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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Beyond Anon

  By Peter Giglio

  Praise for Peter Giglio

  “Bravo to Peter Giglio—a bright, disarming, and downright scary new voice in horror.”

  —Amy Wallace, #1 New York Times Bestselling author and Bram Stoker nominee

  “An invigorating new hand with the poise, polish, and precision of an established old hand. Peter Giglio arrives on the genre fiction scene with force and vitality. He’s a natural, a keeper, a clean shot of oxygen.”

  —Eric Shapiro, author of The Devoted and Stories for the End of the World

  Anon

  “It’s been a while since I’ve read anything that has impressed me this much…Peter Giglio is most definitely one to watch.”

  —Midnight Street Magazine

  “From page one, I found myself drawn into the world of Anon. The characters are so unique and vivid, and the plot was full of startling turns that I did not see coming at all! Peter Giglio’s prose leaps off the page and grabs you, propels you to keep on reading all the way to the tension-filled finish!”

  —Rhoda Jordan, screenwriter of Rule of Three

  “I loved this book. If you’re thinking of taking a chance on Anon, stop thinking and do it. You won’t be sorry you did.”

  —Chris Hedges, author of The Creek

  “Anon is a captivating, original read, and I look forward to future works which build upon these characters’ lives.”

  —Eric Guignard, award winning author and editor

  “From beginning to end, Anon holds you in its grip…Well crafted and addicting…”

  —Robert Essig, author of The Madness

  “Peter Giglio sets up his plot masterfully. In a fresh voice that keeps the reader guessing, he winds the tension to the breaking point. Some scenes were painfully real, others tantalizingly dreamlike.”

  —Marianne Halbert, author of dark fiction

  Balance

  “Balance is a grim and melancholy zombie story. Peter Giglio brings his A-game to this disturbing tale.”

  —Jonathan Maberry, New York Times Bestselling author of Dead of Night and Dust & Decay

  “A harrowing new perspective on the apocalypse. Giglio goes for the heart as well as the jugular.”

  —David Dunwoody, author of Empire’s End and Unbound & Other Tales

  A Spark in the Darkness

  “A Spark in the Darkness has put the bite back in the vampire tale.”

  —Joe McKinney, Bram Stoker Award winning author of Flesh Eaters and Apocalypse of the Dead

  “A Spark in the Darkness is uplifting, terrifying, and thought provoking in equal measures. Peter Giglio is a name to watch.”

  —Adrian Chamberlin, author of The Caretakers

  “Giglio continues to establish himself as a distinct voice of our generation, a vibrant spark in the dark fantasy/horror genre.”

  —Gregory L. Norris, author of The Q Guide to Buffy the Vampire Slayer

  PETER GIGLIO

  B E Y O N D

  ANON

  Hydra Publications

  1310 Meadowridge Trail

  Goshen, KY 40026

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Beyond Anon

  Copyright © 2012 by Peter Giglio

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Ouroboros design by Gary McCluskey

  Books by Peter Giglio

  Novels

  Anon*

  The Dark (with Scott Bradley)

  Beyond Anon*

  Novellas

  A Spark in the Darkness (published in print as Cold Sparks: Two Novellas of Horror by Peter Giglio and Catherine Cavendish)

  Balance

  As Editor

  Help! Wanted: Tales of On-the-Job Terror

  Evil Jester Digest, Volume One

  *Published by Hydra Publications

  For my mother, Fran Giglio, the heart and soul of my family

  —Prologue—

  1

  1990—Duluth, Minnesota

  Dark. That’s how Miles Winslow usually described the place. Tonight, however, he didn’t care about details. Darkness was where he belonged, and the bourbon he was drowning in kept coming; he still had enough money to see to that.

  “Another, Mal,” he snapped, slamming his jigger on the bar.

  Mallory Gustafson looked up from her newspaper and scowled. He remembered when she had been a beautiful thing. He’d even had his way with her a few times back in the old days. Now she was a fossil, like him, ready for death. Sweet, merciful death. An end to suffering.

  “You sure, Win? Been putting ’em down a little fast tonight.”

  “Never been more certain in all my life.”

  “You’re gonna cab it home, right?”

  “What do you think?” He smirked. “I do my best driving when I’m tipsy. You know that.”

  She put the Duluth News Tribune down, snickered, then yanked a bottle of Maker’s Mark from a high shelf, groaning from the effort. “Tipsy my ass,” she said, pouring him a fresh drink. She pushed the glass forward and said, “Serves you right if you wrap that piece-of-shit Caddy around a telephone pole tonight.”

  He ignored her unkind words and began to sip, when another customer, shrouded in gloom and a slightly tilted fedora, a briefcase and a beer on the bar in front of him, lit a cigarette and laughed. This drew Miles’ attention away from his drink for a rare moment. He watched blue smoke serpents swirl around the previously ignored presence and, though he couldn’t make out the man’s features, could tell the stranger was young. This chuckle-head didn’t have any problem getting an erection or, for that matter, women. Didn’t have decades of failure heavy on his shoulders. Wasn’t at the painful end of a fourth marriage. Hadn’t shat away an enormous inheritance.

  Miles hated the guy.

  With a weary sigh, he returned to his drink. Despite his hazy state of mind, which would have bolstered his self-confidence in better, younger days, he didn’t want trouble. He had cornered the market on that already. As much as he despised himself, a feeling that intensified every day, he wasn’t looking to wake up in the hospital with black eyes and broken ribs. He wasn’t so sure he ever wanted to wake up again.

  Mallory was already checked out, counting another set of disappointing receipts as she shook her head. Another few minutes and she’d call “Closing time!” Then Miles would return to his lonely, heavily mortgaged home. No. Not a home. Just a house that wouldn’t be his much longer. Letting go was easy. Knowing it had never been a home, that he’d never really had one, wasn’t. And it was his damn fault, which only made the whole debacle more painful.

  The stranger slid over a few stools and clenched a firm hand around Miles’ arm. “Hey, amigo,” he said in a powerful whisper, “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  The tavern seemed to darken.

  Miles shook his head, gazing through his last finger of amber oblivion. Down it and go, he told himself. Not looking at the man, trying to sound casual, he replied, “Nah. I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine.”

  The young man’s grip tightened. And Miles sensed that bad was about to get a whole lot worse.

  “It’s no problem. I insist,” the man said.

  Miles slapped away the uninvited mitt and turned. “Hell, asshole, I insist that yo
u mind your own—”

  And that’s when it happened. He saw the man’s eyes, unmistakable. Slowly, other features bled into focus.

  Miles stammered, “I…well…I…uh…”

  “You’re in no condition to drive,” said the man.

  “No. How can…?”

  The man shook his head, holding out his hand. “Give me your keys, Miles.”

  Miles fished the keychain from his khaki slacks and handed it over. Much as he wanted to refuse the request and run, he’d never been able to say no to himself.

  2

  Very little was said on the short drive. The young man wore a smile of confidence, hands casually draped on the Caddy’s steering wheel, one finger drumming in time with “Bad Moon Rising.”

  The music intensified Miles’ headache. He wanted to eject the cassette, normally his favorite, but, frozen to his heated leather seat, he could hardly move. He watched Lake Superior glide by and the Aerial Lift Bridge, the one thing that made the city unique, fade from sight.

  All a bad dream, he told himself. But he knew that wasn’t true, anymore than his entire life had been a bad dream.

  They barreled through a long, winding underpass, the tunnel’s sodium lamps scoring the inside of the car with a strobing pall. Young Miles pressed his foot deeper into the accelerator, and Miles felt the pull of the powerful engine in his already queasy gut.

  The car back in the open air, raindrops splotched the windshield. Wipers forebodingly groaned across glass, and Young Miles said, “You really should get the blades changed.”

  Miles had neglected a lot lately, and he sensed that his younger self was less than impressed. The rain intensified, and Miles cursed it. It always rained here, when it wasn’t snowing, which was often.

  “I hate this town,” Young Miles said, as if he’d read his older self’s mind. “Other than summer. Summer’s the tits.”

  Miles nervously nodded agreement. “All three weeks of it,” he muttered. Then he lowered his head, feeling like he might be sick at any moment.

  “You got that right.” Young Miles laughed.

  Credence Clearwater Revival faded and the opening strains of The Beatles’ “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” came from the speakers.

  “Nice mix tape,” Young Miles said.

  Ignoring the observation, Miles whispered, “I should have left this place long ago, when I was you.”

  “Never too late.”

  The sensation of movement ceased. Miles looked up, surprised to see they were already in his garage.

  “Safe and sound,” Young Miles said. He cut the ignition and grabbed his briefcase from the backseat. “Ready?”

  Then, as if he were the guest, Miles was led into the house and told to sit.

  The young man paced the living room for a while then stopped, looking at framed photographs on a shelf. He picked one up, dusted it off, and shook his head. Then he turned the image around for Miles to see.

  Miles didn’t need to look. Burned into his mind’s eye—he and Samantha, wife number four, looking happy and healthy and tan on the beach.

  “We never knew how to love, did we?” Young Miles asked. Then he ran a finger across the shelf and inspected it with disdain. “Or clean.”

  Miles nodded at the truth of the words, though their nature was perplexing. To hear his twenty-five-year-old self speaking in past tense about his failures didn’t seem right. Out of synch and time. Illogical. Then again, none of this made sense. If only a hallucination—and what the hell else could it be?—maybe it was best to give in, play along. After all, he didn’t have anything left to lose. But hallucinations didn’t drive cars, did they?

  The young man put the frame back on the mantle and began scanning other shelves. “So many books,” he said. “Too bad we never read any of them.”

  “The illusion of intelligence,” Miles said.

  “Exactly. The sizzle is always more compelling than the steak.” The young man snatched a large tome with gold lettering on the spine: Ancient Greece. He thumbed through pages, found what he was looking for, then slammed the book on the coffee table in front of Miles. “The Ouroboros,” he said, pointing at a picture of a serpent eating its own tail.

  Miles, who had never seen the symbol and knew nothing about ancient Greece, studied the simple but horrifying image. “What does it mean?” he asked.

  The young man spread his arms wide. “Many things. Most importantly, it means that all matter is eternal. That beginnings and endings are often synonymous.”

  “I just see a snake eating its fucking tale,” Miles said.

  “You see a little more than that.” Young Miles hooked a thumb at himself.

  “I see you, a reflection of what I once was. But none of this makes a damn bit of sense.”

  “As you were, you can be again. Only better. Wiser. More powerful.”

  “This isn’t real. I’m drunk and probably losing—”

  “You’re a lot of things, friend, but crazy isn’t one of them.”

  “No,” Miles said, shaking his head. “Time is running out for me. I’ve already had two heart attacks and—”

  “Time is irrelevant.” The young man moved his briefcase from the floor to the coffee table and snapped it open. From it, he pulled a thick manila folder and placed it in front of Miles.

  “What’s this?” Miles asked.

  “Surefire investments. And you’ll make them, each and every one. Starting small, of course, getting bigger and bigger. Your ticker can hold out for a few years.”

  “Maybe, but…” Miles opened the folder and started scanning documents from publicly traded companies he’d never heard of. Though a complete failure, he was very knowledgeable about the stock market. Looking closer, he was shocked to see dates in the future. This was inside information of the most bizarre and beautiful nature. But how? He looked up, unable to keep the newly blooming smile from his lips. “What’s a dot-com?”

  The young man waved off the question. “Don’t worry about details, just make the deals. That is, if you want to rise like a phoenix. Don’t you want to come home to me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then trust me.”

  “But how—”

  “Miles, darling,” the young man said with a sneer, “I’m giving you the answers. If you have the answers then why would you ask the fucking questions?”

  “I…I can’t…It makes no sense.” Miles rifled through the information in the folder again, and a grim possibility smacked him. He held his tongue for the briefest of moments, wishing he had the will to run or fight, then asked, “Are you the Devil, here to take my soul in exchange for this information?”

  The young man laughed. “Ridiculous!”

  “Then who or what are you?”

  “Don’t be so small-minded. You know as well as I that we never had a soul worth trading for such riches.”

  “But there’re only a few years of information here. What’s the endgame?”

  The young man sat in a chair across from Miles. He pulled cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and dropped the pack on the table. Miles stared at them, wanting one bad.

  “Go ahead,” Young Miles said, pushing the cigarettes toward him.

  “Can’t. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Age is one hell of a curse.”

  Convinced none of this was really happening, Miles yanked a cigarette from the table and let his younger self light it. He took a deep drag, his first in more than three years, and exhaled slowly. It tasted amazing.

  The young man nodded.

  “Sweet Virginia,” Miles said. A wave of contentment settling over him, he eased into the couch and took another drag. He was sure he’d wake in the morning with a nasty headache. He probably wouldn’t even remember this dream. Humoring his younger self, he said, “Come on. Tell me who you are.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Okay, so you’re me. But…I mean…are you a time traveler or…?”

  “No.”

/>   Miles moaned. “Tell me.”

  “I’ll tell you what you need to know and nothing more. That’s how this works.”

  “All right.” Miles leaned forward and snuffed his cigarette out on the glass surface of the coffee table. “So what do I need to know?”

  “In a few years you’ll make the most important investment of your life.”

  Miles flicked his eyes to the open folder, but his younger self reached out and closed it. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not in there.”

  “But how will I—”

  “One word is all you have to remember,” Young Miles said, and then his eyes glowed orange.

  Miles scuttled into the couch cushions, nowhere to escape. Young Miles languidly drew closer; and Miles, unsure what to do, closed his eyes and was struck by a childish thought. If I can’t see him then he’s not real. But that logic hadn’t worked when he’d been a kid, and it sure as hell wasn’t working now. This wasn’t a dream.

  He smelled the young man’s breath…and it smelled…sweet. Like lilies and lilacs. The breath of a god. He couldn’t resist.

  His lids shot open and he stared into those blazing eyes, which were no longer terrifying.

  They were terrifyingly beautiful. Hypnotic.

  “Anon,” the young man said. Then he kissed Miles. Long and hard.

  Miles felt gravity dissolve. The room spun. Colors swirled.

  “Anon,” Young Miles repeated, only now the voice wasn’t coming from outside Miles.