R.A. Evans's Blog, page 8

Coffin Hop Poll Question: What Will Trigger the Zombie Apocalypse

In case you haven't noticed, zombies are everywhere! It used to be that in order to get your zombie-fix you would have to visit the Horror section of your local video store. It was always tucked way into a far corner so as not to upset the kiddos as they scoured the shelves looking for the latest Disney flick. Nowadays, however, zombies are always within easy reach. Whether it's flipping over to AMC's The Walking Dead or searching the thousand of undead titles on Amazon, the shambling masses of death are never to0 far away.

This explosion of zombie popularity has me wondering – what will actually trigger the real zombie apocalypse? Yeah, I said real because it's inevitable, right? I mean, jusy check out the multitude of zombie survival gear and accessories you can purchase online; people wouldn't just make that stuff up, would they? 

So let's be scientific and see what the masses think will be the triggering event. That way, we can all plan accordingly. One lucky respondent will receive an official Asylum Lake tshirt. Simply answer the poll question and leave a commen to register.

View This Poll

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Coffin Hop Trick or Treat: A Bedlam Falls All Hallows Eve Special

October 31, 1971

Bedlam Falls, MI

The boy's hand felt awkward and small holding the heavy wooden handle of the oversized kitchen knife; yet his delicate fingers carried a strength and dexterity far beyond his young age.  The blade easily pierced the exposed flesh, deftly carving meaty chucks that collected in moist piles at his feet. The pungent odor of his handiwork filled the otherwise tidy kitchen.

He went about his work seemingly without thought, the faintest trace of a sly smile curving his thin lips.  The last warming rays of late afternoon sun filtered through the window over the sink, stretching long shadows across the soiled countertop.  Eventually, the blade ceased its mindless dance and the boy relaxed his boney fist from the stained wooden handle — letting the knife fall into the discolored sink.

He paused to reflect upon his creation – softly tracing his fingers across the carved flesh, probing the gouges and holes which he had so deftly whittled away.

Walking from the kitchen, his hands and arms sticky and soiled, Lionel Collins made his way through the vacant house and up the stairs to his bedroom. There, he would prepare for his evening, the soothing voice inside his head providing ample instruction, and strength, to complete the tasks ahead.

Small towns are notoriously quirky, and Bedlam Falls' quirkiness started from the moment of its founding. As Oliver Bryant Bedlam stepped from his horse-drawn carriage to survey the tree-swept fields of the as-yet unsettled acreage he had just purchased, his booted foot slid from the carriage step. His fall to the ground, although relatively short in distance, ended with a fractured skull courtesy of a rock hidden within the grassy plain. Bedlam died from his injuries two days later, and as word of the accident spread beneath headlines and over telegraph proclaiming "Bedlam Falls", the small northern Michigan town's name was sealed.

More than a century later, Oliver Bedlam's grave, marked precisely at the spot where he had fallen from his carriage, remained one of the most visited sites in all of Bedlam County. Of course, the majority of visitors were of the drunken teenage variety; Falls' Rest Cemetery had become the chosen location for late night teenage debauchery.

Deputy Frank Griggs was recently enough removed from his teenage years to still understand the lure of the secluded gardens of earth and stone. It was for this reason alone that he "patrolled" the area. Nothing was ever amiss in the cemetery, but the kids did keep him fully stocked with beer and on more than one occasion he was able to catch a brief glimpse of a nipple or two. Yeah, between the beer and the breasts, a slow drive through the cemetery was better than anything playing at the drive-in.

Tonight, however, the stone garden was eerily quiet. Griggs' had expected to hear Rod Stewart's Maggie May wafting from car stereos, but instead was greeted with an ominous stillness; the feeling of a calm before a great storm. The shadows played tricks with the young deputy's nervous eyes as he drove slowly through the winding dirt road toward the massive iron gates that marked the only entrance/exit from the cemetery.

A pained wail broke the silence, echoing through the night and sending a chill through Griggs' thick body. "Ho-ly shit," the shaken deputy exclaimed to the empty cruiser. "What the fuck was that?"

The cruiser eased to a stop as Griggs scanned the moonlit graveyard. Nothing seemed out of place, at least not from the relative safety of the car. Frank had little time to consider his options as a second cry erupted from the darkness; this one, definitely animal in nature.

"Fucking dogs," Frank groaned in relief. Earl Stubbs had served as cemetery caretaker for more than 30 years. It was the half-wit's job to keep the riff-raff out, maintain the grounds, and basically keep the dead tucked safely into their beds. The job didn't pay much, but it came with one nice perk; free rent in the small house on the northern edge of the cemetery. Earl kept to himself and did a fair job of maintaining the landscaping, but it seemed every stray dog in town somehow made it into his care. Griggs could only imagine what trouble the beasts were getting into with all of the noise.

Griggs exited the cruiser clutching his flashlight and exhaling a plume of vapor into the chilly air. The pale beam sliced through the darkness, revealing a maze of tombstones amidst a tangle of brush. "Here poochy, poochy, poochy."

Griggs' calls were met with more silence. He stepped carefully between the stone monuments and markers, allowing the beam from his flashlight to trace over the inscribed names and dates of the deceased.  This area of the cemetery, tucked away in the southeast corner, was relatively new, with plots used only within the last half dozen or so years. The oldest plots, dating back to the late 1800′s when Oliver Bedlam slipped from his carriage, rested neatly in the center of the vast field.

After several minutes Frank neared the edge of the cemetery's grounds. Here, as the open field gave way to the thick Michigan woods, the young deputy finally found the source of the recent commotion. The sight made his stomach clench with knots of fear.

Sweeping the light across the lone tombstone before him, Griggs could barely discern the etched name beneath the years of weather and what appeared to be fresh blood.

Rylan Walters

1920 – 1960

Loving Husband & Father

Griggs' had met the former sheriff on a single occasion – and once was more than enough for him to take measure of the man;  a thick-headed blow hard and not nearly the law man that the current Sheriff Buck Tanner was. Even still, Frank admitted to himself, the bastard's grave didn't deserve this kind of treatment.

Strewn about the area were bits of what the deputy could only assume had recently been a dog – perhaps multiple dogs.  His suspicion was quickly confirmed as he moved his light from the carnage on the ground to the blood-soaked wooden handle of a shovel sticking up from the freshly turned earth near the headstone.  Placed atop the handle, eyes bulging from their sockets, rested the head of a German Sherperd. Frank's knees buckled as his stomach emptied onto the soiled ground before him.

Shaken, the deputy's mind raced with a myriad of thoughts. Turning from his grisly discovery, Deputy Frank Griggs made his way back through the garden of stone to his cruiser. There, in the safety of the car, he contemplated his next move. Surely, he would call it in to the station. The Sheriff would know what to do. But Frank wanted to be the one to notify next of kin. He had shared several classes with her during high school, and although they ran in different circles, he thought the news may best be received from someone she knew.

"Maddie," Frank said anxiously into the radio, "Get the Sheriff out to Falls' Rest." It took only moments to relay the gory details to dispatch. "Let him know that I want to notify next of kin," he paused before continuing. "And Maddie, one more thing, can you get me an address on Joanna Walters…I mean Reed; Ken Reed's wife? I'll drive by once the sheriff arrives."

 

Like what you've read? Dive deeper into the mystery of Asylum Lake on Kindle, Nook, and in Print now before the upcoming release of the sequel Grave Undertakings.

All visitors who leave a comment on this post will be entered into a drawing for a free autographed copy of Grave Undertakings. The lucky winner will also win a "death" in my current zombie project FLIGHT.  That's right, a character named in your honor will receive a death befitting a contest winner. Good luck and enjoy the Coffin Hop!

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Grave Undertakings – the chilling sequel to Asylum Lake – will be unearthed soon!

Beneath the sparkling surface of Asylum Lake, the unremembered have grown restless…and vengeful. 

Brady Tanner's return to the small town where he had spent the summers of his youth has opened long-forgotten wounds within his heart and soul. The unsettling discovery of his family's dark legacy, and with it the chilling secret which has haunted the small town of Bedlam Falls for more than half a century, has led the former reporter into the darkened hallways of the abandoned Lake View Asylum and the horrifying world of the supernatural. Some memories, he has learned, are best forgotten.

Now Tanner must lead his ill-fated companions in search of the elusive Dr. Wesley Clovis – an ageless and faceless specter whose menacing shadow once filled the hospital's hallways and now promises a return to complete the unfinished task of parting the veil between life and death itself.  As the mysteries surrounding the man's sinister plans begin to bubble to the surface, Tanner is left to ponder just what could lead a man to such Grave Undertakings.

Souls will be lost and answers found as the final mysteries of Asylum Lake are revealed.

Read the prologue below.
March 4, 1957
Lake View Asylum

The soiled rag did little to silence the screams echoing throughout the hospital's dank subterranean basement, but it did keep the young woman strapped to the examination table from biting through her own tongue. Small consolation, however; her sky-blue eyes had already been removed and tossed carelessly onto the morgue's green-tiled floor. Through her muffled cries, blood-filled tears streamed down her face and onto the cold metal table where they collected in a growing pinkish-colored puddle.

Tall and slender, with silver hair falling to his shoulders, Dr. Wesley Clovis stood at the table and surveyed his handiwork. The woman had been stripped naked, her head, wrists, and ankles secured to the table by soiled leather straps. With each spasm of pain her full breasts heaved and the restraints dug further into her cold flesh, causing the white-clad orderly standing at the foot of the table to squeal in obvious delight.

"Douglas, if you would be so kind," motioning toward a cluttered tray of instruments near the table, Clovis directed his assistant, "I've need of my scalpel."

"Indeed," the diminutive orderly responded, moving to the side of the table and the instrument tray. Douglas' unsettling grin widened beneath a pencil-thin mustache, revealing a jagged row of yellow teeth. "You gonna cut her?"

Clovis paused, recasting his gaze from the prone woman on the metal table to the impish man in white. "Yes, Douglas, her blood shall flow, he whispered tersely, and then continued, his voice filling with conviction. "For the life of the flesh is in the blood … for it is the blood that makes atonement for the soul."

Twenty minutes later Dr. Wesley Clovis walked from the morgue, his starched-white shirt soaked with the life of the flesh. Although no closer to unlocking the secrets which separated the living from the dead, he took solace in the knowledge that an unlimited supply of subjects remained at his disposal.

As the sound of Clovis' thunderous footfalls echoed in retreat through the cavernous basement, Douglas Wyatt was left to care for what remained of young Jenny Sype. Shrugging free from his pristine hospital uniform, the pony-tailed orderly climbed atop the table, eager to explore the woman's still-warm flesh before it grew cold.

Dive into the mystery of Asylum Lake today for only $.99 on Kindle . Autographed print copies are available for only $15 by clicking HERE.

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Movie Review: 2.5 Stars for Country Strong

Yeah, you read that headline right – I'm doing movie reviews now! No, no – not horror. That would make too much sense. My pal belinda Frisch and I made a small wager and needless to say the consequences of said wager involved me watching and reviewing one of her favorite movies of all time – Country Strong.

Let's not mince words here, Country Strong is definitely a "chick flick" and I usually shy away from the genre. Count that as stroke one going into my screening. Strike two was the music; country isn't exactly my thing either. Don;t get me wrong, I enjoy some old Hank Williams, Jr., but todays bubblegum country makes my ears bleed. Which leads me tight into my strike three – no blood! I can't tell you the last movie I watched that didn't have some serious bloodshed.

Country Strong does have some serious upside, however. The film scores very high in the "eye-candy" department. Who is this Leighton Meester and why haven't I bumped into her before? Surely she would make for a great "April" in the movie version of my novel Asylum Lake!

All kidding aside, I kinda did enjoy this movie. I've never been a big Gwynneth Paltrow fan but even I sympathized with her character. I know how heart-breaking it can be to chase your dreams. And Tim McGraw as her husband was believable, too. Although i always find myself distracted when I see him not wearing his tardemark cowboy hat. i mean, is that a piece he is wearing or what; it just never looks real.

Bottom line, if waterboarded I would probably admit to Country Strong being better than a 2.5 star movie, but here, the the darkness of my spooky blog, I have to keep some street cred.

p.s. Belinda, I am never ever making a bet with you again!

Lit Witch Review breathes new life into Asylum Lake

I've been following The Lit Witch book blog for awhile now.  They do a really great job of reviewing books from a variety of genres and I have found them to be pretty spot on with their comments. They don't just rate a book – they go much deeper. Their reviews cover everythng from the plot and characters to the setting and premise. All of those factors are rolled into a final rating. It's a pretty cool system and provides their followers an opportunity to learn a lot about the book and what the author's strengths and weaknesses are.

After months of waiting, their review of Asylum Lake went live today and I couldn't be more pleased. Not just because it's a 4.5 star review – although that is rock star quality! I'm pleased because the reviewer seemed genuine in her comments; she understood the subtle and not-so-subtle nuances I was trying to portray with my characters, the dialogue, and their struggle to come to grips with a small town's dark past.

Most refreshing, however, has been the out-pouring of support from readers and fans following the release of the review. I've received more than two dozen emails from readers who just wanted to share their appreciation for my dark tale and excitement for the upcoming sequel Grave Undertakings. Several even commented on how they are buying copies for friends or suggesting it to book clubs as a good Halloween read. That, my friends, is the life-blood of author success – positive word of mouth!

Thanks to The Lit Witch for taking the time to review Asylum Lake.  I encourage authors and readers alike to visit her blog and dive into some of the great titles she is reading…and reviewing!

Asylum lake is available for Kindle, NOOK, and in print.  If you're looking to add some chills to your fall reading list, dive into the Mystery of Asylum Lake today!

News clipping sheds light on mysterious closure of Lake View Lunatic Asylum

The mystery surrounding the abrupt closure of the Lake View Hospital has haunted the citizens of Bedlam Falls, Michigan for decades. Now, Brady Tanner, the intrepid former reporter, has discovered an old news clipping that sheds light on the mystery. How this new clue will help him in his search for the ellusive Dr. Wesley Clovis is anybody's guess.

CLICK HERE to read the clipping. To dive deeper into the mystery of the abandoned psychiatric hospital and the frigid waters of Asylum Lake, look for the chilling novel on Kindle, NOOK, and in print.

In 1917, the state's second largest psychiatric hospital opened on six hundred wooded acres overlooking a small lake near Bedlam Falls, Michigan. Through its doors came the weak and the weary, the disabled and the discarded, the frail and the forgotten. But an open door is an invitation, and some visitors, once invited, are loath to leave. The hospital abruptly closed in 1958 under a cloud of mystery. It has remained empty and silent, save for the memories trapped both within its walls and far below the surface of the nearby lake that bears its name. At the bottom of Asylum Lake, the unremembered are growing restless.

Brady Tanner is trying to outrun memories of his own. After the sudden death of his wife, Brady retreats to the small town where he spent the summers of his youth. But he soon learns small towns can be stained by memories… and secrets, too. As Brady is drawn into unearthing these secrets, as he discovers a new love in an old friend, he is also drawn into the mystery of Asylum Lake and the evil that lies submerged beneath its sparkling surface. What is the source of this evil – and what does it want with Brady Tanner?

Minions of Misery

It's happening again – my good friend and fellow dark author  Belinda Frisch is allowing me to ride her coattails into celebrity. She's nomiated me to be a Minion of Misery and I couldn't be happier about joining the elite roster of authors.

My duties as a minion of misery are to list a dark film, a dark book, and a dark secret. Simple enough – even for a horror writer!

The Dark Film

Two American students are on a walking tour of Britain and are attacked by a Werewolf. One is killed, the other is mauled. The Werewolf is killed but reverts to its human form, and the local townspeople are unwilling to acknowledge its existence. The surviving student begins to have nightmares of hunting on four feet at first but then finds that his friend and other recent victims appear to him, demanding that he find a way to die to release them from their curse, being trapped between worlds because of their unnatural deaths.

Call me twisted, but I enjoy a few laughs with my horror and the orignal An American Werewolf in London delivers plenty of both.For those who have read my stuff you know I'm a huge music guy and the soundtrack to this movie is ridiculous! You gotta love Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Bad Moon Rising".

The Dark Book

The Headhunter is loose on the streets of Vancouver. The psycho's victims are everywhere – floating in the Fraser River, buried in a shallow grave, nailed to an Indian totem pole on the university campus. All are women. All are headless. Then the taunting photographs arrive. Carefully posed shots of the women's heads stuck on poles. The Mounties of Special X are up against a unique brand of killer. A killer whose sexual psychosis stretches back through Ecuador's steaming jungle and a scream-filled New Orleans dungeon to a dead-of-winter manhunt in the Rocky Mountains a century ago.

One of my fondest book-related memories was when an old college pal turned me onto Michael Slade's HEADHUNTER. Michael Slade is the pseudonym of Vancouver criminal lawyer Jay Clarke and his collaborators and let me tell you – they must be quite the crew to tell scary stories around the campfire with. Plus, as Belinda Frisch can testify, I enjoy non-linear plots-lines and the Slade gang can spin a non-linear yarn with the best of them.

The Dark Secret

So what's a horror writer do in his spare time? He tries his hand at writing romance, of course! Okay, romance may be stretching it a bit but I've recently finished a manuscript that is quite the departure from my usual murder and mayhem. I'm not sure what will come of it, but for the time being I have good ol' B. Frisch referring to me as Nicholas Sparks. Personally, I think it's just because I whooped her butt in the Cage Match!

My Nominations

Steve Emmet @chukkie58

Ania Ahlborn @aniaahlborn

Marketing 101: Selling books is like slinging crack rock on the corner

If you hadn't noticed, I'm a big analogy guy; it's just the way my mind works. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not, but I'll be forty next week and I figure if I've been able to make it this far with my aging neurons firing in this fashion I should be okay for another twenty or so.

So did my headline paint the picture for you? Are you ready to stand on street corners and secretly signal to passersby that you got what they need? You may laugh, but what do you think I'm doing right here on this blog? This is my corner – I claimed it and defend it with a passion. I don't get all Boyz In The Hood about it, but I do wear my colors proudly (blood red, of course).

The problem is that these days there's someone slinging books on just about every corner you pass. If vampires that sparkle get you high – there's a corner for that (just follow the glitter trail). Looking to do a hit of something that bends reality, check out the sci-fi guy three blocks over. Right here, however, in my "hood" the shadows are deep and that presence you feel lurking within them isn't going to bring good news. As Axle Rose so eloquently put it – "You in the jungle, baby. And you're gonna die."

A good crack slinger will offer just a taste – a little something to sample. Are you doing that with your book? Does your cover art entice a passerby to stop and take notice? Does your book blurb or dustjacket copy leave them wanting more? Hell, I gave away the first six chapters of Asylum Lake for free just to get people hooked. When their cravings kicked in they came back for more. They felt the itch of withdrawl and needed another hit. "Just one more chapter, man."

Now, with the release of Grave Undertakings on the horizon – I'm still on this corner. But now, I've got something new for you to taste. Yeah, I'm still selling my old stuff – and it will get you high (Click Here to find out for yourself). But this new stuff, damn – this new stuff will rock your world. Here, take just one taste – this one's on me.

March 4, 1957
Lake View Asylum

The soiled rag did little to silence the screams echoing throughout the hospital's dank subterranean basement, but it did keep the young woman strapped to the examination table from biting through her own tongue. Small consolation, however; her sky-blue eyes had already been removed and tossed carelessly onto the morgue's green-tiled floor. Through her muffled cries, blood-filled tears streamed down her face and onto the cold metal table where they collected in a growing pinkish-colored puddle.

Tall and slender, with silver hair falling to his shoulders, Dr. Wesley Clovis stood at the table and surveyed his handiwork. The woman had been stripped naked, her head, wrists, and ankles secured to the table by soiled leather straps. With each spasm of pain her full breasts heaved and the restraints dug further into her cold flesh, causing the white-clad orderly standing at the foot of the table to squeal in obvious delight.

"Douglas, if you would be so kind," motioning toward a cluttered tray of instruments near the table, Clovis directed his assistant, "I've need of my scalpel."

"Indeed," the diminutive orderly responded, moving to the side of the table and the instrument tray. Douglas' unsettling grin widened beneath a pencil-thin mustache, revealing a jagged row of yellow teeth. "You gonna cut her?"

Clovis paused, recasting his gaze from the prone woman on the metal table to the impish man in white. "Yes, Douglas, her blood shall flow, he whispered tersely, and then continued, his voice filling with conviction. "For the life of the flesh is in the blood … for it is the blood that makes atonement for the soul."

Twenty minutes later Dr. Wesley Clovis walked from the morgue, his starched-white shirt soaked with the life of the flesh. Although no closer to unlocking the secrets which separated the living from the dead, he took solace in the knowledge that an unlimited supply of subjects remained at his disposal.

As the sound of Clovis' thunderous footfalls echoed in retreat through the cavernous basement, Douglas Wyatt was left to care for what remained of young Debra Moored. Shrugging free from his pristine hospital uniform, the pony-tailed orderly climbed atop the table, eager to explore the woman's still-warm flesh before it grew cold.

Cranking Up The Idea Machine

It never fails. When people discover my dark horror writing hobby and connect the dots between who I am and what I write about they always end up asking "Where do you get your ideas from?" By now I should have a standard answer for this but instead I usually rely on a sly smile and slow roll of the shoulders.

That all changed yesterday, however, while taking in the "talent" at the Hudsonville Fair here in west Michigan. It's a bit of a family tradition – taking the skids to play a few games, ride a few rides, and sample far too many of the food vendors. There's another reason we go. The kids don't know it and I am only starting to suspect that my wife realizes; it's the "people watching". Nothing brings out the "talent" like a good carnival in the sticks.

In the span of four hours yesterday I was able to witness the complete laundry list of carnival stereotypes. From the toothless ride operator with only one eye to the hillbilly family who make the fair their one annual opportunity to leave their moonshine stills and mingle with the "city folk". Let me tell you – a horror writer can make up for weeks of writer's block with one trip to a local fair or carnival.

I'm not sure when or how, but rest assured, in the not too distant future some hidden nugget from my latest trip to the fair will bubble up into one of my dark tales. I just hopes it's not the three corn-dogs I ate.

Don't Shoot the Messenger: Horror Writers Always Bring Bad News

It's hard to love a horror writer – there's just not a lot of warm and fuzzies lurking within the pages of the stories I write. That is, unless the warmth of freshly-spilled blood or the unexpected touch of a fuzzy-mawed creature through the darkness does it for you. But alas, I digress.

Horror writers always bring bad news. It's true – I've looked into it. Take good ol' Steve King for example. From haunted cars, blood-sucking vampires, and apocopyptic plagues to rapid dogs, cursed Indian graveyards, and cell phones that create zombies, Mr. King's words more often than not signal doom for some unfortunate soul. Long story short, the Godfather of modern horror doesn't talk rainbows and unicorns.

It's probably for this reason alone that I don't get invited to many cocktail parties; haunted asylums and zombie-filled airplanes over the Atlantic aren't the usual conversation over martinis and crab cakes. I was a far more popular guest at these affairs prior to the publication of Asylum Lake; back when I was merely a public relations guru and part-time college professor.  Now, people steer clear for fear that my dark thoughts will contaminate their Norman Rockwell-esque lives. On a positive note, I don't have to worry about not talking with my mouth full.

It all begs the question, however – why blame the messenger? I can't help that my brain is tuned into some of the more disturbing frequencies of the human psyche. Hell, writing about it probably keeps me from acting on it. Plus, I have it on fairly good authority that many of the same people who avoid me like the plague at these fine catered affairs secretly retire to the comfort of their beds each night to spend time with my stories – and those of my colleagues in horror. If it helps them to act disgusted by my darkness in public then who am I to ruin the charade.

For now, I'm content with this arrangement. A clear social calendar gives me plenty of time to write.