Illusions of Isolation

By Brennan LaFaro

Is anyone ever really alone?
When a young man’s wife goes away for the weekend, he lies awake all night wondering what the otherworldly sound in the attic is and why only he can hear it.
After her husband’s death, a mother who interacts with her son exclusively through stationery notes grapples with the strange ways her lost love seems to be haunting them both.
And inch by inch, room by room, a young girl’s home is overtaken by a savage jungle, even while her parents are being gradually replaced by somewhat…wilder housemates.
In this debut collection Brennan LaFaro, the author of NOOSE and SLATTERY FALLS, brings you these stories of creeping dread and much, much more. Contained within are thirteen tales of horror, humor, and heart, (including nine which have never before seen the light of day) and an introduction by the legendary Jonathan Janz.
Is anyone ever really alone? Or are they merely suffering…
ILLUSIONS OF ISOLATION

• Language: English
• Publisher: French Press
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798376105870

Book preview

Praise for

Illusions of Isolation

Evocative, relevant, and expertly crafted, LaFaro’s collection is an exemplary testament   to his range and mastery of his craft.

- Candace Nola, author of Bishop

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A haunting collection of stories that readers will want to revisit time and time again.

- Samantha Kolesnik, Splatterpunk Award-winning author of True Crime and Waif

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With the thirteen tales in this Norman Rockwell nightmare, Brennan LaFaro has made the world feel unsafe—the bucolic now rendered septic, the familial unfamiliar and the innocence of children something to be absolutely terrified of.

- Clay McLeod Chapman, author of

Ghost Eaters

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"Brennan LaFaro knows his way around writing a horror story, and Illusions of Isolation is proof positive of why he's a rising star in the genre. Creepy, strange, and thought-provoking, this is an excellent collection that deserves an immediate place on your TBR list."

- Gwendolyn Kiste, Three-time Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Rust Maidens and Reluctant Immortals

A picture containing text Description automatically generated

Copyright © 2023 Brennan LaFaro

Cover art copyright © 2023 Matthew Wildasin

A British conservative recently asked me what I wear when writing the component parts of a collection like this.  And if you actually read the copyright page of this book, you deserve to hear my response to him.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any other mode of information storage or sharing, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.  And my answer, of course, was Shorts, Tory.

For Ronald Kelly,

A great writer and an even better friend

Introduction:

Step into the Spinning Tunnel

You read enough short story collections, you start to figure out what you like. Also what you don’t like. We’re all different so we like different things. What turns your crank might feel too cold on my...anyway, the point is we’re all different. I can only speak to what I like in a collection and what I don’t.

First of all, give me quality. That might go without saying, but let’s be honest. How many collections out there have no duds? How many are crammed with bangers from cover to cover? It’s actually pretty rare for a collection to reach a lofty level of quality and sustain it, so when an author populates a collection with one strong tale after another, it’s cause for fist-pumping.

Secondly, give me surprises. This sounds crusty-old-and-jaded, but when you’ve read a great many tales, you come to expect certain beats, twists, and reveals. So when an author can subvert your expectations without resorting to head-scratching deus ex machinas, that’s another reason to rejoice.

Lastly, I want variety. Sure, some of the best stories are grooves that strike a mood and maintain an unswerving path into madness from beginning to end (no one did this better than Poe; see The Masque of the Red Death and The Fall of the House of Usher for proof), but in a collection I want to feel more than one emotion. I want fear, I want hope, I want joy, I want pain. I want it all, to crib from Freddie Mercury, and when a collection can provide that cartwheeling tumble from one extreme to the next, I’m a happy dude.

This collection made me happy. It opens with Dressed for Success, a tale so off-kilter I knew immediately this experience would be the equivalent of one of those funhouse spinning tunnels where the floor keeps revolving and your reflexes are always a step behind. Piece by Piece begins with a stunner of a first line and only gets better from there. Year of the Black Rainbow is as engrossing as its title.

And so goes this collection. Brennan LaFaro clearly knows how to tell a riveting tale, and he demonstrates again and again a willingness to go where the story goes. I don’t know if he’s a pantser (writing by the seat of his pants) or a plotter (the opposite) or something in between, but I can tell you how these stories feel: they feel like they’re written by someone with an excellent imagination who’s discovering the events a split second before the reader, the time it takes to depress the computer keys the only difference between our experience and his. And that sense of plunging ahead into the darkness, that sense of mouth-agape revelation, imbues these stories with that delicious and rare trait: uncertainty.

One thing I’m certain of is that you’re going to be glad you picked this collection up. It’s outstanding. Just be sure to brace yourself a little; this spinning tunnel moves fast, and once you’ve lost your balance, Brennan won’t let you regain it until the ride is over.

Jonathan Janz

Dressed for Success

Banes Academy opens its rusty gates to allow you in. The grinding squeak assaults your ear drums, makes your eyes shut and teeth crash together. When it feels like you can’t take one more second of screeching metal, the forward momentum stops, and the sound along with it. The heavy silence warns you to turn and run, but you don’t listen. They’re expecting you inside and you don’t want to find out what happens to tardy students.

The other children arrived twenty minutes earlier, but they wanted you to make a grand entrance. Turning around, you spy Mom behind the wheel of the car. Still in park, but ready to depart as soon as you’re out of sight. A nervous smile flits across her face and she grips the wheel tight. Part of you wants to be angry at being forced into this place, but deep down, you know she doesn’t have a choice. Dad left her without one. Left her without a lot of things.

Having a parent accompany a new student inside sets a dangerous precedent. Allow it once and it becomes routine. Soon that student can’t function without the security blanket. That’s what they said. Mom had looked like she wanted to argue, but the Principal’s tone left no room to do so. Drawn-out syllables delivered in a timbre not unlike the creaking cacophony of the gate’s welcome.

Offering a half-hearted wave, you turn away from the car and face the long concrete slab leading to the front door. You smooth out the gray pants they made Mom buy, the color of an overcast afternoon begging for sunshine. They called it pewter, but you know gray when you see it. She ironed them twice, bringing the crease to a sharp point, but somehow it doesn’t feel sufficient.

Principal Roth didn’t lay out the consequences for rumpled attire, instead implying an obedient student would never need to find out.

The tall, wooden door draws closer, looming over you, threatening to eat you alive. You stand before it a moment, unable to bring yourself to touch it. You hold out a trembling hand, positive the cold metal knob will devour you the moment your skin makes contact, but the teeth never come. The door opens to reveal a giant of a man. If one of your friends from the last school stood on your shoulders, they might be able to look him in the eye. His mouth pulls back in a permanent snarl, as though he’s never thought to use it to smile. The rumble of the car’s engine fills the air suddenly. You don’t look back again as the noise fades into the distance. The man stares over your head, as though he doesn’t see you there. It’s only when he speaks that you realize this is a tactic.

You must be the new one, eh?

He leaves no time for a reply.

You’re late, he growls. He doesn’t consult a watch, and a sneaking suspicion rises up in you. He would have extended this greeting regardless of punctuality. Well. In you go with the rest.

He jerks his head slightly and you skirt around the tree trunks that pass for his legs. The decor of the hallway matches the dreary, colorless pants you’ve been forced to don. Short-trimmed carpet the color of television static stretches as far as the eye can see, bordered by lockers resembling squid’s ink. Students line the hallways on either side, their number extending as far as the reach of the carpet. They face away from you and don’t so much as sway. Teachers stand at regular intervals, their watchful eyes gleaming with a hint of something that matches their smirks. With everyone adorned in Banes Academy gray, you could be looking at statues in a wilting garden.

A figure emerges from an office door tucked neatly between the lockers. Not as imposing as the doorman, Principal Roth is still an unwelcome sight. He approaches with hands clasped behind his back. Less than twenty students away, his steady stride breaks as if concrete snatched hold of his feet. Roth rotates his head to glare at a student, and you notice their offense. In a sea of standard issue black socks, this one student chose red; a pair of roses growing through the asphalt’s cracks in an abandoned parking lot.

Bell? It’s a wonder you can’t see icy crystals on the principal’s breath.

Sir?

My office.

But—

Do I need to remind you of the consequences if I have to ask twice?

No, sir. The boy steps out of line and with shoulders slumped, plods toward the hidden office door. He turns back only once, but his eyes tell his version of what Roth means by ‘consequences’. You’ve never seen a man walk to their own execution before but it’s easy to imagine their posture might resemble Bell’s.

As the doomed child disappears from view, Principal Roth’s attention falls on you once again. A smile creeps across his face, never reaching his eyes.

Ah, welcome! I see you’ve met Hargreaves, our illustrious groundskeeper. The giant you forgot was behind you grunts in acquiesce. Now then, sorry you had to see that, but we take the dress code very seriously here at Banes Academy as I made clear to your mother. After all, a boy who can’t keep his attire straight can hardly be expected to keep his life straight, can he?

You nod, unsure of what to say.

That’s a good boy. We won’t bring back the good old days if we’re not dressed for success. Ah, but that’s only the start. My dear boy, we’ve been waiting for you so that we may start classes. Isn’t that right, pupils?

The halls echo with a dulled chorus of Yes, sir, a military chant without any spirit.

Very good. Roth draws the words out, as though performing an operatic melisma. His eyes dart back to you.

You’ll be with Mr. Rickly. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave just now. I’ve some matters to... attend to. But I’ll be sure to check in on your progress throughout the day.

He marches back down the hall with hands clasped once more. You join the closest line, hoping it’s the right one, and follow as it funnels into a classroom. You’re not surprised to find it matches the color scheme of the rest of the building. Mr. Rickly—if you are in the correct room—stands before the class as the students take their seats in silence. You can hear the man draw a breath before he speaks.

His lips barely move beneath a thick mustache, and the oversized glasses with round lenses make him appear nervous.

Good morning, boys. His voice rings high-pitched and shakes, whether from nerves or habit, you can’t tell. Ah, we have a new arrival. I’d been told you were coming. Well, come on up, son, and tell us about yourself. Don’t be shy. This is the first voice you’ve heard that contains genuine warmth.

The rest of the class had taken their seats, but you remain off to the side, pressed against the wall as though mixing among their number will ingratiate you into their ranks. Make you part of them. Part of this place. As you walk to the front, their eyes follow you, drawn with what looks like hope. No one says a word, but they watch. You face the class and open your mouth to speak—

The door flies open, cutting off your first word before it ever has a chance to be born. Mr. Roth stands in the doorway, not a trace of emotion on his face. Ah, Mr. Rickly, I see your new student arrived... safely. Do continue, dear boy, I simply like to see what’s going on under my roof from time to time.

You stumble through an introduction, simultaneously trying to keep it concise and avoid saying anything that might upset Principal Roth’s delicate temperament. Remembering the boy with the red socks slumping to the office, the fear in his eyes before he turned away, you ramble on for close to three minutes. Roth’s face betrays nothing.

When you finish, you head toward one of the two empty desks in the room. You almost make it before a voice slices through the room. Not the unsettling baritone of the Principal, but a child’s voice.

Where is Bell?

Roth’s facial features don’t change, not to the casual observer, but the atmosphere darkens, and you can trace the pall’s origin to the man standing in the doorway.

Bell has been sent away, he answers, through gritted teeth. The words allow no room for argument, but it comes anyway.

Sent home for the day or for good? The same student who asked the initial question continues to poke the bear. No trace of arrogance, simply curiosity for his missing friend.

Principal Roth lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. He holds the position a moment before glaring at the inquisitive child. McGregor, isn’t it? I believe my words were Bell has been sent away. Am I mistaken?

No, I—

No, what? Roth barks.

No, sir, but I—

Besides which, the discipline of another student, especially one who so flagrantly flouts school rules, is none of your concern.

"Oh, Mr. Roth, I don’t know that wearing the wrong color socks constitutes a serious violation.'' The words drift from Mr. Rickly’s mouth like an audible musing. Instantly, the color drains from his face, leaving him the spitting image of mashed potatoes. His lips flap, but Roth chimes in before he can try and dig his way out. His voice lowers, though not enough to miss the ears of every boy in class, and slinks in a serpentine manner.

Mister Rickly. He emphasizes every syllable. You would not presume to tell me how to run my own school, now would you?

No, I—

No. What?

No, sir.

A grin slithers onto Roth’s face, and his voice slips back into the friendly tone showcased to the outside world. Good. The idea of whether you really fit in with the faculty here at Banes Academy has been on my mind for some time. Especially with evaluations on the horizon. I’m glad to hear it.

What about Rose? When’s he coming back? McGregor again.

I am not familiar with that surname. Mr. Rickly, I daresay you have an issue with students speaking out of turn. If you don’t address it, I will.

He turns and leaves, an air of smug confidence trailing behind him. Mr. Rickly and the students pass a look around the classroom. The clock’s ticking fills the silence, all too reminiscent of an armed bomb.

Sir? McGregor grabs the attention of the class after a cursory amount of time passes. A calculated risk since Roth could be just outside the door.

Mr. Rickly pulls his gaze from his shoes, giving permission to speak with a nod. Some of the color returns to his face.

Bell isn’t coming back, is he?

There’s no way to know. I’m sure Principal Roth will do what he feels is best. Another boy raises his hand. Yes, Harrison.

That’s what you said about the others. Rose and Everett. They never came back.

The two names hang in the air and Mr. Rickly has no answer. You don’t know those names, but tension fills the air at their mention. Your hand shoots into the air, almost without permission, and Mr. Rickly gives leave to speak with an inquisitive nod. You don’t want to break the silence, but a trip to the bathroom seems an easy way to escape.

Back into the hallway you go, the prison-cement shaded walls feel closer together, but that’s not possible. Right? Panic sets in as you realize you left the room before you could ask where the bathroom is. Feet planted in the middle of the static carpet, everything starts to spin. Your heart pounds and a damp sheen of sweat forms on your palms. Roth’s shallow, friendly exterior won’t hold up