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  Author's Note on Personality Problem

  This one came to me in a flash, and like many stories of this period, it was written in a flash. And, like most stories of this period, it pretty much came out of the typewriter finished, and went into an envelope and was gone, leaving me with a faded carbon copy only.

  "Personality Problem" was a story that I sent in without even having a copy. I just wrote it and sent it. I had trained myself to come up with "clever" ideas and to write them out almost as fast as I could think of them. It was the only way to sell enough short stories to make any kind of money or draw any attention to my name.

  Fortunately, I had the knack for it and the bulk of these stories turned out well.

  They were a great training ground for writing longer, more ambitious stories later, and of course, novels. I wrote chapters for my early books almost as if I were writing short stories, trying to pull the reader in, make them want to read more, get to that next short story like chapter.

  My intro is getting as long as this story, so, it's time to move on.

  Personality Problem

  Yeah, I know, doc. I look terrible and don't smell any better. But you would, too, if you stayed on the go like I do, had a peg sticking out of either side of your neck and this crazy scar across the forehead. You'd think they might have told me to use cocoa butter on the place, after they took the stitches out, but naw, no way. They didn't care if I had a face like a train track. No meat off their nose.

  And how about this getup? Nice, huh? Early wino or late drug addict. You ought to walk down the street wearing this mess, you really get the stares. Coat's too small, pants too short. And these boots, now they get the blue ribbon. You know, I'm only six-five, but with these on I'm nearly seven feet! That's some heels, Doc.

  But listen, how can I do any better? I can't even afford to buy myself a tie at Goodwill, let alone get myself a new suit of clothes. And have you ever tried to fit someone my size? This shoulder is higher than the other one. The arms don't quite match, and—well, you see the problem. I tell you, Doc, it's no bed of roses.

  Worst part of it is how people are always running from me, and throwing things, and trying to set me on fire. Oh, that's the classic one. I mean, I've been frozen for a while, covered in mud, you name it, but the old favorite is the torch. And I hate fire . . . Which reminds me, think you could refrain from smoking, Doc? Sort of makes me nervous.

  See, I was saying about the fire. They've trapped me in windmills, castles, and labs. All sorts of places. Some guy out there in the crowd always gets the wise idea about the fire, and there we go again—Barbecue City. Let me tell you, Doc, I've been lucky. Spell that L-U-C-K-Y. We're talking a big lucky here. I mean, that's one reason I look as bad as I do. These holes in this already ragged suit . . . Yeah, that's right, bend over. Right there, see? This patch of hide was burned right off my head, Doc—and it didn't feel like no sunburn either. I mean it hurt.

  And I've got no childhood. Just a big dumb boy all my life. No dates. No friends. Nothing. Just this personality complex, and this feeling that everybody hates me on sight.

  If I ever get my hands on that Victor, or Igor, oh boy, gonna have to snap 'em, Doc. And I can do it, believe me. That's where they crapped in the mess kit, Doc. They made me strong. Real strong.

  Give me a dime. Yeah, thanks.

  Now watch this. Between thumb and finger . . . Uhhhh. How about that? Flat as a pancake.

  Yeah, you're right, I'm getting a little excited. I'll lay back and take it easy . . . Say, do you smell smoke? Doc?

  Doc?

  Doc, damn you, put out that fire! Not you, too? Hey, I'm not a bad guy, really. Come back here, Doc! Don't leave me in here. Don't lock that door. . . .

  Author's Note on A Change of Lifestyle (Written with Karen Lansdale)

  I wrote this one for Twilight Zone, but T. E. D. Klein didn't like it. I didn't either. It sort of fizzled out. I showed it to my wife, and she thought she saw what was wrong with it, gave me an ending and corrected some interior lines and dialogue. I revised it to her suggestions, made her co-author, sent it in, and she was right.

  Klein thought we had it now.

  He bought it.

  My wife's inspiration was simple.

  We needed the money. She has written a few articles, couple of stories, has co-edited with me, and without her inspiration, and confidence, and ability to put up with the oddness of a freelance writer's life, and perhaps my own personal oddness, I'd probably be making chairs in an aluminum chair plant factory.

  When I see this story all I think about is how lucky a man I am to have met the woman I'm married to.

  Thirty years and counting as of 2003, friends. Thirty years and counting.

  A Change of Lifestyle

  (Written With Karen Lansdale)

  Got up this morning and couldn't take it anymore. I'd had all the cutesy words and hugs I could take from the old bag, and I'd also had it with my food. She thought that just because I liked something once, I couldn't wait to have it every day.

  'Course, it beat hell out of that McWhipple burger I got out of the next-door neighbor's trash can. I saw him toss it out, and as I recall, he was looking mighty green and holding his stomach. Didn't bother me none, though; I'd eaten out of his trash can before. (He even took a shot at me one night on account of it.) But this McWhipple burger would have made a vulture choke! Must've been kangaroo meat or something. Or maybe the burger had just been lying on the assembly line too long. In any case, it sure made me sick, and up until then I could eat anything short of strychnine.

  See, that's part of the problem. Suddenly I couldn't stand the way I'd been living. Just came over me, you know? One day I was fine and happy as a tick in an armpit, and the next day things were no longer hokay-by-me. I wanted a change of lifestyle.

  It was all so goofy . . . the way I was feeling in the head, I thought maybe I'd got some medical problems, you know? So first thing I thought of was to go see the doc. Figured I ought to do that before I made any drastic changes—changes like getting the old lady out of my life, finding a new place to live, that sort of thing. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't having a spell of some sort, one of them metabolistic shake-ups.

  So the doc was the ticket. I mean, he'd always been nice to me. A few pills and needles, but that's to be expected, right?

  Next problem was getting out of the house without making a scene. Old gal treated me like some sort of prisoner, and that didn't make it easy.

  The window over the sink was open, though, and that's how I plotted my escape. It was hard for me to get my body up and through the opening, but I managed. Made the six-foot drop without so much as a sprained ankle.

  I got my thoughts together, charted out the doc's office, and set out. On the way, I noticed something weird: not only was I having this change in attitude, I seemed to be having some physical problems, too. I could feel stuff shifting around inside me, the way you feel the wind when it changes.

  When I finally reached the doc's, man, was I bushed. Caught this lady coming out with a white cat under her arm, and she looked at me like I was the strange one. I mean, here she was with a cat under her arm, things hanging off her ears and wrists and wearing as much war paint as an Indian in a TV western, and she looks at me like I'm wearing a propeller beanie or something.

  I slid in before she closed the door, and I looked around. People were sitting all over the place, and they had their pets with them. Dogs, cats, even a pet monkey.

  I suddenly felt mighty sick, but I figured the best thing to do was to hang tough and not think about my problem. I decided to get a magazine down from the rack, but I couldn't get one down. Couldn't seem to hold onto it.

  People were staring.

  So were their pets.

  I decided the heck with this and went right over to the receptionist. Standing on my hind legs, I leaned against the desk and said, "Listen, sweetheart, I've got to see the doc, and pronto."

  "Oh, my God!" sh
e screamed. "A talking Siberian Husky!" Then she bounced her appointment book off one of my pointy ears. Was this any way to run a veterinarian's office?

  Man, did that place clear out fast. Nothing but a few hairs—dog, cat, and blue rinse—floating to the floor.

  The doc obviously wasn't the ticket. I cleared out of there myself and ran three blocks on my hind legs before I realized it. I felt good, too. Problem was, it tended to stop traffic.

  I got down on all fours again, and though it hurt my back, I walked like that until I got to the park. As soon as I reached it, I stood up on my hind legs and stretched my back. I tell you, that felt some better.

  There was a bum sitting on a park bench tipping a bottle, and when he lamped me coming toward him, he jumped up, screamed, and ran away, smashing his bottle on a tree as he went.

  Sighing, I took his place on the bench, crossed my legs, and noticed that a fleshy pink knee was poking up through a rip in my fur. Man, what next?

  There was a newspaper lying beside me, and having nothing better to do, I picked it up. Didn't have a lick of trouble holding it. My toes had lengthened now, and my dew claw could fold and grasp. The hair on the back of my paws had begun to fall off.

  The paper was the morning edition. The first article that caught my eye was about this guy over on Winchester—and why not? That was right next door to where I'd been living with the old hag. It was the fellow who'd tossed out the hamburger.

  Seems he went weird. Woke up in the middle of the night and started baying at the moon through his bedroom window. Later on he got to scratching behind his ears with his feet, even though he was still wearing slippers. Next he got out of the house somehow and started chasing cars. Lady finally had to beat him with a newspaper to make him stop—at which point he raised his legs and peed on her, then chased the neighbor's cat up a tree.

  That's when the old lady called the nut-box people.

  By the time they got there the guy'd gotten a case of hairy knees, a wet nose, and a taste for the family dog's Gravy Train. In fact, the man and the dog got into a fight over it, and the man bit the rat terrier's ear off.

  Yeeecccchhh—fighting over Gravy Train! They can have the stuff. Give me steak and 'taters.

  Lady said she didn't know what had gone wrong. Said he'd gone to bed with a stomachache and feeling a bit under the weather. And why not?—he'd got hold of a week-old hamburger from McWhipple's that she'd set on top of the refrigerator and forgotten about. Seems this guy was a real chow hound and went for it. Ate a couple of big bites before his taste buds had time to work and he realized he was chomping sewer fodder.

  Ouch and flea bites! That must have been the same green meat I got a bite of.

  I tossed the paper aside and patted my chest for a cigarette. No pockets, of course.

  Just then, my tail fell off. It went through the slats in the park bench and landed on the ground. I looked down and saw it turn to dust, hair and all, till a little wind came along and whipped it away.

  Man, some days the things that happen to you shouldn't happen to a dog.

  Author's Note on The Companion

  This is a collaboration with my children.

  Here's what we did before we wrote anything. We kicked our idea around until we understood the framework. We talked out the scenes, the character, the locale, and the kind of mood we wanted to establish. We wanted an old-fashioned scary campfire story. Something that once read could be told and retold; and if not told exactly right, would still succeed, if kept within the original framework.

  Next, we outlined the story on paper. Dad sat at the machine, and Keith and Kasey sat next to him as we got started. We revised sentences, suggested sentences, and talked out scenes. After each scene was written, we read it aloud and discussed it, wrote and rewrote until we had it the way we wanted.

  When it was finished, copies were made, and we each looked them over and made notes. Then we wrote a final draft.

  Was it fun?

  Most of the time.

  There was a bit of unpleasantness. Sibling rivalry and a nervous dad, but in the end we made it.

  Out of it came "The Companion."

  We liked doing it enough, if the opportunity arose, we would do it again.

  The Companion

  (Written With Keith Lansdale and Kasey Jo Lansdale

  They weren't biting. Harold sat on the bank with his fishing pole and watched the clear creek water turn dark as the sunlight faded. He knew he should pack up and go. This wonderful fishing spot he'd heard about was a dud, but the idea of going home without at least one fish for supper was not a happy one. He had spent a large part of the day before bragging to his friends about what a fisherman he was. He could hear them now, laughing and joking as he talked about the big one that got away.

  And worse yet, he was out of bait.

  He had used his little camp shovel to dig around the edge of the bank for worms. But he hadn't turned up so much as a grub or a doodlebug.

  The best course of action, other than pack his gear on his bike and ride home, was to cross the bank. It was less wooded over there, and the ground might be softer. On the other side of the creek, through a thinning row of trees, he could see an old farm field. There were dried stalks of broken-down corn and tall, dried weeds the plain brown color of a cardboard box.

  Harold looked at his watch. He decided he had just enough time to find some bait and maybe catch one fish. He picked up his camp shovel and found a narrow place in the creek to leap across.

  After walking through the trees and out into the huge field, he noticed a large and odd-looking scarecrow on a post. Beyond the scarecrow, some stretch away, surrounded by saplings and weeds, he saw what had once been a fine two-story farmhouse. Now it was not much more than an abandoned shell of broken glass and aging lumber.

  As Harold approached the scarecrow, he was even more taken with its unusual appearance. It was dressed in a stovepipe hat that was crunched and moth-eaten and leaned to one side. The body was constructed of hay, sticks, and vines, and the face was made of some sort of cloth, perhaps an old towsack. It was dressed in a once expensive evening jacket and pants. Its arms were outstretched on a pole, and poking out of its sleeves were fingers made of sticks.

  From a distance, the eyes looked like empty sockets in a skull. When Harold stood close to the scarecrow, he was even more surprised to discover it had teeth. They were animal teeth, still in the jawbone, and someone had fitted them into the cloth face, giving the scarecrow a wolflike countenance. Dark feathers had somehow gotten caught between the teeth.

  But the most peculiar thing of all was found at the center of the scarecrow. Its black jacket hung open, its chest was torn apart, and Harold could see inside. He was startled to discover that there was a rib cage, and fastened to it by a cord was a large, faded valentine heart. A long, thick stick was rammed directly through that heart.

  The dirt beneath the scarecrow was soft, and Harold took his shovel and began to dig. As he did, he had a sensation of being watched. Then he saw a shadow, as if the scarecrow were nodding its head.

  Harold glanced up and saw that the shadow was made by a large crow flying high overhead. The early rising moon had caught its shape and cast it on the ground. This gave Harold a sense of relief, but he realized that any plans to continue fishing were wasted. It was too late.

  A grunting noise behind him caused him to jump up, leaving his camp shovel in the dirt. He grabbed at the first weapon he saw—the stick jammed through the scarecrow. He jerked it free and saw the source of the noise—a wild East Texas boar. A dangerous animal indeed.

  It was a big one. Black and angry-looking, with eyes that caught the moonlight and burned back at him like coals. The beast's tusks shone like wet knives, and Harold knew those tusks could tear him apart as easily as he might rip wet construction paper with his hands.

  The boar turned its head from side to side and snorted, taking in the boy's smell. Harold tried to maintain his ground. But then the moon
light shifted in the boar's eyes and made them seem even brighter than before. Harold panicked and began running toward the farmhouse.

  He heard the boar running behind him. It sounded strange as it came, as if it were chasing him on padded feet. Harold reached the front door of the farmhouse and grabbed the door handle. In one swift motion, he swung inside and pushed it shut. The boar rammed the door, and the house rattled like dry bones.

  The door had a bar lock, and Harold pushed it into place. He leaped back, holding the stick to use as a spear. The ramming continued for a moment, then everything went quiet.

  Harold eased to a window and looked out. The boar was standing at the edge of the woods near where he had first seen it. The scarecrow was gone, and in its place there was only the post that had held it.

  Harold was confused. How had the boar chased him to the house and returned to its original position so quickly? And what had happened to the scarecrow? Had the boar, thinking the scarecrow was a person, torn it from the post with its tusks?

  The boar turned and disappeared into the woods. Harold decided to give the animal time to get far away. He checked his watch, then waited a few minutes. While he waited, he looked around.

  The house was a wreck. There were overturned chairs, a table, and books. Near the fireplace, a hatchet was stuck in a large log. Everything was coated in dust and spider webs, and the stairs that twisted up to the second landing were shaky and rotten.

  Harold was about to return to his fishing gear and head for the bike when he heard a scraping noise. He wheeled around for a look. The wind was moving a clutch of weeds, causing them to scrape against the window. Harold felt like a fool. Everything was scaring him.

  Then the weeds moved from view and he discovered they weren't weeds at all. In fact, they looked like sticks . . . or fingers. Hadn't the scarecrow had sticks for fingers?