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Quick, what is more scary: Freddy Krueger’s burnt, ugly face, or the sound of his knives scrapping against a boiler room wall? Why is it that we are still obsessed over Jack the Ripper, a century after the fact, when we hardly give the Unabomber any thought at all? How come children need to sleep with the light on, when a monster could just as easily eat them without the darkness?

It’s because the unknown will always be more scary than the known. With Freddy’s face, at least we can see him, at least we know what he looks like. But when all we can hear is the sound of his knives scrapping against a wall, well, he could be pretty much anywhere, walking straight toward you and you don’t even know it. He could already be behind you. You just don’t know. And that is terrifying.

What makes true horror good isn’t the explanation, it’s the mystery. It’s why Rob Zombie’s Halloween was a flop, as well as all the other similar reboots. We don’t want to know why Michael Myers is a monster; why the hell would we want to see the friggin mascot of Halloween humanized? No, what made the original film so great was the lack of explanation—the total horrifying suspense of not knowing who this crazy guy was, or why he was doing what he was doing. All we knew was he wanted his sister dead, and he would not stop even if he had to stab all the babysitters in the world.

But enough with fiction. Let me give you the perfect real life example that I can think of; an example that still terrifies me to this day.

Back when I was about six or seven years old, a few nights before Halloween (my favorite day, of course), my brother and I were sitting in our room playing Resident Evil 2 on the original PlayStation. It was pretty damn late; our parents had long since gone to sleep, and for all we knew, we were the only two people still awake in the whole town.

But boy, were we proven wrong.

Sometime in the middle of shooting a zombie in the head and solving an asininely difficult puzzle (when it comes to Resident Evil, it was either one or the other), we suddenly heard a noise outside our window. At first, we didn’t give it a second thought. Probably just the wind. Of course it was just the wind. What else would it be?

But then we heard it again, and again. The sound of … something outside.

Something.

The most horrifying word you’ll ever read.

Something was outside. We didn’t know what. My brother assumed it was a raccoon getting into the trash again. My younger mind assumed it was an alien. But all we really knew for certain was that it was something, all right.

“Go check it out,” my brother said, and I of course obeyed. I got up from the ground and walked right over to that window, which was wide open since it was nearing the end of October and the weather was absolutely beautiful. The sound abruptly ceased once I approached the window, erecting the hairs on the back of my neck. The world grew still and completely silent. I know the video game was still playing behind me, and the TV from the living room was still blaring some stupid sitcom, yet in my mind, all sound had been cut off directly. It was just me, and whatever lay outside this window.

It didn’t even feel like my heart was beating.

I perched forward and, using two shaking fingers, plied the blinds apart to see out into the night. At first there was nothing there. The porch light was still on, which allowed me to get a brief glimpse of my surroundings. I had just enough time to notice that the trash cans were knocked down, garbage all over the place, when it appeared.

I only saw it for a moment. A second doesn’t even do the short amount of time any justice. It was there, and then it was gone.

A face. A face completely white, with eyes devoid of feature. Eyes completely black and hollow. A smile so wide it had to be sculpted that way. A smile so demented that it couldn’t even be classified as a smile. I don’t know what the hell you’d call it. I don’t want to know.

I looked into this face, and the face looked into me, and then the goddamn thing poked me right in the eye.

I flew back from the window, landing on my back crying my lungs out. My eye throbbed like nothing I had ever felt before. My brother had gotten up, grabbed a baseball bat, and was already running outside before I even had a chance to stand up.

He ran all through that neighborhood, too, but he never found anyone.

I was left with a black eye and a series of nightmares to last me a lifetime. We still have no clue what any of that was about, and I doubt we ever will. I can take a guess, sure. Maybe someone was breaking in, and I spooked him away. Maybe it was one of my brother’s idiot friends pulling a prank. Or maybe it was a monster.

All I know is that it was something. Something I won’t ever understand.

Originally from Indiana, MAX BOOTH III now lives in Texas to support his illegal gecko fighting ring. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing and the Assistant Editor for Dark Moon Digest. He has recently edited two anthologies for Dark Moon Books: Zombie Jesus & Other True Stories and Zombies Need Love, Too, both of which surprisingly involve zombies. You can read his short stories in a multitude of magazines and anthologies, both in print and digital form. You can find out more about him at his personal website: http://www.talesfromthebooth.com/.

TODAY’S GIVEAWAY: Max Booth III is offering one signed copy of his anthology, ZOMBIE JESUS & OTHER TRUE STORIES, which will be released in November.  To enter post a comment in the section below or e-mail memoutreach@horror.org and put HH CONTEST ENTRY in the header. Winners will be chosen at random and notified by e-mail.

I grew up in a pretty typical suburban town on Long Island. We didn’t have any haunted houses or creepy graveyards in Smithtown—you had to drive all the way to Amityville for a look at the famous haunted house—so I’m afraid I can’t regale you with a non-fiction story of a spooky Halloween.  But I can tell you about the most enchanted Halloween I’ve witnessed, and that was in upstate New York, when I moved to Woodstock for a couple of years in the late nineties to work at a recording studio there.

Woodstock is well known for weirdness.  The famous concert, or “happening,” or whatever you want to call the acid-drenched state of emergency that defined 1969 under the town’s moniker didn’t actually happen in Woodstock but rather in the town of Bethel, some sixty miles away.  Nonetheless, Woodstock was weird long before Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan and Janis Joplin moved there and established the scene that would climax with the festival.

The valley in the shadow of Overlook Mountain was considered to be cursed land by the Native Americans who once inhabited the area.  Maybe they were onto something because today the mountain is home to the ruins of the Overlook Mountain House, a majestic resort hotel that burned down twice between 1871 and 1923.  A subsequent reconstruction burned in 1941 and the ruins themselves burned again in the mid 1960’s.

Why so much fire on the mountain?

It’s probably just a coincidence, but when the first white settlers arrived they named the trail that threads together several peaks of the Catskills in that region, “Devil’s Path,” because (according to Wikipedia) they “believed the range’s craggy cliffs were specially built by the devil so that he alone could climb them and occasionally retreat from the world of men.”

By the turn of the twentieth century the little town in the shadow of the mountain was already becoming famous as an arts colony for painters of the Hudson Valley School.  Then in 1915, local poet and utopian philosopher Hervey White founded the Maverick Festival, a Bohemian carnival held on the evening of the August full moon complete with musical performances, a costume ball, famous writers dressed in drag, and drunken orgies in the woods.

When my girlfriend and I moved to Woodstock for that recording gig, we were almost thirty years late for the three days of peace, love and music, but we found the spirit of the Maverick Festival lingering in the form of the annual Halloween Parade.  The scene ended up in my horror novel, The Devil of Echo Lake, and I’ve included the relevant excerpt below.  I’ll let the chapter speak for itself and just say that in Woodstock, they know how to do Halloween. I recall the night ending with a tribe of costumed children running wild through tattered veils of smoke in the cemetery, the artful dead dancing merrily on the graves of the actual dead, many of whom had once upon a time waltzed until dawn under the full moon in costumes of their own.

DOUGLAS WYNNE is no stranger to dark places; he honed his storytelling craft as a frontman in basements and bars during Boston’s 90′s‐era underground rock scene. Originally from Long Island, he attended Berklee College of Music, followed by a stint as a recording engineer in New York before returning to Massachusetts, where he currently resides with his wife and son. The Devil of Echo Lake is his first novel. You can follow him at http://www.dougwynne.com , http://www.twitter.com/Doug_Wynne  www.facebook.com/EchoLakeStudios

The Devil of Echo Lake was released on 10/19/12 by Journalstone Publishing. For more information, or to order the book, please visit http://www.journalstone.com

TODAY’S GIVEAWAY: Douglas Wynne is offering three electronic copies of The Devil of Echo Lake.  To enter post a comment in the section below or e-mail memoutreach@horror.org and put HH CONTEST ENTRY in the header. Winners will be chosen at random and notified by e-mail.

In this scene—which takes place on Halloween—Jake Campbell, an assistant recording engineer at Echo Lake Studios, has been sent to Studio C, a converted church, to move some furniture in preparation for the Billy Moon sessions.

It was a nice day for a long walk. The first thing Jake saw when the gravel road wound around the bend at the bottom of the hill was the belfry poking out above a stand of pines set against a backdrop of purple hills under drifting cloud shadows. It had rained in the morning and the mist was still burning off the trees. When he reached the church, he saw that Buff’s pickup truck wasn’t there yet. He guessed Charlie Hoffman must have had the trees planted like that to create a privacy screen.

A working church would have needed to stand out on the hillside to draw the locals to its doors, not hide behind a green curtain like this one. But the imported trees were not yet tall enough to conceal the building entirely. Jake expected it would take six or seven more years with heavy rains before the belfry was obscured.

Stepping under the canopy of boughs onto a carpet of brown pine needles and twigs glazed with crystallized sap, he found a weathered white clapboard building. There was a horn under the eaves, no doubt wired to the burglar alarm for which he had a code written on a business card in his wallet. A series of stained-glass windows adorned the side of the building, but he couldn’t make out their subjects from his current vantage point. Around the corner, atop a set of concrete steps, he found a pair of high-arched doors with iron bindings.

He fished a crowded key ring out of his pocket and tried two before finding the one that popped the lock. Once the doors were opened, he had one minute to locate the keypad on the support beam where Eddie had said it would be and punch in the code to keep the siren from blaring. He found it and typed the code from memory without taking the card from his wallet.

For a moment he worried he’d punched in the wrong number because a chiming sound continued to ring throughout the church. He had noticed it as soon as he stepped inside but hadn’t focused on it until now, dismissed it as the sound of the alarm system counting down the narrow window of deactivation. Now that the sound hadn’t shut off, he zeroed in on it, and simultaneously recognized three characteristics: it was not emanating from the keypad box but rather from the loft above and behind him; it was not a chime but a piano note being struck with monotonous repetition; and it was being played with the sustain pedal down so that the decay of each note echoed in the rafters.

He craned his head, but from this angle, he could see nothing up there. Just the purple, green and gold mosaic of a stained-glass rosette depicting the ascending Virgin, high in the wall above the choir loft.

Who the hell was in here, if he had just turned the lock and killed the alarm? It had to be a piano tuner Eddie had neglected to mention. And he or she must have entered through a back door with a key of their own. If anything, I probably just re-armed the alarm, he thought, looking at the control box. It appeared to be inert.

Hoping he wouldn’t trip the motion detectors, he walked toward the end of the big hall where the altar would have traditionally been situated. A drum riser draped with red Persian carpets occupied that space. No alarm sounded. He peered up at the choir loft again where, from this angle, he could now make out the raised hood of a grand piano, but still no sign of a person.

The monotonous chiming note persisted.

He recalled a mind game he would sometimes play when he heard a musician hitting a single note: testing his ability to identify it. He knew he didn’t have the gift of perfect pitch, but that had never prevented him from giving it his best shot. It was a kind of ear training to make the effort, and on the rare occasion when he was correct or even close, it was deeply gratifying.

Piano was his primary instrument, so he also had the advantage of recognizing the timbre of certain keys. Now he guessed E above middle C and made a mental note of it. He would find out if he’d guessed right when he got up there and asked the guy.

Only he wasn’t so sure he wanted to go up there. A cloud passed across the sun outside, darkening the stained-glass panes above the piano, and Jake dragged his fingers across the palm of his hand, finding it clammy.

There’s no one up there.

But there had to be. Maybe the tuner was kneeling under the piano to put some WD-40 on the sustain pedal, reaching up to strike a key. A plausible scenario. Still, he found he was reluctant to look for the stairs that would take him up to the loft. Was it simply that this place had once been a church? Was that what had him spooked so easily?

Okay, fuck it. Stop working yourself up and go find out. He drew a breath to call out, “Hello?” but before he could get the word out, a metallic clank resounded throughout the room and a shockwave of fear surged through his neck and shoulders. It was the double doors being thrust open. A sandy-haired man wearing a baseball cap, dirty jeans, and a T-shirt stepped into the room. He had pale blue eyes and a graying handlebar mustache.

“James?” Jake asked.

“Call me Buff,” came the reply. Their voices reverberated in the empty hall, and in the silence that followed, Jake noticed that the piano note had ceased.

Buff seemed to be trying to read the expression on Jake’s face.

Jake stepped toward him, extending his hand, and said, “I’m Jake.” Buff shook it, but not without a slight hesitation.

“So where’s this furniture we’re moving?” Jake asked.

“Upstairs. Follow me.”

They climbed another of the spiral staircases the architect of Echo Lake Studios had been so fond of and reached the second level. The piano loft was at one end, a set of small curtained-off bedrooms at the other. A catwalk with a waist-high wooden railing ran the length of the church, connecting the two halves of the second floor.

“How much of this was originally here when it was a church?” Jake asked when they reached the top of the stairs.

“This side was already here. It’s where the organ used to be. And the seating for the choir, of course. Organ was a big, old pipe jobbie. That was gone long before Charlie bought the place and turned it into a studio, or he would’ve kept it. Charlie added the catwalk, the bedrooms, and bathroom up here. Some clients don’t like the piano being up here but it’s never coming down. Charlie always said this is where it sounds best, up close to the steepled ceiling. And they say it’s good for separation.”

“Yeah, makes sense that it’d be easier to keep other instruments out of the piano mics if it’s way up here. But what about piano players who want eye contact with the rest of the band?”

“There’s another one downstairs. Baby grand.”

“Oh. That must be the one that’s getting tuned.”

“I think Eddie’ll have ‘em both tuned before your project starts. Now that it’s getting cold out, he’ll probably have Dickie come in and give ‘em a tweak every morning, if your client’s using them.”

“Dick is the piano tuner?”

“Yup. But I don’t know for how much longer. His hearing’s starting to go. Especially at the upper end of the keyboard. Might be time for him to retire.”

Buff was heading across the catwalk now, with Jake in tow.

“I heard him when I came in,” Jake said. “He may still be here.”

Buff stopped walking, and Jake almost bumped into him. Jake’s first thought was that Buff was regretting making the comment about the old guy’s hearing when he was probably right below them and possibly still possessed of a keen enough ear to pick up their conversation.

“Heard him, did you?” Buff said.

“When I came in. Tuning the one downstairs, I guess.”

Buff turned to look at him. They were standing in the middle of the narrow catwalk between the two lofts. Buff grasped a railing in each hand and shook his head slowly.

“What?” Jake asked, but he thought he already knew.

“You unlock the double doors to let yourself in?”

“Yeah. Is there a back door, off the control room?”

“There is, but it doesn’t unlock from the outside because you can’t get to the alarm box fast enough from there. Dick uses the front door like everybody else. You didn’t hear him, because he ain’t here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. He doesn’t work on Fridays, anyway. Takes his wife to the physical therapist in Kingston for her back.”

“I guess I was mistaken,”

“What exactly did you hear?”

“I dunno. Maybe nothing. Maybe a clanging hot water pipe.”

“They don’t clang in this room. That would ruin a track, right?”

“Right.”

“So you heard someone playing the piano.” Buff’s mouth curled up in a lupine grin.

“Not playing. I thought I heard one note. So it probably wasn’t a piano. Hey, does the bell in the tower ever ring from the wind?” Jake’s eyes brightened as the idea occurred to him.

“Maybe in a hurricane.”

“I don’t know then. I don’t know what I heard.”

Buff leaned against the railing and took a pack of Camels from his pocket. “Man, I always thought it was bullshit, but you wouldn’t even know the story. Now that’s something.”

“What story?”

Buff poked his unlit cigarette at Jake’s shoulder. “Those guys in the shop didn’t tell you to put me on about this, did they? Shit, they did, didn’t they?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Buff lit his smoke, dragged and exhaled at the rafters, “You heard the ghost, my friend.”

Jake smiled. “Ghost?”

“Yup, the ghost of Olivia Heron. I’ve heard the story since I was a kid, but even working here, I never met anybody who actually heard her play. And I’ve been doing odd jobs here since I was seventeen. Thought it was bullshit, a folk tale.”

“Okay, fill me in already.”

Buff savored his cigarette and the moment, nodding his head as if in internal agreement that yup, that was the way to tell it for maximum effect.

Jake drummed his fingertips on the railing. This guy apparently preferred killing time to working. And yet, he couldn’t suppress the need to know, even though it was irritating to think that he might have to trade the relief of knowing he could trust his ears for the lousy alternative of not being able to trust reality.

“The way I heard it, she was the church organist back in the late 1800s. They say she was a well-liked member of the congregation until after her husband died. Everyone tried to help her out when that happened, treat her like family and what not, but she became distant and withdrawn. Used to disappear for days at a time in the woods here, by the church. Nobody knew what she did on these little expeditions, if she’d sleep on the moss and pine needles or what, but she’d always be back for the Sunday services to play the hymns.

“Only, the music started getting weird. Just a little at first—some dissonant chords thrown in here and there.”

Jake chuckled nervously. “She was a jazz innovator ahead of her time,” he said, trying to lighten the dramatic tone Buff was going for.

“That’s not what people thought,” Buff said. “And the music got a lot more disturbing as time went on.”

“Maybe she was expressing her grief through her playing,” Jake said.

“Maybe. But people started to connect it up with all the solitary walks in the woods and word got around that she was communing with the Devil out there.”

“They thought she was a witch?”

“That’s right. And then one night, long after midnight, the reverend found her playing in the nude. Churning the most depraved music out of those towering pipes, riding that mighty Wurlitzer like some infernal beast.” Buff grinned from ear to ear now, making Jake think of a cartoon he’d once seen of the Big Bad Wolf.

“That’s a hell of an image. Did you just come up with that?”

“Nah. Guy I heard tell it maybe the sixth or seventh time coined that one. Irish fella, this was, over at the Bar-n-Grill one Halloween. But it kinda makes the story, don’t it? I had him write it down on a coaster.”

“So this really happened?”

“Oh, she was real, alright. It’s in the town record. They hung her from a tree right out there in the churchyard. ‘N’ ever since the day she was hanged, people have heard her playing in the empty church from time to time. It was the organ at first, until they burned that in a big bonfire. Sold the pipes for scrap. But that didn’t stop her because now people—like you—say they hear her playin’ the peeyana. It’s the church that’s haunted—shoulda kept the organ. And I always thought it was a crock of shit until today. She must like you.”

Jake didn’t feel like laughing anymore. He thought of the pale shape he had seen bounding across the meadow behind his cabin on his first night in Echo Lake, and of the violet eyes glimmering at him from the edge of the woods. He thought of the sweating bottle of beer he’d held in his hand that night as he squinted at the peculiar visage, and wished he could have one now. Or several.

“Where’s this furniture we’re moving?” he asked, his voice tremulous.

Buff laughed and slapped him on the back. “Over here.”

*  *  *

Allison sang the theme from the Twilight Zone after Jake told her the story. They were getting ready to leave the apartment for a night on the town, inspired by a blurb in the local paper that described the annual costume parade followed by fireworks over the cemetery. A town of artists and alternative health practitioners transplanted from New York City, Echo Lake was serious about its pagan holiday. Jake found this a little ironic considering what their forebears had done to the local witch just a few generations ago, but times had changed—so much so that the church was now a studio.

“He was definitely playing with you,” Allison said. “A little Halloween fun at the new guy’s expense.”

“You’d think,” said Jake, “but I really did hear the piano.”

“Couldn’t there have been someone else there? Like that runner, Brent? Someone sitting under the piano, playing the note you heard, and then laying low while Buff spooked you out.”

“I don’t think so. There was no place to hide up there.”

“Well then, it must have been the naked witch,” she said, wide eyed and deadpan. “Didn’t that guy Occam say that the sexiest explanation is the most likely?”

*  *  *

The streets were crawling with children in masks and makeup, and while there were a handful of plastic costumes from the local drug store, the majority were homemade efforts, some profoundly creative. There was a girl draped in black veils through which a network of tiny white Christmas lights twinkled (Look, she’s the night sky!) and another who wore a framed canvas replica of The Scream by Munch, with a hole cut out for the child’s face.

Jake and Allison went in their street clothes as spectators. It was a night that burned itself into Jake’s memory like a double-exposed photograph—a strange juxtaposition of impressions. Child ghosts draped in shimmering cloaks of translucent metallic fabric and parents wearing skull and ghoul face paint illuminated for a half a second among the tombstones and oak trees by the green fire of sparks falling slowly to earth through drifting clouds of smoke.

Stop-motion war-zone visions of dime-store zombies running on the dewy grass over the real dead, the smells of gunpowder, lilac, and marijuana on the breeze. And in the midst of this dreamscape, the taste of his girl, here with him, more precious than ever, no longer a partner of convenience in a college town, but starting a life with him in this, their new home.

By the time Jake’s head hit the pillow at the end of the night, the ghost of Olivia Heron seemed like one more imaginary specter in a town crawling with them.

I grew up a shy, homely nerd in a small town in Kansas. There wasn’t a ton of stuff for me to do in my community and my strict Chinese parents wouldn’t let me go out much anyway, so I spent the majority of my childhood sheltered up in my house, reading books or spending hours in front of the television. The few times I was forced outside, I often encountered various degrees of racism, which only further made me not want to interact with the real world.

On the Halloween of the year that I was six, I was supposed to go trick-or-treating for the first time with my older sister and cousin. I had a mouse outfit that I wore that morning to class, and the costume was quite appropriate for my personality, considering that I suffered from severe shyness. Unlike me, my older sister and cousin were born beautiful, and they were confident and unafraid to wander the world. The minutes before we were supposed to leave for the night, I complained that I didn’t want to go, and not wanting to drag a sorry mouse along with them, they left without a fight.

I felt sad when the door closed behind them. Although I was relieved that I got my wish, a part of me hoped that they would have tried harder to make me go out with them. However, even at a young age, I had become accustomed to spending time by myself. I pushed the conflicted thoughts out of my mind, and I retreated to my room to read a book that I had purchased a few weeks before through a school book order program. That book was the children’s horror classic, In a Dark, Dark Room and Other Scary Stories by Alvin Schwartz.

That night, I stayed up late, reading the book cover to cover. I loved the spooky chills the stories sent down my spine, and the book made me escape into another world, a world that was far more interesting than it would have been for me to shyly follow my sister and cousin around our neighborhood.

It amazes me now that I can still vividly recall my favorite story in the collection, which was the tale of “The Green Ribbon.” I can still see the main character’s straight black hair, her large pensive eyes, and the green ribbon around her neck; and I still remember the secret of the ribbon. The book was my first taste of dark literature.

Reading was always a big portion of my youth, and perhaps it was the combination of feeling like an outsider, being a homely girl in a house full of beauties, and encountering small town racism that made me an introverted, moody individual. Thus, I was always drawn to darker stories. After In a Dark, Dark Room.., I eventually moved on to R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps collection. I had every single Goosebumps book, and I displayed them proudly on a shelf in my room. I had read every one of them, and it was as if I was gobbling them up, never really satisfied, always wanting the next book to collect and read. When I got out of elementary school, I moved on to the romantic horror fantasies of The Night World from L.J. Smith, and after that, I was finally ready to read the master of horror, one of my writing idols, Stephen King.

When people meet me, they are surprised when I tell them I write horror because they cannot seem to grasp what makes me want to write dark stories. I tell them that the reason I write horror is not only because I love dark prose but because I am passionate about the exploration of the good and bad within a human being’s psyche. For me, the best kind of horror is not the “jump out at you”-type of scares but the examination of our biggest fears. Loss. Death. Pain. Etc.

Horror literature and movies provide an escape from the true menaces in our realities, and I don’t know what I would have done as a child if I did not have my spine-tingling stories. As In a Dark, Dark Room…, Goosebumps, and The Night World proves, scary stories, like Halloween, can be enjoyed at any age.

TERESA LO is a writer living in Los Angeles. She is currently a cast member on PBS’s movie and television review show Just Seen It, and she has published three books, Realities, The Other Side, and Hell’s Game. She received a B.A. in History from the University of Kansas and a M.F.A. in Screenwriting from the University of Southern California. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association and the Coalition of Asian-Pacifics in Entertainment, and she is the Social Media Chair of USC’s Women of Cinematic Arts. For more information, please see her website www.tloclub.com

Facebook page: www.facebook.com/teresalowriter
Twitter: @teresalo_tweets

TODAY’S GIVEAWAY: Teresa Lo is offering one digital copy for Kindle of her book, Hell’s Game.  To enter post a comment in the section below or e-mail memoutreach@horror.org and put HH CONTEST ENTRY in the header. Winners will be chosen at random and notified by e-mail.

Praise for Hell’s Game:

“I hope Teresa Lo plans on writing more YA horror books, not just because YA needs more horror stories, but also because I’m positive that any other YA horror book she writes will be as amazing as Hell’s Game.” The Bookscape Report

“Hell’s Game was amazing. The story was attention-grabbing right from the start,” Tumbling Books.

Hell’s Game is available on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Hells-Game-ebook/dp/B007S3HYTC/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1347826856&sr=8-1

Read an excerpt from Hell’s Game.

Chapter One

They shouldn’t have been out that night.

It was Halloween in Deer Creek, Kansas, and everyone knew not to go out on Halloween, at least, not once it got dark. The stores sold costumes, candy, and decorations for the holiday, but everyone in town who wanted to trick-or-treat or dress up celebrated the evening before because there was a curfew in place. It stated that all Deer Creek citizens must not be out on October 31st once the sun set, and if anyone was found violating the curfew, then they could be fined or face jail time. No one really questioned the law because it had been around for decades, and staying in on the holiday was just what people did.

Until that night.

Jake Victor’s black Mustang roared through town, the streets completely empty, the night chilly and smelling like autumn leaves and dry grass.

Jake drove while staring straight ahead, deep in thought. Although he was not model-perfect, he was handsome. He had nice dark hair. Big brown eyes. An All-American look. He was incredibly popular even though he wasn’t from a rich or influential family, but he was a terrific athlete and a nice, charismatic guy that everyone seemed to like.

Dressed as an angel, Jake’s beautiful blonde girlfriend, Ashley Gemini, rolled down the passenger window, and she climbed half-way out, laughing at the freedom of being alone in public, laughing at rebelling towards a stupid rule created by stupid old people.

“It’s Halloween, bitches!” she screamed in the air, which whipped through her wavy hair. Her pretty blue eyes sparkled as she took in the sight of Deer Creek’s Main Street. There were little Mom-and-Pop shops, a bakery, and a post office, and the storefronts were quaint and inviting. It really was a picturesque view of small town, Midwestern life.

Jake glanced at Ashley, concerned. “Ashley, get down from there,” he said. He felt awkward reprimanding his wild girlfriend, and sometimes he wondered how they had lasted two years as a couple. They were so different, personality-wise, which was the main reason they fought, but on the other hand, they were also incredibly attracted to each other. Ashley loved how he was the epitome of the tall, dark, and handsome leading man, and Jake liked her classic features, her blonde hair, and her crisp blue eyes. People in town speculated that one day Jake was going to be a professional football player, and Ashley was going to be his supermodel wife.

Ashley ignored him and continued to let the wind play with her hair.

“You excited, Ronnie?” Ashley’s twin brother Ashton asked from the backseat. He was tall and lithe. The definition of a blonde pretty boy. He sat with his arm wrapped around his girlfriend Kristin Grace, and she sat in between him and the redheaded dweeb Ronnie Smalls, who smiled nervously. He held a camera in his lap, and his nervous, sweaty palms soaked into the plastic of its exterior.

Ashton, Kristin, and Ronnie crammed together in the backseat of Jake’s Mustang, with Jake driving and Ashley in the passenger. The five sixteen-year-olds were informed of the Legend of the Gateway to Hell by their parents and other elders in the town, but that didn’t stop them from being out at night. To them, the warnings were myths, the level of danger as close as what one would feel while listening to a fairy tale. In fact, it was the legend itself that made them sneak out of their houses once the stars emerged.

“What do you think a “Gateway to Hell” is exactly?” the petite Kristin asked, and Ashton gazed at her warmly. Besides her sweet personality, he loved how exotic and delicate her features were. She had big, almond-shaped dark eyes. Long black hair. Thin limbs. Her mother was Chinese, and her father was of British-descent. Unlike Ashley, Kristin was unaware of her beauty, and he found that quality to be alluring.

Ashton turned to Ronnie, and in a serious tone, he said, “I hear that the Gateway is where the Devil comes out to snatch the souls of the wicked.”

Ronnie gulped, and Jake looked into the rearview mirror as Ashton winked at him.

“You’re so full of it, man,” Jake said. He smiled to show he was kidding, but inside, he was worried that he and Ashley were crossing the line with Ronnie, an outsider to the group who wanted so desperately to break into it.

“Oh, yeah?” Ashton asked before he took a swig from his can of beer. “What do you think it is?

“My Mom told me that people started that story when she was little. A group of kids got hurt when fooling around at the cemetery on Halloween night, and Mayor Hercules went berserk,” Jake said.

At the sound of Mayor Hercules’ name, Ashton made a face. Mayor Hercules was tall, thin, and frail, and no matter the season or occasion, he always wore fitted suits. He reminded Ashton of the ghost from Poltergeist.

“Ugh, that guy,” Ashton said. “He’s always standing up in church and complaining about something.”

Jake shrugged. “That’s what my mom told me—that he started this whole curfew.”

Ashley climbed back into the car, the adrenaline rush making her giddy. “Were you guys talking about Mayor Hercules?” she asked.

“We were talking about where this Gateway to Hell business started,” Jake said.

“Ah, are you scared?” Ashley asked as she reached over to touch Jake’s strong jaw in a flirty manner. “Don’t be. That feeble old fart loves to start trouble.”

Jake tried to suppress a smile, but Ashley always had a way with him.

She turned to Ronnie. “I’m glad you agreed to take the pictures. I can’t wait to rub them in everyone’s faces.”

She smiled at Ronnie, who smiled back, happy to win her approval. A few days ago, she had asked him to document her plan to expose what a joke the Halloween curfew was, and this surprised him. When she added that if he came out that she would allow him to sit at the cool table with them, he was ecstatic. For the longest time, he didn’t think that Ashley Gemini even knew his name, let alone that she wanted to spend time with him. He felt so honored.

Little did he know, the only reason she asked him was because she knew he was good with a camera and that he was desperate enough to do whatever she wanted. She had no intention of ever letting him into her inner circle, but she wasn’t going to share that detail until November first.

Ashley reached back, and her brother handed her a small bottle of vodka, her favorite drink. “God, after we’re done, I totally want to bash some mailboxes,” she said.

“I’m in!” Ashton said. Ronnie anxiously looked from side to side. This wasn’t what he had signed up for, but he didn’t want to look like the killjoy of the group. He glanced over at Kristin to see her reaction, but she seemed to not have an opinion either way.

“I don’t have a bat,” Jake lied. In actuality, he had one in his trunk, but he didn’t want to bash any mailboxes. That was immature, and Jake didn’t like to get into trouble. Ronnie breathed a sigh of relief in the backseat, and he hoped that Ashton hadn’t heard him.

Luckily, Ashton hadn’t. He was too focused on his sister, who nearly choked on her vodka when she heard Jake lie. “You’re such a liar!” she shrieked, knowing fully well that Jake carried a bag full of sports gear in his trunk.

“I am not…” Jake said. From the backseat, Kristin watched Ashley and Jake bicker, and it made her upset. Jake was a really nice guy, and it pained her to see Ashley talk to him in such a way. Their relationship was a strange one, very hot and cold. One moment they were lovey-dovey, so gooey that one wanted to yell out, “Get a room!” and then the next moment, they were mean and nasty.

“Yes, you are,” Ashley said. “You didn’t even want to come out tonight.”

“We could get in a lot of trouble.”

“Oooo…. Are you sccaaaaaaaaaared?”

“I’m scared of going to jail. This curfew’s a big deal.”

“You’re scared of the Deeeeevvvvviiill! Coming out of the Gaaattteewaaaaay!” Ashley said as she put up two fingers to her head like horns. Jake looked at her, completely disgusted.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said.

She laughed and turned her attention to the side mirror, where she gazed at her reflection. “This town is so retarded,” she muttered as she fixed the halo that was coming out of her hair. “I can’t wait to get out of here someday.”

“My Mom says the same thing as Jake’s mom. They only have the curfew because it keeps us safe,” Kristin said. She knew she sounded lame, but she wanted to defend Jake. He looked at her in his rearview mirror, and he smiled. She blushed, and she prayed that he didn’t see her.

Ashley rolled her eyes.

“This whole curfew is set just to control everybody,” Ashley said. “The adults in charge take advantage of the fact that people here are like zombies. They don’t think for themselves. Everyone in this town is such a stupid piece of shit!”

“Watch the language!” Ashton teased.

“It’s true!” Ashley said.

“So are you ready to see the “Gateway?”” Ashton asked Ronnie. He thought it was funny to make him squirm.

“I’m ready,” Ronnie said. He wanted to sound tough and confident, but he sounded like what he was, a scared nerd trying to fit in with the big dogs at school.

Jake glanced in his rearview mirror at Ronnie, who wore a letterman jacket like Jake and Ashton did even though he was not on the varsity football or basketball team. Only the varsity players and the varsity cheerleaders were given jackets by the Booster Club, but Ronnie had gone to the store by himself and purchased his own. The jacket cost him over six months of wages from his part-time job working with his dad as a janitor at the hospital, but he thought it would be worth it. The store didn’t have one in his size, so he bought a large, which engulfed him and made him look like he was ten-years-old. He didn’t care though. He would do anything to be cool like Jake, his former best friend from childhood who had risen rapidly on the high school social ladder. Years ago, he had left the geeky Ronnie behind to get either bullied or ignored on a daily basis, and he had never looked back.

Jake’s vintage Mustang pulled into the cemetery’s parking lot, and Ashley stopped looking at her beautiful reflection in the passenger mirror to squeal in delight. “We’re heeeeere,” she sang. Ashton perked up, Kristin and Jake appeared stoic, and Ronnie’s jaw tightened. He tried to smile, but his awkward grin only amplified his fear.

“So, we’re really going to see the Gateway to Hell, huh?” Ashton said as everyone climbed out of the car. Kristin and the boys looked casual in their letterman jackets, but Ashley stood out in her beautiful costume. She wore a tight white dress and expensive feather wings, and if one did not know any better, they may have confused her as an actual creature of Heaven.

Until she spoke.

“I can’t wait to say hello to Satan,” Ashley said with a wicked smile.

“What do you think the devil would look like?” Kristin asked, scared and serious.

“I bet he’d have a goat’s head and a human body,” Ashton replied. He and Ashley put their fingers up to their heads to resemble goat horns, and they laughed hysterically as they baaahed. Kristin and Jake stared at the twins as if they had gone crazy.

Ronnie walked slowly as they moved closer to the church. He stared up at the cloudless sky, at the bright stars and the full moon that shone above him. The air smelled like dry grass and evergreen trees, most likely from the forest surrounding the cemetery. The temperature was cool, not too cold but slightly chilly from the night breeze. On any other evening, tonight would be quite beautiful, but tonight, it was eerie and silent. It was as if even the animals and the crickets knew better than to be around.

The cemetery had a four-acre spread of land, and the old church sat right in the middle.  With its two empty windows and a heavy metal door between them, the front of the church looked like a sad face, begging them to walk away and leave it in peace.

“It doesn’t look so bad,” Ashton said. He stared upward at the church’s pagan cross that rested on the frame of the roof.

“Let’s go home,” Kristin said, and Ashton put his arm around her. It surprised him to find that she was shaking.

“Awww, are you scared?” he asked.

“I don’t think we should be here,” she replied.

Ashton looked at his watch. “According to legend, The Gateway is supposed to open at eleven. It’s ten thirty now. You’re safe,” he said as he lovingly planted a kiss on her forehead. She smiled, still petrified even in the safety of his embrace.

“You should go down there and take pictures,” Ashley said to Ronnie, motioning to the church. Jake shot her a warning glance.

“Really?” Ronnie asked with a tremble in his voice.

“Yes, really,” she replied. “You’re supposed to take pictures of everything so that we can show people how stupid the curfew is. So far you haven’t been taking pictures of anything.”

Ronnie awkwardly snapped a photo of Ashley, and she stared at him, annoyed.

“That’s not what I asked you to do,” she snapped, and his face reddened as bright as his hair.

After a few painful moments of watching the two of them, Jake sighed. “This is stupid,” he said. He really questioned why he had agreed to do this. What if the cemetery’s groundskeeper appeared and threatened to call the police? Jake really couldn’t afford to get into any trouble. He didn’t want to ruin his future of getting a college scholarship and getting the hell out of Deer Creek.

“You’re not taking tonight’s rebellion seriously,” Ashley barked.

“Let’s go home,” he said. “And stop trying to get Ronnie to go into the church. He doesn’t want to.”

“Yes, he does.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does. Ask him.”

Ronnie stared at the two of them. He felt like he had to choose between his Mom and Dad in a divorce proceeding, and he didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to,” Jake said, and Ronnie stared back at him, unsure if this was a test. He looked to Ashley.

“Really?” Ronnie finally asked. Jake was annoyed that Ronnie only cared about receiving her approval.

She stared back at Ronnie cruelly as Jake looked on. “You don’t have to go inside the Church, but if you don’t, then bye, bye popular table.”

Ronnie’s shoulders deflated.

“Think of tonight as your initiation,” she added.

Ronnie continued looking defeated.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Jake said, but Ronnie felt that he was lying. Maybe Jake would allow him to cower away, but Ashley wouldn’t. It was bad enough if he lost the privilege of sitting at the table with them on Monday, but he knew that if he didn’t go up to the church, she would also tell everyone what a pussy he was. People would mock him even more than they already did, and he shuddered at the thought of that.

“Can we go?” Kristin asked. “My Mom’s probably realized I’m not in my room by now.”

Ashton and Ashley stared at Ronnie, hard. He looked so frustrated that he was about to cry.

“No one can be a part of this group without being initiated,” Ashley said, hoping to give him a boost. “And this is your initiation. If you don’t do everything I say tonight, then you’re not in the group. I want my damn pictures, and you promised to give them to me.”

Ronnie remained silent.

“Oh, come on…” Jake said. He was ready to go, and he had had enough of this nonsense. He pulled out his keys and turned to walk back to his car. If the others weren’t going to follow him, then they could walk home for all he cared. “I’m leaving now. You’re welcome to stay, but you’d better find your own way back.”

The twins knew Jake would never be cruel enough to leave them so they ignored his threat and focused on Ronnie. Ashley looked like a snake about to devour, while Ashton appeared to be nothing more than her twin cronie. “We all were initiated in some way or the other,” Ashley lied. She looked to her brother for confirmation. “Tell him, Ashton.”

Ashton shrugged his shoulders. Why not? He’d play along because this all seemed harmless enough.

Ashley smiled. “Kristin agrees too. Right, Kristin?”

Kristin looked to Ronnie and Jake and then to Ashley and Ashton. She didn’t know what to say.

“Umm…” she said, trying to stall. She hated lying.

Ashley rolled her eyes. Kristin’s conscience really annoyed her sometimes.

“I’m going!” Jake yelled as he held up his car keys, but he had only taken three steps before he had stopped.

“It’s almost eleven,” Ashton informed.

“Make a decision already, Pencil Dick,” Ashley said.

“What did you call me?” Ronnie asked. His cheeks flushed bright red. He had heard exactly what she had said. She had called him the nickname that the bullies at school had branded him with, a name that filled him with shame. Every time he heard it, he thought about the day he had received it, that day when the bullies had attacked him in the locker room shower.

“Nothing,” Ashley said with a cruel smile. “All I’m saying is that if you don’t go into the church after eleven, then you can return to your old status and kiss being our friend goodbye. I don’t need your stinking pictures. I’ll take them myself.”

She walked up to him and snatched his camera. It hung on a breakable cord around his neck, and she made sure to make a big show out of taking photos of everything around her.

With his jaw hanging, Ronnie stared at the twins, the embodiment of high school cool. They were beautiful, they were rich, and they were popular. Everything he wanted to be. He then glanced at the church, the symbol of his initiation into their circle of popularity.

“Go into the church,” Ashley said as she bore into Ronnie, “And I promise you that no one will ever call you Pencil Dick again.” She returned the camera to him, and she spoke as she gently clasped the strap back around his neck. She gazed into his eyes, and he shifted as he felt an erection form. His cheeks flushed again, but luckily no one else noticed.

“Do you promise?” he asked, his voice choking where his words came out like a whisper.

“I promise,” she said.

Kristin and Jake looked at one another. The way Ashley spoke made them believe what she was saying was true. Maybe Ronnie did have reason to enter the church. He had something to prove and something to gain.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Ronnie finally said, and Ashley smiled.

“You made a good choice,” Ashton said, hoping to alleviate the situation. Jake put his keys back into his pocket and stormed over, upset. It was already 11:02.

“Fine. Just one picture and let’s go!” Jake said.

Ronnie nodded and got his camera ready, and Jake watched as he took his first step towards the metal door. As Ronnie approached, it was as if a light came on inside of the building, which made the windows flicker like the eyes of a Jack-O-Lantern.

Something was wrong.

Panicked, Jake ran forward and screamed out, “Don’t go in there!”

Ronnie stopped. “What?” he asked, confused. Just seconds ago, Jake had given his consent.

“You don’t have to do it!” Jake replied.

“Of course I do…” Ronnie said, dropping his camera, letting it dangle from his neck.

Ashley glared at her boyfriend as Ashton and Kristin stared back, mesmerized by the scene.

“Tell him, Kristin,” Jake said. “We were never initiated. This is all a mean trick created by Ashley. Ronnie, Ashley’s not going to let you hang out with us just because you go into the church.”

“Is that true?” Ronnie asked, and Ashley glared at Jake.

“Jake’s lying,” she said. “All of us have done something like this. It’s a rite of passage. He’s the only one telling you otherwise because he doesn’t want you to hang out with us. He told me this afternoon how he felt sorry for you ever since you were kids. He thinks you’re a wimpy baby, and I personally think you’re better than that.”

Ronnie’s eyes grew wide.

“Is that true?” he asked Jake. His eyes watered and a lump stuck in his throat.

“You don’t have to go into that church,” Jake said, avoiding the question.

“He thinks you’re pathetic and weak,” Ashley said.

Jake looked to the ground, and Ronnie noted that he didn’t deny her claim.

“Is what she saying true?” Ronnie repeated. “Do you feel sorry for me?”

Jake wasn’t good at lying, but he should’ve lied then.

Instead, he stood quiet.

Ronnie’s lip quivered. At first it seemed as if he was going to cry, but to everyone’s surprise, he exploded with anger, the years of pent up frustration boiling over towards his former friend.

“I’ll show you, Jake!” Ronnie screamed, and he marched up to the metal door of the church. He grabbed the heavy handle, a bar that rested across the door.

“Ronnie, don’t!” Jake yelled as the eyes of the church glowed red. Ronnie’s hands gripped the metal, and evil laughter echoed from inside.

“See?” Ronnie said, triumphant. “I did it! I’m the only one who was brave enough to touch the church.”

“You’re supposed to go inside and take pictures. Not touch the door handle, jackass!” Ashley said. Jake stared at her and Ronnie. Was he the only one who heard the laughter?

Ronnie let go of the handle, and he looked at the sinister-looking building in front of him. His initial courage had vanished, and he felt his palms sweat. He wiped them against the sides of his jean pants.

“Are you going to move or what, Smalls?” Ashton said. Kristin clutched at his arm, and she stared at Ronnie. Her eyes said it was okay to not go in, but her mouth remained shut. She looked as if something was eating away at her.

Ronnie looked to Jake, who motioned for him to leave. “Come on, Ronnie,” Jake said. “I’m going to take you home.”

Jake started to walk away, and this bothered Ronnie. It was as if he just assumed that he would follow him like a dog. Ashley smirked as Ronnie’s face returned to its defiant glare.

“So what’s it going to be, Smalls?” she called out. The vodka in her system really fueled the evil inside of her.

Ronnie turned his back to the group, and he put his hands on the handle. The laughter inside roared, and a fire erupted behind the windows. Kristin’s eyes widened as she saw it.

“Oh my God,” Kristin whispered as she and the rest of the group stepped back, appalled.

“What’s happening?” Ashley said.

Ronnie whimpered as his hands tried to release the handle. He felt his flesh burning, and when he looked down, he saw they were sizzling like hamburger meat on a grill.

“What’s that smell?” Ashton asked.

Ronnie screamed as smoke erupted from his hands. With all of his might, he tried to let go of the handle, but it was as if an unseen force was pushing them down onto the burning metal. Tears streamed from his eyes.

“Help me!” Ronnie begged. “Help me!”

Jake ran up to the church, but his body smacked up against an invisible force field. Ashley, Ashton, and Kristin watched, horrified, their jaws dropped, their bodies frozen.

The laughter became a sinister whisper, chanting words from a language that no one knew.

The grip on Ronnie’s hands released, and the heavy metal door flew open. Before he could move, giant black hands that were as gnarled as tree trunks flew out from the church and yanked him inside, into a wild party of flames. He screamed as the door slammed shut.

“What have I done?” Ashley whispered as her eyes filled with tears. Behind her, Ashton held Kristin tight against him as she trembled, and Jake fell to his knees in shock.

Then, as if nothing had happened, the eyes of the church returned to nothingness.

“When the water rises, the fish eat the ants; when the water falls, the ants eat the fish.”- Traditional Lao Proverb

Laos isn’t the first place people think of when it comes to international fear and horror.  But whether your tastes are for the supernatural or otherwise, Laos has many surprises for those willing to look, from secret wars to eerie ghosts and weretigers.

Laos is a country of 6 million people, the size of Great Britain and a little bigger than Minnesota. But from a literary standpoint it is still largely terra incognita. Many readers became familiar with Laos through writers such as Colin Coterill, whose mysteries feature the Lao coroner Dr. Siri, or non-fiction accounts such as The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down by Anne Fadiman.

Once known as the Realm of a Million Elephants, Laos traces its roots over 600 years to the ancient kingdom of Lan Xang. Laos has since gone by many names to many different travelers, such as the Land of a Thousand Smiles (although you don’t necessarily know WHY they’re smiling.)  During the 19^th and 20^th century, “tranquil” Laos was involved in numerous bloody conflicts, including a byzantine Secret War involving a covert CIA army supporting the Royal Lao Government against the Pathet Lao and their allies. By the end of the war, more tons of bombs were dropped on Laos than on all of Europe during World War 2. Countless people drowned in the Mekong River trying to escape reprisals at the end of the war in 1975.

Over 80 different ethnic groups reside in Laos, each with their own cosmological traditions. While many are Buddhist, others practice variations of animism and ancestor worship. In October, while Americans and Europeans celebrate Halloween, the Lao celebrate Awk Phansaa during the full moon. During this time, families observe the custom of lai hua fai, fashioning small boats adorned with candles, incense and offerings to the spirits, setting them adrift down the river.

While many connect Laos most to the Mekong River, the rest of Lao geography lends itself to intriguing stories. Over 70% of the countryside is jungle or mountain. In the aftermath of the US Secret War in Laos, over 30% of the countryside remains contaminated with over 80 million unexploded cluster bombs. Laos is home to the mysterious Plain of Jars, filled with ancient, massive stone urns built by an unknown culture for an unknown purpose. There is also Xieng Khuan, the Spirit City, a bizarre concrete sculpture garden built by a priest-shaman blending Buddhism and Hinduism. One of the most prominent Buddhist stupas, That Dam, is said to be built over a slumbering ancient being who rose up to defend Laos against invaders in 1827.

Among the creatures Lao encounter in traditional folklore are the Nak, known in other traditions as Naga, or more crudely, as dragons, although that would be a very poor understanding of these beings.  Although they are shapeshifters, their most common form is as a mammoth, often with many heads. They’re reputed to dwell in rivers or beneath the earth. They’re associated with magic and water, including the rain and floods, but also with fertility. Some accounts maintain that the Nak are snake deities who converted to Buddhism and now protect the teachings of the Buddha. They are generally regarded as benevolent, but their vengeance is greatly feared. They are depicted most frequently on the balustrades of Wat Lao, (Lao Buddhist temples).

In Laos, the term Phi is applied as a catchall term for the hundreds of ghosts who live in the cities and wilderness. A Phi Kasu, for example, is a floating woman’s head with her entrails and viscera dangling below, ambushing victims at night. Other Phi include the hungry ghosts of Buddhist tradition, the ghosts of women who die during childbirth, and at least one being whose presence turns chickens inside out and causes pigs to explode. There is no one comprehensive catalog of Lao Phi to date. One book of interest on this subject is Lokapâla: génies, totems et sorciers du Nord Laos, first printed around 1954, by Henri Deydier. This text examined the beliefs and superstitions of Northern Laos, and recorded Deydier’s trip by foot and horse through the jungles.  At the age of 32, Deydier, alas, died in a plane crash in Laos just shortly after publication of this book. Although it was published in French and German, no edition in English has been published.

Man-Tigers, or Lao weretigers show up in the folklore of many of the tribes and minorities found in Southeast Asia. Among the Lao Soung tribes in the mountains of Laos, weretigers are one of the most supernatural concerns over many others. The Akha, Lisu, Hmong and Lahu in particular are on guard against these beings. The Lisu believe the weretigers are capable of possessing others, including family members. This has affected the courtship practices of Lisu youth, who avoid courting people who are from villages where someone had been reputedly possessed by a weretiger. Among many of the cultures in Laos, during funerals, many are concerned about the arrival of weretigers interested in the deceased and their corpse.

With over 400,000 Laotians living in diaspora in the US and around the world, many brought their traditions and beliefs with them. While much of the 600 year Lao history and culture has focused on transmitting a message of harmony and friendship, like any society, there is a dark undercurrent of stories that have just begun to be learned outside of the borders of Laos.

Read Bryan Thao Worra’s book The Other Side of the Eye.

BRYAN THAO WORRA is a Lao-American writer. An NEA Fellow in literature and a professional member of the Horror Writer Association, his work appears internationally in numerous anthologies, magazines and newspapers, including Innsmouth Free Press, Bamboo Among the Oaks, Tales of the Unanticipated, Illumen, Astropoetica, Outsiders Within, Dark Wisdom, Journal of the Asian American Renaissance, and Mad Poets of Terra. He is the author of the speculative books of poetry On the Other Side of the Eye, BARROW, and the forthcoming DEMONSTRA. He is a Cultural Olympian who represented Laos during the 2012 London Olympics. Visit him online at http://thaoworra.blogspot.com

I’ve been immersed in the horror world since I was a child, from sneaking into movies I was way too young to watch, to staying up on Saturday nights and watching the latest gems from horror host Sammy Terry, to attending conventions when I was a bit older, and moving on to working on a slew of horror films in an twenty-plus year movie career and finally in my latest pastime of horror anthology publisher and editor.

I’ve seen, heard, and read heads being chopped off, limbs ripped from sockets, people being stalked and haunted, sprays of arterial blood splattering the walls and floors and sometimes me when the FX guys aimed wrong or I got too close to the gag.  I’ve jumped out of my skin at well-timed bits in haunted houses, books and films.  I’ve lost countless hours of sleep thanks to the Horror People, the writers, directors, actors, and special effect wizards that did their job so well that I was afraid to close my eyes lest their horrific creations would sneak through the door at the Witching Hour and attack me in bed- like I could do much to stop the monsters if they did materialize, awake or not.

But looking back on all the horror, one thing keeps coming to mind about the genre I love:  Those damn Horror People- the creators of monsters and myths and madness that haunt our dreams- are among the nicest people you will ever meet. Imagine that.

Much has been said about this before, centering around the speculation that the Horror People get to vent their nightmares on the page and thus “get it out of their system”.  While that has to have something to do with it, I think it is actually something more integral to who and what they are.

The Horror People are creators, especially the writers, who sit at a desk for countless lonely hours fighting endless battles to shape words into art. They do this most of the time to the detriment of family and friends, the ruin of personal lives, and most times with little hope of financial reward.  They do it because they have a story to tell, and nothing will stop them.

Sure, there’s ego involved- we all want to crow about the great book or movie we just finished.  And of course the money.  We all want and need money, no argument there, and being paid to write beats the hell out of a “real job” for sure.  But most Horror People I know, the true, genuine lunatics of the art would keep creating, keep writing, keep filming and keep scaring if they never made a dime, or if no one ever knew their name.  They do it for themselves, they do it for the story, and ultimately they do it for the fans.

To be sure, there are some who create for sheer ego gratification and money and prestige and damn everything else- I’ve met a few, but not many.  Most of them are so damn nice it makes me sick.  But not as sick (in a good way) as devouring the works they put out, and that’s just how it should be. That’s why I think Horror People are the nicest people around.  At their core they are dedicated to making something for others.  And when you start with a personality like that, how can you not be a nice person in the end?

Hell Comes To Hollywood publisher and editor ERIC MILLER has been working in the movie business for over twenty years as a screenwriter, producer, and many other fun filled, low stress jobs. His produced horror scripts include Ice Spiders, Night Skies, and Mask Maker. He has worked on numerous horror films over the years, and is proud of the untold gallons of fake blood he has helped to spill. In his spare time he reads voraciously, writes, and watches movies of all kinds- especially romantic comedies. More info at www.BigTimeBooks.com and www.Facebook.com/HellComesToHollywood

TODAY’S GIVEAWAY: Eric Miller is offering one copy of Hell Comes to Hollywood.  To enter post a comment in the section below or e-mail memoutreach@horror.org and put HH CONTEST ENTRY in the header. Winners will be chosen at random and notified by e-mail.

Hell Comes To Hollywood

Vampiric producers, ghostly actors, psychotic limousine drivers, murderous stunt men and more haunt the streets and back lots of Tinseltown in “Hell Comes To Hollywood,” an anthology of twenty original horror stories set in the heart of show business, and written by veteran movie and television professionals who went through Hell and back to bring you these tales.

Praise for Hell Comes to Hollywood:

“HELL COMES TO HOLLYWOOD is a unique and refreshing read for any genre fan, and genuinely impossible to not enjoy.”

-Vivienne Vaughn, FANGORIA

Being from Australia, a land where celebrations centre more on sport than the change of seasons, I never had the pleasure of indulging in trick or treating. I knew of Halloween from seeing it on US television shows growing up, but it just wasn’t practised in Australia. “It was an American thing”.

That’s not to say that no one in Australia celebrates Halloween, but I’d hazard a guess that those that do are in the minority. However, I have over the past few years, seen a return to Halloween, but its re-emergence seems to be sadly rooted in commerciality.

As a child I was jealous of those Americans who got to don scary costumes and go and knock on their neighbours’ doors for chocolates and candy every year, but if anything it helped spur me on to learn more about Halloween and its true meaning.

As an adult my recognition of Halloween is solely from a spiritual standpoint – it’s a time to remember the loved ones we have lost. The pumpkin carving, costumes and sweet-collecting make it fun and perhaps empowers children to do away with their notions that monsters are real (they’re not real – right?)

Perhaps I’m reading too much into this, but I wonder if Halloween is just humanity finding a way to cope with our impending mortality; a colourful reminder of the fact that beneath the veil of flesh and blood is a skeleton waiting to be exposed.

Oh, for Pete’s sake – enough with the philosophising!

From an author’s perspective, Halloween is the perfect fodder for a great horror story. One of my first published short stories was about Halloween, but in my story, the children were demons and the houses they knocked on belonged to some of history’s worst killers.

At the moment I am writing a story set during Halloween night and I’m very eager to capture that traditional Halloween ideal of spooks, trick or treating and costumed children discovering what might reside on “the other side”.

Halloween has also influenced my artistic pursuits. There’s something about those sneering pumpkins that instantly appeals to the artist in me and whenever Halloween comes around I always feel the need to draw something.

When I was asked to create the art for the Halloween Haunts advertising campaign I jumped at the chance. I hope it puts everyone in the mood for Halloween and encourages newcomers to the Horror Writers Association family.

Even though I don’t live in a country that celebrates Halloween as much as it’s other western counterparts, I’ll still celebrate Halloween in my own way; by reading a piece of Halloween-themed fiction, writing my own tale, watching a horror movie or two, or sketching a pumpkin head. I might even don a Scream mask and chase my kids around the house, (but I doubt the wife will let me).

Wherever you live and whatever you believe, just celebrate Halloween your own way, but most of all make it fun.

GREG CHAPMAN is a horror author and artist from Central Queensland, Australia. His first two novellas Torment and The Noctuary were published by Damnation Books in the United States in 2011. His third novella Vaudeville, was just published by Dark Prints Press. His short fiction has appeared in The Absent Willow Review, Eclecticism, Trembles, Morpheus Tales 2011 Christmas Special. His comics and illustrations have appeared in Midnight Echo, Decay and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine. His first graphic novel, Witch-Hunts: A Graphic History of the Burning Times, written by Bram Stoker Award® winners Rocky Wood and Lisa Morton, was also published by McFarland Publishers in May this year. After joining the Australian Horror Writers Association in 2009, Greg Chapman was selected for its mentor program under the tutelage of author Brett McBean. Since then he has had short stories published in The Absent Willow Review, Trembles, Eclecticism, Bete Noire and Morpheus Tales and comic artwork in Midnight Echo Magazine. “Torment” is his first novella-length publication in the United States. It was published on March 1, 2011 by Damnation Books. Chapman’s second novella “The Noctuary” was published on December 1, 2011. Greg’s home on the web is www.darkscrybe.blogspot.com

TODAY’S GIVEAWAY: Greg Chapman is offering one digital copy of his novella, “Vaudeville.”  To enter post a comment in the section below or e-mail memoutreach@horror.org and put HH CONTEST ENTRY in the header. Winners will be chosen at random and notified by e-mail.

About “Vaudeville”

Vaudeville is an e-novella by Greg Chapman, published July 2012, by Dark Prints Press, ISBN: 9780987197641, For More information: http://www.darkprintspress.com.au/books_novellas.html

One year has passed since Anthony Moore’s father was found hanging from a tree in Keaton Woods.
On the anniversary of his father’s death, Anthony ventures into the woods in search of the truth about how his father died, but the truth is hungry – and waiting for him.
Vengeful demons, exiled to the woods more than a century before, are eager to escape and Anthony considers giving them their freedom, when they offer the answers he seeks.
“The All-American Travelling Trobadours” have a dark story to perform – all they need is audience of four young souls.
Vaudeville is a coming-of-age horror tale, touching on themes of grief, loneliness and the darkest days of the American Civil War.

Little known fact: my due date was Oct. 31, 1967. Unfortunately, I ended up being three days late so even though I do not have a Halloween birthday, I was supposed to and, to be blunt, Nov. 3 is close enough. Growing up, every birthday party was associated with the holiday, whether it was the costumes or the Halloween-themed invitations or even just the ever-present piles of candy collected on the holiday itself. My birthdays were always candy-filled celebrations and I have vivid memories of dumping pillow cases filled with candy into the middle of a ravenous horde of young boys and girls right before cake (because we needed still more sugar). Though, come to think of it, I did tend to receive gifts of candy rather than toys so that might not have been the best thing.

Now that I have children of my own, Halloween has become a multi-week celebration of spooky lights, creepy decorations and, of course, candy. It’s a toned-down celebration, kid-friendly and light on the scares and thrills. They’re growing older now, though, so the holiday will soon begin it’s ritual transition from fun, candy-filled adventure to more of an exploration of the sinister and horrifying.

Still, there was always something special about the birthday/Halloween connection that grounded me to the holiday. As the song by Ministry says ‘Everyday is Halloween’ and with a Young Adult Horror debut novel out in time for Halloween this year, every day does have that Halloween feeling. Not to mention also having that birthday feeling.

There’s something wonderful and comforting to be spending so much of this year talking about things that go bump in the night, the shadows in the closet, the mysteries under the bed or the ghosts up in the attic and with the release of my book that’s pretty much exactly what’s happened. Every interview I’ve given, every time someone asks about the book, I get to bring just a little bit of the creepy, haunting wonder of Halloween out into the rest of the calendar.

And like blood slowly spreading across the floor, Halloween also reaches tendrils of horror out from October 31. Looking for the latest horror movie? Used to be the week or so before the holiday was it for releases. Then, they moved to earlier in the month. Now? May for the big box office horror films. August for the slightly smaller movies. Christmas for creepy holiday movies, because every holiday now has at least one (if not more) horror movie to help celebrate the festivities. Jack the Pumpkin King really is taking over.

Same with books. Yes, horror novels will tend to congregate around Halloween, but like Literary Fiction and other genre novels, they also come out year round, to satisfy the growing and ever-present hunger for the horrifying.

So where the calendar used to have one bloody day to celebrate the macabre, the blood has spread throughout the year and it’s been wonderful to be a part of this celebration not just because it’s Halloween but because every day really is Halloween now.

TODAY’S GIVEAWAY: Peter Salomon is offering one paperback copy of Henry Franks.  To enter post a comment in the section below or e-mail memoutreach@horror.org and put HH CONTEST ENTRY in the header. Winners will be chosen at random and notified by e-mail.

PETER ADAM SALOMON graduated Emory University in Atlanta, GA with a BA in Theater and Film Studies in 1989. He has served on the Executive Committee of the Boston and New Orleans chapters of Mensa as the Editor of their monthly newsletters and was also a Judge for the 2006 Savannah Children’s Book Festival Young Writer’s Contest.

He is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, the Horror Writers Association and The Authors Guild and is represented by the Erin Murphy Literary Agency. His debut novel, HENRY FRANKS, was published by Flux in September 2012.

Peter Adam Salomon lives in Chapel Hill, NC with his wife Anna and their three sons: André Logan, Joshua Kyle and Adin Jeremy.

www.henry-franks.com
www.peteradamsalomon.com

www.facebook.com/peteradamsalomon
Twitter: @petersalomon

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13490787-henry-franks

Read an excerpt from HENRY FRANKS, Peter Salomon’s debut novel published Sept. 2012 by Flux Publishing
Four thousand, three hundred and seventeen stitches, his father had told him once. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men had put Henry Franks back together again.

One year ago, a terrible accident robbed Henry Franks of his mother and his memories. The past sixteen years have vanished. All he has now are scars and a distant father—the only one who can tell Henry who he is.

If he could trust his father.

Can his nightmares—a sweet little girl calling him Daddy, murderous urges, dead bodies—help him remember?

While a serial killer stalks their small Georgia town, Henry unearths the bitter truth behind his mother’s death—and the terrifying secrets of his own dark past.

Sometimes, the only thing worse than forgetting is remembering.

Opening Scene:

Spanish moss, bleached to gray in the heat, stretched down from the trees and the breeze barely stirred the air. From his bedroom window, Henry watched oak branches reaching for the house, close enough to scratch against the bricks. The marshes surrounding St. Simons Island reached to the horizon, flashing with light where the rising sun reflected off the water.

With the blinds pulled up, he pressed his hands against the glass. Scar tissue ringed his index finger like jewelry made of flesh, matching the bracelet on his left wrist and the necklace of scars circling his neck. More snaked around his legs, beading with sweat in the Georgia heat.

Henry closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then counted to ten. A pushpin stuck out of the wall next to the window and he grabbed it without looking. A branch grated across the house with a hiss that seemed almost alive.

Where the sharp metal point broke the skin of his right index finger a single bead of blood welled up. He opened his eyes, took another breath and then counted again.

Against the glass, he pushed the pin the rest of the way into his finger. Blood ran like rain down the window but Henry Franks didn’t feel a thing.

To buy:

http://www.amazon.com/Henry-Franks-Peter-Adam-Salomon/dp/0738733369/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1330121771&sr=1-1

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/peter-adam-salomon?keyword=peter+adam+salomon&store=allproducts

http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780738733364

Praise for HENRY FRANKS and the work of Peter Salomon

“Salomon’s Frankenstein homage churns through its often confounding but highly unnerving plot like a slow nightmare–readers won’t be entirely sure they even want to know how it ends. The scenes are clipped, the dialogue spare, and the prose rewards meticulous reading, making this debut the thinking teen’s horror choice of the year.” –Booklist starred review

“A strong start for a promising author” –Publishers Weekly

“Creepy, atmospheric, suspenseful, evocative…It’s 22 kinds of creeptastic greatness.” –Mike Jung, author of GEEKS, GIRLS, AND SECRET IDENTITIES

“Henry Franks is a story told in language that’s both gorgeous and creepy. It gave me chills, it inspired sympathy, and the ending! OMG, the ending!” –Natalie Dias Lorenzi, author of FLYING THE DRAGON

“I loved the dark atmosphere of this Georgia-based suspense novel, and how every detail added to the eerieness. Trees drip with Spanish moss and branches scrape at windows. Even the nightly dinner ritual is creepy.
The dialog between Henry and Justine is so authentic it feels like eavesdropping to read it. And the mystery had me riveted from beginning to end.” –Jeanne Ryan, author of NERVE

John Skipp is the recipient of the 2011 Bram Stoker Award® for Superior Achievement in an Anthology for Demons: Encounters with the Devil and his Minions, Fallen Angels and the Possessed.

1. How would you describe Demons: Encounters with the Devil and his Minions, Fallen Angels and the Possessed?

JS: I’d describe it as a book with an absurdly long title… (laughs) …which also happens to contain a staggering array of tragic, terrifying, haunting, hilarious, insanely great fiction on the subject at hand, by some of the finest writers ever to tackle the tropes.

Mostly, of course, it’s about us, and all those terrible things we do which couldn’t possibly be our fault, and therefore must be the work of the Devil. Exhaustively exploring those unseen forces (and occasional, alarmingly-visual ones) that wreak mischief and mayhem upon our lives.

In that sense, it’s the flip-side of my new anthology, Psychos, which suggests that maybe we’re just crazy, and THAT’S why the horrible things happen. And I’ll tell ya: doing the two books back-to-back has been an extraordinary exercise in plumbing the depths.

So we’ve got William Peter Blatty (The Exorcist) on the one hand, and Thomas Harris (Red Dragon) on the other, making definitive statements, while guys like Neil Gaiman and Edgar Allan Poe play both sides against the middle. And that ain’t nearly the half of it.

2. Tell us about what inspired you to edit Demons: Encounters with the Devil and his Minions, Fallen Angels and the Possessed?

JS: Back in 2009, Black Dog & Leventhal approached me to assemble a massive, comprehensive zombie anthology: not just a “Greatest Hits”, but an exploration that ranged from its voodoo roots to its most modern post-Romero invocations, connecting the dots between, and excitingly evoking the Big Picture.

That book (Zombies) worked out so well, and was such a pleasure, that we followed up with Werewolves and Shapeshifters in 2010. Then Demons. Then Psychos. All of them adapting that same basic strategy: lay out the history of the genre, and what it might mean, with extraordinary examples from all up and down the scale.

I feel like we’re building a massive cumulative monument to the literature — why we love it, what it means, why it matters – one giant book and monster subset at a time. Taken as a whole, it’s one of the most exciting things I’ve ever been involved with. And hope to keep building, for years to come. Reflecting all its magnificent, crazed, brain-blasting sweep and splendor.

3. What most attracts you to writing and editing horror?

JS: Love. Flat out. I love the moments of truth and revelation that horror, at its best, reveals. Like comedy — the flip-side of the coin — it pulls our soul’s pants down, and shows us our ass, engaging in the sort of honesty normally reserved for close friends. Peeling back the normosphere, and cutting to the chase.

4. What are you working on now?

JS: Right now, my focus is on making movies. I’m working with a great co-director named Andrew Kasch, and an incredible team of skilled technicians/actors/fx artists/business people who want to blow through the been-there-done-that state of modern remake-driven spooky cinema, and deliver the kinds of dangerous low-budget films that fans will love, and Hollywood will want to expensively remake shortly thereafter. (laughs)

My new book Sick Chick Flicks (Cemetery Dance) lays out three of the crazed, fem-o-centric horror films we’d like to make. (Including Rose: The Bizarro Zombie Musical, about which you may have heard.) And also discusses, at length, the road that a horror writer might need to walk if he or she wants to see their story played right on the big screen.

Also promoting Scott Bradley and Peter Giglio’s The Dark — the latest novel from my publishing imprint, Ravenous Shadows — which is not only an intimate, staggeringly badass L.A. apocalypse in its own right, but indicative of Ravenous Shadows’ agenda. Which is: books you can read in the time it takes to watch a movie. Are probably better than the movie you might have watched, instead. And which would also make excellent movies.

Infusing modern cinema with the best that modern horror fiction has to offer — and building that bridge — is my number one priority. So that’s what I’m up to.

5. What advice would you share with new horror writers? What do you think are the biggest challenges they face?

JS: The biggest challenges are, as always, a) kicking ass, and b) getting people to notice. If you accomplish the first, you’re set up for the second. If not, you’re running on hype. My advice would be to walk in kicking ass, and be prepared to follow through.

6. What are three of your favorite horror stories?

JS: Of course, you realize that question is insane. (laughs) I could give you my top 120 or so, pointing directly at the Black Dog anthologies. Outside of that? “The Autopsy” by Michael Shea? “Survivor Type” by Stephen King? “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson? I could go on all goddam day.

7. What’s your favorite Halloween memory or tradition?

JS: I like scaring the fuck out of children, then making them laugh as they grab their candy. My family’s had a long tradition of sucking ‘em in with a lavish display, freaking ‘em out with creepy sneak-attack costumery (i.e. being one of the front-yard display dummies, then coming horribly to life), and then sending ‘em off happy with dee-lishious funliness. What could be better than that?

8. Given a choice, trick? Or treat?

Why dicker when you can have both? The trick IS the treat. The candy just sweetens the deal, as kind of a compulsory afterthought.

JOHN SKIPP is one of the innovators of contemporary horror. In 1986, his punk vampire- in-the-subways novel The Light at the End (with Craig Spector) hit the New York Times bestseller list, helped launch the splatterpunk movement, and inspired the character of Spike in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Their 1989 anthology Book of the Dead was the beginning of modern post-Romero zombie fiction. After their script for A Nightmare on Elm St. 5: The Dream Child was bastardized out of all recognition, the duo moved to Hollywood, wrote one more book (Animals), and promptly parted ways. Then Skipp disappeared from the scene.

Over a decade later, Skipp returned with a vengeance in 2002 with the solo collection Conscience, and has published 15 new titles since, including the coked-out zombie fungus epic Spore (with Cody Goodfellow) and his latest, a twisted triple-bill of fem-o-centric horror screenplays called Sick Chick Flicks.

He also edited the massive landmark anthologies Zombies, Werewolves and Shapeshifters, and Demons, with his latest, Psychos, freshly out in stores; launched his own Fungasm Press, devoted to wild fiction that defies all categories; and has embarked on a career as a film director with Rose: The Bizarro Zombie Musical, Stay At Home Dad, and The Long Last Call, all co-directed with Andrew Kasch (Thirsty, Never
Sleep Again: The Elm St. Chronicles).

On top of all that, Skipp’s been hired as editor-in-chief of Ravenous Shadows, a new e-line of lean, mean horror/suspense/mystery/crime/thrillers with no fat or filler, introducing a fresh wave of writers who he claims will scare your socks off in the time it takes to watch a feature film.

Read the Introduction from Demons: Encounters with the Devil and his Minions, Fallen Angels and the Possessed.

THE TERRIBLE THINGS THAT MAKE US DO ALL THE TERRIBLE THINGS WE DO

An inspirational introduction by JOHN SKIPP

This world, as I’m sure you already know, is a scorching hot potato of temptation and sin. We may not want to catch it, but if someone chucks it at us, odds are good that we’ll automatically reach right out, even though we know it’s gonna burn like crazy.

It’s as if we were perversely programmed to do the wrong thing, even though doing the right thing is often just as easy, and makes a lot more sense.

Such is the comedy and horror of life.

And, of course, I blame the demons.

Don’t you?

They’re everywhere: in everything we touch, taste, smell, hear, or see. They’re in our hearts. They’re in our minds. They’re in our souls.

It’s as if we can’t imagine the world without them.

How else can one explain everything from the most expansive global warfare to the most intimate acts of domestic violence, all of which are actively going on right this very second? Is “original sin” really enough to cover the full range of human atrocity? Can science, alone, come up with the answers to these seemingly intrinsic design flaws in not just our nature, but all of Nature itself?

Or do fallen angels and their odious hellspawn have a hand in all this?

WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH US, ANYWAY?

Questions, questions, questions. Many as old as the species, if not older than good ol’ Time itself.

Questions that are constantly being refined, in the hope of maybe finding better answers at last.

That’s why I happily hot-potato you the enormous book you now hold in your hands. It’s a playfully scathing treasure trove of inspired speculations both old and new: some tragic, some hysterical, some ennobling, some despairing. Many of them running the full gamut at once.

And—believe me—all of them utterly crawling with demons, of every conceivable type.

*                      *                      *

Of all the monsters that regularly prey upon mankind—in our religions and mythologies (and depending on who you talk to, in our everyday lives as well)—demons are by far the sneakiest, connivingest, most wicked and insidious of the batch.

This is because they are specifically designed to corrupt and torment us every chance they get. To trick, seduce, cajole, or force us to horribly, irrevocably lose our way. To subvert our finest impulses by honing in on all our inherent weaknesses, using every rotten time-dishonored gambit at their disposal.

As such, they’re pretty much the poster boys for evil. (Which, for the purposes of this conversation, I’ll define simply as willful malign intent.)

The Seven Deadly Sins – greed, lust, sloth, gluttony, wrath, envy, and pride – aren’t actually listed in the Bible as such; but whether you subscribe to the Good Book or not, the same principles still apply to each and every one of us, shot through and through as we are with wicked thoughts and even worse potentialities.

Given half a chance in Hell or Earth, we will doubtlessly ruin everything.

And as if our own sinful nature weren’t enough by itself, we’ve got demons to tempt us, every step of the way.

Or do we?

Which is to say: is this whole thing just our own little way of letting ourselves off the hook?

*                      *                      *

The biggest difference between demons and the rest of the go-to monsters is that just about NOBODY believes in vampires, werewolves, zombies, and such. They’re story-spinning mythos aimed at giving us the fictional willies, while attempting to make sense of their particular concerns. And in that, they do just fine.

Demons, on the other hand, remain an active part of many contemporary belief systems. Modern evangelicals, for example, still engage in spiritual warfare, even though many of them believe the war has already been won in Heaven. As such, their writings on the subject rarely appear in the “fiction” section of anybody’s bookstore; insofar as they’re concerned, those stories are true.

And good God-fearing Christians ain’t but the half of it. If you believe in any gods—by whatever name or names—the odds are fairly good that you also believe in some form of the Devil/Tempter/Trickster/Deceiver. Or, at the very least, in terrible forces—supernatural, extradimensional, karmic, or otherwise metaphysical—that actively campaign to bring us down. And that are far larger than our tiny selves.

(Far more on this in Appendix A, which concerns itself with the verrrry long history and dare-I-say evolution of our experience with the agencies of darkness.)

On the flip side of faith is the scientific notion of dysfunction: of systems gone awry, in any of the trillion ways that systems always go awry when the wiring goes wrong, or the chemicals are imbalanced, or Mommy or Daddy or Not-So-Funny Uncle Bob do monstrous things that utterly fuck somebody up for the rest of their miserable life.

There’s a lot to be said for this model, as well. That this poor damaged soul would have been just fine if x and y didn’t happen: that if the chemical x and the behavioral y hadn’t come together in just the wrong way, they could have been a respectable pillar of society, instead of the blood-drinking baby-raping scalp-taking sociopath they actually turned out to be.

But there’s a lot of widely charted wiggle room in between, with more than enough evidence on either side to honestly make me wonder which came first: the synapse or the sin?

To which  my answer is always:

Why dicker, when you can have both?

The war between science and religion has always struck me as one of the silliest debates in the long jabbering history of the human race. Science tries to explain how things happen. Religion tries to explain why things happen. They both seem like reasonable inquiries to me, albeit with wildly differing criterion, and varying burdens of proof versus faith.

Which brings us to art: my personal favorite, because it allows us to bridge these seemingly polar opposites in ways that both expand and dissolve the rigid boundaries between them.

Exploring what it all means, and how it plays out, from the micro to the macro, in distinctly human terms.

That’s where the artists and storytellers come in, as they have for long as we’ve been around. Forever trying to puzzle it out. Asking questions. Supposing what-ifs. Laying out the possibilities, in poignantly recognizable ways that make us wonder how we might respond if faced with such evil.

And reflect on how we already have.

Or hope to, next time around.

(Substantially more on this in Appendix B, which traces the equally long and colorful history of demons in popular culture.)

So here, I guess, is the point, if I have one:

The horrible truth is, WE REALLY DON’T KNOW which came first in this chicken-or-the-egg scenario of evil. We can debate it till the mad cows come home, and doubtlessly will.

But I’m sorry. We just really don’t know.

We want to, and we’re trying, in every single way we can, from the secular to the sacred to everything in between. And I give us lots of credit for trying so hard. Using every kind of evidence. Seeking every sort of pattern. Both trusting and fearing our intuitions, because when push comes to shove, we’re not 100% about them, either.

Which is, frankly, probably all for the best.

So just to be clear: this book is not a theological text. Nor is it an atheistic refutation of faith. Instead of swinging one way or the other, I have cheerfully opted for both, and more: letting some of the finest writers I’ve ever read weave their own inspired assessments of this tangled web we’re in.

From horror to romance to far-flung fantasia to even-further-flung Bizarro frontiers, every strata of literature from highbrow to low has explored this terrain, and will continue to do so.

Because these are the central issues of our lives.

And that’s what great storytelling is all about.

Whoever you are, however you see things—and whatever it is that you do or don’t believe—it is my hope that you will find a staggering abundance of profound, provocative, exciting, enlightening, horrific, hilarious, charming and alarming stories herein, many of which will hit you right where you live.

As always, your mind is your own, whether by existential autonomy or God-given free will.

Or is it?

(Insert sinister laughter and rising organ music here.)

And with that, I toss this astonishing hot potato directly into your lap. Catch it or drop it or pass it along, as is your wont.

That’s entirely up to you. Your God, or gods.

And your personal demons.

That year’s Halloween party was a tremendous success — drinks flowed and the mix tapes pounded our favorite tracks by the giants of eighties rock and the more obscure artists our group of twenty-somethings had discovered.

The police had been by once, asking us to quiet down and please remove the fake body hanging in the tree in the front yard, but the body in the bathtub remained a success throughout the night. It fooled many of the partiers more than once.

Then, someone had the bright idea to get out a damn Ouija board.

I’m sure some of you are cracking a smile already, thinking the Ouija is just some hyped up toy from Parker Brothers. Well, that’s fine. I have found most people either believe it’s bunk or that there is something supernatural about it, with very few in the grey areas on this issue. Hear me out and see what you think.

I had been a fan of horror my whole life, from the most subtle suspense tale, all the way to the most extreme forms of horror. I also enjoyed reading claims of true hauntings and monster sightings. I was no wimp when it came to be being scared, disturbed, grossed out — you name it.

Yet I had met my match with “the board” as it was called by my previous group of friends who tried it out. We got addicted to using it for a while until the last time I said “no more.”

So, do I tell this new group of friends about the last time I “Ouija-ed” or keep silent and see if things would be different this time? While the others giggled and said “why not, it’s Halloween?” (apparently none of them were taking this seriously) I held my tongue and joined the circle and placed my hand once more on the planchette.

At first, since most of us were well lit at this point, the usual stupid questions were asked. I was relieved. Perhaps this meant nobody was taking this seriously and I had nothing to worry about. My past with the Ouija would only surface if certain questions were asked.

Inevitably, we began to ask more specifically if any spirits were present and one in particular did seem to begin guiding the conversation.

My heart raced. Crap, here we go.

The spirit sucked us in until we asked the one freaking question I feared most: “Can you speak through one of us?”

I have always been a fan of supernatural fiction and film, and one must have some suspension of disbelief, of course, to be affected by such works. But to actually believe in spirits is another thing entirely. The door that opens or closes without logical reason, the voice you swear you here, and then nobody is there — these things can be explained away.

But this was the second time this happened to me. Both times I had been involved with the Ouija, this question had been asked, and each time the spirit answered emphatically –it wanted me to be its medium.

And both times this happened on Halloween.

Even though this spirit used a different name, I was convinced that the same presence form the first go-around was back to get me to agree to some form of possession.

So the party ended with an unpleasant bought of my friends begging me to go on and me wimping out. Only a couple of those present ever knew the whole story.

I have never touched “the board” again.

GEORGE WILHITE has been an aficionado of the horror genre since his youth, discovering Poe and Lovecraft at an early age while also spending many summer nights at drive-in theaters watching the contemporary scene unfold. He made his self-publishing debut with the collection On the Verge of Madness and his stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and online. His follow-up collection, Silhouette of Darkness was released in September 2012 by Musa Publishing. His blog is http://georgewilhite.blogspot.com/ and his website is http://www.authorsden.com/visit/author.asp?id=99382.

Read an excerpt from Silhouette of Darkness

A Horror Collection by George Wilhite

Released 9/28/2012 by Musa Publishing

Fear dons many masks in these dark tales of brushes with the uncanny.

When the Blight overwhelms the earth, humanity’s only defense is to stay awake from dusk until dawn. Tonight, Sean will learn how lethal insomnia is in this new world.

In “Fatal Insomnia” and other stories in Silhouette of Darkness, author George Wilhite explores the horror in unusual places. Enter this dark realm and experience first-hand “a writer that makes a much-needed contribution to this genre, giving us weird fiction/neo-pulp fiction fans something to sink our teeth into that brings to mind that lost age of fiction.” (Bitten by Books)

Silhouette of Darkness is can be ordered here: http://musapublishing.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=11&products_id=397

Excerpt from “Rare”

Jenna sunk her fork into the barely cooked steak. She cut off a huge slab, devouring it as though she hadn’t eaten in days. The bloody juice trickled out of the corners of her mouth and she sucked it back inside.

Watching his wife this way left Gary disgusted yet speechless. He didn’t want to start another fight.

In the past, food seemed a non-issue for Jenna. She was never overweight or too thin. She just ate when she was hungry and always the right amount.

Now, this obsession with food.

But not just any food.

Meat. And the rarer the better.

They were both vegetarians until Jenna began this new phase a few weeks ago. No meat in the house for seven years of marriage, but now this.

“What?” His wife glared at him.

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“No, you didn’t say anything. You just look like you want to barf.”

“I’m fine. Just not hungry.”

She grunted, returned to her meal.

The first suggestion Gary had made was that she might be pregnant. That wasn’t likely, since they always used birth control, but it provided an innocuous way of bringing up the subject of her new habit. She humored him and took the test. Negative. One theory down.

Gary was getting worried and didn’t understand why she took this so lightly.

He wondered if she contracted some kind of bizarre virus on her backpacking trip to the Sierras. Her meat-eating started soon after that vacation. The trip was cut short by all that violence and she had never been the same.

Gary was snapped out of his introspection by Jenna’s continued slurping and chomping.

“I’ll be back.” He left the table and went into the bathroom. Any excuse to get away from the sight of her.

He turned on the water, splashed some on his face. Jesus, this can’t go on. If he believed this was a simple change in diet, he would learn to live with it. But the way she wolfed down these bloody cuts of meat! Like some kind of animal.

Recently I was invited to contribute a story to a project sponsored by Cemetery Dance Publications—a series of eBook singles focusing on Halloween. A “theme” invitation is always fun, since it challenges you to write a story that you might not have written otherwise. This one should have been especially easy: I’ve always loved stories that take place on Halloween, and I always wanted to write a Halloween story of my own.

Halloween is such a rich subject because of the shared trick-or treat memories—with your parents and then, when you’re old enough, with your friends—and the iconic images of pumpkins, ghosts, broomstick witches, and pillowcases full of candy. Halloween is great when you’re a kid; when you’re an adult, it makes you feel like a kid again.

With all the nostalgic possibilities, I knew I wanted to tell my story from a child’s point of view. But I didn’t know what else to write. Maybe the problem was that there were too many horror elements to choose from–a wealth of riches! Or maybe I was afraid these “stock elements” would make my story too familiar. Or maybe (and I decided this is the real reason) it’s because I love the holiday so much, and wanted my story to be extra special.

So I had to pull back a bit, and think about how to generate a new story idea for the familiar holiday. I wanted trick-or-treat elements, and some form of neighborhood haunted house—but what could I add? I looked through my scraps of story ideas, trying to find some new “decoration” to fit my Halloween setting.

Then I found an old note I’d made about a house I walked past on my way to work, back when I was a teacher at Jacksonville State University in Alabama. I never knew who lived in the house, and the building wasn’t particularly odd or frightening—no loose boards or chipped paint, no “eye socket windows.” One day, though, there was an official sign posted out front, in the same red on white lettering used for a “No Parking” sign. This new sign said, “Quiet Zone: Death in the Family.” I’d never seen such a sign before, but immediately realized the reason for it: a family in mourning might not want to hear the laughter of playing children (an elementary school was nearby), or thumping bass from a passing car’s radio. I later learned that in Victorian times, they used to put fresh hay on the street to muffle the sound of a horse and carriage in front of a house where someone had died. Interesting facts, scribbled on a scrap of paper, lingering in the back of my mind for almost fifteen years…

My notes say it was Spring when I saw that unusual sign, but then I started thinking: What if this was Halloween? What if the house with the death in the family was traditionally the neighborhood’s best Halloween-decorated house? And what if my main character was a young kid who hadn’t been old enough to visit the house on previous years, and had really been looking forward to it? I came up with my first sentences, and knew I had my Halloween story:

On October 29, the decorations disappeared from the Myrick lawn. Rubber kitchen gloves, purple and stuffed with cotton, no longer reached hungrily from the lawn beside tilted Styrofoam grave markers. A faint autumn breeze no longer rattled the plastic bones of the full-sized skeleton that formerly hung from a leafless limb of their oak tree. From the Myrick porch, the motion-sensor eyes of a black ceramic cat no longer flashed red at children as they passed.

Of course, my young protagonist wouldn’t have the full understanding of a family’s grief. Instead, he’d feel cheated because hisHalloween was ruined. When people don’t give you a treat, they deserve some kind of trick as payment…and as with most horror stories, things get worse from there. That’s the premise of my story “Quiet House,” available as a 99 cent eBook from Cemetery Dance and from the usual online retailers. Give it a read, and let me know what you think! 

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I’m also pleased to point out that, by a happy accident, my upcoming novella from Delirium/DarkFuse has the release date of October 30—just one day shy of Halloween, so perfect timing, I would say! It’s called The Fleshless Man and is also a haunted house story, of a sorts—a house haunted by an elder parent’s lingering illness, with the resulting tensions helping to summon a strange, possibly supernatural entity. Here is the link to the book’s official page: https://www.darkfuse.com/the-fleshless-man-by-norman-prentiss.html

The print edition of The Fleshless Man is sold out pre-publication; the eBook edition is available early, priced at $2.99. Visit the DarkFuse site for details, or check with your favorite online eBook retailers.

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Norman Prentiss won the 2010 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Long Fiction for his first book, Invisible Fences. Previously he won a Stoker in the Short Fiction category for “In the Porches of My Ears,” which originally appeared in Postscripts 18. Other publications include the novella The Fleshless Man, a mini-collection Four Legs in the Morning, a chapter in the round-robin novella The Crane House: A Halloween Story, and anthology appearances in Blood Lite 3, Zombies vs. Robots: This Means War, Horror Drive-In: An All-Night Short Story Marathon, Black Static, Commutability, Damned Nation, Tales from the Gorezone, Best Horror of the Year, The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror, and three editions of the Shivers anthology series. His poetry has appeared in Writer Online, Southern Poetry Review, Baltimore’s City Paper, and A Sea of Alone: Poems for Alfred Hitchcock.

Visit him online at www.normanprentiss.com.