Tag: Halloween

Halloween Extravaganza: Edmund Stone: STORY: Blackjacks Revenge

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Blackjack’s Revenge

I’ve always thought Halloween droll. A holiday for children and way beneath a man like me, a college professor with a master’s degree. But here I am, picking out a pumpkin to carve from the local farmer’s market. I came with my trusted friend, Bojangles. All twenty pounds of the best little Jack Russell Terrier a man could own.

This small New England town is full of charm and since I’m new to this block, I thought it a good idea to blend in. Some of the displays people put on their front porches would be better suited for Better Homes and Gardens magazine. They really get into Halloween here. Even though I despise the holiday, I don’t want a good egging or toilet paper draped around my house. So, why not?

I peruse through the selection, while the smell of hot apple cider and fresh baked donuts prick my nose. Bojangles pulls at his leash, trying to veer me in the direction of the heavenly aroma. But I persist with my hunt. I can’t find the one I like. I want it to be right. A pumpkin to say, “Hello, I’ve arrived people!” The bigger and gaudier, the better. I’ll decorate smaller pumpkins and gourds around it. It’ll look like Halloween meets harvest moon. I should get some good nods around the neighborhood.

A farmer spots me and jumps out of his lawn chair, nearly tipping it backwards. He’s the typical bumpkin with bib overalls, chewing on a toothpick or piece of straw. I notice his hat has a logo; McCormick’s farm. He puts a grubby hand out but I only smile. He looks down at his hand, seeming a bit confused, then tucks it away in his pocket.

“Mawnin’, young fella! Can I help you find somethin’?” he says in a Yankee accent.

“Yes. I think I’ll take about twenty gourds. I need lots of them for the porch I have.”

“I got all yaw need. What about punkins? Can’t have a good porch decoration without a nice punkin.”

I look around his display but find nothing large enough to suit my needs. Then, just beyond his cart, I see it! The one I’m looking for. It’s large, with nodules adorning it. They look like warts. It’s a witch pumpkin. Perfect!

“I’ll take that one!” I say, pointing behind the man.

“Which one?” the man says, turning to look over his shoulder. His eyes widen. “Why, I’m not sure where that come from. Maude? You know anything about the warty punkin over there?” he says to an old woman in a rocking chair close by.

“Billy left it this mawnin’, brought a whole wagon of ‘em. That’s the last one, fer now. Said he’d bring more tommaw mawnin’” she said, never lifting her head.

“Hmm, musta come from the patch over next to the cemetery,” he says, taking off his hat and scratching his head. “Well then, fella. Looks like you got yerself a nice punkin!”

I bid the farmer farewell, as he finishes loading my car, then stop for a few of those donuts and some cider. Two for me and one for Bojangles, who yips in appreciation. When I get home, I consider the porch layout before putting the pumpkins and gourds there. I notice my neighbor’s porch and see a fodder shock. Why didn’t I think of that? Oh well, I have more gourds to go around my large pumpkin than they do.

I set everything down and go in the house for a carving knife. As I’m looking through drawers something hits the window. I stop. Then hear it again. Are the kids starting early? I walk over and peek out the front window. Nothing. All I see is the porch with my large pumpkin in the middle. I do notice some of the gourds are out of place, scattered about the porch.

“Hmm, odd. I was sure I put them in tight around the pumpkin,” I say aloud. “Better check.“

I put on my shoes and jacket, then walk onto the porch with Bojangles on my heels. I start to pick up the gourds. While I’m stooped over one hits me on the backside. I turn to see who the culprit is. No one is there. Bojangles is barking furiously at the bottom step.

Damn kids, but, where are they? I pick up one of the gourds and ease down the porch steps. If they want to play, I’ll play. They can’t outsmart me. One of those little pricks is going to eat a gourd.

I ease around the end of the porch, holding the small projectile over my head. I lunge forward, letting the squash fly from my hand.

“Take that, you asshole!” I say. I see no one, except Bojangles running into the yard, after the gourd, barking the whole way. Then, I hear a noise from the front porch. Ah-ha, they doubled back. I run toward it and I’m faced with a bombardment of gourds. Three of them come flying over my head, as I duck for cover. My dog jumps up and grabs one out of the air, as if it were a tennis ball.

“Hey! Get off my porch! I’m going to call your parents!”

I hear no response, only laughter. A strange kind of laughter. It doesn’t sound like a kid. Bojangles barks, as he runs up the steps to the porch. I run close behind him. When I get to the top step, I’m confronted with a sight I can’t believe. The large pumpkin is staring at me. It has dark eyes and a mouth full of yellow teeth. It grins, then produces a gourd from its mouth, spitting it at me. The thing nearly takes my head off!

“The Hell!?” I say, as I jump back, stumbling down the steps, scraping my knee. I land in the grass on my side. Bojangles steps in front of me, his chest swelled, yapping hoarse barks. I look at the pumpkin. Its moving now, rolling toward the steps! It plops down each one and stops at the bottom. The thing considers me with empty black eyes and dripping teeth.

“Blackjack is back!” the large pumpkin calls out.

Then it rolls toward me, chomping. I get to my feet, stumbling backward, falling then getting up again. What the hell is happening? What is this creature? Bojangles makes a surprised yelp as I pick him up. I make a dash for the car, aware its right behind me. I reach into my pocket. The keys! They’re in the house! Along with my cell phone. Damn!

I turn to see the pumpkin opening its large mouth. Damn if the thing isn’t growing! It’s as tall as a man now, at least six feet, and just as wide! It chomps down, as I move behind the car. Its teeth take off the side mirror. The sound of screeching metal and cracking plastic pierces my ears. The big squash rolls around the front of the car. It’s not as fast now but picking up speed, adjusting to its rapid growth. Bojangles is pulling at my arms, frantically barking, trying to break free. I hold on, I won’t let that thing have my dog!

I scan the area, looking for help. No one is on the street. It’s Halloween for God’s sake, you think someone would be out! I must get out of here! I see a bike leaning next to a light pole. It’s a BMX style, only twenty inches tall, much too small for me, but better than trying to outrun this thing. Thankfully, the bike has a basket. I jump on. Putting Bojangles on the front and start to pedal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a kid running toward me.

“Hey, mister! You stole my bike!”

“Run, kid!” I say. The kid looks to the street and seeing the chomping jack-o-lantern rolling toward him, decides to make a run for the bushes. Too late! The thing swallows the kid up to his midsection. He didn’t even have time to scream. Legs dangle from the pumpkin’s mouth. Another chomp, and the kid is gone!

“Blackjack!” it screams.

My, God! What am I going to do! I must get away, but I have no idea where I’m going. I don’t know this town. My only hope is, Blackjack doesn’t either. I look over my shoulder and pedal faster, as the monster is bearing down on me. What is this thing, and why is it chasing me? Is this revenge for hating Halloween?

I furiously rotate my legs, until my feet can no longer stay up with the pedals, so I start to coast. I see cars, coming fast at me. I can’t get to the brake. I’m surely going to die! A car screeches to a halt right in front of me. I swerve into an alleyway, Bojangles is standing in the basket, protesting the insurrection. Blackjack rolls onto the car’s hood, smashing the windshield and getting to the people inside. I keep pedaling, hearing the screams behind me. I want to stop but know I can do nothing to help them. I must keep pedaling!

I emerge from the alley and see a cemetery. The gate looks too small for the creature to enter. I may be safe there. I ride the bike through the entrance. Throwing it down, I quickly close the gate and latch it. In the distance, I hear the creature bellow out, an inhuman cry! Cars are crashing, and people are screaming! I cover my ears. I’m shaking and sweating, trying to catch my breath after the ride. I hold my little dog close for comfort. He’s stopped barking but utters a light growl.

I feel safer now. Looking around the cemetery, I notice the strangest thing, there are vines growing everywhere; pumpkin vines. They snake throughout the ground and into the graves. Then I see where they are coming from. There’s a fenced in field next to the cemetery with a sign hanging from the metal lattice. It reads:

McCORMICK FARMS
EXPERIMENTAL CROPS

I raise my hands, letting out an exasperated sigh. I should have known those country bumpkins had something to do with this. Monsanto probably paid them to grow this stupid stuff!

I notice the pumpkins growing on the vines have lumpy protrusions all over them. Just like my pumpkin! Many of the vines growing into the graves have been picked clean. One I notice especially. Its growing into a grave, the earth looking recently disturbed. It has an ominous grave marker that says:

Here Lies the Body of Jack Burton
Better known as Blackjack Burton
The deadliest pirate and outlaw in
New England

Blackjack? No, that’s not possible. How could a GMO pumpkin take on the personality of a dead pirate? This is insane! Then I see something to help verify my suspicions. A bunching of vines growing over a post. This doesn’t seem out of place, but on closer inspection, I see it’s no post at all. It’s a man in a uniform. He’s covered with vines up to his neck and his expression is one of pure terror. His mouth is open, and vines are growing into it and down his throat. I turn away, starting to wretch, but then gather myself. Part of his outfit is showing through the vines. It’s his name tag. It says, Bill.

“Well, Billy, I guess you’re not bringing the next shipment in the morning after all,” I say to him.

A thought strikes me, what about the other pumpkins? Who will be the unwitting sap to get one, and will they be targeted also? I must do something! But what? Fumbling through my pocket, I find a box of matches. The one I was going to light the jack-o-lantern with. I’ll burn the whole patch, then no one will get an evil squash!

I sit Bojangles on the ground and go to the edge of the fence. I strike one of the matches. A whisper of smoke begins to rise. Its then I feel it, the hot wind, a smell of sulfur behind me. I turn to see Blackjack. He’s larger than before, at least ten feet tall, and just as wide; warts surround his eyes and all along his side. They’re seeping yellow goo! He doesn’t look happy. He blows the flame out before the fire has a chance to spread. His frown turns into a large smile with blood-stained yellow teeth.

“Ha ha ha. Blackjack is back!” he says to me. I jump into the pumpkin patch to take refuge. Bojangles runs ahead of me, disappearing into the brush.

“Brother’s arise!”

I gasp as I see who he’s talking too. The pumpkins in the patch start to move, vines wriggle toward me, taking my arms and holding them. I pull an arm loose, breaking a few. But they quickly regroup and pull me back. In my struggle, I drop the matches onto the grass. All the while Blackjack is getting closer. His mouth in a snarled grin. A large tongue snakes out from between his teeth and licks my face. The irony is not lost on me. I’m about to be eaten by a pie ingredient!

I look to my feet and see the matches. If only I can get free. Blackjack is almost on me. He opens his mouth and I can smell the horrid odor of rotted meat and decaying vegetables. Blood and pieces of flesh are stuck in his teeth. I close my eyes and wait for the worst. Then the brush begins to move, something is coming up quick. Blackjack and the rest of the pumpkin hoard look to the commotion. Like a cannonball emerging from a barrel, Bojangles flies from the undergrowth and attacks Blackjack.

“Good boy, Bojangles!” I say. The pumpkins release me and go for the pup, who is now chewing and burrowing his way into the side of Blackjack. The large pumpkin begins to scream, and the other pumpkins try to lend aid. But Bojangles is too fast. He’s inside Blackjack before they get to him.

Blackjack screams, bouncing erratically from side to side. The pumpkins hesitate, not sure if they should help their leader or stop me. I see my chance and grab the matches. I light one and then the whole box, sending it hurling into the dry underbrush. The wind picks up and the flames begin to fan out through the patch.

The pumpkins scream, as the flames lick at their heads. They begin to explode from the expanding heat, and whatever chemicals they are saturated in, starting a chain reaction. Screams of anguish rise from the patch, as vines wither. I look for Bojangles but don’t see him. Blackjack is tittering back and forth. He opens his mouth as if to say something and out pops an orange covered Jack Russel Terrier. He jumps into my arms. I clean the strings from his eyes and he licks my face in appreciation. The flames rise around us and I feel the heat on my skin.

“C’mon, boy! We have to go!” I say to my pup.

My shoes crunch the dry grass with flames traveling close behind. I hold my breath, shielding Bojangles from the intense heat. We step into the cemetery and I exhale the breath in my lungs. Bojangles is voicing his anger in the form of raspy protest barks. I turn toward the patch to see a large pumpkin bursting from the field, flames surrounding it; mouth open and ready to bite.

“Blackjack is back!”

I turn to run, as Bojangles jumps from my arms, leaping toward Blackjack.

“Bojangles! No!” I scream.

He jumps into the open mouth of the great pumpkin. Blackjack snaps his teeth together and grins.

“Mmm, tasty,” He says, as he laughs.

An October wind picks up, blowing the flames out on Blackjack, but giving fuel to the fire in the field behind him. It chills me to the bone, as he rolls toward me, I’m sure to deal the death blow, just as he did to my pup. Then he stops, looking at me with a pained expression. In the distance, I hear the faint yapping of a small dog.

“Bojangles?”

The little terrier comes bursting out of Blackjack’s eye. The pumpkin screams, rolling and undulating to the side; his eye spewing orange and black liquid. The gargantuan squash lands in the fire and begins to spin, protesting the barrage of heat. But to no avail, he succumbs to the torrid blaze, as pieces of pumpkin burst in every direction.

“I think we can say the pumpkin pie is burnt. Hunh, Bojangles?” I say relieved, as he licks my face. The flames rise high into the dusky Autumn sky. Small sparks fly above them and go out, raining ash below. I sigh and turn to the road. Bojangles is at my feet, yipping and dancing in approval. We walk down the main street through town. My dog begins to bark and growl.

“What is it boy? That old pumpkin won’t bother us anymore.”

Then I see it. People running. A car screeches onto the road and swerves into a pole, knocking it down. An electric line sparks, as it falls across the street. It looks like a large black snake wriggling on the ground. It moves along until it hits the car. I see something rolls out that makes my blood go cold. It’s a warty pumpkin. It’s grinning with blood stained teeth. It hits the electric line and explodes along with the car. Bojangles is barking incessantly. I step back and look around at the houses. There are no pumpkins for decoration anywhere to be seen. I call for Bojangles to jump into my arms. I stroke his fur.

“Oh my, boy. This is going to be a long night.”

Edmund Stone is a writer and poet of horror and fantasy living in a quaint river town in the Ohio Valley. He writes at night, spinning tales of strange worlds and horrifying encounters with the unknown. He lives with his wife, a son, four dogs and a group of mischievous cats. He also has two wonderful daughters, and three granddaughters, who he likes to tell scary stories, then send them home to their parents.

Edmund is an active member of The Write Practice, a member only writer’s forum, where he served as a judge for their Summer contest 2018. Edmund’s poetry is featured in the Horror Zine, Summer 2017 issue and in issue #6 of Jitter by Jitter Press. He has two poems in issue 39, one poem in issue 41, and a story in issue 42, of Siren’s Call ezine. He also has three short stories in separate anthologies, See Through My Eyes by Fantasia Divinity, Year’s Best Body Horror anthology 2017 by Gehenna & Hinnom, and Hell’s Talisman anthology by Schreyer Ink Publishing. Most of these stories can also be read in Hush my Little Baby: A Collection by Edmund Stone.

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Halloween Extravaganza: Matthew C. Woodruff: Embrace Your Weirdness

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I have to get better at organizing these guest posts if I plan to keep the subject “Halloween,” as I noticed that, in my “struggle” to get over a hundred authors involved, that I missed out on a few of these guest posts that I should have posted before Halloween. This is one of them. He talks about the struggle of choosing a costume as an adult, a struggle that I go through as well. Now you have… what? 341 days… to decide.

Embrace Your Weirdness

When I was young I was not allowed to celebrate Halloween. The idea of ghosts, witches and spirits returned from the dead was considered, I kid you not – Satanic. My parents were believers in a very conservative and ancient form of Christianity.

Now as an adult (at least in body) I see Halloween for what it is – a harmless opportunity to take on the alter ego of a favorite character, dead or alive. Outside of Comic Con and Furry Con there is very little opportunity for an adult to embrace their other selves. Halloween gives us the perfect opportunity to not only embrace our weirdness but to fit right in with everyone else.

Last Halloween I dressed as a Day of the Dead character – complete with face paint, top hat and walking cane. There is something oddly liberating in being masked, giving us the illusion of freedom from how we see ourselves and our own limitations.

This year I am yet undecided on how I may dress. The bummer is I have a doctor’s appointment that day so I will be limited as to what I can wear. I will have to reach within myself and pull out a realization of what my inner self wants to be.

Will I be an alien? Maybe, I like aliens but what is the psychology behind wanting to be something as alien as an alien? Will I go Goth? I could, after all, all the books I write are dark – dark humor, dark fiction… or I could transform myself into a monster – a Vampyre, a Zombie, a Werewolf. But am I, inside, any of those things? Pirates, Ninjas and Princesses – to me all those characters are too trite. I’m not any of those either.

Maybe I should stop and take an inventory of myself. I am anxiety-ridden. I am sarcastic. I am funny. I am tired. I am fueled by coffee, doughnuts and cats (I don’t eat the cats). I worry about where I’m going to park. I drink margaritas, when I drink. I count the number of things. I don’t kill bugs. I still do math on my fingers.

Of course, I’ve got it. I will just dress as myself, after all what could be weirder than that?

Whatever or whomever you decide to dress as this year, have a Happy Halloween!

Matthew grew up in upstate New York surrounded by books (and snow). After founding what became the most widely distributed alternative arts and entertainment magazine in upstate NY (based in Albany), Matthew moved to Greenville, FL where he accepted a position on staff at the University of Florida.

His first book, 26 Absurdities of Tragic Proportions, was inspired by his love of the macabre illustrations by artists like Edward Gorey. Selected as a finalist in the American Fiction Awards, 26 Absurdities may be the most unique collection of short stories ever written.

Matthew’s second book, Tales from the Aether, continues in the Dark Humor/Dark Fiction genre and is scheduled to be released November 1, 2019.

Matthew loves to be contacted by fellow authors and readers and can be found on Twitter or Facebook.

26 Absurdities of Tragic Proportions: Unusual & Enjoyable Tales

Awarded Finalist Prize in the 2019 American Fiction Awards ‘Short Stories’ Category by American Book Fest. 

An utterly fascinating collection of short tales inspired by Edward Gorey’s alphabetical illustrations in “The Gashlycrumb Tinies.” These tales capture the essence of dark humor and satire with one tale for each child depicted in Gorey’s most famous illustrations. These tales are all about human behavior, characteristics, chance and choice, and life and death. From mystery to sci-fi from drama to fairy tale and from adventure to gothic, this book has something for everyone.

Tales from the Aether: Extraordinary Tales of Dark Fiction, Dark Humor, & Horror

In this extraordinary collection of ‘dark’ short stories, Matthew C. Woodruff explores the timeless questions of Joy, Fear, Love, Loss, Foreboding and Incomprehension. All set around particular holidays, the characters in these twelve stories experience things we can only imagine. These stories will make the reader stop to wonder if anyone ever really knows those closest to them or even the world around them.

Halloween Extravaganza: Steven Heumann: Halloween Birthday

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The day was April 24th, 1982 and despite the warm spring air and pink blossoms blowing in the breeze, it was Halloween.

That may sound like an impossibility, but to a fresh four-year-old anything is possible.

From as far back as I could remember Halloween always engrossed me, washing over my childhood mind like a bloody waterfall filled with werewolves. Where other kids loved to dress up as Batman or Spider-Man, I loved zombies, mummies, and the macabre pickings of a cloudy Friday the 13th.

For some children, Christmas is the one day of the year that can’t be topped. I get it. Presents are cool. Even back then I understood the superiority of Christmas over Halloween on an empirical level. I couldn’t deny the evidence. But somehow despite the thrill of waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney so I could tear open my gifts, Halloween always trumped it. There’s something about a dark night with a full moon, fall leaves blowing by with a hiss on the wind, that inspired me from my earliest days.

That being the case, I of course couldn’t be bothered to wait until October for Halloween to arrive. If you want to torture a three-year-old just tell them to wait for something. I was no different and so I set my sites on the next best day of the year where I could make demands and have them met.

My birthday.

Ah, turning four. Things would be different. I’d get the respect of my peers in pre-school because of my age and experience; new He-Man toys would be pulled from their packages and find adventure in the backyard; hell, I might even get the much-coveted big-wheel that could skid like the General Lee from Dukes of Hazard.

It was a heady time, to be sure.

But more than all the presents or accolades of my fellow kindergarteners, one thing excited me beyond my childish capacity to comprehend: my parents had agreed to throw me a Halloween-themed birthday party at my grandmother’s house in Bell Gardens California. Having a birthday at Grandma’s would be enough for any soon-to-be four-year-old, but adding Halloween to the mix? Two words came to mind: Epic Party.

Now of course leading up the event I had to make sure everything would be perfect. I designed my own invitations, being sure to use the quality Crayola crayons and not the waxy knock-off pieces of crap that broke easily. My mother helped me spell everything out properly and then, like John Hancock on the Declaration of Independence, I signed my name, taking time to verify that I had written both E’s in the proper direction.

With the invitations ready I now had to come up with the perfect costume. Every self-respecting four-year-old understands the importance if the costume. I mean, can you imagine what a faux pas it would be if I showed up wearing something from Sesame Street? Big Bird was awesome, but no, this required panache. My mom suggested I go as Superman since he was, and still is, my favorite superhero. Even that wouldn’t do. Superman at a Halloween-themed birthday? I might as well pretend it was amateur hour and just buy Oreos instead of making bloody Jack-o-lantern cookies. It would be an embarrassment.

Only one costume would do. It had to be flawless. It had to reinforce the theme and tell everyone I meant business.

It had to be Dracula.

And not just any Dracula. I knew there had to be blood dripping from the fangs and the evil eyes; hair slicked back like Bela Lugosi. I even needed the pale skin so that people would know I represented the undead and thus would trifle with no one. A cape would be needed to round out the ensemble because all self-respecting vampires wore capes. Edward Cullen didn’t exist yet, after all, and in my mind still doesn’t.

The day finally arrived, and like a spoiled bride I prepared for dressing. My demands would be met. Luckily my older brother David, who at almost 13 years old had acquired all the make-up skills of a professional artist of at least two years older than that, began his work on my face. I’m sure my father helped, but as far as I was concerned this was a David/Steven joint. Blood drooled from the edges of my mouth; a painted widows peak came to a point on my forehead; tufts of cotton flared over my ears to give me the proper distinguished look of the aged vampire; and my cape…yes the cape…it was perfection despite being basically a black shawl with little round tufts on the fringes.

Dracula had arrived in all his four-year-old glory. His enemies would fear him. The party patrons would stare in awe.

Grandma went all out creating a homemade Halloween cake with giant ghost candles that I kept for years after. The house was decorated in cobwebs and spooky cutouts of ghouls and skeletons. Everyone from friends to my brothers and sisters had dressed up in appropriate attire, turning this April 24th into a day that would transform all future birthdays into mere shadows of themselves. What presents were given has been lost to time, but now almost 40 years later the sights and smells remain; the thrills of a boy getting his birthday wish.

As we transition into Fall with its dried leaves and dark skies, Halloween calls out like a siren song of gruesome delights and frightening images. Christmas has its fans, to be sure, but the twinkling lights and smells of gingerbread will forever be eclipsed by the full moon, barren trees, and hidden creatures lurking in the shadows.

Halloween will always be triumphant.

Even in April, where four-year-olds find joy in birthday parties filled with ghosts and goblins.

Ready for a good story?

Steve worked in television running his own outdoor adventure program and left it all behind to become a full-time author. With a wife and six kids.

Seriously.

Sound nuts? Well that’s who we’re dealing with here!

Steven Heumann, founder of Super Heumann Creative graduated from the University of Utah with a degree in broadcasting and immediately put it to good use. He began working as a freelance writer for television production house Chadwick Booth and Company and worked his way up to Senior Producer. Working in this position allowed Steve to oversee the creation of a new half-hour program every week, one of the most demanding workloads in television. This gave him the opportunity to write extensively, edit, film, and even host in front of the camera for many years, honing his craft. There are quite literally over 500 individual episodes that bare his mark, along with a dozen documentaries, government projects, and ad campaigns.

Despite his impressive television pedigree, Steve has spent a good portion of his time as an author, writing the contemporary science fiction novel Paper Heroes, as well as the popular Gavin Baller series, and being published in Immortal Works newest Fairy Tale compilation, Of Fae and Fate. He has directed almost a dozen short films, winning numerous international film awards in the process, including Best Screenplay and Best Director.

Steve always says that without a great script you can’t have a great movie, and so he has worked for over a decade to sharpen his writing craft by penning several full-length scripts and prepping them for production. Between his short feature works, full movie manuscripts, and television writing, Steve has produced over one thousand scripts in the past twelve years, with the vast majority of them going into full production. Whether writing, producing, or directing, Steven Heumann has proven himself a force to be reckoned with in the television and film-making worlds.

Gavin Baller 1: The Hunt for the Hollywood Clone

Gavin Baller is the most famous actor in Hollywood. He’s confident, self-absorbed, and hunted by Aliens!

Before he can figure out whether it’s real or a hoax, he first has to escape.

Terrified, confused, and eventually distracted by a beautiful warrior trying to keep him safe, Gavin must become the hero he always pretended to be. With his freedom and life up for grabs, can Gavin survive and return to his celebrity lifestyle? More importantly, will he even want to?

What’s an egotistical actor to do?

Start this amazing journey today!

Gavin Baller 2: Empty Universe

Gavin is in space… and it sucks.

After a chase that started in the Hollywood Hills, everyone’s favorite Academy Award-winning actor finds himself in the cold universe with nothing to do. All he wants is to rescue his best friend and the woman he loves from the clutches of evil aliens, but when the view outside the window never changes, it’s hard to stay motivated. But when a new danger looms that threatens to put Gavin in an intergalactic zoo, he better find his courage fast! 

In this unexpected and hilarious adventure, Gavin’s out of his depth, out of options, and out for revenge… so long as the other zoo animals don’t eat him first. 

Continuing from where The Hunt for the Hollywood Clone left off, you’ll laugh, think, and be surprised at every turn.

Gavin Baller 3: Galactic Kingpin

War closes in.

Gavin isn’t running away anymore.

The search for Abraxas-Mon and his army gets cut off as the team finds themselves cornered on the oldest planet in the galaxy. What they discover there destroys their very understanding of the Commonwealth and the journey they’ve been on since taking Gavin from Earth.

The Perennials are gone.

Abraxas-Mon may already be dead.

Someone has been pulling the strings and is ten steps ahead. Now it’s up to Gavin to stop them.

A Hollywood actor verses the biggest threat in the universe.

Yeah, this is going to end well.

Paper Heroes

Hero. Villain. Stewart Mitchell thinks they’re opposites, but he’s about to be pulled into a conspiracy that will turn him into both. What would you do if your wealthy and reclusive boss offered you the chance to be the greatest modern hero, but you knew it was all a lie? It may seem like the ultimate acting job, but once the charade begins to crumble Stewart discovers there are less destructive ways to weather a mid-life crisis. Can he salvage his life, or will his deception bring ruin down on everyone he cares about? Plus with the FBI hot on his tail, he may be unable to save himself, let alone anyone else. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and Stewart has his foot on the gas. 

Paper Heroes is a contemporary sci-fi novel that mixes politics, technology and heroism, asking whether or not the ends truly justify the means.

Conscious in Wonderland

It’s time for a hit from a cognitive crack pipe. 

When Alice joins her boyfriend’s university experiment in shared consciousness, she discovers a world where thoughts are reality and concepts are smells. Her scientific brain is soon overwhelmed by the presence of other people, some dreaming, others hunting. 

Can she escape, or will her desire for knowledge be crushed beneath the drug-rush from a sea of emotions? 

And that’s before her boyfriend throws his mind into the mix.’

Conscious in Wonderland is a short story that will take you down the rabbit hole like never before, leaving you questioning your perceptions of the world.

Halloween Extravaganza: Mark Steensland: Tricks AND Treats

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Tricks AND Treats

Because my father was an Episcopalian minister, Halloween was never the holiday that Christmas was in our house. This isn’t to say there was anything forbidden about it. We just didn’t celebrate October 31st the way we did December 25th. I made tissue paper ghosts in school. We carved pumpkins. We handed out candy. And I was allowed to go trick-or-treating. But not off the block. My brothers were all much older than I was, so they had either already moved out or were doing their own thing and had no time for holding my hand as I went door to door.

Other kids in the neighborhood were less restricted. Not only were they allowed to go off the block, they were allowed to go into other distant neighborhoods–even across the busy street! And when they came home from those faraway foreign lands, they had pillowcases full of candy. Literally. Pillowcases full of candy.

I was insanely jealous of course. Long after my lunch bag of candy was gone, my friends were still feasting. They got so much candy, in fact, they had to throw some of it away because it got stale.

Then one Halloween I got an idea.

Using some of my father’s old Ace bandages (leftover from his war injury), I wrapped myself up like Claude Rains in The Invisible Mind, put on sunglasses to complete the look, got my paper bag, and went out, knocking on every door up and down the block. When I returned home, I took off the bandages and put on the previous year’s costume: a plastic Wolfman mask. Combined with jeans and a plaid shirt with a furry pillow underneath (for bulk and chest hair), I went out again, knocking on the same doors and gathering another round of treats. Back at home, I stripped off the mask and the plaid shirt, then put on an old flight jacket and cap. Out I went again, face exposed this time, happy to tell anyone who asked I was the Red Baron, hunting for Snoopy. All the neighbors were delighted to see me. I sincerely doubt they were as delighted as I was to see them. Again.

No, I didn’t have a pillowcase full of candy. But I had more than ever before. And for once, that was enough.

Mark Steensland first learned how to scare people at the age of four during a drive-in screening of Rosemary’s Baby. Although he was supposed to be asleep in the back of the family station wagon, he stayed awake, secretly listening. When the doctor on screen announced Rosemary’s due date as June 28th, he sat up and proudly exclaimed, “That’s my birthday!” giving his parents and siblings a shock from which they still have not recovered. Over the years that followed, he became obsessed with Aurora monster models, Dark Shadows, Famous Monsters magazine, and Rod Serling’s Night Gallery. His first professional publication was as a film journalist, in Jim Steranko‘s Prevue magazine. Numerous bylines followed in American Cinematographer, Millimeter and Kamera. As a director, his short films (including Lovecraft’s Pillow, Dead@17, Peekers, The Ugly File, and The Weeping Woman) have played in festivals around the world and earned numerous awards. His novel for young readers, Behind the Bookcase, was published in 2012 by Random House. His novella for adults, The Special, was published in late 2018 and has been made into a feature film. He currently lives in California with his wife and their three children.

Behind the Bookcase

A girl stumbles into a fantastic world in this tale perfect for fans of Coraline, Alice in Wonderland, and The Twilight Zone.

Spending the summer at her grandmother’s house is the last thing Sarah wants to do—especially now that Grandma Winnie has died—but she has no choice. Her parents have to fix the place up before they can sell it, and Sarah and her brother, Billy, have to help. But the tedious work turns into a thrilling mystery when Sarah discovers an unfinished letter her grandmother wrote: Strange things are happening behind the bookcase. . . . 

Sarah’s mother dismisses the letter as one of Grandma Winnie’s crazy stories, but Sarah does some investigating and makes a remarkable discovery: behind the bookcase is a doorway into Scotopia, the land where shadows come from. With a talking cat named Balthazat as her guide, Sarah begins an unforgettable adventure into a world filled with countless dangers. Who can she trust? And can she face her fears, not only in Scotopia, but also back at Grandma Winnie’s house, where more secrets and strange goings-on await her?

The Special

In a house on the edge of town, there is a room. In that room, there is a box. And in that box await pleasures beyond your wildest imagination…

Jerry Harford is fed up. Overworked. Underpaid. And damn near certain his wife is cheating on him. He’s never been one for revenge, but his friend Mike talks him into thinking about JERRY just this once.

Now Jerry can’t get enough of The Special. He’s obsessed, and he wants it all to himself.

Before long, Jerry’s going to learn that pleasure has a price and whoever said “Hell is the truth seen too late” was right … terribly right.

Halloween Extravaganza: Karen Runge: The Mask & the Guise

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As I write this, a long, black velvet dress hangs from the curtain rail here in my studio. It’s vintage, freshly steam-cleaned, and it fits like it was stitched for me. I got it at an antiques store a few weeks ago for almost nothing, knowing it was mine the second I saw it—never mind that I’m going to struggle finding an occasion to wear it. I’ve already named it my Morticia Adams dress, because it has that look: all slink and gothic flair. When I was a kid I wanted to be just like Morticia Adams some day, and that’s one childhood fantasy I’ve never quite grown out of. You might say this is the perfect Halloween dress: straighten my hair, go heavy on the makeup, and I’d be set. But the snag is, the town I currently call home is on the more conservative side of things, and Halloween doesn’t get much love round here. Dress up? I get enough suspicious looks just wearing full black on a random day out. (I’m not even trying to be scary, mister. Seriously. Mwahaha.) So my new favourite ‘never-wear’ dress sits on its hanger where I can admire it from my desk, breezing down my wall, its delicate darkness in full spread.

But I’m not here to talk about dresses. Not exactly. Because whether we’re in a place that celebrates Halloween or not, it isn’t difficult to recognise the joy that it—or any kind of pageantry, really—brings. There’s something thrilling about stepping into the skin of another being. An Other being. A being, surreal or unreal, we would never otherwise dare or dream to imitate. There’s magic in Halloween’s many wild and wonderful flavours. Be what you want, Halloween says. Be a beast. A fairy. An angel. Be a celebrity; a well-known character. Homage or caricature. Your own worst nightmare. Anything goes. While the fun is in the dressing up, the display, there’s also something much deeper going on in disguise: the way we take to it, delight in it. Blondes go for black wigs. Cackling hags hand out candy bars. Cute little kids in zombie masks nag everyone with the question: Am I scary? Am I scary? Am I scary? Halloween gives us permission to delight in fear, and to celebrate fantasy. Here we greet our worst collective nightmares with open smiles. Dracula pours our drinks while we catch up with the our old werewolf friend. Obi-Wan cracks cheesy jokes while Rapunzel regales us with office dramas. The Mummy is asking for horror film recommendations, and Tinkerbell wants to play The Monster Mash. I’ve been to these parties. I’m sure you have, too. Notice anything? We’re all ourselves—and we’re not ourselves. In our costume, we lean into the theatrical, and it sets us free from our usual blanket personas. There’s something very telling about that.

It didn’t all start just as games, though. Look back far enough, and you’ll see Halloween is as much about fear as it is fun. The modern remnant of this shows in how, at this time of year, people who don’t usually ‘like’ horror will revel in a few scary stories along with the rest of us. Traditionally, this is the time when the darker sides of the unknown are explored and celebrated instead of denied. The original pageantry of Samhain (practiced throughout Europe in pre-Christian times) was for people to disguise themselves as the undead. The change of season into darkest Winter, they believed, was a time when the veil between this world and the Underworld was at its thinnest, setting ghosts and ghouls and demons free to roam the streets. If the living wanted to survive the night, they had to dress to fit in. Cue the black robes and death masks, the fake wounds and the black-shadowed eyes. Cue the tradition of preparing sweets for whoever comes knocking—in hope that offering Treats will bribe against being Tricked. This idea of using disguise as a tool for survival isn’t only evident in Paganism—cultures across the world have used some form of dark dress-up at some stage of their history. Representing ourselves as something scarier than what we truly are has always been common practice, in and out of esoteric scopes. We’ve been doing this stuff for over 9000 years, one way or another. Take a look at Ancient Roman war masks, the masks Ancient Azteks used to cover the faces of their beloved dead. Battlefields, ceremonial circles, funerals. Every time we don a mask, we do it to step closer to something we would normally feel too weak, too vulnerable, or too human to approach. Disguise gives us the courage to face the beasts.

Even if we scrub the makeup and ditch the costumes, masks somehow remain an essential part of being human. Every day of our lives, on some level or other, we will pretend to be something we’re not. We’ll fake a mood, we’ll suppress our doubts, we’ll hold ourselves back and hide our thoughts. This is why we smile when we shake someone’s hand for the first time—whether we’re genuinely happy to meet them or not. This is how we are able to tell lies, big and small: From “Thanks, I love it!” all the way up to “It wasn’t me.” By pretending we are someone who acts, thinks or feels as we do not, we pass through society with less fear of negative repercussions. This isn’t necessarily about being a bad person, either. We are social animals, after all, and deep in our primal minds there’s an undying belief that exile might mean death. So we tell our white lies and we pick our sides, and sometimes we fool ourselves and others, and sometimes we don’t. Sometimes that matters, and sometimes it’s just the normal course of daily life. The point is, we’ll do it without thinking. The point is, sometimes we really need our masks.

The flip-side to all this is we might not use our masks only to approach the beast. We might make use of them to be the beast. Studies have shown that when a person’s sense of personal identity is muted, they are far more likely to commit a crime or do something terrible they would never consider as themselves. Think: the anonymity we feel in a crowd. In our cars. What this means in mobs, how this cradles road rage. Think avatars and monikers, and how they enable online bullying. Alter-egos, pseudonyms. How they help people say unspeakable things. On another level: uniforms. There’s a reason why a soldier won’t hesitate to follow orders the way he might if dressed in his favourite jeans. And there’s more than one reason why the hangman never shows his face. Masks make it easier for otherwise good people to do bad things. It’s not so much what we’re capable of as it is what we can make ourselves capable of. The data is there, and it’s terrifying.

Like pretty much anything else in this world, balance is essential. When people tell you something like ‘My whole life is a lie,’ what they’re really saying is their mask is smothering them. They won’t be happy when they say it, either, because beneath all those layers the soul is starting to suffer. The trick in our daily disguise is not to subvert the self so much that anything essential is lost. Wear one mask for too long, and odds are it’ll start sticking itself to your face. The beauty of Halloween, maybe, is it makes wearing a different skin a thing for us to celebrate. It let’s us be genuine about being disingenuous, and—almost paradoxically—offers us this without the stress we find in more covert forms of deception.

As for me, in my tiny, sweet-dream town, I’m bare of Halloween parties, of the thrilling remnants of the Samhain my European ancestors took so seriously. The werewolf currently lives in another city, and Tinkerbell and me haven’t spoken properly in years. But it’s still Halloween, the veil is thin, and I’ve got my Morticia Adams dress looming on the wall. If there’s no occasion to wear it, I might have to make one. Or why worry about being appropriate? A dress, in a way, is its own kind of mask. Especially a dress like that. I might slip it on and do my grocery shop tomorrow. And maybe go for a cappuccino after. Be Morticia for a day, and shamelessly fulfil a childhood dream. Why not? And who cares if the locals stare? It’s not like I’m trying to scare anyone. Seriously. Mwahaha.

Karen Runge is an author and visual artist in South Africa. She is the author of Seven Sins: Stories from Concord Free Press, Seeing Double from Grey Matter Press, and Doll Crimes from Crystal Lake Publishing. Never shy of darker themes in horror fiction, she has been dubbed ‘The Queen of Extreme’ and ‘Princess of Pain’ by various bloggers and book reviewers. Jack Ketchum once said in response to one of her stories, “Karen, you scare me.”

Doll Crimes

‘It’s not that there aren’t good people in the world. It’s that the bad ones are so much easier to find.’

A teen mother raises her daughter on a looping road trip, living hand-to-mouth in motel rest stops and backwater towns, stepping occasionally into the heat and chaos of the surrounding cities. A life without permanence, filled with terrors and joys, their stability is dependent on the strangers—and strange men—they meet along the way. But what is the difference between the love of a mother, and the love of a friend? And in a world with such blurred lines, where money is tight and there’s little outside influence, when does the need to survive slide into something more sinister?

Seeing Double

A trio of expats living in Asia form a tenuous bond based on mutual attraction, sexual obsession and the insatiable desire to experience the deadliest of thrills.

As their relationship matures, the dangerous love triangle in which they’ve become entwined quickly escalates into a series of brutal sexual conquests as they struggle to deal with lives spinning out of control and the debilitating psychological effects of mental and physical abuse.

Known for her distinctive brand of unsettling fiction, author Karen Runge is at the top of the modern horror game in this, her premiere novel. Seeing Double is a beautifully evocative and stunningly dark coming-of-age exploration of human sexuality and the roles of masculinity and feminism, polyamorous relationships, social and psychological isolation, and the humiliation of ultimate betrayal.

Seven Sins: Stories

A mesmerizingly dark imagination fills this collection of seven stories that explore a multitude of sins, both familiar and deadly. Love turns to lust. Crimes escape punishment. The ordinary turns strange. Women take control – or lose it. Blood flows, flesh ripens. And throughout, people, good and bad, find themselves in the inescapable grip of desire. 

Karen Runge’s fresh voice resonates with those of the masters – Atwood, Oates, Mantel, King, and other writers who look bravely into the darkness and write unflinchingly about what they see there. With these disturbing but undeniable stories, Runge makes her dazzling first mark as a writer – one with a brilliant future ahead.