This story is dedicated to one of my favorite writers of all time, Harlan Ellison (May 27, 1934 – June 28, 2018). Harlan was one of the most awarded writers in history, winning multiple Hugos, Nebulas, Bram Stokers, Edgars, World Fantasy Awards, and more. In 2006, SFWA named him their Grand Master. During his sixty year career, he penned over 1,700 short stories, essays, articles, teleplays and screenplays, as well as several novels. Harlan bristled at being called a science fiction writer. He preferred speculative fiction writer, fantasist, or simply, a writer.
A fairly accurate summary of Harlan’s life and career can be found on Wikipedia.
To this day, Harlan’s “The City on the Edge of Forever,” is considered by many to be the finest episode of the original Star Trek series. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, Harlan also edited the cutting edge anthologies, Dangerous Visions and Again, Dangerous Visions which launched the careers of many as yet unknown writers and boosted the reputations of established writers.
Of course, Harlan was also well known for his cantankerous and intractable personality (to put it mildly), especially when he discovered that his work had been plagiarized or altered without his permission. This resulted in several lawsuits against television and movie studios. Perhaps the most renowned case involved James Cameron’s Terminator, after Cameron admitted that the story was based on Ellison’s Outer Limits episode “Soldier” (some variations of the story also include another Ellison episode, “Demon with a Glass Hand”). The case was settled out of court.
I had the honor of meeting Harlan in 1999 at I-CON on Long Island, NY. He signed several of his anthologies for me as well as two or three issues of Starlog magazine in which he’d been featured. Among my stack of books was a copy of Doomsman, a novella that Harlan wrote early in his career. However, he did not consider it his best work and it was reprinted by Belmont without his permission so he spent the rest of his life collecting as many copies as he could from fans (through trades or offers to buy) so that he could remove Doomsman from the market. When I first refused his offer to buy my copy, he tossed it across the table and said, “Then I’m not signing the f****n’ thing!” Eventually, I traded for another book, but hey, being cussed at by Harlan is like a badge of honor!
“Burn After Writing” was finished several months before Harlan’s death and finally found a home in Scary Stuff, a horror anthology by Oddity Prodigy Productions published in October 2020. The book is an homage to such classic EC Comics titles as Tales from the Crypt, Vault of Horror, Haunt of Fear. I’m sure it won’t be challenging to determine which character in this story is loosely modeled after Harlan.
“Burn After Writing”
by Phil Giunta
Crackling flames leapt from the immense stone fireplace like the snapping claws of some ravenous monster. Or is that just my imagination? Shane Conrad took a step back as he stared at the blazing hearth in Adrian Halka’s lakeside cabin. Behind him, multicolored file folders had been stacked atop a table by Halka’s widow. Food for the beast.
It had been the great writer’s final wish that they be burned—no exceptions. While Shane understood Halka’s reasons, he did not agree with them at all. To an editor and fellow fantasist, the very notion of destroying the unfinished works of one of the most awarded writers in history was abhorrent.
“I found two more.” Robyn shuffled into the room and tossed a pair of blue file folders onto the table. Each one was easily an inch thick with pages held together by large binder clips.
Shane picked up the top folder and began flipping through it. “Is there a code behind these colors?”
“If I recall correctly, blue folder indicates a story in progress. Yellow means that Adrian was still developing the idea and maybe had an outline, and the red folders have a page or two of notes he jotted down when inspiration struck. That’s why the red ones are the thinnest.”
Shane sighed as he fanned the pages. “I have to be honest with you, Robyn. I’m struggling with the idea of burning all this.”
She joined him in front of the fire. “I know. I noticed your expression when the lawyer read that part of Adrian’s will. I thought you were going to swallow your head.”
“I can name a dozen capable writers, myself included, who would be honored to finish some of these—and we could do it in Adrian’s style without sacrificing the integrity of his work.”
Robyn chuckled as she sat against the table. It was probably the first time she had cracked a smile since her husband’s death. “You remember Adrian’s reaction years ago when that publisher turned one of his manuscripts over to a hack because Adrian refused to make the revisions they wanted?”
“He sent them a box of dead rats.”
“By third class mail in the middle of summer. Cost them thousands to fumigate.”
“There will never be another like Adrian.”
“To the relief of many in your business, I’m sure.” Robyn placed a gentle hand on Shane’s arm. “It wasn’t that Adrian didn’t trust you, but he was adamant that if his name was on it—”
“—it had to be entirely his work and no one else’s, I know.” Shane held up the folder. “Did you ever read any of these unfinished stories?”
Robyn shook her head. “I could barely keep up with the published ones—all two thousand over fifty-four years. Speaking of which, Adrian loved your stories. That’s why he kept encouraging you to quit editing and get back to writing. What was it he used to say? There’s a special place in Hell for editors. Present company excluded of course.”
Shane laughed. “As a matter of fact, I have three short stories coming out later this year and two novels in progress.”
Robyn gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “Adrian would be proud.” A slow melody began playing from elsewhere in the house. She pushed away from the table. “I left my phone in the kitchen. As much as it pains you, my dear, start feeding the fire. I’ll be right back.”
The moment she vanished from view, Shane gathered both of the blue folders and slipped them into his backpack beneath the table. By the time Robyn returned, he had burned through half of the remaining stack of folders. They finished the rest in silence.
***
Standing at the lectern in Ebba Mackie’s Bookshop, Shane finished reading the opening chapter of his new fantasy novel before a small but appreciative audience. Ignoring the throbbing in his head, he smiled during their applause and began taking questions. A middle-aged woman in the second row raised her hand. “What inspired you to return to writing after so many years as an editor?”
Shane cleared his throat. “Last January, the world lost a brilliant writer in Adrian Halka. Some of you knew Adrian personally. He gave readings and signed books in this very store. I edited much of Adrian’s later work for Cinderbox Press and we became fast friends. Over time, I looked to him as a mentor. Years of exposure to his writing elevated the quality of mine until Adrian all but ordered me to quit meddling with other people’s work and get back to creating my own.” Shane held up the hardback copy of his book, “but it wasn’t until his death that I finally took his advice.”
He shot a sidelong glance at the back cover—and met the accusing gaze of Adrian Halka. You took more than my advice, you son of a—!
The book slipped from Shane’s grasp and slammed onto the lectern. No one in the audience seemed to hear the disembodied voice, but they stared at him expectantly. Shane cleared his throat again as he straightened the book. “Sorry about that, folks.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Even after all this time, I still become… emotional when I think about Adrian. Any more questions?”
***
Two hours later, after scribbling his name in more than a dozen copies of his novel, Shane thanked the last customer before slumping back in his chair. He slipped off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose just as an elderly woman took the empty seat beside him. “You know, as I listened to your reading, I could definitely hear Adrian’s influence. I look forward to reading the rest of it.” She leaned forward, brow furrowed. “You feeling all right?”
Shane cast his weary gaze on shop owner Ebba Mackie. “I must be coming down with something. I woke up with a scratchy throat and a relentless headache.”
Ebba pressed two gnarled fingers against his forehead. “You do seem a bit feverish, kiddo.” She slid her chair a few inches away. “No offense. I can’t afford to get sick. I’m a delicate old termagant. At least, that’s what Adrian used to call me.”
“Lady, you’re about as delicate as Krakatoa.”
“Are you implying I have a volcanic temper?”
“Remind me why you and Adrian got divorced?”
Ebba turned her gaze away and began straightening a stack of Shane’s books. She flipped one over and Shane was relieved to see his own smiling visage on the back cover. “Adrian was the unstoppable force to my immovable object. Writing was his mistress and I couldn’t compete. Of course, I didn’t offer much support either. Ours was a brief and volatile marriage, but we became friends again after some time apart. I was happy for him when he found Robyn. She’s a strong woman. What about you, handsome young stud? Any luck on the romantic front?”
Shane stifled a chill and began to suspect Ebba was right about the fever. He forced a wan smile. “Still looking for Ms. Right… but not today. Today, I’m going home, making chicken soup, and going to bed.”
***
Despite the lively throng of well-wishers in his apartment, Shane couldn’t stop shivering. As he walked through his living room, smiling faces blurred past on either side. Overlapping voices congratulated him on his recent success. He recognized most of them. His parents and sister, friends old and new, even ex-girlfriends had turned up to celebrate. Robyn was there, chatting with Ebba beside the familiar stone fireplace from Adrian’s cabin.
How did that get here? Shane shouldered his way toward them and stood before the hearth, trembling uncontrollably. He crouched down and closed his eyes, relishing the warmth on his face and hands.
“How ya feelin’, Shane?”
He turned to find a short, stout man in black cargo pants standing over him. His salt and pepper beard covered the top buttons of a disheveled blue and white plaid shirt. The room fell silent. Everyone else had vanished.
“Adrian. W-what—”
“Looks like you’re running a fever, boy.” Adrian’s hands shot forward, clutching Shane’s throat and pressing him backward toward the flames. “Better feed the fire!”
“Wait!” Shane awoke thrashing and kicking in a tangle of sheets and blankets. When he’d finally extricated himself, he sat on the edge of the bed and glanced at the alarm clock. It was just after three in the morning. The TV was still on, casting the bedroom in a feeble blue glow.
He snatched the digital thermometer from the nightstand and slipped it under his tongue before wrapping himself in a blanket. Glancing at the TV, Shane instantly recognized an old talk show from the 1980s, though he couldn’t recall the name of it.
“So what, if anything, do you dislike about writing?” the host asked.
“I don’t dislike anything about writing,” his guest shrugged, before turning in his chair to face the camera. “But I do hate people who steal my work!”
Shane tore the thermometer from his mouth. “Adrian…”
“Ain’t no fever induced dream this time, Conrad. You know, I don’t even care that you lied to your publisher or to your readers, but you lied to my wife. Hell, you even lied to my ex-wife! You were like a son to me, boy.”
Shane shot to his feet and started toward the TV, shivering either from fever or fear… or both. “Adrian, please, I’m sorry—”
“Screw your apology. You betrayed me. Why?”
Shane’s vision blurred and his knees buckled. He fell back against the bed. The digital thermometer in his hand began beeping, but he was too weak to lift his arm. “I… hadn’t published a novel in eight years. I needed… a fast comeback. Mine were taking too long.”
“So instead of respecting my final wishes, you stole my unpublished work. Of all people! You burn me up, Conrad, and now I’m returning the favor.”
Shane slid to the floor, writhing under the furious scowl of Adrian Halka. What began as a tingling throughout his body erupted with the torture of a thousand bee stings and the only sound louder than the electronic squeal of the thermometer was his own agonized shriek.
***
The police found Shane Conrad lying on the floor of his bedroom, loosely covered in the scorched tatters of a blanket. When the coroner arrived, the young sergeant was all too happy to give him a few minutes to perform his initial examination—any excuse to tear his gaze away from the body. “No sign of forced entry or struggle. We found no cigarettes or alcohol on him and nothing else in the room appears to have been affected except for this.” He held up an evidence bag containing the melted remains of a digital thermometer.
The coroner motioned for the body to be bagged. “Well, ruling out all that, it could have been a natural cause, but I won’t know for sure until I perform an autopsy. You all right, sergeant?”
“It’s his face. The neighbor who called said it sounded like the guy was screaming in terror. I’ve never seen anything like… that.”
“I have.” The coroner stared at the body bag as the zipper closed over the charred, blackened corpse of Shane Conrad. “Spontaneous combustion is a gruesome way to die.”