Table of Contents

NO ONE IS SAFE

Copyright

A Self-Confessed Fracassi Junkie's Introduction - Ronald Malfi

The Wish

The Last Haunted House Story

Murder by Proxy

The Rejects

My Father's Ashes

Aquarium Diver

Serial Numbers

Overnight

Over 1,000,000 Copies In Print

Autumn Sugar

Marmalade

The Guardian

The View

Row

Acknowledgments

Publication Credits

About the Author

NO ONE IS SAFE!

Copyright © 2024 Philip Fracassi

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or any

electronic or mechanical means, including information and retrieval

storage systems, without written permission from the author,

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

Cover illustrations copyright © 2024 by Jim & Ruth Keegan

Interior design by Inkspiral Design

ISBN: 978-1-59021-604-0

A SELF-CONFESSED

FRACASSI JUNKIE'S INTRODUCTION

RONALD MALFI

MY RECOLLECTION, OFTEN KNOWN FOR being hazy, is that sometime in the swamp-thick spring of 2016, our hero—me, in other words—began an online discussion about all things writing with an author who had, at the time, penned a bit of dark fiction, as well as a Christmas movie featuring talking puppies. Without having ever met in person, I found a kinship with Philip Fracassi—an appreciation for his art, process, concerns, and achievements—and our online discussions continue to this day.

I remember I was in Florida at the time we battered around our first few missives, finishing up a manuscript while taking in some of the local color; earlier that day, I’d witnessed a large Ford pickup truck barrel down the road, expelling clouds of black diesel exhaust and inadvertently run over an alligator. It left me feeling dirty, so I sought out a watering hole for refuge, as one does. That evening, Philip and I commenced our discussion through one of the more fashionable messenger apps of our time while I sat at a tiki bar that seemed to double as a laundromat, sipping vodka tonics and trying to avoid the perilous stares of both the octogenarian prostitute across the bar and the dim-eyed fellow near the pool tables whose solitary gold incisor gleamed each time one corner of his mouth tugged upward in a wry simulacrum of a smile.

I had just watched a movie Philip had written that had come out the year before, Girl Missing, and he had similarly read and then given to his then-girlfriend a copy of my novel, Little Girls. Mind you, this was more than just two young, handsome, talented men with girls on the brain: Philip explained to me the process by which he’d written the screenplay for the film, the pages he’d had to cut, the limitations imposed upon him by a small budget. I was impressed with his success even in the face of the frustration I could tell Philip felt on occasion with the industry—both Hollywood and the publishing world alike.

The two things that struck me most during these conversations were Philip’s evident passion for the art of writing and his undeniable talent. I read some of his other work soon after we began our chats, each edition graciously mailed to my home, usually with a friendly note, by the author himself. (I recall the wholly meta experience of reading his wonderful novella Altar, about a swimming pool scenario straight out of hell, while I was sunning my own damn self at my neighborhood pool.) His short story collections, Behold the Void and Beneath a Pale Sky, came next, and I devoured both of those books, then immediately re-engaged with him:

“I need more, Philip,” I begged suddenly becoming this Fracassi junkie, this prose-crazed, itchy-skinned ghoul salivating at the thought of more words arriving unbidden in my mailbox. “What else have you got coming out? Tell me, tell me ….”