I can't remember the exact moment when I first met Jim. It was at an early Horrorfind Weekend. I do know that much. What stands in my mind is this genial guy I didn't know coming up to me and handing me two books. They were horror anthologies.
These weren't your run of the mill anthologies. I'm talking my two Holy Grail books. One was a paperback I loved when I was a boy: Brother Theodore's Chamber of Horrors. The other was the Dark Harvest hardcover of Silver Scream.
I was gobsmacked. How did he, why did he, who is this guy?!?
His name was Jim. He saw me on the message boards pining for the two books. He may have already owned them, but knowing Jim, I think he found copies online and paid for them so he could give them to me.
Everyone at Horrorfind came to know Jim. He would bring books---boxes of books---and give them away. He'd be sitting in a chair in the hotel lobby, surrounded by them. They were free for the asking. To anyone. I'm not just talking about beat up paperbacks either. There were signed and limited hardcovers to be had. Old classics and recent small press items. Mass market hardcovers and Leisure paperbacks.
Jim did this for a few years. He and I became friends. Very close friends. When I began flying solo to the cons after my divorce, Jim and I became roommates. It was a tradition.
Jim loved Ray Bradbury more than any other author. He also adored Lovecraft and the entire Lovecraft Circle. It goes without saying he loved Bloch, Matheson, Beaumont, Leiber. Jim also enjoyed Stephen King and Robert McCammon. Joe R. Lansdale and F. Paul Wilson, Chet Williamson and Elizabeth Massie. Plus a host of others. He was a horror fiction fanatic with encyclopedic knowledge of the genre's history.
Of course we hit it off. Our tastes were not identical. Robert A. Heinlein was and is my favorite classic writer, and I liked Richard Matheson more than Ray Bradbury.
It didn't matter. We loved most of the same things, and Jim and I discussed books a lot. Hour after hour after hour.
Not merely a reader, Jim was a consummate collector. His specialty was British anthologies. He knew various editions, reprinting, retitlings, and who really edited those old Alfred Hitchcock and Boris Karloff anthologies.
Jim would bring samples of his collection to the cons. To say his books were impressive is a massive understatement. We'd ask people to come check out the books. People would nod, sure, let's go see these special books. I'd see a little cynicism in their faces. Then they would see the bed of books, as we called it. All eyes would grow wide in astonishment.
The books were amazing. His knowledge was unsurpassed. His passion, his enthusiasm, his genuine love of horror fiction. I've never seen its equal.
Years went by. Jim and I were almost always roommates at the cons. Horrorfind moved from Hunt Valley, Maryland to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and then down to Williamsburg, Virginia when Scares That Care was born.
Me and Jim, hauling boxes of his books across blazing hot parking lots and into the hotel. Getting them to the room and up on display. Keeping the drunks from spilling drinks or dropping them.
I drank a lot in those days. Jim would hang with me. He preferred Long Island Iced Tea. He drank them down, but never really seemed Intoxicated.
Jim always, always behaved like a gentleman. He was generous to a fault, courteous, erudite, distinguished. To those who were there all those years, he was a legend.
Jim read a lot, too. How could he not? He read and reread the classics, but also recent books. He even read Edward Lee's The Bighead. Jim was open-minded. He simply liked good books.
He was odd, but then aren't we all? Especially horror people. His eating habits were funny. Chicken sandwiches with only bread and meat. French toast, plain. Lots of Cokes and Red Bulls. Not much in the way of fruits and vegetables.
Jim saw me at my worst a few times. I went through a very rough period for a few years. He saw me battle meltdowns and he always remained calm. Jim was always calm. Looking back, maybe too calm.
I came back around and I eventually met a woman named Clara. She and I, as well as her family, began doing the conventions together.
When a guy meets someone and falls in love, things change with his other friendships. Of course Jim was still one of my greatest friends. He was easily my best friend in horror fandom. He came to the wedding when Clara and I were married.
But things were changing.
Jim began acting a little strange. For one, he stopped reading. I'd ask about it, and he would say that he was saving books for his retirement. Astonished, I replied that none of us are guaranteed tomorrow and that he should be reading. His answers were evasive.
Jim said he was behind at work. He was in IT with the government. Jim made good money, as did his wife. I've never been to his home, but I saw pictures. It was a beautiful, obviously expensive place outside D.C.
Jim said he was working from home until ten, eleven o'clock at night. After midnight sometimes. I said that he couldn't work those kind of hours. No employer could expect it. He said he was behind and needed to get caught up. This went on for years.
His behavior changed as well. Always intelligent and rational, his comments were sometimes illogical. Jim became more temperamental.
I quit drinking and Jim only drank at conventions, so we were no longer getting drunk in the hotel. That helped.
I remained Jim's roommate. Clara would get a room for herself and her daughter and granddaughters. Jim and I would stay in another.
Something else changed. I began my new role as bookseller. I grab up used books here and there throughout the year, and sell them at cons. It's a way to enjoy myself without partying, as well as a way to finance the costly weekends.
Jim continually berated me for not charging enough for books. I wasn't trying to rake people over the coals. I sell at good prices and I get a lot of satisfaction from getting books in the hands of horror readers and collectors.
He would make a huge deal out of it. "You need to charge more!". This from a guy who used to give away dozens and dozens of books at cons.
Jim would try to tell us how to set up our table. Clara and I have a good system that suits us. We improve each year. We do not need, nor do we wish, a lot of interference.
It got worse. Jim became more irrational. We chalked it up to stress and overwork.
Things continued to change. Clara's family moved away, and she no longer needed to share a room with them. Last year I gently explained to Jim that I was going to share a room with Clara. He was hurt, and angrily said "Well, if I'm not wanted I won't come!".
That was not like the Jim I knew. The one who stayed at our house on numerous occasions. The one I stayed up late with, discussing books and authors, as well as life in general. The gentleman everyone loved and felt gratitude toward.
It hurt. I didn't want to let Jim down, but Clara and I have our finances to consider. On the occasion of the final time we planned to see Jim at a horror con, I arranged a room for him with a mutual friend. He was supposed to show up on Thursday night, as usual, stay at our house, then we would all hit the convention on Friday morning.
Jim was always late. He would show up at our house at eleven or twelve at night. A four or five hour drive would take ten or twelve hours. Was traffic that bad?
Jim was supposed to be at our house on Thursday night in August 2022. He was late. Very late. I texted him and tried to call. I got a couple of messages saying he was tied up in traffic.
We texted that the back door would be unlocked, and we went to bed. We couldn't stay up any longer. This was not particularly unusual. One time he arrived at my house just before dawn the next morning.
Jim never showed up. We were worried. I called and texted. Maybe he went back home?
We had to set up our table at the con. Jim called me that afternoon. "JIM! WHERE ARE YOU?" He said he got misdirected. "DO YOU NEED HELP? GO ASK SOMEONE IN A STORE OR SOMETHING FOR HELP!" "Haha, no, no, I'm fine! I can find the hotel from here!". He never made it.
We heard from Jim's wife, who began to worry when she hadn't heard from him. We were all sick with worry. She began to involve the authorities.
I put on my happy face and sold books. That night while I was sleeping, I saw that Jim had tried to call around three in the morning. I slept right through it. I called, texted, and had a small breakdown myself.
Where was Jim?
We finally got an answer on Sunday morning. Jim was picked up somewhere in Maryland for driving erratically. He had been driving in circles through Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina for over three days. Somehow stopping for gas, but not getting food or water. Jim was starved, dehydrated, and in a state of intense confusion.
We saw the signs. His wife saw the signs. People with encroaching dementia often function well in the confines of their daily routine. Well enough, anyway. Jim spiraled out of control in those hellish three days. I am reminded of Robert Cormier's nightmare story, I am the Cheese.
The trip broke Jim. He was examined at the hospital and we heard he had the brain function of a hundred year-old man. Jim would require twenty-four hour assistance from now on. He is currently sixty-five years old.
I think Jim was in partial denial, but I also know he was a sharp guy. He had to know what was happening. He desperately needed to come and spend a last weekend with friends. I know work was horrible for him in the last few years. IT people can be contemptuous. Jim wanted to be in a place where he was respected. Though increasingly fewer people seemed interested in the things he had to say. Readers who love books with titles like Brutal Bigfoot Rapefest and Zombie Vomit Shitshow tend not to be interested in writers like Clark Ashton Smith and Oliver Onions. Unfortunately, I'm not making those titles up.
We all wished we had done something about it sooner. Jim's wife thought a weekend with friends would help him recover from the grueling period when he was forced into early retirement. He shouldn't have attempted the trip, but you can't stop people from doing something they really want to do.
And so goes another friend of mine. A great guy with an infectious, childlike love of horror and the supernatural.
I think of Jim telling me how he rode his bike across town when he was a kid so he could meet Robert Bloch and other beloved writers at a conference. I think of how he loved to tell the story of writing to Ray Bradbury when he was young. Jim still had the letter Bradbury wrote back. He was so proud of it.
Jim and I used to text each photos of books we found. Though he no longer read, was unable to read, he continued to buy and collect books. Right up to the end.
Long nights laughing, drinking, hobnobbing with the authors at conventions. Talking with fans.
Gifting each other with books. Going on book hunting jaunts when Jim was in town.
My world is darker without Jim's bright light. Sadly, the old crowd we knew so well is mostly gone from the scene. The newer fans do not know who Jim is. Very few people seem to be mourning him. Life goes on. The old writers are being forgotten. What chance does a fan have?
There will be no awards honoring Jim's name. No memorials. No public testimonials, even though I told many people about the situation. Jim wasn't some big time independent writer. All he did was spend thousands upon thousands of dollars supporting the horror genre. He only tried to educate people on the history of the field we all claim to love. He merely gave hundreds of books away with no thought of compensation.
Jim is still breathing, but the man we knew and loved is gone.
I'll never forget Jim. I will always treasure the memories. The joy we shared, the bond we had, the kind of kinship only true book lovers can understand. Jim was special. He was a gentleman, a scholar, and a true friend. God, I miss him.
Written by Mark Sieber
These weren't your run of the mill anthologies. I'm talking my two Holy Grail books. One was a paperback I loved when I was a boy: Brother Theodore's Chamber of Horrors. The other was the Dark Harvest hardcover of Silver Scream.
I was gobsmacked. How did he, why did he, who is this guy?!?
His name was Jim. He saw me on the message boards pining for the two books. He may have already owned them, but knowing Jim, I think he found copies online and paid for them so he could give them to me.
Everyone at Horrorfind came to know Jim. He would bring books---boxes of books---and give them away. He'd be sitting in a chair in the hotel lobby, surrounded by them. They were free for the asking. To anyone. I'm not just talking about beat up paperbacks either. There were signed and limited hardcovers to be had. Old classics and recent small press items. Mass market hardcovers and Leisure paperbacks.
Jim did this for a few years. He and I became friends. Very close friends. When I began flying solo to the cons after my divorce, Jim and I became roommates. It was a tradition.
Jim loved Ray Bradbury more than any other author. He also adored Lovecraft and the entire Lovecraft Circle. It goes without saying he loved Bloch, Matheson, Beaumont, Leiber. Jim also enjoyed Stephen King and Robert McCammon. Joe R. Lansdale and F. Paul Wilson, Chet Williamson and Elizabeth Massie. Plus a host of others. He was a horror fiction fanatic with encyclopedic knowledge of the genre's history.
Of course we hit it off. Our tastes were not identical. Robert A. Heinlein was and is my favorite classic writer, and I liked Richard Matheson more than Ray Bradbury.
It didn't matter. We loved most of the same things, and Jim and I discussed books a lot. Hour after hour after hour.
Not merely a reader, Jim was a consummate collector. His specialty was British anthologies. He knew various editions, reprinting, retitlings, and who really edited those old Alfred Hitchcock and Boris Karloff anthologies.
Jim would bring samples of his collection to the cons. To say his books were impressive is a massive understatement. We'd ask people to come check out the books. People would nod, sure, let's go see these special books. I'd see a little cynicism in their faces. Then they would see the bed of books, as we called it. All eyes would grow wide in astonishment.
The books were amazing. His knowledge was unsurpassed. His passion, his enthusiasm, his genuine love of horror fiction. I've never seen its equal.
Years went by. Jim and I were almost always roommates at the cons. Horrorfind moved from Hunt Valley, Maryland to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and then down to Williamsburg, Virginia when Scares That Care was born.
Me and Jim, hauling boxes of his books across blazing hot parking lots and into the hotel. Getting them to the room and up on display. Keeping the drunks from spilling drinks or dropping them.
I drank a lot in those days. Jim would hang with me. He preferred Long Island Iced Tea. He drank them down, but never really seemed Intoxicated.
Jim always, always behaved like a gentleman. He was generous to a fault, courteous, erudite, distinguished. To those who were there all those years, he was a legend.
Jim read a lot, too. How could he not? He read and reread the classics, but also recent books. He even read Edward Lee's The Bighead. Jim was open-minded. He simply liked good books.
He was odd, but then aren't we all? Especially horror people. His eating habits were funny. Chicken sandwiches with only bread and meat. French toast, plain. Lots of Cokes and Red Bulls. Not much in the way of fruits and vegetables.
Jim saw me at my worst a few times. I went through a very rough period for a few years. He saw me battle meltdowns and he always remained calm. Jim was always calm. Looking back, maybe too calm.
I came back around and I eventually met a woman named Clara. She and I, as well as her family, began doing the conventions together.
When a guy meets someone and falls in love, things change with his other friendships. Of course Jim was still one of my greatest friends. He was easily my best friend in horror fandom. He came to the wedding when Clara and I were married.
But things were changing.
Jim began acting a little strange. For one, he stopped reading. I'd ask about it, and he would say that he was saving books for his retirement. Astonished, I replied that none of us are guaranteed tomorrow and that he should be reading. His answers were evasive.
Jim said he was behind at work. He was in IT with the government. Jim made good money, as did his wife. I've never been to his home, but I saw pictures. It was a beautiful, obviously expensive place outside D.C.
Jim said he was working from home until ten, eleven o'clock at night. After midnight sometimes. I said that he couldn't work those kind of hours. No employer could expect it. He said he was behind and needed to get caught up. This went on for years.
His behavior changed as well. Always intelligent and rational, his comments were sometimes illogical. Jim became more temperamental.
I quit drinking and Jim only drank at conventions, so we were no longer getting drunk in the hotel. That helped.
I remained Jim's roommate. Clara would get a room for herself and her daughter and granddaughters. Jim and I would stay in another.
Something else changed. I began my new role as bookseller. I grab up used books here and there throughout the year, and sell them at cons. It's a way to enjoy myself without partying, as well as a way to finance the costly weekends.
Jim continually berated me for not charging enough for books. I wasn't trying to rake people over the coals. I sell at good prices and I get a lot of satisfaction from getting books in the hands of horror readers and collectors.
He would make a huge deal out of it. "You need to charge more!". This from a guy who used to give away dozens and dozens of books at cons.
Jim would try to tell us how to set up our table. Clara and I have a good system that suits us. We improve each year. We do not need, nor do we wish, a lot of interference.
It got worse. Jim became more irrational. We chalked it up to stress and overwork.
Things continued to change. Clara's family moved away, and she no longer needed to share a room with them. Last year I gently explained to Jim that I was going to share a room with Clara. He was hurt, and angrily said "Well, if I'm not wanted I won't come!".
That was not like the Jim I knew. The one who stayed at our house on numerous occasions. The one I stayed up late with, discussing books and authors, as well as life in general. The gentleman everyone loved and felt gratitude toward.
It hurt. I didn't want to let Jim down, but Clara and I have our finances to consider. On the occasion of the final time we planned to see Jim at a horror con, I arranged a room for him with a mutual friend. He was supposed to show up on Thursday night, as usual, stay at our house, then we would all hit the convention on Friday morning.
Jim was always late. He would show up at our house at eleven or twelve at night. A four or five hour drive would take ten or twelve hours. Was traffic that bad?
Jim was supposed to be at our house on Thursday night in August 2022. He was late. Very late. I texted him and tried to call. I got a couple of messages saying he was tied up in traffic.
We texted that the back door would be unlocked, and we went to bed. We couldn't stay up any longer. This was not particularly unusual. One time he arrived at my house just before dawn the next morning.
Jim never showed up. We were worried. I called and texted. Maybe he went back home?
We had to set up our table at the con. Jim called me that afternoon. "JIM! WHERE ARE YOU?" He said he got misdirected. "DO YOU NEED HELP? GO ASK SOMEONE IN A STORE OR SOMETHING FOR HELP!" "Haha, no, no, I'm fine! I can find the hotel from here!". He never made it.
We heard from Jim's wife, who began to worry when she hadn't heard from him. We were all sick with worry. She began to involve the authorities.
I put on my happy face and sold books. That night while I was sleeping, I saw that Jim had tried to call around three in the morning. I slept right through it. I called, texted, and had a small breakdown myself.
Where was Jim?
We finally got an answer on Sunday morning. Jim was picked up somewhere in Maryland for driving erratically. He had been driving in circles through Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina for over three days. Somehow stopping for gas, but not getting food or water. Jim was starved, dehydrated, and in a state of intense confusion.
We saw the signs. His wife saw the signs. People with encroaching dementia often function well in the confines of their daily routine. Well enough, anyway. Jim spiraled out of control in those hellish three days. I am reminded of Robert Cormier's nightmare story, I am the Cheese.
The trip broke Jim. He was examined at the hospital and we heard he had the brain function of a hundred year-old man. Jim would require twenty-four hour assistance from now on. He is currently sixty-five years old.
I think Jim was in partial denial, but I also know he was a sharp guy. He had to know what was happening. He desperately needed to come and spend a last weekend with friends. I know work was horrible for him in the last few years. IT people can be contemptuous. Jim wanted to be in a place where he was respected. Though increasingly fewer people seemed interested in the things he had to say. Readers who love books with titles like Brutal Bigfoot Rapefest and Zombie Vomit Shitshow tend not to be interested in writers like Clark Ashton Smith and Oliver Onions. Unfortunately, I'm not making those titles up.
We all wished we had done something about it sooner. Jim's wife thought a weekend with friends would help him recover from the grueling period when he was forced into early retirement. He shouldn't have attempted the trip, but you can't stop people from doing something they really want to do.
And so goes another friend of mine. A great guy with an infectious, childlike love of horror and the supernatural.
I think of Jim telling me how he rode his bike across town when he was a kid so he could meet Robert Bloch and other beloved writers at a conference. I think of how he loved to tell the story of writing to Ray Bradbury when he was young. Jim still had the letter Bradbury wrote back. He was so proud of it.
Jim and I used to text each photos of books we found. Though he no longer read, was unable to read, he continued to buy and collect books. Right up to the end.
Long nights laughing, drinking, hobnobbing with the authors at conventions. Talking with fans.
Gifting each other with books. Going on book hunting jaunts when Jim was in town.
My world is darker without Jim's bright light. Sadly, the old crowd we knew so well is mostly gone from the scene. The newer fans do not know who Jim is. Very few people seem to be mourning him. Life goes on. The old writers are being forgotten. What chance does a fan have?
There will be no awards honoring Jim's name. No memorials. No public testimonials, even though I told many people about the situation. Jim wasn't some big time independent writer. All he did was spend thousands upon thousands of dollars supporting the horror genre. He only tried to educate people on the history of the field we all claim to love. He merely gave hundreds of books away with no thought of compensation.
Jim is still breathing, but the man we knew and loved is gone.
I'll never forget Jim. I will always treasure the memories. The joy we shared, the bond we had, the kind of kinship only true book lovers can understand. Jim was special. He was a gentleman, a scholar, and a true friend. God, I miss him.
Written by Mark Sieber
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