Shehanne Moore's Blog, page 30
October 30, 2014
The Lady of the Lake
‘The air is rent by a blast of the boat’s horn, and with a surge of power the Lady of the Lake pulls away from her dock and sets off into the morning mist. Mighty engines push her hundred-foot hull through the cold waters, and yet at full steam she makes a sedate fifteen miles per hour, carrying passengers, cargo, and the US mail uplake into the heart of the wilderness.
Stehekin
High overhead, patches of blue sky shine through gaps in the October clouds, the promise of a brighter day ahead, but for now I still shiver as I stand on the aft deck, watching the town of Chelan slip away like the last promise of civilization. Vineyards cover the dry lakeside hills in a patchwork quilt, while million-dollar summer homes and vacation resorts dot the shoreline, private docks bereft of watercraft now that summer’s last gasp is ending. The unused waterslides and absence of jet skis foretell the tale that autumn’s chill crispness promises. Winter is coming.
Midway up the lake
The miles slip by, the homes and hotels grow more sparse and more spartan, and the lakeside roads disappear up into the surrounding hills or simply come to an end. An hour into the voyage the last bar of cellular coverage drops away, and a certain calm falls over me. There will be no more email. Nobody can call or text me now.
No status updates or instant messages. Briefly I wonder if it was wise to leave so much behind, no laptop, no e-reader, phone now relegated to the role of camera, but soon such worries drop away. The mountains beckon.
Looking back downlake:
The hills crowd the narrow lake, growing more rugged, more rocky, steeper, taller, and closer as we press north by northwest into the mountains. The vineyards and ranches are long gone, thick evergreen forested slopes in their place to the southwest, while bighorn sheep roam the steep, grassy cliffs to the northeast. The south-facing slopes still show the desert dryness we are leaving behind us, while the north-facing slopes are lush with the hint of wetter climes ahead. We are far from the sea, the bulk of the Cascade range between us and salt water, yet seagulls flit about the lakeshore, and Canadian geese make a mockery of our stately progress.
Two hours in, and we are over the deepest part of the lake. Fifteen-hundred feet down the glacier-carved gorge’s bottom lies in perpetual inky blackness, where the sun’s warmth and light can never penetrate. What treasures or horrors lay there will remain unknown, perhaps forever, as the lake refuses to give up her secrets. Only two lakes in North America go deeper.
Halfway to our destination the boat eases toward the northeastern shore. A small dock juts out from the steep shoreline, with a small but cozy cabin just beyond. The dock is too small for our vessel, but the captain noses us up close to its end, where an elderly couple await, the man holding a long pole with a bag on the end. On the bow, a crewmember holds an identical pole, and when we are close enough the poles are extended, the bag passing from one to the other. The crewman puts another bag onto his pole, extends it out, and thus the weekly mail is delivered almost to the door of this remote, off-the-grid home. Neither snow nor rain, nor gloom of night…
Mountain peaks reveal themselves through gaps where deep, narrow valleys wind their way down, often ending in waterfalls. Distant patches of persistent snow shine in the weak sunlight. Again, we edge our way to the shore, but this time there is no dock, no cabin, only a faint footpath winding away from what passes for a rocky beach. The captain knows his boat, however, and he knows the lake. We have a thick steel-reinforced bow, and the captain pushes us right up onto the beach. I feel the gravel and driftwood crunching beneath us, reverberating through the steel deck.
The same crewman as before lowers a gangplank over the bow, and half a dozen backpackers, heavy packs on their backs, carefully walk across and leave us. Most of them will be walking for several days in the wilderness, their destination the same as ours, though we will be there in just over an hour. The last three to cross, however, carry an ice chest between them, and fishing rods. My travel companions and I wonder aloud if they really intend to backpack with a cooler full of beer (for such it is), but no, it is quite obvious they will be camping on shore, fishing and drinking until the boat returns to retrieve them in a few days time.
Full reverse thrust, and with a last crunch of gravel we are off, afloat once more, our bow pointed north to our destination. We round the final bend and we can see it, Stehekin, the way through of ancient Salish lore, where the fifty-mile-long lake becomes a narrow valley between steep-sided mountains. It is a three-day walk from here to Cascade Pass, from whence one can look west toward the more populous lowlands of north Puget Sound.
We pull up to a small wharf, unload our cargo and mail, and I step onto the shore. Stehekin village, population sixty-one, unreachable by any road. I breathe deeply of the mountain air, look across the lake to the thickly-forested slopes opposite, and let my eye be drawn upwards to the orange splash of larches high on the mountainside, standing out among the evergreen cedar and Douglas fir. I shoulder my pack and walk up the path, leaving the world behind.’
http://lacewinter.com/
Shehanne, thanks for asking me. I hope the hamsters like the picture I sent you for them.
A few visitors for the hamsters to play with.
———
Filed under: blogging, Guest bloggers, Halloween Tagged: camping, Chelan, hiking, Lace Winter, mountains, North American lakes, outdoors, Stehekin
October 29, 2014
They Walk Amongst Us
MARY AKEHURST’S SCOTTISH SHORTBREAD
http://theunpredictablemuse.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/scottish-shortbread-recipe.html
All right, so today on the Spooktacular we move to our next guest, the lovely Mishka Jenkins.
A very talented author of several books,
And what Mishka drew in the Spooktacular was the following……..
So, let’s put our paws together and welcome her along to find out just what that is.
GUYS???????
My Favourite Spookiest Halloween character…….by Mishka Jenkins.
‘No contest, it has to be ghosts.
The thought of something haunting you, something you can’t see or do anything about, creeps me out big time!
I can deal with the vampires and their fangs, or the Freddy Kruegers and their claws; at least you can see them, and then stab them in the chest with a large wooden stake.
But ghosts, not so much! What do you even do if they haunt you?
Yeah, they are definitely the creature that scares me the most. 
Especially when so many things can be attributed to them. Like when the curtains blow open and everyone jokes, ‘oh, it’s a ghost’ and then laugh. I’m the one in the corner hyperventilating!
So far, I have never written a ghost character and am not sure I’d ever attempt it. If I did, it would have to be done during the day with lots of other people around!
Blurb:
Successful businesswoman Alex is content with her life in London, and any ideas of romance have been left on the back burner. But when her fairy godmother, FG, waltzes into her office one morning announcing she has come to help Alex rekindle a passion for life and love, she is about to check herself into therapy!
The fairy godmother’s incessant wand-flicking soon lands them in the isolation of the Scottish highlands, where Alex’s next client, Mal Ross, not only stirs her professional interest but her romantic ones too.
Tasked with the enormous challenge of turning a historic castle into a flourishing hotel, the pair must work closely together whilst attempting to avoid the awkward situations the rom-com obsessed fairy godmother keeps forcing them into.
But the path of love is never smooth, no matter how much magic you throw at it.
‘The Magic Spark’ is a light, enjoyable read, full of fun and romance.
Links:
Blog: https://awriterslifeformeblog.wordpress.com/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8277234.Mishka_Jenkins
Twitter: @writerlifeforme
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mishka-Jenkins/260588067439282
Buy link for my new release, The Magic Spark: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00O1AAT3S
Filed under: blogging, Guest bloggers Tagged: ghosts, Halloween, Heart of the Arena, Mishka Jenkins, spooky, The Magic Spark
October 28, 2014
Bear Night in the Spanish Museum…..
Okay, okay, can we have some order please for our next guest in the Spooktacular where I threw some post ideas in the bucket and then drew for our guests?
We’ve had spooky covers, new releases, recipes, an interview with a real live horror writer and a session with a scary musician. Today we zip off to Spain. Do they have Halloween there?
But they do have museums and they do have my doodling buddy, the lovely Elyzabeth M. Valey, as you can see…
.
and never mind Shorty….Mitsy and The Dook have already sounded it for her, so let’s go and let the lady speak………………………….
‘Spain is filled with scary things. From the famous Faces of Belmez (images of faces that mysteriously appeared in a house’s concrete floor in 1971)
to the haunted hospital of Agramonte, there are ton of mysterious things going on in this old country.
However, I’m going to tell you about a place that is easily overlooked; a place that is filled with thousands of tourists every day; a place full of art but also of paranormal occurrences.
Welcome to the Reina Sofia Museum.
The Reina Sofia museum has been since 1986, Madrid’s Modern art museum. With over 3 million visitors from every corner of the world, it has pieces from Picasso, Dali and more. It also has ghosts. Numerous ghosts.
Originally built in the 18th century as the General Hospital, the building was declared a national treasure in 1985. In 1986 its remodelation began. Numerous skulls, chains, medical material and bodies were found.
In 1990, 3 mummies were discovered.
They belonged to three nuns from a religious order that once cared for the hospital and their patients. 
T
he museum opened and little by little, more was uncovered.
In the early 1900’s the people that worked there already talked about ghosts walking the halls. Paranormal investigators say that in a circular room where the psychiatric ward was located, you can see men tied to the wall, attempting to attack each other.
However, that isn’t the scariest place.
In the Museum’s basement there are hundreds of roaming souls, for it was there that the hospital’s patients, beggars and soldiers were buried.
In 2001 the museum was remodeled again to become the beautiful building that it is today. However, the paranormal activity has not ceased.
More than one worker of the Reina Sofia Museum has quit their job, unable to cope with the screams, the praying nuns roaming the halls and the constant movement of the disconnected elevators………………………….
ArcanusAmator… Elyzabeth’s NEW RELEASE……
As an Arcánús, one of Cupid’s blessed children, Amandus’s mission in life was to aid his father in bestowing love upon others. Unfortunately, when he found his own soul mate he was incapable of making her perceive their connection. Furthermore, she doomed their love forever. Amandus’s only hope is a spell concocted by Cupid: The ArcánúsAmator: Spell of the Secret Lovers. Hailey is desperate for love. She’s so desperate that when she finds a spell on the internet that promises to connect soul mates, she decides she must try it. Convincing her friend Hannah to help her, the girls embark on a one-night craze that will produce life-changing results and bring to life what was thought to be only a myth.
Buy Links
Author Bio:
Defined as weird since she was about eight, Elyzabeth honors the title by making up songs about her chores, doodling stars and flowers on any blank sheet of paper and talking to her dog whenever he feigns interest.
Losing the battle to the voices in her head is her favorite pastime after annoying her younger sister with her singing. Writing stories full of passion and emotion where love conquers all is her happy pill and she’ll forgo sleep to make her readers live the dream.
Stalk me at:
Blog Website Facebook Twitter Goodreads Pinterest
Excerpt:
She frowned. “What the hell’s happened?” She was quite sure this was not how the spell worked. Granted, she hadn’t exactly read the entire information sheet on the website.
“No one does,” she whined, bouncing on the balls of her feet while staring at the flickering flame of the candle. The thing was more than 20 pages long. It was like reading one of those software agreements. No one read the damn thing. She’d read the instructions and the first page with all the warnings and that was more than enough. Taking a deep breath, she managed to settle her nerves a little. Everyone thought she was the ditsy blonde obsessed with the occult, but she wasn’t. She was a hard worker, impatient when things didn’t go as expected. It was partially the reason why she’d filed through so many relationships. Why stay with a guy when he clearly had nothing to offer? Some of her friends argued that she didn’t give them a chance. She begged to differ. She’d given them a chance, they just hadn’t taken it.
True, her impatience sometimes got her into some trouble but it also saved her from a lot of it. That, however, wasn’t the case now. Annoyed that the spell had gone awry, she brushed back her bangs impatiently. Whatever had happened was not important. The priority was getting Hannah back home. Scanning the room for her discarded laptop, she did a double take.
Obstructing the exit to the living room stood the most gorgeous man she had laid eyes on. He was massive. His head almost brushed the top of the doorframe. His heavily muscled arms were crossed in front of him, his chest bare except for the intricate design of a red-inked tattoo that started around his left nipple and descended across his side to his hip. Low on his hips, he wore a long black skirt made out of what looked like leather.
Hailey hesitated a moment before finally glancing fully at his face. Her breath stilled as their eyes locked. A clear shade of violet, they were not from this world. Swallowing, she took a step backwards without breaking her stare. The stranger’s eyes glittered with curiosity and amusement.
“Careful with the center of the star,” he warned. Hailey stumbled and froze. His voice was deep and commanding and had a familiar ring to it that sent her senses reeling. Shaking her head slightly, she continued moving away from him.
“Watch—”
Breath exploded from her lungs as she crashed into a shelf, a few ornaments she and Hannah kept, crashing to the floor.
“—out. Are you all right?”
Hailey winced, the back of the shelf digging into her skin, but she nodded anyway. The stranger flashed her a grin that made her knees weak. Hailey swallowed. The urge to see him smile again clawed at her insides like a desperate hunger.
Ignoring her, he glanced down at the pentagram, his silky dark curls framing his strong jaw and straight nose.
“You don’t look like you knew what you were getting into.”
Hailey held on to the bookcase behind her. She was afraid that if she moved the whole thing would topple over her head and she’d wake up, realizing that the man in the center of the room was nothing more than a dream.
“Read the first page of the instructions and didn’t bother to read the rest, huh?”
His eyes lifted to hers with a sassy smirk that lit up his violet eyes. Hailey stared speechless, the urge to touch the man making her palms itch as if she’d stepped into poison ivy.
“Yeah, you never did care what you got into, Ariadne.”
Filed under: blogging, book tour, Guest bloggers, Halloween, Halloween Tagged: Elyzabeth M. Valey, Erotic Romance, Evernight Publishing, ghosts, Halloween, Spain, The Reina Sofia museum
October 25, 2014
Bannocks o’bear meal…
”Halloween. How can I work Outlander into Halloween?
I watched the first episode of the TV series (all I can get L) and had to read the book again. For three days, that’s all I’ve done—immerse myself in Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, for maybe the fourth time.
So what to do for Halloween? Have a bloody, battered Sam Heughan answer the door? Would that scare you?
Possibly not the reaction I’d have in spite of the blood, so I’ll go to plan B.
What if I offer bannocks to the trick-or-treaters? Jamie ate a lot of bannocks in that book, so they must be good.
Okay, it’s an idea.
First I had to look up bannocks.
Apparently they’re a sort of bread, similar to a thick pancake, American biscuit, or a thin scone, according to the first couple of recipes I found. Lo! Then I found a site devoted to the Outlander kitchen, but the bannock looks like the oatcake pictures. And the first thing it says is to grind the flours with a coffee grinder. Somehow that takes away from the authenticity, even though the cakes sound right otherwise. (I should have paid attention to this.)
Oatmeal to Americans is porridge, and we used rolled oats to make it.
So I thought maybe steel-cut oats, being smaller, would be better than rolled oats, which are more common here. NOT! There is no way this is going to turn into dough.
Time to try the rolled oats. Hmmm. Another mess. Loose and flaky, never going to stick together.
Now I have two bowls of oaty stuff that will never be any kind of bread, so I abandoned that recipe and moved on to one that sounded more modern.
http://outlanderkitchen.com/2014/08/13/bannocks-castle-leoch/
This version calls for flour and rolled oats. (Even though the recipe says to grind the oats, I didn’t.) It also said to use milk and yogurt. I used buttermilk. There are always exceptions when I cook, usually based on what’s in the kitchen at the time.
These ingredients looked much more promising.
My Bannocks
(I used bread flour because it’s hard instead of the soft flour we use for biscuits. Hard flour is surely what’s grown in Scotland, right?)
Flour, 2 cups
Quick rolled oats, 1 cup
Baking powder, 1 tablespoon
Sugar, 1 teaspoon
Salt, ½ teaspoon
Butter, cold, ¼ cup (1/2 stick)
Buttermilk, 1 cup
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Grease baking sheet.
Combine dry ingredients in bowl. Grate cold butter into mixture and rub or cut in.
Add buttermilk and mix quickly to make dough. Mine was not sticky but rolled into a ball easily. Roll out on floured board to about ½-inch thick. Cut into rectangles (saves having those odd bits to form into another ball) and arrange, not touching, onto baking sheet. Bake about 12 to 15 minutes.
Woohoo! Edible bannocks, or at least something close. Eat warm with butter and jam or whatever you fancy.
This is the recipe I used with a few changes:
http://outlanderkitchen.com/2014/08/13/bannocks-castle-leoch/
Here’s one that looked right, but I didn’t want to grind the oats. Should have.
http://outlanderkitchen.com/2011/11/21/jocastas-auld-country-bannocks-from-drums-in-autumn/
This one, from Glasgow, is the one I wanted to use. http://www.glasgowguide.co.uk/scottish_recipes_Bannocks.htm
Several generations back, my MacFarlane ancestors lived by Loch Lomond, not too far from Glasgow.
So, says I, maybe I’ll have some inherent affinity for them. Sadly, this was not to be. The first two batches of yucky oat stuff came from this recipe. Incidentally, I have the clan badge my mother gave me.
It’s a bit different from the ones I see on the Internet, with arrows instead of a sword. I have no idea where it came from or anything about it.
http://www.glasgowguide.co.uk/scottish_recipes_Bannocks.htm
4 oz (125g) medium oatmeal (1.4 cups) Additional oatmeal to be added when kneading 2 teaspoons melted fat (bacon fat is best, if available) Pinch of salt ¾ tablespoons hot water 2 pinches of bicarbonate of soda
NOTE: “Oatmeal” must be oat flour. Who knew?
I don’t think I’ll be offering bannocks for Halloween treats; mine are sort of like harder American biscuits. Good though. Do you all make bannocks? How?
Parkwood Press
ASIN: B00N34SOV2
After witnessing her husband’s murder, Madeleine Schier becomes a killer’s target. She flees her upscale New York life to become a name on a tombstone, relying on her wits and imagination to survive in a world where danger is everywhere. One wrong move could be her last. Should she trust the damaged recluse who’s always near? Before long, her new life turns into her old nightmare when crimes that were once distant horrors on the nightly news turn up on her doorstep.
October 22, 2014
Dale J. Gordon…The truth is out there.
Oh now, what is it?
Dale’s not scary.
No, he doesn’t.
Given you’re not exactly a lady, what’s the problem?
Oh well, I will just have to interview Dale on my own. What a shame when he’s a guy and you love interviewing dudes. Flint anyone?
Well, then there’s hamstahs week….
But there. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
And what this girl is doing today is welcoming to The Spooktacular the very special, the wonderfully talented, the ONE and ONLY……
But you don’t want to do them, or mention our other Spooktacular guests. So.
Dale–music man extraordinary, you’re originally from West Virginia, have been homeless in Nashville, oh and there’s Trenton.
Any truth in the rumour you faked your own death?
DALE. I was born and raised in “extra-rural” West Virginia yes, I did ten years in New Jersey’s state capital. A month before a well planned move to Nashville TN, I had a house fire that complicated the move and therefore left me without housing before my departure and well into my arrival, that’s the long and short of that, stay tuned for a book on that whole “chapter”…whooo.
I’ve never had enough spare time to fake my own death. No.
Shey. Seriously Dale–as we get here anyway–how long have you been involved in the music biz?Dale. I first started recording when I was nine years old,
got an actual musical instrument around fifteen, wrote, recorded on various tape machines, did several albums in high school. I played guitar in a bar band when I was sixteen up until graduation. I first recorded an album in a studio when I was eighteen, did all the art work, pressed it, sold it. DIY ever since.
Shey. Oh and then, the next year …obviously…..you got in tow with John Rapp from The Chris Brake Show.
No. He’s not. How did that happen and what’s with this biz of you being the ‘dreaded frontman of the grunge band, Pats!e.’ You’re not dreaded are you?
Dale. I met Chris and John while they were touring through the Northeast, been friends ever since, that was 2008 I believe. PATS!E was a band that I started in high school, it ate and spit out many members over many years since 1999, lots of recordings and shows and stories and gray hairs, stay tuned for a bio pic. Dreads?…..Ah, those were like the bell bottoms of my generation a few years back, I still pull em’ out of the closet to show to company sometimes, “If those dreads could only talk….”
Shey. Seriously…I do like to be serious..not….how many albums have you recorded since starting out?
Dale .I really cant give you a straight answer or number, Yes, there are many albums and recordings, bands and short lived collaborations over the years. Its best to leave this in the air for now.
Shey. Can it. Not you Dale…Sylv. The man don’t want to talk, the man don’t
want to talk. What’s been your main musical influences?
Dale. A. W.H. Auden, Miles Davis, Mark Twain, Robert Johnson,The Dead Boys, Captain Beefheart, The Butthole Surfers, Franz Lizst, Tom Waits, Billie Holiday, Black Sabbath, John Prine, Jim Carrol, Nirvana, Suran Song in Stag, Bill Hicks, Jimi Hendrix, Eddie Murphy, Malcolm X, Frank Zappa, Howlin’ Wolf, Blood Cow, The Melvins, Neil Young, Mack Lindsay, J.T. Habersaat, Doug Stanhope and (early) Alice Cooper (the band)……I’ll stop there for now.
Shey. Wow-how-how.
I’ve been listening to a few of your tracks–courtesy of the fab John Rapp and your equally fab self and I have to say in addition to totally agreeing about your ‘soaked in booze and cigarettes’ amazing voice, it’s hard to pin down your style, which is brilliant. You say Americana but it’s far more than that. It’s a touch of just about everything.
For someone who has never heard your work, but say may like a certain type of music—they like Zappa, for example, or maybe they like Tom Waits, which album would you suggest they listen to? I ask cos I urge you folks reading this blog, to give Dale a try. His voice, words and music are something else. And there really is something for everybody in his work.
Dale. Oh, For a Tom Waits fan I guess “Ghost Candy”-2008 would be a good start.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yi0USiP2bCA
Shey. Suitably spooky.
Dale. For a Frank Zappa fan “White Trash Jazz”-2011 or “Digital Wiccan”-2010 may suffice.
Shey. Honestly though I haven’t heard two tracks the same in your work. Is it a love of various music genres that means you like to write in different ones, or do you do it cos you like a change, or being hard to define?
Dale. I have a very varied musical “diet” so I suppose that it shows up in my work. Sometimes I may run with a certain style for a while, perhaps for the duration of an album, other times it seems that every other song could be considered a different genre, I also have always enjoyed doing instrumentals and “sound collages” and skits. I’m sure there is a doctor out there who would say “Now, thats ADD if I’ve ever seen it” But it really is second nature to me now, to change and adapt when and where I see fit.
Shey. Oh don’t come crawling out the pumpkin now dudes cos you’re worried about Hamstah week. Dale, tell us about your new album?
Dale. This album will be mainly acoustic guitar and vocals, A very stripped down, straight to the point type sound to properly represent the live show ; I’m sure I’ll manage to make it “strange” somehow. Hope to have it out and about by early 2015.
Shey. Dudes……what did we just say? Where does your inspiration come from?
Dale. Ah, Thats more of a “the question” than “Will you marry me?”
Reptiles, bugs, mammals, family, friends, contemporary artists, performers and bands. Bookers,
history (in general), de-construction, disection, photography, film, sanity/insanity, the wee hours of the mornin’, and coffee of course.
Shey. Are you still between jobs, girlfriends, haircuts and houses?
Dale. No,No, I have ONE good job after having worked two jobs for nine months, FINALLY found a flat here in Nashville after quite an exhausting hunt, Not sure that what is on top of my head constitutes as a hair cut but it seems to be getting the job done just fine thus far. That between jobs bit was the opening line for my stand up act just so ya know, not entirely rooted in truth.
Shey. What’s next for Dale J Gordon?
Dale. Explore Nashville, Press this album, Play lots of shows, hit the road, keep writing, and try to learn how to “take it easy” every once in a while.
Shey. Sounds good to me.
http://reverbnation.com/dalejgordon
Filed under: Musicians Tagged: Dale J. Gordon, Digital Wiccan, Ghost Candy, John Rapp, Music, Musicians, The Chris Brake Show
October 19, 2014
How Horror-ible is the Cat?
Hey…hey..hey fellahs, what did we say about Hamstah Dicken’s manuscript? Are we going to bring out a picture of it?
EXACTLY.
Yes today as the Spooktacular continues 
I’m thrilled to welcome a real, live horror writer. AND, not just any old one but
——cos I do. And I also get to welcome a lady who has been on a roll this year, the super talented Catherine Cavendish who writes it the finest horror tradition.
What she drew in the Spooktacular was the seven questions. And since she writes horror, what else would they be about BUT horror.
1 Why do you write horror?
When I was a child, we read The Monkey’s Paw by W.W. Jacobs at school.
I could have only been about nine and I loved the way it scared me – deliciously. Then, when I was around twelve or thirteen, I started reading Dennis Wheatley – The Devil Rides Out, To The Devil A Daughter,
The Satanist and The Ka of Gifford Hillary were early favourites. I’d read in bed at night and be too scared to switch the light off! As the years went by, M.R. James,
Edgar Allan Poe, Daphne Du Maurier, Anne Rice, Stephen King and James Herbert were added to my authors of choice. Horror became one of my two favourite genres (along with historical fiction). So, when it came to my own writing, it is probably only natural I should want to attempt to reproduce on paper what I most enjoyed reading myself.
2 Ignoring the hamstahs, how would you describe your blend of horror?
My horror tends to be of the ‘creep up behind and scare you’ variety. While there can be violent scenes in my books, you won’t find many mutilated body parts or excessive gore. I think that’s because I tend towards the more traditional Gothic horror style. You will often find a creepy, haunted house or bleak, ancient landscape in my stories, but rarely (never so far) someone going on the rampage with a chainsaw!
3 Where do your ideas come from?
Anywhere or everywhere. A chance remark led to the title, and then plot of Cold Revenge; a spooky walk-in cupboard in our flat inspired The Demons of Cambian Street. A nightmare provided the basic storyline for Saving Grace Devin, and the inspiration for Linden Manor came from the competition brief supplied by Samhain Horror Publishing’s Executive Editor, Don D’Auria. When he announced that he was looking for entries for the Gothic Horror competition last year, he wrote, “Come with me into a world of isolated mansions, ruined castles, guttering candles, dark shadows, and of course…creeping horror…” I immediately thought of a house.
A dark, forbidding, Gothic pile of a house, set at the end of a broad avenue of lime (linden) trees. Then, an image of a mature student, researching ancient local nursery rhymes for her dissertation came into my mind, swiftly flowed by the opening lines of an odd little ditty, “Run and hide, Far and wide, Run and hide from the Scottish Bride…” A story was born.
If you look at the other winning novellas in the What Waits In The Shadows anthology– Blood Red Roses by Russell James, Castle By The Sea by JG Faherty and Bootleg Cove by Devin Govaere, you can see we all stuck to the brief!
4 Fav horror film?
Now, this is a tough one. I usually prefer the old films – frequently in black and white – so atmospheric. One I never tire of is Night of the Demon, adapted from a short story by M.R. James,
but I also loved the John Carpenter classic, The Fog and…it’s a pretty long list actually!
5 Fav horror story?
This is even harder! Pretty much anything by the authors I listed earlier, but I also love Susan Hill’s The Woman In Black among many, many others.
6 Fav interpretation of Dracula onscreen?
For me, Christopher Lee brought the right combination of gravitas and kitsch to the role.
7 Halloween plans?
Well, I’ve just had my broomstick serviced (it flew through its M.O.T.), my pointy black hat is back from the dry cleaners, and I’ve told all the spiders to build tidy cobwebs (you should see what happened when I gave them a cup of coffee!). So, let’s party! Bring your own cauldrons of course…
Four original novellas of Gothic horror! Enter if you dare four worlds of chilling Gothic horror. Feel the oppressive heat on a plantation in the Old South, where the spirits of the dead do not rest easy. Smell the salt air in a dilapidated coastal restaurant on the Chesapeake Bay, a restaurant with a very deadly past. Explore a British manor house, but remember, what you find may have been looking for you. Hear the pounding surf beyond the stone walls of a looming castle that shouldn’t even exist. But regardless of the setting, no matter what you may think you hear or see, the truly terrifying thing is…
…What Waits In The Shadows
Buy Links:
You can connect with Cat here:
Filed under: Author Interviews, writing Tagged: Catherine Cavendish, Dracula, Edgar Allan Poe, Halloween, Horror, Horror fiction, Horror writing, Linden Manor, Night of the Demon, Samnhain Publishing, Saving Grace Devine, Stephen King, The fog, The Monkey's Paw, What Waits in the Shadows
October 16, 2014
The Dead Don’t Walk…
I chose this painting by Millais
I chose this painting by Millais because
Dudes…can we lay off please, or you so know what is going to happen to that Hamstah Week? And that will sorely disappoint your fans.
Now then, I chose that painting…well..all right, I never chose it as such
No, I sort of wasn’t actually. What I was going to say was
Yeah. Look at that pink pig there with flying wings. Isn’t it pretty?
Now, what was I saying? Oh yes, the painting and how it inspired me to 
What I was trying to say, maybe not very well, is that I have two heroines in two books left with a disposal problem. 
SO the painting by Millais,
It’s Halloween,
I do like to play up horror in the ordinary in my books. It adds a little suspense… although obviously my characters who tangle with death in some way, aren’t bad people.
I just find my inspiration in the ordinary, as you can see……
And that painting did inspire this scene in Loving Lady Lazuli, which is as much as I am going to share with you today.
“I’m tellin’ yer, soddin’ ‘ell, I’m tellin’ yer, yer can’t. Yer…”
“Just take his feet. Do it will you?”
His feet? Devorlane clicked his tongue in the hope of nudging Mephisto closer. The beast was finicky and he didn’t particularly want to be caught where Lord Koorecroft had told him not to be. Although, when he considered it, Lord Koorecroft’s specifics had been shrubberies. Shrubbery? He wasn’t even on her damned property, was he?
Whose feet and why, was what he had the burning urge to discover.
Of course, he could be mistaken about that. Maybe it wasn’t feet at all? Maybe it wasn’t anything?
“Pearl. The spade…”
The instruction was faint but, no, he did not mistake it. A spade. A spade and feet. A spade and feet meant one thing. He’d seen enough death to know.
He dismounted and crept one or two steps down the incline through the faint mist coiling around his boots. The dew soaked them with each mushy step. If this baggage was down there with a spade, he must be careful.
For that matter it might be his feet she was instructing Pearl and Ruby to get. Look at the things she’d managed to turn around on him so far. From sticking the Wentworth emeralds in the pocket of his best breeches, to bleating to Lord Koorecroft about the big bad Chessington wolf being in her shrubbery.
He turned and clapped Mephisto’s neck. It was better if he sent the animal back to Chessington.
Keeping low, Devorlane tiptoed to the tree at the foot of the incline. The vantage point was not so good from there, but he thanked Christ for at least being able to bring the throb in his thigh under control.
“Oh!” that other serving girl, Pearl, wailed. “What’s that noise? What’s that noise, Rube? Listen. Do you hear it?”
He froze to the tree bark. The possibility existed they could just be gardening. It was the time of year for that, wasn’t it? Hell on earth, he’d been so long away from a garden of any sort he couldn’t remember.
“Only sound I don’t ‘ear is the soddin’ sound of yer bleedin’ diggin’. Put yer back inter it, yer lazy trout. Bleedin’ ‘ole won’t dig itself.”
A hole? There was only one kind he could think of. He’d thought of it when he’d edged down the hill. But now he’d done so his mouth dried. Shock, that he knew he must squash if he was still to have the element of surprise and turn this to his advantage, clutched his gut. Not who. Why? That was the thing he needed the answer to. Then he could go to Lord Koorecroft. It would be the end of her. There would be no passing off a corpse in her garden as a servant of the realm.
“But, Rube, I only got a trowel.”
“I don’t care if you’ve only got a spoon. Do what Ruby says.”
Her voice. He’d wondered, hadn’t he, that night, about what particular level of gutter-snipe she was. What hole she’d crawled from, for all the brilliant mantle of her entirely faked refinement never slipped for a second. Those words, that husky, slightly rough undertone , said maybe not a center of the earth one, but certainly one deeper than that grave they were obviously digging.
“But, Cass. Cass, listen. I swear I’m not imagining it. I can hear it. What if it’s—”
“Are you stupid? Devorlane Hawley’s nowhere about. He can’t be. I assured it.”
“I wasn’t thinking Lord Hawley. What if it’s Gil?”
“Oh, ‘ow the bleedin’ ‘ell can it be Gil? Jeesus-sake. Ain’t that Gil. Ain’t that only Gil there? Dead as the soddin’ dodo.”
“Ruby’s right, the dead don’t walk.”
Devorlane crept forward. Oh, didn’t they? He did not believe this, these words he had just heard, but now was the time to get through the border of bramble and bracken, to sidle with the broken wall beneath his fingertips, and to peer, with a clawed breath, at the coronet of women, laboring in the cold of the early winter sunlight, digging, with a kind of desperation. At least she was.
A kind of something else too. His eyes unfortunately roamed the nicely rounded curve of her buttocks clearly outlined by the clinging gown. Soft. Velvet. The exact color of her eyes too.
When the throbbing ache in his thigh was under control for the first time today, why give himself another? Especially when her husband’s days of peace and tranquility had ended sooner than any of them anticipated by the looks of this. What seeped through the barrier of the sheet? Had she perchance assisted with his demise?
The thought determined him. Here was his chance. He was soldier enough to know there was dissent in the ranks. And man enough not to fear three women.
After all, what could they do to him, he thought, as he now stepped forward.
Copywrite Etopia Press.
Filed under: heroes, heroines, writing Tagged: Etopia Press, Gathering Leaves, Halloween, His Judas Bride, Loving Lady Lazuli, Millais, The Unraveling of Lady Fury
October 13, 2014
S.L.Stacy and one Scary Cover Reveal…
Jasper might be gone for good, but Siobhan can’t escape the memory of him.
Or, rather, Psyche’s memories of him—memories of a kinder, gentler man, not the one who lied and manipulated her. She should have tried harder to reach him—to save Jasper from the darkness consuming him.
Guilt—maybe that’s the reason why she still sees his face everywhere she turns. That, or she’s going crazy.
And Siobhan really doesn’t have time to lose her mind. Her best friend is in love with their enemy and is addicted to an alien drug. The Alpha Rhos blame her sorority for their sister’s death and take their quest for vengeance too far. Desperate, the Gamma Lambda Phis call on the help of the most deceitful Olympian of all, making her a promise they’re not even sure they can keep.
Once again, Siobhan finds herself not knowing who she can turn to or who she can trust. She comes to realize that her greatest enemy is the darkness within herself.
Special Fun Fact….from S.L Stacy… Relapse is told from a few first person POVs, although Siobhan is still the principal narrator.
Release Date: December 2, 2014
The cover artist is H.N. Sieverding
Inside the Mind of a Fantasy Writer
Shehanne Moore–Smexy Historical Romance
The Light-Bearer Series by Emily Guido
Filed under: book tour, writing Tagged: Cover reveal, H.N. Sieverding, Halloween, Reborn Series, Relapse, S.L.Stacy, writing
October 10, 2014
The Cook, the Witch and the Catfish
Okay…ENOUGH. At least there is one of you does what they are told. Thank YOU Ratsy. 
So… Who we have today in Spooky Season IS Eric Johnson. What can I say about this multi talented guy? 
No. That is not what I was going to say. Author Eric has the most amazing blog http://authorericjohnson.com/ where he shares recipes and tells amazing tales to go with them.
Eric has come along for the Spooky Season and is following my last guest, Incy Black and the contents of a certain hero’s pocket, with a very special TALE, okay? AND a recipe. I did mention that he is also an author. Well, not only is that true but his wonderful book, 
is FREE on Amazon right now. That’s right. http://www.amazon.com/author/authorericjohnson .
So, what are you waiting for? Except to hear from the man himself…
‘It was the first non spare the air day in many months and Rayette Davies had a
new apprentice over to initiate into the ranks. It was to be a day of discovery
and truth.
The fire crackled in the hearth, the cast iron pan’s handle was hot to touch,
Rayette drew her hood back.
“It is time,” she said. “Hear me O great mother of
sauces. Scoop of butter, equal part flour, thickening agent of the three. Light r
oux. Dark roux. Tasty not gluten free.”
“Wait,” the apprentice stopped the incantation. “I thought we were here to
practice magic, not have a cooking lesson.”
Rayette’s eyes turned with compassion. “We are practicing magic.” she said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have time for this,” the apprentice said. “My yoga class
starts in an hour. PTA is tonight. And I still don’t know what to cook for
dinner.”
“This is exactly what we talked about,” Rayette held her hand. “A great evil has
fallen over the land that sucks people away from nature.
We live in a factory
farm age where people have lost their sense of eating, culinary magic brings
people back to living in harmony with the seasons. You want to get back into
touch don’t you?”
“Rayette I do,” the apprentice averted her eyes. “But can we do this another
time?”
“What about the coven?” Rayette asked. “It takes time and patience. Love is the
magic you put into what you are making. Once you have the frame work… Besides,
you said you needed to put the spark back in your marriage.
“I want to be a witch, not a sandwich maker. I’m going.”
“Please don’t go,” Rayette put her spoon down. “You haven’t learned the recipe.”
Light flooded the kitchen as the door opened. Rayette sat in her chair and
watched the fire. The pleasant smell of toasting flour and butter brought her
back from her thoughts. She spoke to the roux. “How can I have a cooking coven
when nobody will dedicate time to cook real food? A counter spell is what I need
to break the dark magic. I must consult the book of culinary engineering.”
Rayette took the book from the shelf, Pots and Pans Duh. By Edward Béarnaise.
She read; You can’t always eat what you want. But sometimes if it’s not fried
you get what you need. She tossed a log on the fire. Ecstatically she said, “Oh
yea.”
Rolling her eyes into the back of her head she waved her spoon over the
pot.”Dead chefs of the past I call upon thee. Sugar. Salt. Fat, chewy and
crunchy. Flavors, savory, sour and sweet. High Purine foods without worry of
gout. Come to me. Help me out!”
The fire flared. The pan sizzled. A cloud of deliciousness rose out her chimney
and over the town.
Rayette fell back from the hearth. Sweat ran from her brow, but her job wasn’t
done yet.
Dawning her chefs hat she mounted her food cart bicycle and with a cackle, she
rode.
The best way to get her message across was to stimulate the senses. She pedaled
down the street. Get people to give into their hidden desires for healthy food.
She pedaled faster. The best place to start was the food court at the Swillville
mall.
Rayette heard a call from down a side street. Her apprentice came running.
“Wait! What are you doing? Where are you going? she asked.
Rayette stopped. “I’m making a difference. I will show people that taking the
time to cook isn’t inconvenient.”
“Remember people love bad food. It serves a purpose.”
“They have been cursed,” Rayette said. “I must break the dark spell.
Corporations offer easy preparations with their boil in a bag and microwave
concoctions. I will not be stopped until I put an end to it. People will see,
they will understand.
“If you don’t pull this off right, Rayette, you will be labeled as a food
channel pariah.” the apprentice warned.
“Shut up and taste this,” Rayette handed her a plate of food. “If you had stayed
this is what you could have learned to cook.”
Her apprentices eyes lit up. Rayette pedaled across the mall parking lot,
through the double doors right out onto the court.
Music played loud. The griddle on the food bike glowed hot. 
“I’ll show them what t is to love food.” Rayette vowed.
Men holding bags, women tearing tags and children begging for toys came out of
the stores to greet her and try her cooking. She explained that if time is
taken, a good meal will brighten a dark kitchen and warm the soul. They cheered
her, her words were wise.
But the people of the town were not the only ones coming to greet her. The food
police rolled in with their citations and seasoning spray.
“You can’t cook here you don’t have a permit.” one officer said as he handed her
a ticket and the other pushed her cart away.
She fought. “I have the right to assemble good food.”
The officer reached for her arm. “Not on private property you don’t. And
everywhere is here is owned.”
Rayette lunged for her food cart bike. She was struck by a night stick, sprayed
and zip tied. They held her for processing between the nacho bar and Slurpee
machine.
Rayette twisted her wrists to break her bonds, but it was no use. Gaining her
composure, she chanted, “Viscous paste, Xanthan gum, Polysaccharide scum.
Theatrical blood. Run!”
A scream carried across the food court.”Watch her. One guard said to the other.
I’ll be right back.”
Rayette smiled at the remaining guard. “You know those nachos look pretty good.
Mind if I have some. I heard the food in jail is really bad.”
“I can’t untie you.” the guard replied.
“I’ll just hold them and eat that way. Extra cheese please.” Rayette asked.
The guard’s radio came to life.”Call an ambulance there’s blood everywhere here.”
With The guard distracted. She dumped the nachos on to her wrists. The hot
cheese burned, but lubricated. She slipped free. Cooling her hands in the
Slurpee machine. She threw a cup full in the guards eyes. Blinded, he screamed.
Kicking him over, she ran. Bad food did serve a purpose. Hopping on her food
bike she rode across the court and out the door. This was the first day of a
coming war.’
Catfish Etouffée
Ingredients:
2 Lbs Catfish
1 Red Bell Pepper, Diced
½ Onion, Diced
2 Stalks Celery, Diced
3 Cloves Garlic, Diced
½ Tsp Cayenne Pepper
1 Tbs Butter
1 Sprig Fresh Thyme
2 Bottles Clam Juice
Season With Salt As Desired.
Saute the onion, garlic,and celery in butter until translucent. Add the clam
juice. Bring to a boil and turn down a simmer. Add the thyme and cayenne pepper
and let simmer for 15 minutes. Add the catfish and cover, cook until the catfish
is done approx 5 min. Head over to Sam Culpeppers place for the corn bread
recipe. Use Sam’s corn bread batter like pancake batter. Scoop a generous amount
of catfish étouffée on top of the corn bread pan cakes. Eat.
Roux
Roux is an essential part of Cajun cooking.
Ingredients:
4 Tbs Butter
4 Tbs Flour
Melt butter on low heat sprinkle in flour, stir till blended, cook until mixture
is peanut butter brown.
Eric Johnson grew up in Ann Arbor Michigan, and now makes his home on an island near Oakland California. One afternoon at a restaurant his fortune cookie read, ‘You have a charming way with words and should write a book.’ Those words struck a chord that awakened a long forgotten dream. He knew what he must do. Write. He finds inspiration in the little things that happen, and the people he meets. He loves to watch 1950’s science fiction movies. Eric, his wife and their two children love to hike in the hills and spend days on the beach.
Filed under: blogging, Guest bloggers, writing Tagged: Cajun, Catfish Etoufee, Catish, Eric Johnson, Free book, Halloween, recipe, short story, Tales form the Cook, Witches, writing
October 6, 2014
The Season of the Witch and the Hard to Forget Incy Black
Incy Black scary? Just when Incy thought it was safe to come back on here? Oh come on dudes, hamster up. Seriously, we are going to have a little Halloween fun. But today is a special day. The release of Incy’s second book, Hard to Forget. What do you mean…ONLY…when she’s a best writing buddy? SO we’re not going to hang about. We’re going to welcome her AND the contents of her new hero’s pocket.
‘Jack Ballentyne (spy/viscount/hottie/hard bastard/Josh Holloway lookalike) is flat out, an uncommunicative bugger. So, to gain a little insight into what makes him a man, I slipped my hand into his trouser pocket (front facing) for a grope about…AND SCORED! Oh the treasure, pure manhood…a survival kit. Tidy in a hand-sized (big hand) tin box…….
Lets flick the lid:
Oooo…a neat little knife, a CRKT Ritter RSK Mk 5 Lightweight Survival Knife, to be exact,
handy for… well, cutting I guess. Maybe some stabbing, digging a grave, at a push.
And this? A condom? Jack was once an opportunist (randy bugger), but I assumed Lowry had calmed him the heck down. Now for uses—hmmm, a neat little skull wrap for when it’s raining in the woods.
Though, it’s a bit of a tight fit (and no, not attractive in the least—a dinky mirror is taped into the lid of the tin, so I checked and can confirm, the donning of a condom to one’s head gives an ‘emerging larva’ look.
And what’s this? Cotton wool balls? Well, I suppose a man must care for his complexion. “For bloody tinder”, snaps Jack, as I reach to stroke his cheek, just testing for silky smoothness… I couldn’t help myself. (I can confirm that beneath the three-day stubble, his skin felt lickable.)
Weather-proof matches,
(yes, the heads have been dipped in candle wax. I need to remember that tip.
And I’ll used scented candles to cover the odours of…well, life in the wilds. Win-win.Plaited parachute cord?…would never have pegged Jack for a closet finger-knitter. I notice he has a complicated plait of leather throngs tied round his rather delectable wrist, too—nice wrist, tanned, easily thicker than a thumb-forefinger span, light dusting of tiny bleached hairs where wrist becomes more arm, muscles curving, very touchable…sorry, I digress.
Coffee filters? Christ, the man likes his little luxuries. “Helps with water purification,” Jack growls…as do those tablets. “Oh, and here I was thinking those were for stomach cramps and PMT,” I mutter, not at all impressed at his implication that I’m a bit thick.
Super glue (for closing deep cuts, apparently), tweezers—not for his eyebrows, I suspect, though they are beautifully shaped, plasters (for those booboos when Lowry’s not around to kiss them better), alcohol wipes (well, I guess you could suck on them at a pinch, but it would seem they double for antiseptic and tinder). Dental floss? Seriously? Jack’s obviously got a penchant for cord, thread and restraint.
Oh, how sweet, a dinky little torch…and a whistle…didn’t know Jack was into music and laser shows.
An ugly looking nail, heavily taped with gorilla tape (bright yellow)…more bondage for Jack…shiny pins, needles, and a button compass. “I got one of those in a Christmas cracker,” I tell him, proudly, using the mirror fixed to the inside of the lid to check my lippy. “So with all that’s here, I could fend off the walkers, come the zombie apocalypse?” I ask, slipping the tin into my handbag—Fendi, very sweet.
“No. You’d need a fucking baseball bat for that…
and preferably a gun, rapid firing, double loaded clips.” He digs (roughly) through my handbag to retrieve the little tin box, I’d tried to filch. “Lowry made that kit up for me. It’s precious,”
he shares, somewhat rudely. And then waves a sweetly wrapped tampon (no doubt, found at the bottom of my handbag) in my face. “I’ll keep this. Useful for bullet wounds.”
On which note, I beat a hasty retreat. “Nice growling with you, Jack. We must do it again sometime,” I lie.
Jack Ballentyne, hard bastard-hero, carves a place for himself in Lowry Fisk’s life in HARD TO FORGET. No small feat, it’s worth noting, given he’d shot her, and deliberately secured her dishonourable discharge from the British Intelligence Service. Their tale is best summarized in two short quotes
“He didn’t want her trust. What the hell would he do with it?” Jack Ballentyne
“Protective custody? What’s that a euphemism for, exactly.” Lowry Fisk
Hard to Forget
Free, Full Chapter 1 available here: Entangled Publishing
Buy links
Connect with Incy Black
Filed under: blogging, book tour, Guest bloggers, heroes, heroines Tagged: Entangled Ignite, Entangled Publishing, Hard to Forget, heroes, heroines, Incy Black, Romance, Suspense
