When Iona Caldwell asked if she could discuss Halloween from the point of view of a Druid, I jumped at the chance to have this kind of information given to my readers, a topic that I hadn’t had touched on in the history of my Halloween Extravaganza. What she had to say was very interesting, and I hope that y’all learn as much as I did.
Being a mom is hard enough. Being a mom and a Druid – now that might seem impossible!
Going to bed late, rough nights of sleep due to a restless mind of things being left undone, parent/teacher conferences, fundraisers – the list goes on. And these are daily activities.
Then there’s squeezing in the needs of a practicing Druid including (but certainly not limited to) spending time with nature, natural cleansing of the altar, morning and evening rituals, writing a Book of Shadows (not all druids do this, it’s my personal preference), meditating… you get the idea. Then there are times when two holidays (days of power for me) roll around.
Once the holidays get here, things take a drastic change.
Halloween is coming up and we all know what that means: candy, costumes, spooky decor, and delicious treats. That’s for my kids.
Since we don’t get a ton of Trick or Treating around our small town, we typically rely on Trunk or Treating, mall trick or treating and sometimes none at all if the weather is too cold, we have a sick munchkin or it’s raining.
If you are like me, you let your little monsters stay awake late and indulge in some pre-dentist visit inducing carbs waiting for the precious “sugar crash” that seems like it can take hours. It can leave the mind tired and really not wanting to do much other than falling into bed. That’s when Charlie Brown goes on the television and we enjoy some hot cocoa or cider while wrapped in our blankets in front of the fireplace.
For me, it’s the glorious night of Samhain.
This is the time when many things happen for a practicing Druid. The Wild Hunt rides, unsettled spirits walk the Earth, the Veil is thin and sometimes the third eye can get a bit overwhelmed. For those who practice invocation, evocation, moon work, spell work, etc, this can pretty taxing.
Most of my practice happens at night after the kids are asleep and the family tradition of watching Hugh Jackman’s Van Helsing (don’t judge me) is over.
However, like parenting, spiritual practice takes work. Sometimes you have to be willing to take some hits to certain parts of your life (like Netflix binging, gaming, etc) to become more in tune with the Divine. Samhain is the perfect time to commune with crone goddesses and your ancestors. It’s a wonderful time to do divination or rituals of evocation. Maybe you’re Wiccan and have separate ways of practicing altogether and have your own rituals and spell work.
Whatever way you practice, it takes serious devotion.
What I do for any Eightfold Wheel day is always start with a meal of some kind. Being a Druid means communing with family and others, it means networking and learning to balance the different aspects of our lives.
Just like Nature is the perfect balancer, I take my time with my husband and enjoy a meal while watching a movie. We may indulge in some “Witch’s Brew,” baked treats like freshly baked pumpkin bread or apple pies. Whatever we do, we take time to do it together.
After taking some time with the family and the wee hours when they’re all asleep, I typically spend some time letting the day “melt” from my body. It allows my mind to be open to the Divine and clears the space if you will.
This year, I plan to do a ritual of evocation to the Crone Aspect of the Triple Goddess. It can be terrifying to work with her but in the end you can receive amazing insight. I won’t go into exact detail as I wanted to give you a glimpse into how hectic Halloween (Samhain) can be when doing both.
It can be taxing but more importantly, it’s fun!
About the author:
My name is Iona Caldwell. I’m the author of the British Occult Fiction Beneath London’s Fog, which was published by FyreSyde Publishing this month. When I’m not busy weaving worlds of the arcane and dark, I’m spending time out in nature. I love books. My biggest inspirations are H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King, Neil Gaiman, and Edgar Allen Poe. I blog about many things, but mostly everything bookish.
All of my novels are stand-alone novellas, each with a cast of people I hope my readers will come to love as much as I have.
Jonathan is the immortal master of Raven Hollow Manor – a decrepit mansion riddled with superstition, murder and restless ghosts. Beneath it lies a restless malice.
Its previous owner driven mad, violently kills his guests with a rusted ax, creating the perfect venue for Jonathan to seclude himself in a prison of his own device.
When the streets of London begin to run red with blood; the bodies exhibiting disturbing signs and baffling wounds, the identity of the killer remains elusive to police.
The bodies are just the beginning of Jonathan’s troubles. A mysterious letter accusing Jonathan of committing the murders appear, raising suspicion in the police. Hidden beneath the mangled bodies, Jonathan soon realizes he is being forced to face demons he thought died in a forlorn past he attempted to escape.
One thing Jonathan knows for certain: He must deal with the demons of his past if he is to survive his future. Not only him but those he has come to love as well.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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…
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Frank J. Edler is one of my “new favorite people,” and has been for quite some time now. He’s definitely someone worth knowing. Talented, hilarious, and just a really good person. I hope you enjoy his story… that took me places very unexpected.
I dig and dig, fearing all hope is lost. A bust of a Halloween. Nothing but jank candy. Tootsie rolls, Mary Jane’s, Dots, and loose candy corn! Who gives out loose, unpackaged candy corn? Old ladies, vagabonds, and derelicts, that’s who! All jank! I throw caution to the wind and just dump the candy all over the carpet. Screw it, Halloween is ruined now with all this terrible candy. What the hell has happened to the world? We’ve all become too cheap to fill a little boy’s life with the joy of free premium candy? Everything is Dum-Dums and Sixlets! Not even a proper m&m but a knock-off, second-rate Sixlet! Heads will roll!
What’s next, one of those terrible strawberry hard candies that old ladies older than old ladies give out? Those old ladies give those out not because it’s Halloween, but because they don’t know it’s Halloween and they are confused and frightened as to why all these freaking young’uns are ringing their doorbell demanding candy when all they wanted to do was finish watching the last episode of Matlock and go to bed at two in the afternoon so they can wake up at four in the morning and start their day anew. Yup! There it is one of those strawberry hard candies. Never fails. It tastes like it’s on death’s door too. I was foolish enough to try one when I was very little, believing the lie of the fresh fruit looking wrapper.
Lies! All I got for Halloween this year was a bag full of lies and empty promises. This is all that stupid Walmart’s fault. Everyone goes there and just buys a 385 pound bag of discount, bottom shelf, no name candy to pass out to the children. People live with the delusion that this year will be the year that all the kids in town as well as the next three towns over will arrive at their door so they go for quantity not quality. It’s a perception Sam Walton’s offspring and disciples have been selling for years and each year all it does is decrease the amount of trick-or-treaters. So when Halloween comes to an end and it’s time to settle in for All Saints Day, millions of households across America are left ragged and depressed over the insurmountable volume of terrible candy they are left to suckle for the rest of the remaining year. Don’t worry, they’ll buy the same crap next year.
And me, here I sit with nothing more than a pile of dirt on the carpet. All trash. I wish there were some invisible mythical creature that could fix Halloween. Every other good holiday has one. Santa unfucks Christmas. The Easter bunny is like Milton Hershey with long ears. Hell, even the simple event of losing a tooth brings with it cold hard cash from the Tooth Fairy. Why can’t Halloween have something? Like Bllrrgin’ The Gimp or some crazy shit.
You know what?! What if there is a Bllrrgin’ The Halloween Gimp who devours all the kids awful Halloween candy and craps out rich, uber-sweet, chocolaty goodness in its place? What if Bllrrgin’ chomps on Bit-O-Honey’s and defecates the world’s greatest candy bar? What if he’s there right now, somewhere, and all that he needs is for just one kid to believe in him. To make him real.
I close my eyes, squint real hard, shutting them tighter than I ever have before this moment. I wish and wish for Bllrrgin’ to be real. I wish with all my soul and every ounce of my heart for him to come and eat my garbage. I believe in Bllrrgin’ more than I believe in me.
I hear a noise in my deep trance. Its faint and I half believe I heard it because I wanted to hear it. But, I open my eyes and find all the terrible, awful candy on the floor is gone!
It was Bllrrgin’ the Gimp! Come to save Halloween! No more JuJuBees! No more Necco wafers! Never again a Now & Later or an unbranded butterscotch! Bllrrgin’ has saved the day! I cry tears of joy and realize there is still another part of the deal with the Halloween Gimp.
Good candy! Where did he poop out the good stuff? Oh, I do so hope he dropped my absolute favorite from his magical anus. Bllrrgin’s reward is not on the floor. That makes sense, it would be uncouth for a Halloween Gimp to just crap on the floor like some common house mutt. No, like any good holiday figment of my imagination, he woudl need to make a game of the reward. A little sport of the whole thing, that’s what Halloween Gimps did after all!
I checked the most obvious spot, my empty trick-or-treat bag. Still empty. Too easy for a clever Halloween Gimp. I looked around everywhere. Under the couch, out by the front door, maybe tucked away somewhere around the cheesy Halloween decorations my mom put out on display. It wasn’t anywhere!
Where would Bllrrgin’ the Halloween Gimp crap out my prize candy!?
Duh! It was like the answer was right there in front of me the whole time.
I raced to the bathroom and lifted the lid. There it was, floating like a Baby Ruth in the Caddyshack movie my dad was always watching, half-drunk on Saturday nights after he thought I was asleep in bed. Only, it wasn’t a Baby Ruth, those are for Bllrrgin’ the Gimp. What he left me was the greatest candy on the planet.
My eyes grew like the oversized eyes on a too-cute-for-words stuffed pink giraffe and welled with tears of joy. Bllrrgin’ was real and he left me his gift. I plucked it out of the toilet and took an itty-bitty little bite. I saved the flavor of the best candy ever.
A Left Twix. Yum.
Happy Halloween and don’t forget to leave all your jank candy out for Bllrrgin’ to eat this year. And whatever you do, check the bowl before you flush away your Halloween treasure!
Otto Van Der Noodle has just been crowned the Bratwurst King of Wisconsin when he is gunned down in cold blood. Otto finds himself in line at the pearly gates when he is accidentally cast through the gates of Hell.
Otto lands in the middle of a power struggle for the throne of Hell. Satan rules the underworld with an iron fist and a delicious bratwurst. Satan’s brother, Dagobert has just found his secret weapon, Otto Van Der Noodle and his prize-winning bratwurst.
Dagobert will try to tip the balance of control in Hell using Otto’s delectable bratwursts. But Satan may have found the ultimate weapon in his new favorite pet demon.
Souls will be tortured, demons will fight demons and bratwursts will be cooked. Who will come out as the top chef and leader of Hell when the cook-off to end all cook-offs is fought?
Read BRATS IN HELL to find out. Its the WURST book ever written!
Vincent and his nagging wife, Wanda wind up getting themselves killed in Tijuana. Vincent wakes to find that he is now the Grim Reaper. With minimal training he is cast into the world of Deaths to collect the souls of the dead. The only wrinkle is his dead wife has come back as a screaming Banshee. She is hellbent on getting her husband to realize that its not ’til death do they part and he is set on getting through his first day on the job.
He will not go it alone. Along the way he is helped by his co-workers: a cowboy, a midget, an action figure and a bumbling grim reaper from Salem.
Will Death get the soul to Charon’s skiff by the end of the work day or will a squadron of maniac Banshee’s stop Death and upend the balance of power in the underworld? And, will Vincent ever be rid of his nagging wife?
It’s hard being a Killer Brain. Just ask Scatter, a Killer Brain who just wants to be a Killer Brain. But he can’t, his parents want him to get a job. Scatter would rather do what he does best, terrorize the city with his pack of Killer Brain friends. But Scatter is about to find out life isn’t fair.
Crazed neurosurgeon, Dr. Justin Case is out to avenge the death of his parents at the hands of the Killer Brains. And now he has Scatter in his sights. Along with his cohort, Coda, Dr. Case will stop at nothing to exact his revenge and seek the closure he has sought since he watched his parents get devoured by Killer Brains as a child.
The odds are stacked against Scatter. He must navigate life while trying not to fall into the clutches of his would-be nemesis. Can Scatter get by without a little help from family and friends. He just wants to live life doing what he loves but sometimes responsibility has a way of rearranging your priorities. Join Scatter as he navigates through life, the job market and a city full of crazies all keeping him from doing what he loves, being a Killer Brain.
Meghan's House of Books 