Charlie Grant died last night at home of a heart attack. It happened very quickly, around 11pm. He had been watching a baseball game on television with Kathy and his brother, Jack. Kathy and Jack went to the kitchen for some food, and when they returned a few minutes later, he was gone.
Ten days ago, Charlie had been able, at long last, to return home. That had been his hope -- to die at home, and not in the hospital. Particularly after all he had been through, the end was merciful, and what he wanted.
This is who Charlie Grant was: http://www.ihgonline.org/grant.html.
The last time I saw him he was grey (hair, skin and beard) and gaunt and sick. Now he's dead, I find I'm thinking of him as I first knew him, meeting him at a British Fantasycon in about 1984, smart and funny and sharp, with a dark beard and dark hair and dark eyes, and I was in awe of him because he'd written some of the most gently evocative horror short stories I'd ever read and he had a Nebula Award and had written books and he had pseudonyms and everything.
And now I'm just thinking about Time, and what it gives us, and what it takes away.