The Year's Best Horror Stories 17 by Karl Edward Wagner

Author:Karl Edward Wagner [Wagner, Karl Edward]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror tales, Récits d'horreur, Horror -- Fiction, Short Stories, https://archive.org/details/karledwardwagner0000unse
Publisher: Vati
Published: 2022-10-13T07:38:56+00:00

PLAYING THE GAME

by Ramsey Campbell

Ramsey Campbell is the other charter member of The Year’s Best Horror Stories to appear in this volume—not too surprising, since Campbell has been in virtually every volume of the series. Born in Liverpool on January 4, 1946, Campbell got off to a running start as a horror writer with his first book of stories being published by Arkham House when the author was all of eighteen. Having done much to frighten readers away from Liverpool, Campbell now lives across the river in Merseyside in a Norman Bates-style mansion with his wife and two demonic children. Lately he has been more active as a novelist than as a short story writer, with his most recent novels being Ancient Images and the work-in-progress, Midnight Sun.

“Playing the Game” seemed familiar to me when I read it, and I asked Campbell if it might perhaps be a revision of something he’d had published in the small press. I was almost right, as Campbell explains: “ ‘Playing the Game’ is indeed a revision of an earlier story, which originally also had that title. I revised it several years later and sent the new version to Kirby [agent Kirby McCauley], only to learn that T.E.D. Klein had bought the original version for Twilight Zone and preferred it, once he’d read both. Since Ted had just published another story called ‘Playing the Game,’ mine became ‘Snakes and Ladders.’ I persisted in preferring my revision, and regarded it as enough of a separate entity to give it to Dennis [Etchison] for his anthology of unpublished tales. I believe Stefan Jaworzyn has a tape of my tequila-sodden reading of it in Ensenada.” Watch out for that worm at the bottom of the bottle.

When Marie called to say that someone wanted a reporter, Hill went out at once. He’d been staring at the blank page in his typewriter and wondering where he could find the enthusiasm to write. The winner of this week’s singing contest at the Ferryman was Barbra Silver, fat as Santa Claus, all tinsel and shiny flesh done medium rare in a solarium—but he couldn’t write that, and there wasn’t another word in his head, any more than there were still ferries on the river. He headed for the lobby, glad of something else to do.

The man looked as if he hoped not to be noticed. His hands were trying to hide the torn pockets of his raincoat; fallen trouser-cuffs trailed over his shoes. Nevertheless, Marie was pointing at him, unless she was still drying her green nails, and as Hill approached he turned quickly, determined to speak. “Do you investigate black magic?” he said.

“That depends.” the man had the look of a pest in the street, eyes that expected disbelief and challenged the listener to escape before he was convinced. But the blank page was waiting like the worst question in an examination, and here at last might be a story worth writing. “Come and tell me about it,” Hill said.

The man was visibly disappointed by the newsroom.

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