclosed with it.

––––––––

Take this skull and drink from it. This is my lifetime of reading and knowledge, which has been given unto you.

––––––––

That’s all the note said.

No other explanation.

But Herb had known.

Later that night, he had taken the skull out, retrieved that weathered old copy of The Unending Tale and sat with those two items and a bottle of bourbon. He poured a little bit of the whisky into the skull, held upside down, like a bowl, and let it sit there for several minutes before sipping it.

He hadn’t felt anything other than the bite of the liquor.

But when he woke the next morning, he felt more vibrant, more alive, and with a head filled with stories, ideas, and thoughts he couldn’t recall having had before. Almost as if he had absorbed or imbibed something from the very marrow of his dead uncle’s skull.

It had been like that life-altering experience of first discovering that classic young adult novel by Michael Stoppe.

So he continued the ritual. Nightly. He alternated between