Meghan: Hi Wesley! Welcome BACK to Meghan’s Haunted House of Books. It’s always a pleasure having you on. What is your favorite part of Halloween?
Wesley: I think I like the fact that, for at least one month out of the year, most people get into the “horror spirit” to watch cool movies and decorate and celebrate with little kids. As someone who kind of lives Halloween most of the year, it’s fun to see others join in.
Meghan: Do you get scared easily?
Wesley: Unfortunately. My wife can sneak up on me pretty easily and get me fairly often. Can’t say I’m a fan of it.
Meghan: What is the scariest movie you’ve ever seen and why?
Wesley: The Descent. Claustrophobia is a real bitch for me and that film hits all those nasty little buttons.
Meghan: Which horror movie murder did you find the most disturbing?
Wesley: Uncle Frank from Hellraiser. When he’s torn apart by all the hooks and chains at the end, it’s pretty unsettling, even though it cuts away pretty quickly.
Meghan: Is there a horror movie you refused to watch because the commercials scared you too much?
Wesley: Not that I can think of. I remember trailers for The Evil Dead remake were pretty wild and freaky. It’s a shame the film didn’t live up to the hype.
Meghan: If you got trapped in one scary movie, which would you choose?
Wesley: I guess any Romero zombie film. At least I’d have a fighting chance of getting away pretty easily.
Meghan: If you were stuck as the protagonist in any horror movie, which would you choose?
Wesley: Maybe Ethan Hawke in Daybreakers. I think being a vampire and then reverting back to human would be a very interesting experience.
Meghan: What is your all-time favorite scary monster or creature of the night?
Wesley: I’ve always been a big fan of vampires.
Meghan: What is your favorite Halloween tradition?
Wesley: I don’t really have one, but now that I’m a father, I’m hoping I can create some with my son.
Meghan: What is your favorite horror or Halloween-themed song?
Wesley: There’s a song in a Pinkfong and Baby Shark’s Space Adventure Netflix film called “Those Dry Bones” that I find to be particularly catchy.
Meghan: Which horror novel unsettled you the most?
Wesley: Wrath James White‘s The Resurrectionist. I find the idea of someone being able to kill you and then bring you back to life with zero memory of that happening to you incredibly gnarly.
Meghan: What is the creepiest thing that’s ever happened while you were alone?
Wesley: Agreed with the voices. If they were real or in my head, that’s up to you.
Meghan: Which unsolved mystery fascinates you the most?
Cruel Summer — Melissa Braun is a broken woman. Only wanting what’s best for her family, she’s willing to do whatever it takes to mend her fractured relationship with her abusive boyfriend. In a last ditch effort, she hopes the sun and sand of a much-needed Florida vacation will bring them closer together. Patrick Braun is a demoralized kid. Quiet and sullen, he only wants his mother to see her boyfriend’s crippling torment. After years of silence, he refuses to stand by and let the abuse continue to tear them apart.
Hoyt Rainey is a vile man. Unable to keep his hands to himself, he finally takes his anger one step too far. Only this time, he finds himself on the receiving end of his own punishment. Down and down he goes, plunging deeper into the dark blue abyss of the sea.
Melissa and Patrick finally believe they are safe, the trouble now behind them for good. They are wrong.
Gods never really stay dead-they only lie in wait. And when a beast as old as time discovers Hoyt…he, too, won’t stay gone for long.
The nights grow darker, the water flows colder, and the cruelty of summer lives on.
They Come Mostly at Night — A high class restaurant where the food brings out the worst in its patrons…
A man whose mind won’t stay inside his own body…
A mother and daughter’s trip to a zoo full of dead animals…
An Italian immigrant’s idea of the American Dream ripped from his grasp…
A mysterious woman’s unquenchable hunger for negative energy…
Darkness looms ahead in these eleven short stories from the Splatterpunk Award and Imadjinn Award-Winning author Wesley Southard.
Keep the lights on. It’s a long time before sunrise.
Maybe it’s the death of a loved one…or the petrifying fear of hands around your throat…the dread of rejection…or maybe it’s the black, soulless eyes of a child that shatters your sanity…
Within these pages, delirium reigns supreme. You’ll discover how far a prisoner will go to be with his dying wife, and what lurks between the walls of that Louisiana jailhouse to keep him there. You’ll find out how deep a man can cut himself to dig out the past. You’ll meet a college professor whose fear of flying might be the least of his worries. And you’ll learn how a sister’s love for sweet treats can reunite a broken family…whether they want it or not.
Aliens and lot lizards…disembodied lips…the voice of God Himself…
Thirteen stories and a brand new novella from horror author Wesley Southard.
I was in the reception room of a bar in my local regional airport. The man I was there to interview requested this venue specifically, and my career would implode if I did anything to jeopardize this opportunity. Grungy and old, the room just barely met the classification of “clean” and I opted not to order anything to eat. Ice water was fine.
My interview walked in. I’d seen photographs of him and knew the basics of his appearance, but I found myself surprised by how ordinary he looked. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about his face or his height. It could all accurately be called “average” and nobody would argue that. But that’s what made it weird. This man was nothing even close to average or normal and the only thing I observed about him coming towards me was the way he walked. There was a regal quality to it, a gliding gait that conjured images of the Caesars or Habsburgs.
He held out a hand with a smile and I noted the immaculate manicure and state of his hands. His grasp was warm and firm, but not overly so. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in the grimy chair with no notice of how it would look pressed against his pristine and obviously expensive attire.
“I’m so glad that I have the opportunity to talk to you,” I began.
“Of course,” he smiled back. “I’ve read some of your work and I admire your lean style.”
This man was a fugitive and I wondered for the millionth time since that first correspondence whether I would survive this encounter. He’d contacted me, with a fake name at first, but after several emails back and forth, his real identity came out. Up until the moment he walked into that reception room, I harbored thoughts, and a slight hope, that I was being pranked.
“I’d like to ask you, when I write my piece, do you mind my naming you? Do you mind if I name this location as well? I’m sure it would compromise you, but I can omit certain details.”
“There is no fear in the truth,” he replied lightly. “My name and this location will not compromise me, I promise you. I chose you for this interview, but there is much going on that you know nothing about, and I’ll be keeping it that way. You have access to publications that can tell my story in a way that isn’t a sad, sensational squawking that I so dislike. And you needn’t worry about my focus on you making a turn for the worse. You’re a tool and if you maintain the manners I’ve seen in you thus far, there’s no reason to believe you won’t be getting the story that the rest of your career as a journalist will strive to meet in terms of renown and respect.”
“O-okay,” I stammered. “Well I’d like to start with this meeting place. From what I understand of your usual haunts, particularly those in Baltimore, it’s a few big steps below where you usually like to eat. How did you happen upon this?”
“Make no mistake, I would not eat the food offered in this place, it was simply convenience that brought us here today. As for this general area, well we’re only a two hour drive away from Baltimore and when I liberated myself from my federally imposed confines, I had to make my way back to Baltimore, my home, for a few provisions before I went into total hiding. Being several states away, or even several countries away, is obvious on a level that I find vulgar. I was as safe as a baby in this area, an overlooked town in Eastern Pennsylvania. And this unkempt bar in this small regional airport happens to not have any security cameras aimed towards it.”
“And you’ll be gone from this place before I’m back home, I assume?”
“I’d avoid certain specificities if I were you,” he warned me, his polite tone never wavering.
“Of course, I’m sorry.” He nodded magnanimously.
“Well I have you here, a man of no small amount of celebrity…” I began.
“I detest that word and that categorization,” he interrupted. “I was a man of respect, a man of influence and great education. I’ve been reduced to tabloid fodder and the subject of papers written by little men who consider themselves intellectual titans of the psychiatric field.”
“This fame bothers you?” I asked.
“In the filthy form that it has taken, yes. I prefer to be known for my accomplishments.”
“Forgive me, but I believe that you are known for your accomplishments.” I said.
“I’m known for certain acts that I committed. My time as a consultant with the criminal profilers at the FBI, or my time as one of Baltimore’s most respected psychiatrists, or my extensive experience in the medical field, they’re all lying forgotten in the shadow of the more sensationally-friendly acts that caused the criminal justice system to see fit to lock me away in a dark room for the rest of my natural life being studied by halfwits and made to tolerate the rough rudeness of the staff.”
“Surely you can understand why those acts would supersede your previous accomplishments,” I prodded.
“Of course,” he said, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. The way that he was looking at me made me feel studied…scrutinized…and I was uneasy. “The public at large prefers broad strokes of simplified information, wrung dry of nuance and detail. I am what I did, not what I accomplished.”
“If I may,” I began, “I’d argue that your impressive level of accomplishments and education and sophistication is what made you so ripe for sensationalizing. If an average joe had committed the crimes that you had committed,” I noticed here that his right eye twitched ever so slightly. I redirected. “The things you were accused of,” I corrected. “There would still have been extensive media coverage because of the horrific nature of those actions, but they wouldn’t have been nearly as interesting. There is a long history of people who, erm, commit such acts, and they tend to fit certain molds as you know. They mostly walk around unnoticed. They’re actually extremely normal. But you, you’re an extraordinary character. There’s nothing about you that flies under any sort of radar.”
“Therein lies the fallacy of the techniques of the criminal profilers,” he responded. “Too many factors are too easily dismissed. My extraordinariness, as you call it, was what protected me for so long.”
“May I ask why you did those horrible things?” I knew I was taking a chance. His gaze on me was steady and unwavering and I tried not to fidget or look away from him.
“My house in Baltimore was built in the nineteen twenties. It had beautiful tiling and woodwork, but the plumbing was a disaster. The first plumber that I called in to fix a drainage issue in my basement was two hours late to his appointment and he spit tobacco on my front steps. He claimed that he needed specialized equipment to take care of my problem and that my bill would be double what was promised to me over the phone. I’m happy to pay for services, but I do no appreciate being taken advantage of as a fool. I asked him for his personal card so that I might keep him as a reference for additional services. Two weeks later I served a lovely Loin en Croute with a side of red wine demi-glace to a medical colleague. It was tender and delicious. Of course, I was in need of a new plumber after that, but the next one was clean and efficient and I recommended his work to several people. His name is Davit Sargsyan, and I’m certain he’s still thriving.”
I noticed my mouth was hanging open and I closed it with a snap. He had a Rolodex full of personal cards in his house when it was raided. Many were found to be the cards of missing persons who were never found. These were thought to be among this man’s staggeringly long list of victims.
“’Eat the rude’ was a slogan that became popular with the morbid underbelly of society after your capture,” I said. “Do you think you were providing a service to society? Cleaning up the muck?”
“I wouldn’t put it like that at all,” he said. “Compulsion is a word used frequently when discussing my own brand of mania. I can assure you, the benefit of society was not a main driving force.”
“You’ve been labelled as ‘insane’ and ‘psychotic’ since your capture. How do you feel about that?”
“I’m erudite and have been blessed with a perfect palate, able to distinguish all five tastes with exact accuracy. I’d rather be known for that.”
“Do you want to be divorced entirely from your reputation as a serial killer and cannibal?”
He was very quiet and very still. I thought for a moment that he had even stopped breathing. I started to feel that his good graces were starting to sour and perhaps I wasn’t so safe anymore.
“There are many out there who find my credentials intimidating and the fact that I’ve been labelled a serial killer and cannibal gives them the space to assume superiority over me. That they find my actions deviant and my psyche to be malformed gives them a sick sense of glee. That they see me as merely insane dims the shine of my accomplishments prior to my incarceration. I do not believe that, if I were writing my own life, I would keep those offensive labels from that reputation.”
His voice remained smooth, but I noticed a perturbed note. Yes, I was on thin ice. But if he didn’t want to answer the obvious questions, why sit down for an interview? I asked him and he smiled. There was no warmth to the way the corners of his eyes crinkled and I shivered.
“Your line of questioning is focused on the past. I thought perhaps you’d be interested in the future. All this talk of the past has been hashed and rehashed countless times and is, frankly, boring. Change your focus,” he replied.
“Okay,” I said, taking his bait. “What are your plans for the future? You’re a fugitive right now. The federal government is hunting you, every police force is aware of your escape, and there are even some in law enforcement who feel they have a score to settle with you over the various deaths of police officers over the course of your escape. Do you plan to continue to lay low or do you want to take your…umm…unique way of life somewhere else and live as you did before?”
This time there was amusement in his smile. I’d performed my trick as I was told and my trainer was pleased with me.
“Life is short and although I suspect that I’ve still a great number of years left on this earth, I have no intention to allow my existence to stagnate if I can help it. I cannot get into details with you about my future plans, but I can tell you that I intend to live in a way that pleases me and fulfills my desires. I…”
“Excuse me! Look, I can’t let you monopolize this room if you’re not gonna order any food,” an employee of the bar exploded into the room. He was a tall, balding man who had a red face that wore a scowl of contempt. He looked through me and glared at my interview.
“Listen, pal,” the employee said, pointing to his “MANAGER” badge. “I’ve got a group of Dungeons and Dragons players who want the room and they’re all gonna eat and drink and actually make this fine establishment some money. You gotta go. So get your stuff and get outta here.”
“I’m so sorry,” I began.
“We apologize,” my interview cut me off. “We were nearing the end of our interview anyway. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Yeah, yeah, I said get the hell outta here, ya fruitcake. I’ve got hungry people to feed out there!”
I’d gathered my stuff and was preparing to race to my car and hopefully lose the subject of my interview. The thought of being followed by that doctor terrified me and I questioned why I had agreed to come alone. As I was heading to the door I heard the doctor speaking to the manager.
“It is a unique place you run here and although my time in this place is limited, I may want to return. Do you, by any chance, have a personal card?”
My blood turned cold and I stopped and looked at the two men. The manager rolled his eyes but produced a card case from his shirt pocket and thrust it at the doctor. The doctor received the card, took a long look at the manager, and started walking towards the door.
“Thank you for your time,” he said as he walked past me. I was too stunned to move and instead of trying to beat him to my car, I opted to let him leave first.
I didn’t have much for a story, but I had enough. I had his current location and a vague hint of his future plans. And the name of a possible future victim in the form of a very rude bar manager. It would sell all right, but at what personal cost? He knew where to find me, how to find me and if my story didn’t achieve what he was wanting, perhaps my personal safety was at risk.
I didn’t fancy having to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life, not even for a story. I did my good citizen-duty and informed the authorities before penning my tale, but who knows if it will do any good to save that poor man who was only doing his job. Who knows if any of it will save any countless number of possible victims. He was loose on the world again and from the sound of it, he intended to treat the world as his personal buffet, with us as the entrees.
Boo-graphy: Somer Canon is the Splatterpunk Award nominated author of works such as Killer Chronicles and The Hag Witch of Tripp Creek. When she’s not wreaking havoc in her minivan, she’s avoiding her neighbors and consuming all things horror. She has two sons and more cats than her husband agreed to have.
You’re Mine — Insecure misfit Ioni Davis never thinks she’ll find love in her sleepy West Virginia hometown. Then the tall, fascinating stranger Raber Belliveau transfers to her school.
Their attraction is instant and red-hot. And a shared fascination with witchcraft bonds the young lovers even closer.
But while Ioni is responsibly studying her newfound religion of Wicca, Raber has chosen an altogether…different path.
Soon, Raber’s behavior becomes manipulative. Even abusive. And their love story for the ages is turning into a macabre farce. All Ioni wants to do is get out.
But Raber has discovered a dreadful way to control their relationship. A ritual which hasn’t been attempted in over a century. A spell to unleash a bloodthirsty terror which can never be satisfied.
Ioni finds herself trapped in a struggle for her life and even her free will against a once-trusted lover who has assured her…
YOU’RE MINE
The Hag Witch of Tripp Creek — A NEW HOME: Dawna Temple let herself be moved from the familiarity of Pittsburgh to the wilds of West Virginia, all so her mentally exhausted husband, John, could heal from a breakdown. Struggling with the abrupt change of location, Dawna finds a friend in her neighbor, Suzanne Miller, known to the locals as The Hag Witch of Tripp Creek.
A NEW FRIEND: Dismissing it as hillbilly superstition, Dawna can’t believe the things she hears about her funny and empathetic friend. Suzanne has secrets—dark secrets—and eventually she reveals the truth behind the rumors that earned her the wicked nickname decades earlier.
OLD WOUNDS: Now in possession of the truth, Dawna has conflicting emotions about Suzanne’s past deeds, but when her husband’s well-being takes a downturn, she finds there is no one else to turn to. Will she shun her friend as others have done before? …or can she accept that an act of evil is sometimes necessary for the greater good?
Slaves to Gravity — with Wesley Southard — After waking up in a hospital bed, paralyzed from the waist down, Charlie Snyder had no idea where life would take her. Dejected, broken, and permanently bound to a wheelchair, she believed her life was truly over. That is… until gravity no longer applied.
It started out slow. Floating from room to room. Menial tasks without assistance. When she decided to venture outside and take some real risks with her newfound ability, she rose above her own constraints to reveal a whole new world, and found other damaged individuals just like her to confide in.
But there are other things out there, waiting in the dark. Repulsive, secretive creatures that don’t want Charlie to touch the sky. And they’ll stop at nothing to keep her on the ground.
Meghan: Welcome back, Somer. It’s always a pleasure to have you here during our extended Halloween shenanigans. What is your favorite part of Halloween?
Somer: There’s something about the coziness of the season juxtaposed next to the spooky decorations and scary movies that I just really love. I grew up with a mother and grandmother who LOVED Halloween and I inherited some of that. You snuggle up with those you love, have fun getting scared, eat junk, and hand out candy to kids. What’s not to love?
Meghan: Do you get scared easily?
Somer: I startle easily, but I don’t scare easily.
Meghan: What is the scariest movie you’ve ever seen and why?
Somer: The obvious answer here is a horror movie, but I’ve been watching horror movies my whole life. Like, waaaaaay before I should have been. I’ve seen movies that have gotten to me, disturbed me, and even thrilled me, but honestly, the scariest movie I’ve ever seen was the documentary Food, Inc. THAT’S scary.
Meghan: Which horror movie murder did you find the most disturbing?
Somer: The Korean movie, I Saw the Devil has a death early on that really disturbed me. Not so much the murder itself, although it was awful, but the aftermath of it. It’s a very severe and unrelenting film, but that first murder we see that gets that ball rolling on the rest of the plot is disturbing.
Meghan: Is there a horror movie you refused to watch because the commercials scared you too much?
Somer: Nope.
Meghan: If you got trapped in one scary movie, which would you choose?
Somer: The Mist. Look, you’re not safe in that grocery store, but you can stress eat before the monsters get you.
Meghan: If you were stuck as the protagonist in any horror movie, which would you choose?
Meghan: What is your all-time favorite scary monster or creature of the night?
Somer: Werewolves!
Meghan: What is your favorite Halloween tradition?
Somer: Making a big pot of chili on Trick or Treat night and watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show after the kids go to bed.
Meghan: What is your favorite horror or Halloween-themed song?
Somer: When I was in high school the gift store that I worked at opened a Halloween pop-up. It was so much fun and we played a CD in the store that took famous music that could maybe, possibly be linked to Halloween and my favorite was I’m Your Boogie Man by KC and the Sunshine Band.
Meghan: Which horror novel unsettled you the most?
Meghan: What is the creepiest thing that’s ever happened while you were alone?
Somer: We used to be neighbors with a family that…had problems, I’ll say that. The youngest child, a boy, one night came to my house and said that there was a man in his house who kept trying to get in bed with him and would I please come over and look for the man. I was thirteen at the time and weighed all of ninety pounds but I went over there and looked for a man in this boy’s bed and found nothing. The next day the boy’s mom told me that he was sleepwalking and she thanked me for being so nice and not calling the cops. I was polite and didn’t tell her that I got NO sleep that night because I was terrified that that boy was going to get murdered or kidnapped after I left.
Meghan: Which unsolved mystery fascinates you the most?
Somer: When is Bigfoot going to make her star-making debut?
Meghan: What is the spookiest ghost story that you have ever heard?
Somer: The folk horror tale of Tailypo. I grew up in West Virginia and Tailypo was a story I grew up hearing and it creeps me out to this day. You can find the story on Google. It’s pretty famous in Appalachia.
Meghan: In a zombie apocalypse, what is your weapon of choice?
Somer: Oh that’s optimistic, but I assure you that I’m not surviving the initial wave. By the time we’re at the “survivor” stage of that apocalypse, I’ll be a zombie myself…eating my neighbors.
Meghan: Okay, Summer, let’s have some fun — Would you rather get bitten by a vampire or a werewolf?
Somer: Werewolf! As a woman I’m already on a 28-day cycle.
Meghan: Would you rather fight a zombie apocalypse or an alien invasion?
Somer: Aliens!
Meghan: Would you rather drink zombie juice or eat dead bodies from the graveyard?
Somer: Dead bodies, for sure.
Meghan: Would you rather stay at the Poltergeist house or the Amityville house for a week?
Somer: The Poltergeist House had hot spots, so I think I could find a cozy corner there.
Meghan: Would you rather chew on a bitter melon with chilies or maggot-infested cheese?
Somer: I’m actually curious about Casu martzu, which is a maggot cheese. I mean, I’ll eat both. I’m not picky.
Meghan: Would you rather drink from a witch’s cauldron or lick cotton candy made of spider webs?
Somer: I’ll take my chances with the witch’s cauldron! It might be punch!
Boo-graphy: Somer Canon is the Splatterpunk Award nominated author of works such as Killer Chronicles and The Hag Witch of Tripp Creek. When she’s not wreaking havoc in her minivan, she’s avoiding her neighbors and consuming all things horror. She has two sons and more cats than her husband agreed to have.
You’re Mine — Insecure misfit Ioni Davis never thinks she’ll find love in her sleepy West Virginia hometown. Then the tall, fascinating stranger Raber Belliveau transfers to her school.
Their attraction is instant and red-hot. And a shared fascination with witchcraft bonds the young lovers even closer.
But while Ioni is responsibly studying her newfound religion of Wicca, Raber has chosen an altogether…different path.
Soon, Raber’s behavior becomes manipulative. Even abusive. And their love story for the ages is turning into a macabre farce. All Ioni wants to do is get out.
But Raber has discovered a dreadful way to control their relationship. A ritual which hasn’t been attempted in over a century. A spell to unleash a bloodthirsty terror which can never be satisfied.
Ioni finds herself trapped in a struggle for her life and even her free will against a once-trusted lover who has assured her…
YOU’RE MINE
The Hag Witch of Tripp Creek — A NEW HOME: Dawna Temple let herself be moved from the familiarity of Pittsburgh to the wilds of West Virginia, all so her mentally exhausted husband, John, could heal from a breakdown. Struggling with the abrupt change of location, Dawna finds a friend in her neighbor, Suzanne Miller, known to the locals as The Hag Witch of Tripp Creek.
A NEW FRIEND: Dismissing it as hillbilly superstition, Dawna can’t believe the things she hears about her funny and empathetic friend. Suzanne has secrets—dark secrets—and eventually she reveals the truth behind the rumors that earned her the wicked nickname decades earlier.
OLD WOUNDS: Now in possession of the truth, Dawna has conflicting emotions about Suzanne’s past deeds, but when her husband’s well-being takes a downturn, she finds there is no one else to turn to. Will she shun her friend as others have done before? …or can she accept that an act of evil is sometimes necessary for the greater good?
Slaves to Gravity — with Wesley Southard — After waking up in a hospital bed, paralyzed from the waist down, Charlie Snyder had no idea where life would take her. Dejected, broken, and permanently bound to a wheelchair, she believed her life was truly over. That is… until gravity no longer applied.
It started out slow. Floating from room to room. Menial tasks without assistance. When she decided to venture outside and take some real risks with her newfound ability, she rose above her own constraints to reveal a whole new world, and found other damaged individuals just like her to confide in.
But there are other things out there, waiting in the dark. Repulsive, secretive creatures that don’t want Charlie to touch the sky. And they’ll stop at nothing to keep her on the ground.
It’s that time of year again. Summer has come to an end, the days are getting shorter, and the color orange is starting to saturate our world of capitalistic vice and consumption. There’s pumpkin spice, well, everything and the general cozy feeling that comes with the season, and then we have the people who are annoyed with the deliriously evangelical followers of the autumnal cult of joy. Fall is the favorite season of many, and the favorite punching bag of others. Personally, I’m a big fan of the season and the mood it sets. I haven’t even touched on the best day of the season, in my opinion at least: Halloween.
I sit pretty comfortably in the opinion that Halloween is one of the best holidays. I’m not even close to being alone in that belief. In 2019, almost 70% of Americans celebrated Halloween. It dropped a bit in 2020 and looks like the downward trend may continue this year, thanks to the pandemic. But still, more than half of Americans, pandemic or not, are going to be indulging in the spooky, in the morbid, and in the deliciously decadent delights that horror can give. Children and adults alike love Halloween. Horror fans and otherwise love Halloween. The love of Halloween spans various belief systems and religions. How is this so? Why is Halloween such a hit?
I think that it has a lot to do with the fact that it happens at the end of October, just as fall is getting into full swing. Like Christmas, we start celebrating Halloween before the actual day with trips to pop-up stores for new costumes and goodies for our homes, visiting haunted houses and hay rides, and scary movies play on the television every night. Summer is the season that we spend mostly out of our homes, away on vacations and with school being out, mostly on a relaxed or nonexistent schedule. Fall begins with school going back into session, the return to routine and to the end of the vacation season. We’re home, we’re settling in, we’re getting cozy, and we get to do that as the lush beauty of nature prepares to wow us one last time. In the autumnal season, nature proves that she saves the best for last. The sweet smell of dead leaves and their lovely crunch under our feet as we walk, it romances us. Death woos and charms us. Pumpkins start appearing everywhere, flanked by decorative baskets of chrysanthemums. But alongside that magazine-cover pretty picture, there are skeletons, spiders, black cats, corpses, vampires, bats…all of the ambassadors of the decidedly spooky. And they go together wonderfully. I put a seven-foot werewolf on my front porch, but I’ve also got mums and pumpkins. I put out a small cemetery in my side yard with zombies and skeletons climbing out of the graves, but they’re surrounded by beautiful falling leaves from the large tree. The beauty of nature’s death pairs nicely with the human macabre.
Halloween also has the distinguished position of being a holiday that normally doesn’t come with family obligations. Every season comes with a holiday that carries some sort of requirement that can stress us out. Halloween has no such demand. It stands as one of the special days on the calendar that is set aside purely for fun. Obligations are minimal, usually, and having to eat a big dinner next to your judgmental aunt is still at least a month away. Halloween is so much more casual. I know the history of Halloween and I know the pagan-held beliefs of the day, but it has become a day of laughter, fun, sweets, and ridiculousness. It has a few songs, it has a lot of movies, and it has costumes. Halloween is an absolute delight, and I know that I start looking forward to it every August. I sometimes hold out through September before bringing out my spooky and corny decorations, and sometimes I don’t. But, at the very least, the month of October is dedicated to Halloween in my house. My giant porch werewolf and the many other outdoor decorations pale in comparison to what I have inside of my house. A disassembled skeleton hangs from my dining room chandelier, I drink my coffee from Halloween mugs and have my evening tipple in Halloween glasses. For crying out loud, I have Halloween bedding and bathroom hand towels! I love every stitch of it. All of it.
The U.S. is an enormous country with many different regions and not all of them necessarily have four seasons, and yet, they still celebrate Halloween. I live in Eastern Pennsylvania where we certainly experience the full four seasons, but Halloween is pervasive in this country of ours regardless of whether autumn happens or not. Again, why? I’m not an academic and I have no deep philosophical answer for you. What I do have is my observation, and my knowledge of both your average person and the horror community. Halloween is popular because it’s fun. Being scared is fun. Horror carries a stigma of being sick and taboo, and yet I rarely meet a person who doesn’t have a favorite scary movie. People tell me all the time that they don’t like horror, but they love Halloween. Yes, it’s the day for the horror-lovers, but it’s also the day for the “normies” to take a walk on the spooky side and it turns out, they have just as much fun as us horror folk. It’s fun! That’s not a deep answer, but it is an obvious one, and a truthful one.
So, if you’re like more than half of us and celebrating Halloween, enjoy it. Have the fun. Watch the movies, eat the treats, put up the decorations, and do it with people that enjoy it as much as you. Do a Halloween night recitation of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven” and eat some apple dumplings. But could you do this horror author a favor? Pick up a scary book from an author you’ve never read. Give a smaller name a chance. Ray Bradbury’s The Halloween Tree is a terrific book and everything by Stephen King can be appropriate at this time of year. But there are so many horror authors out there who are putting out works that will surprise you with the imaginative takes and amazing storytelling and it’s a shame to only read the biggest names, or only a few names. Try something new, someone new, and allow yourself to be surprised and delighted. After all, ‘tis the season!
I’ll start you off. I’ll throw some authors at you, and you pick what thrills you most.
If you love monster books, authors Hunter Shea and Mary SanGiovanni write some of the best monster-based fiction out there. Wile E. Young is really climbing the ranks here as well.
If you love a good haunted house book or gothic horror, check out Catherine Cavendish.
If you like it spicy and want your horror a little sexy, check out Sephera Giron and Jessica McHugh. But don’t be fooled by the erotic bent of these works, they are every bit as brutal and horrifying as any other horror book, just with an added bonus.
Do you like horror that doesn’t really fit into a category but can be emotional and somehow beautiful? Robert Ford and John Boden belong on your shelves, then.
Grab a short story collection from a new author. As a reader, I find the best authors out there put together amazing short story collections. Most of the authors I mention here have short story collections in their bibliography. Also, try one of Matt Wildasin’s Horrors Untold volumes. They’re wonderful and varied fun.
I’m barely scratching the surface here, and could spend all day pointing you to terrific authors, but if you start here, and do a little digging of your own, I guarantee you’ll find your new favorite author. Happy Halloween!
Somer Canon lives in Eastern PA with her husband, two sons, and three cats. She loves to read and write and although she is polyamorous when it comes to genres, horror always seems to be her favorite.
Boneyard — Halloween is a night of spooky fun…at least it is for the living. What about the dead? What kind of fun do they have? Read and find out how the no-longer-living entertain themselves at the expense of very much alive and disrespectful people!
A Fresh Start — Still hurting from her divorce, Melissa Caan makes a drastic life change for herself and her two young children by moving them out to a rural home.But the country life came with some extras that she wasn’t counting on. Doors are slamming, she and her children are violently attacked by unseen hands, and her elderly neighbor doesn’t like to talk about the murders that happened in the strangely named hollow all those years ago.Ghost hunters, witches, and a sassy cancer survivor come together to help Melissa fight for the safety of her children and herself.All she wanted was a fresh start, will she get it?
Slaves to Gravity (with Wesley Southard) — After waking up in a hospital bed, paralyzed from the waist down, Charlie Snyder had no idea where life would take her. Dejected, broken, and permanently bound to a wheelchair, she believed her life was truly over. That is…until gravity no longer applied.It started out slow. Floating from room to room. Menial tasks without assistance. When she decided to venture outside and take some real risks with her newfound ability, she rose above her own constraints to reveal a whole new world, and found other damaged individuals just like her to confide in.But there are other things out there, waiting in the dark. Repulsive, secretive creatures that don’t want Charlie to touch the sky. And they’ll stop at nothing to keep her on the ground.
Erika Fisher swore she could still smell fire somewhere nearby. Fire, and charred flesh. In the parking lot of Smith County High, police lights flashed red and blue, making the night look strange and otherworldly. The night of her junior prom needed no help being either. She was seated on a concrete bench, next to the bike rack. A pudgy, baldheaded officer whose badge said his name was Kurtz stood over her, frowning at his notepad and pinching a pen he’d gotten from Greener Pastures Baptist Church. Radio chatter hissed and crackled on his CB.
“And you’ve never seen this guy before?” he asked again. “You’re sure about this?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before.” She let out a grim sigh. “And yes, I’m sure.”
“And he just … what? Waltzed into the auditorium, started dancing with your friend, and then they just … what? Vanished?”
She chewed her lip and stared at her glittery shoes. The police strobes gave the illusion they were burning.
“Vanished is the wrong word,” she said. “It wasn’t … into thin air or anything.”
The corner of his mouth twitched up.
“Right, it was like what? Their feet started a fire and it just consumed them.”
“Look, I know how it sounds. You don’t have to tell me it sounds crazy.”
“You’re sure she and this boy didn’t just run off together and…”
“And now I’m covering for them?”
“You said it, not me.”
“I guess that’s why I’m so upset. Right, Officer?”
“Don’t get smart with me, girl. If I had half a mind, I’d put you away for obstruction of justice.”
She blew out another breath. She tried not to think of Danielle’s face in those final moments. It was contorted in some awful marriage of fear and pain. And that boy, that gorgeous, dark-eyed boy had been grinning so wide, she thought his cheeks might split open and reveal all his teeth.
“Now, is there anything else you can think of? Anything at all you think might help us find your friend and this mystery boy?”
“I’ve told you all I know.” She put her head in her hands but did not close her eyes. She feared if she did, that boy would be standing there when she opened them instead of this cop. Or even Danielle, which would be somehow worse. “Not like you’d believe me anyway.”
“It’s not my job to believe or not believe,” he said, as if he hadn’t been condescending to her the entire time. “I just have to turn in my reports and bust scumbags. Now, are you sure there’s nothing else?”
“There’s nothing else. Does this mean I can go home?”
He pressed his lips together. She thought he meant to admonish her again. Instead, he handed her a business card.
“You think of anything else, you call me. I or a detective may call you if we have additional questions. Your parents picking you up tonight?” Erika nodded. “You better give them a call. Let them know the prom ended early.”
He smirked again walked to a cluster of officers standing in a semicircle.
And he says I’m the smartass.
Erika dug her phone out of her clutch and called her mother.
On the way back, Erika told her mother everything. The woman who hadn’t birthed her but had raised her just the same said nothing, only listened. Dark as it was inside the car, Erika could see her getting paler after every sentence. Erika finished the story and asked what her mother thought. She took so long to answer, Erika thought she might not have heard the question. Before she could repeat it, her mother began to speak.
“That’s almost word-for-word an old Texas folktale,” she said. “Supposedly, in the 1950s or so, a girl about your age was forbidden from going to a dance because a preacher told her mama it was for the devil. Of course, she snuck out anyway and at the dance, she met this gorgeous stranger. He danced with her, spinning her round and round until the earth opened up and sucked her down to Hell. The stranger was the devil.”
“Yeah, but mine really happened,” she said.
Her mother looked at her. Exhaustion had darkened the skin beneath her eyes.
“But you agree the stories are very similar, yes?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, maybe you heard it before and…”
“And what? Imagined the whole thing? Other people were there, Mom. Other people saw it.”
Her mother pressed her lips together. A muscle worked in her jaw.
“I love you, Erika Marie. I just want you to be honest with me. You can tell me anything. I promise.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Erika said and rested her head against the cool window.
She watched the trees go by along the dark country road. She wondered if it was dark where Danielle was.
That night, when she came home, she got undressed and turned off the light. Though she harbored no delusions that she’d be able to sleep, she decided to at least try. She lay down on her bed. Moonlight shone through her window. On most nights, she thought the silver-blue illumination was pretty and comforting. This was not most nights. With her curtains parted, it was all too easy to imagine the mysterious boy levitating up the side of her house and peering through her window with those obsidian eyes of his. Smiling that smile that looked like it’d split open his cheeks.
Erika closed the curtains. The moonlight backlit them. The shadows of the still somewhat bare tree branches danced like skeletons under some bizarre resurrection spell. She expected the shadow of the boy to rise up and join them. To reach through her window and its curtains. To take her dancing, like he’d taken Danielle. She turned onto her side and faced the wall. Her Luke Bryan poster was unrecognizable in the dimness. She felt no safer.
As she lay in bed not sleeping, she remembered meeting Danielle for the first time.
Back in freshman year, Danielle had transferred in after her parents joined the ever-growing ranks of mass shooting victims. Danielle had almost joined those ranks herself. One afternoon, her family had gone to a Sonic for frozen cherry lemonades. While they waited, a man opened fire on every car in the lot. Danielle had managed to escape into the nearby woods with a boy from another vehicle.
He’d lost his parents in the massacre too. Danielle told Erika that she developed an intense attraction to the boy, not like a crush or anything, just an intense need to be around him as much as possible. They’d been through this terrible thing together. They were the only survivors, other than a couple of fry-cooks and a car hop who’d all hidden inside when the killer opened fire. This shared experience had created an intense, psychic bond between them. Danielle worried she would never fully heal from the experience without him. Unfortunately for her, the death of her parents put her in the care of her aunt and uncle who lived in Tyler. She didn’t know where the boy was sent.
“But you seem sweet,” she’d said to Erika.
Erika gave her a hug then, said she was sorry all that horrible stuff had happened.
Even at her young age, Erika found it a little weird for someone to give away such an intense, personal story to a total stranger. More than that though, she felt a responsibility to show love and compassion to the new girl. At that time, she’d already started to question, and in some cases outright reject, the religiosity her mother had attempted to instill. Heaven and Hell, angels, Jonah getting swallowed by a whale and living to talk about it, men rising from the dead; it all felt like fairy tale stuff to her. Metaphors in the best cases. Propaganda in the worst.
What stuck were the tenets of loving strangers and caring for those who suffered.
When she’d given Danielle that hug and expressed regret for the new girl’s family tragedy, she still thought of these behaviors as Christian love in action. Looking back now, it just seemed like basic human decency. Whether divinely-inspired love or secular humanism at its finest, it hadn’t been enough to save Danielle Prescott. That girl had a shadow over her. Maybe the shooting deaths of her parents had brought it. Maybe it was older than that. Whatever its origin, whatever its age, it’d finally caught up to her.
“You believe they’re calling this a regular kidnapping?” Bobby Kirsch said the Monday after.
They were standing behind the same auditorium where it’d happened. School was in session but they’d gone around the side of the building so he could vape while they talked. She was usually careful about not putting herself in situations which could land her in trouble. Today, she didn’t care about suspension or fines. She just needed to share her grief with someone who’d also loved Danielle.
For Erika, the weekend had been weirdly normal. Shopping trips with Mom. Morning jogs. Homework. A lot of denial. She slept probably more than was healthy, but she didn’t care, and Mom let her do it.
Bobby sucked furiously on his vape pen. His face tightened and went red. To Erika, it looked like he just couldn’t get enough of a hit to take him away from whatever he was feeling. He’d dated Danielle a little bit, back in the fall. It hadn’t worked out, but he’d tried more than once to get her back. He’d even threatened to knock out the gorgeous stranger in a jealous rage earlier that night, but Erika had stopped him. She bet he wished he hadn’t listened to her. She sure wished she’d just let him do it. Maybe things would have gone differently.
“They’re acting like that shit we all fucking saw was some kind of mass hysteria.” He took another drag and shook his head as he coughed out a plume of cherry-scented smoke. “That was some devil shit.”
Bobby was still pretty religious, but it didn’t stop him from vaping or talking like a sailor. Erika nodded here and there throughout his tirade. He was saying everything she was feeling. In spite of this, she couldn’t help but tune him out. She couldn’t help feeling like his tough talk was some effort on his part to make this all about him. Maybe she wasn’t being fair. Her mother had offered to let her stay home for a few days. Ultimately, Erika decided it’d be better to be with friends. She probably should’ve taken her mother up on the offer.
School turned out to be every bit the nightmare she’d feared it might be.
During every class, her gaze drifted to the seats where Danielle usually sat. She daydreamed about the strange way her friend had been taken. The awful expression on her face. The grinning stranger who’d made her go up in flames with him. Danielle’s story about the massacre she’d survived with some strange boy. At lunch, she couldn’t eat. Between classes, she tried not to hear the other kids talk about what happened, spinning ridiculous theories, and telling outright lies about what kind of person Danielle had been. They said she was into drugs, sex with older men, and had even known the shooter who’d killed her parents and all those people at the Sonic. None of it was true. All of it pissed Erika off.
When she came home to an empty house, she rushed upstairs and collapsed on her bed. She tried to cry but no tears came. She seldom cried anymore. Some days, she thought she’d run out of tears. Other days, she thought she was saving them for a time she’d really need them. If the latter was true, she couldn’t imagine something that could make her feel worse than how she felt now.
She went to visit Danielle’s Aunt and Uncle after she tried and failed to do her homework. On her way there, she remembered Bobby’s words. Mass hysteria. No wonder that pissed him off. It was an insulting suggestion and unfortunately all too typical when it came to how the locals viewed the young: like lost sheep susceptible to all manner of deception, satanic or otherwise.
She parked her bike in the patchy lawn and walked to the door. As if he’d been watching for her, Danielle’s Uncle Horatio answered before she even had the chance to knock. His steely gaze kept her from coming in. Not only was it intimidating, it caught her off-guard. He’d always been kind to her in the past. Danielle had even said he liked her, so why the cold stare now?
“H-hi, Mr. Prescott,” she said. “I wanted to check in with y’all. Can I come in?”
He narrowed his eyes, and it made his expression even less welcoming.
“Please.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, let the poor girl come in,” Danielle’s Aunt Stella called from further back in the house. “Winter’s not over and she rode all the way over here.”
It was only a mile, but Erika appreciated the sentiment.
Horatio opened the door wider and stepped aside. The house smelled like cinnamon. It made her nostalgic for happier times, even if happy was sometimes a weird way to describe any time spent with Danielle. She did have a light side, of course. Everybody did. For Danielle, it shone most prominently when she and Erika were riding bikes together. Or when she was dancing to X Ambassadors or Walk the Moon. She often looked so radiant when dancing, her end seemed all the more bitter.
Though Horatio didn’t slam the door, it sounded overwhelmingly loud as it closed behind Erika. Stella came out to meet her. Her eyes were dry but red. She wore periwinkle pajamas and her hair was unkempt.
“Erika,” she said, holding out her arms. They felt frail and brittle around Erika. She smelled stuffy and dry, like she’d just gotten out of bed.
They sat down in the living room and Stella put on water for tea. Horatio sat alone on a dusty recliner, scowling at Erika. She and Stella sat on opposite ends of a worn, leather sofa. For almost a minute and a half, no one said anything. Erika licked her lips.
“Um, have you heard anything from the police?” she asked.
“No,” Stella said. “Not a word.”
“Of course not,” Horatio said. “She vanished into thin air.”
He said it with bitter disdain. His scowl deepened.
“That’s not what I said. I said…”
He coughed out a dry laugh. “She went up in flames.”
“Honey…” Stella said.
“I know you’re covering for her. Her and that boy ran off together.”
“I’m not, Mr. Prescott. I’ve never seen that boy in my life. If she planned to run away with a boy, I’d know who he was. We were close.”
“Maybe you two weren’t as close as you think.” He focused his attention on his wife. “Everyone has secrets.”
Stella looked down and away.
“Maybe I should go,” Erika said.
“Maybe you should.”
The tea kettle whistled and broke the tension. Stella bolted up and walked quickly to the kitchen. While she grabbed mugs and saucers, Erika tried to look anywhere but at Horatio. Family photos, a dark TV screen, a painting of Jesus, a framed Texas flag and a shelf of porcelain clowns.
Everyone has secrets. The statement played on repeat in her mind. She knew Danielle had secrets. Those secrets were part of what had made her so intriguing. Every day with her was a revelation.
Stella came back with a tray full of steaming teacups.
“That boy,” she said. “What did he look like?”
Horatio’s cheeks flushed pink.
“He had thick, dark hair, purplish-black, like a raven’s. Dark eyes. He was tall and well-built and very pale. His skin reminded me of the moon.”
“Did he have a scar?” Stella pointed to her left eyebrow.
Erika tried to remember. The lighting hadn’t been great in the auditorium. She closed her eyes and pictured the boy’s face. All she could see was that awful, cheek-splitting smile. She made herself remember his eyes. Above the left one, sure enough, he’d had an X-shaped scar. She nodded.
Stella looked at Horatio. Her eyes were wide and soft.
“It’s him,” she said.
Horatio scoffed.
“Who?” Erika asked, though she had a feeling she knew.
“The boy she wouldn’t stop talking about after…”
“The one who escaped with her.”
Stella slowly shook her head. Horatio pressed his fingers to his temples like he had a mean migraine coming on.
“Erika,” Stella said. “No one but Danielle survived that day.”
Erika rode home, her entire body knotted with tension. Stella’s revelation repeated in her head like a hypnotist’s mantra. When she got back to her room, she called Bobby.
“Erika?” he said.
She understood his uncertainty. Though she’d texted him a couple of times when he and Danielle were dating, she never called him, back then or any other time before now.
“We need to talk,” she said. “Can I come over?”
“Uh, yeah.”
He didn’t live as far as Danielle had, so she walked. When he answered the door, he was holding two bottles of Miller High Life. His parents let him drink, so long as he did so in their house and not out where he could get into trouble. Erika imagined he’d taken full advantage of this freedom over the past few days. He offered a bottle to her. She shook her head. They went inside and sat in the kitchen.
“So, what’s up?” he asked.
She told him. With every sentence, his eyes grew wider. He chugged the first beer and started on the second. When she finished, he shook his head.
“Like I said, some devil shit, man.”
“Maybe. Whoever he is, do you know why he came back to her?”
He took another long pull of beer. Finished nearly half the second bottle in one swallow. Then he got up and went into the other room. He returned with an envelope and tossed it at her. She unsealed it and pulled out its contents. It was a photo. A gray image, the shape of an enlarged lima bean, sat against an all-black background. It was an ultrasound image. She could feel her eyes stretch wide. She met Bobby’s gaze. His bottom lip trembled.
“She couldn’t get an abortion.”
“The baby was yours?”
His face darkened and he nodded.
“You were okay with her getting one?”
He chewed his lip and looked away.
“I mean, not really,” he said. “But … Well, she and I weren’t ready to be parents. We’re just kids. I think … I hope God would understand.”
She thought for a second.
“Is that why you were so aggressive the other night? She was carrying your kid and here was this gorgeous stranger, sweeping her off her feet.”
“Well, yeah. I was feeling … protective. Then you stopped me, and I went to go sulk in the corner, wishing the punch was spiked with something that could make me forget.”
“The police probably think it was.” She shook her head. “Mass hysteria. Pigs.”
“Ah, you don’t have to be like that.”
“Maybe not. I guess I’m still mad about how the one condescended to me.”
“Well, some of them can be pigs. That’s for sure.”
“Especially in this town.”
“Amen, girl.” He finished his second beer. Went to the fridge for a third. “Anyway, no doctor in town would help her. I thought about taking her out of state but neither of us had a license yet. I could’ve borrowed dad’s truck, but honestly, he’d kill me if he found out I knocked up a girl. Especially Danielle. He never liked her.”
“Did her aunt and uncle know? About the baby, I mean.”
“No. She didn’t want them to know. Didn’t think they’d be any help.”
Erika remembered Horatio’s scowl earlier that afternoon. No, she didn’t suppose they would’ve been any help.
“So, what does all this mean?” she asked.
“Like I said, devil shit. He helped her survive that shooting. I bet she asked him to help her out again. Not sure whatever she could’ve offered him though if he already had dibs on her soul.”
“You really believe that.” She didn’t pose it as a question.
“How could I not? They hardwire that shit into you from birth in this town.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s true though.”
“I guess not. Hard to rewire it. Hard as hell.”
“So, the devil took her. That’s that?”
He laughed then but it lacked humor. It was almost a sob. She didn’t think she could handle it if he started crying. Not that she expected to cry herself but still. It’d be too much to see. If she had lost all her tears or was storing them for something that was somehow worse than watching her friend go up in flames, how could he still cry?
“I guess…” He drifted off and tightened his expression. “I guess I like to think he took her somewhere she could free herself. Not just of our child but of this town, even of me. I like to think wherever she is, she’s happy. That she’s somehow made peace with all she’s been through. Most of all, I hope she’s alive and I hope she repents. Maybe if she prays hard enough, her soul…”
He sounded uncertain of himself. She didn’t know if he doubted what he hoped for the mother of his unborn child or if he doubted everything he thought he knew, all the things his parents and preachers and teachers had programmed into his brain since birth.
Erika took Bobby’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and left him to cry into his beer.
She didn’t even bother trying to start her homework. Instead, she sat in her room, staring out the window at the tree. A few more leaves had begun to bud on its branches. Occasionally, she checked Instagram and absently LIKED photos of dogs and good-looking girls. She thought about recording an Insta-story, some kind of tribute to Danielle. But if she did that, she feared it would confirm, once and for all, that her friend was lost forever. Dead, dragged to hell, or simply gone, without a trace, never to return. She wasn’t ready to accept that. Didn’t think she ever would be, even if they found Danielle’s charred remains tomorrow, and had a funeral sometime in the middle of the week. Danielle would live on somehow, someway. Erika was too young for people her age to start dying.
On that note, she realized just how tired she actually was. She texted her mother to say she’d be skipping dinner, and willed herself to dream of Danielle, somewhere else in the country, but safe and happy. At first, she imagined the mystery boy at her friend’s side but then she decided he was best relegated to being no more than a bad dream.
She imagined her friend deciding to keep the baby, but wandering the highways like some cowgirl samurai, drifting town to town and finding odd jobs to keep her and the baby fed and sheltered. It was nice to think about and it helped her sleep, peacefully this time.
Erika got her driver’s license that summer. She went driving a lot, mostly alone. Though Tyler itself was some bizarre marriage of a working-class suburbia and some kind of skyscraperless inner-city, many winding country roads cut through the surrounding rural areas. It was easy to get lost, even with the best GPS technology. She liked to drive aimlessly and while she physically seldom got lost, she often wandered the remote acres of her mind.
She’d finally allowed herself to accept that whether Danielle was dead or alive, she’d likely never see her again. Sometimes, it still made her sad. She often felt a sickening emptiness, but she never cried. She just drove.
She drove these country roads, blasting country music and letting her thoughts run free. She thought of Danielle the wanderer, Danielle the dead girl, Danielle the damned. She thought of Bobby sobbing into a Miller High Life. She thought of the way Horatio Prescott scowled at her. How Stella Prescott smelled stuffy and dry. The condescending smirk of Officer Kurtz. The way everything smelled like fire that night. How she sometimes smelled fire when she walked outside. Or when she was trying to sleep. Or when she was driving.
Like now. At night. Not intoxicated. She never drove drunk. She was one of the few kids in her class on which the fear-mongering, if well-intended, PSAs had worked. Instead, she downed mug after mug of black coffee. She liked to feel it surge through her veins as she rounded sharp curves. As lights from homes appeared scattered far and wide and the stars seemed so multitudinous and close together, they were like seams in a silvery, glowing blanket across the blackness overhead.
She wasn’t drunk, nor was she driving all that much higher than the speed limit, but the unpredictability of the road played no favorites.
The deer jumped out at her just as she rounded a sharp, sloping curve. It leapt into the road with timing so expert, it was as if it had hoped to strike her car. The thumping impact scared Erika so bad, she lost her grip on the wheel. Her tires lost their grip on the road. Her car tumbled down a steep embankment, striking stone and clay and stumps. As the car flipped, an image of Danielle spinning on the dance floor broke through her overwhelming panic and confusion.
Then the car lay still, and she smelled fire and it was there for real this time, all around her, it seemed. Adrenaline blocked out the pain from the rough ride off the road, but it could not dampen her terror, nor would it hold off the agony for long.
She frantically tried to unbuckle her seatbelt, succeeded, but the door wouldn’t open. She screamed and tried to scramble to the passenger side, but she came face to face with the deer. The animal was still alive but mortally wounded. Shards of glass from the windshield had lodged in its throat. Blood had matted his fur. Terror blazed in its eyes. Terror, and the fire’s reflection. It made an awful, wet mewing sound and kicked its hooves against the hood.
Everything was hot, so goddamn impossibly hot.
Erika glanced back to the driver’s window.
The gorgeous stranger from her junior prom crouched there, behind the glass. His dark eyes blazed. He smiled, but it was subdued, a subtle curving of the lips, not the cheek-splitting horror he’d flashed while spinning Danielle to her fiery death. His X-shaped scar looked red and irritated.
He reached for the window with spidery fingers. The glass bent inward and parted. It looked like slow-motion footage of stones thrown into an unmuddied pool. His hand came all the way inside the car. Up to his elbow now, his fingers curled and uncurled, beckoning to Erika.
As her hair began to sizzle and her flesh began to bubble and pain broke through the adrenaline, she remembered how this boy devil had saved Danielle from a gunman in a Sonic parking lot. How he’d spun her into oblivion when, in a fit of desperation, she could find help nowhere else. Would taking his hand damn her soul? Did she care?
Even as her skin burned, even with damnation certain, Erika reached for the boy devil’s hand and let him pull her from the flames of premature death into a life under his Damoclean sword, and she cried while they danced.
The Final Gate – Something is terrifying the residents of St. Luke’s Orphanage. Gurgling moans echo through the hallways. Hulking shapes lurk in the surrounding woods. And those who wake in the morning will find one less child under their roof…
Brandon and his girlfriend, Jillian, believe his younger brother is in serious danger. Even though the caretakers at St. Luke’s told them that he’s been adopted, Brandon has his doubts. With the help of a friend and a mysterious guide, they will do whatever it takes to find out just what is happening inside the orphanage walls…and at the bottom of the basement steps…
From Splatterpunk Award-Winning author Wesley Southard and Splatterpunk Award-Nominated author Lucas Mangum comes The Final Gate, the ultimate tribute to Italian horror master Lucio Fulci. With blood, guts, and all the nightmarish madness you’d expect from the Godfather of Gore himself, Southard and Mangum present a loving homage to spaghetti splatter and the glory of 1980’s Euro horror.
Pandemonium – A stranger in a mask walks through Philadelphia, handing out tickets to an underground wrestling show promising a level of violence unlike anything fans have seen before. The card features a mix of legends and hot up-and-comers. Most intriguing, it will mark the debut of the enigmatic, hammer-wielding Crimson Executioner, a monster of a man whose promo videos look like something out of Saw or Hostel.
The crowd enters past masked guards who don’t speak. Even the talent doesn’t know who funded the show or why; they’re happy just so long as the checks clear. None of them know the diabolical plot behind it all. When the Executioner murders his opponent in the ring, it soon becomes clear the show is a ritual to open the gates of Hell and unleash PANDEMONIUM.
Demons rise throughout the venue, using the bodies of the dead as vessels to wreak all manner of brutal carnage. Audience members and performers alike must now fight for survival as the contagion spreads all around them, inside the arena and out into the city.
In the tradition of Dario Argento’s Demons franchise and set in the world of hardcore wrestling, PANDEMONIUM is a hyper-violent tale of demonic possession, ancient evil gods, and bleeding the hard way.
American Garbage – A young adult tries to hold his band of burnouts together while navigating his own mental illness and tumultuous intimate relationships during the early years of the War on Terror.
Meghan's Haunted House of Books 