A Sample From Shell Shock, The Sequel To Seven Stones

I had a busy week writing this week and thought I'd share a snippet:

Shuffling was heard, paws padding on soft snow. Doug found himself in the middle of the group mind, a mind whose purpose was to kill. It was an alien intelligence, an intelligence unknown but knowable, if fear and loathing did not prevent him from trying. It was not hatred, not evil, it was merely the sort of fear that caused one to kill in order to preserve the life of the pack. And Doug was incidental to it all, he sensed it. The scene acting itself out in front of him was one in which he was just an accidental observer. Blood would be spilled in order that order would be preserved, the pack allowed to survive.

Gagnon seemed to have heard something, as suddenly he raised his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired. A piercing howl went up in the direction where Gagnon fired. Again, he surveyed the forest’s edge, seeming to see what Doug could not. Again a shot, again a howl.

But the movement within the woods seemed to increase. His shots were merely stirring up a swarm of angry hornets. Doug was within the caldron, could do nothing but stand and stare. Gagnon’s behavior began to grow more and more erratic, turning again and again to confront foes he could not possibly see. He turned in Doug’s direction, looked straight at him, but did not seem to see him. Still, Gagnon raised his rifle. The futility of his situation almost made him stay where he was, but a thought of inspiration made him fall to the ground.

The bullet flew over his head and again a howl could be heard from the woods, a sickening howl that conveyed all the horror of the situation. As the pack seemed to work together, so too did the entire pack seem to howl through the voice of the wolf that had been shot. But the movement in the woods only increased. Doug looked up, saw Gagnon swirling around now, attempting to ward off a threat that seemed to come from all around him. He was in the middle of a semi-circle of woods, twenty feet in all directions.

And then the first wolf came out from its hiding, a great, grey wolf with eyes that shown yellow in the moonlight. Gagnon was not looking at it, could no longer seemed to focus, instead swirling around, looking for the enemy everywhere but not seeing the danger. Soon another wolf, then another, slowly crept out of the shadows of the woods into the clearing. Three, five, ten, a score, all of them larger than Doug could have imagined. Still Gagnon turned in circles, looking for unseen dangers as the wolves slowly circled their prey, closing their distances as they moved.

At last a black wolf slipped from the shadows, seemed to be part of the shadows himself. Larger even than the others, he appeared to be the alpha-wolf. One eye only glistened a sickly yellow in the moon’s light, but its white teeth shown brightly. At last Gagnon’s focus seemed to return, as if finally seeing what it was that has been haunting him. He raised his rifle and aimed it at the black wolf, that looked at him with the one yellow eye. But there was nothing more than a click as he pulled the trigger. He had spent his ammunition.

The black wolf worked its way among the others, still part of the pack, not its driving force but the leading weapon of whatever force drove the pack on. Doug was within the circle that focused on Gagnon. He gripped the axe but had no hopes for himself other than delaying his death by a few seconds. But the wolves paid no more attention to him than Gagnon had.

The pack was continuing to close in, so close that one brushed against Doug’s leg. Doug lowered the axe in its direction but missed. Still the pack seemed unaware or uninterested in him, as if he were no more than a tree or a stone to be worked around. The occasional growl could was emitted, teeth exposed in order to get its preys attention and fear. Taking the only chance he saw, Doug started to work his way outward from the circle, picking his way slowly through the throng. He anticipated sharp teeth attaching themselves to his arm or leg at any moment, but he was able to pick his way through the throng unmolested. His back was turned to Gagnon, but he could hear him talking to the pack as if he expected them to listen. But the authority he had always had in his tone was gone now, it was full of fear, marking him as the kind of prey that was an easy mark.

Free from the circle, Doug walked slowly to the forest line, nearly as slowly as he had walked away from it. He found a pine that seemed hospitable and jumped to the lowest branch. He climbed, higher than he needed to, as high as he could. When he felt at last secure, he turned his gaze towards the clearing, saw the wolves continue their encirclement. As Gagnon turned, the occasional wolf would make a lunge at his back, forcing him to turn again. The pine branches obstructed Doug’s view so that Gagnon was one moment visible, the next hidden with reaction he made towards a wolf. He did not see when the first wolf took him down, only heard the scream of pain. The rest he only partially saw. Doug would not have been able to look away, but he was grateful he could not see it all. The screaming abated and soon after so did the snarls. He couldn’t tell for sure—perhaps he only imagined it—but he thought he saw Gagnon gaze up to his spot in the tree as he was on the ground, a resigned look in his eyes the same as Doug had seen in the deer’s.

My Novel, Seven Stones Available (Sort Of)

My new novel, Seven Stones, is now available for pre-order for Kindle. So what’s it all about and why should you care? Because I’ve made a very conscious decision to bring you action from the get go while providing a portrait of life a century ago. The story begins a year before the start of World War I, touching upon many of the events and people of the day. It will take you to a Louisiana plantation where the owner still believes he has the right to own his workers, not only in life but also in death. The main character, Doug Slattery, encounters séances and acquaintances of Harry Houdini. Sister ships Mauretania and Lusitania cross The Atlantic with speed and in style, while The Trans Siberian Railway brings prisoners East to populate a bleak and ungiving land, where Joseph Stalin sits in exile. The South Pole has just been reached, and in the process, evidence is found in The Antarctic of a time when all the continents were united in a single Urcontinent. Physician Max Planck and novelist Jack London are using science to reinterpret the world in which they live. And through it all, the status quo is being threatened by those who would hurl bombs in order to advance their agenda. The old world is dying. What will survive, and what will come from the ashes? And what happens when mankind plays with powers beyond its reckoning?

A Free Copy Of Perchance To Dream For Kindle

If you have a Kindle Reader from Amazon, I urge you to download a free copy of my book, Perchance To Dream:

Deal is through Sunday, June 14. It's the second of a series but I think it works fine on its own. But if you insist on starting from the beginning, the first is only 99 cents: The Amazing Morse

The Association (The Amazing Morse #3)

I have just hit the publish button for Amazon Kindle and am awaiting it to be made available for sale. This is the third book I've published and for some reason I have even more butterflies in my stomach than with the other two. Perhaps it is that the more I publish the more real the idea of pursuing this as a career seems to be. The first novel was a dream come true, and while I had some wild flights of fancy about what I could achieve with it, I really didn't know what to expect. The second book, it's hard for me to remember that far back. It's only been a year, but what a year it's been. Looking back, the fact that I've managed to write a book this year has been quite an achievement. I know people who've written 8 books in a year, so it doesn't seem like my one book is such a big thing, but for me it is. It's been a struggle and a major commitment, but it has also been a bit of an anchor for me, a refuge from the demands of the outside world. It has taken a lot from me, but it has also given back. Writing is a process of discovery. One has to look into the deep recesses of the mind, heart and soul in order to put something you're proud of on the page. I hope that's what I've done; at the moment I'm a little too fried-out to tell. I'll post a link here when it becomes available. In the meantime, here is the cover:

The Association is now available on Kindle. You can find it here: http://www.amazon.com/Association-Amazing-Morse-Book-ebook/dp/B00OL54DRQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1413511033&sr=8-1&keywords=james+rozoff+the+association

A Seance from The Sleep Of Reason (Part 2)

Writing this sort of creeped me out, I hope the chills translate to others, as well:

Like a wisp of smoke that turned solid, the bluish presence within the circle slowly took form. Two eyes seemed to exude sadness and knowledge as they stared towards Russell. The figure was tall and thin, his narrow jaw and long nose blossoming into a prominent forehead. Wild waves of hair gathered around the sides of a receding hairline. The figure in the center radiated its blue light so that each of the members holding hands were bathed in the light.

“What secrets are you hoping to discover?” asked the blue apparition, peering down at them. He appeared unnaturally tall, as if he levitated in order to show his rank.

“We are looking for our missing friends,” said Russell. “Have you seen them?”

“You want answers, but answers are worth nothing until they are earned. If you wish to see what we see, then you must walk the path that we have walked.”

“We only wish to find our friends. Will you not help us?”

“Our secrets are our own. If you want answers, you must join us. Trust for trust.”

“We don’t want to join you,” said Doug, “we just want what’s ours. You have no right to keep our friends from us.”

“They came here of their own volition. Like you, they came seeking answers, which we provided them. But answers come with a price, which they have paid. Will you?”

Mindy was tempted to ask what price they would have to pay, what price Dave and Johnny had paid, but Doug spoke again.

“We have not come to bargain with you,” said Doug. His voice projected authority, but Mindy had no idea where it came from, what he could back it up with.

The figure inside the circle did not seem to recognize any authority other than his own. Mindy again became aware of the hands she clung to, felt the security they provided. Maintain the circle and contain the spirit. Although everyone in the circle reflected the blue glow from the presence in the middle. The blue glow seemed to lie now even beyond their circle. She felt the beads that Russell’s grasp pushed into the flesh of her hands, realized they belonged to the man in front of them, that he must be Gregor Soeldner. She feared that he might recognize them as his own, demand them back.

“I do not bargain, I speak truth. The Association has endured because we have not betrayed our secrets. If we let you in, we will not let you out.”

“We have summoned you to tell us what we need to know,” Mindy was pretty sure Doug was bluffing that he had nothing to back up his bluster. “You are contained within the circle we have created. You have no power, you cannot set conditions.”

“Yes, I am contained within your circle,” said Gregor. “But your circle is a small thing. And I am the only one within it.”

Mindy had been staring at Gregor, at the bluish glow of his presence. Now she shifted her gaze to beyond the circle the four members of The Beyond Show formed with their hands. Looking to her right, then left, she noticed beyond the circle the same glow existed outside of the four members. There were many figures outside of the circle, surrounding them, each of them holding hands in the same manner that Mindy and the others were. Each of them shared a gaze of intent that lacked any human element.

She looked at Doug and found him lacking any response. In that moment she knew she’d better gather her courage, that she was the one who had the most to lose. Whatever strength and experience the others had, she was among them and therefore had a part to play. She gazed at Gregor, who as yet had not looked at her, and said, “Perhaps they have us, but we have you. You have been summoned by us, and you will answer to us. You no longer speak from the authority that you did as a man of God, you are but a remnant of a man, a memory that has lingered. You exist to share your message. Speak!”

He looked at her as one who had been discovered, and said, “The answers and the people you seek are below us. If you dare to follow, it is there that you will find your answers.”

The figure of Gregor flickered, as if to say that it was not the thing they should be looking at. The group, still holding hands, turned their gaze outside of the circle, looked at the figures beyond. There were enough to form a full circle around them, even at a distance. But the circle soon dissipated as the figures began to walk single file towards a building to their west. Mindy looked to Doug and the others. Without the need for discussion, the decision was made. It was Russell who spoke for the group, “You are released, Gregor Soeldner.” The light that reflected from each of their faces vanished into blackness as the figure in front of them disappeared.

“Let’s follow them,” said Mindy, her words braver than the feeling in her heart. They trailed after the figures who moved slowly, like a chain gang returning from work. They disappeared through a door that Russell was forced to open for the others. Izzy would have been more than happy to be the last one through the door, but Doug stood behind, as if to guard against a reappearance from Gregor.

They walked upon tiled floors littered with glass, their way well-lit by the glow of the apparitions. There were perhaps fifty of them, most but not all of them dressed similar to Gregor. Some appeared to have been from newer eras, as if even in death The Association was adding to its ranks. There was one who seemed to be a teenager, perhaps one who had come to this place not many years back to drink a few beers and give a scare to his girlfriend. The whole of them shuffled along like zombies, as if their will had abandoned them, or as if they had surrendered themselves to the judgment of The Association, of Gregor Soeldner.

They led them down a flight of stairs, led them through hallways that shone blue in their presence. Great pipes hugged cement walls, vanishing into the darkness where the blue glow did not extend. Mindy walked behind Russell, content to have someone at her back in the darkness.

As Mindy walked she became aware of the terrible silence around her. The glowing apparitions were noiseless as they plodded along cement floors like zombies called by their master. Before she knew it, the smooth cement gave way to a hasher stone flooring, causing her to become more aware of her footsteps that padded softly like ripples on a still pond. The darkness gave opportunity for her mind to imagine hidden dangers, but she found herself preferring it to the blue glow.

There was a tunnel that led off to their right, cloaked in darkness. But at the edge of light emitted by the group, Mindy couldn’t help thinking that for an instant she caught a glimpse of a skeleton.

They were well lost by this point, having taken a large amounts of twists and turns, too many choices of which tunnel to take. As they passed by on offshoot, Mindy heard the sound of movement which she knew was not caused by any of them.

“Did you hear that?” Mindy asked, turning back towards Izzy and Doug.

“Yes,” said Doug. “Try not to think about it. Hopefully, The Association will keep us safe for their own purposes, whatever they may be.”

“It might be Dave!” said Mindy. Russell said he was somewhere in the dark, alone. We’ve got to find out if it’s him.”

“If we get lost in here, we’ll never find our way out. We have to stick with them.”

“I’ll go with her,” said Izzy. “I’ve got a flashlight. We’ll investigate and see what we can find.”

“You’ll get lost,” said Doug.

“We’ll only get lost if they allow us to get lost. I don’t think that will happen. You and Russell go ahead, we’ll catch up.”

Izzy appeared truly brave at that moment, making Mindy wonder if the times he appeared less so to be merely a guise. How could somebody so unknowable become so trustworthy, she thought.

Izzy turned on his flashlight and they headed down the dark tunnel, Russell and Doug still following the blue procession. Mindy found herself relieved when they had distanced themselves enough that she could no longer detect the blue that had so consumed her sight.

The tunnel they entered was rough, crudely dug, and Izzy gazed about with the aid of his flashlight to determine if it was even safe to enter. It looked to be dug into earth or clay rather than rock. They did not have to travel far before reaching the end. The noise was louder now, like the scratching of a rat. Izzy seemed reluctant to lower the beam of his flashlight, preferring ignorance to knowledge. When at last he found the courage to lower it, Mindy saw a figure hunched in the darkness, clawing at the wall in front of him as if he were looking to expand the tunnel he was lost in. It wasn’t Dave, thought Mindy, it couldn’t be him. He had been wearing the blue jacket she had bought for him when he left. This man wore a flannel shirt. And boots, Dave didn’t own boots. This couldn’t be Dave.

Mindy would have been content to let it go at that, allow whoever it was to go about his business. But Izzy realized him for what he was, a fellow human being in need of aid. He called to him, and when that did not work, grabbed him by the shoulder. The man twisted around with speed caused by fear. He stared into the light that Izzy shown at him, and Mindy couldn’t help thinking he flashed them a huge smile. But the edges of that smile were ragged, and in a flash of realization, Mindy realized that his lips were for the better part missing. Even as she looked at him in terror, the man in front of them was busily moving his jaw, attempting to bite at whatever flesh remained in chewing distance. His eyes were wide open despite the pain unexpected light must have caused him. He was alert in the way only great fear can achieve. Unable to look at the massacred mouth, she focused on his eyes, which radiated terror. She could see the pupils shrinking in reaction to the light, at the jaw nervously looking for something to chew.

Mindy screamed. She felt her body shrink towards Izzy, trying instinctually to find shelter in another’s strength. Together, they retreated slowly from the tunnel, Izzy’s flashlight still shining in the face of the man whose fear had caused him to chew his own lips off. Mindy could still the jaw working as the vision faded from her sight.

They had not been separated for long. When they returned to the tunnel they had come from, the glow had disappeared, but they knew which direction they were going. They ran quickly, as much to distance themselves from what they witnessed as to find the others.

The Sleep of Reason Chapter 4

Wherein our hero meets the owner of a house she insists is haunted:

Chapter 4

 

Dave and Johnny got out of the van to introduce themselves to Lynn Wilsing, a woman who appeared to be approaching middle age without much care. She was in the process of exiting her car when she was momentarily startled by Johnny’s well-inked face staring into her window. She allowed herself to relax a little when Johnny explained that they had been sent by Doug to deal with her “situation”, but not entirely.

“We’ve been living at my mother-in-law’s house lately,” she said when they were inside and she took their coats. Considering it was her own house, she seemed less than comfortable being there. As they seated themselves in the living room, Mrs. Wilsing, who was a moment ago frightened by Johnny’s appearance, was now talking tattoos with him. Dave was left alone temporarily with his thoughts and the anxiety he was feeling at what he was about to encounter. Johnny had explained that the majority of such cases turned out to be nothing more than the over-active imaginations on the part of those who reported the incidents, but he also expressed his belief that this was likely to be the real thing. It was apparent to Mrs. Wilsing which of the two scenarios was the correct one.

“If you could explain what unusual events you’ve experienced, starting at the beginning, please.”

“Well,” she began hesitantly, apparently uncomfortable sharing the information even with people who took her situation seriously, “I don’t know if it was actually an event, but the first time I felt something was wrong was while I was lying in bed one night. I awoke from a sound sleep with just a really unsettling feeling, an unnamed dread. The more I tried to think about what it was that could be frightening me, the more the fear increased.” Dave noticed the anxiety level rising in her as she recalled the experience. Her skin seemed loose, as though she had recently lost weight through worry. “I wanted to call out to my husband, to reach over just to touch him and know he was there, but I was frozen. I was all alone, staring into some nameless fear. Or…or some nameless fear was staring into me.” She was caught in an imaginary shudder.

“Anyway, that’s all it was…the first time. But it happened again a few nights later, and again. Like the first time, it was just an unameable fear, but it was a fear of something, like something too horrible for my eyes to even perceive, as though they wouldn’t permit me to see what was there. After the third time, I began researching the matter online. I learned about night terrors, did you ever hear of those?”

 “Pavor nocturnus,” said Dave, recalling the research he had done when his own nightmares had first started. At the time, he had felt as if he were going crazy. He had no idea he was developing an ability to see things in his dreams. “Feelings of intense fear while being in non-REM sleep. That doesn’t sound like what you described. If you weren’t able to move, it sounds more like sleep paralysis, a condition where one awakens from REM sleep while still subjected to the paralysis that keeps us from acting out physically in our dreams.”

Both Mrs. Wilsing and Johnny looked at Dave with an appreciation he was not used to.

“But there’s more to the story, isn’t there, Mrs. Wilsing?” Dave asked, wanting to remove the attention from himself.

“Yes. At first I tried to look for the most obvious solutions, bad dreams or some kind of sleep disorder. But then I began to hear noises even when I knew I wasn’t sleeping. And…and my husband wouldn’t hear it. We’d be in the living room together, reading quietly, and I would hear a voice whispering, and I’d look at my husband and he wouldn’t notice anything. And he has better hearing than me, he makes fun of me because I always mishear what he tells me.”

“That’s not unusual, Mrs. Wilsing,” said Johnny. “Some people are just more receptive to such things than others.”

“I didn’t know that. For a while, I thought I was losing my mind. I mean, I couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t pretend I wasn’t hearing things, experiencing things. I even began to suspect that it might somehow be my husband’s doing, that he was trying to drive me crazy. Then, one night, I heard something up in the attic, like a buzzing or many different voices whispering. I looked at my husband, challenged him to deny that he heard anything. He tried to soothe my concerns. He wanted to go up there, but I wouldn’t let him. Finally, he pushed past me, walked up the stairs. I was too afraid to follow. It was like he was walking into a meat locker, it felt that cold. And it was summer! I could sense the courage drain out of him, thought he wouldn’t admit anything was wrong.”

She ceased speaking, waited for some kind of feedback from her listeners, as though she were looking for confirmation that what she was saying didn’t make her seem crazy.

“An experience like that can make you thing you’re losing your mind,” said Dave, picking up on her anxiety. He too had a similar experience. When he had first begun to have his revelatory dreams, he had never felt so frightened, never felt so isolated. He prayed he would never feel that way again. And yet here he was, perhaps about to plunge himself into someone else’s experiences. He looked over at Johnny, was amazed that his friend did not appear concerned, seemed almost anxious for such an encounter.

“Your husband’s reaction isn’t unusual,” said Johnny. “People do not believe in such things, do not wish to believe in such things, and so they prefer to pretend they did not feel what they felt, did not see what they saw. Please, continue.”

“Well, as he walked up the stairs, I could hear the buzzing getting louder, more intense. They, it, whatever was up there, was aware of us. I’d done some reading by this point, I knew some ghosts just go about their business without paying any attention to those who live in the house they share. But this one knew we were there, seemed angry at our intrusion. I tried to call to my husband, make him come back downstairs. But I couldn’t. It was like fear gripped me by the throat, and it was stronger than any will that I had.”

“And then…? Prompted Johnny. It seemed like she needed constant encouragement in order to continue her story. Even though she was convinced they would believe her, she was still not comfortable sharing the information, perhaps not comfortable remembering it.

“And then…when my husband reached the top of the stairs, I could tell that all of his courage went out of him. I could see it in his posture. He knew there was something up there. But he wasn’t about to let me know it. He walked to the right, out of my sight. And then, the light bulbs just exploded. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run and get a flashlight, I wanted to shout to him, make sure he was okay. But I couldn’t do any of that. I could only stare into the darkness, too frightened to do anything.” There something in her voice that made Dave feel as though a cold breeze had suddenly swept through the house. “I could still hear the whispering, no louder, but busier, more menacing. I just stood and waited for my husband to walk out of the darkness. And after a time that seemed forever, after I had time to imagine a thousand horrible things occurring to him, he walked back down the stairs and out of the darkness. But part of the darkness stayed with him. He had seen something in the attic, but he still won’t tell me what it was. Not that I’ve pushed him too hard to tell me. I’m not sure I want to know. But he believed me after that He knew there was something living in the house.”

“We left the house soon after that,” she continued. “When things started getting broken, we knew we were putting our lives in danger if we stayed another night. Of course, we couldn’t tell anyone why we left. Who would have believed us if we told them the truth? We…we told them we had to bug-bomb the house,” The embarrassment was evident in her mannerism.

“It’s true,” said Dave to Johnny. “This sort of thing really alienates you from others just when you need them the most.”

“At any rate,” she went on, “that’s when I started talking to others online. I was amazed at how many groups are out there that discuss such matters.”

“And that’s when Doug found you,” said Johnny.

“Yes.”

“We’ll take a look, Mrs. Wilsing, and see what we can do. I’d like it if you and your husband were gone while we deal with this. The only real danger is in your own reactions, but I’d hate to have it said that anyone was injured while I was doing my job.”

What about me? thought Dave. If Johnny was worried about the Wilsings getting hurt, might Dave and Johnny not be in danger as well?

“My husband’s already at his mom’s. To tell you the truth, I don’t like being here right now. I’ll join him and make sure we stay away until you give us the all clear.”

“We’ll let you know what we find out,” said Johnny. “A ghost is a riddle to be unraveled. They’re not unlike a psychiatric patient that needs to reconcile their strong emotions with reality. First I have to understand what their story is, then I need to help them make peace with whatever is bothering them. Oh, and just to warn you, things may get broken. A ghost is really not much more than a ball of frustrated emotional energy and they do tend to act out, especially as they approach the truth of their existence. If you have anything of great value you might want to take it with you.”

“We’ve already had things broken. Windows, dishes, that sort of thing. The neighbors are beginning to talk. After the front window blew out, my next door neighbor asked me if Ken was becoming violent. I covered, said he was playing around with the nail gun he got for his birthday.”

“So you haven’t told anyone you have a ghost in your house?” Dave questioned her.

“Why would I tell anybody that? Who would believe me? I hardly believe it myself. It’s bad enough having odd sounds in the house, things falling off shelves for no reason. I want to at least try to have a normal life outside of my house. If I started talking about ghosts, who knows what people would think of me?”

“But it’s really happening,” said Dave. At least, there was a good possibility that something was happening.”

“Yes, it’s really happening,” Mrs. Wilsing said, “but I don’t like to think about it. I just want it to go away. I just want my life to be like it was before. Can you help?”

“I hope so, Mrs. Wilsing,” said Johnny. “I can’t make any promises with something like this, but I’ll see what I can do. I have had my successes in matters of this sort before. But tell me, is there a certain time of day when the visitations seem to occur? Any certain event that tends to trigger them?”

She paused for a moment to consider, then said, “It seems to be sometime around eleven in the evening. Now that I think about it, that seems to be when most if not all of them occurred. We’re usually in bed by that time, and the one time I told you about in the attic, it was a Saturday night. We had just finished watching a movie and were about ready to go to bed.”

“That should give us a little time, then.”

Before they left, Lynn, as Mrs. Wilsing insisted they call her, gave them a brief tour of the house. It was the kind of place Dave would have considered a dream home, an older building meticulously updated and restored. Everywhere, the walls were coated with fresh, bright paint, augmenting the original design. High ceilings gave an airiness to the rooms without forsaking quaintness. A bright blue paint covered the living room, a cheerful but elegant flower patterned wallpaper in the dining room. Lynn and her husband must have spent long hours bringing the place up to the condition it was now. Dave couldn’t help thinking how unfair life was, for people to work so hard to make something beautiful only to find some darkness at its core.

From the dining room, Lynn led them to the kitchen. It was a bright white, even with the rays of the setting sun the only illumination. From the kitchen, a second set of stairs ran upward towards the bedrooms above, stairs that had originally been for the use of servants. They led to a bedroom that was once the servants’ quarters, which was also connected to the main upstairs hallway. But the stairs continued upwards beyond the servants’ quarters, as well. Lynn had no need to say anything, Dave knew that those stairs led to the attic. Without saying anything, Lynn led them through the servants’ quarters and out into the main upstairs hall, back down the other set of stairs that led back into the living room. Without further mention of the stairs that led to attic, Lynn grabbed a few items from around the house and left to join her husband. But before leaving, she turned back towards Johnny, apparently feeling the need to share one more piece of the puzzle.

“I wasn’t going to mention this, since I’m not sure it’s related. You must already think me…unusual. But in the interest of being honest, when we first moved into the house, I began to experience a rather intense bout of depression, despite the joy we had at finding this house. I’d had experienced depression before, but nothing like this. I don’t know if it’s related or not, but I thought I should mention it. Maybe it might help convince you it’s not the house but me that has the problem.” She laughed a nervous laugh, and then exited.

Dave and Johnny were left alone in the house, Johnny with a relaxed air, Dave not so much.

“Do you think we’ll encounter anything, Johnny?”

“Quite likely, quite likely. Mrs. Wilsing seemed honest enough. Her story sounds like a few I’ve heard before. The man I was telling you about, Edwin Gauthier, the one that committed suicide. I reckon it’s his ghost that’s causing the trouble. Although it seems odd. If he’s a suicide, he died in despair. That might account for the depression Mrs. Wilsing spoke about, but that doesn’t account for the rest of what they experienced. There seems to be a lot of anger. Angry ghosts instill that kind of fear, not suicides. Well, whatever it is, we’ll likely find out soon enough.”

Dave watched his companion as he talked, amazed at the calmness with which he discussed the impending appointment with a ghost. Johnny must know something Dave didn’t because Dave couldn’t imagine not being afraid. It seemed the Wilsings knew the right way to react a ghost, at least.

Seated on a couch, Johnny was content to stare absent-mindedly out the window. Dave was unsure if he were preparing himself for what was to come, or if he was trying to pick up on subtle emanations of the otherworldly nature. Either way, Dave didn’t want to distract him, so he tried to empty his thoughts, make himself receptive. But it was no good: he could not silence the disquiet that seemed to bubble up from the pit of his stomach. He wondered if this might be a result of some kind of supernatural contact, but decided it was just plain old-fashioned fear. Why was he here at all, and what did Doug think he or anyone else could accomplish against such phenomena? They were not things that humans were meant to deal with, they were all of them out of their depths. And yet they were each of them aware of things that others weren’t. Whether or not they were equipped to deal with such things, they seemed destined to encounter them nevertheless. At least it was better to deal with them as a group, not alone as Dave once had to do.

Alone, thought Dave. I wonder what Mindy’s up to now?

“So how come a ghost tends to show up at a certain time of night?” the question occurred to Dave suddenly.

“It’s probably the moment he died. Or some significant instant.”

“Yeah, but what does time mean to a ghost?”

“Well, it’s kinda…”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Well, no. But I’ve found it to be true. And I’ve had luck with ghosts, so far.”

“But you’re more or less groping in the dark. That’s just the way Doug described the whole problem. Something works for a while whether or not we really understand the situation. So we just get comfortable with it and trust it’s always going to work. It works until it doesn’t. It works until you encounter something that doesn’t fit your paradigm.”

“That’s life, inn’t? There aint no real answers, just some clues, some inclinations and a bit of faith. Leastways, I guess I know about as much as anyone about ghosts. Anyone living, anyway,” he said, and a smile slid across his face.

“So tell me something about them.”

“Well, for starters, there aint no such thing as an old ghost, at least not what I’ve seen. As far as I know—and like you said, I only see what little I’ve seen—a ghost is a thing formed by the intense passions of a particular event. Like this case here, a man’s wife cheats on him with his best friend. There’s rage for you. Like a child, a ghost is conceived of passion. Like anything that outlives the person who created it, it is conceived of passion.”

Dave was tempted to ask questions, but decided he wasn’t in any hurry to receive the answers. The conversation having come to an end, Johnny pulled an old paperback from his coat pocket that was hanging in the hallway, made himself at home on the couch, and began to read. Dave curled up on the chair he was on and watched the November sun make its early exit. The cold and dark outside should have made him appreciate the comfort of the house, but the thought that they were not alone sucked all comfort from him. Instead, having a few hours to wait until the anticipated encounter, Dave sought some sort of quiet and peaceful place within himself.

Sleep eventually overcame him. In time, dreams emerged from the darkness, though he didn’t recognize them as such. He was lying on a bed, felt himself being brought back from darkness towards the light. Coming back to life, he found himself looking at a man in clerical garb making the sign of the cross over him. The man’s face was filled with compassion, a slight smile on his face somehow connecting with something he himself felt deep within him. Some miracle had just ocurred, whatever had put him in this bed had been driven out by a miraculous power. And it was the man above him who had done the healing, or at least been the conduit for it. There was a bond between the two of them, healer and healed. Becoming more aware of his surroundings, he noticed himself to be in a rudimentary sort of hospital, something closer to a log cabin. There were other occupied beds around him, with other attending men and women dressed in religious garb. There was a warmth that radiated from a wood stove in the middle of a room large enough for perhaps twenty beds, but there seemed to be a different sort of warmth that radiated in the room as well. Without knowing why, he found himself saying, “Thank you Father Oxner.” The man who sat on his bed, a bald man of average build, said nothing but permitted his smile to increase somewhat. It was then that he noticed where the other sense of warmth was coming from. It seemed to radiate from Father Oxner’s smile.

 

“Did you hear that?”

The words brought Dave’s consciousness out of his dream, but it was not yet fully dragged back to the waking world. So deep had he been in his alternate state of consciousness that he did not immediately know where he was or who had spoken. Opening his eyes to see Johnny’s alert face staring at him mad Dave want to retreat back into himself, back into the comfort of his dreams. The contentment he had felt there was not something he wanted to leave. He felt quite at home there, despite the primitiveness of his surroundings. In the end, it was not the creature comforts but the warmth of a smile and caring community that seemed to bring true contentedness. But Johnny spoke again, wrenching Dave from the comfort he longed for. Instead, he stared at the faces tattooed on Johnny’s faces and arms that appeared to him like spirits trapped on flesh. Each of them seemed to share Johnny’s urgency. But the memory of where they were and why sparked a jolt of adrenaline that soon had him fully alert. Caught off guard as he was, he was unable to combat the fear that was growing within him. Between dream and wakefulness lay a darkness that seemed to cling to him. He did not yet have enough pieces of the puzzle of his current predicament to provide him any context. Fear, for the moment, was his surest protector.

“What?” asked Dave.

“There’s a noise upstairs. Not a noise, really, more like a stirring. I’m not sure if I heard something, but I sensed something.”

“So now what?”

“Now we get chummy with it.” Johnny must have noticed Dave’s state, because he said, ”You okay? Don’t worry, stick by me, you’ll be fine. Just listen to me, not it. Never do anything a ghost tells you to, for any reason!”

Dave and Johnny again ascended the stairs that led to the old servants’ bedroom. But this time, they did not stop there but continued towards the attic. There were perhaps fifteen steps, but each of them made an impression on Dave. Each step ramped up the fear within him. What he was about to encounter was a being the likes of which was once capable of causing sleepless nights for him as a child after merely hearing a story told around a campfire. It felt as he were about to cross a threshold, one that had been very well marked in him deep in his DNA. Every instinct he had, every story he had heard, every movie he had ever watched, was telling him to stay away from the door that by now was only a few more steps away. The image of the door was already etched upon his memory forever. This quite ordinary looking old door, painted white, assumed all of the fearful qualities that his imagination could summon. It was scrawled deep into the neural pathways of his mind, like some childhood trauma. His mind rushed back to such memories, his deepest fears realized. He felt himself again locked inside of a trunk, his brother’s cruel laughter drowning out any appeals to a saner world.

He remembered running with other boys through the crosswalk that led from his grade school towards home, remembered one boy who was a few steps behind the rest. He remembered the car they somehow did not see in the bright daylight of a late spring day. He remembered the daring and the feeling of immortality of youth wash away forever as the car pushed the little body of his friend Gordon, who always seemed to be a step slower than he was, into the air. With the sound of shrieking brakes in their ears, they saw Gordon’s body move in a way that did not appear real. But it was real, realer than many of the things he once believed to be real, and there was nothing—ever—that was going to make it not real. It was a stain in his memory, a black spot on the sun that would forever mar the brightness that had been his youthful life.

Feelings he had hoped never to feel again were rising from the dark places where he had stored them, places he had thought gone forever. And being an adult did not make him any more able to cope with such feelings. The fear he experienced now was the same he had felt as a child; nothing he had learned in all those years had given him any defenses against it.

Dave simply stared at the door, wondering how opening it could possibly make him more frightened, having no intentions of finding out. The price of freedom is high, he couldn’t help thinking, the idea of stepping away from the safety of the collective mind approaching insanity, an utter lack of security. Again he was asking himself to take the plunge into an utterly unknown universe, hoping that he could find something to grab onto before he fell into the awaiting abyss.

He noticed Johnny reach out his hand, grab the knob. He wished more than anything that Johnny would not open the door, but felt powerless to prevent it. And yet, while the better part of him wished for a small place to hide—even a jail cell of steel and cement, as long as it kept him safe from the outside world—a small voice inside him seemed to be whispering, even as the door was opening to reveal unnamed and unnatural fears: cool.

 

That’s it, no more giveaways

 

 

It’s hard on someone just starting in their writing career to get the kind of feedback they need, which is why the idea of giving books away in the hopes of garnering reviews seems to be an acceptable tradeoff. Except that I’ve given away thousands of books and got exactly one review as a result. At least it was a favorable review: I gave away a short story which I clearly labeled as “a very short story” and was given a 1 star review because it wasn’t a full-length novel. He also mentioned something about me writing at about the middle school level. I won’t argue that point, but you’re welcome to click on either of my books on the right hand side and decide for yourself the validity of the statement.

But the point is that I have decided it is not worth my time to give away books in the hopes that it might somehow benefit me. This is not me grumbling, nor am I saying that readers are not holding up their end of the bargain. What I gave away I gave away with perhaps hopes but without implied obligations. It is simply a business decision, as well as the feeling that my work is worthy of the modest price I have attached to it. Because honestly, if I did not feel that my writing was worth more than nothing, why would anyone be expected to read it?

People don’t appreciate what is given for free, which is why we tend to waste what nature has given us while lusting after those things that have been shrink-wrapped and put on display on store shelves. This is not an observation I like to make, but I will not deny the truth of it just because the thought doesn’t appeal to me. Again, this is not a value judgment but a statement of fact. As optimistic and altruistic as I tend to be, a writer cannot afford to stray too far from the facts.

So if you’re reading this as I write it, you may have one last chance to grab my book—Perchance to Dream—on Amazon for free. I think it has a couple of hours left on the giveaway. Do I want you to give it a fair and honest review for the work I’ve done? Of course I do. But I’ve already decided you’ll probably appreciate it less because you haven’t invested any money in it. Hell, chances are you’ll download it and never get around to reading it, in the same way I record things on my DVR I never get around to watching. Which is why I’ll never give my work away for free again. At least for now : )

Looking Into The Dark Places

Like any other genre, writing books that deal in horror and the supernatural requires a fair amount of research. Sometimes the research is merely for inspiration, other times I need to know the specifics of how something is done or if it can be done at all. I think more than most, though, my research tends to take me to dark places.

Not all the research I do is on scary or shocking subjects. For Perchance to Dream, I had to learn a little bit about sailing and The Apostle Islands. I had to make a few phone calls to know if sailboats were available for rent in November. I visited The Wisconsin Dells in order to make sure my memory of the place was correct and also to see if anything inspired me. While there, I found a place that had some tremendous beer on tap at reasonable prices. All in all, that was some enjoyable research.

But then there are the other subjects I feel compelled to delve into. In The Amazing Morse, I had to know what a dead body would look like after sitting in a house for a few weeks. I had to find out what a human’s physiological reactions would be to being strangled. These are not pleasant subjects and to be honest, I wouldn’t have minded skipping such research. In older days, perhaps, I could have merely made mention of the act without any kind of detail. But the modern age seems to demand accuracy and detail. Since the information is so readily available, I feel compelled to make use of it.

The Amazing Morse storyline involved a psychic, so I wanted as much information as possible on the subject. With a background in magic and an interest in Houdini, I was already familiar with the spiritualist movement of the early 20^th Century, so I decided to make my psychic someone who was well researched in the history of spiritualism On her bookshelf were books that I’d heard referenced in Houdini biographies. A few grace my own bookshelves, while some I hope never to see in person. It’s hard to look into such things sometimes, and I have definite limits as to what I will or will not research.

I don’t believe in spiritualism, psychics, or much of that sort of thing, so it isn’t all that frightening to me. What does start to disturb me is something like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ixwC6tm_Cc I don’t expect anyone to sit through the whole show, I certainly haven’t. Although I have watched far more of it than is probably healthy for me. What disturbs me about it is that while it initially seems sort of batshit crazy, there is a certain amount of sense to it as well. Once you start buying into the premise, once you start to give it just a little bit of your trust, it kind of makes sense. Not only that, it brings in genuinely scary and real facts such as the existence of the MK Ultra program. There are some truths here that get past the typical citizen.

But that is not an isolated video. Take a look around YouTube sometime and see just how many similar conspiracy-related videos there are that involve reptilian aliens in disguise as politicians, the illuminati, etc. And each of these videos have hundreds of thousands of views. Again, most of them contain a good amount of fact-based reasoning, at least as much as your typical news program provides. YouTube can lead you down some interesting rabbit holes.

The worst part of researching for books that involve horror, though, are the real life horrors that exist, the evil that lurks in the heart of men. As Perchance To Dream involved a suicide cult, I felt the need to understand what people involved in such a cult must be going through. I have come across interviews of Heaven’s Gate members giving their last thoughts about how they are going to catch the comet out of this world and onto a higher plane of existence. I have watched film footage of casualties of WWI, men whose faces no longer resemble a human’s, men with thousand yard stares and shell shock so bad they could not stand up. The worst of it is that I don’t think I’ll end up using any of that research, as my book seems to have taken a different direction.

But assuredly, the most disturbing thing I have come across is this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkookcrAnSE This is the audio recording of Jim Jones' final message to his people in Jonestown and the resulting killing. I don’t recommend listening. But it is out there. Just like evil, it is out there.

And why do I do it, you may ask? I think that if such ideas are dealt with in fiction, we are able to—if not understand—at least cope with some of the darkness that exists. Since I was a child, I always enjoyed watching scary movies, reading scary comics, telling scary stories late at night when friends would sleep over. It was never a question of rooting for the bad guys or celebrating sin. I think it deals with not wanting to be afraid, and being afraid does not mean what we feel when peering into the darkness, but being so afraid of the truth, good or bad, that we are afraid to look at all.