S. Kovax's Blog, page 2

A CHRISTMAS SIREN – EXCERPT FROM THE UNINVITED WORDS VOL 3

A Christmas Siren

When the woman touched Derek’s hand, a shiver ran through him. His heart froze as though he had fallen into icy water. The bar was deserted, him drinking alone and the bartender getting ready for closing. Silence and dim light enveloped the chairs already stacked on top of the tables.

Derek swallowed as he looked at her, experiencing a hot flush at her piercing brown eyes. She leaned close to him then, her full lips just touching his skin. Another shiver ran through him, this one more pleasant than the previous.

‘I’ve got a gift for you,’ she whispered, her breath warm on his ear, then giggled and walked out. The whole thing happened in seconds, but Derek had enough time to glance at her and decide that he’d never seen a prettier woman in his entire life. The tight red dress showed her perfect figure, and he wondered how she bore the cold without a coat when he had kept his on even inside. She only wore a striped scarf and a blinking Santa hat with the dress.

Derek looked at the bartender for confirmation that this had indeed happened, but the man had his back to him, organising glasses. He asked for a double Jägermeister, left twenty euros on the bar, and stormed out.

Tiny snowflakes were falling as he searched for her, the bittersweet taste of his last drink still lingering in his mouth. All the wooden Christmas market stalls stood empty in the dead of night, the smell of mulled wine and sausage missing from the air and the joyful people gone home. There was no one around, so he looked at his watch. Christmas Eve was turning into Christmas Day, and he was searching for a phantom in the abandoned old town of Dusseldorf.

‘This is crazy,’ he mumbled to himself. He sounded drunk, but he didn’t feel it. The cold had to be keeping the alcohol’s effects at bay.

Coming to Germany in the festive season had seemed like the perfect idea; better than sitting at home in his tiny East London flat, ruminating on the past, the years wasted in prison, and the people he had hurt, including his family. This was the place of love, of starting over, where even the crimes of his earlier life couldn’t spoil the festive atmosphere. He’d hoped to meet someone similarly lonely who craved warm company, if for nothing else but a few hours of drinking wine and chatting. He hadn’t imagined the encounter this way. Where is she? he asked himself again, desperation entering his mind. How could she disappear so quickly?

He sighed and watched his breath dissolve, then heard a soft giggle from behind him. He turned like a slug, the Jäger now altering his movement, and saw the girl vanish in between two wooden stalls, her scarf falling to the snowy ground.

‘Hello?’ he called. No answer, just the penetrating silence of the streets. This is silly, he thought, and imagined people sleeping at home next to the flashing lights of their Christmas trees or parents watching their favourite Christmas film, cuddling on the sofa, eating leftover pudding in secret while the children slept in their rooms.

Derek felt pathetic standing there, drunk and chasing a ghost, so he turned and began to walk towards his Airbnb apartment.

He was fumbling with his tangled headphones cable when he heard a beautiful female voice singing ‘Silent Night’ like an angel: silky smooth and sweet like candy. Derek stopped, listened to the song for a few seconds, and searched for the source. She stood ten steps away from him under the yellow light of a rustic streetlamp, unrealistically gorgeous in the snowfall yet eerie at the same time.

The song, a river of melody flowing through the air, pulled him forward. It all seemed surreal, but he was beyond caring. The alcohol shut down his sense of danger, and only desire remained.

The woman started ‘Oh Tannenbaum’ in German, and Derek found this song even more wonderful, the words fitting her better. He’d never known a Christmas song could sound this sexual. Why not, though? After all, people celebrated love, peace, and family at Christmas. What if she was the one for him? What if fate had made two lonely souls meet so that they could create a new family, right here in the deserted Christmas market?

Derek walked up to her, and she held his hand, leading him into a dark alley behind the stalls. A picture of a naked woman flashed through his mind, thin black hair covering her body, her skin underneath tattooed by cuts as though she had been lashed with an iron whip, her abnormally long tongue licking the thick blood oozing from the wounds. She had two curvy horns protruding from her forehead and hooves instead of feet. She held rusty chains in her left hand and a thick birch lash in her right, fingering herself with it.

Derek shook his head. What the hell? He’d had too much to drink after all. He concentrated on her sweet perfume and her perfect curves, hoping his brain would obey and let him enjoy the experience. She looked back at him, smiling and licking her lips. The shivers returned with her gaze, stronger than ever, and Derek felt his dick harden.

When they reached the alley, they stood next to the concrete wall and kissed, losing themselves in the moment. It wasn’t cold anymore, but something wasn’t right. Derek’s mouth was too full, as though he had tried to put in too much rare steak which he couldn’t chew. A gag reflex overwhelmed him, and he opened his eyes.

He now knew that it wasn’t his drunkenness that had conjured the previous image, and he also knew where he had seen a similar creature before. What did the folklore call them? Their name started with a K, but he couldn’t remember the rest. What he hadn’t realised was that they were female, and that they could sing and mesmerise their victims like those other mythical creatures who trapped sailors. What were those called? Sirens?

Claws ripped his back open in the next moment and black teeth bit off his lips. He screamed as the Krampus Siren lifted him up and stuffed his bloody face into the basket on her back.

THE UNINVITED WORDS VOL 2 FREE, NEWS

The veil between our world and the world of shadows grows thin at this time of the year. The moon seems to be bigger and shines with an eerie light; the nights grow longer, and the chill in the air deepens… Halloween is upon us!

This is my favourite time of the year. Everyone reads and watches horror, even people who rarely do so. A lot of long anticipated books hit the shelves this month, and discounts on great, existing titles spread through the bookshops and the online stores. Even if there is no way one can consume every title in one month, it’s an excellent time to stock up on future reads.

So, I decided that I’m going to make The Uninvited Words—Tales of Horror and Dark Fantasy Volume II join to the horde of discounted horror books this year. The eBook will be free to download from Amazon between the 27th (today) and the 31st of October.

If you have never heard of The Uninvited Words Collection, here is a brief description:

In this stunning, second volume of horror and dark fantasy tales, S Kovax will take you to a brand new ride of the macabre. Live through a young Hungarian man’s pain who is tormented by unexplainable events around his brand new farm house. Follow the struggles of a charming young couple as their long-weekend holiday gets interrupted by the evil occupants of a seaside town. Discover the most hideous monster in this world alongside a famous monsterologist and witness her fight for survival. And much more. Eight stories, a limitless supply of darkness.

Come and enter the realm of The Uninvited Words.

GET THE FREE BOOK HERE

On the TV front, I would like to recommend The Fall of the House of Usher on Netflix, created by the brilliant Mike Flanagan. I haven’t finished it yet, but I’m absolutely loving it so far. Flanagan weaved a great amalgamation of modern and gothic horror, mixing the imagery of Edgar Allan Poe into a shocking family drama. Cannot recommend it enough.

On the book front, I’m reading the second volume of The First Law trilogy by Joe Abercrombie titled Before They Are Hanged, and I’m enjoying it even more than the first one. Just for the record, this book is grimdark fantasy and not horror, but as you guessed from its genre, it’s grim and bloody enough that any horror fan would enjoy it. To break it up sometimes, I’m also reading The Beast You Are by Paul Tremblay, an excellent short story collection with some truly disturbing tales.

I will be back in November with some news on my writing progress and some info about the next volume of The Uninvited Words. Until then, enjoy whatever you choose to watch or read, keep a lantern close, and don’t look behind… or maybe do?

Happy reading, and keep the chalice raised in the name of the dark arts.

DON’T CALL ME FATHER – STORY ORIGINS

Demonic possession is one of the most common horror tropes out there. Everyone, even non-horror fans know the film version of The Exorcist, and horror fans have read and seen countless of variations since.

It’s difficult to create something original with such a well-known trope, but I like a challenge. Even though I consumed my fair share of exorcism stories, I haven’t come across anywhere a priest (or ex-priest with Don’t Call Me Father) defeating a demon by asking for the help of another demon. Of course, I can’t be sure if what I’ve done is not out there somewhere as millions of books are published and thousands of indie horror films/games are released every year. It’s impossible to read and watch everything. If you know something that’s similar, please email me. I would love to see how others executed the same idea.

This story also has a special place in my heart as it’s one of the firsts I’ve written. I think it’s my third short story, to be exact, but I don’t fully remember. It was a long, long time ago. Around 2014, I’m fairly sure, and I wrote it in Hungarian first, then translated it into English in 2016 or 2017.

It was also my first ever published story in a magazine for which I received a payment. I still keep the initial publication of Devolution Z magazine on my bookshelf, and I hope I will never misplace it since the publication is now obsolete. This fills me with mixed feelings: sadness that the magazine I was first published in is not running anymore, but also proud because I’m still here and I’m still writing. My enthusiasm for storytelling only grew throughout the years.

In fact, I love Vincent’s character and the original idea so much that I don’t think I’m fully done with them. I may expand it to a novel or write a sequel or an origin story for Vincent. Who knows?

MR OWL THE MIGHTY – EXCERPT FROM THE UNINVITED WORDS VOL 3

Mr Owl the Mighty

Danny lost a little more hope that his wish would come true every night, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. He repeated his mantra until he fell asleep, or his mouth became too dry to continue. If the adults had heard him, they would’ve tried to explain that wishing was futile, and that he had to move on and learn to live life the way it was. Danny would have none of it. He still believed in magic.

‘When I wake up, I will have my legs back,’ he whispered, his eyes squeezed shut. ‘When I wake up, I will have my legs back. When I wake up…’ He thought if he imagined it happening, the wish would be stronger, so he visualised himself getting up in the morning with two brand new legs—even better, more muscular ones than the previous pair. The sunlight coming in through the window would make them sparkle like shiny toys, and the feeling of wiggling his toes would make him laugh. He would use the bed as a trampoline, not caring about breaking it or getting scolded afterwards. He would run up and down the stairs until he was so tired he couldn’t stand, sit on a tall chair and let them dangle, and hit his knees with the back of his hand to trigger an involuntary reflex.

Danny heard three knocks. He opened his eyes, stopped repeating his mantra, pushed himself up onto his elbows and said, ‘Come in,’ thinking that Nanny Reb had forgotten to tell him something important. No answer from the direction of the door. The moonlight struggled to break through the coverage of the clouds, and the distant streetlamps offered only a faint yellow light. The silence and the shadows of his things engulfed the room.

Danny shrugged and returned to what he’d been doing. ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow. Please, God, let me have my legs back.’

Tap, tap, tap.

It came from the direction of the window. He looked over, and he would have pulled his legs up in his surprise if he still had them. Instead, his stumps moved involuntarily, then he pushed himself to a half-sitting position and pulled the cover up to his nose.

A huge owl stood on his outer window ledge, staring straight at him, its head cocked to the side. It was the largest bird Danny had seen not just in the zoo, but in any cartoon or book in the world; he was certain it was as big as himself. Its black and grey feathers glowed as though they generated their own light, and Danny couldn’t find the owl’s eyes, only two circular pits of darkness which occupied half the bird’s head.

His breathing became shallow and rapid, and he was ready to yell for Nanny Reb when the owl spoke to him.

‘Hello, Danny,’ it said, flapping its wings.

It surprised Danny so much, he forgot to call for help, swallow, or to blink for several long seconds as fear and wonder spread in his body, the first overpowering the second.

‘I can make your wish come true, Danny,’ the owl said.

Danny swallowed. His mouth remained dry, and his question came out as a croak. ‘Who are you?’

‘Call me Mr Owl.’

Mr Owl, the mightiest bird of all, Danny thought. Mr Owl the Mighty. ‘How do you know me? How can you make my wish come true?’

‘We know everyone in your world, and we hear every wish. The strongest wishes shine the brightest, and yours is a very bright wish.’

Danny didn’t understand what Mr Owl the Mighty was saying, but the prospect of getting his legs back convinced him to pay attention. He pinched himself on the arm to check whether he was dreaming, and the pain confirmed what he had already known: this was reality, however frightening and unreal.

Danny had no idea what to say or do. He didn’t want to call for help, as that would have frightened the owl away, but he wasn’t comfortable.

Can it break through the window? he asked himself. What would I do if it did? He searched for objects he could use as weapons. His old cricket bat was on the other side of the room; basically, anything usable was too far away. Maybe not for a kid with healthy legs, but he didn’t have healthy legs.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ Mr Owl the Mighty said. ‘Tomorrow, I will give you your legs back, if you still want them.’ He spread his wings wide and hopped off the ledge to disappear into the silence of the night.

Danny exhaled. His body trembled from the strangeness of the experience. He threw off the blanket, looked at the stumps of his legs, and traced the scars with his fingers.

Tomorrow. Could it be true?

***

‘How can you do this to him?’ Nanny Reb said while walking around in the kitchen, holding her mobile phone to her right ear. ‘You know how difficult this day is for him. You should be here by his side.’

‘This is a very important meeting, Mum,’ Nanny Reb’s daughter Theresa told her. ‘A lot of money is at stake.’

‘What does money matter if you can’t be with your son on his birthday, the day he lost his legs?’

‘Don’t you think I know what day it is? Do you think I will ever forget?’

Nanny Reb was speechless. Her chin trembled, and she was thinking of an appropriate reply. The memory of that horrible day felt like an icy knife being plunged into her heart.

‘Look. I’m sorry. We’ll see how the negotiations go. I don’t expect any difficulties, and if that’s truly the case, I’ll be able to leave soon and be home by early afternoon. Okay?’

‘I hope you make it,’ Nanny Reb said and put down the phone, followed by a lengthy sigh. She was angry, and not just at her daughter, but at herself. After one long year, she hadn’t forgiven herself, even though everyone said it wasn’t her fault.

How could it not be her fault, at least partially, when she was driving the goddamn car?

Danny and Nanny Reb had decided to go for a trip to the Brighton seaside, given it was a sunny day, not hot enough for a swim, but perfect for a stroll and a nice fish and chips. Theresa had been working as always, but that wouldn’t bother them; they would see her later. And what a wonderful day it had been.

They were on their way home in the evening, happy as ever, Nanny Reb driving.

No driver could be careful enough if the other ignored the rules. She hadn’t noticed the car speeding towards them at the intersection until it was too late. It crashed into them on Danny’s side, spinning their car around. They were strapped in, but the impact crushed Danny’s legs below his knees. Nanny Reb miraculously came out of the accident with a concussion caused by the airbag. Danny’s legs couldn’t be saved.

She stopped playing the scene in her head and wiped the tears from her face. She felt so sorry for that innocent little boy. Shut up, she told herself. You’re a strong adult woman; you can handle it. He’s a child, and he needs you.

Nanny Reb continued to decorate the slice of carrot cake for Danny and tried to brainstorm on how to make him focus on his actual birthday and not the accident.

Will that ever happen? Will he ever enjoy this day? Unlikely.

A new idea came to her then. It was too late for it this year, but next year, she would create a special day for him on his name day. She had heard from Anna, her Hungarian friend, that over there your name day was even more important than your birthday. A nice tradition, and she could plan a big surprise party for him. She couldn’t change the past and the date on the calendar. She could only make the best of the circumstances. However, next year, Danny’s name day would become the main event.

Nanny Reb licked her finger and allowed herself a smile.

***

Danny kept tossing and turning and having nightmares, visiting the past and the future, thinking about possibilities in his waking moments. Dream and reality seemed to be blurred in the morning, and he woke up with a strong headache. One distinct detail remained sharp in his mind, clearer than the other dreams: an enormous owl sitting on his window ledge and promising him it would grant his wish.

He threw off the cover and stared at his stumps. What a silly dream. Of course they’re not back. I’m ten years old now; I must learn to deal with it. They’re never coming back.

As he finished thinking the last sentence, he started to cry. He tried to hold it back when Nanny Reb came in, singing happy birthday, holding a tray with his favourite carrot cake and hot tea on it. When she saw him crying, she stopped singing, put the tray on his bedside table, and hugged him.

‘I’m okay,’ he said, sniffing. He didn’t want Nanny Reb to see him cry. It was embarrassing. He was ten now.

It should have been his mum doing this, anyway. Why did she always have to work? Especially after the crash. Danny didn’t understand the correlation, but he knew it was something to do with that; or rather, him. His mum found excuse after excuse to be away, even on his birthday. It was the other reason he wanted to get his legs back so much—he hoped they would entice her to spend more time with him, like before. Get used to it. It was just a dream, he told himself, and the thought brought back the tears.

‘It’s okay, honey,’ Nanny Reb whispered. ‘Let it out. Everything’s okay.’ She held him for a few seconds longer, stroking his head, then looked at him and said, ‘Have your cake. It’s going to make you feel better.’

Danny wiped off his tears and forced a smile onto his face. He had learnt to hide his sadness not long after the accident because it was easier to dodge the adults who wanted to comfort him, to pretend to be all right rather than listening to them or answering their stupid questions.

Nanny Reb watched him eating his cake and drinking his tea, got up, and prepared warm clothes for him, laying them on the bed. ‘What would you like to do today?’ she asked.

‘Maybe I’d like to play at the river.’

‘Okay, that’s all right. Let me get my welly boots.’

‘I’d like to be alone.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It’s quite wet and slippery out there, you could—’

‘Yeah, yeah, hurt myself or drown or break my neck or lose my arms.’

Nanny Reb stared at him for a while. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, young man,’ she said sternly.

‘It is. Nothing’s going to happen. I’ve been bound to this stinking chair for long enough, I’m perfectly capable of navigating it myself, even around the river and the trees. I want to go there alone. Is that such a big request on my birthday?’

‘All right. But promise me you’ll use the panic button on the chair if you have the slightest trouble.’ She smiled, but Danny knew she was sad for him, and that was the other thing he despised. The expression of sorrow and pity from the adults, as though he was a special boy of some sort. He wanted to be normal like the rest of the kids, to go home dirty after playing in the mud, be scolded for ruining his trousers instead of being told how dangerous it was to play on the ground in his condition. They always had to remind him of his condition, didn’t they?

‘I promise.’

***

Once Nanny Reb had told him again what he shouldn’t do and how careful he must be, she left him alone. He ventured down the path leading to the stream, confident that a little incline wouldn’t cause any problems.

It was easy for him to handle the way down. He spent some time watching the water, then he decided to go back to the house. So he started up the slope, and it went well in the beginning, but soon his arms became tired and achy. His forearms burned with each movement, and the wheel turned less after each push, yet he still refused to call for help.

It had been a year since the car accident, so he wanted to prove to himself he could tackle this. However, the pain in his muscles got too intense, and he let go of the wheels, cursing. The wheelchair rolled down the slope, and he couldn’t stop it. He held back a scream. Instead, he closed his eyes and waited for it to be over like at the hospital appointments, knowing that he would end up in the water, he would be yelled at, and he would have to listen to the you-must-be-careful speech. He hated himself for failing.

But he had a bit of luck, after all. He remained dry and in his chair, stopped just at the edge of the stream, the left wheel on solid ground, the right one held by a thick branch.

How he would get out of this mess, Danny didn’t know. He assessed the situation and found that if he made another mistake, the wheelchair would fall into the stream, and that would be unacceptable.

The copse was silent other than the splashes of the gently flowing water and the occasional rustle of the leaves. The water was topped by a thin layer of steam, as it was warmer than the surrounding October air. He was glad he was wearing a coat and gloves; sorting this mess out could take a while.

He leaned to the left and yanked at the chair. The branch moved further into the wheel. Danny realised he would need to get out of it and pull it back to the shore.

It had to be done now as Nanny Reb never gave him longer than half an hour anywhere before checking on him. Avoiding her worried expression was worth getting himself dirty. He would tell her he wanted to throw some pebbles, and that was how he got muddy.

Danny pushed himself forward and slid down at the front, clutching the arm of the chair. He heard flapping wings behind himself, but he refused to look around. His forearms burned again, and he was grateful for managing to lower himself to the ground. It felt cold and wet under his bottom.

He yanked at the chair, holding his breath, pulling it forward, shaking it to the left and to the right. As the realisation that he wouldn’t be able to move the chair on his own deepened, despair found him. No, he told himself. No crying. Despite this, the tears burst out of him like water through a broken dam.

‘I see you are in trouble, child,’ a high and raspy voice said. He turned and saw Mr Owl the Mighty standing right beside him. Danny’s eyes widened as he comprehended how huge the bird was: taller than an average adult, its long beak pointing downwards, its talons razor sharp steak knives.

He backed away and searched for the animal’s owner. He found no one.

‘Do you remember me?’ the owl asked. Danny’s breathing grew shallow and rapid, his heart beat fast, and he climbed back on his stuck wheelchair, forgetting that he had a birthday, his name and that he was a boy. Everything became abnormal suddenly, as though a crooked mirror reflected the world. It wasn’t a dream, unless this was a dream, too.

‘Please don’t hurt me, Mr Owl the Mighty,’ Danny said, not knowing any other way to address the animal. It let out a series of short caws, sounding like evil laughter. Cold sweat watered Danny’s armpits.

‘It must be bad,’ Mr Owl the Mighty said, gesturing with its beak at Danny’s legs. ‘It’s like if I lost my wings, isn’t it?’

Mr Owl spread and flapped them, its legs leaving the ground for a second. Danny saw holes in them, which made him scrutinise the bird from top to bottom.

His fear escalated into terror as he realised that the enormous bird was dead, its flesh rotting underneath the feathers, worms wriggling everywhere, its eye sockets black emptiness not just in the middle of the night but in daylight too.

‘I have been watching you, child.’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘I have an offer, child. You have been suffering, and I don’t like to watch you suffer. I know how painful it must be. I lost my wings once, and it was very painful, but I got them back.’

Danny nodded, although he had no clue where the conversation was going. The situation was so weird and otherworldly, he secretly waited to wake up in his bed, swimming in his own sweat. But wasn’t this what he wished for every night? To have two healthy legs again, the last year being the worst nightmare of his life?

‘What offer?’ he asked, his breathing steadying now.

‘There are other lands, child. There are other rules. I can grant your wish. It’s a very strong wish. And I can give you more.’

‘Who are you? What other lands? Can you speak normally so I understand?’

‘I’m Mr Owl the Mighty, and I am from behind the mirror. It has different rules. You must come through the mirror and see for yourself.’

‘What mirror?’

‘The mirror. I heard your wishes through the mirror, and I will grant them. You will be one of us, with strong and powerful legs. Even more powerful than before.’

‘I don’t want to be like you. You are dead and rotting.’

‘No. Not dead. I’m standing right in front of you. The dead cannot do that, can they? A temporary bad thing. You come through, you will get your legs back and I will overcome the bad thing, then we will find someone with a strong wish that helps you to overcome your bad thing.’

Danny hesitated. He couldn’t decide whether the owl was luring him into a trap, using him for some goal, or whether he genuinely wanted to help him. ‘Who are you?’

‘So many questions. It makes me think you don’t take your wish seriously enough. I can find another child. A stronger wish.’

The bird flapped its rotten wings, generating a gust of decaying wind, making Danny put his hand in front of his nose.

‘No, don’t go, please. I’m serious. I’m more serious than ever. What do I need to do?’

‘You have to come through the mirror,’ the owl said.

Danny tapped his pockets and checked his wheelchair, but there weren’t any mirrors with him. He looked around and found a small puddle where the water of the stream had settled. It was clean and steady enough to reflect its surroundings.

‘Would that be good?’

‘Perfect, child.’

He sighed, lowered himself from the wheelchair again, and crawled the short distance to it, getting his clothes muddy. He imagined two beautiful, naked legs: perfectly shaped, muscular, fine hair covering the pale skin, and some bruises because of the intense playing he had done.

He reached the puddle and stared into it. The reflection showed a frightened boy’s face with anticipation and hesitation in his eyes. The owl appeared behind him, small, wriggling things falling from between its feathers on which Danny didn’t dare focus. He looked at the bird’s beak as it whispered, ‘State your wish, child, the way you stated it last night.’

Danny closed his eyes, and paused.

The owl made the decision for him, and Danny’s head plunged into the cold water. He opened his eyes and mouth and screamed, thrashing around, feeling sharp knives scratching the back of his head and his shoulder blades. The owl was standing on him and pushing him down, and he tried to throw the bird off. Mud rose from the bottom of the puddle and made the water murky, mixing with his blood.

He wasn’t alone. In the darkness, entities moved. They swam towards him from an impossible distance, beyond the bottom of the puddle, beyond the ground, beyond sanity. Limbs made up the entities, sewn together with invisible threads, animal, human, and nameless species. They frightened Danny even more. He thought he was hallucinating, and if he was, he was dying because of the lack of oxygen.

He tried to say through his last breath, ‘I take my wish back, I don’t want to die,’ but only muffled yelling and bubbles came out.

The entities swam closer and closer to him, their movement strange and fluid like an eel’s. They surrounded and encircled him, floating in the darkness.

‘Let me go,’ Danny screamed. He summoned the last of his strength to fight and throw Mr Owl the Mighty off his back.

An entity created from the limbs of mammals swam forward and stopped right in front of him—a star fish that had many legs of different kinds. He couldn’t tell how close it got: a few centimetres or metres or kilometres depending on the size of the creature. He had no time to figure it out, though, because it started to shake, and a pair of legs grew out of its centre. It pushed the toes into Danny’s mouth first, then forced the entire leg through.

Gagging took over the screaming and thrashing around. He was tired, thirsty for oxygen or oblivion, so he just endured.

A sudden, tingling sensation appeared at the end of his stumps, as though they had been numb for a while and now pins and needles spread through them. Then the pins and needles spread over his knees, calves, heels, and toes.

The entities hooted and clapped with their strange limbs.

***

‘Mum, I’m on the way home,’ Theresa said on the phone. ‘The meeting ended very quickly. It only took half an hour to reach a conclusion.’

‘That’s wonderful, dear. So what’s your ETA?’

‘I’ll be home right after lunch.’

‘Oh really? That’s so amazing. We’ll wait for you with the meal, then. Danny is playing at the riverside.’

‘Great. See you soon.’

‘Bye-bye.’

Nanny Reb put the phone on the kitchen table and looked at the clock on the wall. It had been half an hour since she left Danny on his own, so it was time to check on him and tell him the wonderful news.

It wasn’t all doom. Theresa would be here soon, and they were going to have a wonderful lunch together, then maybe play a board game or watch a film.

Halfway down the path leading to the stream, a bad feeling overwhelmed her. No sparrows were singing or ravens cawing, there was no breeze, or any animal sounds.

She quickened her pace, and noticed the empty wheelchair stuck at the very bank of the river even before she got to the end of the path. She jogged as fast as her aching joints allowed and yelled Danny’s name.

She paused in the clearing when she noticed a giant owl standing in the mud, its wings spread wide. Nanny Reb could have sworn the bird had looked right at her and nodded before it took off.

After an hour of panicked searching and yelling Danny’s name at the riverbank, she started to lose her voice. Her joints were on fire, and she was about to go back to the house and call the police when she saw a frail little boy emerging from a large puddle, his clothes wet.

An otherworldly stench hit her nose, making her retch. It was the stink of death. She had smelled the same next to the mangled corpse of the drunk driver that had caused their accident a year ago. The boy had the face of her Danny. No, it couldn’t be him because he was too pale, his eye sockets black emptiness, his clothes hanging on him like rags, and he stood on two healthy legs. She wanted to call his name, but the word stuck in her ragged throat as the strange boy ran into the forest.

PYROMANCER – STORY ORIGINS

I think diary entries and letters are great ways to tell a scary story. They are the found footage of literature. There is something terrifying in them because of their closeness to reality, their intimacy to the person who wrote them. The possibility that the events happened transpires a timeless terror: a revelation of a terrible secret, something hidden in our world. What is horror fiction about if not this?

I also love re-imagining an already horrible situation in a fantasy or horror setting. The 1665 plague and the 1666 fire in London were horrors of their own. Perfect bedding for some additional supernatural dread.

The story was ignited by a simple word: pyromancer. I have read it in the Song of Ice and Fire books by George R. R. Martin. The word sounded poetic, and I wanted to write a story about a pyromancer (which was different from the original usage), but I didn’t know how, so I shelved the idea for later.

One of the most asked questions from writers is how we get our ideas. It’s difficult to answer because the process differs every time, at least for me. Sometimes, I need to brainstorm and flesh out several scenarios until I pick one; sometimes, I combine two separate ideas; and sometimes, something just clicks when I’m doing unrelated things. With Pyromancer, I guess, the seed of it was the word itself, and then the combination of the above three methods.

Later that year, my wife and I went to see a very exciting, immersive exhibition of the 1666 fire of London. We don’t know to this day how it all started on that ominous night, only that it started at a bakery belonging to Thomas Farriner in Pudding Lane. His house was ablaze by early morning, and the fire was spreading in the city. This explanation is very vague, with a lot of potential to be expanded upon. The brainstorming began.

What if something or someone supernatural started the fire? What if a pyromancer started it? Someone who was infected with a disease of fire itself, spread by rats which also spread the plague, giving him supernatural abilities and a desire to burn the world down? And what if there was a record of this written into a diary, hiding somewhere for centuries?

STARRY NIGHTS – AN APPRECIATION

Starry Nights is a dividing story of mine. Some readers love it, others hate it. The truth is, I loved working on it just as much as I enjoyed working on my more appreciated books. And if I enjoyed working on it, the story is already a success to me, no matter how it is received. Of course, I would love it if every reader liked it as much as I liked writing it, but this is impossible.

However, there are readers who saw in the story exactly what I intended to show, and that makes me happy. I always tell myself that if one reader appreciates the story, it was already worthwhile writing it. I would like to share this incredibly well-written, detailed review I received by fellow author Dave Higgins. Thank you, Dave, for taking the time.

Engaging Blend of Artistic Journey and Cosmic Horror

Kovax weaves a tale of obsession and freedom that asks whether art can be not merely beyond morals and sanity but the laws of reality as we know them.

Margo Garabond’s paintings have brought her fame and riches; but success has left her needing drink and pills just to get through another exhibition opening. Hoping to leave her pervasive misery behind and reclaim the sheer joy of art, she withdraws to Arles, where her artistic idol Van Gogh spent his life. A chance meeting with Albert, a talented but unknown artist, promises the new start she seeks. However, something dark and hungry has also taken an interest in Albert’s art.

The novel opens with Margo drunkenly storming out of a party in her honour that she never wanted to attend in the first place. Equal parts arrogant self-indulgence and empathetic revelation, this lays bear the straitjacket of expectations that come with being a celebrity without hiding the privilege inherent in being rich enough to simply hurl one’s current career away because it isn’t joyous.

Kovax paints Margo’s arrival as a release from the gilded misery of her celebrity life, filled with wandering at will and seeking the beauty Van Gogh saw first; however, as with the opening, he skilfully interweaves this with glimpses that Arles is a real modern town rather than a background to the legend of Van Gogh, hinting that Margo’s vision of finding her meaning in Van Gogh’s story is as superficial as the image of Artist she has rejected.

Initial reminders of reality aside, Margo’s first few days in Arles offer hope, especially when Albert proves to be both romantically and artistically compatible. However, as her relationship grows, she discovers that the vibrant strangeness of his art is drawn not from his imagination but from glimpses of the weird and horrific given to him by an unknown benefactor. This forces Margo, and with her the reader, to consider a question that has plagued those who record what they see, whether for art or reportage: is recording something that is happening purely an act of observation or can it be as much participation as actually doing a thing?

With Margo and Albert pulled together by both their attraction and their passion for art but divided by how far they will go in painting the things that this mysterious benefactor wishes to show them, Kovax carefully weaves in the further distinction between theoretical perfection and practical behaviour: is Margo right to demand others don’t do something because it feels unpleasant or is that the privilege of someone who is already successful?

While the core horror of the novel comes from Kovax’s portrayal of inhumane choices, some of the things Margo witnesses are body horror; thus, while not packed with gratuitous shocks or gross for the sake of being edgy, this is not a book for readers who prefer to avoid visceral description of living beings remade into something very other.

This novel has a distinct aspect of cosmic dread: not the intellectualism of Lovecraft or nihilism of Ligotti; but a vision of the artistic journey leading not merely beyond where a person is willing to go but beyond where the human mind can comprehend.

Margo is a well-crafted protagonist, obsessed enough with her art that it feels plausible that she would both become a success and voyage into obscene places but troubled enough by unfair burdens from others that she remains sympathetic despite the privilege and self-centredness.

Albert is a solid foil to Margo, equally driven by the desire to create great art but filled with hunger for an idealised successful career.

The supporting cast, while making sparse appearance, display an overall diversity and personal nuance that makes them feel like real people with complete lives that intersect this story; in addition to making them feel more plausible, this contributes to the feeling that events are part of a wider world rather than purely being in Margo’s head.

Overall, I enjoyed this novel. I recommend it to readers seeking an engaging variation on the horror of an irrational world or an exploration of obsession.

THE UNINVITED WORDS – STORY ORIGINS

When I first read Clive Barker’s Books of Blood—only a few years ago, relatively late, but I always say that books don’t have an expiry date—the opening story that served as a setup for the rest totally blew me away.

These volumes differed from the more conventional way of organising short stories into a collection based on theme, topic, or location. I loved Books of Blood so much because I never knew what kind of tale the next one was going to be. They were all amazing, but they couldn’t be more different from each other. In the six original volumes, you could find body horror, rampaging monsters, dark philosophy, ghost stories, Lovecraftian weird tales, slashers, comedy; horror without boundaries.

Over seven years ago, the phrase ‘Uninvited Words’ came to me while I was daydreaming, and first, I gave the name to my blog. The blog was an absolute failure because I didn’t know what I wanted to do with it. It also wasn’t clear to me what kind of writer I wanted to be. I posted writing advice, tutorials for writing tools, short stories of multiple genres, etc. Aimless. Unfocused.

So, I deleted the blog after a few posts which no one had ever read, but I wrote down the name because I still found it cool. I went back to practice. And when my horror short stories finally got some attention from magazines and online publications, I decided to organise them into a collection. I wanted to do something like Clive Barker’s Books of Blood because my stories also differed greatly from each other. One day, I was browsing through my old files and my eyes settled on The Uninvited Words blog. I found my title.

I had stories for the first volume, a title, but no story to start it all. An idea occurred to me during one of my free writing sessions: a piece set in a horror theme park where a monster would come to life and hunt down the guests, so I began working on it. I brainstormed how I could write an ending that gives the green light to a flood of horror tales, and so it became the grand opener.

I’m not sure how many volumes of The Uninvited Words will I conjure into existence, but the last story of the last volume will be the sequel of this one, and we will all see what happens to Janice, Alan, and the wraith.

STARRY NIGHTS FREE, BLOG NEWS

Hello Horror Friends,

Just a quick post about some news. Starry Nights is currently free on Amazon. The discount will last until the 17th of March 2023. Here’s what the book is about:

When obsession merges with insanity, nothing can stand in its way. Not even death.

Margo Garabond is a beautiful, rich, world-famous and highly regarded painter. She is also miserable, overindulging in drugs and sex to cope with everyday life and her own fears that she’s missed the mark as a true artist. After a drunken disaster of an exhibition where she severs every tie with her audience, she tries to rekindle her passion by tracing the footsteps of her idol, Vincent Van Gogh, to Arles.

But she’s not the first to do so. Something in the town is swallowing people without a trace.

When she meets aspiring painter Albert, who offers her a dangerous but compelling array of subjects, she quickly finds herself in a whirlwind of love, death, and a nightmarish artistic power threatening her life. Margot must walk the path between madness and genius without falling into the abyss.

Grab it while you can HERE.

On the other hand, I decided to be more consistent with my blog and newsletter. My family going through covid recently definitely didn’t help me be disciplined, but that’s a poor excuse because I wasn’t posting on the blog regularly even before that. But. Change is coming. As originally intended, I will post stories about my writing process, fun facts, recommendations of my favourite books and films, essays about all that is dark, and news about my upcoming releases, more consistently this time.

Happy reading, and keep the chalice raised in the name of the dark arts.

SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES – BOOK RECOMMENDATION

Adventurous young boys, check. Small town vibe, check. An unfathomable evil in the form of a carnival, check. Powerful style and theme, check, check. Result: Something Wicked This Way Comes.

The novel that gets most mentioned when Ray Bradbury’s name comes up is Fahrenheit 451, one of the greatest dystopian novels of all time, but he was also a big fan of horror stories and wrote a fair share of them. His most famous one is Something Wicked This Way Comes, and although I was quite familiar with the plot thanks to the countless references in other media, I had the pleasure of encountering its dark charm for the first time.

When a new carnival arrives in Green Town, Will and Jim cannot wait to discover all its rides and exciting feats. But they can’t even imagine the dangers behind those attractions, and how much the fate of their little town will depend on their actions.

A coming of age story at its best and a reminder for adults to keep the lightness of a child even when facing the uncanny hardships of life.

Ray Bradbury serves powerful messages through his extraordinary prose. I don’t know any other writer whose writing is so fluid. He doesn’t use fancy phrases and complicated language, but the words somehow come together as a river and once you jump into it, the current never lets you go. Every page pops out like a poem and conveys a wild array of emotions.

The book has a dark, suspenseful atmosphere hanging over it, but it doesn’t lack humour either. You never know where it’s heading, and the resolution feels unique. It requires courage and skill to pull off something like this, and Ray Bradbury has both. He said in an interview that when he had been writing this story; he had travelled back into his own childhood and re-imagined the feelings of anticipation as the carnival arrived in his town. I grew up in a little town in Hungary, and we had similar carnivals arrive every summer. The excitement was the same, even though my family couldn’t afford to send me on all the rides. I had to choose one or two.

This book created goose bumps on me several times and sent me back straight into my childhood, creating a vivid picture of what it felt to be a boy. I would recommend Something Wicked This Way Comes to every book lover, even if horror is not their first choice.

It’s right up there with my favourite coming of age horrors: Boy’s Life, Shadowland, and It. I raise the chalice of the Dark Arts at you, Mr Bradbury.

THE UNINVITED WORDS VOL 1 – AUTHOR’S PREFACE

Originally, I wrote an author’s preface to the Uninvited Words Volume 1. It didn’t appear in the final copy because I thought it was a little pretentious to include it in a debut short story collection. But while I was going through my files, I stumbled upon it, and I still liked it, so I thought I’d publish it here.

Author’s Preface

I always thought that horror is the most effective genre when it comes to short stories. The best ones push you into a new, dark world in a matter of seconds, increase tension with every word, make your heart beat faster, your throat dry when you reach the summit of terror, then they bring you back safely to your own little comfort zone; all this within an hour or less. And if the story is the best of the bests, it will linger in your mind even after you close the book or turn off the e-reader. You will remember it throughout the day as you go about your business, making you shudder and hopefully reminding you of how lucky you are to be alive. I truly believe that good horror short stories have this power.

And when these stories are organised into collections or anthologies, they even strengthen each other. They are the building blocks of something bigger.

When I open a horror collection, I imagine the pages enfold into a large building, a gothic castle towering over me, the chilly wind ushering me to go inside. My curiosity triumphs over my instinct that tells me to stay away and I enter the unknown.

I walk up to the first floor, where I notice that the doors have names and titles on them. I’m free to choose. I’m also welcome to just open a door a tiny bit and look inside. Sometimes, I find a strange shadow moving in there or a ghastly smell in another; perhaps a whispering voice is calling my name from the third. But it’s getting late, and I must choose, so I might as well just settle with the first one. It looks like the safest choice, anyway. I go in, and the journey begins.

If I last through the night, I get to try another room the next day, or if I’m brave enough, I can explore the entire floor in one go.

I visited many of these castles in my lifetime, and I always tried out all the rooms. Some turned out to be average, stuffed with antique furniture, some terrified me, and I ran screaming, and others delighted me beyond measures. I also found at least one in each castle that contained unimaginable treasures, and I have taken a little keepsake from those. They will always be with me, reminding me of my adventures.

And the greatest ones inspired me to build my own castle. It took years of practice, bricklaying and decorating, and finally, here it is. How strong the base is? I don’t know. But I have enjoyed building it immensely, and I hope it will stand against the tides of time.

I left a brief note in each room, telling you a little story of how it was built. You will find them either at the entrance or they will reveal themselves only when you leave. I hope you will enjoy the insight.

I present to you The Uninvited Words and the first floor (volume) of dark tales. The first story is the entrance hall that should show your way towards the floors, and then wander, discover, explore, and stay as long as you like. But be careful, most of the rooms are haunted.