Back in 1995, a friend of mine had an idea: let's make a horror fanzine. The zine didn't last long, but the feedback we received almost destroyed our sanity. Well, not really, but... ok, maybe it's better I just give you an example.
A guy writes a letter to us. He wants to buy our latest zine, but he also sends us an A4-sized sheet of paper with the following request: "Please press your bare foot against the paper, and use a pencil to trace its outline." He very politely explains that if some "foot cheese" is caught in the picture, that would be nothing to worry about, he'd still be grateful to have it. He explains it many times.
Foot cheese. Right.
Now, I realize that for the internet generation this kind of stuff is probably just meme material, but back then the internet was still a baby, and social media did not even exist. It would be naive to say that the times were more innocent, but the illusion of innocence was certainly stronger. Mister Foot Cheese Man seemed like a thing from another world, a dangerous cryptid that would probably devour our souls (and soles), if we let him. In the end we did send him our zine, but the paper we returned untouched, my friend explaining that his foot was too big to fit properly on an A4 (it's true, he's a large guy).
When Mr. Foot Cheese Man ordered our next zine, he sent us a bigger sheet of paper.
Jesus.
My friend declined the offer again, this time more firmly. Our fanzine died soon after that, and we never heard from Mr. Foot Cheese Man again. But here's the thing: no horror story I've ever read or written has intrigued me as much as this incident. Okay, so maybe at first it was just gross, but like fine wine, it's gotten better with age. What would've happened, if we had provided him with the cheese? I don't know, hell, I don't even want to know, but if I could collect mysteries like these, I sure would. And if my short fiction could ever give the reader even the smallest taste of what it was like, back in the innocent 1995, to discover that strange creatures live among us, I would die a happy man.
Anyway, this story is called "Hiatus", because it's not real horror, I just decided to write an anecdote from my past, something silly that happened two decades ago. I'm sorry if I got your hopes up, but this one isn't going to end with a bang or a whizz-bang or whatever you were expecting for.
OR IS IT?
Maniacal laughter... soft, rancid footsteps closing in... the stench... oh God, the stench...
A guy writes a letter to us. He wants to buy our latest zine, but he also sends us an A4-sized sheet of paper with the following request: "Please press your bare foot against the paper, and use a pencil to trace its outline." He very politely explains that if some "foot cheese" is caught in the picture, that would be nothing to worry about, he'd still be grateful to have it. He explains it many times.
Foot cheese. Right.
Now, I realize that for the internet generation this kind of stuff is probably just meme material, but back then the internet was still a baby, and social media did not even exist. It would be naive to say that the times were more innocent, but the illusion of innocence was certainly stronger. Mister Foot Cheese Man seemed like a thing from another world, a dangerous cryptid that would probably devour our souls (and soles), if we let him. In the end we did send him our zine, but the paper we returned untouched, my friend explaining that his foot was too big to fit properly on an A4 (it's true, he's a large guy).
When Mr. Foot Cheese Man ordered our next zine, he sent us a bigger sheet of paper.
Jesus.
My friend declined the offer again, this time more firmly. Our fanzine died soon after that, and we never heard from Mr. Foot Cheese Man again. But here's the thing: no horror story I've ever read or written has intrigued me as much as this incident. Okay, so maybe at first it was just gross, but like fine wine, it's gotten better with age. What would've happened, if we had provided him with the cheese? I don't know, hell, I don't even want to know, but if I could collect mysteries like these, I sure would. And if my short fiction could ever give the reader even the smallest taste of what it was like, back in the innocent 1995, to discover that strange creatures live among us, I would die a happy man.
Anyway, this story is called "Hiatus", because it's not real horror, I just decided to write an anecdote from my past, something silly that happened two decades ago. I'm sorry if I got your hopes up, but this one isn't going to end with a bang or a whizz-bang or whatever you were expecting for.
OR IS IT?
Maniacal laughter... soft, rancid footsteps closing in... the stench... oh God, the stench...