No one is safe, p.1
No One Is Safe!, page 1
Table of Contents
NO ONE IS SAFE
Copyright
A Self-Confessed Fracassi Junkie's Introduction - Ronald Malfi
The Wish
The Last Haunted House Story
Murder by Proxy
The Rejects
My Father's Ashes
Aquarium Diver
Serial Numbers
Overnight
Over 1,000,000 Copies In Print
Autumn Sugar
Marmalade
The Guardian
The View
Row
Acknowledgments
Publication Credits
About the Author
NO ONE IS SAFE!
Copyright © 2024 Philip Fracassi
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or any
electronic or mechanical means, including information and retrieval
storage systems, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover illustrations copyright © 2024 by Jim & Ruth Keegan
Interior design by Inkspiral Design
ISBN: 978-1-59021-604-0
A SELF-CONFESSED
FRACASSI JUNKIE'S INTRODUCTION
RONALD MALFI
MY RECOLLECTION, OFTEN KNOWN FOR being hazy, is that sometime in the swamp-thick spring of 2016, our hero—me, in other words—began an online discussion about all things writing with an author who had, at the time, penned a bit of dark fiction, as well as a Christmas movie featuring talking puppies. Without having ever met in person, I found a kinship with Philip Fracassi—an appreciation for his art, process, concerns, and achievements—and our online discussions continue to this day.
I remember I was in Florida at the time we battered around our first few missives, finishing up a manuscript while taking in some of the local color; earlier that day, I’d witnessed a large Ford pickup truck barrel down the road, expelling clouds of black diesel exhaust and inadvertently run over an alligator. It left me feeling dirty, so I sought out a watering hole for refuge, as one does. That evening, Philip and I commenced our discussion through one of the more fashionable messenger apps of our time while I sat at a tiki bar that seemed to double as a laundromat, sipping vodka tonics and trying to avoid the perilous stares of both the octogenarian prostitute across the bar and the dim-eyed fellow near the pool tables whose solitary gold incisor gleamed each time one corner of his mouth tugged upward in a wry simulacrum of a smile.
I had just watched a movie Philip had written that had come out the year before, Girl Missing, and he had similarly read and then given to his then-girlfriend a copy of my novel, Little Girls. Mind you, this was more than just two young, handsome, talented men with girls on the brain: Philip explained to me the process by which he’d written the screenplay for the film, the pages he’d had to cut, the limitations imposed upon him by a small budget. I was impressed with his success even in the face of the frustration I could tell Philip felt on occasion with the industry—both Hollywood and the publishing world alike.
The two things that struck me most during these conversations were Philip’s evident passion for the art of writing and his undeniable talent. I read some of his other work soon after we began our chats, each edition graciously mailed to my home, usually with a friendly note, by the author himself. (I recall the wholly meta experience of reading his wonderful novella Altar, about a swimming pool scenario straight out of hell, while I was sunning my own damn self at my neighborhood pool.) His short story collections, Behold the Void and Beneath a Pale Sky, came next, and I devoured both of those books, then immediately re-engaged with him:
“I need more, Philip,” I begged suddenly becoming this Fracassi junkie, this prose-crazed, itchy-skinned ghoul salivating at the thought of more words arriving unbidden in my mailbox. “What else have you got coming out? Tell me, tell me ….”
He had novels coming out. Soon, maybe? Someday? Novels he’d been toiling away on. Things in the works, things in the air, things upon things, beneath things inside things.
One of the biggest perks of being an author—or, more accurately, of being friends with an author—is that you tend to receive advanced reader copies (ARCs) of books well before their publication date. If you’re a bibliophile like I am, it’s like George Lucas inviting you to a private screening of Star Wars before it ever hits theaters. Over the past year or so, I received a three-punch knockout of ARCs from Philip and his publishers—Boys in the Valley, Gothic, and A Child Alone with Strangers. To choose a favorite among them is impossible. And while each is vastly different, they are all marked by Philip’s assured and artful approach. His characters are real people, his prose is unapologetically aesthetic, and the astute reader can sense a sense of care coming right off the pages. I knew without a doubt that I saw a glimpse of the future—Philip Fracassi would flat-out own horror publishing in the next year.
I was on a high.
Philip was on a high.
(The shady character with a gold incisor lurking about the pool tables was certainly high.)
Then, in August of 2022, I received an email from Philip asking if I would read and write an introduction to a new short story collection scheduled for publication the following year. For the uninitiated, this is a big ask. Usually, you have your publisher do the dirty work, but Philip and I were friends...and in all honesty, it wasn’t a big ask. I was honored, and I agreed to write the intro.
Then things happened. What was it John Lennon said? Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans? I was working on a book of my own, trying to tie up loose ends on some other creative projects, and yet, in the far recesses of my brain, I knew there was a clock ticking.
I went to dig out Philip’s manuscript, only to realize I couldn’t locate it. Had it gotten lost among the slew of manuscripts I had spread out all over my office? Had I somehow misplaced it? Had the whole thing been a lucid dream and this was all in my head?
For convenience’s sake, most manuscripts are sent as attachments to emails, so I searched my inbox but couldn’t find it. I then dug through my spam folder, wading through a swamp of emails from the likes of Pippins D. Shrinkage, Sloot van Sloot, Michael Jerkssen, and whisking past subject lines that expressed great concern for both my sex drive as well as my vehicle’s extended warranty.
There was no manuscript.
There was no—
Okay, look, you’re holding the book in your hands, and you’re reading my introduction right now, so I’ll kill the suspense. Clearly, things worked out in the end. I hadn’t misplaced it; Philip just hadn’t sent it yet. He was still tooling away. Perfectionist, I thought, somewhat covetously. Thanks for making me think I’d lost my mind. Go on and write, you glorious bastard.
I received the manuscript on the first day of a strangely mild February here in Maryland and spent the next several nights languishing in the vast array of stories Philip Fracassi was so … let’s say, generous...to provide.
So here we are. That aforementioned passion and talent? This is what I’m talking about; it’s here in spades. If this is your first experience with Philip’s work, then be prepared to turn into that self-confessed Fracassi junkie that I, too, have become. Some introductions like speaking to specific stories, but what’s the point? You’ll read them; you don’t need me to dissect them. I will, however, instruct you to brace yourself because Philip is not afraid to take you anywhere he wants to go—into the literal mind of a haunted house, into a post-pop-techno-noir (trademark pending) world of a Chandler-esque sleuth, into the unsettling nightmare of a child’s seemingly innocuous birthday wish.
You’re in it now, riding the high that is the powerhouse fiction of Philip Fracassi. So be forewarned ….
In this book, no one is safe.
—Ronald Malfi
Annapolis, MD
April 2023
THE WISH
6
THE CLOWN WAS TWISTING A long blue balloon when I heard the crash. His face had jerked to the side, alarmed. After a moment he looked back to us, gave a weak smile. The other kids and I ignored the sound, intent on the clown’s white-gloved hands, waiting for the miracle of creation.
“Well, I … okay …” he said, his normally booming voice subdued and hesitant. To his credit, he went back to the balloon with vigor, red curls bobbing, diamond-painted eyes intent.
He stopped again when someone screamed. His eyes shot up and over, away from the audience of children. His white cheeks were slack and hollow, his mouth an oval of surprise. The balloon fell to the ground, half-formed. One of my friends moaned.
More screams. Adult screams.
The clown’s spell broken, I stood and looked toward the other side of the yard, where the tables were set up and the grill chugged smoke like a Christmas day chimney.
I saw Mom yelling and dragging her nails down her face. She wore a bright yellow dress.
One of my friends started to cry, and the clown was saying, “Oh no, oh God ….”
More adults gathered by the spot of the crash, and when I ran over to see what had happened—crossing out of the tent’s shade and into bright hot sunlight—I saw my dad on the ground, clutching at his chest. He was pale and all his teeth were showing, as if he didn’t have lips.
Soon after, an ambulance came, but by then he was dead. Mom said it was a heart attack.
I was furious. Furious at Dad for ruining my birthday party, at his
After she made me dinner, the neighbor, Mrs. Shephard, made a big deal about singing while she carried out a birthday cake. Six candles perched haphazardly atop, sticking up like weeds.
“Make a wish, Jonathan,” she said, and I was so mad and sad and confused I didn’t know what to think or what to wish for. The only thing I could think of—the only thing that came to my mind that night—was how angry I was at my father for having missed me blow out the candles on my birthday cake.
I wish Daddy never misses my birthday again, I thought, and blew out the candles.
I got all six.
7
ON THE DAY OF MY seventh birthday, I had not forgotten about my dead father, or my wish.
My mother, of course, went all-out for this one, trying to erase the ugliness of last year’s event. The mental scars. This time we didn’t have my party in the backyard, but instead went to a cool arcade that had rides and games and a prize booth at the end where you turned in your tickets for toys and stickers. I got an eraser shaped like a race car, a bunch of candy, and a pen that wrote in purple.
That night Mom tucked me into bed, kissed my cheek and wished me one last Happy Birthday. After the arcade, pizza and cake at home, I was wiped out.
I was asleep before she closed the bedroom door.
“HIYA, CHAMP.”
Something cold rubbed my scalp. Pushed through my long hair. The air felt damp, and I tucked the comforter higher to my chin.
“Jon, wake up buddy. Wake up.”
I opened my eyes. The room was blurry and dark.
A man sat on the edge of my bed.
I inhaled sharply and sat up. He lifted away the hand that had been stroking my head. “Whoa, whoa, bronco. Don’t you recognize me? How about I turn on a light?”
He started to reach for the small reading lamp on my nightstand.
“No!” I said. Then, more quietly, “It’s okay. My eyes are adjusting.”
He laughed a little. “That’s good. So, you do recognize me.”
I nodded. “Dad.”
His dark head nodded, and as my eyes adjusted, I noticed he wore the same thing he’d worn on my sixth birthday: blue denim shirt, khaki pants, and a Tigers baseball hat, the old-English D a white tangle on his forehead. “That’s right. You made that wish, remember? And here I am.”
Without thinking, I leaned forward and hugged him. He was solid, but cool, as if he’d been out in the chilled night air without a jacket and had just come inside. He stroked my back.
He smelled like dirt, but not in a gross way. Clean, like grass.
“I love you, Son,” he said.
“I love you too, Dad.”
We chatted for a while. I talked about school and the arcade. He laughed and held my hand. After a while, near midnight, he said he had to leave. But by then I was falling asleep.
THE NEXT MORNING, I WONDERED if it had been a dream, and decided it must have been. The realization left me both disappointed and relieved.
9
“WHAT’S IT LIKE?”
Dad paced the floor of my bedroom. His shirt was untucked, and he kept pulling off his ballcap to rub his hair, as if it itched. “Honestly? Not great. It’s sort of … well, you’d think it was pretty boring.”
“What about God? Or heaven?”
He shook his head, kept pacing. “Nah, none of that stuff.”
I’d been waiting for him this year, excited to see him. After his first visit on my seventh birthday, he came again when I turned eight, but I’d been so tired he had to wake me up again.
Tonight, after a trip to Disneyland with Mom and my best friend Harry, I was exhausted, but forced myself to stay awake until he showed. I badly wanted to see where he came in from … but missed it.
One second the room was empty, the next second he was just … there.
I turned on the small lamp. Whatever had scared me from doing it before, I wasn’t scared now. It was just my Daddy, after all.
He sat at the edge of my bed, like he always did. He looked a little pale and acted like what my schoolteacher Mrs. Bridges would call fidgety.
“How’s Mom, huh?” he asked, wringing his fingers. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine,” I said. “We went to Disneyland today. It was awesome.”
“That’s cool. I’ve never been there. Guess I won’t be going anytime soon, huh?”
“I guess not. Except maybe you could be one of the ghosts in the Haunted Mansion,” I said excitedly. “You could really scare some people, I bet.”
He chuckled and rubbed my head with his cold hand. “I’m sure I could.” Then he made a weird face and threw his hands in the air. “BWAAAH!” he yelled, and I screamed despite myself. For a second, I was stuck between crying and laughter, but when he smiled the fear went away. It was pretty funny, after all.
I just hoped he’d never do it again.
12
FOR MY TWELFTH BIRTHDAY I went camping with Harry and our friend Tyler.
I’d been nervous most of the day, aware of what—of who—would visit me late that night. It was the first time in my life I wasn’t home on my birthday, and while I enjoyed the idea of hanging out with Harry and Ty in the woods (Harry’s dad was there, too, but with a tent of his own), I missed my mom, missed birthday cake and candles and opening presents in the living room while she took a hundred photos.
But it would also be the first time I’d see Dad outside of my bedroom. He always visited me there, and almost always at the same time. Just before midnight. Sometimes an hour, sometimes less. When I turned eleven, he only stayed about thirty minutes, but that was okay with me. He’d been angry, agitated. Kept asking about Mom. Asked if any strange men had come to the house.
He’d lost his Tigers cap somewhere and when I asked about it he just stared back at me with this strange, annoyed look. As if I’d insulted him.
He still paced a lot, and sometimes his hands twitched. More than once over the last few years he’d mumble something, as if to himself, and when I asked him what he’d said he ignored me, as if he didn’t understand what I was asking. As if he didn’t know, maybe, that he was even doing it.
So being out in the woods made me wary, and anxious. Would he even come? I mean, me and the guys were sharing a tent. It’s not like he could sit with me and talk, they’d see him for sure.
And wouldn’t that be something.
That night we ate hot dogs and smores, cooked up over a small campfire. Harry’s dad told a lame story about a maniac who lived in the woods. We knew he was trying to scare us, and it was pretty funny. I think Tyler was sort of freaked out, which made it even funnier. After, we brushed our teeth at a small stream near the campsite and settled into the tents to sleep. Me and the guys chatted for a while, farting and telling bad jokes, but I kept an eye on the watch Mom had given me that morning as my gift. It lit up green when you pressed a button. It could also go underwater or get dropped off a plane without breaking. Pretty neat.
I faked a yawn around eleven o’clock, and the guys caught on. Soon they were both asleep. I heard them breathing, and Harry tended to snore.
I waited.
Before long, the zipper of the tent started to slide up slowly. A draft of cold air pushed inside, sterilizing the warmth of our bodies. When the zipper got to the top, my dad stuck his head through the gap, looked at the two other guys, then at me. His eyes shone in the dark, otherwise he was nothing but shadow.
I reached for my flashlight, but dared not turn it on, horrified by the idea of my friends waking up to see my dead father’s glowing face. Probably turn their hair white.
I lifted one hand and waved. My dad lifted a hand, waved back.
He sat there for a while, not saying anything, not moving.
I wanted him to leave. But he stayed. Just sat there for almost an hour.
By midnight I was quietly crying. I hid my face in my sleeping bag so he wouldn’t see, wouldn’t hear. He didn’t seem to notice.
