R.A. Evans's Blog, page 4

Inside the Story of Grave Undertakings

According to Native American legends, the souls of the dead are carried to the afterlife on the wings of a crow. Sometimes, however, the manner of death is so vile that the soul is weighted down by sadness, grief or guilt. In these instances, the crow is unable to carry the soul to the land of the dead, leaving the  soul in limbo.  These unfortunate souls, carried by crows, cannot rest until those wrongs have been righted.

For those of you who have read my thriller Asylum Lake you know of the restless souls searching to right the wrongs which still hold them captive. It is through their tormented eyes that many of the secrets of the mysterious abandoned asylum will continue to be revealed. Their souls, however, are not the only burden carried on the wings of the crow.

Other legends provide vastly different accounts of the crow.  These legends speak of the black-winged bird as a scavenger of the dead, a feeder on the flesh of the departed, and even a devourer of the souls of the living.  It begs the question – to what use would a crow put the soul of a man?   Is it merely a coincidence that the crow  flies higher into the heavens than nearly all of its feathered bretheren?  Perhaps it is the stolen souls of men which carry the crow ever-closer to the creator.

In Grave Undertakings you will learn much more about the neverending  journey of  the soul.  The veil which separates the living from the dead has been parted, allowing the most restless of souls to revisit their grief, anger, and loss upon the living.  This parting, however, also provides the living an opportunity to prey upon the souls of the dead.

The cast of characters widens with Grave Undertakings as the story moves both forward and backward in time to reveal even more secrets.  Although much of the story is spent within the walls of the Lake View Asylum, readers will also journey beyond Bedlam Falls to follow the trail of Dr. Wesley Clovis.  From the coal mines of West Virginia to Gray’s Crossing, Indiana, the search for answers eventually leads back to The Lake of Tears.

I look forward to the unearthing of Grave Undertakings on May 22nd and hope you find as much enjoyment in reading my dark tale as I have had in writing it.

Cheers from Bedlam Falls!

R. A. Evans

Asylum Lake is FREE on KINDLE!

I talk a lot about prostituting myself to sell books, and if that's the case then my pimp is gonna be pissed because today I'm giving it away for FREE! You have until 11:59 pm PST to download the indie smash Asylum Lake for free on Kindle. Don't own a Kindle? No problem, simply download the app to read great books like Asylum Lake on your smartphone, PC, or laptop. Heck – you can even read Kindle titles on your iPad!

CLICK HERE to download your FREE copy of Asylum Lake and I'll even throw in a week's worth of nightmnares at no additional cost!

Nothing to Fear Anymore: Guest post from author Colin F. Barnes

The problem with being a horror writer, or even a die-hard fan for that matter, is that at some point, all the exposure to horror films and literature can desensitize us to the scares so that they no longer have the same effect on us. Sometimes this just comes with age as we get ever more cynical about our world and realise there in fact is scarier things than ghosts or serial killers: like not being able to pay the mortgage, contracting a terminal illness, or Joan Rivers' face. Other times it's just through sheer familiarity. There's only so many serial killers you can read/watch before they become old news.

This heightened awareness of the world and the grim reality of life diminishes the wide-eyed wonder and fear of the unknown that we have when we're younger. As a kid I remember growing up with the spectre of The Exorcist, Nightmare on Elm Street, Omen and The Thing lurking in my bedroom shadows causing me all kinds of nightmares and irrational fears. I remember the spine-tingling excitement as I finally managed to sneak a classic horror VHS tape from my dad's collection and watch it late at night with a friend, revelling in the sheer terror of the unknown.

But of course, that wonderment doesn't last. Like a heroin junkie, the first hits are mind blowing. You're soon hooked and looking for more terror highs. They come for a while, each one hitting the right spot, but then soon you're scrabbling about in old dusty VHS/DVD shops or secondhand bookstores for some obscure italian title rumoured to blow your mind. You soon resemble Golem as you crawl out of your mother's basement in search for your next horror hit — but they're never quite the same.

And then we end up with weak trash like Human Centipede or Saw. Torture porn is the lowest form of horror, and an extension to the search for the scares that have long since diluted.

So what is the solution?

As a writer, we have to acknowledge what came before, but not chain ourselves to its legacy. We have to see what is in the current milieu and seek ways of differentiating ourselves. Dispense with common tropes and find new ways of drilling into the psyche of our readers. Easier said than done of course, but there are ways, such as:

- Looking outside of our culture. Look to other folklore and mythology and draw parallels to present the fear in new and unexpected ways. (like The Ring did for instance, taking a ghost story and splicing it with a technological medium: the VHS tape)

- Go further into psychology and away from cheap torture scares. Gore isn't scary, neither is it shocking. Especially in this day and age of televised war. You have to find what it is thatintrinsically causes fear in the brain and exploit that. More times than not that means doing bad things to the people that your protagonist loves, or taking the control away from the protagonist.

A good psychological fear will hit harder and longer than a pus-filled zombie every single time.

- Take your reader out of the comfort zone. Go somewhere new and unknown. The internet has made the world so small that we are aware and familiar with almost all the cultures. With Google Maps and Google Earth we can see directly into almost any corner of the world. There are few surprises anymore. One could, back in the day, write about headhunters, or weird cults in a foreign country and that would be enough, but not anymore. More imagination in setting is required. There are metaphysical places to explore, multi-verses, dreams and the subconscious. New settings, new rules, and new laws will give fresh ways of delivering the scares.

As a reader/watcher, (and like most writers, I'm also an avid consumer of horror) how do you get that childhood terror back? Personally, I think you can't, not completely anyway. Therefore cherish those memories, you can't replace them. However, by seeking material that's not in the mainstream is one way of finding the good stuff.

The mainstream, by its nature, is somewhat watered down. It's art by committee. Most films follow each other and their only concern is the dollar. Whether the film is truly scary or not is irrelevant. It's the same with books. Many horror books these days from the traditional publishers are derivative, safe, and bland. The best horror literature in my opinion was written in the 80s and early 90s. And before that during the pulp era where guys like H.P. Lovecraft was writing unique works.

However, we have a new paradigm in publishing, one that isn't written by commitee. For good and for bad, indie publishing offers the reader a fresh look at the genre. Within the indie movement there are new stories being told from fresh new perspectives.

For your scares, you need to look away from the mainstream and dig in the fertile ground that is the independent movement, whether that be literature, film, or art.

 

About Colin:

Colin F. Barnes was found alone, swaddled in stained bandages, at the back of a crumbling Greek necropolis. Mewling in a basket, he was taken to a village on an unnamed island, by a quintuplet of lesbian crones. Under the careful watch of an English sailor, he was taken across a number of oceans (go look them up on googlemaps or something), and deposited on the grim wastelands of Essex, England.

Being mute, the only way he could communicate during his childhood was through interpretive dance and the written word. The artwork that he originally tried to use as a communication device landed him on a three month psychological assessment program. He no longer draws.

Education

Despite having no known scale in which to rank his mental abilities, Colin managed to bluff his way through a comprehensive educational structure, excelling in English, Science and Wilderness Survival. He then agreed with the powers-that-be to focus his energies through a formal English Degree.

Professional Career

The jobs he held are inconsequential compared to his desires: that of extricating the maelstrom of stories that are generated in his booze-addled brain. But for the conventionalists, he held positions as follows:

Snake Poison Collector
Laboratory Technician
Web developer
Copy Editor / Proofreader
Celebrity Funeral Consultant
Somalian Pirate
Rare Book Dealer
Violent Somnambulist
Panda Breeder

* One of those is a lie.

What and why does he write?

Colin F. Barnes herds words in  an often random order — not unlike a room of monkeys battering away at typewriters with their poop covered paws. (Do monkeys have paws or hands?). The usual outcome of this seemingly random plucking of words is a glimpse into a dark world of psychological malopropisms, dystopian nightmares, and fluffy children's stories. *one of those is a lie.

The work itself is a blend of science fiction, horror and thriller concepts. He avoids obvious tropes and seeks to write something resembling an original piece of literature. Although, it was proven on his 'program' that he has mass delusions of grandeur. And most of this can be safely filed under 'bollocks'.

Publishing Credits:

City of Hell Chronicles

Dark Metaphor

Connect with Colin:

Personal site: www.colinfbarnes.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/ColinFBarnes
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100003500528869

Black Friday: Eddie Vedder Cancels U.S. Tour

Saddened by the news today that Eddie Vedder has cancelled his 2012 solo U.S. tour  due to nerve damage in his arm.  I've been a fan of Pearl Jam for more than 20 years and have wanted to take in one of Eddie's solo performances for quite some time – and this was going to be the year!

Concert dates are being rescheduled and who knows – maybe I'll still make it to see him this year; Halloween in Vegas does have a nice ring to it. Needless to say I'll be mourning this in my own unique way – cranking my iPod to 11 and doing some writing about things dark and dangerous!

Tonight's writing session playlist will surely include my top 10 Pearl Jam tracks/covers/performances of all time. I thought I would share them with you here (including Links to videos on YouTube):

10. The Waiting

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9. Throw Your Arms Around Me

8. Let My Love Open the Door

7. Come Back

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6. Evenflow

5. Wishlist

4, Nothingman

3. Betterman

2. Yellow Ledbetter

1. Alive

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And I would be remiss if I didn't little bonus.

I'm Still Here

 

How about you – what's your Pearl Jam playlist?

Welcome to Devil’s Pawn: A Soul Proprietorship

The Devil’s Pawn

A Soul Proprietorship

 

Welcome to Hell, an unincorporated stretch of land in Southeast Michigan. With an advertised population of 666 and a playful proclivity to garner attention from its infamous name, nobody batted an eye when the self-proclaimed “Prince of Darkness” chose Hell to set up shop. But as business booms in his Soul Proprietorship , rumors begin to swirl. Who is this mysterious stranger and what is really being bought and sold behind the doors of The Devil’s Pawn?

 

The voice on the phone said, “This is an attempt to collect a debt and any information obtained will be used for that purpose.” The caller ID showed the number as unavailable, causing an already aggravated Brooke to toss the phone onto the passenger seat as she returned her attention to the rearview mirror and her mascara.

“Fucking asshole credit card companies,” she fumed, ignoring the impatient horns and shouts from the unfortunate drivers filling the lane behind her white Range Rover. Of course, the call could have just as easily been about her car loan or condo lease. Hell, maybe it was Columbia House finally tracking her down for all of those CD purchases while in college. Regardless,

Brooke’s immediate concern was her lashes.

Two green lights later, Brooke’s Range River finally sped through the intersection. The distraction of the phone call forgotten, she was oblivious to the dark sedan riding her bumper.

 

* * *

 

Michael had found the ad online. Collections Agent. No experience necessary. Some travel required. The description suited him perfectly. He had found himself on the wrong end of collections several times, had no real job experience of any sort, and was looking for any reason to put some distance between himself and the bright lights of Vegas. It all seemed too good to be true when the brief telephone interview turned into a real job offer.

Of course, things are rarely what they appear and the ex-con knew that nobody hires a recently paroled mafia hit man as a best business practice. Still, the $2,500 check to cover moving expenses was real enough, even if it was drawn under a rather unusual name—Devil’s Pawn, 666 Sulfur Street, Hell, MI. Surely somebody’s idea of a joke, he mused.

Michael had still yet to meet his new employer face to face. Beyond a name, Lucien Burns was a complete mystery. He wasn’t even completely convinced that the gentleman he spoke to on the phone during his brief interview was in charge. The entire affair felt a lot like his prior work with a certain unnamed family out in Vegas. But this was Hell, Michigan—far from the lights and glamour of the Strip. Michael was wise enough to know that his work was best handled on a need-to-know basis and not to clutter his mind with useless details.

As expected, the target guided her Range Rover into an office park. Michael followed, wondering just what this crazy bitch could have done to get herself into this kind of trouble.

 

* * *

 

“I want to be beautiful,” she whispered, eyes darting around nervously. The Pawn Shop was empty, save for the well-dressed man who had greeted her entrance. Of indeterminate age, the man exuded a raw confidence and sexuality that made Brooke both strangely at-ease and uncomfortable. He was not what she had expected.

Brooke had found the ad online. Everybody Has A Price. What’s Yours? Call 734.666.6666. The ad’s simplicity is what had initially piqued her interest. What did it even

mean? A price for what? Even the phone number seemed to be a joke. Yet for two straight days Brooke had carefully considered what harm could come from simply calling. She would block her number from the caller id, of course.

“Ms. Jennings, so nice of you to call. How may I be of service?”

Brooke hesitated, unsure how the stranger on the other end of the line could possibly know her name. “I, uh, um.”

“Please, take a moment to collect yourself. I can only imagine how nervous you must be. It takes great courage to embark on this journey,” the man’s soothing voice continued. “My name is Lucien Burns and I assume you are calling in response to the advertisement?”

Brooke’s racing mind made it difficult for her to form a cohesive thought, let alone an apt response. “Mmm hmm.”

The next several minutes passed with Lucien’s hypnotizing voice providing scant information about exactly what it was he was peddling. Yet, within moments, Brooke found herself taking down a few scribbled notes and an address for a business in of all places, Hell.

“Shall we meet at say, seven-thirty tomorrow evening, Ms. Jennings?”

Now, at precisely the agreed-upon time, Brooke stood in Lucien’s presence, baring her soul of its greatest desire—beauty. At just under two-hundred fifty pounds, beauty had always been the proverbial carrot dangled in front of her obese form. From diet programs to health club memberships, nothing had granted Brooke her soul’s deepest wish. Nothing, that is, until now.

“Ah yes, beauty,” Lucien responded with a knowing smile. His closely cropped hair was the color of cigarette ash, granting him the appearance of being both wise with age and virile in youth. Dressed in a well-tailored black suit with a starched white open-collared shirt beneath, Brooke’s attraction to the man was instantaneous.

“So elusive, beauty,” he continued, staring deeply into Brooke’s eyes. “Tell me, Ms. Jennings, at what price does beauty come?”

Brooke broke Lucien’s gaze, “Any,” she whispered, bowing her head with embarrassment.

Lucien reached forward and gently placed his delicate fingers beneath Brooke’s chin, raising her head to recast her gaze. Warmth spread throughout her body as she stared deep into his eyes.

“Let’s talk terms, Ms. Jennings.”

 

* * *

 

Michael parked two rows beyond the Range Rover and watched the white SUV from his rear view mirror. Again, the driver was busily applying makeup. Turning his attention from his target, Michael rummaged through the glove box and pulled forth a manila envelope. Written in flowing script across it’s surface was a name—Brooke Jennings. The ex-con opened the flap and emptied the envelope’s contents onto the passenger seat.

He glanced again into the mirror; no movement from the Range Rover. A single photo rested on the sedan’s leather seat. Michael recognized his target immediately and turned the photo over where the same flowing script provided his brief instructions.

 

Beauty is only skin deep.

Cut it out—along with her eyes.

L.B.

 

Again, Michael reached into the glove box. His hand emerged holding a pair of black leather gloves and a hunting knife with a six-inch serrated blade. The knife disappeared quickly up the sleeve of his jacket as he slid the gloves over his already sweating hands. Casting another glance into the rear view mirror, he emerged from his car, setting the timer on the explosives beneath the driver’s seat. Ninety seconds, he thought, walking briskly in the direction of the Range Rover.

“Excuse me, miss,” he called as he approached his target. “Ms. Jennings,” he called again, now standing at the door of the SUV. A wide smile split his lips as he gazed upon quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered. Pity, he thought, the muscles lining his jaws tiring from the forced smile. Sixty seconds.

Brooke turned her attention from her lipstick application and looked with obvious annoyance at the man standing at her window. Rolling her eyes she reached for the button and lowered the SUV’s window.

“Yes, can I help you?” Her tone clearly implied helping anyone was the last thing on her mind.

Michael leaned forward, sliding the blade free from his sleeve, as the smile fell from his face. “I’m here to collect a debt.”

The blade bit into Brooke’s throat spraying blood and slicing her vocal chords with a single twist. A torrent of blood flowed from her gaping mouth as she struggled to scream.

“Some cultures believe the eyes are the portal to the soul,” Michael stated from memorized instruction as the blade’s serrated edge tore into her porcelain skin. “Lucien was very specific,” he added, plunging the tip of the blade into the corner of her left eye. Glancing over his shoulder at the desolate parking lot, Michael noted the time and continued his task. His target’s sky-blue eyes were soon out and deposited safely into his pocket.

“Tell me, Ms. Jennings,” Michael asked, taking in his handiwork. “What is the price of beauty?”

His target responded with a final gurgle and gasp before her lifeless head fell to the steering wheel. Michael smiled and walked briskly from the parking lot, tossing his blood-soaked gloves and knife into his car as he counted the remaining seconds before detonation.

 

* * *

 

Seated safely behind the wheel of the car he had parked around the block the night before, it wasn’t until he was miles away that Michael finally relaxed. The drive back to Hell would take approximately forty-five minutes—depending on traffic. There would be no follow-up at “the office.” His task was done. At the end of this car ride he would simply climb the stairs to the apartment above The Devil’s Pawn and wait for another envelope to arrive under the door.

His stomach tightened into nervous knots at the approaching sound of police sirens. He stared through the windshield and watched the approaching red and blue flashers of law enforcement as he guided his car to the shoulder. The handful of other cars on the road did likewise. His anxiety lessened as three police cruisers sped past toward the direction of the blast.

He exhaled in relief as he guided his car into the first available lane of traffic. The bumper sticker on the car in front read ‘No rest for the wicked.’ The Collection Agent laughed. Those poor bastards didn’t know how right they are.

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Welcome to Devil's Pawn: A Soul Proprietorship

The Devil's Pawn

A Soul Proprietorship

 

Welcome to Hell, an unincorporated stretch of land in Southeast Michigan. With an advertised population of 666 and a playful proclivity to garner attention from its infamous name, nobody batted an eye when the self-proclaimed "Prince of Darkness" chose Hell to set up shop. But as business booms in his Soul Proprietorship , rumors begin to swirl. Who is this mysterious stranger and what is really being bought and sold behind the doors of The Devil's Pawn?

 

The voice on the phone said, "This is an attempt to collect a debt and any information obtained will be used for that purpose." The caller ID showed the number as unavailable, causing an already aggravated Brooke to toss the phone onto the passenger seat as she returned her attention to the rearview mirror and her mascara.

"Fucking asshole credit card companies," she fumed, ignoring the impatient horns and shouts from the unfortunate drivers filling the lane behind her white Range Rover. Of course, the call could have just as easily been about her car loan or condo lease. Hell, maybe it was Columbia House finally tracking her down for all of those CD purchases while in college. Regardless,

Brooke's immediate concern was her lashes.

Two green lights later, Brooke's Range River finally sped through the intersection. The distraction of the phone call forgotten, she was oblivious to the dark sedan riding her bumper.

 

* * *

 

Michael had found the ad online. Collections Agent. No experience necessary. Some travel required. The description suited him perfectly. He had found himself on the wrong end of collections several times, had no real job experience of any sort, and was looking for any reason to put some distance between himself and the bright lights of Vegas. It all seemed too good to be true when the brief telephone interview turned into a real job offer.

Of course, things are rarely what they appear and the ex-con knew that nobody hires a recently paroled mafia hit man as a best business practice. Still, the $2,500 check to cover moving expenses was real enough, even if it was drawn under a rather unusual name—Devil's Pawn, 666 Sulfur Street, Hell, MI. Surely somebody's idea of a joke, he mused.

Michael had still yet to meet his new employer face to face. Beyond a name, Lucien Burns was a complete mystery. He wasn't even completely convinced that the gentleman he spoke to on the phone during his brief interview was in charge. The entire affair felt a lot like his prior work with a certain unnamed family out in Vegas. But this was Hell, Michigan—far from the lights and glamour of the Strip. Michael was wise enough to know that his work was best handled on a need-to-know basis and not to clutter his mind with useless details.

As expected, the target guided her Range Rover into an office park. Michael followed, wondering just what this crazy bitch could have done to get herself into this kind of trouble.

 

* * *

 

"I want to be beautiful," she whispered, eyes darting around nervously. The Pawn Shop was empty, save for the well-dressed man who had greeted her entrance. Of indeterminate age, the man exuded a raw confidence and sexuality that made Brooke both strangely at-ease and uncomfortable. He was not what she had expected.

Brooke had found the ad online. Everybody Has A Price. What's Yours? Call 734.666.6666. The ad's simplicity is what had initially piqued her interest. What did it even

mean? A price for what? Even the phone number seemed to be a joke. Yet for two straight days Brooke had carefully considered what harm could come from simply calling. She would block her number from the caller id, of course.

"Ms. Jennings, so nice of you to call. How may I be of service?"

Brooke hesitated, unsure how the stranger on the other end of the line could possibly know her name. "I, uh, um."

"Please, take a moment to collect yourself. I can only imagine how nervous you must be. It takes great courage to embark on this journey," the man's soothing voice continued. "My name is Lucien Burns and I assume you are calling in response to the advertisement?"

Brooke's racing mind made it difficult for her to form a cohesive thought, let alone an apt response. "Mmm hmm."

The next several minutes passed with Lucien's hypnotizing voice providing scant information about exactly what it was he was peddling. Yet, within moments, Brooke found herself taking down a few scribbled notes and an address for a business in of all places, Hell.

"Shall we meet at say, seven-thirty tomorrow evening, Ms. Jennings?"

Now, at precisely the agreed-upon time, Brooke stood in Lucien's presence, baring her soul of its greatest desire—beauty. At just under two-hundred fifty pounds, beauty had always been the proverbial carrot dangled in front of her obese form. From diet programs to health club memberships, nothing had granted Brooke her soul's deepest wish. Nothing, that is, until now.

"Ah yes, beauty," Lucien responded with a knowing smile. His closely cropped hair was the color of cigarette ash, granting him the appearance of being both wise with age and virile in youth. Dressed in a well-tailored black suit with a starched white open-collared shirt beneath, Brooke's attraction to the man was instantaneous.

"So elusive, beauty," he continued, staring deeply into Brooke's eyes. "Tell me, Ms. Jennings, at what price does beauty come?"

Brooke broke Lucien's gaze, "Any," she whispered, bowing her head with embarrassment.

Lucien reached forward and gently placed his delicate fingers beneath Brooke's chin, raising her head to recast her gaze. Warmth spread throughout her body as she stared deep into his eyes.

"Let's talk terms, Ms. Jennings."

 

* * *

 

Michael parked two rows beyond the Range Rover and watched the white SUV from his rear view mirror. Again, the driver was busily applying makeup. Turning his attention from his target, Michael rummaged through the glove box and pulled forth a manila envelope. Written in flowing script across it's surface was a name—Brooke Jennings. The ex-con opened the flap and emptied the envelope's contents onto the passenger seat.

He glanced again into the mirror; no movement from the Range Rover. A single photo rested on the sedan's leather seat. Michael recognized his target immediately and turned the photo over where the same flowing script provided his brief instructions.

 

Beauty is only skin deep.

Cut it out—along with her eyes.

L.B.

 

Again, Michael reached into the glove box. His hand emerged holding a pair of black leather gloves and a hunting knife with a six-inch serrated blade. The knife disappeared quickly up the sleeve of his jacket as he slid the gloves over his already sweating hands. Casting another glance into the rear view mirror, he emerged from his car, setting the timer on the explosives beneath the driver's seat. Ninety seconds, he thought, walking briskly in the direction of the Range Rover.

"Excuse me, miss," he called as he approached his target. "Ms. Jennings," he called again, now standing at the door of the SUV. A wide smile split his lips as he gazed upon quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered. Pity, he thought, the muscles lining his jaws tiring from the forced smile. Sixty seconds.

Brooke turned her attention from her lipstick application and looked with obvious annoyance at the man standing at her window. Rolling her eyes she reached for the button and lowered the SUV's window.

"Yes, can I help you?" Her tone clearly implied helping anyone was the last thing on her mind.

Michael leaned forward, sliding the blade free from his sleeve, as the smile fell from his face. "I'm here to collect a debt."

The blade bit into Brooke's throat spraying blood and slicing her vocal chords with a single twist. A torrent of blood flowed from her gaping mouth as she struggled to scream.

"Some cultures believe the eyes are the portal to the soul," Michael stated from memorized instruction as the blade's serrated edge tore into her porcelain skin. "Lucien was very specific," he added, plunging the tip of the blade into the corner of her left eye. Glancing over his shoulder at the desolate parking lot, Michael noted the time and continued his task. His target's sky-blue eyes were soon out and deposited safely into his pocket.

"Tell me, Ms. Jennings," Michael asked, taking in his handiwork. "What is the price of beauty?"

His target responded with a final gurgle and gasp before her lifeless head fell to the steering wheel. Michael smiled and walked briskly from the parking lot, tossing his blood-soaked gloves and knife into his car as he counted the remaining seconds before detonation.

 

* * *

 

Seated safely behind the wheel of the car he had parked around the block the night before, it wasn't until he was miles away that Michael finally relaxed. The drive back to Hell would take approximately forty-five minutes—depending on traffic. There would be no follow-up at "the office." His task was done. At the end of this car ride he would simply climb the stairs to the apartment above The Devil's Pawn and wait for another envelope to arrive under the door.

His stomach tightened into nervous knots at the approaching sound of police sirens. He stared through the windshield and watched the approaching red and blue flashers of law enforcement as he guided his car to the shoulder. The handful of other cars on the road did likewise. His anxiety lessened as three police cruisers sped past toward the direction of the blast.

He exhaled in relief as he guided his car into the first available lane of traffic. The bumper sticker on the car in front read 'No rest for the wicked.' The Collection Agent laughed. Those poor bastards didn't know how right they are.

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Flirting With Greatness: Reaching the Top 100 Kindle Charts

There are certain milestones which every author strives to achieve. First – just finish the damn story. This is usually the most difficult milestone to achieve.  The internet is littered with the carcasses of half-finished manuscripts and pitch letters for projects which never make it from thought to fruition. For me, I am most proud of the fact that the idea of Asylum Lake actually became the novel Asylum Lake.

The second noteworthy author milestone is actually getting someone to pay for the privilege of reading it. It's one thing to get a pity read from your mother and something altogether different to have a complete stranger part with a few bucks to read the fruits of your labor. I still recall with wonder watching the pre-orders roll in for Asylum Lake. It was both gratifying and terrifying at the same time. Now, having just launched pre-orders for Grave Undertakings, I find that same odd combination of fear and pride taking root somewhere between my heart and my lower intestine. I'm still gratified that people are buying into me and my creepy tales, but also afraid that I will in some way disappoint them.

My most recent milestone achieved is purely ego-driven. Asylum Lake is currently taking up a bit of real estate on the Kindle Top 100 List for horror – #83 last I checked. What a rush to see my novel listed with some of the heavyweights of the horror genre. As I write this Stephen King's The Stand sits squarely in my rear-view mirror at #84 and Robert Kirkman's The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor is within spitting distance ahead f me at #70. Now, I'm not foolish enough to compare Asylum Lake to those titles, but apparently – for the time being at least – enough people are intrigued  by my ghost story to push sales figures into the rarefied air of two of my idols – Mr. King and Mr. Kirkman – and I think that is pretty fucking cool!

So please forgive me this moment of self-adulation. Its not every day that I get to rub shoulders with greatness and something tells me that by this time tomorrow I will be cast back into the abyss of anonymity.

If you would like to do your part to keep Asylum Lake on the Top 100 Kindle Charts for horror, CLICK HERE to download my 4.4 star rated thriller. It's only $2.99 and you probably have that much sitting in the cup holder in your car. Don't have a Kindle? No problem, you can easily download the Kindle app for your smartphone or computer and still dive into the mystery of Asylum Lake.

Cheers from Bedlam Falls,

R. A. Evans

Kindle Lover’s Rejoice: Asylum Lake is Free on March 29th!

Consider it my Christmas in March sale. Asylum Lake will be free on Thursday, March 29th in the Kindle Store on Amazon.

With more than 60 reviews on Amazon alone, Asylum Lake has a solid 4.4-star rating and according to Ray Walsh of the Lansing State Journal, “Asylum Lake is a taut tale liable to raise significant goosebumps.“

What do you have to lose? Dive into the mystery of Asylum Lake for absolutely nothing. I’ll even throw in nightmares for free!

Plus, you’ll be prepared for the unearthing of the chilling sequel – Grave Undertakings – on May 22nd. In fact, you can even pre-order an autographed print copy of Grave Undertakings today and be entered to win a Bedlam Falls swag bag full of great items. Simply visit www.schulerbooks.com and be among the first to discover the darkest mysteries of Asylum Lake.

 

Kindle Lover's Rejoice: Asylum Lake is Free on March 29th!

Consider it my Christmas in March sale. Asylum Lake will be free on Thursday, March 29th in the Kindle Store on Amazon.

With more than 60 reviews on Amazon alone, Asylum Lake has a solid 4.4-star rating and according to Ray Walsh of the Lansing State Journal, "Asylum Lake is a taut tale liable to raise significant goosebumps."

What do you have to lose? Dive into the mystery of Asylum Lake for absolutely nothing. I'll even throw in nightmares for free!

Plus, you'll be prepared for the unearthing of the chilling sequel – Grave Undertakings – on May 22nd. In fact, you can even pre-order an autographed print copy of Grave Undertakings today and be entered to win a Bedlam Falls swag bag full of great items. Simply visit www.schulerbooks.com and be among the first to discover the darkest mysteries of Asylum Lake.

 

Book Marketing Tips: Have you written anything lately?

I try to write every day – and not just because the little voice in my head demands it. I write because I know that's what it takes to make it in this business.  I am envious of authors who have multiple titles under their belts – not that my novel Asylum Lake is anything to sneeze at – but one book does not make a career.

Yeah, I said career; one day I hope to pay the bills with my writing and that just isn't gonna happen with royalties from a single novel.  So my marketing tip for today – spend more time writing!

I know, that's counter-intuitive to everything I have ever said about book marketing, but hear me out. My novel Asylum Lake was published in 2010 and in the subsequent months I have spent countless hours establishing my author platform.  From interviews and review requests to managing a blog, multiple facebook pages, and an ever-growing  twitter account, I'm proud of my platform's growth,  yet frustrated by the impact it has had on my writing.

Grave Undertakings, the sequel to Asylum Lake, has been delayed a handful of times and progress on other projects has also slowed dramatically.  I sometimes wonder if I have done more harm than good in focusing so much attention on promoting Asylum Lake and establishing my brand.  Could the hours spent tweeting had been better served by longer and more productive writing sessions? And don't even get me started on my blog – sure having more than 50,000 views is great, but the amount of work it has taken to get there has been nearly overwhelming!

So here is my plan -  I'm gonna churn out a minimum of 10,000 words a week. For some that may seem high, and others low, but for me it's a nice round number that seems to be fairly manageable.  Bottom line, if I am ever gonna make writing my career then I need to actually write – about things dark and mysterious, alive and undead, and most assuredly with ill intentions.

So tell me, are you a writer or a book promoter? Have you written anything  lately?

And now, purely for comic relief, is one of my favorite scenes from the film The Wedding Singer.  It illustrates just what the simple question of Have you written anything lately can lead to.