One of the first things I learned as a writer was when in doubt don't throw any pages away. That rule has frequently been of help, especially when due to over-familiarity with a manuscript in progress I edited a book too stringently, taking out scenes that shouldn't have been omitted, needing to go back and reinsert them, grateful that I'd saved the original versions. My filing cabinets became crammed with material that I eliminated from various works. Even after those works were published, I continued to save the files.

As a consequence, this is what you might call a "found book." In 1991, the British publisher, Headline, decided to reissue my only (to date) out-and-out horror novel, The Totem. It had first been released in hardback by the American publisher, M. Evans, in 1979 and had subsequently been reprinted by Fawcett in paperback one year later. The hardback was eventually discontinued. By the end of the eighties, so was the paperback. My memory of the story dimmed.

Thus when Headline suggested that it might be interesting for me to write an introduction to its new edition, I decided that I'd better reacquaint myself with the text so I'd be accurate about what I was introducing. But when I pulled The Totem off the shelf and studied it, I discovered to my dismay that the book I remembered was not the book that had been published. So much was different. So much was missing. Where was this scene, and where was that? I asked myself with increasing shock.

Abruptly a barrier in my memory fractured. I suddenly recalled that when I'd submitted The Totem in the late seventies, my editor had not been pleased. "It's too big, too sprawling," he'd said. "Where's the love interest? How come it takes so long to introduce your main character? Why isn't this about the military as in First Blood?" Given the ultimatum that if the novel wasn't changed it wouldn't be accepted, I reluctantly produced an alternate version of The Totem, half as long, twice as fast, with my main character appearing on the first page, and yes, with a love interest.

Not that I feel uncomfortable about that version. I think it's effective, and I'm gratified that it has acquired a reputation among horror fans. Critics have described it as one of the best horror novels of the seventies. It's been cited in Horror: 100 Best Books, and Denver 's Rocky Mountain News in 1989 placed it on that newspaper's Halloween list of "10 Scariest Books." But it's not the book that I wanted published, and after I reread The Totem in preparation for writing the Headline introduction, I couldn't resist the impulse to search through my files, and with delight, I discovered the original version that the turmoil of my negotiations with the book's 1979 publisher had forced me to forget.

The manuscript was dusty, dogeared, and yellowed, written on a typewriter, not a word processor. I felt as if I'd opened one of those metal boxes that are sometimes placed in the cornerstones of buildings so that historians from a later age can open them and study the once-contemporary objects sealed within them. I can't emphasize sufficiently how much I'd repressed my memory of the first version of The Totem. It's no exaggeration to say that I truly couldn't remember having written it. As I said, a found book. A time capsule from and about the sixties and the seventies. And having found it, I couldn't help smiling. There were the scenes that I'd subconsciously been missing. There were the length and scope and texture that I'd wanted. An expansive alternate style. A new beginning. A quite different ending. And as for the middle… well, let's put it this way: the story is twice as long and two-thirds dissimilar. There isn't just more plot-the extra material gives the plot a different twist. So what you're about to read is the intended version of this novel. If you're familiar with The Totem in its previously published form, you're about to enter its alternate universe. I think you'll find some pleasantly scary surprises.

David Morrell Santa Fe, 1994

totem, noun: 1. amoung primitive peoples, an animal or natural object considered as being related by blood to a given family or clan and taken as its symbol. 2. an image of this.

The power of the moon on animals and people is well known. Passing over the parallel between a woman's monthly cycle and the phases of the moon, we note the predominance of industrial accidents when the moon is at its fullest, the tendency of dogs and other canine animals to bay at it, of lunatics to do the same. Perpetuating ancient myth, we link the moon with love and with fertility. We speak of harvest moon. We speak of someone's being moonstruck. The very motion of the earth, its tides and shifting subzones, are related to the moon. We even set aside one day in worship of it, Monday, what in ancient times was Moon day.

Jacob Steiger,

The Pathology of Madness

A solitary rider on a ridge. that was the beginning. he'd been out for half a day now, checking the borders of his ranch, and coming from the high ground, he stopped to look down past the pine trees toward the sweeping grassland.

It was something that he never failed to marvel at. Sitting up here at the farthest reach of what he owned, staring down at all that rich wide ground, the abundant grass, the dots of sagebrush, he remembered how his father had used to take him here and point to it and tell him how his father's father had to fight for it and how the land would one day soon be his. He hadn't known that his father was then dying. He wasn't sure that his father even knew. But six months later he had seen his father buried-death had been both quick and painful-and then all the land was his.

That had happened twenty years ago. Now at thirty-eight he still came out here on the anniversary of when his father had died, and looked down at the valley from where his father once had pointed to it, and was proud. Pride of ownership. And something else: of knowing who his father had been. No, not who but what. The kindest, gentlest, and yet strongest man he'd ever met. Still after all these years he loved the man. And loved the land because of him.

He sat there, his reins tight on his horse, and stared out at the pasture stretching off as far as he could see and rubbed his weathered face and shook his head. He knew that he should go. The sun was fierce upon his back, his head protected by his cowman's hat. The horse would need some water soon; he still had lots of range to check. All the same, he didn't want to leave. He waited, his boots pressed into the stirrups, leather creaking, admiring the land his father had shown to him, and then the moment passed. He loosened the reins, nudging with his heels, and he was leaving.

The ridge led to a gametrail that wound down through shade beneath the pine trees. There was water at the bottom, and he felt the horse increase its gait, the cool smell evidently reaching it. He held back on the reins, working past a sharp turn in the trail, then easing farther down, the angle so steep now that he was forced to lean back. In the shade, his sweat-soaked shirt was cool against his sticky back. He reached behind to tug at it. Then he was working past another sharp turn, angling farther down, and he could see the stream below him glinting in the sunlight. His horse's hoofs plodded on the fallen pine needles.