The Mayor of Halloween is Missing! is an illustrated story book for ages 6-9 from debut author Emily S. Sullivan and artist Cat Scully. It is the story of three children who go on a quest on Halloween Night in order to find their missing mayor and save trick-or-treating.
Mayor Fatz has been gone for days and there are few clues to his whereabouts. He holds the missing key to the Holiday Room at Village Hall, where he is tasked with initiating the night’s festivities. Friends Charlotte, Jackson, and Charlie must follow the clues scattered throughout their small town and overcome their fears if they want to find Mayor Fatz and preserve their Halloween traditions.
This is an absolutely charming children’s book, beautifully illustrated by Cat Scully.
Mayor Fatz is missing!
He’s the spirit of every occasion in the little village named “Holliday” and goes way out of his way to make sure that every celebration is special. He’s known for his memorable costumes, and attention to detail, so everyone can enjoy special days to the fullest.
When he goes missing right before the big Halloween events, a group of students who are eager for the festivities, use their wits and friendship to discover what happened to the Mayor of Halloween!
I’d read this to any young one capable of understanding the words, and it would be great for an early reader who can sound them out by sight.
There’s nothing “scary” or questionable in the story, rather it defines bravery, empathy, and how children often understand more than adults give them credit for. The kids use critical thinking to follow a series of clues, eventually finding their beloved mayor. All is well, and the ending is cheerful and upbeat! The illustrations are colorful, and “classic Halloween” in nature, and they add a lot of character to the story.
It’s a gem of a children’s book suitable for reading year-round, and long enough to spread out over a couple of bedtimes.
Boo-graphy: Ruthann grew up in Upstate New York, where October is magical. She writes dark speculative and horror fiction. Her work is published in numerous successful anthologies. Solo and collaboration projects will feature in 2022 and 2023. Extensive travel, superstition, and backyard boogeymen influence her characters and settings. She lives on a cattle ranch in Texas with her husband and his animals. A large, blended family keeps her sane most of the time.
I was in the reception room of a bar in my local regional airport. The man I was there to interview requested this venue specifically, and my career would implode if I did anything to jeopardize this opportunity. Grungy and old, the room just barely met the classification of “clean” and I opted not to order anything to eat. Ice water was fine.
My interview walked in. I’d seen photographs of him and knew the basics of his appearance, but I found myself surprised by how ordinary he looked. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about his face or his height. It could all accurately be called “average” and nobody would argue that. But that’s what made it weird. This man was nothing even close to average or normal and the only thing I observed about him coming towards me was the way he walked. There was a regal quality to it, a gliding gait that conjured images of the Caesars or Habsburgs.
He held out a hand with a smile and I noted the immaculate manicure and state of his hands. His grasp was warm and firm, but not overly so. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in the grimy chair with no notice of how it would look pressed against his pristine and obviously expensive attire.
“I’m so glad that I have the opportunity to talk to you,” I began.
“Of course,” he smiled back. “I’ve read some of your work and I admire your lean style.”
This man was a fugitive and I wondered for the millionth time since that first correspondence whether I would survive this encounter. He’d contacted me, with a fake name at first, but after several emails back and forth, his real identity came out. Up until the moment he walked into that reception room, I harbored thoughts, and a slight hope, that I was being pranked.
“I’d like to ask you, when I write my piece, do you mind my naming you? Do you mind if I name this location as well? I’m sure it would compromise you, but I can omit certain details.”
“There is no fear in the truth,” he replied lightly. “My name and this location will not compromise me, I promise you. I chose you for this interview, but there is much going on that you know nothing about, and I’ll be keeping it that way. You have access to publications that can tell my story in a way that isn’t a sad, sensational squawking that I so dislike. And you needn’t worry about my focus on you making a turn for the worse. You’re a tool and if you maintain the manners I’ve seen in you thus far, there’s no reason to believe you won’t be getting the story that the rest of your career as a journalist will strive to meet in terms of renown and respect.”
“O-okay,” I stammered. “Well I’d like to start with this meeting place. From what I understand of your usual haunts, particularly those in Baltimore, it’s a few big steps below where you usually like to eat. How did you happen upon this?”
“Make no mistake, I would not eat the food offered in this place, it was simply convenience that brought us here today. As for this general area, well we’re only a two hour drive away from Baltimore and when I liberated myself from my federally imposed confines, I had to make my way back to Baltimore, my home, for a few provisions before I went into total hiding. Being several states away, or even several countries away, is obvious on a level that I find vulgar. I was as safe as a baby in this area, an overlooked town in Eastern Pennsylvania. And this unkempt bar in this small regional airport happens to not have any security cameras aimed towards it.”
“And you’ll be gone from this place before I’m back home, I assume?”
“I’d avoid certain specificities if I were you,” he warned me, his polite tone never wavering.
“Of course, I’m sorry.” He nodded magnanimously.
“Well I have you here, a man of no small amount of celebrity…” I began.
“I detest that word and that categorization,” he interrupted. “I was a man of respect, a man of influence and great education. I’ve been reduced to tabloid fodder and the subject of papers written by little men who consider themselves intellectual titans of the psychiatric field.”
“This fame bothers you?” I asked.
“In the filthy form that it has taken, yes. I prefer to be known for my accomplishments.”
“Forgive me, but I believe that you are known for your accomplishments.” I said.
“I’m known for certain acts that I committed. My time as a consultant with the criminal profilers at the FBI, or my time as one of Baltimore’s most respected psychiatrists, or my extensive experience in the medical field, they’re all lying forgotten in the shadow of the more sensationally-friendly acts that caused the criminal justice system to see fit to lock me away in a dark room for the rest of my natural life being studied by halfwits and made to tolerate the rough rudeness of the staff.”
“Surely you can understand why those acts would supersede your previous accomplishments,” I prodded.
“Of course,” he said, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. The way that he was looking at me made me feel studied…scrutinized…and I was uneasy. “The public at large prefers broad strokes of simplified information, wrung dry of nuance and detail. I am what I did, not what I accomplished.”
“If I may,” I began, “I’d argue that your impressive level of accomplishments and education and sophistication is what made you so ripe for sensationalizing. If an average joe had committed the crimes that you had committed,” I noticed here that his right eye twitched ever so slightly. I redirected. “The things you were accused of,” I corrected. “There would still have been extensive media coverage because of the horrific nature of those actions, but they wouldn’t have been nearly as interesting. There is a long history of people who, erm, commit such acts, and they tend to fit certain molds as you know. They mostly walk around unnoticed. They’re actually extremely normal. But you, you’re an extraordinary character. There’s nothing about you that flies under any sort of radar.”
“Therein lies the fallacy of the techniques of the criminal profilers,” he responded. “Too many factors are too easily dismissed. My extraordinariness, as you call it, was what protected me for so long.”
“May I ask why you did those horrible things?” I knew I was taking a chance. His gaze on me was steady and unwavering and I tried not to fidget or look away from him.
“My house in Baltimore was built in the nineteen twenties. It had beautiful tiling and woodwork, but the plumbing was a disaster. The first plumber that I called in to fix a drainage issue in my basement was two hours late to his appointment and he spit tobacco on my front steps. He claimed that he needed specialized equipment to take care of my problem and that my bill would be double what was promised to me over the phone. I’m happy to pay for services, but I do no appreciate being taken advantage of as a fool. I asked him for his personal card so that I might keep him as a reference for additional services. Two weeks later I served a lovely Loin en Croute with a side of red wine demi-glace to a medical colleague. It was tender and delicious. Of course, I was in need of a new plumber after that, but the next one was clean and efficient and I recommended his work to several people. His name is Davit Sargsyan, and I’m certain he’s still thriving.”
I noticed my mouth was hanging open and I closed it with a snap. He had a Rolodex full of personal cards in his house when it was raided. Many were found to be the cards of missing persons who were never found. These were thought to be among this man’s staggeringly long list of victims.
“’Eat the rude’ was a slogan that became popular with the morbid underbelly of society after your capture,” I said. “Do you think you were providing a service to society? Cleaning up the muck?”
“I wouldn’t put it like that at all,” he said. “Compulsion is a word used frequently when discussing my own brand of mania. I can assure you, the benefit of society was not a main driving force.”
“You’ve been labelled as ‘insane’ and ‘psychotic’ since your capture. How do you feel about that?”
“I’m erudite and have been blessed with a perfect palate, able to distinguish all five tastes with exact accuracy. I’d rather be known for that.”
“Do you want to be divorced entirely from your reputation as a serial killer and cannibal?”
He was very quiet and very still. I thought for a moment that he had even stopped breathing. I started to feel that his good graces were starting to sour and perhaps I wasn’t so safe anymore.
“There are many out there who find my credentials intimidating and the fact that I’ve been labelled a serial killer and cannibal gives them the space to assume superiority over me. That they find my actions deviant and my psyche to be malformed gives them a sick sense of glee. That they see me as merely insane dims the shine of my accomplishments prior to my incarceration. I do not believe that, if I were writing my own life, I would keep those offensive labels from that reputation.”
His voice remained smooth, but I noticed a perturbed note. Yes, I was on thin ice. But if he didn’t want to answer the obvious questions, why sit down for an interview? I asked him and he smiled. There was no warmth to the way the corners of his eyes crinkled and I shivered.
“Your line of questioning is focused on the past. I thought perhaps you’d be interested in the future. All this talk of the past has been hashed and rehashed countless times and is, frankly, boring. Change your focus,” he replied.
“Okay,” I said, taking his bait. “What are your plans for the future? You’re a fugitive right now. The federal government is hunting you, every police force is aware of your escape, and there are even some in law enforcement who feel they have a score to settle with you over the various deaths of police officers over the course of your escape. Do you plan to continue to lay low or do you want to take your…umm…unique way of life somewhere else and live as you did before?”
This time there was amusement in his smile. I’d performed my trick as I was told and my trainer was pleased with me.
“Life is short and although I suspect that I’ve still a great number of years left on this earth, I have no intention to allow my existence to stagnate if I can help it. I cannot get into details with you about my future plans, but I can tell you that I intend to live in a way that pleases me and fulfills my desires. I…”
“Excuse me! Look, I can’t let you monopolize this room if you’re not gonna order any food,” an employee of the bar exploded into the room. He was a tall, balding man who had a red face that wore a scowl of contempt. He looked through me and glared at my interview.
“Listen, pal,” the employee said, pointing to his “MANAGER” badge. “I’ve got a group of Dungeons and Dragons players who want the room and they’re all gonna eat and drink and actually make this fine establishment some money. You gotta go. So get your stuff and get outta here.”
“I’m so sorry,” I began.
“We apologize,” my interview cut me off. “We were nearing the end of our interview anyway. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Yeah, yeah, I said get the hell outta here, ya fruitcake. I’ve got hungry people to feed out there!”
I’d gathered my stuff and was preparing to race to my car and hopefully lose the subject of my interview. The thought of being followed by that doctor terrified me and I questioned why I had agreed to come alone. As I was heading to the door I heard the doctor speaking to the manager.
“It is a unique place you run here and although my time in this place is limited, I may want to return. Do you, by any chance, have a personal card?”
My blood turned cold and I stopped and looked at the two men. The manager rolled his eyes but produced a card case from his shirt pocket and thrust it at the doctor. The doctor received the card, took a long look at the manager, and started walking towards the door.
“Thank you for your time,” he said as he walked past me. I was too stunned to move and instead of trying to beat him to my car, I opted to let him leave first.
I didn’t have much for a story, but I had enough. I had his current location and a vague hint of his future plans. And the name of a possible future victim in the form of a very rude bar manager. It would sell all right, but at what personal cost? He knew where to find me, how to find me and if my story didn’t achieve what he was wanting, perhaps my personal safety was at risk.
I didn’t fancy having to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life, not even for a story. I did my good citizen-duty and informed the authorities before penning my tale, but who knows if it will do any good to save that poor man who was only doing his job. Who knows if any of it will save any countless number of possible victims. He was loose on the world again and from the sound of it, he intended to treat the world as his personal buffet, with us as the entrees.
Boo-graphy: Somer Canon is the Splatterpunk Award nominated author of works such as Killer Chronicles and The Hag Witch of Tripp Creek. When she’s not wreaking havoc in her minivan, she’s avoiding her neighbors and consuming all things horror. She has two sons and more cats than her husband agreed to have.
You’re Mine — Insecure misfit Ioni Davis never thinks she’ll find love in her sleepy West Virginia hometown. Then the tall, fascinating stranger Raber Belliveau transfers to her school.
Their attraction is instant and red-hot. And a shared fascination with witchcraft bonds the young lovers even closer.
But while Ioni is responsibly studying her newfound religion of Wicca, Raber has chosen an altogether…different path.
Soon, Raber’s behavior becomes manipulative. Even abusive. And their love story for the ages is turning into a macabre farce. All Ioni wants to do is get out.
But Raber has discovered a dreadful way to control their relationship. A ritual which hasn’t been attempted in over a century. A spell to unleash a bloodthirsty terror which can never be satisfied.
Ioni finds herself trapped in a struggle for her life and even her free will against a once-trusted lover who has assured her…
YOU’RE MINE
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?
Slaves to Gravity — with Wesley Southard — After waking up in a hospital bed, paralyzed from the waist down, Charlie Snyder had no idea where life would take her. Dejected, broken, and permanently bound to a wheelchair, she believed her life was truly over. That is… until gravity no longer applied.
It started out slow. Floating from room to room. Menial tasks without assistance. When she decided to venture outside and take some real risks with her newfound ability, she rose above her own constraints to reveal a whole new world, and found other damaged individuals just like her to confide in.
But there are other things out there, waiting in the dark. Repulsive, secretive creatures that don’t want Charlie to touch the sky. And they’ll stop at nothing to keep her on the ground.
So the lady says to me, “Are you tan from the sun?” and I reply “No – I’m Smith from the Times.”
Heh – a little reporter humor to lighten the mood there. At any rate, where was I?
Oh yeah…
“Who? Me? Come now Mister Smith, do I really look like an evil sorcerer from another world maniacally bent on global domination?” Doctor Durron-uu-obezai said over his steepled talons. I had a feeling he was smiling at me, but to be honest it was hard to tell.
“Aside from the claws, the glowing eyes, and the stylish though functional otherworldly headdress with attached cape, Doctor Durron-uu-obezai?” I looked up from my notepad feeling slightly confused.
“Erhm…yes…yes, aside from those.” The Doctor placed one hand over his chest and extended the other toward me. “Please, call me Doctor D. My public relations people say it humanizes me.”
“Why, yes – it does at that Doctor D,” I said as I made a note of the new moniker. “I really apologize for asking a question like that – I mean it is obvious to me and any other sane person that you are just an average Joe like the rest of us.”
Doctor D laughed jovially like a department store Santa with a bad hangover. I had not realized that “Mua ha ha ha ha ha haaa” could sound jovial, but he made it work. “That’s me, Mister Smith, just an average Joe with a unique fashion sense.”
“And a Legion of Darkness, Doctor D, you can’t forget that.”
“A Legion of what? What on Target Epsilon Five- erhm, Earth are you talking about, Mister Smith?”
It was then the massive double doors at the far end of the cavernous hall opened just enough to allow a single figure wearing dark black armor to enter the hall. He paused for a moment and then began running towards us. As the sound of his metal shod feet striking the floor rolled across the hall to where we sat I turned back to Doctor D.
“Like him for example, Doctor D. That creepy armor and those glowing red eyes just scream Legion of Darkness to some of our more flighty readers.” I glanced back at the armored figure and saw he was still running towards us.
“Oh! Oh yes, I see it now… erhm… but only if I, ah, squint my eyes. Some of your readers have the most amusing flights of fancy, Mister Smith,” Doctor D chuckled as the armored figure continued running. The figure’s pace seemed to have slowed down somewhat.
“Indeed they do Doctor D – that’s why I get assigned all the tough stories like this one. People know that I cut right through the nonsense and get to the truth of the matter.” I grinned at the doctor and looked back at the armored man. His pace had slowed further and he seemed to be breathing heavily.
“That’s what I like about you, Mister Smith – there is no pulling the wool over your eyes,” Doctor D looked away from me and back to the armored man. He had stopped running and seemed to be taking a break. Doctor D looked back at me. I looked back at the armored man and then back at Doctor D. I looked down at my watch and Doctor D looked out a window. Then we both looked back at the armored man and then back at each other. Doctor D drummed his fingers on the arm of his vaguely throne-like chair. I studied the tip of my pen for a moment.
“I have to admit that I love the decor here,” I said as the armored man raised one hand and waved to let us know he was okay.
“Oh? Thank you, I, ah, did it all… myself…,” Doctor D said distractedly as the armored man began running again.
“I am a little curious about that skull like object next to your chair though,” I said and motioned toward Doctor D with my pen. “I bet there is a story behind that.”
“Oh this old thing? Heh,” Doctor D said as he used his foot to push the remarkably realistic looking skull under his chair. “That is left over from my, ah, Halloween party. You know how after a big party you always find bits and pieces left of the guests, erhm, left by the guests in the, ah, oddest places… for months afterwards.”
“I know just what you mean Doctor D – except I usually find empty beer bottles, not so much the skull-like objects,” I shrugged my shoulders, “but then I would be willing to wager that my parties aren’t anywhere near as fun as yours are, Doctor D.”
“That would be a safe bet,” Doctor D sighed and sat back in his chair while rolling his eyes skyward. He looked back at the armored man and then back at me. I looked back at the armored man and then out the window. Doctor D looked at his watch. I studied my fingernails for a moment and then looked back at the armor man. He was jogging at a fairly steady pace. I leaned back in my chair and Doctor D leaned forward in his. I cleared my throat. Doctor D coughed quietly. The armored man was almost within speaking distance and he picked up his pace.
“Those are very nice shoes you have on, Mister Smith,” Doctor D said as he looked down at my feet. “They are quite stylish.”
“Thank you. They are very comfortable too.”
“You’ll have to tell me where you bought them before you leave. I tend to be on my feet all day issuing edicts and ultimatums, decreeing fates and things like that. I need a nice looking pair of shoes with good arch support.”
“I am certain I have one of their business cards. I can give you that.”
“That would be marvelous Mister Smith. Thank you.”
“Master… Master…” the armored man gasped as he made his way up the raised dais.
“General! You are such a big joker with that whole Master thing.” Doctor D gave me an apologetic shrug of his shoulders and turned back to the general. “What do you mean by barging into here like this?! Mister Smith is in the middle of conducting an insightful interview into my character.”
“My apologies Mast-, erhm, Mister Smith,” the General said as Doctor D motioned toward me with his head – a very polite man that Doctor. “The, ummm, tour group we have been waiting for has arrived.”
“Tour group? What tour group?” Doctor D looked from me to the General and back again.
“The one with the, ah, gritty anti-hero type young man and the plucky young woman with whom he constantly engages in spirited dialogue laced with sexual innuendo and the bumbling sidekick-type person who could be easily discounted but who would only come back at a crucial moment and ruin everything.”
“Oh yes! That tour group. For a moment I thought you meant the, ah, Grand Worshipful Order of Pillockry tour group,” Doctor D looked at me and chuckled in embarrassment. I had no idea the Grand Worshipful Order of Pillockry offered tour groups. I made a note of it as it was the sort of thing my readers would be interested in knowing.
“They are, ah, due in next week I believe… sir?” the General offered helpfully if hesitantly.
“Erhm, yes, well, please excuse me, Mister Smith,” Doctor D rose and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I need to deal with, ah… actually that works. I need to deal with this tour group personally. Should only take a moment.”
“Take your time Doctor D! I’ll just chat with the General here.”
Once Doctor D had gone I turned to the General and saw he was concentrating on studying his fingertips. I cleared my throat politely and his glowing red orbs swiveled nervously in my direction. Some people could be a little shy when talking with a reporter, but I was used to dealing with it.
“So, General, maybe you could help clear up this little misconception about a Legion of Darkness spreading terror across the globe?”
“Oh… you mean the, ah, photography club?” The General glanced towards the door Doctor D had used to leave the room.
“Photography club?”
“I can’t tell you the number of times we have had people mistake a powerful flash and a good telephoto lens for a death ray.”
“Oh sure! Happens all the time. The thing about the spreading terror probably just comes from folks who are a little camera shy.”
“You know how they are. Heh,” the General tended to end his sentences with a nervous laugh and a glance toward the door. I knew that only proved he was not really a general – must have been a nickname of some sort.
“Yes indeed. Now perhaps you might be able to shed some light as to why the rather oppressed looking people in the nearby village refer to this rather isolated mountain citadel as the Fortress of Doom?”
“Oh? Heh That question again?” The General fidgeted where he stood for a moment. “The locals have a rather odd accent that takes some getting used to before you can understand everything they scream, erhm, say. They don’t call this place the Fortress of Doom – they call it The Orchid’s Bloom. We have a lovely garden… with plenty of… orchids… that, ah, bloom.”
“I see. I knew it had to be something like that.” I glanced outside and saw ink black storm clouds boiling across the sky. A moment later lightning began to rain down from the heavens. “The weather certainly changes quickly around here, doesn’t it General?”
“Ummm. Yes. Would you, ah, care for a cup of coffee or tea by any chance?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“It would be no trouble. We just had one of those nifty machines that brews up a single cup of coffee or tea installed in the break room.”
“Tempting as that is, too much caffeine keeps me up all night. You wouldn’t believe the stuff I write at two or three in the morning.”
It was then that I heard Doctor D laugh his jovial laugh again. I motioned toward the sound with my pen. “It must be nice working for a boss who laughs all the time, eh?”
“Erhm… Yes? Yes,” the General glanced toward the door and leaned closer to me. “He does tend to drone on a bit during weekly staff meetings though. The man never met a PowerPoint slide he did not like.”
“I know the type – my boss is the same way. We usually send each other text messages during the particularly dull parts.”
“You do that too? He almost caught me doing that last staff meeting!”
It was then Doctor D returned through the same door he had used to leave. He paused to straighten out his cloak and then walked over to us.
Thankfully the back door was much closer than the front doors.
“My apologies for the delay. I almost discounted the sidekick, but remembered not to at the last moment.” Doctor D nodded at me and then turned to the General. “General you may marshal your, ah…”
“Photography club, sir?”
“Riiiiiight… marshal the photography club for the next phase of our, ah…,” Doctor D motioned almost pleading toward the General. The General raised both his hands helplessly.
“Looks like your secret is out gentlemen,” I said smugly. “You’re making a documentary, aren’t you?”
“Curse you and your piercing insight, Mister Smith,” Doctor D said and glanced over to the General.
“I shall marshal the photography club for the next phase of the… documentary… sir.” the General turned and started to walk toward the front doors.
“Oh for goodness sake – use the back door.” Doctor D said with a wave of his hand.
“Thank you, sir,” the General gave a polite bow and left the room.
“I would like to thank you for your time, Doctor D. I hope you will let me conduct a follow up interview at some point?”
“For you, Mister Smith? Of course!” Doctor D said over his steepled talons and then he laughed again.
Boo-graphy: Dan Zeidler is a writer of science fiction and fantasy and the author of the upcoming fantasy adventure duology, Sarbotel Rising, the sci-fi adventure, Ghosts of a Fallen Empire, and a number of anthology short stories. Dan began expressing his love of writing at an early age with the parentally acclaimed poem Trains are Great which along with other early examples of his work earned a place on the prestigious Refrigerator Magnet Gallery. While nothing can be done for his poetry skills, which haven’t improved a whit since that train poem, a steady diet of great stories ranging from ancient mythological tales to Arthurian legends to classic sci-fi and fantasy and on up to Star Trek and Star Wars have improved his storytelling abilities considerably. To further refine and enhance his writing and storytelling skills, Dan lived a life of adventure first by getting a degree in geoscience, then by serving in the US Air Force, then by embarking on a career as a data analyst… hmmm… okay, let’s go back a bit to the part about how a lifetime of reading as many great stories (and many not so great stories) as he could have inspired Dan to write his own stories; stories that above all strive to be fun and entertaining reads. Dan currently resides with his family among the rugged, forested hills of his home state of Connecticut.
Ghosts of a Fallen Empire In the distant future an isolated human world has survived the Nomad Wars and the Fall of Imperium. Together with their non-human allies, the Dussakairay and the Bregus, they repopulated and rebuilt their devastated region of the galaxy to form a 40 system Commonwealth. For over five centuries the people of the Commonwealth have known only peace and prosperity, but an ancient enemy has been watching from the ruins of the old Imperium, slowly rebuilding their forces, and waiting for their opportunity to reduce the Commonwealth to ashes. The founders of the Commonwealth may have given up their Imperium, but they did not give up all of the Imperium’s secrets. Now the only hope for the people of the Commonwealth lies with the Ghosts of a Fallen Empire.
Is your library haunted? Are you sure? Many readers wander the shelves, returning over and over to the place their spirit calls home. Some of them are still in circulation, even after their bodies have checked out. Others are part of the deep archives from before the books moved in…
Join 11 authors as they explore haunts from the past, the future, and the dead.
Ghosts of Malta Malta. Alchemists, Saints and Heroes have all made their way to this place, defended its walls, and added to its ranks of ghosts and lore.
Besieged, battered, and bombed, this archipelago has seen every tide of war, turmoil, and more than a few bits of piracy. It’s also been the land of courage, resilience, and grace under fire.
Ten authors have set out to bring you tales of the ghosts of Malta past, present, and future. Open the pages and meet the ancient guardians, ghost cats and inter dimensional spies that will be your guide…
I hope everyone enjoyed their Thanksgiving. I took a little bit of a break to enjoy my holiday and the several days of shopping that followed (I’m a manager in retail so it’s been a fun last few days). To continue on with my Halloween invasion of Christmas, I have a short little thing from author CM Saunders to share with you.
Halloween Drabble: THAT TIME OF YEAR AGAIN (100 Words)
The doorbell rings. It’s Halloween, which probably means the Trick or Treaters are here. Living alone means I’ll be up and down a lot tonight.
I open the door, and sure enough I’m confronted with three kids. We have a witch, a comedy Frankenstein, and a vampire in a cape. I think. I offer the group a handful of candy, which is snapped up greedily. As I’m closing the door, comedy Frankenstein says, “Where did your friend get that demon mask? It’s so cool.”
I’m confused. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Your friend behind you wearing the mask.”
(This story was first published in Every Day Fiction.)
Boo-graphy: Christian Saunders, a constant reader who writes fiction as C.M. Saunders, is a freelance journalist and editor from south Wales. His work has appeared in almost 100 magazines, ezines and anthologies worldwide including Fortean Times, the Literary Hatchet, ParABnormal, Fantastic Horror, Haunted MTL, Feverish Fiction and Crimson Streets, and he has held staff positions at several leading UK magazines ranging from Staff Writer to Associate Editor. His books have been both traditionally and independently published.
The fifth volume in my X series featuring ten (X, geddit?) slices of twisted horror and dark fiction plucked from the blood-soaked pages of ParABnormal magazine, Demonic Tome, Haunted MTL, Fantasia Diversity, and industry-defining anthologies including 100 Word Horrors, The Corona Book of Ghost Stories, DOA 3, and Trigger Warning: Body Horror.
Meet the local reporter on an assignment which takes him far beyond the realms of reality, join the fishing trip that goes sideways when a fish unlike any other is hooked, and find out the hidden cost of human trafficking in China. Along the way, meet the hiker who stumbles across something unexpected in the woods, the office worker who’s life is inexorably changed after a medical drug trial goes wrong, and many more.
Also features extensive notes, and original artwork by Stoker award-winning Greg Chapman.
Table of Contents: Demon Tree Revenge of the Toothfish Surzhai The Sharpest Tool Something Bad Down the Road Coming Around Where a Town Once Stood The Last Night Shift Subject #270374 Afterword
In the final part of CM Saunders’ five-part series, he talks about An American Werewolf in London. I hope you enjoyed this series as much as I did and please follow the link at the end so you can see some other movie reviews he’s done.
It’s been a long month. So far in our countdown of the top 5 Eighties Horror Flicks we’ve met vampires, ancient forest-dwelling spirits, vengeful ghosts, and all kinds of other nasties. A lot of blood has been spilled. It’s all been building up to this, the final instalment. Number one on the list, top of the pile, king of the hill. Some films you see during those impressionable childhood years make an indelible mark on you. Others scar you for life. For me, An American werewolf in London undoubtedly belongs in the latter category, and not just because I was obsessed with Jenny Agutter.
It should need no introduction, but for those unfamiliar with it, the film starts with a pair of American tourists David (Naughton) and Jack (Dunne) hiking across the Yorkshire Moors (this part was actually filmed on the Black Mountains in Wales). When night falls they take refuge in a charming little pub called the Slaughtered Lamb, where they find Rik Mayall having a game of darts and Brian Glover in a particularly prickly mood, but leave when things turn frosty with the words “Stay on the path!” ringing in their ears. Needless to say, they don’t heed the warning and and find themselves lost on the moors. As if that wasn’t bad enough, things take a huge downward turn when they are attacked and Jack is ripped to pieces by a huge wild animal, later revealed to be a werewolf. There’s no helping Jack, but a crowd from the pub arrive and kill the werewolf just in time to save David.
Some time later David wakes up in a hospital in London. We don’t know how he got there, or why he was taken there rather than somewhere closer as it’s about 200 miles from Yorkshire to the capital as the crow flies and you’d pass a few dozen hospitals on the way. But let’s not focus too much on pesky common sense and practicalities. It’s a werewolf film for fuck’s sake. Jack returns from the dead as either a ghost or a hallucination (we are never really told which) to warn his friend that next time there is a full moon, he too will turn into a werewolf. The banter between David and Dead Jack, fast, witty, and shot-through with humour, form some of my favourite parts of the film (example: “Have you ever talked to a corpse? It’s boring!”).
The anticipated change does indeed occur in a gut-wrenching yet iconic sequence which won an Academy Award for special effects (the man responsible, Rick Baker, went on to win six more from eleven nominations. A record.) and David goes on a bloody rampage across London’s West End. One of the defining scenes was set and filmed at Tottenham Court Road tube station, and anyone who has ever used that particular transport hub will surely agree that the only time you are likely to see it quite so empty is when there is a blood-crazed werewolf riding the escalator. Here’s the scene, in all its glory:
The next we see of David he’s waking up naked in the wolf enclosure of the local zoo, and as soon as he’s dressed again he sets about piecing together the events of the night before with the help of Alice (Agutter), a nurse who he somehow managed to pull whilst being laid up at the hospital. It has to be said that she takes all the “I’m a werewolf” stuff remarkably well, which was just one more reason to love the woman.
One of the most terrifying scenes ever committed to celluloid is the dream sequence where David witnesses his family being brutally slayed by a bunch of mutant Nazi demons brandishing machine guns in a home invasion. It’s as weird as it is shocking, and has been the cause of endless debate over the years. Was it included just for the shock factor? An extra element of controversy (as if it were needed)? Or is it a remnant of a sub-plot which was otherwise edited out?
It’s interesting to note that earlier on in proceedings, nurse Alice and her friend make what appears to be an off-hand Jewish remark dressed up as a dick joke, and the movie has been lauded in certain circles as a significant piece of Jewish cinema. A little digging reveals John Landis was born into a Jewish family, and with that kernel of knowledge, the sub-text swims into focus. David (the name of the first monarch of the Israelite tribes) is a walking allegory for Judaism itself. A displaced, wounded hero, a stranger in a strange land, struggling to come to terms with a tragic past. This article does a pretty good job of further exploring the Jewish connection, which I’d never even considered until I re-watched it recently and started wondering what the fuck those mutant Nazi demons with machine guns had to do with anything.
When it was released in 1981, An American Werewolf in London formed one third of a holy trinity of werewolf films, which all came out the same year, the others being Wolfen and The Howling (see number three on our list!). Director John Landis (who is more commonly associated with comedy having been involved with such seminal films as Animal House, The Blues Brothers, and Trading Places) claimed he was inspired to write the script after working on the film Kelly’s Heros in Yugoslavia. Whilst out driving, he stumbled across a group of gypsies performing a ritual on a corpse so it wouldn’t ‘rise again,’ which must have been quite the mindfuck.
At first he had trouble securing finances, with most would-be investors claiming the script was too frightening to be a comedy and too funny to be frightening, before PolyGram Pictures eventually put up the $10 million budget. Happily, their faith was repayed as the movie became a box office smash grossing over $62 million worldwide. It is now rightfully hailed as one of the greatest horror movies ever made.
In contrast, a 1997 sequel, An American Werewolf in Paris, which featured a completely different cast and crew, was a critical and commercial failure. As a curious postscript, in 2016 it was reported that John Landis’s son Max was writing and directing a remake. There’s been nothing but the sound of crickets ever since.
Trivia Corner:
Landis has expressed regret over cutting certain sequences from the final cut of the film in order to earn an R rating in the US. The sex scene between Alex and David was edited to be less explicit, and a scene showing the homeless men along the Thames being attacked was cut after a test audience reacted negatively to it. Yet another cut scene showed the undead Jack eating a piece of toast which falls out of a hole in his torn throat.
On the 13th of every month I put a fresh spin on a classic movie in my RetView series over at my blog. Go here to check out the archive:
Boo-graphy: Christian Saunders, a constant reader who writes fiction as C.M. Saunders, is a freelance journalist and editor from south Wales. His work has appeared in almost 100 magazines, ezines and anthologies worldwide including Fortean Times, the Literary Hatchet, ParABnormal, Fantastic Horror, Haunted MTL, Feverish Fiction and Crimson Streets, and he has held staff positions at several leading UK magazines ranging from Staff Writer to Associate Editor. His books have been both traditionally and independently published.
The fifth volume in my X series featuring ten (X, geddit?) slices of twisted horror and dark fiction plucked from the blood-soaked pages of ParABnormal magazine, Demonic Tome, Haunted MTL, Fantasia Diversity, and industry-defining anthologies including 100 Word Horrors, The Corona Book of Ghost Stories, DOA 3, and Trigger Warning: Body Horror.
Meet the local reporter on an assignment which takes him far beyond the realms of reality, join the fishing trip that goes sideways when a fish unlike any other is hooked, and find out the hidden cost of human trafficking in China. Along the way, meet the hiker who stumbles across something unexpected in the woods, the office worker who’s life is inexorably changed after a medical drug trial goes wrong, and many more.
Also features extensive notes, and original artwork by Stoker award-winning Greg Chapman.
Table of Contents: Demon Tree Revenge of the Toothfish Surzhai The Sharpest Tool Something Bad Down the Road Coming Around Where a Town Once Stood The Last Night Shift Subject #270374 Afterword
Meghan's House of Books 