The Hollow Kind

No, that title isn't some clever headline I came up with to entice you to read my blog, although I do hope it had that effect.

THE HOLLOW KIND is the name of a novel by Andy Davidson. 

In my plan to catch up with the modern literary world since I more or less stopped writing (and reading) horror fiction more than a decade ago, I picked up a copy of THE HOLLOW KIND.

I don't know that I could have made a better choice.

I'm really bad with labels, but everyone tells me this is Southern Gothic Horror. Whatever it is, THE HOLLOW KIND is an excellent, engrossing horror tale, one of those novels that builds the suspense, the sense of dread and doom, as an evil slowly encircles the main characters, Nellie Gardener and her 11-year-old son, Max.

The two have come to an old family homestead in deep, hot, humid Georgia, she inherited from her grandfather. August Redfern. (Okay, maybe the book doesn't talk about the heat and humidity quite that much, those are just my memories of Georgia).

The homestead sits on 1,000 acres of mostly forested land, grown over with pines that spurred her grandfather to sink his lot into the land in the early 20^th century, hoping to become rich running a turpentine mill. For Nellie, the land and the remnants of the mill are of little consequence, other than it offers a refuge, a place she fled, with Max in tow, running from an abusive husband.

As the two work to spruce up the place, odd events begin to happen – events that soon slip from strange to dangerous to downright evil.

That evil inhabits the land, is an entity of its own, a creature of sorts which brought tragedy, repeatedly, to Nellie's family two generations earlier and set her grandfather on a course of battling that evil, alone, for decades. He had come there to marry and make his fortune – and it was within his grasp, but the land, the evil there, asked a price that was far too great for August to pay, thus he and his family fell victim to that evil, repeatedly.

Andy Davidson, the writer of this novel, deftly handles drifting back and forth between Nellie's time, in 1989, and her grandfather's time, which began at the farm in 1917 and moves well into the 20^th century, until Nellie meets the odd, lonely, possibly delusional man in the 1970s whcn she is a teenager dealing with the grief of losing her mother. While she and August were together a short time, a bond grew between them that remained, resulting in the old man leaving the house and land to her upon his death.

While that seemed like a blessing at the time, the house and land bring with it a curse, one that seems to inflict maximum damage and tragedy upon whoever it targets.

I've always admired writers who could switch back and forth between time periods, telling what is essentially two separate stories tied together by bloodlines and the evil that haunts the family grounds. Davidson does an excellent job with this. 

I think I read, or perhaps heard him on a podcast saying he had initially written the book as two separate tales – one telling the story of August Redfern and his years on the homestead, then segueing into Nellie's 1989 to pick up the story. Eventually, he – or maybe his editor – decided the story should be melded together, flipping back and forth. Whoa – mad respect to the writer for being able to essentially tear down the two stories and then put them back together as one larger work.

In any event, this was a fine horror novel, one I'd suggest to anyone who enjoys slowburn thrillrs which effectively build, piece by piece, to a satifsying climax, rather than rushing through to get to the end. In addition to the supernatural evil Nellie and Max face, there's plenty of small Southern town evil as well – a nasty local distant relative who has decided he will take that land at any cost, along with a few men with violent and bad intent way back in August Redfern's day. Davidson does a good job of blending all the story lines together in a novel that will keep you reading long after you should have gone to bed (or left for work) – a real page-turner.

12 Weeks a Vegan?

Little more than a week ago, I restarted this blog after a nearly decade-long absence, to share with whoever might want to follow along, my path toward returning to the writing life.

Today I'll share a new path I'm looking to follow as well -- converting to a fully whole food plant-based eating plan. 

This is far from the first time I've set out to lose some weight and get healthy -- I've spent most of the past 30+ years in a perpetual, and losing, battle against really bad eating and health practices. This is not even the first time I've blogged about it (Some of you may remember my old blog, A Fat Boy's Story). That time, with the Fat Boy blog, I chronicled my loss of something like 40 pounds,  over the course of a couple of months, but eventually fell off that wagon.

A couple of years ago, my youngest son and youngest daughter and I joined in with the local wellness center in doing the 12-week Body for Life program. None of use really adhered to the diet portion of the plan, thus I only lost about 25 pounds, but holy cow, the workout portion of the plan was incredible -- by the end, I was doing multiple sets of 100-pound dumbbell presses, at 6 to 8 reps each, and seeing similar gains in all lifts. My son and daughter were seeing big-time results as well. But being as dedicated as BFL takes is a hard task to do indefinitely (not to mention a car vs. tree incident left me with a permanent shoulder injury that's ended my big-lift days when it comes to any sort of bench pressing).

Since then, I've mostly been eating exceptionally poorly (hot wings or tacos at midnight, anyone?) while remaining in a high-stress job field (with more stress and fewer rewards every day). I have continued weight training, mostly, but with no cardio. 

Every once in a great while, I've switched to a plant-based eating plan. For so many years I said that's something I'd never, ever try. I love my hot wings, tacos, pizza, burgers, steak, fried chicken, pork barbecue, eggs, sausage...need I go on? At family gatherings or work functions, when everyone is going for dessert, I'm going back for more of the meat (or the mashed potatoes with gravy, or the cheesy potatoes dripping in butter). Even when going to see a movie with my wife, I'm thinking as much about how each cinema makes its popcorn, how much butter I can soak it in, as I am which movie I want to see.

Nevertheless, the science is clear -- if you're looking for optimal health, if you're looking to hopefully extend your life to a good many years with a generally high-quality of life, a plant-based diet gives you the best chance.

In my own experience. when giving it a shot, I find the weight comes off quickly, all the health markers (blood pressure, blood sugar, cholesterol, etc) respond quite well and quickly. But I never stick with it long -- maybe a week, or two, maybe a month if I'm lucky.

So here's the deal: For the next 12 weeks, I want to commit to a plant-based, whole food diet. That means not just the absence of animal products, but staying largely away from processed food as well. Making my own stuff, in the kitchen.

I know there will probably be a day here or there where I may end up violating the plant-based plan -- maybe some family gatherings with big meals, or some work-related events. Outside of that, we'll see just what sort of changes I can experience, if I can manage to stay on the straight and narrow. And for anyone who is interested, I'll keep you updated here.

Note: Feel free to share your own experiences, if you wish, with plant-based diets, weight loss, exercise, etc., in the comments. I'm always looking to see how others have been successful.

My Reading List: The Look-Alike, by Erica Spindler

In my last post, I told you part of my return to writing fiction was to read a few modern novels in my chosen genres -- crime thrillers and horror.

I did a bit of internet sleuthing, came across the name Erica Spindler as a best-selling crime thriller writer, and I picked up one of her more recent novels -- The Look-Alike. I'm glad I chose this one to read.

Before I go any further, I'll just say I never know exactly how to go about reviewing a book. I keep thinking of my elementary or middle school days, trying to write a book report that's supposed to give the essence of the story without actually reproducing the story. And now, as an adult, I'm keenly aware that no one wants any spoilers to a book review, so I'm going to be pretty brief. 

The main character in the novel, Sienna Scott, is returning home after a ten-year absence, when her father sent her away to help her recover from being traumatized from being the closest thing to a witness that was available to a cold, bloody murder in her town. A murder that claimed the life of a young lady who looked much like Sienna.

Now, she's returned -- confidant, grown up, ready to restart her life in her hometown while perhaps starting a new business venture. There's plenty of baggage to return to, with a mother suffering from a mental illness and a brother who is not quite all that he seems to be. Add to that the fact that more and more clues seem to indicate perhaps she was the original target (and may yet be targeted by the killer) a new love-interest who my turn out to be the murderer, as well as a law enforcement officer who worked the original murder case exhibiting an unhealthy interest in Sienna, and you have a really well-constructed who-done-it thriller.

One of the things I appreciate about this story is how, at times, the author can flip back and forth, between present-day and a decade earlier, when the murder took place. I find it a challenge, as a writer, to bounce back and forth like this, telling a story from two different time periods, but Spindler does it well.

Another aspect of this novel I appreciate is how Sienna's mother is dealing with a mental illness -- how it affects the mom's life, and even more how it is always a dark presence affecting the lives of all of the family. Spindler adds this as an integral plot point, one that becomes important to the story, and shows in a realistic way how mental illness affects the entire family, without being a contrived plot point.

All in all, this was an enjoyable book (though I'm still a little flummoxed over the fate of a rotisserie chicken that seemed to be shoved aside and forgotten at one point -- rotisserie chickens are not to be trifled with or forgotten in my book). I will definitely be picking up and reading more by Erica Spindler.

As for horror fans, I'll next be talking about The Hollow Kind by Andy Davidson. Until then, as always, thanks for stopping by and reading.

Like a slow, lumbering vampire rising from a damp, moldy grave...I'm back!

For those of you who have been anxiously awaiting my return, counting the days until my next blog, that day has finally arrived – just eight years, 11 months and five days since my last posting.

No, I haven't struck it rich, written a series of best-sellers and gone off to some secret mountain hideaway. I've just been muddling along – working, getting older, getting fatter, and every once in a great while still reading and writing a bit.

Let me qualify that. I'm still editor of a small daily (well, we're supposed to call it a daily, with three print days a week and two additional e-editions each week, down from the heady days of big print editions 7 days a week), and I'm editor of a now-quarterly magazine (devoted to all things Mayberry!). So I get plenty of writing done as a journalist, and more than my share of reading with editing articles, reading wire copy, proofing pages, writing headlines, etc.

But I suppose the demands of life, along with a lack of focus on my part, has resulted in me drifting away from what I always really wanted – to write fiction. I've continued writing over these past 9 or so years – more than 400 short stories and novellas and even four full-length novels, none under my own name or my chosen pen names. They are essentially ghost-written contract pieces. They make some decent side money for the amount of time and effort, so I've done that periodically over the years.

But the real writing I always aspired to? The horror, the suspense and crime thrillers and the spooky children's tales?

They kind of fell by the wayside. But I always intended to get back to them – next week, next month, maybe next year. Some day.

In recent months various events have reminded me that time just keeps marching along, and it's far too easy to let the things one really wants to do get shoved aside for the things that have to be done, or that are easier to do. Then, suddenly, you wake up one day and it's too late – you've missed your chance, or you're no longer able to do what you've always wanted. Some day never came.

No, that hasn't yet happened to me, but I've seen it far too often over the past year – people felled by illness or accident, people no longer able to do what they love (or in the worst cases, no longer with us at all).

So a few weeks ago I decided it was now or never – time to get back to doing what I love (even if there are times I hate it while in the midst of it – but isn't that the quandary of writing?)

Rather than just jump in and start trying to write short stories or novels again, I figured I'd go back and read a few novels I enjoyed, get back into enjoying fiction and, as a writer, seeing what works and what doesn't, how good writing and story telling is constructed.

So, the first thing I did was pick up a few novels by one of my all-time favorite writers, the late Robert B. Parker. If you don't recognize the name, perhaps you know his chief characters – he originated and wrote several dozen of the Spenser novels; originated and wrote the Jesse Stone novels (perhaps my favorite series), and he wrote a handful of Sunny Randall novels. The Randall novels are of particular interest to me, because I have the rough outline of a couple of thriller novels that feature a female lead/crime solver who is neither cop nor detective, so I figured I'd just jump in and read a few of those before writing.

I read through Family Honor and Perish Twice. Both are excellent books – I know Hemingway is known for his sparse, direct plot-driven works, but sometimes Parker makes Hemingway look almost verbose, even Dickensonian, by comparison. I don't know that I've read a writer who can tell and show more, who can convey more emotions and actions, with so few words as Parker. His works make for quick, enjoyable reads, as well as a great study in story telling.

While I was reading these two novels, I also began listening to interviews with writers, watching Vlogs and listening to podcasts. The world of publishing has changed dramatically over the past decade (and just for the record, I'm pursuing traditionally published success at present, not self-publishing).

Heck, it's an entirely new world since I was actively writing and trying to get my work published, so I figured I could spend my daily commute learning from podcasts rather than listening to music. One of those is a podcast and Youtube video series from Alexa Donne. She has a ton of videos about writing and the writing life. Most are, unfortunately three or more years old, but she is updating the series every once in a great while.

One thing she said that was so startlingly simple yet was something I had not considered was this: If you want to publish in a given genre, read what is hot right now. Read the top selling books.

Duh. She is absolutely right, yet I was still caught up in reading older books, with characters and settings I was more familiar with. So I have now set off on a quest to read modern thrillers, horror, and supernatural fiction.

I'll keep you all posted on my progress, on my modern reading selection as well as posting updates on my writing. I may even be asking for a bit of help, asking for test readers for some of my upcoming fiction.

My first two sojourns into reading more modern top-selling work was The Look Alike by Erica Spindler and The Hollow Kind by Andy Davidson. And let me tell you...well, let me tell you about those in my next blog!

For now, thanks for reading, and hopefully I'll have much more to share with you in coming weeks and months about my own writing.

A golden age for writers, so why all the literary disdain?

Writers are a funny lot.

Most of you who know me know I've been writing in one form or another virtually my entire life. As a second grader I tried to write a story following the adventures of Billy the Fish, who was accidentally dropped from an aquarium into a creek and eventually made his way through rivers all the way to the ocean, and I've been putting together stories – fiction and otherwise – on paper and on computer screens ever since.

As I grew into early adulthood, and had fallen head-over-heels in love with creepy and dark fiction, I got it in my head I might one day turn into the next Stephen King. Of course, I was clueless as to how much work, talent, raw drive, work, determination, discipline, did I mention hard work, and yes even some luck, was needed to get anything into publication, much less reach the lofty perch shared by King and others of his stature.

Unlike others I've known over the years who have pursued their writing goals while holding day jobs in construction, teaching, retail, customer service, the law, or any number of other employment fields, I've written for a living. I've spent most of my adult life in the newspaper field, reporting, editing, managing. For a couple of years I left newspapering but kept writing nonfiction, penning articles for business magazines, education publications, and a few other specialty markets.

Along the way I have quit writing fiction, given it up for good, swearing never to go back. I've done that numerous times, sometimes out of frustration with the impossibly slow pace of magazines who purported to be professional but might take months to get back to you on a submission (if they ever did). Other times I felt I was wasting time, that even with publication the pay was pathetically low – the most I ever made from a piece of fiction someone else published was a couple of $150 pieces. Sometimes I had to quit because there simply wasn't enough of me to go around – as the sole bread winner in the house, with a big family (5 kids), my first priority was keeping us housed, clothed and fed, even if that meant working two jobs while freelancing for non-fiction publications on the side (kinda like holding a third job).

Still, I'd always come back, drawn to writing.

I've hooked up with a few writer groups over the years, and I've had the great fortune to be around those who were serious about the craft, who pursued writing doggedly, as if their lives depended on it. Some of those folks are now editors and publishers, mostly with small or specialty presses, others have gone on to see some success as writers, one or two who even now support themselves fully with significant contracts writing novels for one of the Big Five publishing houses.

There were days many of us would commiserate together, bemoaning the state of writing – particularly in the horror field – where it seemed unless you were related to a magazine owner or book publishing official, seeing your own work in publication was as likely as a trip to the moon. A number experienced what appeared to be near-misses, when an agent or Big Five publisher would show interest, string you along, then back away. I had my own experience along these lines a few years back when a couple of agents showed quite a bit of interest in a series of middle-grade books. Alas, it came to naught.

So it's puzzling to me to see some of those very same people, or others like them, be so openly critical of writers now making decent to good money through their own publishing efforts, assailing those indie writers as if they were some sort of affront to Western civilization.

Most of you probably have a Kindle or some similar e-reading device. Amazon is the big kahuna in this field, and definitely the pace setter, introducing technology that allows writers to easily upload and publish their works in e-format, and making it just as easy for readers to access that work, giving readers novels and other works at a fraction of the cost the Big Five boys charge while allowing writers to make significantly more on each purchase than one of the old Big Five publishers would have paid.

In the old days, most novelists with contracts through one of the Big Five publishers (then Big Six) were lucky if they made $5,000 in a year. More often than not the quality of a given submission to an agent or publisher had little to do with whether it saw publication. The marketing folks weighed in on whether a piece was easily marketable according to their guidelines. That was the chief, overriding concern for the so-called gatekeepers of the literary world.

In this new e-reader world a bit of democracy enters the equation. Anyone can write a novel and sell it through Amazon.

I know quite a few who have been doing this for a few years now, some making a few hundred dollars a month, some a few thousand, and I know a handful who are making six-figure annual incomes from their writing. I happen to know one fella who's annual income has inched higher than that.

Here's the part I don't get. Some of my old writer friends, and a few other writers I've come across, seem to really have a problem with those making a good living at independent writing/publishing. They spend their time pooh-poohing that success, saying these people aren't "real writers" (whatever the heck that means). When confronted with the success stories of those who are making good money at their craft, the response is often accusing those indie writers of somehow exploiting the system, discovering a publishing formula that generates money, but isn't real writing.

Sorry folks, but the writers I know making a nice living at this are exploiting one simple formula: They work damn hard (if you'll pardon my French). While some old-school legacy writers sit around, gazing at their navals, wasting time telling everyone how excruciating it is to produce a thousand words a day in a couple of hours of anguished writing, these folks spend their time working – sitting in front of a computer four, eight, even twelve hours a day, producing reams of copy. I know one individual who produces a novel every five to six weeks because he parks his butt in the chair and writes for hours upon hours upon hours every week.

And that, my friends, is the key. Hard work, long-term commitment (it doesn’t happen overnight), combined with a bit of marketing savvy (which is NOT rocket science, anyone can learn and do a little marketing), and a commitment to professionalism in your work. Yes, luck plays into it, and can be the difference between someone pulling down a six-figure income vs. making ten or twelve thousand as a nice little supplemental income.

Yet there are some in the writing field who simply won't accept that, who refuse to believe indie writers are "real writers," and who take every opportunity to bash those in the indie field.

I don't understand it. As I said, writers can be a funny lot. And sometimes a bit petty.

For me, I'd love to get a big-money offer from one of the Big Five publishers. I'd love to walk into a book store and see my work on the shelves there. I don't harbor any ill will toward those who have achieved that. But, I have to say I'm just fine doing indie thing.

My question to other writers is, why aren't you?

More change -- the kids are coming home!

Since I restarted this blog talking about all the changes that had occurred in my life over the past 18 months, I'll continue that with a new one. My oldest daughter, the one who married and moved away last September, is coming back home!

Well, sort of.

They had to move out of state because her husband, who I'll call Andrew for the purposes of this blog, still had one semester of college to finish. My daughter, who I'll call Erica, has two years of school left, but she put that on hold so he could finish up and then, hopefully, get a job teaching. She had already been accepted at a university about 45 minutes down the road from here (after doing community college for her first two years of college), so they were fairly limited in where they could go.

The teaching thing hasn't worked out yet for Andrew, but yesterday he was offered a position with a media company in the same city where she will be going to college! Better yet, that puts them 45 minutes from us to the west, and 45 minutes from the rest of my family (mom, sisters and their families) to the east. She and Andrew will be smack-dab in the middle of us all!

Good for all of us – though she and Andrew might get tired of us after a while, I don't know.

The challenge of it all is the timeframe. He starts his new job in twelve days. That's right, less than two weeks. They have no apartment, they live three-and-a-half hours' drive away, and they both work, so it's not as if the two of them have nothing but free time between now and then. There's also the issue of furniture, but we'll figure that one out as we go.

Just as soon as I tell you all I'm back, ready to start publishing a few pieces under my own name again, I find I'm going to be a busy little bee over the next few weeks, doing a lot of traveling down there and back, helping them get set up, helping them move – all built around my day job.

It's a good challenge to have, though, and I can't tell you how ecstatic I am they will be moving this close.

And, since I wasn't blogging last year when the two of them were married, and I am talking about them now, I'm going to share a couple of wedding photos. The first is my wife and I escorting the lovely bride toward the ceremony and her waiting husband-to-be. The second pic is my mom with the two of them, and the third one is the happy couple. And yes, the dude is that tall – he's 6'7" (but he still can't take me on the basketball court. Just don't tell him I said that.)

Until next time (I'll post again this weekend), happy trails!

Back in the old ball game...

Hello.

I wasn't sure what to say in the rebirth of my little blog, John's Dark Scribblings, so I thought I'd just say hello.

After all, what does one start a conversation after a nearly 14-month absence?

So, hello, and welcome back.

I have been away from this little corner of the world for quite some time I suppose, and I should explain.

A lot happened in my life last year. I suppose that's always the case for a lot of people, but in my case there were some big, major life changes.

Tragically, my father passed away in February of 2013. I come from a strong family where we've been taught to just keep moving forward, keep working, never let all the bad stuff drag you too far down. So that's what I did, that's what all my family did in the aftermath of our loss – we just kept moving forward.

Between that loss in the late winter and the fall of 2013, there were more changes for our family, more joyous ones to be sure, but change none-the-less. My second oldest daughter went out into the world, going to the University of Virginia, in late August. A couple of weeks later my oldest daughter married a fine young man we've known for years and moved out of state.

Like I said, some major changes.

In the midst of it all I kind of lost my way in my writing, aided by a confusing, on-again, off-again policy by my employer that prohibited any employees from doing any writing or editing outside the company. Even fiction. Except when it didn't. Like I said, terribly confusing.

I never stopped writing – I still write and edit at work on the job as a newspaper editor (though just between you, me and the virtual fence post, my job has become more about compiling and writing reports, meetings, and paperwork than it has been about actual honest-to-goodness journalism -- you know, writing and editing work that is germane to your community). And I didn't call it quits entirely with the fiction work – I do some, let's say specialized type of writing under a pseudonym (and no, I'm not tell you anything else about it, at least not for now).

But the work that moved me – the horror that I once wrote, the mystery and historical novels I outlined - just kind of drifted away from me. Or maybe I drifted away from them. I arrived at a point where I couldn't just put my head down and keep working. I still had to do my day job, because I have a family that depends on me for income and a staff that depends on my to lead it and a company that's paying me to do that job. Beyond that I just wasn't sure what I wanted in my writing, or my life for that matter. So I stopped blogging about my work, even took this blog down from public view for quite a while.

Now I'm back, and I'll be returning to some of my writing roots over the coming months and years. I won't be terribly prolific – I have a burgeoning pseudonym career to keep going (well, okay, a pseudonym CAREER may be overstating it, but it's something I'll keep up for a while). I also still have the full-time job to keep working at, and I need to spend at least a little time with the family.

But I will be publishing a few horror and mystery tales here over the coming months – short stories, a novella or two, I'll be releasing a novel in August and another one in November. Beyond that? We'll just see how it goes.

For now I'll just say hello, and glad you're back with me.

Excerpt 8 -- A town with a dark secret

Today is an excerpt from one of my favorite stories, The Dark Secret of Warren House. This story was originally published in Dark Recesses in 2007. I also released it as a single on Amazon last autumn, and it briefly made it as high as #2 on the promotional list for horror. Now, it's part of my collection, THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES -- and that entire collection is on sale now for just 99 cents.

And now, from The Dark Secret of Warren House.

*****

“This doesn’t feel right,” Marcia said.

“Oh, come on Marcia. It must be some sort of initiation. Let’s play along.”

She didn’t move, so Kevin squeezed by and continued, pulling Marcia along.

The air grew cooler and damp. Somewhere ahead water dripped.

“Kevin, let’s go back.”

“No, look,” he said. Marcia peered around him. The light was brighter, much brighter. “Come on, that’s where everyone must be.”

Kevin walked faster. Marcia struggled to keep up. They reached the end of the corridor. Kevin entered a massive round room, its walls arching into a doom-shaped ceiling. The room seemed as big as the entire first floor of the house. Marcia stepped in behind him, then gasped.

Along the wall, ringing the entire room, were a series of alcoves, a torch mounted above each.

“Damn,” he whispered.

Marcia tried to pull him from the room, but Kevin held firm, then moved to the first alcove. Inside was what appeared to have been a body, sunken in on itself, as if the insides had dried up. Its hair was shoulder length, held in place by a rotting headband. A thick mustache hid most of its mouth.

“This is one of the guys I saw upstairs, dressed like a sixties reject. I thought it was a costume.”

Marcia stepped beside him. “I saw him, too,” she said, voice trembling. “Come on Kevin, we have to get out of here.”

The man’s skin, what was visible, was laced with cracks, the body enveloped by gray tentacle-like growths protruding from the alcove’s walls. Some of the growths wrapped around the body, holding it in place. Other clear tentacles had grown right through the skin. Kevin leaned into the alcove. A dark, thick fluid moved, slowly, through the clear tentacles, from the body toward the walls.

Kevin stepped back, grasped Marcia’s hand. She shivered. They moved to the next alcove. Another body, this one in worse shape. Kevin recognized a tattered frock coat. A top hat rested in the alcove, next to the man. This body was nearly flat, its skin as dry as the parchment on which Kevin’s Yuletide invitation had been written.

In the next alcove he recognized the long coat of the Revolutionary War era man, though no color remained. The body was papery thin, the tentacles brown and dry. Kevin reached into the alcove, touched the body. It crumbled.

“Dear god,” Marcia cried.

Kevin looked at her. She was pointing to the next alcove.

There, Kevin saw, sat Lucy Adams. Her face was drawn and pale, eyes staring vacantly. Blood dripped from a dozen different entry wounds where tentacles invaded her body. Kevin reached into the alcove, fingers brushing Lucy’s face, when a tentacle stabbed from the shadows, slicing into his forearm.

Kevin yanked his hand away. The tentacle stretched and then snapped, a sliver still in his arm.

“Get it out,” he screamed, clawing at this skin. “My knife,” he gasped.

“What?” Marcia asked.

“Knife … in my right pocket,” he said through clenched teeth. He continued scratching, peeling the skin away from the wound. Marcia slipped her hand in his pocket, withdrew a small pocketknife, then opened it.

“Now what?”

“Cut it out!” he screamed.

“Wha… I can’t do that.”

Kevin grabbed the knife and sliced around the wound. The tentacle was longer now, growing from his arm. Kevin slashed deep into the skin, cutting under the tentacle, like a surgeon removing a tumor. A chunk of flesh, tentacle imbedded in it, fell to the floor.

Kevin stumbled away, the room spinning, gray clouding his vision. He fell to one knee. Marcia knelt next to him, eased him to lying position. Blood trickled from his arm, pooling on the cold stone beneath him.

“We gotta get out of here,” Kevin said. “Help me up.”

Marcia helped him to his feet. Kevin stumbled, dizzy. He looked down, his senses snapping awake when he did. Two tentacles sprouted from the floor where his blood pooled.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Marcia draped Kevin’s uninjured arm over her shoulders to lend support. They staggered from the room, made their way down the long hallway. Each time they stepped in the flickering light of another torch Kevin glanced down, watched blood drip from his arm. Tiny tentacles sprouted from the stone where each drop splashed.

They reached the steps.

“Go,” Kevin said, pulling his arm down, pushing Marcia ahead.

“You need help.”

“Stairway’s too narrow.” Marcia started to protest. He pushed her. “Go. I’m right behind you.”
*****
To read the rest of The Dark Secret of Warren House, and the entire collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, click here for Kindle or here for Nook.

Excerpt 7 -- This hearse is looking for a body...

An excerpt from The Hearse...

Rylan was fantasizing about sleep when he glanced in his rearview mirror. His gaze locked on what he saw there. Two headlights, roughly fifty yards away, he guessed. Behind the headlights was the outline of a hearse. From this distance, in the dead of the night, Rylan knew he shouldn’t be able to make out anything behind the headlights. But the hearse was clearly visible. It was black. All hearses are black. An odd bluish glow enveloped the vehicle, bringing out details that should not have been visible.

At the sight of the hearse Trish’s first words, what she told when he arrived at her house, came flooding back. She said she was convinced someone killed Randy, even though he was found lying in the kitchen floor, felled by a heart attack in the middle of the night. Trish said she thought someone had been stalking Randy – that for two days before he died Randy said he kept seeing a hearse following him around town.

She said Randy only glimpsed it at first – catching a reflection in the mirror, then it would be gone. Later that day every time he went out he saw it, following him, or parked in the same garage. He had told her the same thing happened the day he died.

Trish said Randy was convinced he was going to die, that the hearse was some sort of harbinger. She thought it was something more easily explained, though just as sinister – a stalker. She didn’t know why, or have any idea by whom, but to her that explanation made more sense than her thirty-seven-year-old husband dropping dead in the kitchen floor.

She had shared this with the police, but they treated her like a hysterical wife, too distraught over her husband’s death to think clearly. Rylan didn’t respond to her suspicions. Truth was, he thought the same as the police. The medical examiner had pronounced the cause of death most likely a heart attack, with no reason to investigate further. Case closed. Now Rylan wished he had paid more attention to her, asked her more about the hearse, about what happened leading up to Randy’s death.

Rylan glared nervously at the mirror, the sleep that had been dancing at the edges of his mind now gone. Rylan glanced at the speedometer – sixty-five. He nudged the cruise control a bit until the speedometer read seventy, then looked back at the mirror.

The hearse matched his speed, staying the same distance behind.

He tapped the cruise control button twice more, pushing the speed to seventy-five. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, too scared to look in the mirror. Finally, after several minutes he did glance at the mirror. The hearse was still there, keeping pace.

Rylan mashed the accelerator. The speedometer shot up, past eighty, past ninety. Rylan knew there was a good chance he would trip some state trooper’s radar, end up with a ticket, feeling silly that he had let a simple hearse spook him. He didn’t care.
Feeling silly explaining all this to a cop would be a relief. The speedometer passed ninety-five, inched close to one hundred.

Rylan kept his eyes on the road ahead of him, as nervous about driving at this speed as he was about the hearse tailing him. He glanced at the dashboard clock – one forty-five. He kept driving, his focus on the road ahead, not wanting to look in the mirror until he’d left the hearse behind. He drove and glanced at the clock, repeating the process as the clock ticked off one minute, then two, three, four, five. Another minute later Rylan could stand it no longer. He looked in the mirror.

Still roughly fifty yards behind the hearse followed.

“Damn,” Rylan whispered.

He lifted his foot from the accelerator and gently pressed the brake. The speedometer dropped – eighty, seventy, sixty, fifty.

Rylan looked in the mirror. The hearse slowed, keeping the same distance between them.
*****
For just 99 cents you can read the rest of The Hearse, as well as all the stories in my collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES (sale ends, soon, though!). Download here for your Kindle, or here for your Nook.