Month: October 2019

Halloween Extravaganza: Scott Carruba: Halloween

megHan

Join Scott Carruba as he reminisces about Halloween as a kid…

I love Halloween. It has always been my favorite holiday. Sure, as a kid, Christmas was great. I recall many a sleepless Christmas Eve as I waited for dawn and the chance to get all those goodies, but Halloween still got the number one spot. There was something darkly appealing about it and how it stoked my imagination. Not to mention the dressing up and adventuring through the neighborhood for candy. The best spots were houses that really got into it. I still recall some to this day.

I spent my earliest years in a typical suburban neighborhood, so Halloween always proved a joy as me and my friends paraded up and down the streets for our annual treats. But when I was nine, my parents moved us all out into the country. We went from being one of many tightly packed-in houses to a lone home on a thirteen acre lot. As you might imagine, this dramatically changed Halloween. At the time, there was only one neighbor within reasonable walking distance. What were we going to do?

The first year my parents drove us back to the old neighborhood, and we trick-or-treated with our friends. That wasn’t going to last, though I didn’t realize it as a child. My parents weren’t big on Halloween, anyway, and I suppose it didn’t quite resonate with them how much I was going to miss it. I don’t even think my two sisters were that into it.

It turned out that a few miles up the road stood a couple of buildings on a small lot dedicated to community use. I’d go there sometimes for cub scouts. The city would throw a Halloween celebration here, so we ended up going. It was a typical small town festivity with games, treats and the two main events: a haunted house and a costume contest.

I love haunted houses. I was so into them and Halloween that I recall talking my parents into letting me throw a Halloween party when I was still young (middle school age, if I recall), and I turned our garage into a haunted house. It was fairly good, if I do say so myself, and we had more than a few of the visiting kiddies running out there filled with good-natured thrills.

I was quite eager to experience the haunted house at this community event.

I went in there with a typical snotty young boy attitude. I was excited, but I wasn’t going to be scared. No way. We went into a sort of abattoir room, and the mad scientist presented a “fresh brain” amidst his gory collection. “Nice cauliflower,” I proudly proclaimed. Yes, I was one of those.

There were typical jump scares and people with garden tools repurposed as weapons. They proved good for a quick yelp and run. We eventually ended up facing a tall guy dressed like the Grim Reaper. He made no sound, just loomed. As we were moving on, he grabbed me, and that did it. I felt real fright. I didn’t want them to keep me from my mom. I jerked free (or more likely, he got his desired result and let me go), and I clung closer to my mother as we finished up the tour. By the time I left, my heart was pounding. They had done their job and scared the snotty kid. Good for them.

Next was the costume contest. I don’t recall if it was the same year as my frightening, but I entered one time in a typical hobo clown costume. I had ragged clothes, worn shoes, a crappy, plastic bowler hat. I had my face painted up in down-on-your-luck fashion. As I sized up my competition, I felt I stood a good chance of winning. And then everything changed.

The people conducting the contest had put the haunted house on pause, and all the players from it came traipsing in to join the contest. I looked upon all those older kids and young adults in their seriously spooky get-ups, and I knew I was doomed. I recall hearing some murmurs of that being unfair. I didn’t think much on that. I just knew I was wasting my time.

The judges looked us over. We turned this way and that, did whatever. We were all there simultaneously as they perused us. I remember looking out and seeing my mom making some sort of gesture with her fingers toward her mouth. It then dawned on me. I had forgotten about the plastic cigar prop I had tucked away in a pocket. I pulled it out and got more into character as I puffed on the thing and acted, well, silly.

I can’t say if that made the difference, but I won the costume contest.

Looking back, I wonder if putting the players from the haunted house in was just meant to pad it and make everything more exciting. I would have done the same thing were I in charge. Still, it ended up a great Halloween memory for me – the time when a hobo clown slew a room full of frightening monsters.

Born in Houston, Texas into the temporary care of a bevy of nuns before being delivered to his adopted parents, Scott discovered creative writing at a very young age when asked to write a newspaper from another planet. This exercise awakened a seemingly endless drive, and now, many short stories, poems, plays, and novels (both finished and unfinished) later, his dark urban fantasy Butterfly series has been published.

The seeds for this tale began with dreams, as many often do, before being fine-tuned with a whimsical notion and the very serious input of a dear friend. Before long, the story took on a life of its own and has now become the first book in the series.

Having lived his whole life in the same state, Scott attended the University of Texas at Austin, achieving a degree in philosophy before returning to the Houston area to be closer to his family and friends. During this time, he wrote more and even branched out into directing and performance art, though creative writing remains his love.

Butterfly 1: Dance of the Butterfly

A modern dark urban fantasy, telling of two powerful families who uphold a secret duty to protect humanity from a threat it doesn’t know exists. Though sharing a common enemy, the two families form a long-standing rivalry due to their methods and ultimate goals. Forces are coalescing in a prominent Central European city- criminal sex-trafficking, a serial murderer with a savage bent, and other, less tangible influences. Within a prestigious, private university, Lilja, a young librarian charged with protecting a very special book, finds herself suddenly ensconced in this dark, strange world. Originally from Finland, she has her own reason for why she left her home, but she finds the city to be anything but a haven from dangers and secrets. 

Butterfly 2: Sword of the Butterfly

The tale continues in Sword of the Butterfly, book two of the series, as Lilja and Skothiam continue to fight demons within and without. The infernal forces make a grand play, hoping to stab the world in its very heart. Casualties mount as further tensions rise in the City, threatening the vigilante with a loss of freedom and life. Children become victims of a madman’s design while the hunt is on for a powerful creature wreaking havoc across parts of the U.S. Lilja begins to question herself and her place in Skothiam’s life even as the very treasure they must protect comes under danger.

Butterfly 3: Soul of the Butterfly

The third Book awaits. The last of them. All holding promises of untold power. Skothiam and Lilja continue their journey as they follow the trail to places unimagined. Strange forces lurk, biding for the moment to strike and exact price. Unexpected allies arise even as others seek to disentangle from the web. Who will gain and who will lose? What shadow waits, eager to consume them all? Find out in the conclusion of the Butterfly trilogy.

Halloween Extravaganza: INTERVIEW: Scott Carruba

megHan

I met Scott Carruba at a con, and was so floored by the amazingness that is Scott (and by how good looking he was) that I said about a billion times how beautiful his covers were. Yeah… it was awkward. Thankfully he was too “guy” to let on that he noticed… or maybe he just didn’t notice at all. Since then, I’ve had the opportunity to read one of his books – TWICE – and have several interesting conversations with the man. Definitely a talented guy, so make sure you reach out to him and tell him hi. Oh, and buy his books.

Meghan: It’s been awhile since we sat down together, Scott. What’s been going on since we last spoke?

Scott Carruba: More writing, but unfortunately, no con appearances. I have done some traveling, but it wasn’t related to writing. The third and final book of my urban fantasy series was just published, so now I can put that behind me and work on something completely different.

Meghan: Who are you outside of writing?

Scott Carruba: I am still me. I look at my writing as part of my creative expression, and that very rarely stops completely. I may not always be sitting in front of the computer, writing, but there is nearly always some sort of creating going on in my head. Other than that, I’d say family is the most important thing to me. I am fortunate to have a great, close family, and we all get along very well.

Meghan: How do you feel about friends and close relatives reading your work?

Scott Carruba: They have, and I wish more of them would. I know that some close family members (mainly my mother) would be shocked at some parts, but I still would like them to read my work.

Meghan: Is being a writer a gift or a curse?

Scott Carruba: It’s a gift. I presume some would call it a curse, because it can be difficult, and you sometimes feel like a slave being tossed about on fickle tides. I feel like it enriches my life, and I frankly think things would be very boring without it.

Meghan: How has your environment and upbringing colored your writing?

Scott Carruba: There is no escaping it. The life we live shapes who and how we are as writers. My parents were certainly not an impediment to my writing. They even encouraged it to some extent. They never thought I could become rich & famous off it, because to them, the arts were something you did as a hobby, not a ‘real’ job. So far, they were right about that, but I feel there was an odd mix of encouragement and marginalizing, which did result in some stumbles and false starts.

Meghan: What’s the strangest thing you have ever had to research for your books?

Scott Carruba: How windows open in Europe. Oh, I suppose my research into alleged actual schools run by the Devil was fairly strange.

Meghan: Which do you find the hardest to write: the beginning, the middle, or the end?

Scott Carruba: Definitely the middle. I love the beginning. I have so many unfinished works, because I revel in the blank page and getting started. I also generally have the end already figured. It’s connecting those dots that provides the biggest challenge to me.

Meghan: Do you outline? Do you start with characters or plot? Do you just sit down and start writing? What works best for you?

Scott Carruba: I do all of those. I prefer to have an outline, sometimes even a treatment. I generally jot down a ‘cast of characters’, and sometimes I begin the outline after the work. It helps me stay focused.

Meghan: What do you do when characters don’t follow the outline/plan?

Scott Carruba: That doesn’t happen to me very often. I’ve read a lot of other writers talking about how the characters have minds of their own, but it doesn’t seem to happen to much to me. If it does, I make modifications as necessary, but it’s never been a huge deal for me.

Meghan: What do you do to motivate yourself to sit down and write?

Scott Carruba: That can be tough. I try to stick with a routine, because that works for me. There are times that are for writing. After a while, it becomes habit, and I just do it. When I really need motivation, I can listen to certain kinds of music, or even watch certain sorts of shows to receive motivation. I also sometimes just go back and read over what I’ve written, then carry on.

Meghan: Are you an avid reader?

Scott Carruba: Yes. I was an avid reader before I became a writer. I will always be in love with reading and writing.

Meghan: What kind of books do you absolutely love to read?

Scott Carruba: Good ones. Seriously, though, I enjoy complex books that allow a story to be told in the time it needs. I like depth and density.

Meghan: How do you feel about movies based on books?

Scott Carruba: I take them one at a time. I don’t feel any particular negativity toward them in general. I also don’t necessarily judge them poorly if they deviate ‘too much’ from the source material. I generally view them both in the context of their original source and how they stand as their own vehicle.

Meghan: Have you ever killed a main character?

Scott Carruba: Not yet.

Meghan: Do you enjoy making your characters suffer?

Scott Carruba: I do not enjoy that. I have had characters go through rough times, and it is somewhat difficult and painful for me to write. I am an empathic person, so I tend to want to avoid extremely troubling events. I force myself to push them through terrible experiences, but I don’t enjoy it.

Meghan: What’s the weirdest character concept that you’ve ever come up with?

Scott Carruba: My characters are not too weird, or I don’t think they are. At least not in concept. No talking shoes or roaches. I can’t write like Burroughs.

Meghan: What’s the best piece of feedback you’ve ever received? What’s the worst?

Scott Carruba: I’ve received a lot of good feedback. It’s hard to tell which was ‘best’. My publisher has helped me to refine my writing in ways I never would have alone. As far as ‘worst’, my Rhetoric and Composition professor told me I was “too” creative.

Meghan: What do your fans mean to you?

Scott Carruba: My fans mean a sort of completion of the circle that gives a satisfaction like no other. I would write even if I never got published. It is a drive in me I feel I cannot deny. Having someone partake of and enjoy my work to that extent fills me. It’s amazing. I thank each and every one of them from the bottom of my heart.

Meghan: If you could steal one character from another author and make them yours, who would it be and why?

Scott Carruba: Probably Hannibal Lecter. Such a fascinating character, and I find it immensely interesting how a cultured monster can capture such popularity and become a dark protagonist.

Meghan: If you could write the next book in a series, which one would it be, and what would you make the book about?

Scott Carruba: This is a tough one for me, and a great question! I think I’d choose Silent Hill. I’ve never even read any of the books, but I find the world so enthralling and deeply creepy. I love psychological horror, and I’d love the avenues of exploration afforded to me if I were to pen a book in that series.

Meghan: If you could write a collaboration with another author, who would it be and what would you write about?

Scott Carruba: Probably some sort of dark, gothic, twisted, occult something with Carmilla Voiez. And it’d need to have vampires in it. And demons. Maybe demon-vampires?

Meghan: What can we expect from you in the future?

Scott Carruba: I am currently working on a book about an extraterrestrial invasion that deals with how we perceive reality, memories, ourselves, and what the future may hold for us. I’ve also got two novels about vampires in the works. So, yeah, vampires again.

Meghan: Where can we find you?

Scott Carruba:

Website ** Amazon ** Goodreads ** BookBub
Facebook ** Twitter ** Mewe

Meghan: Do you have any closing words for your fans or anything you’d like to say that we didn’t get to cover in this interview or the last?

Scott Carruba: This has been a very thorough and fun interview. I hope others enjoy reading it. Thanks!

Meghan: Oh no no no. Thank YOU, Scott, for stopping by today. And if you thought this one was good, wait until you get to round three.

Born in Houston, Texas into the temporary care of a bevy of nuns before being delivered to his adopted parents, Scott discovered creative writing at a very young age when asked to write a newspaper from another planet. This exercise awakened a seemingly endless drive, and now, many short stories, poems, plays, and novels (both finished and unfinished) later, his dark urban fantasy Butterfly series has been published.

The seeds for this tale began with dreams, as many often do, before being fine-tuned with a whimsical notion and the very serious input of a dear friend. Before long, the story took on a life of its own and has now become the first book in the series.

Having lived his whole life in the same state, Scott attended the University of Texas at Austin, achieving a degree in philosophy before returning to the Houston area to be closer to his family and friends. During this time, he wrote more and even branched out into directing and performance art, though creative writing remains his love.

Butterfly 1: Dance of the Butterfly

A modern dark urban fantasy, telling of two powerful families who uphold a secret duty to protect humanity from a threat it doesn’t know exists. Though sharing a common enemy, the two families form a long-standing rivalry due to their methods and ultimate goals. Forces are coalescing in a prominent Central European city- criminal sex-trafficking, a serial murderer with a savage bent, and other, less tangible influences. Within a prestigious, private university, Lilja, a young librarian charged with protecting a very special book, finds herself suddenly ensconced in this dark, strange world. Originally from Finland, she has her own reason for why she left her home, but she finds the city to be anything but a haven from dangers and secrets. 

Butterfly 2: Sword of the Butterfly

The tale continues in Sword of the Butterfly, book two of the series, as Lilja and Skothiam continue to fight demons within and without. The infernal forces make a grand play, hoping to stab the world in its very heart. Casualties mount as further tensions rise in the City, threatening the vigilante with a loss of freedom and life. Children become victims of a madman’s design while the hunt is on for a powerful creature wreaking havoc across parts of the U.S. Lilja begins to question herself and her place in Skothiam’s life even as the very treasure they must protect comes under danger.

Butterfly 3: Soul of the Butterfly

The third Book awaits. The last of them. All holding promises of untold power. Skothiam and Lilja continue their journey as they follow the trail to places unimagined. Strange forces lurk, biding for the moment to strike and exact price. Unexpected allies arise even as others seek to disentangle from the web. Who will gain and who will lose? What shadow waits, eager to consume them all? Find out in the conclusion of the Butterfly trilogy.

Halloween Extravaganza: Jeff Strand: The Annual Halloween Candy Trade

megHan

Two candy guest posts in a row. Cause that’s pure gold to me. And it’s Jeff Strand. Who is, by the way, pure awesomeness. (Have you read his stuff? There is no one quite like THE Jeff Strand. No one.)

One of the most mind-boggling moments in my adult life was when I went to a friend’s house shortly after Halloween, and she offered me a piece of candy from her son’s trick-or-treating stash. I declined, because that candy was sacred! She assured me that he wouldn’t care. Candy was no big deal to him.

WTF was wrong with that kid? That certainly wasn’t MY experience at that age!

I’m pleased to report that I’ve reached a level of financial security where if I want a Snickers bar, I can make it happen. That was not always the case. As a child in Fairbanks, Alaska, Halloween was ALL about the candy. Okay, 90% about the candy. Costumes and decorations were fun. But the candy was an essential component of my love of the holiday.

Interior Alaska at the end of October is, of course, quite brisk, and costumes were limited to what could fit over a snowsuit. Inevitably, the master plan to gather enough candy to last us until Christmas would fall apart because one of my trick-or-treat partners would get too cold, and we couldn’t just leave them to die. Still, we always got a pretty significant stash, with a predetermined route that was carefully mapped out for maximum candy acquisition.

(The map was purely based on hitting the most houses using the most efficient route. There were too many variables to do more analysis than that. Do you want to hit houses early, before they’ve started rationing? Or do you want to hit them late, when they’re discovering that they bought way too much candy? No way to predict that.)

We’d get home, have an adult verify that there were no hypodermic needles protruding from the chocolate, and then the trading session began. We took this very seriously. I tended to favor “longer lasting” over “chewy,” so Sweet Tarts had more value to me than a Fun-Sized Milky Way. (“Fun-Sized” would be a five-pound block of chocolate, not these weenie little bites, but that’s a rant for a different day.)

I liked getting Whoppers because they had a high trade value. Whoppers are gross. Whoppers are so gross that even as a kid, if I were given the choice between eating a Whopper and eating nothing, I’d go with nothing. Do you know how bad candy had to be for me to prefer the absence of candy? I’m not saying that I’d rather have eaten a turd, I’m saying that a Whopper is bad enough that I would have declined a piece of candy. I’d eat nasty off-brands all day long, and choke down a Dark Chocolate Hersheys or a Butterfinger, but a Whopper was one step too far.

But others didn’t feel that way. My sister and a couple of my misguided friends loved Whoppers. Loved ’em! They thought those foul things were top-tier treats, which gave me a lot of power at the negotiating table.

In retrospect, as I type this, I realize that I should have pretended that Whoppers were the most delicious candy on the planet, and that to part with a single malted milk ball would cause me intense heartbreak. But then I might have had to eat a Whopper at some point, and my grimace would expose the lie.

The trading went on long into the night. One of my best friends had a particular fondness for Tootsie Rolls, which also worked in my favor, because my trick-or-treat bag always had Tootsie Rolls in abundance, and though they are perfectly fine if you enjoy your chocolate flavor in hard putty form, there’s rarely a reason to eat one when other options are available.

Then… the feast.

The following day was always a queasy one, but if you think I gave any indication of my gastrointestinal distress to my parents, you’re out of your damn fool mind. They would always mention that the pile of candy they’d checked for razor blades and rat poison was notably smaller and suggest that I show some self-control instead of gobbling it down like a feral dog, so “My tummy hurts!” would not be well received.

Soon there would be an effort to make my riches last, but alas, they’d be gone long before Thanksgiving, which had no official candy except maybe those ones in the strawberry wrapping with syrup inside.

And I would mourn until the following year.

Jeff Strand is the author of over forty books, ranging from goofy horror to serious horror to a smut comedy. His short story “The Tipping Point” from his collection Everything Has Teeth won a Splatterpunk Award in 2018, though none of his short stories won a Splatterpunk Award in 2019, and he performed poorly at KillerCon during a trivia contest about the Splatterpunk Awards. You can visit his Gleefully Macabre website here.

Clowns vs. Spiders

Jaunty the Clown just wants to entertain families with lighthearted slapstick antics, but people think of clowns as terrifying, nightmarish creatures who hide in closets or under beds. When Jaunty, along with his fellow performers Guffaw, Wagon, Reginald The Pleasant Clown, and Bluehead are fired from the circus, they’re told that the world just doesn’t like clowns anymore.

Still, clowns have to eat. And since these clowns don’t eat children, to make ends meet they’re eventually forced to take a job in a popular haunted attraction, the Mountain of Terror. Instead of charming entertainers, they’re now scary clowns. A zombie clown. A demon clown. A creepy doll clown. 

But the town is about to discover something more frightening than clowns. Because on opening night, millions of oversized spiders emerge from a cave and begin their deadly invasion… 

From Bram Stoker Award-nominated author Jeff Strand comes an insane mix of shameless silliness and grisly creepy-crawly horror. Clowns Vs. Spiders. Who will win? 

My Pretties

A serial kidnapper is preying upon women. He abducts them, then locks them in one of the cages dangling from the ceiling in a soundproofed basement. There, he sits quietly and just watches them, returning night after night, hoping he’ll be in the room at the moment his beautiful captives finally starve to death.

Charlene and Gertie have become fast friends at the restaurant where they work. But Charlene is concerned when she hears how her co-worker spends her evenings: Gertie’s cousin is one of the missing, and Gertie wanders the city streets where many of the abductions took place, using herself as bait with a high-voltage stun gun in her pocket. Charlene reluctantly offers to trail her in a car, just in case she does lure the kidnapper and things go wrong.

Unfortunately, the women find themselves the source of unwanted fame. And now they’re on the radar of a very, very dangerous man…

Halloween Extravaganza: John Boden: The Trick

megHan

John Boden is one of the coolest guys I know. And I know some cool guys, so that’s seriously saying a lot. Even when I was living in Pennsylvania, not fifteen minutes from where he lives, it always felt like he was in some other world, too far away for me to become real friends with. I think of that often now that I live over fifteen hours from him. He’s that friend I wish I made, if that makes any sense.

I can’t imagine a Halloween without him, though, so me, not being the best at keeping in touch with people, even with Facebook being right there, made sure that I invited him once again to take part in my annual Halloween Extravaganza.

He told me he wanted to do a guest post, but he had to talk to his family first, to make sure what he was sharing was okay with them. When I received it, after they gave the go-ahead, it was a story I never expected. John Boden, being serious, and so perfectly serious at that.

It’s definitely a get-to-know-the-real-John-Boden type of piece, and something I think everyone should read, especially those of us who have siblings.

–Every Halloween either Roscoe or I went as a hobo/Old Man/Bum. It was the easiest costume for Mom to whip up as it wasn’t too far removed from our daily uniform. Worn jeans/pants, ratty shoes and a big old flannel shirt. Usually stuffed with a pillow. We were always warned to keep the pillow clean and undamaged as it would be returned to the case and its place on our bed when we got home. We’d then take our brown paper bag and walk the length of our block. The faces of our neighbors usually a cocktail of thinly veiled disdain or snotty or sad embarrassment. It took me years to realize there was an ironic joke here.

Roscoe and I were always brothers, but we weren’t always friends. We loved one another but I couldn’t say we were nice to one another. There was five years between us and a lot of circumstances, often it felt like lifetimes and fathoms deep. Our father left when I was almost seven and Roscoe was two. There was a rocky valley forged in the fact that I had a father for a few years, years that I could and can recall somewhat fondly, while he had a few splintered recollections of a man holding him as a baby. Once Dad had left, we moved around for three years, like gypsies, the not-so-politically-correct term was, and during it all I found myself more primed for the role of surrogate parent/caregiver to this bull-headed little boy who squinted when he smiled and followed me like a shadow. It was a role I’d never auditioned for and had most definitely sought to lose. A role I realize now had bounties unforetold and riches unparalleled.

–That joke being that we grew up in a poor area in the mountains of Pennsylvania. No one was rich or swimming in wealth. There were the dirt poor, the poor and those who were not as poor as the rest. I always felt we were the level above dirt. Most folks were good people. Hardworking parent. Most kids just happy to play and have fun. But there were some that were cut from different more expensive cloth. I vividly recall a girl telling me in third grade (after making fun of my Dollar Store vinyl hi-tops) that “If you don’t wear Lee jeans or Nike sneakers, you’re nothing.” That is a false statement but it sure made little Johnny feel like a little pile of nothing. I never told anyone about that. My Mom already had her hands full–multiple jobs, keeping a house around us and food on the table all while holding up the world. There always have to be some who look down on those with less than they. And I’m not talking about money specifically.

As time crawled on, I found myself bitter at my lot in life. I wanted nothing more than to be a normal kid, to play with the others my age and to experience the pains and aches of growing up. I was in no way spared the aches, but more accurately probably had some that the other kids didn’t, I always had to factor in when Mom left for work so I could be home to watch my brother. How to cook and clean the house. To do laundry, check homework and many other tasks that my friends had mothers or fathers handle for them. Mothers that didn’t work or if they did only one job. Our mom was a nurse at night and cleaned houses during daylight hours and on off nights from those, tended bar at the American Legion. For her hard work she was labeled a slut and a bad mother. Neither title being true but basically being tongue-carved into the trunk of our lives. I grew older and meaner to Roscoe. Endless name calling and fighting. And while he fought back, he was always quick to forgive and return to his usually accepting love of his big brother.

-This year I was going to go as a mummy. Mom had sacrificed one of our white sheets as had Gram to be torn into long strips of ancient bandage. It was the best costume I’d ever had. This year would be so much better.

–Better than the cardboard box robot that got me condescending snickers from other children, some hard candy, tootsie rolls and a stale popcorn ball.

–Better than the cheap plastic masks with the rubber band that held them on your head but pulled at the hair at the back of your neck.

–Better than seeing the looks on the faces of children who were nice to you once in a while, when there was no one else around. Children who’s parents were still together and both worked and brought in more income than your poor three job juggling mother did. Yeah, it would be better.

Years swirled and got away. I got married and moved across the state, won the role of a happy husband with two sons, a role I still play. Roscoe was married and had a pair of daughters. He tried to cut the leash to our hometown but never could do it. He was a boomerang that kept returning. I always did what I could to help him when called to, or even when not. We rarely talked but when we saw each other it seemed strained a little. The elastic growing dry and cracked like an old rubber band. I assumed it a resentment for the hand life dealt us, differing and wide in expanse. Too many small wounds from things I’d said or done when we were younger, given to salty scars that throbbed when I came around. When our Grandmother died and then a few years later our father, those somber events strengthened our bond in some way. We still have our moments of antagonism but mostly we just quietly accept the other. We are brothers and that cannot be changed. We vowed to call more often and see each other more. We both treat vows like a juggler treats delicate glass.

-The air was chilly, not cold but chilly. Mom said I’d need to wear my long johns under my costume, but not to get them dirty or torn as they were my only pair of pajamas until she could afford us new ones. I stood in the kitchen while Mom knelt in front of me carefully wrapping my legs in linen. Gram sat at the table and smoked her cigarette. When the wrapping was done I was covered head to toe, save for an opening left over my eyes so I could see. I ran into the living room and took in my costume via the full length mirror. It was fabulous. Gram said she’d drive us around. “Johnny will break his neck over them bandages around his ankles.” We got our bags and headed out.

First stop was old Mr. Whiteall. He sat on his porch swing with a large mixing bowl full of butterscotch discs and cinnamon lozenges. He always smelled sweaty but was a nice man.

“The Mummy walks!” he yelled and shrank away in mock terror.

I laughed and took the offered treats. As we turned to leave his porch, a few boys from school passed in the opposite direction. One of them hissed “Welfare Johnny.” I pretended not to hear.

The night was an apple halved–a sweetly tart and raw wound sticky at the same time. Gram sat in the car and smoked while Roscoe and I would hit the houses, most adults smiling and handing us candy and compliments and once in a while someone just looking at us like we’d shit on their porch and dropping the treats in our bags like used Kleenex. We went home and Gram left us to organize our spoils while Mom got ready for work.

Now, these decades later, I sit in my chair with the lights out, as I do every Halloween, and stare at the phone. It’s right there. Inches from my hand. It’d be such an easy thing to pick it up and call my brother. Sometimes you’d think the device was made of spiders and bees– a cursed idol carved of scorpion sting and snakebite the way we eschew it. I sigh and don’t make a move, choosing instead to once again take a walk through the territory behind my eyes.

-“You boys, made a haul!” she crowed as she grabbed a peanut butter chew from Roscoe’s pile. I offered her one of my starlight mints.

“No, those are your favorite. You keep them.” She went into the kitchen and got her sweater from the back of the chair. Crushed her cigarette to death in the ashtray on the table.

“Don’t you kids eat all that candy tonight.” She finished her coffee in a single gulp and sat the mug in the sink. It clattered with dirty silverware. “One more piece each, then brush and go to bed.” We nodded. She reminded me for the millionth time to lock the door behind her when she left. I stood and watched her pull out into the road and the taillights disappear into the night. We ate more than one piece of candy each and we went to bed without brushing our teeth. And the world never stuttered in its turning.

I often think of my brother and think of the years wasted between us. How all I need to do is call him once in a while, or even message him on the computer. In this day and age is there any valid excuse?! I’ve got pictures of the girls in the mail last week. They’ve grown up so much and I’ve not seen a lot of it. I’m as much a shadow to them as I am he. A pre-diagnosed stranger. I look at the table where the pictures lay and can see the face of my brother in them. See his school pictures in my mind. Green sweater and those squinting eyes when he smiled. He looked so happy. I so wish I could see him smile like that again. A smile that doesn’t know what a spiteful prick the world is. What a vicious bitch life can be. And how the sharpest blade is the slow scalpel of time and apathy. I feel my eyes begin to leak and wipe them across my arm. The tears are cold on my warm skin. I smile and stare at the spot of light near the front window, a feeble sliver from the streetlight. I can almost see a short shadow by the chair. See the alfalfa sprout of the Roscoe perpetual cowlick. I can see his eyes twinkle in the dim.

“What’re you thinking about, Johnny?”

“Bandages.”

“Like your Mummy costume?”

“Not exactly.”

“Like when you’re hurt?”

“Often.”

“Like what?”

“Like everything.”

I feel his small hand on mine.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, little brother.”

The streetlight goes dark and it thunders silence. I sit in it with my hand on the phone.

John Boden lives a stones throw from Three Mile Island with his wonderful wife and sons.

A baker by day, he spends his off time writing, working for Shock Totem Publications or watching old television shows. He likes Diet Pepsi and sports ferocious sideburns. He loves heavy metal and old country music, shoofly pie and westerns.

He’s a pretty nice fella, honest.

His work has appeared in Borderlands 6, Shock Totem, Splatterpunk, Lamplight, Blight Digest, the John Skipp edited Psychos and others. His not-really-for-children children’s book, Dominoes, has been called a pretty cool thing. His other books–Jedi Summer With the Magnetic Kid, Detritus In Love, Walk The Darkness Down— are out and about. He has also written a few collaborative novellas, one with Chad Lutzke called Out Behind the Barn, and Rattlesnake Kisses and Cattywampus with Bob Ford. There are more things in the works.

Out Behind the Barn (with Chad Lutzke)

The boys crept to the window and watched as Miss Maggie carried the long bundle into the barn, the weight of it stooping her aging back. Rafter lights spilled from the barn doors and Davey saw an arm fall from the canvas-wrapped parcel. He smiled.

“She got someone!”

Both children grinned and settled in their beds, eyes fixed to the ceiling.

The boys crept to the window and watched as Miss Maggie carried the long bundle into the barn, the weight of it stooping her aging back. Rafter lights spilled from the barn doors and Davey saw an arm fall from the canvas-wrapped parcel. He smiled.

“She got someone!”

Both children grinned and settled in their beds, eyes fixed to the ceiling.

This was family growth.

Rattlesnake Kisses (with Robert Ford)

Dallas is a man seasoned by both time and circumstance—a fellow you hire to get certain things done. The kind of man you definitely don’t want to cross.

The Kid is his protege—his younger shadow with more quirks than Dewey’s System has decimals. He’s loyal as a hound and just as likely to bite.

After being hired for a seemingly easy job, Dallas and the Kid find themselves on a wild ride. Every stop they make introduces lies, violence and memories best left buried. When the control Dallas holds so near and dear starts to squirm free, things get ugly. The routine becomes anything but, and revenge is a bloody dish best served with a .45 pistol.

Cattywampus (with Robert Ford)

There had been a plan. It wasn’t a good one, and it was rough around the edges, but it was a plan. Then things went off the rails and into places where no one was comfortable. Violent places. Unspeakable places. Places stained with blood and other things. A nesting doll of crimes and sordid deeds. Darlene and Sheila were up to no good, but the mess they find themselves in makes their original plans seem like a Sunday school picnic. And it started the way you’d expect a bad day to begin: A robbery.A death. A bucket full of teeth. Welcome to Steelwater, PA. We’re glad to have you.

Walk the Darkness Down

Some things are older than time. Older than darkness.

-Levi is a monstrous man—made of scars and scary as hell, he’s glutted on ghosts and evolving to carry out the dark wishes of the ancient whispers in his head. He’s building a door and what’s on the other side is terrifying.

-Jones spent a lot of time living bottle to bottle and trying to erase things. Now he’s looking for the man who killed his mother and maybe a little bit of looking or himself as well.

-Keaton is on the run from accusations as well as himself, he suffers alone until he meets Jubal, an orphaned boy with his little sisters in a sling.

-Every line is not a straight line and everything must converge. A parable writ in dust and blood on warped barn wood. A journey in the classic sense, populated with dried husks of towns…and people both odd and anything but ordinary. Hornets, reverse-werewolves and one of the most vicious villains you’ll ever know are all part of it.

Pull on your boots and saddle up, we’ll Walk The Darkness Down.

Halloween Extravaganza: Somer Canon: Adventures in Candy Soliciting

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I always love it when people share their experiences trick or treating when they were younger, especially when they compare it to what their kids experience now, because trick or treating was always such a huge thing for me and my sister.

Being a child of trick-or-treating age is a magical time. The concept of going door to door and threatening your neighbors with mischief unless they pay you off with candy is hilarious to me now as an adult with children of my own. Children tend not to question the whys of such things and just go with the flow, and when the flow includes free candy, asking too many questions would be a waste of time. You want to get going, show off your cool costume to your friends and get to those delectable treats!

But, as memory serves, trick-or-treating was also a bit of a mixed bag. I was a small child in the 1980s and early 90s and I experienced some really weird things when doing my yearly candy-fueled reign of adorable terror. Times were just changing when I was a kid. I remember when we had to start closely examining our candy and we couldn’t eat anything homemade given to us anymore unless it was a family member that provided it. That sucked because so many nice old people used to hand out popcorn balls back then and homemade popcorn balls are the best.

I’d like to share a few of the stranger things that happened to me as a kid trick-or-treating in my weird little town in West Virginia. We never had anybody spray us with garden hoses or offer us whole barnyard animals or anything, but we ran into some real characters that my classmates and I would talk about in school the next day.

One year, my mom took us to a different county for trick-or-treating. It was the neighborhood close to where my grandma lived and I think she talked my mom into bringing us down there with the promise of more candy and less time out walking to get to it. There were two strange encounters on that night. The first was this big, beautiful house with an honest to goodness white picket fence around it. I kept seeing camera flashes from the front door and assumed that the homeowners had relatives stopping by and they were taking pictures of the cute costumes. We got to the door and were greeted by a man and a woman smiling at us.

“Ah, Jesus loves the little children,” the man said, patting my little brother on the head. “On this night of darkness, His light will guide you to glory!”

He then dropped copies of a book titled, Good News America, God Loves You into our bags and then posed with us while the lady took our picture. Now, we were churchgoers and there were some people that were part of our congregation who were very much opposed to Halloween festivities. We understood that it happened, but that guy creeped my poor little brother out and, yeah, I was uncomfortable.

Later that night, we got our second strange occurrence. We stopped at a house that had the front screen door propped open. When we peaked in, we were greeted by a room full of very old men and women slumped in armchairs. An excited woman greeted us at the door and took us by the hands and led us inside.

“Say hello to these nice men and women,” she commanded. We did as we were told and the lady dropped generous handfuls of candy into our bags. We said our thanks and turned to head to the door where our mother was watching.

“Stay for just a minute!” the excitable lady said to us. She then picked up my brother and sat him in the lap of an old, barely conscious man and led me by the hand to stand next to an old lady who looked slightly more awake. She snapped a couple of pictures and then my mom came into the room, all smiles, and led us away. My brother and I were deeply unsettled and when we said as much to our mom, she got mad at us and scolded us for not being charitable to those “nice old people.” I don’t know. Times have changed and I know I’d have a problem with someone plopping one of my kids on a heavily sedated stranger’s lap.

This last one made an impact on everybody I knew. In college, I ran into an old classmate and we were talking about Halloween and he said to me, “Hey, remember that Lurch guy at the insurance house?”

A little background: my usual trick-or-treating route consisted of trailers, old tract houses, and your basic run-down lower-class domiciles. But there was one house, a grand old brick house that was used as the office for a local insurance agent. It was a neat place that they decorated beautifully every Christmas and it stood out like a sore thumb among the poverty around it.

It never had the porch light on for trick-or-treaters. Why would it? We understood that it wasn’t a home and that nobody actually lived there. We usually just drove past. But that year, there was a light on and there were other children on the porch, so my mom stopped the car and my brother and I got out.

“Oh boy,” we thought. In a place that big, we were sure to be getting the holy grail of trick-or-treat conquests: the full sized candy bar. We met some kids on the stairs as they descended the porch. I greeted a girl that I knew, but she hurried down the steps gripping her little sister’s hand. I shrugged, assuming she hadn’t heard me or that her mom would be grumpy if they kept her waiting.

My brother rang the doorbell and we smiled at each other excitedly. When the big door opened, our perky greeting died in our throats. A very pale man in a tuxedo ducked in order to clear the door frame and loomed over us. He was holding, and I swear this is true, a silver platter. He looked down at us with a bored expression. I’ve never been so terrified of a well-dressed man in all my life.

He said nothing. We said nothing. Finally, remembering my manners, I squeaked out a “trick-or-treat,” and my brother followed suit. The large man said nothing, just picked up two small silver bundles from the tray and dropped them into our bags. We said our thanks as quickly as we could and ran down to get back into our mom’s car. She was excited to hear what they had given us and I took the bundle out of my bag and looked at it. It was five pennies wrapped in aluminum foil and my brother had the same.

As an adult, I have to think that it was an act put on by the festive people who made that house so beautiful during the Christmas season. It was a one-time deal, though. That porch light was never again turned on for trick-or-treaters.

The next day at school we couldn’t stop talking about it. We all had our little bundles of foil-wrapped pennies but that was nothing compared to the big-scary-butler-guy who dropped them into our bags. We all got lots of candy, yeah, but that experience was what made Halloween for us that year. It was one of the better years, actually.

As a parent now, I watch to see what my kids experience as trick-or-treaters. The sweet old lady down the street who gave them old VHS tapes reminded me of the sweet old lady who handed out old cough drops, mistaking them for hard candies. They still get shiny apples like I did and they love, as I loved, those lollipops that look like jack o’lanterns. As much as things change, so much stays the same. I hope so very much that my kids can accumulate a wealth of weird experiences from their own childhood jaunts on Halloween.

Somer Canon is a minivan revving suburban mother who avoids her neighbors for fear of being found out as a weirdo. When she’s not peering out of her windows, she’s consuming books, movies, and video games that sate her need for blood, gore, and things that disturb her mother.  

A Fresh Start

Still hurting from her divorce, Melissa Caan makes a drastic life change for herself and her two young children by moving them out to a rural home.But the country life came with some extras that she wasn’t counting on. Doors are slamming, she and her children are violently attacked by unseen hands, and her elderly neighbor doesn’t like to talk about the murders that happened in the strangely named hollow all those years ago.Ghost hunters, witches, and a sassy cancer survivor come together to help Melissa fight for the safety of her children and herself.All she wanted was a fresh start, will she get it?

The Hag Witch of Tripp Creek

A NEW HOME

Dawna Temple let herself be moved from the familiarity of Pittsburgh to the wilds of West Virginia, all so her mentally exhausted husband, John, could heal from a breakdown. Struggling with the abrupt change of location, Dawna finds a friend in her neighbor, Suzanne Miller, known to the locals as The Hag Witch of Tripp Creek.

A NEW FRIEND

Dismissing it as hillbilly superstition, Dawna can’t believe the things she hears about her funny and empathetic friend. Suzanne has secrets—dark secrets—and eventually she reveals the truth behind the rumors that earned her the wicked nickname decades earlier.

OLD WOUNDS

Now in possession of the truth, Dawna has conflicting emotions about Suzanne’s past deeds, but when her husband’s well-being takes a downturn, she finds there is no one else to turn to. Will she shun her friend as others have done before? …or can she accept that an act of evil is sometimes necessary for the greater good?