SKINNY-DIPPING THE RIVER STYX

SNEAK PEEK AT THE NEW NOVEL

2012-03-09T15:30:00.001-08:00

From Ugly As Sin . . . enjoy, friends!

They caught him walking out the back door of the Amarillo Civic Center around two a.m. At six foot nine, a hair under three hundred and sixty pounds, he was the biggest in the Biz. But a single homerun whack to the back of his skull with their aluminum baseball bat was enough to lay the giant down.

Of course, what fun would it have been if they stopped there?

Motherfuckers hit him again, in the ribs.

A third time, across his bum knee, for shits and giggles . . .

. . . then everything went black for “Nefarious” Nick Bullman, a.k.a. THE WIDOWMAKER.

***

“Wake up, asshole.”

A high-pitched titter, like the mating call of some brain-damaged bird, followed by a second voice: “Time to pay the piper!”

“Shit, that smarts,” Nick groaned as he came to.

At least one of his ribs was broken, he knew right away – he could feel it scraping against something soft and vital inside of him with every breath he took. Back of his head throbbed like an eighteen-wheeler had rammed into it at full speed. Not to mention his left knee. Damn thing hadn't been the same since Handsome Harry Hardcore’s sloppy Figure Four at the Brawler Series last summer. Now it felt as if that same eighteen-wheeler had driven over it, reversed, did it a few more times to add insult to injury.

Once he was fully conscious, Nick went to rub at the back of his head. But he couldn’t move. His captors had cuffed his wrists together around some kind of heavy post, he realized. He looked down to see that his ankles were also bound, with some kind of thick rubber tubing.

The persons responsible for his predicament were fuzzy humanoid shapes at first, looming twenty or thirty feet from him. They watched Nick struggle and flex and curse their mommas for a minute before they stepped closer . . . .

Two men. About half his age, but a thousand times uglier. First thing Nick noticed: they wore matching referee shirts. Zebra-striped, zip-up, the Association’s blood-splatter logo over the left breast. Guy on the right, the taller of the two, sported maybe half as many teeth in his mouth as Nick had fingers and toes. Tufts of dirty blond hair stuck out from under his camouflage cap. On the T-shirt beneath his rumpled ref-wear, Nick recognized a smiling portrait of Rebel Yell, those Confederate Flag-wearing “rednecks” whose gimmick portrayed them as tag-team spokesmen for the Southern man (truth told, they were as good ole’ boy as two Polish brothers from upstate New York could be). The scumbag on the left had a few more teeth than his companion, but only one arm -- the other ended at his elbow in a pink, misshapen knob. A tangled mop of curly brown hair fell just past his shoulders. The shirt beneath One-Arm’s ref-wear advertised his idolization for the Association’s reigning Heavyweight Champ, Big Bubba Bad-Ass.

Nick sat in one corner of what looked like a homemade wrestling ring. The thick blackness beyond it suggested some kind of warehouse. Rust-colored splotches stained the mat beneath his feet (he wondered if these losers made a habit of emulating their heroes, sometimes taking the game too far). Even the smell was authentic: sweat, scabs, baby oil, and soggy spandex.

He was almost impressed. To suggest that the men before him were wrestling fans was like saying . . . well . . . like saying the matches were choreographed and it was all a big soap opera for dudes.

“Here's the deal, Mr. Widowmaker,” the guy in the Rebel Yell shirt began the festivities. He stood over Nick, arms crossed. “Or is it ‘Nefarious Nick Bullman?’ What should we call you? Maybe you wanna go by your old name, back when people liked you? What was it? Oh, yeah. ‘The Good Goliath’? You shoulda stuck with that.”

“Yeah,” echoed One-Arm. “You shoulda stuck with that.”

“But nooooo. You had to get too big for your britches, didn’t ya? Betrayed your buddies in the Alliance. I couldn’t believe it when you hit Joe Cobra with that steel chair. Helped Garth Hater take the one-two-three, left your buddies high n’ dry. After all you guys had been through!”

“With friends like you,” said One-Arm, “who needs fuckin’ enemies.”

“That was ten years ago.” Even as he said it, Nick wondered why he was explaining himself to these freaks. “Ratings had dropped. The Alliance angle was going nowhere. McDougal wanted to shake things up.”

“You oughta be ashamed o’ yourself,” said Rebel Yell. His tongue raked across his rotten teeth as he spoke, and the sound was like a snake slithering across wet concrete. “Them guys was your best friends! Scotty Mojo, Freddy Face, even that wetback, El Diablo. They forgived you for that stunt you pulled on Joe, believed that horseshit about the Corporation brain-washin’ you. Remember when you was gonna give away Freddy’s fiancée? They was tyin’ the knot at Doomsday XVII, right before Diablo’s ‘Rage In the Cage’ match with Vesuvius. But you turned on your buddies, and you hit Miss Jessica with the ring-bell?”

One-Arm nodded, his single skinny limb flailing about as if to emphasize his buddy’s point. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Always kickin’ below the belt, cheatin’ to win. It ain’t right!”

“I’m on one of those hidden camera shows, right?” Nick no longer knew whether to scream with laughter, or fear for his life. This felt like a lame beginning to an even lamer storyline, something the Association’s writers had conjured up on the fly but they had neglected to tell him about it. Marks who believed the work was real? Thirty, forty years ago maybe. But wasn’t it common knowledge these days that the outcome of every match was predetermined, and even the promoters called what Nick Bullman did for a living “sports entertainment”?

These two morons didn’t get out much, apparently.

“You think you’re so smart,” said Rebel Yell. “But we got you! Waited on you after the main event, almost didn’t recognize ya without your demonistic makeup.”

“We got you,” One-Arm gloated.

Without warning, Rebel Yell reared back, slugged Nick in the mouth.

Nick hadn’t noticed the guy’s glove before now. It was one of those steel-lined SAP jobs. Often used by law enforcement, designed to inflict maximum damage.

His busted lip spewed blood down his chin. He spat out several teeth.

Still, he couldn't help but chuckle.

“Stupid marks. Don’t even deserve to wash my cup."

“Look,” said Rebel Yell, as if trying to reason with the wrestler before things really got out of hand, “When Black Samson killed you in that ‘Loser Leaves Life’ match at New Year's Evil IX, what’d you do?”

Nick decided to play along. Why not. There was nowhere else he needed to be. “I didn’t do anything, right? I was dead.”

“Big Bubba carried you backstage, told the crowd he was gonna do what was right since you used to be close. Said he was gonna talk Father Ivan Ruffstuff into givin’ you a proper Christian burial.”

“But then you sold your soul to the Devil, so you could live forever! And a week later, on Thursday Night Hardcore, how did you repay Big Bubba?”

“Don’t recall.” Nick sighed. “But I'm sure you'll refresh my memory.”

“You slammed him through the entrance ramp, you asshole! You teamed up with the guy who slit your throat, helped that nigger throw Bubba fifteen feet onto the concrete floor. You broke his back!”

When Rebel Yell was done, he looked like he might start crying.

Truth told, Nick had always liked Big Bubba -- this past 4th of July, in fact, their families had gotten together for a barbecue in Mr. Bad-Ass's (real name: Eric Aubrey) backyard, Nick pushing Aubrey’s giggling eleven-year-old on her swing-set for hours, harmlessly flirting with Mrs. Bubba as he was wont to do -- though things appeared quite the opposite inside the squared circle.

In the ring, their ongoing feud kept the fans screaming for blood. Usually the Widowmaker’s.

After all, Nefarious Nick Bullman was the Global Wrestling Association’s top heel. All that sacrilege, cartoonish crap about ’Maker being the SON OF ETERNAL DARKNESS -- it never failed to get the marks going good.

“Actually,” Nick said, “Eric had some vacation time to burn. Took Renee to the Bahamas for their tenth anniversary . . . ”

But he trailed off. Knew it was like trying to argue with a couple of ring-posts.

“Sure. We messed Big Bubba up good. Put his ass in ICU.”

“You’re evil, Mr. Widowmaker,” said Rebel Yell. “And you've bullied your way through the Global Wrestling Association long enough.”

He pronounced it rasslin’. Naturally.

“You’re worse than Leviathan!” said One-Arm. “At least he’s a big dumb monster, can't help doin’ the things he does.”

Nick shook his head. This had to be some surreal steroid dream. But he hadn’t touched the juice for the better part of three decades.

“You dildos are crazier than my third wife. And trust me, that's pretty fuckin’ crazy.”

Rebel Yell reached into his ref shirt. Gripped something hidden between his pants and the small of his back, brought it out slowly.

The knife was one of those big mean sons-a-bitches with a serrated blade, spiked knuckle guard. Kinda piece made you feel like you should start bleeding somewhere tender just for looking at it. It reminded Nick of a weapon from some post-apocalyptic B-movie, something with leather-clad road warriors and mutants running amok.

“Hold him,” Rebel Yell told One-Arm.

One-Arm scrabbled like a spider atop the ring-post to which Nick was cuffed. He let loose with another birdlike giggle, as if he had waited his whole life for this moment.

A thick rope wrapped tight around Nick’s throat, pulling his head back against the turnbuckle. He fought for air, thrashed about in his chair, briefly wondered how One-Arm could overpower him so easily.

“You wanna reveal a man’s true colors, you gotta dig deep.” Rebel Yell leaned over Nick with the knife. “Get to the skull beneath the skin.”

He began to cut.

Nick Bullman didn’t start screaming until the blade had traveled in a complete circle, from above his left eyebrow down to his chin then up again. Like a grisly game of connect-the-dots.

Even then, his screams didn’t reach their fever pitch . . . until his tormentors began to peel his face from his skull.

***

Later. Impossible to tell how much later, as time – reality -- had become a nonsensical joke that was anything but funny.

A cacophony of wailing sirens, doors being kicked in, the staccato clicking of numerous gun-hammers.

“Drop the fucking knife, dirtbag!” someone shouted.

Another voice: “Step away from him! Both of you! Now!”

In the center of the chaos: the body of a sweat-soaked muscleman transformed from the neck up into a sunken-cheeked, bulging-eyed Halloween decoration.

“Took you long enough,” croaked the thing in the ring, to the boys in blue standing over it.

More stunned gasps from his saviors, a chorus of disbelief exhaled on breaths that stank of coffee and doughnuts.

Until he spoke, none of them had known he was alive. His massive chest rose and fell so slowly it barely moved at all.

And the blood . . . so much blood, everywhere they looked . . . .

One tall cop with a ‘70s-porn-flick moustache slipped on something as he stepped into the ring. He pirouetted gracelessly but caught himself just in time, gripping the top rope with one hand to regain his balance.

A self-conscious glance at his companions. Then he bent, lifted something pink and dripping from beneath his shiny black shoe.

“Holy Mother of God. Is this what I think i–”

He dropped it. It hit the canvas with a sick plop.

The policeman looked ready to lose his supper. All of them did.

The thing in the chair stared at the gory pile too. And when some helpful soul finally got around to uncuffing his hands, he reached for it. Wept for it. As if he could just slide it back into place and everything would be A-OK.

TWO YEARS LATER

He still dreams about what happened at least once a week, but more often than not he dreams of what transpired after it was over. The repercussions of that night he spent with two men he would always think of – despite having learned their real names in the days following his ordeal -- as “Rebel Yell” and “One-Arm.”

He dreams of what came later. After his tormentors were convicted and sent away. After the surgeons had done their best to fix him.

He dreams of all he has lost.

And strangely enough, he often wakes up smiling . . . .

***

In his dreams, it is that fateful day in late August. He’s visiting corporate headquarters in Wilmington, North Carolina for the first (and last) time since Doc Saldutti gave him the OK to return to work. He has already made his rounds, thanking everyone for their awkward welcome backs and good to see yas. Now his well-wishers have returned to their pencil-pushing, their keyboard-tapping, and Nick finds himself alone at last. He’s standing at the far end of the hall from the executive hustle and bustle, trying to figure out how to program this cell-phone his agent bought for him last Christmas but he’s never touched the damn thing before now. He doesn't know that, in the coming months, his loneliness will drown him in a sea of black depression. So he savors it. He welcomes this moment of introspection after spending all morning playing the role of circus freak surrounded by the gawking masses, folks who pretend to pity him while rejoicing inside: Poor bastard, sure glad that ain’t me.

Now he’s approached by Veronica Townsend, the administrative assistant with the horn-rimmed glasses and the perfect bronze legs that stretch into infinity. Nick closes the phone with a flick of his wrist, turns to her with a distracted frown. Of course, these days he always looks like he’s frowning.

When their eyes meet, Ronnie glances down at her clipboard, toward the elevator doors behind Nick, then at a framed poster on the wall to her left (Big Bubba Bad-Ass holding high his World Heavyweight Champion belt). Everywhere but at Captain Ugly in front of her.

“The boss wants to see you in his office.” There’s a hitch in her voice, as if she ate some bad fish for lunch.

Message relayed, she quickly makes her escape. The trail of expensive perfume she leaves in her wake tickles the Widowmaker’s nose.

Nick tosses the phone into a nearby wastebasket. Stomps down the hall to Mr. McDougal’s office.

His huge fist knocks three times on the boss’s door, rattling the fancy gold nameplate there: LANCE K. MCDOUGAL III, C.E.O.

He waits.

And waits some more.

He’s preparing to knock again when the boss calls out: “Come in!”

Nick pushes the door open. Stoops to clear the threshold.

The first thing he notices: It’s an icebox in here. A.C.’s cranked to full-blast. The room smells like pine-scented Lysol. Wealth. Power.

The boss is on the phone. Arguing with somebody about how he owns the trademark to every name on the roster so you bet your ass he expects a cut, foreign and domestic from here to Timbuktu, if this piece-of-shit movie gets a green-light.

When McDougal finally hangs up the phone Nick wastes no time asking, “You wanted to see me, boss?”

“Nick Bullman.” The CEO’s teeth are impossibly white. A used car salesman’s grin on the face of a filthy rich entertainment mogul. “Take a seat. Please.”

Nick eases his six-foot-nine bulk into the chair opposite his employer’s mahogany desk. The vinyl cushion is as soft as a boulder beneath his ass. Nick has always wondered if guys like Lance McDougal intentionally stock their offices with furniture only slightly more comfortable than Inquisition-era instruments of torture. Just so there’s no mistake who has the best seat in the room.

Lance K. McDougal III is in his late forties, just five or six years younger than Nick, but being born with the proverbial silver spoon in your kisser tends to slow the aging process. He could pass for thirty-something if not for his hair – it is the color of needles, razorblades, objects that will slice you to pieces if you aren’t careful with them. The boss wears an immaculate navy blue suit, a tie the color of freshly-spilled blood. A pink handkerchief monogrammed with his initials peeks out of his breast pocket.

At barely 5’ 5”, McDougal is shorter than anyone who works in his building, but thanks to the power he wields as Chief Executive Officer of the Global Wrestling Association the man is no less imposing than the sixty-plus musclemen on his payroll. He inherited the company from his father in the early ‘nineties, after Lance K. McDougal, Jr. succumbed to a short battle with lung cancer. Those who knew the elder McDougal have claimed on more than one occasion that the old man would have been disappointed in the direction his son has taken the business, but of course none dare voice such conjecture in their diminutive employer’s presence. Lance K. McDougal, Jr. had been a devout Southern Baptist; under his thumb, the Association (then called the “Championship Wrestling League”) had produced nothing so controversial as to threaten its Saturday afternoon TV time slot. Now, Lance K. McDougal III has body-slammed “sports entertainment” into the new millennium, with flamboyant characters and titillating scenarios that barely squeak past Standards & Practices week after week.

“It’s good to see you, Nick,” McDougal says. “We were all worried sick for a while.”

“I appreciate that,” says Nick.

“Look at you. The doctors . . . they tried their best. I will give them that.”

Nick fidgets in his chair. It creaks beneath his weight. He doesn’t dig the way McDougal sits there scrutinizing his ruined features, as if they are some abstract work of art on which the boss is thinking about dropping thirty or forty grand.

“I heard some clutz cop actually stepped on your face? Jesus.”

Nick stares down at his snakeskin boots.

“So how are you feeling? Ready to get back to work?”

“I am itching to get back in the ring. I miss it.”

“I’m sure the other guys are glad to have you back.”

“They seem to be.” Nick thinks it, but doesn’t say it aloud: Although none of them can stand to look at me, as if ugly is contagious and they’re afraid they’ll carry the disease home to their loved ones if they get too close.

The phone rings.

McDougal punches a button. “What is it, Klarissa?”

“Your wife’s on line one, sir,” the receptionist’s voice chirps over the speakerphone. “She says it’s impor –”

“Tell her to call back in ten,” McDougal cuts her off. “In the meantime, hold all my calls?”
“Will do, sir.”

McDougal hangs up. “Sorry about that. I’ve told the silly bitch a thousand times not to interrupt me when I’m meeting with the talent. Dumb blondes – what can you do?”

Nick offers no suggestion. Everyone in the Association knows McDougal has been cheating on his wife with his receptionist for the last few years. Apparently Klarissa’s skills in the bedroom (rumors abound that the boss harbors an affinity for diaper play, but you can’t believe everything you hear) make up for her intellectual shortcomings.

“Nick,” McDougal says, “I know you’re a fellow who prefers no bullshit. I’ll cut to the chase. Due to recent . . . developments . . . we’ve decided to rethink your role in the GWA. I’ve been talking with Creative while you were recuperating, and we agreed that it might be best to drop your current character entirely.”

“No more Widowmaker?” Nick’s already crooked features twist into something resembling a stunned expression. He had known a fresh push would be necessary once he was back to a hundred percent. Audiences are fickle, after all. But he did not see this coming.

“No more Widowmaker.” McDougal rests his elbows on his desk, steeples his fingers together. “And no more Nefarious Nick Bullman.”

“Let me get this straight. I flew all this way to find out you’re firing me?”

“Not so fast, big fella. I never said that.” The boss is loving this. He gets off on making his employees squirm. Probably fantasizes about it while he’s pumping away at Klarissa the Dumb Blond Receptionist.

McDougal rises now, paces from one side of his office to the other as he lays out his plan. Once or twice throughout his spiel, he pauses in front of the huge bay window that looks out over Wilmington, North Carolina, his hands clasped behind his back like a spoiled prince admiring his kingdom.

“We’ve created a brand new character for you,” he says. “I think it’s brilliant. Of course, I came up with it, so I am a tad biased. But our writers are on-board with this a hundred percent, and they’ve already begun brainstorming ideas for your first angle . . . . ”

“I’m all ears,” says Nick.

“Your name will be REVOLTO.” As he presents his idea for Nick’s new character, McDougal’s voice deepens, becomes gruffer with his enthusiasm as if he’s narrating a bad horror movie: “No one knows where the beast called Revolto comes from. His real name is unknown, if he ever had one to begin with. Perhaps he’s not even human! Some have speculated that he was sent up from the bowels of Hell by Lucifer himself to terrorize mankind. Revolto never speaks. He communicates in brainless grunts and growls. He is the most dreadful animal known to man, the epitome of ugly, a foul demon whose presence makes the mightiest of wrestlers quiver in their boots! His abominable features have caused those of lesser endurance to spontaneously regurgitate. No one has ever seen anything as vile, as monstrous, as repugnant as the thing that calls itself Revolto! I mean, this friggin’ guy makes the Elephant Man look like Brad Pitt. Known alternately as the Wretched One, the Most Repulsive Creature In Existence, he strikes terror in the hearts of all who dare lay eyes upon his sorry excuse for a face.”

The boss sits again when he’s done. Leans back in his chair. His proud expression hints that he might have discovered a cure for cancer, or a plan to obliterate world hunger. His silver Rolex glistens in the afternoon sunlight shining through the window behind him.

Nick glares at the C.E.O., speechless.

“Revolto will make his first appearance in a hardcore brawl versus . . . the Widowmaker.”

Nick runs a hand over his graying buzzcut, where he once sported long raven locks. He still says nothing.

“How is this possible, you’re dying to ask? You’ll be working with someone disguised as your old character. Another wrestler the same size and build as you. The Redneck Gladiator should be perfect, don’t you think? We’ll throw a wig on John, give him your leather duster and the face-paint. Two minutes into the Main Event, you’ll interfere with this fake ‘Maker’s match. You’ll crush his opponent. Then you’ll turn your sights on ‘Maker. You will obliterate him. There will be blood. Buckets of it. The hard way, if necessary. That’s right, Nick, I’m giving you permission to work stiff, to shoot if that’s what it takes. I want the fans to feel every brutal, bone-shattering second of this beat-down. I want that goddamn ring to look like the floor of a slaughterhouse once the smoke has cleared. And when all is said and done, ‘the Widowmaker’ won’t make it out of this alive.

“We’ll haul him off in an ambulance at the end of the show, never to return. Right off the bat I’m thinking a feud with Man-Pretty is inevitable. That storyline will write itself -- the whole beauty-versus-beast, gorgeous-meets-grotesque dichotomy? In any event, Revolto will soon take ‘Maker’s place as the Association’s most hated monster heel. And by early next year I aim to put you back on top, where you belong . . . as our reigning Heavyweight Champ.”

When he is done, McDougal’s wide white grin grows wider than ever, if such a thing is possible.

“What do you think?”

“You can’t be serious,” says Nick.

McDougal blinks. Otherwise, he doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m not a man who cracks jokes, Nick. You know that. What those men did to you, it’s unfortunate. Personally, I hope they burn in the hottest part of Hell for it. But it happened. So we’re forced to improvise.”

When Nick doesn’t respond right away, McDougal adds, “Put it this way: the marks might be easy to fool most of the time, but they aren’t stupid. When the Widowmaker last appeared on television, his head didn’t look like six-week-old roadkill.”

Nick’s blood boils in his veins. “You son of a bitch.”

“You wanna get back on TV, surely you didn’t think a mask would suffice. Latino Thugg has dibs on that gimmick. And give me one good reason why I would want to cover up that face! You’re a promoter’s wet dream, Nick. What happened to you, it’s a blessing in disguise –”

“A blessing in disguise.” A sick chuckle slips out of Nick.

“You’ll see.”

“You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You think I’d allow you to exploit me like that, you’ve got another thing coming.”

The boss’s condescending smile disappears. In its place is the glare of a man whose decisions are never disputed.

Calmly, coldly, he says, “You will do whatever I tell you to do. And you’ll like it.”

Nick stands.

“Sit down,” McDougal commands.

“No.”

“You’re under contract with the Association for the next six years. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m not your carnival freak.”

“Is this about dignity?” McDougal’s cruel laughter is like a sword jabbed into the disfigured wrestler’s heart. “Please. Get that out of your head, man. Any dignity you ever had died the day your face was carved into something that looks like a bowl of mashed potatoes.”

“You piece of shit,” Nick growls.

“I understand you’re harboring a lot of anger over what happened to you. But don’t forget who you’re talking to.”

Sweat drips down the wrinkled roadmap of Nick’s scarred forehead, burns in his eyes.

“Do we understand one another?” McDougal asks him.

“We sure do.”

Nick leaps over the C.E.O.’s desk.

His hands wrap around the little man’s throat.

Lance K. McDougal III screams. It is a high-pitched, girlish sound.

Nick doesn’t let go until the three brutes from Security burst into the office and start touching him with their Tasers.

Even then, it takes a while.

Free Story For the Weekend

2012-03-03T05:43:00.000-08:00

Happy weekend, friends!

Enjoy this golden oldie. I still dig it, hope you will too . . . .

A CHANGED MAN

They say what goes around comes around.

And boy, are they ever right.

I’m walking proof of that.

***

As recently as a month ago, I was a totally different person. I don’t really mean that in the way you’ll think I do after I tell you what happened (ha!), I mean mentally. Emotionally. Morally.

In fact, I don’t think you would have been too far off in labelling me, back then, as a Bad Person.

I was proud of it. I wore my bad-ass demeanor on my sleeve for all to see. I was young (still am), I was brash. I felt the world owed me a living. If I had to obtain that living through crime, through violence, so be it. At the time, I guess I considered hurting other people no more than a necessary means to an end.

Boy, was I a fool.

Day after day, it was the same routine. Jimmy Delmonica and I would roam the streets of New Orleans, doing what we had to do in order to survive in a world we didn’t make: picking pockets (although I never became as good at this as Jimmy -- once I targeted an undercover cop on whom to pull my amateur sleight-of-hand, an incident which resulted in my sucking the guy’s cock so I wouldn’t have to spend more than a couple hours in jail; meanwhile Jimmy just ran away when it happened, as he was wont to do in such situations), shoplifting, burglary, even a random mugging when the opportunity presented itself. This was how Jimmy Delmonica and I survived, how we thrived in the city some clueless idiot had once dubbed “the Big Easy.”

We were a team, me and Jimmy Delmonica. “Partners in crime” he always called us, with that big shit-eating grin on his scabby, stubbled face.

Of course, I would never have trusted Jimmy Delmonica with my life, but I’ve never met anyone I trusted to that degree.

On the streets you gotta look out for your own ass, man.

***

There was this ancient black bag-lady, eighty years old if she was a day, started hanging out a couple months back around the abandoned tenement Jimmy and I slept in when we weren’t out raising hell. We used to see her every day, could hear her even when we couldn’t see her, staggering along the cracked sidewalk with her rusty shopping cart creaking along like some thin metallic beast on its last legs. She only had one arm, her left one, and always wore the same filthy gray ankle-length dress with red and black trim and lots of holes. She never paid us any attention, never acknowledged anyone else, for that matter. She’d just walk up and down 9th Avenue day after day, night after night, as if there was somewhere the old woman desperately needed to be but she couldn’t remember where that was. She constantly murmured to herself in a language we didn't understand -- French, it sounded like, but I couldn’t tell for sure -- while she scrounged through dumpsters for food or "new" items to add to her already mountainous collection of refuse in her cart. Old boots with the laces missing . . . radios with wires sticking out of them like eviscerated roadkill . . . cracked dishes, picture frames, or ceramic figurines . . . yellowed textbooks with mildewed covers and half the pages missing . . . it didn’t matter to that old lady. I guess she perscribed to that cliche “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

I can’t really tell you why Jimmy and I set our sights on old Leatherhag that night (“Leatherhag” was the cruel name we had given the bag-lady because of her ancient brown hide, her cracked and leather-like skin). I suppose it was simply because she was smaller than us, weaker than Jimmy and me. Isn’t that how most bullies choose their prey?

It was on a Saturday evening when we did what we did, a chilly evening around eight-thirty or so. We could see our own breath on the air that night, like the smoke from Jimmy’s Marlboros he always lifted from the 8th Street Shop-N-Save. Jimmy and I, we were sharing a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 (compliments of the ABC store at the end of the block), sitting on the steps of the closed-down titty bar not far from our makeshift home, when we saw old Leatherhag rolling toward us. She was peering up at the sky, muttering to herself in that foreign language about God-knew-what. Just like always.

“I hate that crazy old bitch,” Jimmy said, flicking away the butt he’d been smoking.

I nodded, started to say something in agreement, but he turned to me as soon as the words were out of his mouth and grabbed the bottle of Mad Dog I was about to finish off.

“Hey, fucker. Don't hog all that.” He tipped back the bottle, downed the last few swigs left in there.

He belched. The sound of it echoed down the block. He tossed the bottle away. It clattered down the sidewalk -- Jimmy looked disappointed when it didn’t break -- before rolling to a stop against a burned-out light-pole decorated all over with colorful globs of chewed bubblegum and a flier from some all-chick punk band called The Pussy-Eaters.

“Hey,” said Jimmy.

“What?” I said.

He poked me in the side with one bony elbow. “Let’s have some fun with ole’ Leatherhag.”

The bag-lady continued to gaze up at the starless night sky as she drew closer to us, oblivious to the fact that we were there at all. The squeak-and-rattle of her ancient cart echoed up and down the block.

“Whaddaya say?” Jimmy popped his knuckles like a guy preparing to jump into the middle of a bar-room brawl. “We’ll just scare her a little, that’s all. You wanna?”

“Sure,” I said.

I had nothing better to do.

I stood then, smiled, mirroring Jimmy’s own mischevious devil-grin. “You know I’m fuckin’ game.”

***

I think as I went along with Jimmy that night I might have felt the slightest bit of guilt even then. I was a hoodlum, a “no-good delinquent” as my stepdad used to call me before I finally left home for good . . . but when it came down to it, what the hell had ole’ Leatherhag ever done to us?

Nothing. And I knew that.

But it didn’t stop me from going along with Jimmy, having some fun at her expense.

Plenty harsh words were shouted in the bag-lady’s ear that night, words like “nigger” and “porch monkey” and “jigaboo cunt.” At one point I grabbed the stub of ole’ Leatherhag’s right arm, touched it to my crotch. I hawked up a green loogie and spat in her wrinkled brown face. When her gnarled left hand came up to try and block it, and Jimmy and I saw she only had three fingers on that other hand, we laughed like we had never seen anything so hilarious. We shoved her and she went down on the cold, hard asphalt, blabbering nonsense through her tears.

Jimmy said, “Fuckin’ freak! You ain’t even a whole nigger! You’re only half o’ one.”

We cackled and jeered and even kicked her a couple times while she lay whimpering on the asphalt. Meanwhile, her shopping cart rolled away from the scene like some fairweather friend sneaking away once things got bad. It hit a pothole at the end of the block, rattle-crashed onto its side in the middle of the street like a tired old beast finally lying down to die.

Jimmy screamed with laughter, and I couldn’t help it. I echoed his sentiments tenfold.

Finally, when the game grew tiresome, we walked away. As we left we gave one another high fives -- as if we had accomplished some monumental feat -- while behind us old Leatherhag shrieked hoarsely at the top of her lungs.

“Batards! De tel hommes mauvais!” She waggled those three fingers in the air, danced madly in the street despite her injuries as if she were inflicting upon Jimmy and me some satanic skid-row curse. “Par les dieux, vous ne partirez pas avec ceci! Vous payarez, vous heathens blanc, vous payerez et vous viendrez pour savoir crainte vraie!!!”

“Alrighty-then!” said Jimmy Delmonica, and we laughed so hard we cried.

***

God, if I only had all to do over.

If I did, I swear I never would have gone within a hundred feet of her.

***

I didn’t know we had killed the old woman until two days later, when word on the street got around that she’d been found.

Seems her heart had given out on her later that night. Her corpse was found the next morning on the front steps of the Orleans Parish Courthouse.

I suppose I could argue that, since she died of a heart attack, Jimmy and I weren’t really responsible. But I know better. We killed her that night, even if we didn’t want to admit it.

We had killed old Leatherhag as sure as if we’d put a .38 to her head and pulled the trigger.

Now we were gonna pay.

***

I’ve been wondering lately if Jimmy would have suffered the same fate I have suffered in the days since we killed that old woman. Or maybe something worse (is that even possible?). He was the one who instigated the whole thing, after all.

I’ll never know, though.

Less than a week after we heard the news that old Leatherhag’s body had been found, Jimmy Delmonica was dead.

He’d been stabbed by some psycho over on West 32nd. Stabbed to death when he tried to mug the wrong mark, apparently.

Word on the street is, he was stabbed forty-seven times.

I can’t help thinking that Jimmy Delmonica got off easy.

***

These strange things that I've been leading up to -- the stuff that's been happening to me, to my body -- began two weeks ago. My own surreal penance for what Jimmy Delmonica and I did to the old bag-lady.

The Friday morning before last, I stepped into the 7th Avenue McDonalds to use their restroom. I would do this once every couple weeks or so before all of this started happening; when I could sneak in there without getting thrown out, I would use their facilities to wash up a bit, maybe take a dump or jerk off with a little privacy. Sometimes a fellow needs that, whether you live on the street or not.

On the day in question, I first noticed the itching sensation in the fleshy part of my right arm, on the underside of my elbow.

It was a deep, burning itch like nothing I’d ever felt before, like a nagging tingle deep in your throat that’s impossible to scratch. Now, as I sat there on Ronald McDonald’s crapper, hearing the bustle of the breakfast crowd outside, I saw the cause of it.

“Jesus,” I whispered, oblivious now to the basso echoes of some old man’s machine-gun diarrhea filling the next stall over.

A deep, oozing boil was embedded in my flesh, in that tender part of my forearm underneath my elbow. I touched it cautiously with the tip of one finger, but hissed through my teeth when that simple brush against the thing resulted in piercing agony.

A blood bubble welled up in the center of that shiny red-pink crater as I stared at it. It popped.

Jesus Christ. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? And what had caused the festering wound? I hadn’t been with any crack-whores for at least a year, so V.D. was out. Thank God. I’d never used intravenous drugs. Didn’t know any lepers. What the hell? For a second or two I found myself wondering if touching old Leatherhag that night might have given me something for my sins.

No. I had barely touched her at all, far as I could remember. My assault against her had for the most part consisted of cruel epithets, verbal battery.

Couldn’t be it.

I finished my business in McDonalds then -- ignoring, as I always did, the handwritten FOR COSTUMER'S USE ONLY sign on the bathroom door -- and went on.

Putting that . . . thing out of my mind as best I could.

***

Two nights later I awoke from my bed of cardboard in the condemned apartment building I called home, woke in a cold sweat from some terrible nightmare. I could not remember the dream in its entirety, yet I knew it involved the old bag lady Jimmy Delmonica and I had murdered. I was sure of that much.

My right arm was alive with a ticklish sort of tingling at first, as if it had merely fallen asleep beneath the rotten tarp I used for my pillow. But once I had fully awakened, that needles-and-pins sensation mutated into an awful throbbing. It felt as if thousands of tiny daggers were stabbing into the length of my arm now.

I clenched my teeth, moaned. Looked down at the crook of my arm, where that wet red boil had been two days before.

And I gasped as my eyes fell upon it.

A miniature mouth, tiny jaws chomping frantically as if in hunger. It was the size of a silver dollar, that mouth, and hideously alive.

Its lips peeled back to reveal coal-black gums, tiny chipped and yellowed teeth. I could smell its breath, an odor like meat gone to rot, and I immediately turned and vomited onto the cold ground beside me.

I could see the thing's wet pink tongue in there. I could feel it rolling around inside me, inside of my elbow, for Chrissake.

Glistening. Squirming.

It almost seemed to smile at me.

***

Four days later, I discovered the eyeball that had grown into the back of my head.

That spot on my scalp had been itching terribly for the past twenty-four hours or so, but I hadn’t really thought much about it. I chalked it up to dry skin, the consequences of not washing my hair as often as I should. At worst, perhaps I had contracted head lice from some fellow street denizen.

Maybe. In any event, I assumed it wasn't anything that couldn’t be remedied.

You see, in those last few days since I had discovered that orifice -- that mouth, as impossible as such a thing could be - in the crook of my arm, smiling up at me, often dribbling its pinkish saliva onto my wrist, I had almost grown used to it. That is not to say that a new mouth suddenly growing upon a part of my body not normally reserved for facial features is an everyday occurence . . . I simply knew there was nothing I could do about it.

So I dealt with it. I wrapped dirty wrags around it when I went out. Folks would stare at me like I was a junkie trying to hide his needle-tracks, but I paid them no attention. The alternative, I knew, would be much worse, if they saw what I was really hiding. The worst part was the moisture that would soak through my makeshift bandages throughout the day, like blood from a leaking wound. That, and the fetid stench of its breath, which would often wake me in the middle of the night. I would sit up with a start to the sound of some distant siren, the sounds of the city to which I had grown so accustomed, wondering what had awakened me . . . and I would feel it working furiously in my flesh. Gasping, smacking its cracked alien lips, sometimes grunting though it had no visible vocal cords.

Still, I lived with it. I had to. What other choice did I have?
But it didn't stop there.

I discovered the eye in my scalp at the same place I first encountered the ugly boil that eventually became a mouth in my arm. In the FOR COSTUMER'S USE ONLY restroom at McDonalds.

The itch had become worse than ever that day, just above the nape of my neck at the base of my skull. When I went to scratch at it this time I felt wetness. Soft, pulpy matter that made a squishing sound beneath my finger.

At first I feared my brains were leaking out of my head! I had to get to a mirror . . . .

And I did. And I saw it. A corner section of the bathroom's mirror was broken, had been ever since I’d been going there for my bi-weekly shits and paper-towel baths. I peeled away a shard from that corner, careful not to cut myself (though ultimately I did leave there with a few shallow gashes in the tips of my fingers once I saw what had become of me) and then I turned around. I held up the piece of glass, positioned it so I could see the back of my head in the mirror over the sink behind me.

I pushed my hair away from that itchy spot with two fingers, exposing my scalp.

“Gaaa!” I shrieked when I saw it. Impossible!

“What the fuck? What the fuck?!” My voice echoed through the small room, bounced off the walls, off the tile floor, off the urinal filled with soggy cigarette butts to my left.
The eye was barely visible, covered with hair and an ultra-thin film of fleshy matter, but it was there. In me. And it was very alive. It glistened wetly in the overhead flourescents, rolled about as if looking for its mate.

It blinked at me several times fast. Almost flirtatiously.

“Agh, God . . . Jesus God . . . what is this . . . ?”

Its pupil was dark brown, almost black, and stippled with specks of gray.

My eyes have always been green (I have no idea why I should feel the need to mention that now, but there it is).

They threw me out shortly after. A manager barged into the restroom just as I began to tremble violently, as I thought about curling up in a fetal position right there on the dirty floor, whimpering until the men in white suits came to take me away. He was a young man, like myself, though life had treated him better that it had treated folks like me and Jimmy Delmonica. He was very tall, almost freakishly so. Fiery red hair. Resplendent in his McDonalds manager’s uniform, a tie with tiny Golden Arches up and down its length.

“Get out of here, you,” he said.

His voice was high-pitched, effiminate. Jimmy Delmonica would have called him a “faggot,” I'm sure, had my friend been around to voice his opinion. But he wasn’t.

At that moment the squeakiness of the manager’s voice sounded just like old Leatherhag’s rusty shopping cart.

“What are you doing? You must leave! We don’t allow your kind in here!”

I left, but I had to stifle a sick laugh in spite of myself as he shooed me out . . . .

My kind?

Not long ago, I would have known exactly what he meant by my kind. I probably would have kicked his ass for that comment, and I might have sliced him open with that jagged shard of McDonalds mirror.

But now . . . .

Now my kind has has taken on another -- far more bizarre -- context entirely.

***

Things haven’t gotten any better, either.

Far from it.

In fact, things have gotten so out of hand lately . . . I’m starting to think about using this shard of mirror on myself.

***

I don’t know what she did to me, man.

Old Leatherhag. Was she some kind of witch, a voodoo bitch or something?
That’s all I can figure.

‘Cause when I got up this morning, I found . . . new things.

New additions, if you will, to my rapidly-changing body . . . .

I screamed when I saw them. And felt them.

And I haven’t stopped screaming since.

The sharp brown nose, growing out of that tight stretch of pimply skin on the underside of my dick, just above my balls. Its nostrils flare constantly, and it runs like it’s got a bad cold.

The stiff brown nipple, on the backside of my hand.

And the fingers. How could I forget the fingers?

Three of them. Wrinkled, black. I saw them in that piece of mirror.

Growing out of my asshole.

Wiggling, down there. Bending and flexing.

My God, what is happening to me . . .?

If you enjoyed "A Changed Man", please check out more of my short stories: my collection People Are Strange is available in both trade paperback (signed) and e-book formats . . . see the BUY MY BOOKS tab at the top of the page for more info!

"A Changed Man" was originally published in Whispers From the Shattered Forum.

My Father Needs Your Help . . . Please Spread the Word?

2012-02-11T14:26:00.000-08:00

My friends and readers:

     My father needs a new kidney. He needs one desperately. The doctors have told him that he most likely will not live to see both of his grandsons grow up if he does not receive a transplant within the next 3-4 years.

     Please help us make this happen. Even if you don't have money to give, please take the time to spread the word. Please read this and pass it along:

       http://www.helphopelive.org/find-a-patient/profile/index.cfm?patient=149FD727-EC32-424A-613E19B15F15EB65

     Thank you, so very much. God bless.

     J.N.

OLDEN Wins . . . .

2012-02-04T16:23:00.000-08:00

How cool is this:

http://www.darkfuse.com/delirium-books-blog/james-newmans-olden-nominated-for-readers-choice-award.html

Fingers crossed. The author whose novella is eventually chosen for best of the year gets a $500 bonus, a $500 gift certificate to the publisher's online bookstore, and an option on his or her next accepted novella to get 100% royalties on all profits made from the sale of said book.

Man, that sure would be nice. Thanks so much to all who voted.

The overwhelming support for this novella has got me seriously thinking about . . . OLDEN: PHASE 2.

A Couple More Great Reviews For OLDEN and ANIMOSITY

2012-01-22T15:51:00.000-08:00

Lots of great feedback lately on my two most recent works out there . . . .

THE HORROR REVIEW dug Olden:

http://www.horrorreview.com/2011/gwolden2011.html

And one of my favorite blogs, THE CROW'S CAW, loved Animosity:

http://thecrowscaw.com/2012/01/20/reviewed-animosity-by-james-newman/

Horror World Reviews OLDEN

2012-01-11T19:59:00.000-08:00

A really sweet review for my Delirium Books novella Olden popped up online today. Made my whole week.

Check it out:

http://horrorworld.org/hw/2012/01/olden/

Pssst . . . BTW: E-book and print copies are still available here, if you don't have yours yet. :)

HELLNOTES Reviews ANIMOSITY

2012-01-09T20:58:00.000-08:00

Another great review for my latest novel, Animosity, popped up online today. This one comes courtesy of the mighty Hellnotes.
Check it out!

http://hellnotes.com/animosity-book-review

Get your copy here, if you haven't already.

MIDNIGHT RAIN, Reborn

2012-01-07T14:45:00.000-08:00

Great news!

Watch for a brand new trade-paperback edition of my coming-of-age thriller Midnight Rain, due mid-2012 from Evil Jester Press. I'm really impressed with this new publisher, love what they're doing, and I think you will be too. They've published several of my peers whose work I love, including Mark Allan Gunnells and genre legend Rick Hautala. So I'm in fantastic company, to say the very least.

Speaking of Mr. Hautala, he has graciously agreed to write a Foreword for this new edition of 'Rain (how cool is that?).

I couldn't be more excited to see my first novel -- which has been a fan fave since its initial release in 2004 via Leisure Books -- finally get a second life.

Of course, if you're a fan of e-books, you can still get the digital edition any time you please.

More details to come very soon, folks. Along with a . . . ahem . . . wicked announcement about another one of my back titles.

Watch this space!

Free Story For the End of the Year: "TONIGHT I SING MY BLUES FOR YOU"

2011-12-27T09:05:00.000-08:00

Here's one I don't think many of you have read, as it was published only once before, in a small-press anthology that I'm pretty sure sold only to the authors who were in it (heh, heh).

I'm posting this one warts and all, 'cause I kinda dig it the way it is: raw and real, like good blues. Plus, "Tonight I Sing My Blues For You" represents a time in my life when I was really getting the hang of this writing thing, deciding maybe I had what it takes to do it "seriously" -- I feel that this was one of my first stories in which I really started developing my own unique voice.

Hope you enjoy it. Happy New Year to all my friends, family, and readers. God bless you. I am thankful for each and every one of you.

TONIGHT I SING MY BLUES FOR YOU

"Wake up, man. Wake up! You're never gonna believe this."

Two o’ clock in the frigging morning, and I'm jerked awake by my so-called friend Buddy, rocking me like an overeager child nagging at his father on Christmas morning.

"Dammit, Buddy . . . what the hell are you doing here?"

"Get up, get your clothes on. You are never gonna believe this, David!”

If you saw Buddy and I on the street, you'd never expect us to share anything in common. Where I kept my hair styled neatly these days, never allowed it to grow past my earlobes, where I wore khakis and nothing more exciting than the occasional too-loud tie to work, Buddy was my complete opposite. His dirty-blond hair -- done up in those "white-boy dreads” -- fell just past his shoulders, and on the night in question he wore his Mojo Faction T-shirt, a psychedelic explosion of colors around a portrait of that local blues band we liked to go see at the clubs. Buddy was still in college, where I had graduated two years before, and he seemed doomed to remain there forever. Not that you would ever catch Buddy complaining. Didn't matter we were both in our mid-twenties, and I had long since fallen into a comfortable job at the local elementary school, teaching fourth grade and living a "responsible lifestyle" (as we used to sarcastically call such a thing when we were both long-haired party animals), Buddy was content with remaining the eternal college-boy, claiming when someone called him on it that he was still “unsure of exactly what he wanted to do.”

To each his own, I guess . . . the guy may have been directionless, carefree, and - admittedly -- more than a tad irresponsible, but he had also been my best friend in the world for as long as I could remember.

"Some of us have to work in the morning, Buddy?" I said, frowning as I pulled on my bedroom slippers and a pair of sweatpants. “Not that you would know anything about that.“ Still, my tone betrayed my lack of any true anger at my friend. Buddy had that effect on everyone, even if he did look like a greasy hippie -- something in the guy’s face, I suppose, an inherent kindness that was instantly infectious. It was hard to stay mad at Buddy.

"You're never gonna believe this, man," he said again. As if he hadn't made that clear already.

I yawned. “You wanna tell me where, exactly, you're taking me?"

Two words rolled off my friend's tongue then, slowly. A melodramatic whisper: “Sleeping Meadows."

II.

"It was like this when I found it. Contrary to what you might think, David, I didn't break in."

“Uh-huh,” I said, still rubbing gritty sleep from my eyes.

Buddy referred to the fact that the cemetery's massive, spire-tipped gate -- the only way into Sleeping Meadows other than the gravel service road at the opposite end of the property -- stood wide open when we got there. This despite the sign: NO TRESPASSING/GATES CLOSE NIGHTLY 9PM-8AM.

“It’s almost as if I was . . . expected, you know?” Buddy said. “Like the gates were open just for me."

###

Sleeping Meadows -- nine sprawling acres in the very center of our city -- was the final resting place of hundreds who had once walked these streets as far back as the late 1800's. Dozens of skeletal black oaks, their naked autumn branches reaching heavenward like gaunt fingers, loomed in no particular pattern throughout the cemetery, as if they were God’s sentinels randomly placed there to guard the souls He would one day return to embrace. The jutting silhouettes of monuments, tombstones, and cherubic statuettes scattered throughout the place resembled odd-shaped pebbles sunning themselves on the bed of some shallow, moon-swept stream. The night’s cool breeze kissed my face, slid through the trees, and whispered against those cold gray stones like voyeurs discussing our every move. The cemetery’s grass had been recently trimmed, seemed to shine silver beneath the night's full moon, and that summery mown-grass smell assaulted my nostrils as I followed Buddy through the place. It reminded me of backyard barbecues when I was a boy -- of childhood innocence, somehow, of a time when the world seemed so much larger.

As we made our way down those winding paths, sometimes across the blacktopped road that snaked through the cemetery then back into the sea of graves, I asked my friend several times in a nervous whisper just where the hell he was taking me.

"I couldn't sleep, man," Buddy finally began. "Had a dream about my mother." Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes, but he never stopped walking, never slowed down. As a matter of fact I was forced to pick up my pace just to keep several strides behind my friend. "Dreamed she was outside my window, right? Singing."

I understood Buddy's pain. Barely a month had passed since the accident. A drunk driver, head-on collision. It was bad, I'd heard -- very bad. The mortician had done all he could, Buddy was told, but the wake had still been a closed-casket affair. My friend was entitled to his grief. I shared it with him.

"I dreamed she was singing to me, David . . . dreamed I went to the window, and there she was, floating two stories off the ground outside my dorm-room. She was playing this old battered guitar, a blues song. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard, man!"

"Buddy --" I started. I reached out, gently touched his shoulder, but he kept walking.

"I woke up . . . I mean, I really woke up this time. This part was real, I know, 'cause I was sweating all over. And guess what?"

He looked back at me, pausing only briefly before continuing on into the heart of the cemetery. To dark places that the full moon’s alabaster glow could no longer quite reach. "I could still hear that music, David, even after I woke up. Swear to God, man . . . just this simple three-chord acoustic number, very sad, but it was the sweetest damn thing. At first, I thought I was imagining it . . . it sounded as if it were several blocks down the street . . . but it was plain as day. And crazy as it sounds, man . . . it’s like I knew . . . that song was playing just for me."

"So what's all this gotta do with me?" I asked, my brow furrowed.

"I couldn't go back to sleep, after that. I had to come see her.”

Again I touched my friend lightly upon the shoulder. "Hey . . . I'm here for you, Buddy. Anytime. You know tha --"

"Here we are," he said suddenly, not really hearing me, and he stopped above a grave.

I looked down.

And I frowned. This wasn't Buddy's mother's grave.

I had been out here a couple times with Buddy, however, and I knew this gravesite just as well.

It was the grave of one Joseph "Blind Dawg" Melton.

III.

"I don't get it, Buddy. What's Blind Dawg got to do with your mom?"

Buddy knelt before the modest marker -- not much more than a flat, cheaply inscribed rock, really -- over Blind Dawg Melton's final resting-place. For several long, awkward seconds, he said nothing. He just sat like that, a melancholy expression on his face, the tips of his fingers gliding across the late musician's chiseled stone (1905-1999 was all it said below his Christian name, with a crude etching of a guitar beside that).

"Where'd they all go?" he said, more to himself than to me. "They were right here."

I just stared at him, puzzled.

"There were people here, David. Gathered around Melton's grave. They were standing here. Listening."

"Listening?"

"Yeah. I'm over there --" Buddy gestured toward an off-white crowd of marble tombstones about a hundred feet away (the area, I remembered, where his mother had been buried) -- "visiting with Mom, and I see them over here. Just staring down at Melton‘s grave. It really creeped me out at first, till I realized what was going on. A couple of ‘em, I can see their shoulders shaking. You know, like they're crying."

"Buddy," I said softly, "I know your mother's death hit you pretty hard . . . it hurt me too, man . . . but I think maybe we should -- "

"No, David!" Buddy shot back, in a tone harsher than any he had used with me in quite some time. "No! I saw them. They were here! They were listening to his music. I know, because I joined them. I’m not crazy. I stood right here. And I listened, too."

A tear ran down Buddy's face, silver in the moonlight like mercury.

"Blind Dawg was playing. Down there. Never in my life have I heard anything so beautiful."

IV.

Perhaps at this point I should fill you in on a little history . . . .

Joseph Seymour Melton -- better known as "Blind Dawg" Melton -- had been a native of the city in which Buddy and I lived. Up until his interment in Sleeping Meadows, the old bluesman obtained little more than a small cult following despite having -- in my opinion - deserved so much more. During his career Melton recorded only a dozen or so records, and all of those had been on a small label run out of Mississippi, a less-than-reputable outfit by the name of Sharky Records (which, last I heard, ended up on the losing end of a class-action lawsuit engineered by several other artists who never saw the money owed them by the company). Buddy and I often discussed, on those long nights when we would sit in my apartment or in his cluttered dorm-room listening to Melton’s scratchy old records, why a man like “Blind Dawg” Melton should live in such obscurity despite the inimitable talent God had given him. Buddy and I owned every recording Blind Dawg ever cut, some of which cost us a pretty penny. Not that we cared. Because Blind Dawg Melton -- who was truly blind, by the way, supposedly since childhood, at the hands of an abusive stepfather -- was worth so much more. Guy had soul, lemme tell ya. Everything he sang came from the heart . . . and his guitar-playing, well, it was simply out of this world.

Buddy and I had attended Melton's funeral ten months before that night my friend claimed to hear Blind Dawg singing from beyond the grave, and -- while it may sound silly, as we never knew him personally -- it hit us hard. The guy was nothing less than a hero to these two blues fanatics, an idol no less revered than others in the genre who built their careers upon albums surpassing gold status the world over.

Blind Dawg Melton didn't just play the blues, he lived them. As the story went, he had been an alcoholic in his younger days, a troubled, bitter man with various mental problems. But Melton fought his demons and won. He battled racism through the forties, fifties, and sixties (hence his most-remembered, if not altogether financially-successful song "We All Bleed the Same"), and had just barely made a living with his music in a world that seemed to desire screeching rock n' roll over the very heartfelt rhythm which inspired that genre.

Joseph "Blind Dawg" Melton was one-of-a-kind. A beautiful man, in my opinion, who made music that was the closest thing to heaven Buddy and I could imagine.

We visited his grave once or twice a month, more often than not leaving a rose upon his modest stone just to show someone cared. We still played his records faithfully and sometimes shed a tear or two as we listened, but we went on. Because, well . . . for God's sake, the man was ninety-four years old! He had to go sooner or later, right?

However, on the night in question, I seriously began to wonder if my best friend was truly over it at all. If he would ever be. Because now, after losing one of his greatest heroes and his dear mother less than a year apart . . . I feared the poor guy had completely lost his mind.

"He was playing, David. It was beautiful. He was playing from beyond the grave."

"Okay, Buddy," I said softly, conflicting emotions roiling within me. "I think we should go home now. You should get some rest."

"'Don't cry for me . . . I'll see you on the other side.'"

"What?"

"That was his song, David. So perfect. And it was like . . . he was playing it just for me."

"Come on, Buddy . . . come on."

"You don't believe me, do you?" my best friend sobbed as I gently led him away.

And I honestly did not know what to say.

VI.

Buddy and I parted ways that night shortly after four a.m. He headed back to his dorm. I retired to my apartment, confused as all hell and wondering if my friend was really going to be okay. I wondered just what the hell he had witnessed out there at Blind Dawg Melton's gravesite. I knew that my friend would not lie to me. Even so, if only in the spirit (excuse the pun) of some harmless prank, there was no way Buddy could have pulled it off so convincingly. Tears and all.

Still, I refused to entertain the notion that he might have actually heard . . . a phantom bluesman working his mojo from beyond the grave?

Give me a break.

Something really had happened out there at Sleeping Meadows. Buddy did believe what he told me, that he had heard the late bluesman playing his sad song out there . . . my shirt, still moist with my friend's tears as I returned to my apartment that night, was ample proof of that. However, the question now was . . . what was wrong with my friend? Had my old pal been indulging in a little too much of the "wacky weed?" Or was he on to something that could not be so easily explained?

I would know soon enough.

VII.

After that night in the cemetery, Buddy and I sort of . . . drifted apart. While Buddy never strayed too far from my thoughts, and I worried about my old friend every day . . . the truth is, I made no effort to contact him. Once upon a time, Buddy and I would never allow more than a week to slip by without getting together, never more than two or three days without calling one another just to touch base.

However . . . I must admit I was a little fearful of Buddy's sanity after that night. I didn't call him. I didn't visit him up at the college. For that, I will never forgive myself. Likewise, Buddy made no effort to contact me. Perhaps, I thought, my friend might have been more than a little embarrassed by his actions, by whatever insane things he claimed to have seen. Buddy may have realized that he did need help. Professional help.

I can only guess, however. I do not know what went through Buddy’s mind in the weeks following our nocturnal visit to Blind Dawg Melton's grave. I guess I never will.

Because that night was the last time I saw my best friend alive.

VIII.

Three weeks after mine and Buddy's bizarre little adventure, if you will, I awoke in the middle of the night, a Friday night, and I couldn't get back to sleep. I'd been having that problem quite a bit lately, plagued with some rather disturbing nightmares (which was odd because I hardly ever dream anything worth remembering). Buddy had filled my mind with some rather morbid images, and now I was suffering for it.

So I decided to take a walk. Through the city. This was something I used to do quite often back in my college days, take long walks at two or three in the morning just for the time alone, to think clearly about whatever was on my mind without the chaos of daily life getting in the way. But after I graduated, fell full-swing into that “responsible lifestyle” I mentioned earlier, I could no longer find the time for such soul-searching ventures.

Sleeping Meadows was most certainly not my destination that night, yet somehow I ended up there all the same.

I turned the corner, and there it was.

The gate stood open, again.

Without even consciously thinking about it, I entered the cemetery. And headed straight for Blind Dawg Melton.

IX.

I heard them -- faintly, in the distance -- before I ever saw his grave. The sound of gentle sobbing, of several different whispered conversations spoken in breaths thick with snot and tears.

I knew before I saw them that the people who made those sounds would be gathered around Blind Dawg Melton's grave. However strongly I wanted to deny that there could be any validity to Buddy's insane story of a ghost guitarist and his midnight graveyard gig . . . I knew they would be there.

Indeed, three people were gathered around Blind Dawg's tombstone. Two men and a woman, seemingly oblivious to each other as they carried on like the world was falling apart all around them. One man stood, tallest son-of-a-bitch I've ever seen, gazing heavenward as moon-streaked tears trailed down his face. He was bald, dressed entirely in black, a yellow ribbon pinned to his lapel. He held his skeletal arms around himself, trembling slightly as his lips worked in a silent conversation with God . . . with Melton . . . with somebody.

The strangest thing of all, though?

Even as the big guy bawled his eyes out, he was smiling. Smiling.

Likewise, the man and woman on the ground -- she sat cross-legged, also gazing heavenward, while the middle-aged black man beside her was on his knees, gazing down as if he could see all the way through the earth and into Melton's casket -- wept as I had never seen anyone weep before, but all the while undeniable smiles kept creeping through their anguish.

It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen, let me tell you.

I stayed out there for well over an hour, approximately a hundred yards away behind an immense oak tree, watching them. Wondering just what the hell was going on here.

Yet whatever these people carried on about so . . . whatever bled such raw emotions from them . . . not once did I see or hear a damn thing.

And, for some strange reason, I found myself oddly depressed by that. By the fact that, for whatever reason, I was not allowed to share in this.

Six days later, after my own bizarre encounter at Sleeping Meadows, I was awakened by a phone call from Buddy's sister, Kara. Kara lived in Atlanta, and I hadn't spoken with her in almost a year, so I knew right away something was wrong. Why else would Buddy's sister be calling me?

"He's dead, David," she sobbed into the phone. "They killed him."

"Kara? Killed who? What are you talking about?"

"Buddy."

“Whaaaat?” A lump formed in my throat. My heart began to beat faster than it would seem humanly possible.

"Gang-bangers jumped him on 42nd. You know Buddy, stubborn S.O.B. that he is, he'd never let them just take his wallet. I always knew that mouth would get him in trouble some day.”

With that she broke off into a fit of sobbing. I felt myself heading in the same direction, but I had to keep my composure.

"Oh, my God. Where was he?"

It took her a minute, but finally she answered. "He'd been staying down here with Donald and me the past couple weeks. I told him Atlanta wasn't a good place to be, out on the streets alone late at night. He'd been having trouble sleeping, and I guess he wanted to take one of his midnight walks. The police said those bastards stabbed him twenty-eight times! Why, David, why?!"

"Jesus, Kara. I'm sorry." It was all I could think of to say. "I'm so, so sorry."

One of the last things she said to me then, during that unforgettable phone-call, hit me right in the gut. A stinging punchline to a very unfunny joke . . . .

"He said he missed you, David. He told me that the other day. Said he hoped you were okay. Did something happen between you two?"

Another question I did not know how to answer. I left her with her tears then, and she with mine, and we parted with little more than a final "I'll see you at the funeral."

Two days later, beneath a sickly gray October sky, I watched the cold ground swallow up my best friend.

My brother.

Forever.

XI.

Buddy was buried in Sleeping Meadows, next to his mother. Just how he had wanted it.

It was the single worst day of my life.

Several days after the funeral, I pulled the worst frigging drunk I have ever pulled.

"Here's to you, Buddy," I wept as I drank, screaming it out on more than one occasion until the guy below my apartment started pounding the ceiling beneath me.

"Lick my pole, asshole!" I cursed at the floor, grabbing my crotch.

Didn't take long for Jim Beam to knock me flat on my ass. Everything went black, black as sin, and the next thing I remember it's five in the morning.

Head pounding. Stomach churning. Blood rushing through my head so loud I could hear it, like ocean waves breaking on the shores of my throbbing temples . . . .

To hell with it. I had to see my friend. I didn't care what time it was.

I had to tell him good-bye one last time.

So I grabbed my jacket, shambled out of my apartment building half-drunk with anger at a God that could take my friend so abruptly, still half-drunk with the alcohol I had consumed earlier. I didn't care. I had to talk to Buddy. Tell him how sorry I was for doubting his sanity for even a second. What kind of a friend was I, anyway?

Once again, I headed for Sleeping Meadows.

XII.

The gate stood open again. I remembered Buddy saying how it seemed as if it had been open just for him, welcoming him inside. Did the same hold true for me, tonight?

Maybe.

I shrugged off the thought, headed for my best friend's fresh grave, a tear already spilling down my cheek.

"I love you, Buddy. I'm sorry I wasn't there."

In the moonlight, despite that fancy tombstone, Buddy's grave resembled little more than a nondescript pile of dirt. Even the veritable forest of flowers all around it -- their colors seemed so dull and lifeless in the night. Hard to believe that under all of this my dear friend, my brother, slept a sleep from which he would never awaken.

"You and me, Buddy," I said to my friend, wherever he was now. "It was all about you and me. I love you, you long-haired hippie freak." I laughed at that, could imagine Buddy laughing along with me. Perhaps slapping me on the back like he always did when I got off a particularly good one.

"Remember our first year at UT, Buddy . . . we went to that Monica chick's New Year's Eve Party? Man, you got so fucked up, you couldn't remember anything that happened the whole night. Me and Bobby Harwood, we had you convinced you'd spent the night with that gay guy who was always giving you the eye in Trig . . . . "

Again I uttered a sad little laugh, wiped tears from my eyes. "You believed us, too. You were ready to kill me for letting you go home with that guy. I told you, 'Hey, it's what you wanted. You sure were horny last night.'"

I bit my lip, fought back a new wave of tears. "Man, that was the funniest shit ever."

I sniffled, ran a hand across his tombstone, and it was like touching a block of ice.

"I'm gonna miss you, Buddy."

And that's when I heard the music. About a hundred yards away.

Behind me.

XIII.

"Oh, Jesus . . . "

I didn't want to go over there. I was terrified. The eerie rhythm of that phantom blues shuffle made the hairs on the nape of my neck stand up. A chill ran down my spine like the frigid, undead finger of my late friend.

But I knew I had to. I had to go.

It was what Buddy wanted. What Blind Dawg Melton wanted.

I had no choice.

###

I turned, and my breath plumed forth into the night air like smoke. Either he had not been there before, or I had failed to notice him: a man now stood over Blind Dawg Melton's grave. A man who at first appeared to be nine or ten years my senior, though once I saw him up close I suspected he was much younger than that. His eyes were very sad, glazed over with recent tragedy. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair mussed and unwashed.

I left Buddy's grave behind, sat beside the man at Blind Dawg Melton's dusty stone.

I listened. And I felt it. At last.

As I approached the man, he did not acknowledge my presence. He dropped to his knees, listening to that phantom melody that I could finally hear. The man had been crying, I could tell, but now his face held a sad smile. A smile of hope. In his hand he clutched a wrinkled snapshot of a little girl, a toddler who so resembled him I knew right away she was his daughter.

Nearby, I spotted the fresh grave, about half the distance between Melton's and Buddy's. The grave of a child. Mid-sized stone carved at the top into the shape of a tiny angel, somewhere on there the words CHERISHED DAUGHTER, GONE BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN. Gigantic bouquets of flowers and several lost-looking stuffed animals propped all around the raised soil.

“Jeanie . . . my baby . . . oh, Jeanie,” cried the man, and I put my arm around him. He never seemed to notice, but that was okay.

I understood, then, who these people were. These troubled survivors who came to Melton's grave, who were drawn to hear his song of hope . . . the very thing they needed.

I understood, for now it was my song as well.

The sound of Blind Dawg Melton's guitar cut through the very marrow of my bones, bit deep into my soul. But it was not a song of tragedy. Alas, this was a song of hope, of new beginnings and peace. A warm song that brought new tears streaming down my face, though these were tears I wept with a smile. Tears born of something so much more than the tears one sheds for lost friends. Every word the bluesman sang from beyond this veil of mortality . . . every wailing note he played down there upon his ethereal guitar . . . each would instantly dry my swollen eyes . . . only to, seconds later, conjure forth new tears of wistful happiness.

I understood now. I understood it all.

"Don't cry for me," the bluesman sang. "I'll see you on the other side."

"Yes," I said, and the stranger beside me echoed my sentiments. The photograph of his daughter, which he so tightly held mere seconds ago, he now retired to his pocket. Gone, but never forgotten.

We listened. And we cried together.

We knew that life would go on.

And everything would be okay.

"Relax, I've only stepped out for a while

You'll be here soon, you see

And when your time has come as well,

You'll be right here with me

One day you'll see I never left

So don't you look so sad

I'll just wait for you up here

And man, the fun we’ll have . . . . "

"So when you feel you can't go on, just think of this, my friend

'Long as love's inside your heart, there's no such as thing as 'The End.'"

When You're Strange . . . Faces Come Out of the Rain . . . .

2011-12-22T13:55:00.000-08:00

What folks are saying about my short-story collection, People Are Strange:

http://famousmonstersoffilmland.com/2008/11/19/review-people-are-strange-james-newman/
http://deadinthesouth.blogspot.com/2008/07/people-are-strange.html
http://www.horrorgrinder.com/2008/07/book-review-people-are-strange-by-james-newman/

Where you can download your copy of the just-released e-book:

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/116032

COMING SOON

2011-12-20T19:35:00.000-08:00

The e-book:

PEOPLE ARE STRANGE Now Available In All E-Book Formats

2011-12-20T15:23:00.000-08:00

For your Kindle, Nook, whatever . . . the e-book edition of my short-story collection PEOPLE ARE STRANGE (featuring the fan favorite "Holy Rollers"), is now available:

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/116032

A Twisted Lil' Short-Short For the Holidays: "Bless This Meal, O Lord"

2011-12-14T17:14:00.000-08:00

   Appearances on the Maury show ("My Teen's Out of Control!!!") hadn't helped. Neither had the meds, a last resort.
     Billy, just thirteen, was tearing their family apart.
     He threatened to stab Mother while she slept. Sprayed Mace in Father's eyes when Father tried to spank him.
     His parents worked so hard to feed eight kids.
     In the end, he gave them no choice . . . .

***

     They cried as they held him down, shaved every hair from his body.
     Wept as they broke his arms, legs, folded him onto that platter . . .
     Mother stumbled when they slid him into the oven. Father caught her, kissed her, promised everything'll be okay.
     He cranked the dial to 350.
     They held one another tightly, watched Billy through the little window.

***

     Father said Grace. His voice was hoarse, but sincere.
     He thanked God for Billy's brothers and sisters. For the good children.
     Then, he began to carve.
     Mother passed portions 'round the table.
     They ate: licking, chomping, slurping.
     Wished one another, "Happy Thanksgiving."
     . . . until Father pointed his knife at the youngest, said, "Don't talk with your mouth full, dear."

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

New Review of ANIMOSITY

2011-12-08T04:23:00.000-08:00

Check out these kind words about my latest novel, Animosity, courtesy of Jim McLeod (whose blog you should already be reading if you're a lover of horror fiction):

http://thegingernutcase.blogspot.com/2011/12/animosity-by-james-newman.html?spref=fb

And then buy Animosity here :)

http://www.necessaryevilpress.net

RANDOM MOVIE REC#2: "The Disappearance of Alice Creed"

2011-12-07T04:09:00.000-08:00

Just a quick post to recommend a cool movie I saw recently. Like quirky lil' crime films with lots of twists and turns?

Me too.

Check this one out:

Ever Noticed a Common Theme Running Through Your Favorite Movies?

2011-11-11T09:50:00.000-08:00

Ever noticed a common theme running through your favorite movies?

I did. Not too long ago. Turns out this realization told me something about myself that I've never known before.

A quick list of my all-time favorite horror films: John Carpenter's The Thing. David Cronenberg's The Fly. The 1978 version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. And, to a lesser extent, one could argue that Return of the Living Dead fits into where I'm going with this as well (I'm thinking specifically of the fates of poor Frank and Freddy -- yep, fellas, those things do leak and the movie did lie) . . . .

Notice a recurring theme?

Sickness. Disease. Infection. Poison. Parasites. The gradual wasting-away of the body due to forces beyond one's control. Or, worse yet, because of something inside. An alien invader that slowly turns the flesh against itself, until death is the only escape.

I always thought my number one fear was spiders. Oh, they're still at the top of the list and always will be, no doubt about that. But after stepping back and taking a look at my all-time favorite horror films -- I'm talking about those that really work for me on some deeper, more primal level, those that are effective as much more than just fun, brainless entertainment -- I see that maybe I have a deep-rooted fear of chronic illness as well. A fear of losing my body and my mind, or losing a cherished friend or family member, to something inside that cannot be stopped.

Terrifying.

Yep . . . even more than spiders.

At least until somebody goes and makes a movie about eight-legged horrors that thrive in the bloodstream, I guess.

What say you? Got a "common theme" to share about your own favorite horror films?
Gimme a shout. I'd love to hear about it.

*** This post is dedicated to my sister-in-law, Rene, who is currently undergoing treatments for cervical cancer. Love you, Rene. Thank God things are going so well. You're gonna get through this, and soon. ***

Local? Gonna Be In Western NC Later This Month? Please Come See My -- Gasp! -- Acting Debut

2011-11-01T17:14:00.000-07:00

November 17-20, the Drama Department at Blue Ridge Community College is thrilled to offer the community a chance to see its production of Tracy Letts’ August: Osage County, a play the New York Times called in 2007, “flat-out, no asterisks and without qualifications, the most exciting new American play Broadway has seen in years.” From that auspicious beginning the play has gone on to garner numerous Tony Awards and the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for Drama.

Although the central plot of a dysfunctional family falling apart in contemporary Oklahoma may sound depressingly familiar, Letts’ authentic characters and laugh-out-loud humor creates a play with the perfect blend of comedy and drama.
Neela Muñoz, frequent actor and director at Flat Rock Playhouse and North Carolina Stage Company, directs at BRCC for the first time, while local community theater actress Nancy Colangione plays the pill-popping matriarch, Violet Weston. BRCC’s drama director Jennifer Treadway, gracing the BRCC stage for the first time since starring in The Crucible in 2003, plays Violet’s oldest daughter Barbara, joined by other prominent community and student actors.

The play will be presented in the Patton Auditorium beginning at 7:30 p.m., November 17-19, and 2:00 p.m. on November 20. Cost is $5.00 for BRCC students, faculty and staff, and $7.00 for general admission.
Due to mature subject matter this play is not recommended for younger or more sensitive viewers.

To reserve tickets or get more info call 694-1849.

Checking In Briefly With a Movie Recommendation . . . .

2011-10-26T09:56:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I caught Kevin Smith's Red State, and I loved it. This is coming from someone who's not really a fan of Smith's work -- I certainly don't hate what I've seen by any means, but most of his movies leave me with no desire to see them more than once. The only one to date that I liked enough to buy was Zach & Miri Make a Porno.

That said, I really had no preconceived notions about what Red State would be. I was excited to hear he was making a horror film, but wouldn't go so far as to say I was awaiting it with bated breath. Then I saw the trailers, and my curiosity was piqued for sure. This was like a whole family of my own Holy Rollers! After folks finally got the chance to see Smith's much-talked-about first foray into the horror genre, the reviews started hitting the usual blog and review sites fast and furious. And they were very mixed reviews, overall. Most of them, I'd say, leaned toward the negative side*, or were at best lukewarm. So I decided I'd see Red State when it was finally released on DVD, but this was one that could go either way. I wasn't in any big hurry to check it out.

But check it out I did, earlier this week when I happened to be walking by a Redbox and saw that Red State was available for rental. I had no clue it had been released already. I immediately stepped up to the machine, slid my debit card, and carried the disc home.

And I loved it!

I'm not even gonna tell you any more about it. Just give it a look. If you're into horror films with an original premise and characters that aren't all black-and-white (because how many real people do you know who are all good or all bad?), I doubt you'll be disappointed. Red State is a dark, violent tale about people from all walks of life on different sides of a very timely conflict.

* (more often than not, the negative reviews mentioned how the film's narrative comes to a screeching stop at one point, as we are forced to listen to a long sermon from the demented Fred Phelps-like preacher at the heart of the story -- I disagree with the opinion that Smith's decision to do this is detrimental to the film, as I would have gladly sat through a monologue twice as long from a wonderful actor like Michael Parks! This is truly scary stuff, folks, and maybe it's just me but I found myself so enchanted by his calm, calculated delivery I could almost understand how some people allow themselves to be so easily brainwashed by these charismatic types)

Last Night, In the Electric City

2011-10-16T14:12:00.000-07:00

Had a blast last night. As I mentioned in a previous post, I was invited to be a Guest Judge at the first annual Electric City Fright Film Festival in Anderson, SC.

We had quite a turn-out, much more than I ever expected! I got to watch the work of some very talented local filmakers, got to sell and sign a few books, and did a ton of networking.

Here's just one of the fine folks I hung out with last night . . . actor Adam Minarovich, who played wife-beating "Ed" on AMC's The Walking Dead! This guy was hilarious. I asked him to sign my copy of the Season 1 DVD, and he gladly sent along a little message to my wife that echoed his character's line just before he was beaten to a pulp by Shane: "To Glenda . . . whassup, cooze?" LOL!

Now Available In All E-Book Formats: THE FORUM

2011-10-15T08:37:00.000-07:00

Online message boards.

     You've seen them around the Internet. Perhaps you've been a member of several. You've cursed the spammers and trolls, witnessed the flounces and the flame wars waged by faceless usernames with nothing better to do.
     There are millions of different message boards throughout the World Wide Web, all of them catering to different hobbies and cultures and fetishes. They are communities for people with common interests, a gathering of like minds and kindred souls . . . .

According to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, there are currently over 500 active serial killers within the United States.

      Somewhere out there, isn't it possible that an online message board exists for those who live outside society's rules? For those who kill for the thrill of it, and yearn for the taste of blood?A place to swap stories . . . to boast of their exploits and discuss tricks of "the trade." A safe haven where mementos can be displayed . . . where members can learn how to hone their dark craft, and maybe make a few new friends in the process . . . .

This is THE FORUM.

For my fans who prefer to read on Kindle, Nook, etc. etc. (I'm still learning all the terminology myself), I'm pleased to announce that my novella The Forum is now available wherever e-books are sold.

Here's the link to purchase The Forum on Amazon . . . for less than a buck!http://www.amazon.com/The-Forum-ebook/dp/B005USA5SE/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1318693014&sr=1-1

Enjoy!

New Interview

2011-10-10T19:07:00.000-07:00

Check it out: http://iainrobwright.blogspot.com/2011/10/conversation-with-author-james-newman.html

Thanks, Iain!

The Electric City Fright Film Festival -- Anderson, SC 10/15

2011-10-07T15:56:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to send a quick heads-up to any readers out there who live in western NC/upstate SC or plan to be in the area next weekend . . . .

A week from tomorrow I will be a judge -- alongside, among others, actor Adam Minarovich (most horror fans will recognize him as "Ed Peletier", the wife-beating redneck in AMC's The Walking Dead) -- at the first annual Electric City Fright Film Festival.

http://www.electriccityfrightfest.com/index.html

Also present will be musical guests Valentine Wolfe, a great local gothic-cabaret act. It should be a really good time! Come on out, support local indie filmmakers and fellow horror fans, and maybe buy a book from me (I'll have a table at the event, and plan to bring along a few copies of each of my works).

Another Rave Review for ANIMOSITY

2011-10-06T04:10:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the fine folks at Dreadful Tales! They definitely "got it".

http://dreadfultales.com/2011/10/05/animosity-by-james-newman/

RECOMMENDED: 7 Days (Les Sept Jours Du Talion)

2011-10-05T19:18:00.000-07:00

I watched a wonderful movie last night that I'd like to recommend to my readers. It's a French film from 2010 called 7 Days.

7 Days is the story of a successful surgeon whose eight-year-old daughter is raped and murdered. A few days later, a local sex offender is arrested for the crime, and the detective in charge of the case assures the girl's father that her killer will go to prison for the rest of his life; there is solid DNA evidence, and no doubt that the authorities have their man. The grief-stricken father has other plans, however. He kidnaps the murderer as he is being transferred from one jail to another, and he proceeds to show the predator what it means to suffer. He vows to continue his vengeance until the seventh day, which would have been his daughter's ninth birthday.

I've always been a big fan of revenge flicks. But there's so much more to this film than just torture, bloodletting, and the castration you already know will ensue the second you read that synopsis (for the record: no, you don't see it). Oh, 7 Days is a brutal film. No doubt about it. The violence exacted upon the little girl's murderer made me cringe on more than one occasion (even as I found myself thinking, "Yeah, I'd probably do that too").

Yet, at the same time, I found 7 Days -- particularly one sequence about 3/4 of the way in -- to be one of the most heartwrenching things I have ever seen. I cried. I admit it.

Check it out. This one gets my highest recommendation.

* BTW: the above trailer has no English subtitles, but the Region 1 DVD from MPI Home Video does

Copies of ANIMOSITY Are Still Available!

2011-10-03T15:35:00.000-07:00

Just a reminder that copies of my new novel Animosity are still available . . . .

Here's the trailer (by the incredibly talented James Futch), in case you haven't seen it.

Click here to order your copy today . . . and find out why I call this one my "love letter to the horror genre, and to the often-thankless job of being a horror writer".

HALLOWEEN IS ON THE WAY

2011-10-01T10:11:00.000-07:00

God, I love this time of year.

There's a nip in the air. Leaves blow about, and crunch underfoot. The smell of woodsmoke drifts over from a neighbor's chimney.

Horror films and documentaries about horror films are all over the TV, or will be very soon.

This is the season when it is -- to quote one of my own novels, Animosity -- "okay to dwell upon evil and darkness and ghastly, grinning things from the grave".

October.

God, I love this time of year.

For folks like me, it's our time.

Look out.

I AM . . . "Sheriff Deon Gilbeau"

2011-09-28T18:23:00.000-07:00

Call me crazy. I can hardly believe it myself . . . .

I've decided to explore a new creative avenue. At least for the next 2 months. Who knows if it's just a one-time thing. Maybe it is. What I am sure of: I plan to have a blast with it.

It's definitely not replacing my writing (contrary to what my lovely wife claims, but then she's always crackin' the whip when it comes to meeting deadlines, etc., and I admit I never would have accomplished the things I've accomplished as a writer if it wasn't for her; unfortunately, she has accused me more than once of "finding a new excuse not to write" since I told her I was gonna give this a shot . . . she said the same thing about the blog you're reading right now). This new endeavor is something I'm doing solely for fun, because I want to prove to myself that I can do it. And, truth told, I think it can only help my writing, through a new way of looking at character and dialogue. It's something that's always interested me a little, but I've never thought about trying it out before now. An awkward stint as drunken "Simon Stimson" in a performance of Our Town way back in high school followed by a year of Drama class don't count.

Yep. You guessed it.

Believe it or not, I'm gonna try my hand at acting.

My cousin Joseph Guice is responsible for "planting the seed" in the first place. Over the last few years, I've watched Joe decide what he wanted to do with his life and he went for it. I've seen him chase his dream, work hard at it every day, and tirelessly hone his craft. Words cannot describe how proud I am of my cousin. I only wish I could have seen more of his projects through the years, but we kinda lost touch for a while when he first started working as a full-time actor (mostly because he moved away to New York City, where he studied at the reknowned Circle In the Square acting school -- Joe has indefinitely moved back to NYC again as I type this, in fact, and just finished a very successful run in the off-Broadway play The Tragedy of Tupac). Fortunately, I've been able to catch up on some lost time this year, as I've seen Joe star in the fantastic plays Buried Child, How I Learned To Drive, and in the short film Men of Persuasion. And he's got many more exciting projects on the horizon.

Here is Joe (along with the spectacular Claire Bowerman) in a lil' film I co-wrote this past summer for the 48-Hour Film Project:

So, anyway . . . before this post turned into a drooling lovefest for Joe, I had intended to tell you how I've always enjoyed a trip to the theater, and what first got me to thinking about trying my hand at acting.

My wife and I have gone to see a few plays before. We're not avid theater-goers, but we enjoy it when we get a chance. I've always admired folks who can not only memorize so many lines, but get up there and move you with their delivery. Folks who can make you forget that you're sitting in an uncomfortable chair watching a single stage with some cheap set dressing and a few props scattered about. Folks who could make you believe you had stepped into another world, their world.

It's something I thought I could never do. Never even gave it any thought.

Then, a Pulitzer Prize-winning play called August: Osage County came into my life.

A couple weeks ago, out of the blue, I got a message on Facebook from a wonderful lady named Jennifer Treadway. Jennifer is the Drama Teacher at our local community college; she and Joe became good friends while Joe was the Artist-In-Residence at said college. I've seen her work a few times in the past, as not only have I watched Joe act in several plays she has directed, Jennifer was kind enough to teach my twelve-year-old son, Jamie, how to mix the fake blood and brains -- and then splat 'em against the wall for a wonderfully gruesome shot -- in our 48-Hour Film Project entry above. I also have to mention that her own kick-ass short "Serial Love" actually took home the award for Best Film in our local 48HFP back in 2008.

Anyway . . . I got a message from Jennifer.  She wanted me to try out for this new play that was gonna be coming up at the college, August: Osage County.

"You're talking about acting?" I replied. "You are off your rocker."

She gleefully admitted the latter was true. Just as I suspected she would. But then she proceeded to tell me that she was deadly serious about the first part. Yes, she was talking about acting. And, by God, she knew what she was talking about, 'cause she's been doing this for 20 years.

We went back and forth for a while. I called her crazy at least two or three more times.  She might have called me "chicken".

What the heck.  I'm always up to a challenge.

I borrowed the script from her, read it the weekend before auditions.

And I loved it!

August: Osage County is the story of one verrrrrry dysfunctional family. Think Six Feet Under (my all-time favorite TV show) if the setting were moved out of a Los Angeles funeral home and into an old homestead somewhere in the hottest part of Oklahoma. There's a lot more to it than that, of course, but in a nutshell that description will do for now.

I couldn't wait to try out, after reading the script. I was sold.

What was the worst that could happen, I decided. I'd have fun with it, prove to Jennifer I was no "chicken"; I would give the audition my all, but then it would lead to nowhere. No harm done.

Ultimately, I didn't get the part I tried out for (which I didn't think I was right for anyway, appearance-wise, even if that particular character has all the best lines). But I got a part. A very cool part. And rehearsals began this past Monday.

Holy crap . . . I'm gonna be in a play. Acting.

November 17-20 I will appear as "Sheriff Deon Gilbeau" in a local production of August: Osage County. It's a fun role, pivotal but small enough to be the perfect fit for a newbie like myself. I'll be acting alongside so many wonderful folks, incredible talents I've admired on more than one occasion from the other side of the stage.

Now I'm up there with them.

I was invited to be up there with them.

And that's just about the coolest thing ever.

I admit I'm pretty terrified. But at the same time I'm so excited I can barely sit still.

JUST FOR FUN: "We Do Not Have a Dinosaur"

2011-09-27T19:08:00.000-07:00

Over at the Shock Totem forums they host a creative exercise every other Saturday. It's called the Flash Challenge. I guess you could call it a contest, though the only thing the winner "wins" is bragging rights.

Mostly, it's just fun.

The rules are simple: participants are given exactly one hour to write a short story. The story can be anywhere from one sentence to a thousand words in length. Each story must be built upon the foundations of a prompt provided by the "Flashmaster" (the winner from the previous Flash Challenge); said prompt can be anything from a photograph to a word or phrase. Of course, participants don't know what the prompt is gonna be until the 'Challenge begins. You get the picture.

I gave it a shot one night. And while I'm normally a very slowwwwww writer, agonizing over every word and turn of phrase, editing again and again and again, I obviously didn't have that luxury with the Flash Challenge. But that's what makes the whole thing loads o' fun. And creatively stimulating, to say the least!

The story I turned in seemed to be a hit, among my fellow participants. I don't think it's a tale I could ever sell, as taken out of context it doesn't make a whole lotta sense and . . . well, to be perfectly honest, it's very silly.

Still . . . I kinda dig it. I was reading it again tonight and it made me laugh.

Maybe you'll get a chuckle out of it too.

THE PROMPT:

MY STORY:

     “Goddamn rip-off’s what it is. I fuckin’ told you, Merv. You wouldn’t listen.”

     Merv didn’t respond. He just stood there staring at the thing. His eyes were watery.

     “You gonna cry now? Did I hurt your feelin’s? You deserve it. You’re the one who led us on this wild moose chase to begin with.”

     “Goose. It’s a wild goose chase, you ignoramus.” Merv’s eyes never left the thing, his head tilted up toward it, shaking back and forth even as he corrected his brother.

     “Yeah. Right. I’m the ignoramus. Whatever. You seem to have forgot the danger we’re puttin’ ourselves in just by bein’ here.”

     “Shut up, Virgil. Please? Just shut up. You’re givin’ me a headache.”

     Two hours ago, they’d been on the road. Most Wanted Men in four counties. Six liquor-store robberies in the last four months, all along the western part of the state. All it'd take was one hero cop passing by at the wrong time, spotting their pick-up outside of this place. Straight jump to the Big House from there.

     But Merv had to have it his way. Couldn’t pass by the opportunity when he saw that sign out front.

     Virgil was really starting to worry about his brother lately. Sometimes he wondered if the guy wasn’t going crazy, slowly losing his mind just like their mama had.

     “I mean, Jesus, Merv . . . did you really think this shithole was gonna have a live Tyrannosaurus out back? You gotta be the most gullible son-of-a-bitch I ever seen.”

     They had seen the sign from the highway. It was blurry from the shimmering heat of the desert, but still legible. Legible enough, at least, to make Merv slam on the brakes when he’d seen it: REAL, LIVE T. REX . . . COME SEE IT FOR YORESELF!

     Merv had always been a sucker for shit like that. Ever since he and Virgil were little tykes, and they’d grown up viewing the world from the backseat of Daddy’s Buick as he traveled from town to town selling Bibles (this would have been before Daddy finally up and left them all for good, decided he’d make a better living in the arms of a rich widow he met on the road). They were all over the Midwest, places like this. The signs were the same, even if they advertised a different impossible wonder: THREE-HEADED CALF! REAL FROZEN CAVEMAN INSIDE! 100% GENUNIE MERMAID FROM THE AMAZON RIVER!!!

     This time, the weathered wooden sign out front of the place promised customers a living, breathing dinosaur.

     They had argued about it until they nearly came to blows but Merv had gotten his way. Merv always got his way.

     “Ten minutes,” he’d promised. “Just ten minutes, then we’ll be on our way. You know I’m a sucker for this shit.”

     “Yeah,” said Virgil, staring down at the .38 in his grip like he’d love nothing more than to use it on his brother, just put the poor bastard out of his misery. “Unfortunately, I do.”

***

     The thing was a friggin’ joke. Just like Virgil knew it would be.

     It was tall, sure. But nowhere near tall enough. A dozen feet, maybe. Its head didn’t even touch the battered tin ceiling of the hot-as-hell barn the old man who owned the place had ushered Merv and Virgil into (he’d said he was gonna leave them to gaze on its spectacle by themselves as he had some errands to attend to, they could just let themselves out and thanks for droppin’ by).

     But what the geezer had advertised on the sign outside wasn’t what they got.

     It sure as hell wasn’t no living, breathing Tyrannosaur. Wasn’t even close.

     “We’ve been fuckin’ lied to,” Merv said as he stared at it.

     The thing was built out of crooked lengths of PVC pipe and two-by-fours. Its plastic-and-wood skeleton was clearly visible through its green-painted paper-mache body. Its teeth appeared to be made from butcher knives, blades that glistened in the thin beams of sunlight that sneaked through the slats of the barn. Its eyes were blinking Christmas lights.

     From somewhere behind the travesty, a pathetic pre-recorded roar issued from a battered old speaker.

     Merv’s face had turned bright red, almost as red as the eyes of that bullshit “dinosaur.”

     “We’ve been fuckin’ lied to,” he said again. “It ain’t right.”

     “Yeah, well,” said Virgil, “you live and you learn, brother. Let’s just get the hell outta here.”

     “No,” said Merv. “That old dick, he owes us.”

     “Aww, come on. We need to just hit the fuckin’ road, Merv!”

     “Not until he’s been shown the error of his ways.”

     “He’s a crazy old bastard, Merv. And he reminds me of Grandpappy! Do we really have to hurt him?”

     “I didn’t say anything about layin’ a finger on him.”

***

     Well, he’d finally gone and done it. Merv had gone off the deep end, completely lost his fuckin’ mind.

     Virgil didn’t know what to do anymore. His brother got it in his crazy head he was gonna do something, he’d do it no matter the consequences.

     Idiot. They were lookin’ at a trip to the pokey for sure.

     If they didn’t stick out like a sore thumb before, they sure as hell did now . . . .

     Hard to remain inconspiculus (was that the right word?) speeding down the highway with a thirty-foot Godzilla strapped to your pick-up truck.

     Idiot.

     Although, Virgil had to admit, he couldn’t help but chuckle when he thought about one thing.

     Merv was right: Sure woulda been classic to see that old fucker’s face, when he realized his “real, live dinosaur” had gone missing.

New Novella Available For Pre-Order

2011-09-26T11:30:00.000-07:00

Trapped. In a room that smells of death and sickness. Your food is running low, along with your resolve. You know you must leave here soon if you wish to live through the night.

Outside, the Others wait. Their numbers are legion. Their shrieks echo up and down the corridor. Occasionally they pound at the door, trying to get inside so they can tear you limb from limb.

But mostly they wait. So patiently. As if sharing one mind. A single dark purpose.

They can be killed. You've seen it for yourself.

But this isn't like the movies. Nothing you've ever seen in any old horror film could have prepared you for what is happening here.

You love them. Once upon a time, they loved you.

Now they want to watch you die.

Delirium Books will be releasing my novella OLDEN in November. OLDEN is my take on the zombie craze . . . then again, not really. 'Cause in OLDEN there ain't a single zombie in sight!

I think this one may just see expansion into a big, fat, epic apocalyptic novel one day. We'll see. Until then, I hope folks check out the novella and lemme know what you think . . . but hurry, as the titles featured in Delirium's novella line are limited to only 150 copies each . . . .

PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!

BTW: How about that cover (by the uber-talented Daniele Serra)? Definitely one of my faves to date, and hands down the creepiest to ever grace one of my stories, as far as I'm concerned . . . .

GIVING IT ANOTHER GO: AN OLD ESSAY TO GET THINGS STARTED

2011-09-25T23:00:00.000-07:00

So I used to have a blog. Ages ago. Kept it updated pretty regularly, for a little while. Then I didn't anymore.

My pals John Boden and Ken Wood, of the great Shock Totem magazine -- which I strongly urge you to buy and read, if you haven't yet -- have talked me into trying this again.

What am I getting myself into here?

Maybe this time it will be no different. Perhaps I'll have a blog, keep it updated semi-regularly, but then, eventually, I'll end up giving the thing about as much attention as I give my MySpace page these days (read: can't remember the last time I looked at it).

That's not the plan, though. It's time to "kick things up a notch", to quote John. And since this thing will soon be taking over completely as my official website, I guess I have no choice but to keep it going and update it at least every time I have a new book to plug, right?

All joking aside: Hopefully you'll see a lot more here than sporadic "buy my book!" posts. Oh, you'll see plenty of that, but I'd like to do more with this. I doubt I'll update every day, I might not even update more than once a week if I don't have anything to say that I think folks'll wanna hear, but the plan for now is to use this site to post occasional opinions on a movie I just saw, a book I just read, etc. More often than not, said posts will be short n' sweet. Simply put, I don't write nonfiction (I like to make stuff up!), so it's highly unlikely you'll see rambling 3,000-word rants/reviews/what-have-you from yours truly. That is, after today, with this very first post. It's gonna get pretty wordy.

Essentially, this site will be a home for exactly what it says above: "random thoughts from a Southern hippie writer dude with a taste for the dark side of life."

Yep . . . that about sums it up.

Ken, John? Hope you're happy, fellas. I'm counting on you to help me spread the word.

So . . .

To kick things off, here's a fun lil' piece I wrote back in the day on that old blog. It was later published. I've cleaned it up a bit here, updated it a tad, but not too much.  Hope you enjoy it, warts and all. It's all about who I am, and how I got to be this way . . . .

WHY I LOVE "THAT HORROR STUFF"

"Come play with us, Danny. Forever . . . . "
--- the Grady twins, Stanley Kubrick's The Shining

     I've been asked on more than one occasion why I'm so obsessed with "the macabre," with "doom and gloom and death and violence." With things most folks don't like to think about. With "that horror stuff."

     Okay. Obviously when such a thing is asked, it's a question loaded with condescension, but screw it. Doesn't bother me. I'm not ashamed of my beloved genre. And I'm about tell you why I dig this stuff, as best I can. Here goes nothin' . . . .

     Just about everyone I know likes horror movies(1), but I know few people who are as -- okay, I admit it -- obsessed with the genre to the extent that I am. At least in "real life". The few fellow horror freaks I do know I find out there in cyberland, and outside of the rare horror convention I correspond with them only via e-mail, message boards, etc. I'd be willing to bet my entire DVD collection that nobody here in my hometown in western North Carolina -- other than my lifelong pal and occasional co-writer Donn Gash -- lives, breathes, eats, and sleeps horror films and horror literature like I do.

     Is there something wrong with me (sniff)? With those "weirdos" who are like me?

     Nope. Just 'cause I dig this stuff -- just because I wear Night of the Living Dead, Hellraiser, and Texas Chainsaw Massacre T-shirts as part of my everyday attire -- that doesn't make me some psycho child-molesting necropheliac in drag.

     One thing I do not do is molest children, thank you very much.

     But seriously . . . I consider myself to be a decent enough fellow, a dude with his head on straight. I have a beautiful wife, we've been together for twenty years this November (married for the last sixteen) . . . we have two wonderful sons, a twelve-year-old and a one-year-old. Although in my wilder days I dabbled, I don't do drugs anymore and I rarely drink alcohol. Last but not least, I can step into a church without spontaneously bursting into flames(2), believe it or not.

     This all may sound like I'm trying to make excuses for my love of the macabre, as if I'm "apologizing" for my genre, but I assure you nothing could be further from the truth. Before I got off on a tangent, my goal with this essay was to tell you a little about why I'm the way I am. No pop psychology here, no analyzing why people love to be scared -- you've heard all that before (for a fascinating study on such things, I highly recommend Chris Treagus's Primeval Fear). I thought it might be fun to give you one man's history on how I came to love this scary stuff. Why I'm "sick," as I've been called in the past. If you're reading this in the first place, it's probably safe to assume you've been called that once or twice yourself. Usually it's all in fun -- I rarely take offense at such a jab (not enough to punch anybody in the mouth, anyway . . . yet) -- but then, why classify me that way because I enjoy reading books and watching movies about "the dark side?"

     Makes 'em feel safe. That's what I think. Sane. Because everybody wants to feel sane in a world increasingly marred by such depressing realities as cancer, AIDS, terrorist attacks, and those infernal reality shows like Jersey Shore(3). What kind of person would choose to dwell on death and darkness and things other folks don't like to think about?

     Well, for starters, some really good people. Normal people, contrary to popular belief. Who woulda thunk it -- doctors, lawyers, fathers, and wives.  Professionals! Less than one percent of them, I betcha, are those psycho child-molesting necropheliacs in drag I mentioned earlier.

     In my own case, it's my dad's fault, why I love this genre. I've blamed him on more than one occasion for my being the way I am (he usually chuckles when I tell him this, gets a big, proud, shit-eating grin on his face as if he's just discovered the cure for cancer), so why stop now?

     Thanks, Dad.

     No, really. I mean it. Thanks!

     I remember when I was merely four years old (!), my father took me to the movies to see The Incredible Melting Man. I haven't seen that movie since, and I'm sure if I went back to revisit said film I'd find it nothing more than a piece of B-movie trash(4), but my memories -- blurred by time and hundreds of better movies since -- suggest that it could be one of the greatest genre films ever made. It's called sentimental value. I can vaguely remember covering my eyes, yet always peeking through just a little . . . then a little more . . . terrified to see what nightmare creature might lurk up there on the big screen yet at the same time even more horrified at the thought of missing a single second of the carnage. Vaguely, I remember some running man swathed in filthy yellow bandages, his crimson skin leaking through and trailing behind him as he melted down to nothing like some grotesque, human-shaped candle. That is the lone image I can recall from The Incredible Melting Man, and it will always stick with me. I trembled, I quivered in my seat, I knew that dripping fiend would get me when I went to bed that night and I would soon be melting along with him.

     Yet I could not turn away.

     Because, man-oh-man, this shit was cool!

     God only knows why dear old Dad thought it wise to take a toddler to see something like The Incredible Melting Man. A case of bad parenting, some might say?   Perish the thought. 'Cause every time I finish writing a new story that I'm especially proud of . . . for every shiver that runs up my spine when I read a particularly creepy scene in the latest Bentley Little novel . . . every time goosebumps stipple my forearms during those last few nerve-wracking minutes of The Blair Witch Project or Ringu, or when Leatherface slams that warped metal door in the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre . . . I peer back on what started all this. And I subconsciously thank my father.

     'Cause, Dad, you started all this.

     But it doesn't end there. Oh, no. My parents were repeat offenders. A year or so after 'Melting Man, my mom and dad took a trip to the drive-in(5) to see John Carpenter's Halloween. The only thing I can remember during this pleasant "family outing" is the scene in which Michael Myers bursts through the closet doors, blindly swinging his knife at Jamie Leigh Curtis as she cowers in the corner. I remember crying to go home, to be rescued from the lunacy. My mom turned around every few minutes (after a glance at my dad as if to say "was this really a good idea?"), looked down at me where I cowered in the backseat. "It's okay, honey," she reassured me as I fought back tears. "It's just a movie. It's almost over." I shielded my eyes from the terrors onscreen, covered my head as if it would all go away if I only didn't look, until my father said, "Okay. Okay. You're right. We'd better go."

     I promptly popped up from the back then, and frantically pleaded with my parents: "No! I don't wanna go! I wanna see the movie!"
     Because I loved every horrifying minute of it.

     After making it that far, there was no way they were gonna take me home . . . I had to see if Michael got Jamie Leigh!

     Well, Ms. Curtis survived to fight the Shape another day, for a few more shitty sequels at least, and here I am. Little Jamie Newman survived that night without dying of a heart attack right there in the backseat of his parents' '76 Nova. And since that fateful day, Halloween has become one of my favorite films.

     There have been similiar incidents that fueled my obsession with this genre, that "planted the seed" if you will, though none compare to the aforementioned viewings of The Incredible Melting Man and Halloween. There was John Carpenter's The Thing in a hotel room one night on a family vacation somewhere(6), another film which -- as if I have to tell you -- has since become one of my all-time favorites. I also recall a first-time viewing of Poltergeist at some point, as well as The Fog, A Nightmare on Elm Street, and of course The Exorcist (the latter was the edited-for-television version, but that hardly mattered to yours truly back then(7)). Great stuff. Thanks, Mom . . . thanks, Dad.

     As far as the first novel I ever read in my beloved genre (adult novel, I mean -- all through my childhood I tore through anything and everything for youngsters that might contain the slightest bit of "darkness"(8) . . . surprise, surprise), that honor belongs to Anne River Siddons's The House Next Door. I tore through it in high school, and there's been no looking back ever since. I've re-read The House Next Door several times in the last few decades, and it stills affects me the same as that first time I read it. Ms. Siddons' novel is considered by many to be one of the best in the haunted house genre, as her prose pulses with a constant sense of dread, the horror building oh-so-subtly from page one until its not-so-happy ending. If you haven't read this one, run don't walk to your nearest used book store and pick up The House Next Door. It's fairly easy to find, and it will stay with you forever. Trust me.

     Horror is a genre that has kept me pumped with adrenaline for almost thirty years, a genre that has given me a world in which to escape. When things get to be too much in the real world, when bills pile up or the boss just chewed out three-quarters of your ass . . . what better way to push it all aside than to witness Seth Brundle's worse problems in David Cronenberg's The Fly? Or to laugh at Ash's escapades in the Evil Dead series? What better way to forget about it all than to sign up for Bentley Little's The Association, or cross the great pond to the bloody Old West with none other than Jack the Ripper in Richard Laymon's Savage? Step away from the real world for a while and pray that a vanful of harmless hippies guilty of nothing more than believing in astrology and picking up hitch-hikers ultimately survive The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

     Everybody needs that now and then, I think.

     I love to "embrace the darkness" (to paraphrase Clive Barker's Lord of Illusions). I always will.  Why try to explain it to those who'll never understand?

     It's a gift, this obsession(9). For those who have been "chosen".

     And we wouldn't have it any other way.

FOOTNOTES

1 Although, admittedly, this usually consists of more "mainstream" fare like the Scream series, the latest installment of Final Destination, and sub-par remakes such as 2010's A Nightmare On Elm Street and this summer's Fright Night. Not to mention, as far as horror literature goes, Stephen King . . . everybody knows King's work, even if the casual reader in question "doesn't read horror" (yeah, I don't get that either).

2 Believe it or not, despite being a horror writer and lover of all things horror, I'm a Christian. Albeit a very liberal one.

3 Perhaps the scariest thing of all? You decide.

4 Although, in many cases, this isn't really a bad thing, is it? Trash can be fun . . . far be it from me to denigrate the "fun factor" of such lovable junk as The Toxic Avenger, Killer Klowns From Outer Space, Roger Corman's Galaxy of Terror, and Night of the Demons. I could go on and on.

5 May those fine institutions of American cinema rest in peace. Sure do wish I was old enough to remember more about them.

6 Alongside a made-for-TV chiller called Dark Night of the Scarecrow, Carpenter's The Thing is one of the first movies I can remember giving me nightmares. I will never forget the first time I saw that spider/head thing scrabbling across the floor of that arctic outpost. "You gotta be fucking kidding," one character proclaimed, and even at the age of 8 or 9 I had to agree.

7 Oddly enough, the scariest thing about The Exorcist for me that first time I saw it wasn't the pea-soup, the head-spinning, or the rampant sacrilege. It was those damn hospital scenes. Needles (shudder).

8 Those Scary Stories To Tell In the Dark books by Alvin Schwartz were always a fave. Still are, for that matter. Charlotte's Web by E.B. White is a masterpiece. No, Charlotte's Web wasn't scary by any means . . . but Charlotte was a spider. And let the record show that I don't like spiders (even nice ones)! Props also gotta go to Where the Wild Things Are, of course. And believe it or not, it's probably just my over-active imagination . . . but I always found Green Eggs and Ham, by the late great Dr. Seuss, to be a tad creepy. What the hell caused that damn breakfast entree to be green in the first place, Trioxin-245? And why was that little dude so persistent in getting the Cat In the Hat to eat them? (Okay, so that particular book is a stretch.  I'm strange. But there you have it.)

9 In fact, it's a gift that I am proud to say I have passed on to my oldest son. He's a voracious reader, and usually the books he chooses to crack open are those of a darker variety (surprise, surprise)! Just a few of his favorite movies at the moment are Cronenberg's The Fly, The Mist, They Live, Killer Klowns From Outer Space, From Dusk Till Dawn, The Butterfly Effect, the Terminator series, and Insidious. Folks, how cool is that?!