Tag: Guest Post

Halloween Extravaganza: Charles Gramlich: Nightmare Season

megHan

Charles Gramlich has stopped by to talk to us about nightmares. Very interesting. Enjoy.

I’ve been blessed with nightmares for most of my life. In one, I watched a sorceress rip another woman’s eyes out with magic. Then she turned on me. I began to come apart. My lower jaw tore off; it hit the ground and burst into dust. As my head exploded I realized I was dead.

That wasn’t the first time I’ve died in dreams. I once fought my doppelganger, switching from head to head throughout the bout, and when I stood over my own body with a knife in its chest I wasn’t sure which survived—the good me or the bad one. I’m still not sure. Are you?

Where do such dreams come from? As a kid, Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me watch scary shows like Twilight Zone or Outer Limits but they didn’t monitor my reading. I read bible stories, history, animal tales, football and racing stories, science fiction and fantasy. That’s probably where the imagery in my dreams first originated. I’ve since added scary shows to my experience. Recently, I published a collection called Out of Dreams: Nightmares, which contains retellings of dreams I’ve had in story form.

In dreams, I’ve been villains and victims. I’ve been children, and adults, and monsters. I’ve been the devil. Once I was a serial killer writing a novel on the walls of my house in the blood of the murdered. I wouldn’t want to be most of these things in real life, but dreams let you live many lives. They also provide fodder for creative work, either in writing or other arts. Below, I touch on some dream related phenomena that can also feed one’s creativity.

In Lucid Dreaming you become aware of the dream. Sometimes you’re just along for the ride and sometimes you can manipulate the dream. When I can, I fly. Talk about “a dream come true.” The other night I chased dragonflies through the pines. A little before that I was “watching TV” when I realized I was dreaming. Since I couldn’t fly inside the house, I pushed myself off the couch into the air and floated around the room.

Being well rested and avoiding caffeine and medications are important to the production of lucid dreams. You also need to recognize a dream. Most people experience clues that indicate dreaming. For me, light switches failing to work is often a clue. This also triggers a feeling that something bad is about to happen. But only while dreaming. When I’m awake, I just know the electricity is off.

I have a test to tell if I’m dreaming. Pinching myself doesn’t work for me but jumping does. In real life, I can’t jump very high. So, if I jump and touch the ceiling, or a low hanging branch, or if I seem to hang in the air, I know it’s a dream. And the fun begins.

Sleep Paralysis can be extremely disconcerting. Here, you wake up from the dream state but remain paralyzed. You’re normally paralyzed from the neck down during dreams to keep you from acting out and hurting yourself, but it’s supposed to end as dreaming ends. When it doesn’t, you lie there wide awake but unable to move or call out. Fortunately, my sleep paralysis lasts only a few seconds. Some attacks can last for half an hour or more.

A variant type of sleep paralysis can be much more terrifying, though. You wake up and believe yourself to be “fully” awake, but you remain paralyzed and certain dream-like phenomena continue occurring. There’s often an intense feeling of a malevolent presence in the room. It may be invisible or appear only as a shadow.

My most terrifying event of this nature occurred when I awoke and saw my wife lying next to me completely covered with the sheet. I knew something was wrong. The sheet clung to the body beneath it, which was far more skeletal than my wife. As I was about to speak, the figure turned its head toward me beneath the sheet. The linen cloth clung tightly across deep-socketed eyes. The mouth was open and the sheet fluttered as the being breathed. I thought I screamed, but otherwise I couldn’t move. The figure under the sheet shifted toward me in a slow scootch. I felt clearly that it was a ghost or a demon.

I tried to throw up my arm to block the thing and a cold hand underneath the sheet grabbed my wrist in a violent grasp. Again, I screamed, but then awareness came. This had to be sleep paralysis, which I’d had before, although never so frightfully. Struggling against sleep paralysis is counterproductive. The more you try to break free, the tighter it grips. The best solution is to relax. I did, and the hand let go and the figure deflated and disappeared. I didn’t need to write a story to remember this experience.

Sleep paralysis is a possible explanation for a variety of ghost and demonic experiences, as well as some out-of-body and alien abduction scenarios. I believe it. If I’d had that encounter a century ago, or with no knowledge of sleep paralysis, I almost certainly would have blamed the supernatural.

The term “narcolepsy” means sleep attack. The individual occasionally falls asleep without warning during normal daytime activities such as eating or talking with friends. This uncontrollable sleep is usually REM related and the person has a dream, though it lasts only a few moments.

Two symptoms of narcolepsy are hypnogogic and hypnopompic hallucinations. These are brief, vivid, dream-like experiences that occur while one is falling asleep (gogic) or waking up (pompic). My sheet/ghost experience might be described as a hypnopompic experience. Another memorable one that I had was of a train blasting its whistle while it rolled through one window of my bedroom and out the other.

Many people enjoy a good scare during Halloween season. For me, it can be as simple as going to sleep. Have a great Halloween, and… pleasant dreams!

Charles Gramlich writes from the piney woods of south Louisiana. He has authored the Talera fantasy series and the SF novel Under the Ember Star. His stories have been collected in Bitter Steel, Midnight in Rosary, and In the Language of Scorpions. He also writes westerns as Tyler Boone. His most recent releases, under his own name, are Farhaven & Other Stories, a collection of kid’s tales, and Out of Dreams: Nightmares, which are retellings of some of his most memorable nightmares in story form. Charles’s books are available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble, or through the author.

I’ve been blessed my entire life with nightmares. I love them. My wife has strict instructions ‘not’ to wake me up if she thinks I’m having a bad dream, no matter how terrified I might seem. From the first, many of my dreams had strong “story telling” elements to them. Some made for complete tales with beginnings, middles, and ends. All I had to do to make them into stories was write them down the way they’d occurred. This collection features retellings of some of my more darkly fantastic dreams. Most are nightmarish, but not all. Some are just strange. Many of these tales have been published elsewhere but have never appeared together before. Each has brought me joy, even if they brought me terror first! I hope you’ll like them.

Halloween Extravaganza: Hunter Shea: The Ghost of Halloween Present

megHan

After reading this guest post by the amazing Hunter Shea, all I can say is… I wish I lived closer to him because he’s definitely a house I would stop at on Halloween.

It used to be, I was happy when a Halloween consisted of me dressed up as either a hobo or vampire (I remember being a hobo, complete with packed bindle, was all the rage – not so PC now), a couple of hours to trick or treat, a visit to my grandparents, and a few mom inspected and approved candies before bed. If I was very lucky, my trick or treat bag wasn’t laden with old pennies and unwrapped circus peanuts.

For once in my life, I don’t long for the days of yesteryear. Halloween today in the Shea dungeon is a day long affair filled with indulgence and wicked fun. I tell people what our Halloweens are like and they don’t believe me… until they come and see for themselves. And once they do, they come back for more year after year.

We have the distinct pleasure of having become part of a kind of trick or treat alley. It consists of one suburban block where kids and adults from far and wide descend. On this block, the houses are decorated (One family sometimes changing the entire front façade of their house for that year’s theme. Last year it was a rocket ship. The year before, the bow of a pirate ship). Music drifts along the chilly air. You might hear some creepy horror movie tunes, or maybe some riotous Rob Zombie, and always, always, the soundtrack to The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

We prep for the night by loading up the cooler with lots of beer. It used to be just pumpkin ale when it was hard to find, but now that it’s everywhere, the allure has worn off. First beer can be cracked open at any time, be it morning or night. Well, we never wait until night. My daughters will dress up, as will the adults, all the way to grandma and grandpa. Sometimes, if my creative daughter gets the urge, she’ll pull out her makeup effects kit and adorn our necks with bloody slashes and wounds. She’s been known to do it for random trick or treaters, too.

A carved pumpkin sits on the table, spewing massive chunks of green. That would be homemade guacamole and it’s delicious. With extended family and friends present, the first trick or treaters start to trickle in. It’s always the very young ones at first with their moms and dads. At our house, everyone gets a juice box – because trick or treating is thirsty business – and a bag of treats. Once night falls, the neighborhood is transformed into a spooky Mardi Gras, the sidewalks and street packed with people of all ages, shapes and sizes. There have been flash mobs, wedding proposals, screeching when people are scared by one of us, and even the occasional flash for a drink, which makes it all the more feel like we’ve been transported to New Orleans. By the time the night is done, we’ve usually handed out treats to over 600 kids. Adults will get beer and cigars. And a hangover to come.

One year, I dressed up as a trailer park version of Elvira. I called myself Elmira and talked like Wendy Williams, asking everyone who came by, “How you doin’?” Don’t ask me why. It was all inspired by Patron and Sam Adams. People loved taking pictures with the often lewd Elmira. Last year, I bought a giant crying baby mask from Five Below. Slipping into a pair of footie pajamas, I walked around looking tres disturbing. Turns out, moms like to hug crying babies, even if they are almost 6 feet tall and dancing around like a serial killer in his basement.

People we see just that once a year come by to hang, pizza is delivered, and the party doesn’t stop until the treats and booze run out. When all is said and done, I always vow to watch a horror movie, something special I’ve saved for this moment. Inevitably, I pass out before the first act is over. It sure beats the Halloweens of my youth. It may be why I look forward to it more now than ever. So if you ever need a juice box or something a little stronger on Halloween, come on and join the party.

Hunter Shea is the product of a misspent childhood watching scary movies, reading forbidden books, and wishing Bigfoot would walk past his house. He doesn’t just write about the paranormal – he actively seeks out the things that scare the hell out of people and experiences them for himself. Hunter’s novels can even be found on display at the International Crytpozoology Museum. He’s a bestselling author of over 25 books, all of them written with the express desire to quicken heartbeats and make spines tingle. You can find him each week on the Final Guys podcast, as well as the long running Monster Men video podcast. Living with his wonderful family and two cats, he’s happy to be close enough to New York City to gobble down Gray’s Papaya hot dogs when the craving hits. Become a true Hunter’s Hellion and follow him at his website.

Slash

Five years after Ashley King survived the infamous Resort Massacre, she’s found hanging in her basement by her fiancé, Todd Matthews. She left behind clues as to what really happened that night, clues that may reveal the identity of the killer the press has called The Wraith. 

With the help of his friends, Todd goes back to the crumbling Hayden Resort, a death-tinged ruin in the Catskills Mountains. What they find is a haunted history that’s been lying in wait for a fresh set of victims. The Wraith is back, and he’s nothing what they expected.

Halloween Extravaganza: Kelli Owen: STORY: Childhood Ghosts

megHan

One of my favorite things to receive, when I ask for a guest post, is a surprise story… especially when it’s one that I’m not quite sure is actually a story at first.

I hate Halloween. I haven’t enjoyed it for years. The last time I participated I was six years old. That was the year Luke Brown died.

The year we killed him.

My dad had left the previous spring, or rather he just didn’t come home after work one day. Mom had started working two jobs and tried hiding the fact she cried herself to sleep almost every night. We didn’t have much back then, just each other. But mom still had spunk. She risked her new waitress job in the name of Halloween and stole a white tablecloth for my costume.

At that age you believe in all the monsters you mimic in costume, the monsters that beg for candy and giggle. At six years old, it’s exciting to become one of them for a night, and I absolutely believed in the ghost I was to become. Mom cut eyeholes and draped the stolen cloth over my head. I stood on a chair as she cut some from the bottom so I wouldn’t trip. I was the happiest little ghost in the world that year.

Or at least I started the night that way.

After skipping my way to every lit porch in my neighborhood, I stood on the sidewalk with several kids from school, our parents gathered further down at the corner.

Kids are cruel and will pick on others for any little thing. My father had decided we weren’t good enough for him, which made me a pretty easy target to other first graders. Fortunately, Luke’s dad had been arrested the night before—for something I didn’t even understand back then—and the other kids had a new target. I went along with it all, happy to be off the hook for the moment.

Until I became the center of attention.

“You just gonna stand there, Sarah?” Josh glared at me through his Spiderman mask. I had been nodding my approval at their remarks, staying on the good side of the miniature lynch mob, but I hadn’t actually said anything.

“No, I just…” I had no excuse. At six you’re not quick enough to react when afraid, so I did the next best thing and diverted attention back to the other target. “I heard they’re coming to get Luke’s momma next.”

The crowd of over-sugared under-mannered six-year-olds turned back to Luke as one. They were like creepy little Village of the Damned kids, except they didn’t look alike—they were a circus version in their Halloween costumes. Spiderman was the leader, but the homemade princess was definitely next in the ranks. The juxtaposition between Bailey’s glitter-covered innocence and the sneer that curled her painted lips around sharp teeth and a sharper tongue was startling. Next to her stood Zack, in a homemade pumpkin outfit, which would be silly by today’s standards, but as the playground bully he could dress as whatever he wanted and no one would have said anything. Rounding out the crew was little Kelsey, appropriately disguised as a witch. A twig of a thing, she didn’t need words to intimidate—her stark black eyes were all it took to quiet a person.

Zack started the next round of Luke’s punishment by shoving him toward Josh. The girls closed ranks and formed a circle around the sheepish boy ironically dressed as Dracula. They giggled as they took turns pushing him like a Bop Bag. The back and forth turned into a round-the-clock motion, and I worried I was going to have a take a turn. The reality of that was painted in blue eye shadow, as Bailey lifted a glitter-covered eyebrow at me and used only a fingertip to shove Luke my way.

I was afraid. I know that now. But that night I only cared about being part of the crowd without being the victim. I pushed Luke toward Josh. I pushed him hard. I think I was hoping he’d fall and stay down. Looking back, I think I was apathetic to his situation. I have to think so. I have to hope I wasn’t really responsible for what happened next.

I never expected Josh to sidestep.

And I didn’t think Luke would stumble outside the circle and off the curb.

Mr. Boardman never saw him. Later he told everyone the black costume and black cape against the night was too hidden, too dark, even in headlights.

I’ll never forget the way Luke’s body folded over the front of the Cadillac when it struck him. I’ll never forget the way it sounded when his limp body slid up the hood and slapped against the windshield like a flyswatter against a sofa. I’ll never forget the way his mother’s scream echoed in the night, covering the roar of Mr. Boardman’s engine and subsequent squeal of his tires.

That was ten years ago.

I’ll be seventeen in December, if I make it through tonight.

Fear, shame, whatever the reason, I didn’t talk to the other four again until five years after Luke’s funeral, when I saw Bailey crying in the bathroom at school the morning after Halloween. It was the first I’d heard of Kelsey’s accident. She told me she’d been with Kelsey the night before, when the old wooden garage door slammed down suddenly and killed her. Bailey swore Kelsey screamed “No, Luke!” right before she heard the crunch and watched Kelsey’s can of A&W Rootbeer roll down the driveway. We called her crazy. We said it was guilt.

We changed our minds when Zack texted Josh the following Halloween. The message was one word: Luke. Zack’s parents found him under the basement fridge; one of its wheels across the room like it had suddenly popped free and toppled the unit over, crushing Zack without warning.

When Luke died, the other four had continued to celebrate the holiday and tradition of Trick-or-Treating, as if nothing had happened. Not me. I stayed home and handed out candy. Mom tried to get me to play along. She bribed me with some great costumes over the years, but it was all wasted money—I wouldn’t budge from the house. I couldn’t. I heard the tires and the scream and the slap of Luke’s body every Halloween. Hell, I heard it every time I shut my eyes until I was eight.

The year after Zack died was the last time I even answered the door. Spooked enough by Kelsey and Zack’s unexpected deaths to become superstitious, both Bailey and Josh decided to stay home as well. It did Bailey no good. Luke didn’t care if we celebrated or not.

They say she lived long enough to call 911. They say her ribs were broken and lungs punctured by the tree limbs and broken glass the sudden windstorm sent through her bay window. Bailey’s final words on the police recording were supposedly, “I’m sorry.”

I never thought Josh and I would talk after that night on the curb so long ago, but we became friends out of necessity. The rest of the school thought the connections between the deaths were all an urban legend created by the bullies to keep younger kids in check. If they’d bothered to pay attention, they would have realized Josh and I never spoke of it—only others did. And whenever it was mentioned, our eyes showed nothing but fear.

Fear won’t keep you alive though.

Far from any type of perceived danger, Josh spent the next Halloween night in his basement rec room, playing Nintendo and trying desperately to busy his mind and calm his nerves. We called each other every hour on the hour to check in. When the sacks were full of candy and the street’s porch lights were all off, we thought we were in the clear. We presumed Luke only came back during the hours of Trick-or-Treating.

We were wrong.

I never heard anyone explain why the ceiling fan was even turned on in October, but it was. It was still going when the cops arrived, wobbling off center with a missing blade. No one ever said if it had a crack or loose screws, never explained how the fan blade broke free. They only talked about the decapitation my mother claims was pure gossip.

Four funerals in four years…

It’s Halloween again. The last year has sucked. This is not what sixteen should feel like. I’ve been completely pushed out of any and all cliques at school. I don’t have one single person I can call a friend. People are afraid to associate with me. They know I’m the last one. They know what I know—when I’m gone, the Halloween deaths will stop.

My mom doesn’t believe any of it though. She says there was a logical reason for each of them and the dates are just coincidence. While others call it a town curse, she smiles and reassures me there is no such thing. I thought she just said it to make me relax, but she believes it enough to have gone out with Cheryl tonight. Tonight of all nights.

AMC is playing a horror movie marathon but the television is only on as a distraction, background noise. I’m not paying attention to it at all. I’m babysitting Cheryl’s six-year-old, like some kind of karmic punishment, and watching the clock. Mom should be home any minute. It’s five to midnight and little Riley’s sugar high has crashed her into a crumbled heap of sleeping princess on the couch.

Five minutes. I just have to wait five minutes and I think I’ll be in the clear. At midnight, it won’t technically be Halloween anymore.

Except someone knocked on the door a minute ago.

The front light has been off since mom left, hours ago. But the streetlight is just strong enough to illuminate the porch. Through the curtains I can see a Dracula costume and pumpkin candy bucket. A pale hand reaches up and knocks again. Harder this time.

Four minutes. I stare at the grandfather clock in the dining room, willing it to tick faster. Headlights relax my jaw as I see mom’s car round the corner.

“Sarah.” The whisper comes from behind me and I spin to see Luke standing over Riley, his wooden stake prop raised high over his head.

“No!” I try to lunge for him but am frozen in place.

The ticking from the dining room is the only sound I hear. Time slows as I watch the stake come down. The pink of her princess costume slowly change to red as the puddle spreads. I hear myself scream as I regain control of my legs and run to the couch, grasping at the air where Luke stood.

I don’t even realize I’m crying as I look down at Riley, her eyes wide in silent shock. I don’t hear the front door slam open, or feel the hands that pull me away from Riley’s still form.

Later they’ll say it was me they saw in the window. They’ll claim it was fear and superstition and guilt. They’ll know the truth, but they’ll never accept it.

They’re too old to believe in ghosts.

Kelli Owen is the author of more than a dozen books, including the novels Teeth and Floaters, and fan-favorite apocalyptic novella Waiting Out Winter, and the Wilted Lily Series. Her fiction spans the genres from thrillers to psychological horror, with an occasional bloodbath, and an even rarer happy ending. She was an editor and reviewer for over a decade, and has attended countless writing conventions, participated on dozens of panels, and spoken at the CIA Headquarters in Langley, VA regarding both her writing and the field in general. Visit her website for more information.

Teeth

All myths have a kernel of truth. The truth is: vampires are real.

They’ve always been here, but only came out of hiding in the last century. They are not what Hollywood would have you believe. They are not what is written in lore or whispered by the superstitious.

They look and act like humans. They live and love and die like humans. Puberty is just a bit more stressful for those with the recessive gene. And while some teenagers worry about high school, others dread their next set of teeth.

Vampires are real, but in a social climate still struggling to accept that truth, do teeth alone make them monsters?

Wilted Lily 1: Wilted Lilies

It’s not that Lily May Holloway is a broken, battered teenager recently escaped from her kidnapper. 

It’s not that she may or may not have killed him to escape. 

The question on Detective Travis Butler’s mind is — what exactly does the death of little Tommy Jenkins have to do with her kidnapper? 

And why does the man behind the one-way glass want the detective to entertain Lily’s tales of speaking to the dead… and being able to hear the thoughts of the living?

Wilted Lily 2: Passages

Lily May Holloway can hear the thoughts of the living, and speak to the dead. She’s done so since she was little, and been shunned for it.

As a new student at McMillan Hall, a private school with other teens who possess a variety of psychic gifts, she finds she isn’t necessarily unique. Or safe.

Acceptance is no longer her only concern. 

Staying alive is.

Passages, book 2 of the Wilted Lily series, picks up where Wilted Lilies left off…

Left for Dead/Fall from Grace

LEFT FOR DEAD

When Susan’s 8-year-old daughter is brutally attacked, she becomes consumed by her need for revenge but mere punishment is not enough. Susan learns that sometimes those being given the lessons are not those doing the learning.

FALL FROM GRACE

Grace has spent seven years adjusting to the tragedies of her youth. She has become a smart, sexy, complex teenager, who is nothing short of dangerous, as she teeters on the edge of the abyss and smiles at the monsters inside.

Halloween Extravaganza: C.R. Richards: My Most Bone-Chilling Halloween Adventure Yet

megHan

Spooky adventures are a must in October. I want to be scared during the spooky season, so as soon as I feel the chill of Fall in the air, I’m looking for scary fun. Forget haunted houses and corn mazes. Halloween is the perfect time for Ghost Tours.

I love paranormal adventures. Booking a ghost tour or hunt is part of my itinerary when visiting a new city. I’ve roamed the cobblestone streets of Alexandria, Virginia in hopes of catching a glimpse of some revolutionary war era residents. And I’ve wandered the suffocating graveyards in the August heat of New Orleans. The gardens of the Alamo in San Antonio subdued my mood as I searched for the ghostly defenders still wandering the grounds and hotels close by. None of these experiences, however, rattled me like the tour I took in my own hometown.

Denver Botanic Garden’s Colorful Past

Denver Botanic Gardens has two spectacular locations: Cheesman Park Neighborhood close to historic Downtown Denver and a newer garden in Littleton, Colorado located near Chatfield State Park. It is the 23-acre park located on York Street in Denver that draws the ghost loving crowd like me. The grounds of garden and its surrounding neighborhood don’t always fall into a peaceful sleep at night. Restless spirits roam among the moonlit trees or cause quiet mischief within the historic buildings located about the grounds. Why? What caused these souls to leave the peace of a long-forgotten grave?

The lush gardens and surrounding parks were once the site of Mount Prospect Cemetery. Denver Botanic Gardens and Cheesman Park were built on a cemetery. In the late 1890s, Congress approved a new park system to be developed on the site. There was a little matter of 5000 graves. They had to be moved before the run-down cemetery could be transformed. Denver gave the families of the deceased buried in Mount Prospect 90 days to move their loved ones. Several years passed, and only 700 graves had been moved.

Enter infamous undertaker, E.P. McGovern. The city paid McGovern $1.90 per coffin to respectfully move the graves, but greed knows no shame. McGovern hatched a scheme to make more money. He dismembered the bodies and scattered them into multiple coffins to make more money. City officials discovered the plot after McGovern had removed a fraction of the graves (roughly 1000 of the 5000 entombed there). Rather than continuing on with another contractor, the city simply pulled the remaining headstones and began building Cheesman Park and Denver Botanic Gardens. Officials estimate about 3000 graves remained. Bodies have continued to be found as late as 2010.

The disrespect of the dead has caused stirrings in the paranormal realm.

Ghosts in The Gardens

The York Street Gardens decided to embrace rumors of ghostly night strollers. They offer very limited Ghost Tours over two weekends in October. It took me several years to score tickets (Yes. The Tours are that popular). It was worth the wait.

Our tour guide was a former York Street Security Guard who’d seen his share of unexplained things happening after the gates shut at night. He led us through places in the garden’s buildings and conservatories that guest usually don’t see. Each spot we stopped had its own story of unexplained events. We passed broken elevator doors said to open on their own. Phantom workers haunted the greenhouse, still taking care of the plants.

Out in the gardens under the stars, we walked along paths lined with beautiful foliage I’d marveled at for years. Then I discovered a popular and well-traveled path was once the primary road workers used to cart the dead for burial. And the underground parking garage’s – which has always given me the creeps – construction had been halted because they found unmarked graves which had to be moved.

I’ll never look at the gardens the same again. Tales of the “Pest House” where sick people were left to die and the Robert C. Campbell House, however, put the biggest fright into me. I felt the heavy shadow of the sinister as soon as I stepped inside. Our guide seemed nervous as he told us some of the strange things that happened inside the house at night.

I don’t want to tell you too much, because part of the tour’s fun is the surprise of finding things out while you’re there…in the dark. Sometimes the scariest adventures are the ones we have in our own backyard.

C.R. Richards’ literary career began when she interned as a part-time columnist for a small entertainment newspaper. She wore several hats: food critic, entertainment reviewer, and cranky editor. A co-author of horror and urban fantasy novels, her first solo fiction project – The Mutant Casebook Series – was published by Whiskey Creek Press in 2013. Phantom Harvest (Book One in the series) is the winner of the 2014 EPIC eBook Awards for Fantasy Fiction. Cynthia is an active member of the Horror Writers Association, EPIC, and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. For more information about her books, visit her website.

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Heart of the Warrior 1: The Lords of Valdeon

A new series from award winning Author, C.R. Richards: The epic tale of two men begins. The first – a man of honor trying desperately to turn his country from civil war. The other – a boy struggling to discover his destiny before agents of evil find him first.

Coveted by two ancient enemies of a long forgotten age, the continent of Andara holds the key to victory in an endless struggle for dominance. Eight hundred years have passed since the god-like Jalora struck a bargain with the first King of Valdeon. The Lion Ring, symbol of the covenant and conduit of power, gives its bearer incredible abilities. The ring’s borrowed magic protects the people of Andara from covetous evil, but there is a price. As with most predators, the Lion Ring must feed. Only the blood of the D’Antoiné family line will satisfy its hunger.

A rival for Andara’s treasures, the Sarcion has waited impatiently for its time upon the land. Whispers of treason in the right ear aid its treachery. The King of Valdeon mysteriously disappears, leaving his lands in danger of a civil war by the hand of a murderous usurper. His Lion Ring is lost and the covenant is broken. The Jalora’s power begins to seep away from the land. Evil’s foot hold grows stronger. Can the Lords of Valdeon, Sacred Guard of the covenant, stop the tides of war? Or will Andara fall into chaos? The future rests in the blood of a boy…

Heart of the Warrior 2: The Obsidian Gates

A new series from award winning Author, C.R. Richards: The epic tale continues. A new covenant has been forged in the chaos of war. Its price is nothing less than the Bearer of the Lion Ring’s soul.

The rivalry for dominance over the continent of Andara has taken a dark turn. Eternal enemies – the Jalora and the Sarcion – pit their forces against one another in bloody battle. Good weakens, betrayed by the very humans it has sworn to protect. Valdeon, its stronghold on Andara, falls to sword and flame. The fires of its destruction are set alight by barbaric invaders from across the sea. Their brutal hand conquers the land in a night, exiling the Lords of Valdeon – Sacred Guard of the Covenant. Cut off from the center of their power, the Jalora’s greatest heroes are helpless to defend their homeland. 

Hope still lingers. Seth D’Antoiné, Bearer of the Lion Ring, journeys to the great Obsidian Citadel seeking a magical relic, the Book of Ancients. Its power could hold the key to Andara’s defense. He alone can open its pages, sparking the magic into life and restoring the Jalora’s waning power. Finding the book won’t be easy. Elusive Obsidian Gates – appearing and then vanishing again by their own will – keep the secret of the book’s location well hidden.

In the depths of the mountain fortress, he finds treachery and intrigue hiding within its walls. Can Seth open the Book of Ancients before the Sarcion’s men find him? Or will the power of Good leave the land forever? Andara’s future awaits behind the Obsidian Gates…

Heart of the Warrior 3: Creed of the Guardian

Protect the Innocent. Punish the Guilty.

Seth the Ice Lion, now an Apprentice in the Jalora Legion, reluctantly travels aboard ship with his new battalion. Western Beta’s mission seems a dull assignment. Guarding miles of bogs and old ruins should be a simple task, but Seth soon learns nothing is easy for the Bearer of the Lion Ring. The Jalora is the embodiment of Good and the source of Seth’s power. It commands he search North Marsh for a relic capable of saving his homeland from the ravenous appetite of the Jackal invaders. Surrounded by deadly bogs and savage beasts, he must find the relic before the Lion Spirit inside of him takes control of their shared body.

Invaders from across the sea hold a firm grip on Valdeon, but their thirst for blood remains unsated. They lust for the riches of Andara. Using fear and greed as weapons, the Jackal enlist aid from the continent’s unscrupulous mercenaries to prepare for a larger invasion. They build a stronghold – Stone Fang Fortress – in the Bloodtooth Mountains of the north. It is here they prepare to conquer the free world.

Will Seth find this powerful relic before the Jackal swarm invades Andara? Or will his people be enslaved under the iron fist of the Jackal Lord? Seth’s answers hide in the deadly bogs of North Marsh… 

Halloween Extravaganza: John Linwood Grant: The True Roots of Halloween

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Let us be blunt about this. Despite the ubiquitous nature of the pumpkin and its gaudy symbology towards the end of October, all serious folklorists and horror fans know that these orange monstrosities are latecomers to the game. Oh yes, pumpkins flutter their leaves and tendrils, and they puff out their big ribbed bodies, but it’s just show – for they know that the turnip, often recognised as the spirit-animal of Northern England, Scotland and Ireland, is the genuine symbol of All Hallows.

Swede, rutabaga, turnip, neep, tumshie* – we don’t mind what you call it. For centuries, bold Northerners have torn their fingernails, skinned their knuckles and stabbed themselves in the leg trying to carve through rock-hard turnip flesh in order to make something resembling a diseased head with holes in it. Some folk may even have died in the process, which takes at least seventeen times longer than it does to hollow out a pumpkin. And at the end, we have stood there on Halloween, our turnip lanterns in our hands, and said “Oh look, it’s gone out again.”

Why do we do this? Because we honour the turning year through such effort. Exhausting ourselves in order to dominate that deeply-resistant root, we celebrate the aspect of humanity which keeps us watching a TV show in the hope that it might get slightly better later in the season; which makes us try some recipes yet again in case they aren’t quite as horrible as they were the first five times. A bold, optimistic, indomitable quality. Or stupidity, possibly.

We also do it because our ancestors did it. Across Northern Europe, simple peasant folk proved just how simple they were by selecting a vegetable that was a bugger to chop up, never mind hollow out, and inventing the turnip lantern. In such lanterns, we evoke the lights over the marshes, the flicker through the woods, and the gleam of the hostile stars. We remind ourselves of the skulls of our enemies, had our enemies’ heads been hacked off and filled with cheap candles. We bring to mind the wisdom of our ancestors, their wrinkled faces staring down at their hapless descendants and wondering why we didn’t just go and buy a pumpkin.

As far as horror is concerned, we wave our turnip lanterns high to ward off the unwanted departed – and more malevolent spirits – when the barriers between the living and dead are thin – All Hallows’ Eve. The turnip samhnag, or torch, is cutting edge. You can forget your crucifix, cold iron, garlic or silver bullets – nothing averts evil better than a badly-carved turnip on a piece of string.

“Blimey” say the witches, ghouls, spectres and wights. “If they’re tough enough to carve a turnip, best not mess with them! Let’s go beat up those softies who could only manage a pumpkin.”

So this Halloween, get out your box of sticking plasters and tourniquets, your electric drill, and the number of your nearest emergency clinic, and honour the past. This year, abandon your pumpkin and let your turnip stand proud!

* Calling someone a tumshie means that they’re foolish, ill-adivsed or dim – contracted from the expression “tumshie-heid” meaning “turnip-head.”

Hop-Tu-Naa is Isle of Man version of Halloween.

And if you think turnips are a laughing matter, you should pay heed to large, slightly psychotic ponies…

Mr Bubbles in Love

A heart-warming tale of romance by J. Linseed Grant

No one was actually dead. The police and ambulance crews had dragged the badly-injured walking party well away from the scene of crime, and were in the process of counting limbs, many of which were still attached. Thick spatters of blood, now congealing under the midday sun, decorated the hedgerows; someone’s ear hung off a yew tree. It had a nice ear-ring in it – the ear, not the tree.

“It’s a public footpath,” said Sandra, frowning as she fished a torn woolly hat out of the horse trough. The hat, almost bitten through, had an animal welfare badge on it. Sandra wondered if that was what writers called irony.

“They looked at my turnip.” A crimson fire danced in the pony’s great eyes.

“They had a right to be there.”

Mr Bubbles moved his weight uneasily from hoof to hoof. “They still looked at my turnip.”

“They were passing by! They’re on a walking tour.” She noticed two policewoman trying to construct temporary stretchers out of runner-bean poles. “Well, they were on a walking tour.”

The pony glared at the nearest whimpering rambler, and he rolled a large, mottled root vegetable lovingly back into the shade of the barn. He sighed, admiring the plump curves of the vegetable’s sides, the almost coy blush of purple near the top…

“MY turnip,” muttered Mr Bubbles – who understood priorities in life.

John Linwood Grant is a pro writer/editor from Yorkshire in the UK, with some forty plus stories published in a wide range of magazines and anthologies over the last three years, including Lackington’s Magazine, Vasterien, Weirdbook, Space & Time, and others. His story “His Heart Shall Speak No More” was picked for this year’s Best New Horror, his “The Jessamine Touch” was in the Lambda award winning anthology His Seed, and the expanded edition of his short story collection, A Persistence of Gerandiums, came out from Ulthar Press this February. His latest novel The Assassin’s Coin is available from IFD. He is also editor of Occult Detective Magazine and various anthologies, including the recent Hell’s Empire. News of his projects can be found on his popular website, which explores weird fiction and weird art.

A Persistence of Geraniums & Other Worrying Tales

Enter a world where the psychic, the alienist and the assassin carry out their strange duties whilst quiet tragedies unfold. These are tales of murder, madness and the supernatural in an Edwardian England never quite what it seems. From rural Yorkshire to the heart of the City, death is on the air, and no one can sense it better than Mr Dry, the Deptford Assassin. On the cursed shores of Suffolk, an army widow loads her husband’s revolver; in a small village, a vicar and his wife hear a tale which challenges their beliefs. The monstrous acts of a young gentleman are brought to an end by unlikely allies, whilst a deluded killer almost escapes the courts, only to discover another kind of justice. And if you want to know why a pale dog waits patiently in a London terrace, the true fate of the Whitechapel murderer, or simply the value of geraniums to one woman, then come inside… The first ever collection of Tales of the Last Edwardian, from John Linwood Grant.

Sherlock Holmes: The Science of Deduction 4: A Study in Grey

“You are no John Watson, Captain Blake.”

“Indeed not. He is courageous, steadfast, and many other noble things. I have no d-d-delusions about my own character. I lie, p-p-perjure myself, and deceive d-d-decent folk. In the last week alone I’ve killed a man with the revolver you saw, and p-p-probably sent at least one other to the gallows.”

The Edwardian Era has begun its rot into modernity, exchanging all the virtues of Dr. John H. Watson for the vices of Captain Redvers Blake. But a case from Watson’s era resurges in the present, ensnaring a high official in what may be a ring of German spies. Not any mere ring of bombs and petrol, but a ring of spiritualism and séances.

The former case was one of Holmes’ failures. Despite an illustrious employer, despite Holmes’ warnings, and despite a vengeful fire, a young woman married a monster and slipped beyond the Great Detective’s ken. Now, she returns to his notice, hostess to the seance ring.

As England prepares for war, Sherlock Holmes and Captain Redvers Blake must solve these two entwined cases at once. 

All this, to say nothing of 427 Cheyne Walk’s new residents and their role…

13 Miller’s Court 2: The Assassin’s Coin

She is Catherine Weatherhead, and she is Madame Rostov. She will lie, though not with malice. She will deceive, though often with good cause. And she will change the course of history, for murder speaks to her. In Whitechapel, all talk is of Jack the Ripper, but there is another killer in play, and he most definitely has a name. Mr Edwin Dry, the Deptford Assassin. The truth is not what you believe. It is what he makes it.

Although THE ASSASSIN’S COIN is a standalone story, it is also a companion novel to the Jack the Ripper Victims Series novel, THE PROSTITUTE’S PRICE, by Alan M. Clark. The gain a broader experience of each novel, read both.