Doug Lamoreux's Blog, page 2

C'mon horror readers! Spread out!

C'mon horror readers! Spread out!

Every fiction genre has it writing kings and queens, we all know that. I have no argument with it. They've made their place. They've earned their bones. They write great stuff and, for that, they get bought and read. I write horror, suspense, and mystery, so the names of the kings and queens of those genres figure most prominently in my world. Stephen King, obviously, Heather Graham, Dean Koontz, Anne Rice, and a select group of others; these are our stars. In the last few weeks, I've gotten an education regarding how very much they get bought and read.

Several weeks ago, my horror thriller The Devil's Bed reached #4 on Amazon Kindle's list of best selling Ghost novels. Numbers 1 and 2 were Stephen King novels, natch. The 3 spot was held by Heather Graham. Then came The Devil's Bed. Followed by a Dean Koontz book and another Heather Graham at #6.

My new novel, Apparition Lake, co-written with my talented but not as handsome as me brother, Daniel D. Lamoreux, is currently #5 on Kindle's list of best selling Native American novels (admittedly, a specialized sub-genre) and #7 on Amazon's list of best selling Native American novels in all books in the United States. But it is also a horror thriller. On Kindle's list of best selling Paranormal Suspense novels, Apparition Lake is currently #17. Ten of the books ahead of it on this list, ten of them, are written by Stephen King (2), Heather Graham (2), and Dean Koontz (6).

I told you all of that to tell you this: C'mon horror readers! Spread out!

Yup, Stephen King's great. And Heather Graham. And Dean Koontz. And Anne Rice. No doubt about it! But so are a plethora of other great writers that should be bought and read. With absolutely nothing to gain but a few assorted raspberries from the many, many, many that I don't have space or time to mention, let me just mention a few - the tip of the horror and thriller iceberg: Carole Gill, Brian L. Porter, Kevin A. Ranson, Erik Hofstatter, V R McCoy, John Irvine, Chris Larsen, Scott Goriscak, Dan Dillard, Weldon Burge, Rose Blackthorn, Henry Snider. Start there. It's just the tip of the tip of the tip of the iceberg, but it's a place to start. These are great writers, writing great horror, and I ain't making nickel one by saying so.

Sure King and Graham and Koontz and the rest are tops. Buy them, read them. But don't be afraid to spread out! Do yourself a treat! There is a lot of good horror, suspense, and mystery out there!

How do they do it?

How do they do it?

Well, how? How do those Amazon gods that sell our poor words decide what genre, what category; into which barrel to place our works of art? I confess it, I am befuddled.

My novel The Melting Dead, a lovely romp of gore and comedy, features flesh eating (and by unavoidable association, blood drinking) melting zombies chasing those trapped on an island in the middle of the Mississippi River. It has never spent a moment on any zombie best sellers list. Yet, The Melting Dead spent three unbroken weeks on Amazon's top 20 list of best selling vampire novels. Okay. Who am I to argue?

My Lord Ruthven Assembly (you can't get more vampire than that) fiction award nominated Dracula's Demeter (now being adapted by ThunderBall Films) is clearly a vampire novel. A direct sequel, Fangoria magazine called it a mid-quel, let's settle on 'companion piece', to the original Bram Stoker tale. This vampire epic has never seen the vampire best sellers list. But, it makes frequent visits to Amazon's list of 100 top selling Sea Adventures. Okay. Who am I to argue?

My paranormal mystery Corpses Say the Darndest Things has yet to score in the mystery or paranormal categories but has made the top 100 for, wait for it, Suspense - Occult. Occult? In six words, WTF LOL. Still, who am I to argue?

The just released Apparition Lake, an explosive bit of horror, co-written with my talented brother Daniel D. Lamoreux, concerning a vengeful American Indian spirit has already visited the top 100 Native American best sellers' list several times. Well, that makes sense. But...

The Devil's Bed, currently available for .99 cents (LAST day), and currently in the top 20 Suspense - Ghost novels on Amazon doesn't feature any ghosts. Critic Peter Schwotzer (Literary Mayhem) in his My Favorite Books For 2013 said, "The debut novel from Doug that really blew me away. Templar Knights, vampires, a battle at a haunted castle that was one of the best battles between good and evil that I read this year." He didn't mention ghosts. Because there aren't any.

I'm not complaining. I'm smiling big and wide. But I am wondering how they do it. Logic says they take the content, and the supplied keywords as tags, put it in the mincing machine, push a button and, voila, category breakdowns a la Amazon. But I'm not taking the blame and I'm not allowing my publisher, Creativia, any of the blame either. So... it isn't the tags and keywords. It is, I'm sure, drunk Phantasm dwarfs in the Amazon basement hurling javelins at the official Amazon Novel Category dart board. And now you know!

Check out the Kindle edition of The Devil's Bed, if you get a chance. Save three bucks for ONE MORE DAY. No, there aren't any ghosts. But there's plenty to scream and laugh about.

Emotional Cellar to Best Seller

As a reader you may know, as a writer you absolutely know the seemingly endless, certainly uncountable, hours that went into your novel; a million and six notions, a million and seven doubts. Your exhausted mind, for a time, hung wrung out and drooping over the towel bar or, if you were fortunate, the wet bar. But now you're back! You've cleaned the metaphoric blood off the keyboard. You've shopped for new trousers; had to, having entirely worn out the back of the lap of the pants you wore while writing. (See endless hours above, add 'sitting' for every moment of it at your writing instrument of choice.) The point is, you finished your novel. You thrilled... briefly.

Then you started the endless, certainly uncountable, hours of searching for a publisher. Finding one (or making up your mind to self-publish), you thrilled... briefly.

Then you started the countable, but certainly long and challenging, hours of editing, revising, designing or approving the designs necessary to bring your book, your novel, your child, your lifeblood to digital life and to print. You thrilled... briefly.

Then you started the seemingly endless, certainly uncountable, hours of selling your novel, the modern version of shouting from the mountain tops. Word of mouth (mostly yours), blog tours, book signings, tweets, posts, e-mails, review requests. There followed, weak stomach or not, the whole roller coaster ride, trudging to the top, cresting, racing to the bottom, wallowing, only to trudge again, you battled more doubts, and wrestled with empty pockets, you fought depression, and loneliness, and self-pity (because you are an artist; I see it, and I don't even know you. But I know you so well). Wonderfully, between bouts, often, things happened that gave you a day, an hour, a moment to thrill.

Like yesterday.

My very first solo novel, The Devil's Bed, written three years ago but reissued in a stunning second edition by my new publisher, Creativia, is in the middle of a promotion. Yesterday morning, I awoke to find The Devil's Bed at number 4 on Amazon's list of best selling Suspense - Ghost novels. Number 4; behind two Stephen King novels, and one by Heather Graham. Ahead of a novel by Dean Koontz, several more by Heather Graham, and three more by Stephen King in the top fifteen. AND I THRILLED!

Briefly, yes, because I'm not Stephen King, or Heather Graham, or Dean Koontz. Come to think of it, I'm not anybody but Doug Lamoreux. I had no expectation it would last. And it didn't (The Devil's Bed is at #12 this morning.) But for one full day, my first novel was at #4, surrounded by Stephen King, Heather Graham, and Dean Koontz. Am I bragging? Well, HELL YES. But, much more than that, I'm simply sharing the thrill with any of you that wish to take and share it.

And, because the ride isn't over, because the ride is NEVER over, I'm simply acknowledging that that thrill is past and the trudge has once again begun. That, in itself, is a new thrill, and a new challenge. There are four days left to Creativia's current promotion of The Devil's Bed. And #12 is still in the same universe as #1 and, as a horror writer, I believe that "Things come back!"

Readers, thank you. Writers, write on. Trudge and thrill, trudge and thrill, trudge and thrill. But write on. One day, as you struggle from the emotional cellar, you may find your name on the cover of a best seller.

All right... explain it to me.

All right... explain it to me. What the hell is magic about the three book series?

Since building a nest here at Goodreads a fair number of years ago, I, like every other of the thousand writers here, have been bombarded by messages linking to those two ecstatic threads from every group on the site; Introduce Yourself and Tell Us About Your New Book. No problem there. It's all good. Welcome! And congratulations on the new book; self-pub, big six, or something in between. Congrats!

The post is usually the same. "My name is Dodie (or Phil, or Bart, or Alice; the name is usually different each time), I'm a writer (I always wonder if that is a proclamation or a guilty confession), and I've just published my (first, newest, greatest) novel (insert name of epic tome.)" But then it comes, the sentence; not always, but often. Way, way, way too often for my taste or understanding. That sentence that I've heard a hundred times if I've heard it once:

"It's the first in a three book series..."

So, explain it to me. What is magic about the three book series that so many writers and would-be writers think they need contribute one to the world's slush pile? With Moby Dick, Les Miserables, Gone With The Wind, Around the World in Eighty Days, and The Pickwick Papers as examples of one-off classics, is your story so epic that uncounted dozens of you know, from the outset, that one book cannot contain it? And, if that is the case, why three? I know nothing about numerology but I did see the original War of the Worlds. Three alien ships, three eyes, three fingers, I got it. Three is mysterious... or something. And, sure, we'd all love to sell a book series, I guess; to have something we're known for that requires the readers to come back to us in order to get their fix. Even I have a character (a wise guy detective) with series potential but, so far, I've only written one book about him. Because I wanted to tell readers about the weirdest thing that EVER happened to him. And I fit that into one book. If something else, weirder yet, more exciting, or more important happens to him, then I'll probably write another one and tell his faithful followers about it. But there is no three book series planned.

That's what I believe... that a short story, a film, certainly a book should be about the most important, most painful, most memorable, funniest, THING that ever happened to a character. And every time I hear, "It's the first in a three book series," though it is clearly just my prejudice, I wonder why. And I can't help but wonder if the writer knows where the nut is. Or if they know their character so well that they also know the three most important things that ever happened to them - in order. But, in that case, I kinda want to read number three first.

If you are two paragraphs in to writing your first three book series, don't let me stop you. This isn't a rant. I'm just curious.

Color Me Thankful!

Yesterday was a grand day!

My new novel, Apparition Lake, was launched. It became available to the reading public. It reached at least one reader (because it has an Amazon ranking, and you can't get an Amazon ranking until somebody buys it). It was a grand day!

I should say "our novel" because I have a co-author, my brother Daniel D. Lamoreux, this time out. That's another reason why yesterday was a great day. I have someone to share the joy for the whole trip!

There are endless blogs (or should I say "blah-gs) on publishing vs self-publishing. This ain't one of 'em. As to the debate of whether or not to self-publish, I couldn't care less. As to the wisdom, ain't mine to say. You can go the traditional route or, in this digital age, you can self-publish. Knock yourself out. But, ages ago, I don't remember the date and I'm not going to look it up, but years ago, my brother and I wrote a novel and self-published it. We were happy as (obviously ecstatic) clams.

Skip ahead to yesterday; lots and lots and lots of water under the bridge.

Dan became an award-winning wildlife photographer and outdoor writer and me, I became an award-winning fiction writer. Recently, we two, much older, hopefully wiser, certainly better, writers (still brothers) got the absolute thrill of a lifetime; a rare thrill indeed. We got to go back in time. We got to change history. We got to improve upon our old work and make it better, faster, meaner, scarier, funnier, more entertaining... That's right! Through our wonderful publisher Creativia, we had the opportunity to rewrite our first novel (self-published so long ago and seen by far too few); not to just re-publish it, to REWRITE it! We were given the opportunity to take the core idea we thought (and still think) so good and add new characters, new plot twists, new scenes and settings, to alter motivations, to sharpen dialogue, and on and on. We got to take a good mystery / horror novel with a strong message and turn it into a great, scarier horror novel with a better mystery and a better message, and to release it to the world through a small but up-and-coming publishing house with talent and energy and a strong eye for great (and great looking) books. The all new Apparition Lake was released yesterday.

Color me thankful. To the publisher for believing in Apparition Lake. To the designer and the whole class act team that makes up Creativia Publishing. To the artists extraordinaire at The Cover Collection. To my older brother, a fine writer, Daniel D. Lamoreux ('Lash' to me for reasons that reach into antiquity) for being willing and eager to revisit the past to create a powerful new present. And, most of all, thank you to those who choose to read Apparition Lake. If you're in the mood for a thriller, I think you'll be pleased.



Yesterday was a grand day!

Debuts and reviews

There is no way to express the exhilaration of being a published author and seeing your words come alive in the form of a brand spanking new book. It happens in increments; the story, the sometimes seemingly endless hours of writing, the final rewrite, the editorial comments and corrections, the next final rewrite, the proofs, the paperback and e-book interior designs, the cover art, the title fonts, the unveiling, the release...

I have a new novel, with an incredible co-writer, taking the stage next week. I saw the cover art yesterday and I'm in epic horror heaven! I can't wait to reveal it and hope you will have a look. Legendary spookiness! I'm looking forward to telling you about it.

On another subject; that which has come before.





If you have read one of my books, please do me the huge favor of posting a rating and / or short review on that book's page at Amazon(dot)com or Amazon(dot)wherever you are. Even if you hated it, please stop by and say so. Many venues will not assist us (me or my marvelous publisher) in promoting books with less than X number of reviews. Your readership, and your opinion of the work, is appreciated more than I can express. In all sincerity...

Appetites

A short piece first published on the Short n Scary website. Enjoy.

Appetites

I hear… moaning.

I hear… a pained and agonized groaning.

But how? I’m under water! Aren’t I? Yes… I’m somewhere in the cold depths of a black, muddy lake… No, I’m rising… I’m racing to the surface. Wait, it isn’t a lake. It’s space. Not outer space. Not physical space. What’s the word…? Figuratively, that’s it. I’m… racing toward consciousness…

Geez! Someone just screamed! It was a short, startled bleat… and now it’s gone. It cut off as quickly as it started. Wait… That was me!

I can’t catch my… I’m breathing very quickly now, quite involuntarily and, as consciousness becomes cognizance… I can’t help myself. I need to scream aga… “God. My God!”

I’m hyperventilating. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t get any air. I can’t breath! Stop it! Got to stop it or I’m going to pass out again. I’ve… got… to slow… my breathing. In through the nose. Hold it. Out through the mouth. In through the nose. Hold it. Out through the mouth. Better. That’s better. But, still, there’s something wrong. I feel trapped. Unable to move. I can’t… Wake up. Got to wake up. “I’m sick!”

Why can’t I move? Why can’t I wake up? And where the hell am I? It’s dark. So very dark. How did I get here? Think… I’ve got to… Wait! Yes, trying to remember. Last week. Yes, it started last week… with the room next door. The room next door… and the lady of the evening.
 
My name’s Robert Fare. I’m a writer and I live in room 303, upper, rear, of a shabby little motel in the middle of nowhere. Motel living has its advantages for a fellow like me, but it has its disadvantages as well. Chief among them… fate picks your neighbors; and upstanding citizens live in homes – not motels. I guess I’m trying to say that daily, sometimes weekly, all of life’s losers, down and outs, pimps, druggies, sluts and escapees check into the rooms on either side and below me and temporarily call them home. And from these temporal nests they come, stay and go while I have no choice but to hear and occasionally see slices of what should be their private lives nakedly displayed.

An unending parade of human debris. Laughing too loud on Saturday nights. Praying too loud on Sunday mornings. Drinking, fighting, and rutting like insane weasels. Groan, groan, groan. Thump, thump, thump. Bang, bang, bang. Scream.

If you know what I mean.

The latest one is a lady (and by that I mean, of course, a lady of the evening) who’d been in room 304 – to the west of mine – for five days and, more pointedly, nights. I’d never seen her. We didn’t keep the same hours. But I heard her… and her guests. Every night, several times a night; the same room, the same girl, and each time a different guy – though they made similar noises.

Groan, groan, groan. Thump, thump, thump. Bang, bang, bang. Scream. Followed by a silence that, pardon the cliché, was almost deafening.

And, in regards to the frequency of her dalliances, I’m not even kidding about this lady. In my, eh, extended stay at the motel I’d seen some goers, but this lady was relentless. Coming and going. Going and coming. Only to start it all again. Thumping, banging and screaming. The way I remember, it had been one hell of a week – to say the least.

Then came the night I actually saw her…

I was minding my own business; my usual business, tapping away at my latest unsold novel, at my usual table, in the far corner, next to the decorative but non-functioning fireplace, in the motel’s drab lobby, (excuse me while I take a deep breath) when the electronic door chime sounded and – she came in. I suppose I ought to say ‘they’ as there were two of them. As always, she had a guy in tow. But I didn’t give a rat’s ass about him. My attention was where it belonged; on the lady of the evening. Would I be a politically incorrect, misogynistic pig in a cheap suit, if I confessed that she looked good enough to eat?

“Guot eve-e-nink.”

That’s what she said. Good evening. But she didn’t talk, she purred. And, while Shakespeare preferred words trippingly off the tongue, I’m willing to bet the old boy would have been okay with her delivery. I certainly was. She had a thick, eastern European accent (Serbian, or Hungarian, or Russian. I’m a writer, what do I know?). It was delicious; slow like dripping honey.

Then she said, “Is a beau-ti-ful night, yesss?” And I fell in love with snakes.

She wore short shorts, a halter top, lace jacket, net stockings and knee-high boots with stiletto heels; all as black as the night. Her jewelry, crystalline, crimson and jade, had no business being real in a place like this, but sure looked it; all set in silver accoutrement. She had a blood red tramp stamp on her stomach I couldn’t make out from that distance, but regardless of what it was or how it read, it said slut in any language.

“My key. It’s not verk-ink.” She slid the malfunctioning key card across the counter. Then, at Natalie’s request (eh, Natalie is the Front Desk night clerk), the dark beauty produced a license.

“Adrea Spedding. Yessss,” she said, agreeing with Natalie she was who the license said and, at the same time, proving her right to occupy room 304.

Not that her name mattered. Not that the flavor of the hour, the nervous fellow beside her (let’s call him John), mattered. Not that anything mattered to me. It’s sexist, I know. I know! It’s vulgar. But I just kept staring at that dark, foreign beauty, dressed like a gutter, crib-baby from a bad sit-com, murmuring under my breath, “God, that looks good enough to eat!”

The door chime repeated it’s three-note song as they left. I closed my laptop, hurriedly threw my stuff in my duffle, and made a pathetically unconvincing excuse to Natalie for my rapid departure; which was childish and entirely guilt-driven. (She didn’t ask and I didn’t owe her one.) Then I quickly and unobtrusively followed the couple as Adrea-whatever hurriedly directed John to her room.

I’m almost ashamed to remember what I did next. But, what, I don’t already know? I leaned against the wall in my room, and listened from my side like some sleazy pervert, while Adrea-dark and John-dork groaned, thumped as they upset the furniture, banged on the wall and, as usual, worked themselves up to a scream.

But Geez! This time, it was a hell of a scream!

Despite my perverse enjoyment, I was shaken to the core. Something awful had happened in that room. I couldn’t recover quickly enough to hurry to the front office and complain, like the hypocrite I am. “There’s something going on in room 304.”

“What do you mean?”

Natalie wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. I made three attempts to subtly get the message across before exasperation set in. “For the fourth time, Natalie,” I remember barking at her. “I don’t know what I mean. I’m not in room 304, I‘m in 303. But they’ve been thumping the heck out of my wall…”

“Well, Mr. Fare, it’s… You know, it’s a motel.” Apparently, she didn’t think I was all that sharp either.

“I’m not talking about that kind of thumping, Natalie. Do you think I’d be up here if I was talking about that kind of thumping? Someone… doing something… Not that kind of thing, but a different kind of thing, banged… I didn’t mean banged, I meant thumped, on my wall and then screamed.”

She stared at me like I was a bug. And, I had to admit, her complete lack of curiosity was doing nothing to alter my opinion of her general dullness. “Natalie?” I said, trying to rouse her. “This is where you say, I’ll call the police.”

“I can’t call the police, Mr. Fare.”

“There’s the phone, Natalie.” I pointed over the counter. “Pick up the receiver. Push the nine; once, and the one; twice.”

“I’m not allowed.” I swear to God that’s what she said. She went on to explain. “Tina (that’s the Front Desk Manager) says it’s bad for the motel’s reputation to have the police here.” Then, because I’m dense, she repeated. “So we’re not allowed to call them.”

Though I was almost certain I would regret it, I launched into a debate. “What if a situation comes up where you need them?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Like… the situation that’s come up, Natalie.”

“Oh, she didn’t say. She just said, don’t call the police.”

I was right. I regretted it. “That’s a tremendous policy.” Taking a new tact, I said, “All right, Natalie, give me a key to the room.”

“I can’t give you a key to the…”

“Natalie, something bad has happened in room 304. It’s not my imagination. I’ve asked you to call the room…”

“There’s no answer!”

“Right, which, if you think about it, strengthens my argument something bad has happened. I’ve asked you to check the room…”

“I can’t leave the desk!”

“Right. I’ve asked you to call the Police…”

“I’m not allowed to call them!”

“Right. So… I’m offering to check the room for you.” I swear to God. Like a bug. I was half afraid she’d stick a pin through me and put me in her science fair project. “Natalie? Do you want Tina to find a hooker’s corpse in room 304 tomorrow morning?”

“NO! But I don’t want to find one either!”

“If I check now, she might not be a corpse yet. Wouldn’t it reflect better on you if you saved her life? Or, if it’s too late, wouldn’t it be better to find a warm, fresh corpse as opposed to a cold, stiff, seven-hour-old corpse?”

She hesitated. Then, slowly, the ferris wheel in the carnival she called a head started to go round. “O-kay…”

“Okay!”
 
I remember sliding the duplicate key card that Natalie had given me into the lock. I heard a beep. The pad flashed green. The lock snicked.

I don’t know what I expected to see or hear when the door of room 304 came open. What I saw was darkness and what I heard was nothing. I don’t know what I expected to smell; the heavy odor of pot, the musk of human coupling, the metallic tinge of spilled blood. Any of those would have been better than… the odor of decay. Room 304 smelled of the unrivaled stench of human decay. Repulsed but, with a writer’s often-misguided curiosity, unable to retreat, I entered the room. I was just beyond the threshold when the door, on spring hinges, closed.

I groped the wall for the light switch, found the cover missing, the switch exposed and dangling on stiff wires and… click-click, click-click …the lights not working.

Alarmed, I found myself backing away from the displaced switch (and foolishly the door) into the room. I strained, scanning the blackness for any sign of any-thing until… My progress was arrested… when my head collided with something hanging from the ceiling. It was huge with a surface as rough in places as dried mâché and as sticky in others as molasses. Though I could only just see its bulbus outline, it was instantly obvious to even my disoriented brain that I had run into some kind of… cocoon.

I backed away in horror! Only to run into another hanging several feet further into the room. From there, again… another. And another beyond that.

My God! The whole room was full of these hellish things. Cocoons… reeking with the odor of decaying human flesh. But where… where was the lady of the evening?

And then I heard the strangest sound, all but indescribable; a wet fishing line unwinding, a harp string in mid-pluck; perhaps more a vibration than a sound. For I turned, not when I heard it, but when I felt it.

My eyes had adjusted, somewhat, to the dark. I could see the ceiling was covered in a brilliantly woven orb web and, suspended from its center, above my head by a silvery, silken thread… was the lady of the evening. The crimson design on her stomach was visible now and, even without the light I could see it was not a tattoo, but a natural marking in the shape of an hour-glass.

I screamed. I screamed! I SCREAMED! Or thought I had.

For it soon occurred that my mouth was hanging open, and great gobs of air were escaping through it, but I wasn’t making a sound. Merely gaping like a landed trout. I had no voice. I couldn’t scream. I… The thing on the ceiling, the lady, was… I backed away… To the wall… I clenched my fist, though something… something inside of me was fighting, trying to hold me back, to prevent me… But I forced myself. I raised my fist and I thumped… and banged against the wall, trying to alert someone, anyone, to my desperation. To my horror.

And the horror closed in.

I banged again. Oh, God, would no one hear me! Would no one help me? And then it dawned… Natalie was right, I wasn’t all that sharp. The wall bordered my room. I hadn’t come to anyone’s aide… and nobody was coming to mine.

The dark lady drew near. And… My God, my God… She was so… beautiful…
 
“God. My God!” I feel trapped. Unable to move. I can’t… Wake up. Got to wake up. Sick… “I’m sick!”

Where am I? It’s dark. So very dark. But… wait… What’s that? Lights, dull, defused; eight red lights in a cluster, glowing softly as if filtered through cheese cloth. No, silk; woven silk. NO! Spun silk… before my eyes. Thread… A spider’s thread woven before my eyes, spun round my body; suspending me here in room 304. With eight red lights, glowing in the dark, approaching stealthily and gaining definition as they draw near. Hissing! I hear hissing… And the lights, slowly approaching, are not lights at all, but the eyes… of the lady of the evening.

She wraps her arms around me. I’m hers. Locked, delighting in the thrill of her embrace. She pulls me and I follow gladly, without resistance, with a feeling of falling, in eager anticipation… To the bed, I assume, or the floor perhaps, or maybe even to Hell. I don’t know and I don’t care.

Now, sweetness in life, she wraps her legs around me.

Her breath, and mine, are one heated cloud. And she whispers, “Yes. Yessssss!”

Then… she wraps… her other legs around me.

And, again, she wraps… two more legs around me.

Her fangs have a delicious sting! A burning… God, a burning races through my body. Sweat bursts from every pore as the pungent odor of hot iron, the smell of my own flowing blood fills my nostrils. Her gasps… mix with my screams. Funny, they don’t seem like mine… And, as darkness… envelops me, I can feel the warm wetness of her saliva as it drips, soaking my silk cocoon. I can see her licking her bright red lips. And through that horrid hissing noise she’s making, she’s saying… something. I… I can’t make it out… She’s… Wait! I can hear her now. Dear God, I can hear her!

“Ohhhhhh, Gott! Dat looks good enof to eat!”

D is for Dead (and Disappointment)

A short piece I wrote for the Books From Hale Halloween marathon. Enjoy.

D is for Dead (and Disappointment)

He woke with a start, quietly. The latter was something he'd trained himself to do; in all things – be quiet. The former was inescapable; when you lived in a nightmare, startled was the only way to wake. It took him a moment to recognize his surroundings, his bed such as it was, to ground his brain in the there and then (to him, the here and now, of course). Once that was accomplished, add a moment for him to realize he was alone, and another to accept the fact that she had not returned. I probably don't have to tell you that was a disappointment.

Wasn't that just about all that life was anymore? Come to think of it, wasn't that all it had ever been?

He laid back to consider the question and couldn't help but ask himself how much (or indeed how little) things had changed. He asked the question again. Wasn't that really all that life had ever been? A disappointment? A barely remembered childhood; a middle child in a family of many siblings. Lost amid the crowd. Too young to have any fun but old enough the younger ones could be his responsibility. And nobody, not mother, not father (when they saw him), not that chin-pinching auntie could ever remember his name. Admittedly there were a lot of kids and admittedly Wallace wasn't a great name but, really, was it that hard to remember? And, though he never objected aloud, he wouldn't have called a dog Wally. Oh well, what was one more disappointment? Then came a mediocre, at best, climb through high school only to find there was neither the money nor the academic acumen to make continuing on to college a road worth taking. After graduation (no party), came an okay job, certainly not a great, or even a good job (absolutely not a career), but a working-life-long job that paid the bills. You know, a disappointment. A too-quick marriage to a high school sweetheart, too much like her demanding know-it-all father. Endless arguments. A fourth anniversary fought through then slept away in the car in the parking lot (she slept alone in the big double bed in the expensive get-away hotel). A fifth anniversary fought through then slept away in the hallway rocker (she slept alone in the big double bed of that expensive B&B). Two wonderful sons she shoved around like chess pawns, teaching each how worthless men were and turning them against their old man. A long drawn out and oh so expensive divorce that in the name of fairness took everything he had (or would have for decades to come). Had enough? So had he. Then and only then came...

What the heck was it? A world-wide plague? The apocalypse? The George Romero wet dream? The night, the year, the life of the living dead? What difference did it make what people called it. It had happened, become a reality, a 4D, interactive, blood-letting, blood drinking, flesh eating, kill or be killed, run like hell, "to die, to be really dead, dat must be glorious" nightmare in which people were a quickly vanishing commodity. But had things really changed much? Or were there just more disappointments?

And she hadn't returned.

He rose to his knees, as quietly as he was able, trying not to rattle the plastic, the papers, the loose metal cans, and peered out. The sun, though partially hidden behind clouds, was up and the day new. But so what? Night or day, it mattered little. It wasn't like in the movies (when there were movies) where the blood-thirsty monsters only shambled out at night. The real ones, the residents, the revenants, could be around at any time day or night. You were a fool if you didn't look before you showed yourself. So he peered out, taking a good look around. All appeared quiet. He grabbed his bat, poised leaning at the ready, easily within reach all through the night; his genuine Louisville slugger. He'd tried an aluminum job at first but had been disappointed; the wobbly metallic ting that sounded when it split a shambler's skull had been completely unsatisfying. The solid crack of the wooden bat, on the other hand, let him know the job had been accomplished. Anyway, sure that the coast was clear for the moment, bat in hand, Wallace climbed quickly, and as quietly as he was able, up and out of the dumpster where he'd spent his night and, because she hadn't returned, hustled alone to the nearest building. It was an abandoned (what building wasn't?) Used Car dealership, and he flattened himself against the outside rear wall. You were also a fool if you walked in the open.

Sneaking along the walls of fading buildings and back alleys like an anxious mouse, knowing that at any instant a human-like, but certainly not human, creature might appear out of nowhere and attempt to kill and eat you, was a suspenseful endeavor for the lonely man engaged in it. For on-lookers (or readers) it's rather tedious and we'll skip the next little while. Suffice to say, Wallace later found himself, perhaps by plan, perhaps by instinct, back at his pre-onslaught stomping grounds, the Alpine Inn. Of course, in the smack center of northern Illinois there wasn't anything remotely Alpine about it. It was built on a hill, between two other hills, in the middle of the city. A bike rider wouldn't have been winded getting there from any direction but it was, apparently, Alpine to an earlier owner with either big ideas or a vivid imagination. What it really was was an old motel; former knocking shop to local crib babies and home to the errant drug dealer or two before someone (a descendant of the original owner?), still with big ideas, poured on the TIF dollars unknowingly supplied by local taxpayers and fixed things up. The hookers, pimps, and a multiplicity of insects, bugs and arachnids were chased away. New, though perhaps scratched and dented, furniture and mattresses were brought in. A coat of paint liberally applied (inside and out). Voilà, low-priced family motel with a conservative clientele of traveling customers ignorant as to the number of venereal diseases and bodies that had once been carried out of the place. Was Wallace judgmental? Hopefully not, at least not unaccountably, for it was also the place where, not long after its cleaning up, he and she had met. She already lived there when he moved in and for the longest time a friendly 'Hello' was all they shared. An occasional opinion about the weather when one or the other was feeling bold. Then it happened, to the world that is, whatever it was that had happened. In no time at all, the zombies overran the place. The small motel was suddenly the stage of Le Théâtre du Grand-Guignol, the guests no longer guests but appetizers, entrées, and desserts on a block-long buffet. He and the girl had gotten the hell out of there as fast as their legs would carry them (great minds, it seemed, did think alike), had fortunately run in the same direction, had, some time, somewhere along the route, taken hold of each others' hand not to be separated. They'd been together ever since, like Liz Montgomery and Charles Bronson in an old Twilight Zone episode, strangers forced into oneness. Why not? If they weren't in the Twilight Zone, where the heck were they.

They... They? Where the heck was she? And why hadn't she returned?

She'd left him in the dumpster, that night's home away from home, to go and find some edible food. He'd offered, of course, but she had refused. He'd been on the hunt, on guard, at the point for days and was exhausted. She knew it. He knew it too. She wasn't a hanger-on. She wasn't a damsel in distress. She did her part, held up her end of the team. There were any number of stores, fast food joints, residences with shelves of canned goods, refrigerators that were still operating. And she could move like a cat. He'd remarked several times that she moved like a cat. Like him, her fear of the creatures existed, would always exist, but had been dealt with out of necessity. It was her turn to get the food and she went.

Probably this is as good a time as any to mention that she had never disappointed him. Now, without her, he was feeling strangely - how would she have said it? Discombobulated? - and lost. And being lost, he returned alone by unplanned plan, by newly developed instinct, to the place they'd met, the Alpine Inn. No sooner had he arrived than he heard a woman screaming in the middle of the first floor. He grabbed his bat, ran across the lot - a no no - and under the balcony overhang to the second floor of rooms, through the breezeway door where the laundry room window came into view. It was from there, the laundry room, that the tumult came. There were four in the room. Three male creatures; not that their sex mattered a bit. One was as deadly as the other and you were out of your freaking mind if you took the once thought of 'gentler sex' into consideration and hesitated in defending yourself. But, for the record, this time it was three male, blood-thirsty shambling monsters, pinning a still-human girl down on the clothes-folding table.

It wasn't her. (You know who I mean.) That was disappointing because he'd come back to the Inn thinking that maybe she... He wanted to see her again so badly. But it wasn't her. It was some other girl, he didn't know her and didn't care who she was. Not really. You see, there were so many disappointments it was all but impossible to care anymore. And he didn't. Then it dawned that this girl, the one on the table, beneath the beasts, fighting for all she was worth and losing the battle, wasn't her – which was a good thing. She (you know who I mean) might still be alive; might still be out there somewhere. He didn't remember the last time something had happened that hadn't disappointed him.

He was overcome with a good feeling, a warm feeling, and a sense that a celebration might be in order. Yes, he would celebrate... By rescuing the girl he didn't give a rat's keister about. He put his faithful bat to use and busted the window, hoping the shattering glass would get the creatures' attention. It did. All three turned as one mechanical unit to look, but he wasn't in the window to see any longer. He'd come round, through the open door, and already had old Babe (that was the bat, you probably could have guessed) over his shoulder ready to deliver.

One of them let go the girl and took a step in his direction. One step was all it managed. Wallace swung the weapon of sanded ash and lacquer right through its left eye orbit, relishing the crack as the skull gave way. He cut short his follow-through and brought the bat back in the opposite direction as a second monster put a foot forward. Thirty years earlier he'd found being a switch-hitter quite a useful trick in the Little League. It was even better now. Less than thirty second into this so-called fight and there were two shamblers gone and he was down to one. The last one, the third, took a hatchet blow straight over the top. That third crack was as lovely as the first and the third splash of blood and gray matter as grotesque – yet satisfying – as any he'd ever caused.

But his celebration, his heroics had come too late. The girl was gone. Not physically. She was still there, just dead. You know; gone. And trouble was, of course, she'd soon be back. He had no choice but to smash her brains out too. That was disappointing.

He searched a while, found no hint of her (you know who I mean), and returned for the night – alone – to his dumpster. In the morning, he would start over, again, a new life in that effed-up world, without her. Without her. It started to rain and he fell asleep in miserable disappointment.

He was awakened sometime in the middle of the night by cold rain slapping his face and realized that the lid of his dumpster had been lifted open. He woke startled, but quiet. He looked carefully out – into her face. He rubbed the rain and the sleep from his eyes. Yes! It was her. (You know who I mean.) For the second time in this new after-life, this post plague life, he felt elation and a genuine rush of emotion worthy of celebration. Until the lightning flashed and, in the blue-white flicker, he saw that her throat was torn out. He saw the blood of some other sad soul dripping from her lips and chin. And he saw, behind her and around their dumpster, the twenty-odd creatures she'd brought back with her. It was terribly disappointing.