A BetweenTimes story.

Craven rushed to the basement, pushed aside 14 or so boxes of Godzillas, Mothras, and miscellaneous other cheap Japanese-rip-off monster toys, then released the lock on the trap door. He squeezed his way in, turned the Snakelight On, pulled as many boxes in front of the door as he could, and locked it again from the inside. Finally, dawn had arrived.

He checked his stock of batteries... still about 10 refills, good. He did NOT want to interrupt this session; it would be his best yet, he was certain, and just may tie many components together toward completion. He cackled. After so long... completion.

When he emerged however long later, he had typed only 5 or 6 pages. Well worth the effort. A manual typewriter was his best friend in this strange nook on America; he was sure that somehow or other someone knew and/or could monitor what he did on his computer. Speaking of his computer, he really HAD to find out what time it was and at least put in an hour or two on the rewrite of his western before going to sleep. He'd need his font soon, too. He gave himself the luxury of a lengthy cackle. Almost done, almost done.

Back to the attic. It seemed peculiar to him that anyone would absolutely need the middle floors of a house. Well, it let him seem normal, which was necessary in this town. The computer winked and hummed at him, starting up. 6pm, not too late. He jumped on the telephone and dialed a number from memory. 4 rings, he reached to disconnect.

"Overland Publications," a male voice said from the other side of the line.

"Yes, hello. I was just about to hang up." A brief pause, "Look, I'm an independent writer -- well, I've worked with several publishing companies, but nothing right now -- and I've heard that Overland has just switched hands. I'd like to speak with Terry Kelly, if that's at all possible."

Suspicion from the other end, "I see. Well, can I put you on hold for a minute or so while I end another call?"

"Yes," Craven was satisfied. This Terry was professional enough to not admit overtly that he was the only one available to answer the phone. Craven liked his voice.

"Thank you," Terry said and put him on hold.

He scanned quickly through the third 20 or so pages of the rewrite, scowling here and there. How many demons were believeable in the Old West? Certainly not as many were allowable as angels and beneficial spirits to route the bad guys, even if westerns seemed all about overcoming impossible odds.

"I apologize for the delay," Overland picked up. "May I have your name please?"

"Craven's the name. I have a job for you." He squirmed with delight as he described the expensive and time-consuming work to be done. Terry Kelly was a book conservationalist who had 10+ listings in the publishing credits from Overland Publications' rave works. He had his fingers in only the best stuff, or so it seemed to Craven. He'd seen the man's personal style with a few rebinds he had looked at -- and not bought; who really wants a rebind, no matter how well it is done. Terry was also a book collector of note, slow and careful so that his collection remained sparse but supreme. Craven knew the man's discriminating reputation, though he was certain that Terry himself did not know he had one. And recently, the owner of Overland Publications had passed his of Age of Repute, nearly giving the business to Terry so that it might continue. Decreasing the number of active employees to a glorious One. No profit sharing on this one, no chance to have Pete (former employee/owner) mucking up Terry's finesse. It was perfect.

Still, it was dangerous to be discussing these things over the phone. Craven decorated his sentences in such a manner to allude indirectly and incorrectly to the western he was currently working on. Anyone listening might think he was a fool to try to publish that book on his own, when several high-paying houses wanted dibs on it. Let them think that. He would explain to Terry in person, in the "normal" areas of his home, the real magnitude of the task, the real end product. Terry agreed to a meeting.

Eternity chugged out its last few moments and then the telephone rang. Craven changed the spelling of the word Navaho to "Navajo" for the entire document, began save/shutdown, and answered.

"Hey, Rave!" It was Phillip Howard, "Haven't heard from you in a couple-a weeks, wanted to see how you're doing out there in the land of Outer E-vill."

"I'm fine," Craven told him. "I was just finishing up for the day, about to grab 40 winks or so, maybe a bit of sleep as well."

"Oh." Obviously he'd wanted to talk at length. "I won't keep you then. I want to let you know that I mailed that partial manuscript. I'd really appreciate if you could have a look at it."

"You still haven't heard of using a computer, have you, Phillip?" Craven glanced at the huge stack of previous manuscripts and story ideas he'd been sent. "Sure. I'd love to look at it. I'm thinking of taking a couple of days to myself, and that would be a perfect diversion."

"Great! It should arrive tomorrow, since I mailed it about 4 postal days ago. Let me know if you're interested in co-authoring or not."

"I sure will," Craven assured him. "I'll call you when I get it. We can talk then. I'm just completely wiped out right now."

"No problem," he accepted the assurance, "Good Nightmares!" And he rang off.

Craven wondered what it would be like if he ever made it to the real psuedo-culture of horror writers.

Dawn arrived again with its own timely alacrity. Only today Craven had not intended to be awake. Something had roused him... not the familiar-by-now sense of plots unfolding which had led him to the content of his Grandest Work, but something else. It took awhile for him to realize that it had, in fact, been the Muse. His Font Muse had finally stopped by and dropped into his brain the subliminal messages he'd been awaiting. He lumbered over to his computer and started up. More perfect timing. Delightful.

The tiny adjustments he made to each character sang with genius, proportions for point sizes fell into place magically, there was no color of ink he'd thought to use which did not enhance their beauty. Excellent. Let Terry begin to figure out how to handle the typesetting and printing; that would most certainly give Craven the time he needed to polish the manuscript before turning it over to The Chosen Publishing Artist. Save that revision! As he dumped this alterred data from the drawing program into the fonts emulator program, he was confident that this would be the final revision; it was plain to him that the balance issues he'd had would be resolved... one letter would now fit into the next seamlessly, regardless of capitalization or unrecognize-able arrangement. "This process requires a minimum of 30 minutes and cannot be interrupted or placed in the background," his computer warned him. "OK" he clicked. Time for breakfast anyway.

And when he returned: "Some characters have not been assigned keystrokes. Use commmand-L to manually assign keystrokes and list current assignments." "OK" he clicked.

He typed "of. the? and; because" Penelope/ Cthulhu, Grvxz) MdWstV-" It looked beautiful on the screen. He duplicated the line 5 or so times in different point sizes. He changed colors of the words within one line, and mixed point sizes within another. Print. Gorgeous. He switched back to the drawing program and began to print the specifications for each character. There would be enough time to get to the post office and find out if Phillip's partial had arrived. Hopefully, while he was gone the printer wouldn't jam.

There was a minor disturbance. Craven had always thought of the post office as having some sort of potential for banging out its own special mark of evil. He could never get a good bead on a story for it, though. This disturbance had the smell of a stale, pointless plot. One of a longstanding nature.

The redhead at the counter was repeating herself, "I just don't understand why he would keep mailing stuff here for her. Isn't there some way *I* can fill out a forwarding order? I've called and left messages there at least a hundred times."

"Like I said, ma'am," the counter person countered. "I'd need her signature on such an order. The only reason we can release these packages to you is because you're a Ôcare-of'. We can't do anything else. We're just the post office. It's not like you've got power of attorney or anything, do you?" Oddly Kiss-Offish tones from Lauri -- a postal worker Craven knew well. "You should feel lucky that we've been able to maintain your present address in our system for so long. Otherwise these packages would sit here in dead letter until Jesus Christ came back to get them. And I don't think we could release them to Him, either."

"Fine!" The redhead was outraged. "I LOVE spending my Saturdays this way!!" she lied. She began to sign a form. Did she realize this was a plot? Craven's recognition skills told him that yes, she most likely did, though its stupid persistence gave her reason to doubt. His curiousity might overwhelm him at any moment; the thing seemed too idiotic to be left alone. Too lame to build a story around, he imagined there was already a story there somewhere. He stepped forward.

"May I be of some assistance?"

"Mister Von Klawrage," Lauri greeted him and shook her head. "I don't think there's anything that can be done. But very kind of you to offer." Lauri paused as the redhead handed her the signed form. "Thank you," she said and stepped back from the window. "Looks like you have another manuscript or something here, Mister Von Klawrage." A brief pause, "From P Howard?"

She came back to the window with two packages, one a box and the other a stuffed-full manilla envelope.

"Von Klawrage?" The redhead asked, getting his attention from Lauri. "As in C. C. Von Klawrage?"

"The same," he answered and briefly inspected her box. "And you are... Beth Aldor?"

"Wow." She was not astonished, yet she seemed impressed by his name. "And P Howard wouldn't happen to be Phillip Howard, would it?" A new and quite accidental plot was forming, he could feel it creeping up behind them. Best to move away from the window while everything seemed reasonably synthetic... keep the two plots separated.

"Yep," Craven scrawled his initials on a form and stepped away, leading Beth by the arm. She *was* slightly awestruck now. He couldn't understand it. She was not a fluff-chick who got excited by meeting anyone with their name in, on or anywhere near a book. He would have known.

"You live here??" She seemed incredulous, "Well, I guess that would make sense, though, with the kinds of things you write. You probably Never run out of material, and all you have to do is take a drive through town after dark if you feel at a loss. Have you ever gone for a walk in the woods around here? Felsen always did say there was a writer living here, though he never alluded to it -- you -- being C. C. Von KLAWRAGE."

"What?" They were outside. Somehow she had taken the lead with walking as well as the conversation. It had happened rather unexpectedly.

"And, of course you know Phillip Howard. ..." She trailed off for a second, "I think I read that somewhere." She paused and then regathered herself, "You must think I'm a star-struck fluff-chick. I've read alot of your and Howard's stuff, that's true, but Rachel is really the one who will be kicking herself once I tell her YOU'RE the one who lives here." Her words were going somewhere, triggering some things in his long-forgotten past, and was walking them right out of the parking lot, away from his grey car as well. "And Rachel said that at one time she was in a writer's group with Phillip Howard, but that she wouldn't be comfortable communicating with him now that he's famous. It would be like trying to Ôget in on things'. Funny, she didn't mention you, unless one of the C.s is for Craven."

Famous?? "Wait a second," he stopped them. "Your friend Rachel... ." He moved her package so that he could read it again. "Callahan. Who knows a Felsen." He looked at the package again. "Felsen of Harbinger Books and Hermetic Supplies?" He laughed, "Last time I saw him we were working together at a two-bit, dangerously close to a ripoff, occult store. That was about ten or so years ago. How's he doing these days?" He cut himself short, trying to rethread his ten-speed chain of thought, "She knows Phillip Howard, and reads MY work extensively. But You, Beth Aldor, pick up her mail on Saturdays and don't like it a bit." Click. "Rachel Callahan? She's sort of obscure in a hit-you-with-an-axe kinda way? Went to Kent State University? Majored in... heck, I forget. Exorcisms-R-Us? The same?"

Beth was nodding. She waited for him to finish, allowed a sink-in pause and said, "I thought so. It's like a theory I've been working on -- yeesh, now I Sound like Rachel. All you horror writers must have a more tangible grasp on some collective consciousness... a Ôcommonish experience', if you will... actually based on Real Stuff, whether you remember it or not. Since all three of you do in fact know each other, it explains alot of the commonalities of content and style. I mean, it's really clear that you aren't imitating each other, and... in the greater evaluation it is for a fact difficult to notice. But it helps explain things a little. *I* think, anyway." All of this was made to be normal. Beth was stating this unusual thing, this out of place, complex and convoluted Ôtheory' as though it could be found in the dictionary. "But hey, I've got a long drive. I'd like to get home before 5. I'll tell Rachel that I saw you. Ta." And she walked off, utterly disarming him. Made sense that Rachel would know someone like Beth. That someone like Beth would pick up Rachel's mail for her, and not like it one bit.

But... the worst thought yet struck him. Could it be that he and Phillip were somehow already WITHIN the real psuedo-culture of horror writers? Surely, Beth had implied as much.

The prints were done without a hitch. He got a yellow Pee-Chee from his stock and carefully placed the papers within it. Terry Kelly should arrive shortly. He had just enough time to set up for a semblance of the meeting in his livingroom and put on some water for tea. Somehow he was nervous. What if Terry refused the job once he found out its true nature? What then? Well, he was sure that Terry was the right guy for the job; he'd done his homework. Besides,... it had sounded to Craven as though Terry may have once known someone from around here. It would have to make the job more sentimental for him. He would just stop worrying and let the work prove itself, if that became necessary.

One final impulse struck. Breaking every rule he had set once he realized the substance of what he'd discovered here, he returned to the basement and retrieved the pages he had typed out during his last session. These he carefully hid inside a small-press magazine featuring one of his stories and set it back on the end table. Before he had the chance to fully change his mind about this arrangement, the doorbell rang.

Terry looked about as nervous as Craven felt. They introduced themselves and decided on a variety of tea, then settled in to have a look at the typestyle Craven had invented.

Terry whistled. "These are absolutely gorgeous," he openly admired.

Craven showed him several of the Pantone numbers he had chosen as optimum for the text, "Can you find inks that will still look completely natural in these colors?"

"You want each book to be, in fact, unique because of paperstock and inks, right? I am pretty sure I can find or work something out for most -- if not all of these. How many books did you want run?"

"Only about a hundred. If that," Craven had chosen well, he could see that much already. Terry was in love with books and book making. He would put his soul into each of these.

Terry did some calculating in his mind; the totals arrived on his face. A fair blend of admiration and caution. "This will be an original work, not published anywhere else?" And here was the spiel, "I really have to tell you, Mister Von Klawrage, I am VERY interested in this job, just for the personal challenges involved. But, it would be wrong of me to not remind you -- as I'm certain it's already crossed your mind -- that there are no guarentees that any book will sell. An untested manuscript is a dangerous thing to drop into such an obvious attempt at curio. I have no doubt that with the materials we have discussed a brilliant limited-run press can be created. However," he paused, biting his words. "If no one likes the manuscript. ..." Much discomfort, "You are well-known, Mister Von Klawrage, but... I doubt your name or the uniqueness of a book with your name on it will fetch the price we will have to set in order that we Break Even on the costs of such a master work." It was bottom-line business talk. Craven hated to hear it, but in the same emotion was glad that Terry had said it.

"I know," Craven gaven him the small-press magazine and indicated the typed pages. Terry started to scan the pages, then stopped to restart with reading.

"Obviously, this material will need special handling," Terry hadn't finished reading. He was looking a bit uncomfortable, though not quite green.

"Yes," Craven acknowledged.

"And, just as plain is the fact that your audience is likely to be small and ... specialized." He paused and charged Craven with a haunted look. Something was happening. "UNLESS we can convince the highly-educated audience you already have in thrall that all of this is fiction." Terry's words clearly implied that he knew of the events and entities Craven had so carefully monitored.

From nowhere, today's Post Office plot with Beth snagged in his brain. He leaned forward to regard Terry in the utmost of security, "Have you ever gone for a walk in the woods around here?" He quoted the question. Terry dropped the magazine. He had, that much was certain. The words had a much stronger impact than Craven could have anticipated.

"I haven't," Craven admitted, tossing Terry into confusion. "But I met someone today who asked me that. And it seems that YOU have gone on that walk." He paused, not certain if the thousands of bits of interest he now had in Terry's association with this town would be a safe place to wander. "Tell me honestly, Terry. From your own perspective, just how dangerous do you suppose it would BE to publish... ." He let his thought amble off in the direction of the closed magazine.

Terry harumphed and gathered himself. A truly amazing thing to behold, as he was once and withall himself again. "As fiction." He stopped and thought, raising his hand to his chin and scrutinizing the magazine's cover. "You'll still need to be careful." It didn't seem to bother Terry that he could be sounding like a lunatic. "They know that you live here. How much retribution do you fear?" A pause. "Realistically,... how much do you think you could take if they got it in their minds to punish you?"

"You don't think they'd kill me?" Craven was a wee bit incredulous. Here was this man who out of clear blue nothingness had a shocking comprehension for things Craven had studied all his life to understand. Here was this man who apparently knew many of the things it had taken him more than a decade to learn about the workings of the heirarchy of sin in this place. It was almost insulting.

"You? No. You're too well known. Even a disappearance would bring too much attention. Heck, they don't want to be on a map, so I'm surprised they haven't found some way to drive you out of town." He knew. He'd seen things, too. It was astounding, no, mind-boggling to Craven.

"How do you know about this place? What's in those woods, anyway?" His level was rising, he couldn't stop it. Semi-ballistic, the questions flew from him. It wasn't intentional. "What are you doing here, Terry Kelly? What could make someone like you return to such a place? Why did you come here today if you know this stuff already?" Craven flipped the magazine over on the coffee table, then stopped himself. He sat back to calm down.

This time Terry hadn't become truly shaken, so no marshalling of himself was necessary. "I took a walk in the woods one night with some friends. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about this place that night. But still, I had loved ones here, and so had no choice about investigating for the sake of their defense." He paused. His explanation sounded simple enough, not at all unlike Beth's quality of commonplace conversation from earlier. Out of place, outrageous words, yet matter of fact, thank you very much, no offense taken, sir. "I admit that I never paid close attention to what we discovered; maybe that was wrong. But, with what you have documented, it makes perfect sense. We are talking about the same thing, though you certainly have gleaned more specific details than we could have ever dreamed of, and you most definitely have made a more studious effort at uncovering all the angles. Your work has a truly epic scope to it. It is, in fact, a masterpiece." A dead pause, "I just don't know if it is wise to publish this knowledge."

"Are you afraid that they'll kill YOU?" It felt odd to have someone sounding as eclectic as himself sitting right across the coffee table from himself.

"Me? No." He was businesslike and... normal. "I know too many people also. Their best hope for secrecy is my life -- our lives, the lives of the people who know and are not heard. Who would believe the things we'd have to say? Unless we turned up dead because of them." A pause and twist of irony in his voice, "Besides, their power doesn't reach very far."

"So, what would you recommend I DO with this knowledge? I've spent a long time studying here. I'm sure you can appreciate the work I've done." A test question. The conversation was weird and unpredictable. He needed to know where this was going.

Terry paused for a minute and sip of his now-chilly tea. "Use it to write from, of course. But not all in one story, for heaven's sake. Scatter it. There's enough material in the few pages I've seen to keep the masses happy for 2 or 3 lengthy tales of horror."

"Will you still help me with..." he paused. He'd expected Terry's advice as it had been presented. It was wise and safe and he was pretty sure he couldn't live with it forever. "One, maybe three or five copies? Let's take it down to a very limited, personal run."

"Why so many?" Terry asked.

"I hate to let it all go to waste. I won't lie to you, Terry. This is not some silly pet project of mine; I consider it something of a magnum opus. If I had 5 copies I could at least share them with my closest friends -- as fiction, of course -- and still have achieved ... something more than Ôlocal color'. Perhaps my friends could use the material for their works as well. I think I would really like that. Yes, I know I would. And so it would be for a greater purpose, perhaps even a more noble purpose than exposure or a single-author single-story manuscript." He was not certain how much of this was bilge and how much was an evolution of his original idea, but it sounded good.

"You don't need me, Mister Von Klawrage. You can get this published anywhere, you know. There must be at least ten houses that would wet their pants to cater to your wishes, assuming you'd be paying out of pocket for all of the work."

"I know," Craven sat back again. Was this the rejection he'd concerned himself with? It would hurt much more than he thought, now aware that Terry Kelly knew his content was true. Still, he believed his intentions were not vain or even remotely detestable.

There was silence. The phone rang and went unanswered. A message box in a faraway room gave the caller an opportunity to leave information. More silence.

"I will make three," Terry eventually said. "And I will keep one as payment for the set."

"Thank you," Craven whispered. Right now, Craven didn't want to know why he'd agreed. Terry was about to lose alot of money on this deal.

"Don't mention it."