Wild Bunch Wednesday

It’s time for the final installment of Wild Bunch Wednesdays on Dark Bits. Each week, a band of Black Horse Western writer rowdies get together and focus on different themes with excerpts spotlighting them. The conspirators are—Ian Parnham, Joanne Walpole, Gary Dobbs, Ray Foster and myself (writing as Lance Howard). Links to the other blogs are provided after the excerpt, so you can visit each and read their excerpts.

Today’s theme is, “Author’s Choice,” so I’ve chosen another excerpt from my recent Black Horse Western, BLOOD CREEK by Lance Howard. The villain is a psychotic Ute killer seeking revenge on a number of men for a mysterious reason. In this scene he has trapped one of the men he seeks vengeance upon and is about to murder the man’s wife. Lance Howard westerns can be purchased at Amazon, AmazonUK and The Book Depository (free world wide postage) http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/ Blood Creek comes out in paperback August 1st. It’s available on preorder for half price right now and free post.

The Excerpt:

Jim Foster didn't know how long he'd been out but when he regained consciousness a kerosene lantern burned on a small table and dusk had fallen. His skull throbbed and his vision refused to focus.

"You are awake, Jim Foster."

"W-What?" he mumbled, head lifting, the effort making his senses swim and his head bang more intensely. He looked up, vision clearing. A dark figure stood above him.

"I was afraid I had killed you. That would not have fit into my plan." The voice was low, damning.

Jim Foster's eyes narrowed as he tried to pierce the darkness beneath the figure's low-pulled hat, but he couldn't see the man's features, except for a square, solid chin. Strands of long hair straggled to the man's shoulders and his build under the duster was stocky.

"Who…who are you…?" An ice pick of pain stabbed his temples and he winced, tried to raise his hand to his head, but quickly discovered it wouldn't move. He looked at his hand, a puzzled expression crossing his features. Both wrists were tied to the leg of the sofa and ropes surrounded his body as he sat hunched on the floor, angled towards his wife and the figure that poised above him.

"Carla…" he whispered. "Please, God, no…"

The figure stepped back, letting him see Carla where she lay in the middle of the parlor, legs and arms splayed, wrists and ankles each tied to a railroad spike driven into the floorboards. Her dress was shredded, barely covering her bruised and battered body. A bandana was laced through her teeth and around her head. Her eyes glared wide with terror.

The dark figure uttered a humorless laugh. "Do you remember, white man? Do you remember that day at Blood Creek and Crying Dove? Do you remember what you did—what you all did?"

"P-please, no, it wasn't Carla's fault…" The memory of that day crashed into his mind, blended with the horror of seeing his wife helpless before him. "It was my fault…Please…don't hurt her. I'm sorry…sorry for what we did…"

The figure scoffed, the sound ripe with condemnation. "Fifteen years…and now you are sorry. Why? Because you have something to lose, as I did that day? Because you pray for the mercy you never showed Crying Dove?"

"We didn't mean—"

"The hell you didn't!" The figure's boot lashed out, taking Jim Foster across the chin, hard enough to break a tooth and bring a spurt of blood but not hard enough to send him back into unconsciousness.

"Take me…please." His voice trembled. "Take me. Let my family be."

"I will not harm your daughter." The figure's hand went briefly inside his duster, withdrew. A Bowie knife glinted with captured kerosene light. "But your wife…I'm going to take her while you watch…Then I am going to peel her flesh back, inch by inch, while you listen to her screams, Jim Foster. And after her screams stop I'll hang her hide on the fence post out yonder to remind you of the day Crying Dove begged for mercy and you granted her none."

Nausea flooded Jim's belly and he nearly came up with his stomach contents. Something in his mind began to unhinge, threatening to send him deep into a world of inescapable hell where guilt and regret were relived each second of each day of each year. "No, please don't do this. I'll do anything, give you anything. I'll admit what I did. I'll hang for it. Just don't hurt her…"

The man laughed again, the sound chilling, uncompromising.

"It is too late for that, Jim Foster. You will bear witness and remember this day forever in your nightmares, the way I remember Blood Creek in mine."

Please visit the following blogs for more exciting excerpts:

Gary Dobbs (The Tainted Archive) http://tainted-archive.blogspot.com/
IJ Parnham (The Culbin Trail) http://ijparnham.blogspot.com/
Terry James (Joanne Walpole) http://joannewalpole.blogspot.com/
Ray Foster (Broken Trails) http://jacksopenrange.blogspot.com

Blood Creek by Lance Howard Copyright 2008 by Howard Hopkins. Used by permission of Robert Hale Ltd.

Terror Tuesday: Writing Spooky

Another Terror Tuesday creeps across your computer screen. Hope you all have visited your local boostores and asked for more horror and supernatural books.

DVD screens this week: “The Uninvited” and “Mirrors.” “The Uninvited” is a decent little psychological horror tale, though not of Hitchcockian merits. The ending was a bit odd and it wasn’t a big surprise what was going on, but entertaining and better than expected. Worth the rental.

“Mirrors” on the other hand is a good one to skip. While I liked the overall premise of ghostly things in mirrors—and have used it in short stories myself—the story, starring Keifer Sutherland, just did not hold together and the ending was a big disappointment, the alternate one as well. Save your money on this one.

Well, onto this week’s subject: writing spooky stuff in period.

I was thinking while designing the new banner for The Chloe Files, The Trouble with Flappers short story about what attracted me to telling the type of stories I do in that series, or in fact any of my supernatural tales. The story caps off the second Chloe Files supernatural/mystery, Sliver of Darkness, which also involves ghosts and unfinished business from the past.

With the flapper story, though I have always been kind of fascinated by the whole Roaring Twenties milieu, I wanted something as ghostly as possible with a small mystery thrown in. Time period things always lend themselves well to telling a chilling or bitter-sweet tale and it seemed the very height of social gaiety, before the Crash of 1929, lent itself particularly well to a spooky opposite. Much in the same way the Titanic makes for a good ghost story, I reckon.

The 1920s represented a peculiar niche time period in our history. We were recovering from the “war to end all wars” not yet named World War I. Radio was just coming into the forefront and like a tight rubber band letting go, certain segments of young society threw off the puritanical conventions and restraints of their antecedents. “And how!” as the saying went. There were the bearcats (fiery girls) and darbs (great person or thing), and you could “cast a kitten” (have a fit) or “doll up.” There were “Bug-eyed Bettys” (ugly gals) and “cake-eaters” (ladies’ men) and that’s no bushwa.

Young women shucked their bras and strapped in their bosoms to give themselves a boyish appearance, jammed feathers in their hair and danced the Charleston. Heavy makeup, a loosening of morals and plenty of heat-seeking males to eat it all up. Sort of a predecessor to the flower children and free love of the 1960s, with more style, perhaps. Gangsters ran amok. The country went dry, but good times reigned in secret rooms in the back of funeral parlors or other businesses and illegal speakeasies. Flappers were unflappable.

Much of it all came to a crashing halt with the plunging to the stock market in 1929 and the setting in of reality and financial hardship, though perhaps it had been running its course for a time before that. You can only play at having fun for so long before the glitter wears off. Beneath it all, a certain loneliness and purposelessness pervaded. Human nature at its base level craves something deeper, gravitates towards something more than frivolity (with possibly the exception of Paris Hilton).

Within all that experimentation, laughter and self-fulfillment, there also existed those who were swept along out of fear of loss or coercion. One partner wanted to “hit on all six” while the other wanted something more meaningful. And there began the genesis of Chloe’s tale, The Trouble with Flappers. It’s a ghost story, to be sure, a mystery as well, but also a look at what lay beneath the sprightly music and Devil-may-care mores of the time. I wanted a traditional feel to the story, so it starts when Chloe’s car breaks down on her way back to New Salem and she encounters an abandoned mansion in her search for a phone. Then a strange little girl dressed in a flapper costume and the discovery of two bullet-riddled bodies that seemed to have died in the 1920s. It all gets weirder from there.

I am pretty sure Chloe will be visiting some other time periods (well, she does end up in the 1960s for brief periods in Sliver of Darkness) but this little adventure in the 1920s might just be one of her most harrowing.

The Trouble with Flapper is available in The Chloe Files #2: Sliver of Darkness from Barnes & Noble. The Chloe Files: Kicking Evil’s ass one demon at a time…

Door to Door Deviltry

Door to door salesmen are a peculiar phenomenon these days. They used to be far more common—vacuum cleaners, encyclopedias, Bibles, Tinker Toys. You’d see them coming and, unless you were really bored, slam the door shut and pretend you weren’t home when the ominous doorbell chimed (especially if they were selling butcher knives and the truck panel said Manson Sales and Cutlery). They were common in the ‘60s when I was growing up but now seem to have been replaced by Jehovah’s Witness and Mormons, who are selling a completely different product—although slamming the door and hiding is still the way to go unless you can get that trap door installed on your porch.

I guess I might not find these door to door hucksters quite as annoying if they were more truthful. I got one a few weeks ago, for the first time since I was a kid, who first offered me a smelly candle. Um, smelly candle? Yeah, because I definitely needed one of those and that made the offer to suck up three hours of my time so much more appealing. Maybe if they had offered Jessica Alba…

But, anyway, in a rare moment of kind-heartedness, I felt bad, so I actually opened the door, smiled and said, “I don’t need no stinking candle!” Er, well, actually I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have time.”

Salesman said, “It’ll only take a few minutes, boo.”

I said, “I not gonna buy a vacuum cleaner, so it’s not worth your time.” (Or mine, I thought.)

Salesman gave me that, “Oh-I’ve-heard-that-before-and-I-always-get-the-sale-at-the-end look” and said, “I get paid just to show you.”

Apparently here my brain stopped working for a few moments, because I said, “Ok, if it’s only a few minutes.”

After which, he went back to his van, pulled out a couple boxes, hauled them in the house and robbed my of three hours of my life.

Oy. Guess I won’t fall for that again. Unless, the salesperson is in a bikini, then all bets are off.

Well, I did get a roughly six by four section of my carpet cleaned and hypoallergenicized. It looked way better than the rest of the carpet, too, but sort of like a UFO had landed and made a carpet crop circle in my living room.

The salesman learned something, too: When I say I am not going to buy something right up front, I don’t (especially when it costs over a 1000 buckeroos!) I am particularly stubborn that way, so all you potential door to doors out there be forewarned. Same bikini-clad rules apply, however.

By reading between his words, I also learned how they target potential customers. I put it together real fast with a recent purchase, store credit card and a supposed “We don’t give your name out to anyone promise.” I would like to thank a certain home products warehouse for that. And it’s not Lowe’s. A pox on your depot.

To be fair, the salesguy was super nice and excellent at his job, I will say that. And I did give him my business card and promote my books to him. They are a whole lot cheaper than a vacuum cleaner, too. Hmm, maybe I should start going door to door…

Anybody selling stinky candles at a discount rate?

The Chloe Files #s 1 &2 in paperback from Barnes & Noble & Amazon:
Kicking Evil’s ass one demon at a time…

Night Stalking

Recently, I’ve been watching a number of old Kolchak: The Night Stalker episodes. The set is available on DVD and showing on some cable stations. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed the show, despite what some called “the monster of the week” premise (something even the star didn’t like). I preferred it to the two movies, though I liked them, especially the first one, as well.

I can recall the night it premiered, in 1974, Friday at 10pm, right after The Six Million Dollar Man (Friday was the perfect night for a little geek like me at the time). I also recall staying up late Friday nights in the summer when a local TV station reran the show, albeit chopped for more commercial room.

The series featured a reporter named Carl Kolchak, who investigated crimes that smacked of the bizarre, the unearthly, the supernatural, much to the chagrin of his beleaguered editor Tony Vincenzo (played by Simon Oakland to perfection). Kolchak was portrayed by the inimitable Darren McGavin. The show was based on the original novels by Jeff Rice and first produced as two movies by Dan Curtis, suspense master extraordinaire and the power behind the gothic soap, Dark Shadows (as well as Trilogy of Terror with its nightmarish little devil doll, and another TV pilot ,The Norliss Tapes, which was much like The Night Stalker and a chilling watch in its own right.) A third movie was planned, based on a script by Richard Matheson and William Nolan, but the concept went to series.

Whatever the series might have lacked for some fans of the movie version, it made up for with its great cast, haunting theme music and witty humor. Sometimes the make-up work suffered (The Werewolf face was terrible in the episode of the same name), while at other times downright horrific (The Zombie.) Each week Carl battled vampires and assorted ghouls, living knights with bad attitudes and headless chopper riders with gleaming swords. Supporting characters were quirky and charming, and the show got far less respect and ratings than it deserved. It produced one of the most genuinely scary moments on television when Carl tried sewing a zombie’s mouth shut.

The show spawned a terrible 2005 revamp that met an early and deserved demise. It has also become a revival of sorts from www.moonstonebooks.com with their prose anthologies, comic book series and graphic novels.

Needless to say the show inspired me quite a bit in my own writing. My novel GRIMM and its spin off series THE CHLOE FILES both owe a great deal to Kolchak (and Dark Shadows). I wish there had been more episodes of the original series, but alas some things, like those fleeting childhood impressions, are ephemeral. As a writer, I can only try to capture something in my own fiction that might make a memory for someone else and satisfy the little geek still living within.

The Chloe Files #s 1 & 2 is available from Barnes & Noble and Amazon. Chloe: Kicking Evil’s ass one demon at a time…

Wild Bunch Wednesday: The Pivotal Event

It’s time for another installment of Wild Bunch Wednesdays on Dark Bits. Each week, a band of Black Horse Western writer rowdies get together and focus on different themes with excerpts spotlighting them. The conspirators are—Ian Parnham, Joanne Walpole, Gary Dobbs, Ray Foster and myself (writing as Lance Howard). Links to the other blogs are provided after the excerpt, so you can visit each and read their excerpts.

Today’s theme is, “The Pivotal Event,” something that makes you root for the hero of the tale. The excerpt is from my recent Black Horse Western, BLOOD CREEK by Lance Howard. The villain is one is a psychotic Ute killer who skins his victims alive and is seeking revenge on a number of men for a mysterious reason, including the hero. In this scene he walks into the store owned by his intended, Annette Pickler, catching her in the arms of the hero, Calin Travers, who is seeking to protect her before she becomes another victim. Lance Howard westerns can be purchased at Amazon, AmazonUK and The Book Depository (free world wide postage) http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/ Blood Creek comes out in paperback August 1st. It’s available on preorder for half price right now and free post.

The Excerpt:

"This how you plan to stop me, Travers?" Sunkiller stepped deeper into the store, coming up to him. "By stealing my woman and turning her against me?"

Calin never got the chance to answer. A fist hit him in the face and he flew backwards into a shelf stacked with canned goods. The cans tumbled to the floor and he wobbled, nearly going down. Only by sheer will did he manage to stay on his feet.

Shaking off the blow, he sprang forward, still unsteady. Joe Sunkiller flew at him at the same time.

Sunkiller snapped three quick jabs. Calin avoided all but one but that had little power in it. It was meant to keep him off balance, overwhelmed, so the Ute could lob an arcing right that would have ended the fight. It might have worked on a man who hadn't spent the past ten years honing his fighting skills.

Calin slipped under the man's blow and buried a right in Sunkiller's breadbasket. A burst of air came from the Ute's lungs. He stumbled back a couple of steps, stopped swinging.

Calin seized the advantage, pivoting on a heel and delivering a sidekick that connected with Sunkiller's short rib.

The Ute uttered a groan, his upper body jerking forward a few inches. Calin stepped in, delivering two short jabs to the Indian's mouth that mashed his lips with a spray of blood.

Sunkiller grunted, charged, driven by sheer fury. He swung from the floor; the blow whisked by Calin's chin as the manhunter jerked his head sideways.

Calin countered with a sharp right straight down the pike. It hit the Ute flush on the nose but barely made him stutter in his step. Fury was overriding pain. Sunkiller launched a roundhouse.

Calin ducked under the blow, bobbed up, slammed a bootheel into the Ute's shin. Sunkiller's leg buckled slightly, but he held his feet. Calin hit him again in jaw.

For a moment Calin thought it was over. Sunkiller wavered, appeared ready to go down. The manhunter set himself to deliver a knockout blow.

Sunkiller was faking, at least partly, because the moment Calin cocked his arm the Indian fired back. Sunkiller suddenly stopped swinging with fury and started fighting with skill. He was hurt, unsteady, but still powerful.

He delivered a short uppercut that connected with a loud crack and slammed Calin's teeth together. Stars exploded before his eyes. Another blow ricocheted off his temple and the world went black for an instant.

When the lights flashed back on he was sitting on the floor, nestled in a pile of canned goods, staring up blankly.

Sunkiller delivered a kick to his face that sent him over onto his back.

Memories flashed before Calin's mind, memories of the beating he'd received fifteen years ago at the hands of Jared Brett. He had failed again, failed to protect Annette Pickler, lost a fight to another man when it counted most.

A laugh came from above him. With the back of his hand, the Ute wiped a snake of blood from his mouth as he peered down at Calin.

"Fifteen years has changed you, white man…" Sunkiller muttered, voice hoarse. "You are not so much the coward now. Perhaps because this woman isn't red, or perhaps because something inside you has changed. It does not matter. You won't be able to stop what's going to happen. And the next time I stand over you this way it will be to cut off your hands."

Calin tried to push himself up. Sunkiller kicked him back down again.

The Ute glanced at Annette Pickler, who was standing to the side, hands pressed to her mouth, tears running from her frightened eyes. "I'll deal with you when I'm through with the others…"


Please visit the following blogs for more exciting excerpts:

Gary Dobbs (The Tainted Archive) http://tainted-archive.blogspot.com/
IJ Parnham (The Culbin Trail) http://ijparnham.blogspot.com/
Terry James (Joanne Walpole) http://joannewalpole.blogspot.com/
Ray Foster (Broken Trails) http://brokentrails.blogspot.com/

Blood Creek by Lance Howard Copyright 2008 by Howard Hopkins. Used by permission of Robert Hale Ltd.

Terror Tuesday: Shadow Peeps

It’s time for another Terror Tuesday so let’s get out there and scare up some horror book sales and frighten booksellers everywhere into better selections. Shrick, shrick…know what that sound is? That’s the sound of the dagger being sharpened for the slackers out there…and the busty virgins, of course, though we may find other uses for them…

Now I hope you all have your copies of The Chloe Files books, because Chloe’s brand new spooky book trailer premieres today and she’s going to need your help kicking Evil in the kumquats. There’s a war coming and Chloe is right on the front line. And watch her latest book trailer video: The Chloe Files: Evil Calls…

This week’s creepy crumpet: Shadow people. Also called Shadow Men, Shadow Folk or Shadow beings, these dark forms appear at the edge of our vision, much like ghosts and perhaps even more elusive. Authors such as Rosemary Ellen Guiley and Heidi Hollis have helped popularize the concept through books, articles and appearances on radio talk shows devoted to paranormal subjects such as Coast to Coast AM, a fascinating show, if often stalking the fringe.

As scary as these things might sound I fear these are yet another manifestation of over-active imaginations, vision problems or just plain made up. There are technical vision terms for the phenomena, such as Pareidolia, a condition in which the brain incorrectly interprets random patterns of light/shadow or texture as being familiar patterns like faces and human shapes. There’s also lucid dreaming (Hypnagogia, also known as "waking-sleep), that neither quite asleep nor quite awake state where one sees unusual things skulking about the room in the dead of night. The viewer often feels paralyzed, much as in the case of alien abduction scenarios, and helpless. Dark forms flitter about the walls and ceiling, then vanish upon full awakening.

Needless to say, there are simply too many practical explanations for these things, nearly all of them mundane (even various drugs and electromagnetic fields that affect the brain or neurological conditions). But if you’ve seen one you certainly feel they are real enough. And if you’re like me you’re probably half a mile down the road running before you realize how silly it is to be afraid of nothing…and outside with no pants on.

Yet, just in case they are real, I want mine to be a Shadow Chick, with Jennifer Love Hewitt’s measurements. But just my luck I’ll end up with one that looks like Larry King…

The Chloe Files #’s 1 & 2: Available from Barnes & Noble (www.bn.com)

Wild Bunch Wednesday: The Bad Guys

It’s time for another installment of Wild Bunch Wednesdays on Dark Bits. Each week, a band of Black Horse Western writer owlhoots get together and focus on different themes in their novels with excerpts spotlighting them. The conspirators are—Ian Parnham, Joanne Walpole, Gary Dobbs, Ray Foster and myself (writing as Lance Howard). Links to the other blogs are provided after the excerpt, so you can visit each and read their excerpts.

Today’s theme is, “The Antagonist,” or villain of the tale. The excerpt is from my most recent Black Horse Western, Coyote Deadly by Lance Howard. The villain is one of three brothers in the tale, Marcus Chulo, a downright ornery SOB. In this scene he is seeking to murder the heroine of the book, and confronting a man whom he feels has betrayed him. Lance Howard westerns can be purchased at Amazon, AmazonUK and The Book Depository (free world wide postage) http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/

The Excerpt:

Marcus Chulo went to the room (behind the hotel counter), stopping in the doorway to see Bittner sitting at a small desk, hunched over a ledger. The man must have sensed him, because he turned, and a startled look jumped onto his face.

“Surprised to see me, Bittner?” Marcus said. “You shouldn’t be. Harboring enemies of the Chulos is a specialty of yours, ain’t it? Couldn’t be you’re still holdin’ a grudge ‘cause my father took your land?”

“What do you want, Marcus?” the man asked, trying to keep his composure but fear made his voice shake.

“Which room is that girl in, the Thanotite woman?”

“I…don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Marcus drew his Smith & Wesson, aimed it at the man. “You know better than to give me such a damn fool answer.”

Bittner’s face washed pale and his shoulders slumped. “Room 6.”

“Much obliged.” Marcus smiled, reached back and closed the door to the small room.

“What…what are you doing?” the little hotel man asked, panic lighting in his eyes. He stood, backed against the desk.

Marcus walked up to him jammed the gun barrel deep into the man’s belly and pulled the trigger.

The hotel man’s body muffled the shot somewhat, but Marcus didn’t give a damn who heard it.

Marcus withdrew the gun and the clerk’s eyelids fluttered. He pitched forward, slammed into the floor face-first.

“Never did cotton much to traitors,” Marcus whispered as he knelt and wiped the blood soiling his gunbarrel on the man’s shirt, then holstered the weapon.

Please visit the following blogs for more exciting excerpts:

Gary Dobbs (The Tainted Archive) http://tainted-archive.blogspot.com/
IJ Parnham (The Culbin Trail) http://ijparnham.blogspot.com/
Terry James (Joanne Walpole) http://joannewalpole.blogspot.com/
Ray Foster (Broken Trails) http://brokentrails.blogspot.com/

Coyote Deadly by Lance Howard Copyright 2009 by Howard Hopkins. Used by permission of Robert Hale Ltd.

Terror Tuesday

Well, good little zombies and ghouls, did you go into your local bookstore and request a bigger, wider horror section? I sure hope ya did. Because that altar of sacrifice is looking mighty lonely over there all unstained and neglected. C’mon, don’t be shy. So what if you have an arm or two dangling by threads? Bookstore owners just love customers who aren’t quite…living. Well, at least they want to get them out of the store faster and make sure they are well pleased. That whole flesh-eating thing, ya know…

Screams this week: John Carpenter’s Prince of Darkness. Still love the concept, over-all dread and ominous atmosphere of this movie. Alice Cooper’s best performance since the Snoop Sisters, too. Though that guy from Simon and Simon is hard to take too serious…Also watching various episodes of the Night Stalker tv series. Lots of groovy ghouly fair there, boos. Werewolf is a fave, though the make-up guy might need to be sacrificed for such a bad woof face. Horror in the Heights still scares—Lordy, it’s tough being old and Jewish. The Zombie still a killer, heh.

But, anywhoooooooooo…

Onto this week’s Terror Topic: Girls in Black. Oh, hold on…never mind, that was a vampire porn movie. I didn’t watch it. I just know about it. Really.

Ok, back on track. This week’s bunk: Ectoplasm (from the Greek ektos, "outside", plus plasma, "something formed or molded”). That gauzy stuff that exudes from the various orifices of mediums and is purported to be molded by spirits into phantom physical shapes. Reportedly, it can smell funny, which probably isn’t a big surprise if said medium is pulling the stuff out of her funhole, a common practice. A number of substances have been used in its creation by fraudulent spiritualists, such as soap, gelatin and egg whites, as well as muslin. This was a big parlor trick in the old days, one a bit tougher to get away with now, except in Photoshoped pictures.

The medium supposedly enters a trance to produce it—I guess no one noticed her walking funny because ten ounces of muslin was jammed up her boom tube, but that’s probably what the long robes were for. Except that doesn’t apply to those naked mediums; that’s something that “bares” closer examination. I’ll get back to you on that.

This ectoplasm was pretty spooky stuff in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. People paid big money to see a medium produce it. Science has explained it away, and even before that such known skeptics as Harry Houdini and Shadow writer Walter Gibson exposed, pardon the pun, the fraudulent spiritualists conjuring the gooey stuff (Check out the Shadow novel The Ghost Makers for a fun fictional tale built around such debunking). I am assuming there was a cavity examination of some sort, but I’ll leave that alone.

It’s amazing to us in this day and age to think folks fell for that, but then of course people still buy Snuggies. The stuff is far too easily faked, in person and in photos, and is yet another serious impediment to genuine psychical research. It’s the domain of magicians, not the paranormal, as far as I am concerned.

Agree? Disagree? Looking to smuggle muslin?

The Chloe Files #2: Sliver of Darkness is now available from Barnes & Noble…Who knows what crimes cripple the minds of the guilty?

Does Whatever a Spider Can

My graphic novel The Spider: Judgement Knight hit the comic shops today. The book is an adaptation of Norvell Page’s pulp novel The Devil’s Paymaster and is published by Moonstone Books (who publish many fine comic books and prose anthologies, including The Spider Chronicles, The Avenger Chronicles, Captain Midnight and The Green Hornet Chronicles, all of which I have tales in) with artwork painted in haunting, noir black and white by master artist Gary Carbon.

I got to see a copy at the comic book shop today and it is gorgeous and I am proud to be a part of the launch of this line of Spider graphic novels (thanks to pal and fine writer Martin Powell) and comic books (look for my original Spider widescreen comic The Strange Case of The Spider and Mr. Hyde coming soon!)

For those unfamiliar with The Spider, he was a 1930s pulp novel hero, uber violent for the time period and a trifle shy of a full deck. He was a razorblade version of the ultra successful pulp character The Shadow and appeared in over 100 novels, many written by the imaginative and hyper-prosed Norvell Page under the house name Grant Stockbridge (the house name was a penname adopted by pulp publishers to cover actual authorship of a company-owned character in case the writer walked or died. They could easily just slip another author into the series, the audience none the wiser.) He was accompanied by a regular supporting cast, most notably lovely socialite Nita van Sloan, a Hindu servant named Ram Singh and others, and not only went after crime, but obliterated it. The only good criminal was a dead one, in the Spider’s opinion, and the streets of New York were littered with good criminals…their corpses, anyway. His adventures ranged from extreme to outrageous and often plot went by the wayside in favor of red-hot action and blazing pace. The weren’t called “The Bloody Pulps” for no reason, boos.

The guy was also quite unhinged at points. You never knew whether he were going to lose it (and many readers would say he actually did), and he was just as likely to shoot a friend he suspected of being a traitor as a criminal. Wanted by the police, he also loved taunting them, daring them to unmask him.

For this particular adaptation the standout attraction is the brilliant artwork by Gary Carbon. His widescreen noir paintings leap off the page, nearly three-dimensional.

I hope readers will enjoy what I’ve done with The Master of Men. The Spider has returned!

You can order your copy through Moonstone Books, your local comic shop and Amazon.

Wild Bunch Wednesday

Welcome to the first installment of Wild Bunch Wednesdays here on Dark Bits. This initiative, the brainchild of Black Horse Western writer Joanne Walpole (writing as Terry James), will focus on different themes with excerpts spotlighting them each week, and is in conjunction with a handful of other fine Black Horse Western writers—Ian Parnham, Joanne Walpole, Gary Dobbs, Ray Foster and myself (writing as Lance Howard). Links to the other blogs are provided after the excerpt, so you can visit each and read their excerpts.

Today’s theme is, “The Hero.” The excerpt is from my most recent Black Horse Western, Coyote Deadly by Lance Howard. Lance Howard westerns can be purchased at Amazon, AmazonUK and The Book Depository (free world wide postage)

The Excerpt:

A heavy footfall came from the boardwalk to the left and Josh’s attention shifted from the tree (adorned with undergarments) to a man who had stopped onto the boardwalk. Josh reined up, peered at the fellow, whose bearded face showed signs of fear. A nervous tick stuttered at his left eye and balls of muscle quivered to either side of his jaw.

“What do you want here?” the man asked, his voice carrying a tremble but also bitterness. Others on the boardwalk stopped, looked Josh’s way.

“Who are you?” Josh asked, not particularly taken with the man’s tone.

“I am one of the church leaders in this town, Josiah Herridge. Who are you, sir?”

Josh glanced at the other men, noting none of them carried guns or the looks of fellows intending to make a hostile move. They simply looked more scared than anything else.

“Name’s Josh Dellin. Passin’ through here on my way to Coyote Creek. Lookin’ for some men. Perhaps you mighta seen them.”

The man shook his head too quickly. “Those men are not here, so please be on your way.”

Josh’s brow furrowed. “Somethin’ tells me you know exactly which men I mean.”

The man’s face tightened, and anger flashed in his eyes. “It does not matter. Those men are not here. It would please us if you were not as well.”

“Right neighborly of you…” Josh’s gaze shifted back to the tree and undergarments, then went again to Herridge. “But I reckon you got a damned good reason for not being hospitable, don’t you?”

“As I told you, it does not matter. They are not here.”

“But they were here, weren’t they?” Josh’s eyes locked with Herridge’s.

The man shifted feet, discomfort in his stance. “They are not here.”

Josh nodded, frustration crawling through his nerves. “Established that. But ‘less you’re decorating your tree with undergarments for an early Christmas, it’s obvious they paid you a call. Not a goddamn social call, either.”

The man’s head lowered and his gaze went to the boardwalk, then, moments later, came back up. “They were here. They are no longer. It does not matter.”

“You keep sayin’ that, but reckon it matters to me. Reckon it matters to a woman whose sister they killed in Dark Springs and reckon it might matter to some of the women in this here town, too.”

The man’s carriage stiffened. “What’s done is done.”

“Maybe so, but I aim to see to it what’s done is paid for.”

Please visit the following blogs for more exciting excerpts:

Gary Dobbs (Jack Martin at The Tainted Archive)

IJ Parnham (The Culbin Trail)
Terry James (Joanne Walpole)
Ray Foster (Broken Trails)

Coyote Deadly by Lance Howard Copyright 2009 by Howard Hopkins. Used by permission of Robert Hale Ltd.

Terror Tuesday: Psychic Surgery

It’s time for Terror Tuesday on Dark Bits. Have you gone into your local boostore, er bookstore, and requested a wider selection of horror novels like good little ghouls and daemons? I hope ya did. To increase the number of horror books and authors available out there, your help is needed. Otherwise it’s off to the altar of sacrifice for you! Have you read any good horror lately? I just finished Something’s Alive on the Titanic. I know, silly title. The first half of the book was over-burdened with detail and too long by about half its length. Characters were passable, and you didn’t much care who got toasted in the deep. But the second half of the book has some pretty eerie sequences and ghostly goings-on and turns the book into a nice spooky read. It’s by Robert Serling, who, I assume, is no relation to Night Gallery’s horror host, Rod Serling.

Now, on to today’s groovy ghoulie subject matter: Psychic Surgery. Or should I say Psycho Surgery? Nah, how about Charlatan Surgery? That’s better.

As you might have guessed, I believe this load of poo poo about as much as I believe in honest politicians. This nefarious practice involves sick and dying people going to a practitioner who “performs” this trickery by kneading your tummy like bread dough until he supposedly yanks out a gooey gory mass of “something” and proclaims the patient to be healed. Yay-hah. Hallelujah, and all that good stuff. There’s lots of blood, lots of ceremonial acting and serious faces. Ooohs and ahhhs, too, boo. It is performed in septic environments yet patients suffer no infections and walk away fit enough to scale Mt. Everest.

Sure they do. Does anyone other than the desperate believe this garbage? I mean, really? Can no one see the palming of chicken livers that represent tumors? Medical tests prove, when actually tracked, as these practitioners are notorious for disallowing any investigation into their “powers”, no cures have taken place. If by some chance one does, it can more readily be attributed to a placebo effect or mind-body belief connection than to any spiritual surgery performed by these quacks.

I think what irritates me the most is their preying on the sick and desperate. It’s easy to take advantage of someone who has no hope left. Simply offer them a bit—for a price. I find this behavior disgusting, deplorable and any other pejorative adjective you’d care to stick on it.

Oh, the ones who do it free, someone might ask? Well, there will always some who believe the Emperor has spanking new cloths covering his flabby nakedness. Some practitioners might honestly believe they do cure the sick, though since they are using cheap parlor tricks, I’m not sure how they have convinced themselves of it. But some people think there was no moon landing or that Jesus appears in Spaghetti-O’s. It’s a weird world.

I wish we could stop cluttering up true paranormal research and inquiry with this stupidity. And before anybody asks, I differentiate this from psychic healing, something I will tackle in another blog (and something I have actually witnessed a number of times). For now, skip the chicken livers and let’s look for Santa Claus, just in case…

Grumpy Old Authors

Apparently some authors feel it is their publisher’s duty to publish them. And when something happens they don’t like, though the fault may lie with them, they decide to criticize and denigrate that publisher in public forums and expect this passive aggressive ploy to endear them to that publisher and therefore get them their way.

It’s a risky tactic unless you are somebody like Stephen King or Stephanie Meyer. And it makes said author look like a bitter sniveling curmudgeon. Publishing, like writing, is a business. The publisher, through their own marketing research, knows what it wants and doesn’t want. It may have limitations placed on its material by outside elements the author has no knowledge of. You don’t get a job at McDonalds and start telling them how to make their fries. So if you are going to push the limits you had better decide to be sincere and do it for the sake of your art, and not simply for the sake of pushing to see what you can get away with. And you should be prepared to tone down that effort if it doesn’t fly.

Of course, I am not saying you shouldn’t express your displeasure in a polite courteous manner befitting the professional you are. You have that right and publishers respect that. But keep biting the hand that prints you and sooner or later you’re going to pull back a stump—read: rejection, or blackballing.

Besides being a business for both publisher and author, being published is a privilege. I am totally against the PC pervasiveness, but on the other hand I understand it’s there and if you are going to write you will need to come to terms with it and work around it. Constantly whining about it does not do a damn bit of good for any concerned. An artist should be able to work within the boundaries set forth by the publisher—and ALL publishers have them—and still be able to satisfy their creative integrity. If your publisher frowns on violence or sex, then work harder on character and suspense. If you can’t live with the guidelines, go elsewhere.

I’ve been very lucky with my publishers. I have probably used some things in books that might not fly from others because, I hope, I have used them in such a way as to still be palatable and true for the reader. There have been times when I pushed the limit--though I have never down this on purpose, it was just the story I was telling--and maybe went too far. Sometimes I probably haven’t gone far enough. That’s part of being an author. That’s part of being a professional, as I discussed in a previous blog.

Some folks never learn that. They feel every word they set down is sacrosanct, and bitch and moan about their artistic integrity if even a single phrase is altered, when in actuality all it comes down to is pathological need for control and validation. They crave being right. They are essentially two-years-olds stomping their feet and wanting their way or no way.

Believe me, take this attitude enough and it is usually no way.

Then of course, after the inevitable confrontation, they feel the need to argue their point incessantly and ad infinitum. They take it public. Perhaps there are instances in which this is necessary, such as if you are being radioactively poisoned by Russian spies, but for the most part this just burns bridges and makes the complainer look like an ass. I know authors like that. They usually pick and choose supportive statements from friends out of context to back up their case. I’ve been the victim of it and so have some friends and publishers.

This negative energy usually turns on the user, much like the Wiccan tenant of what you do unto others coming back on you seven times over(forgive me if I balled that up any, I’m going from memory). I wish these authors would seriously sit down and take a hard look at themselves. See the other point of view and perhaps learn to channel their energy into a more positive creative expression. There are points of no return. A little revising might get you published, but a lot of whining isn’t going to endear you to anyone, including the folks who initially supported you. Hard lesson learned for those types. Too often a bitter pill that just swells in their gullet. A pity. Because talent is a gift. Irritating the hell out of someone is not…

Western Wednesdays on Dark Bits

It’s Western Wednesday on Dark Bits. As most of you reading this are aware, I write westerns under the penname Lance Howard (the latest of which, Coyote Deadly, Amazon is at last carrying) as well as the horror/westerns under my own name. So it’s only fitting I dedicate a day to the genre and hopefully we’ll be getting that going next week with a new initiative from western writer Terry James (Joanne Walpole) involving excerpts and blog linking on various themes.

A lot of folks have a certain idea in mind when you mention westerns. And it’s not always a good one. But the genre encompasses so much more than just the standard gunfights and guys doing weird things with their horses because they’ve been on the trail too long. The westerns I write for Robert Hale’s Black Horse Western line (for those who aren’t familiar with these gems, they are hardcover books of high quality a bit large than the standard paperback. Hale produces 6-10 a month, all with wonderfully painted covers and has been doing so for over 20 years. Please check out Black Horse Express for more info) and Ulverscorft’s large print western line (check your local libraries for them or take a look at my Western Page) blend mystery, a little romance and occasional spooky stuff, and usually deal with a number of issues relevant to a modern audience, such as spousal abuse or racism. The western is far more versatile than it ever has been and some wonderful authors are working in the Black Horse line—IJ Parnham, Ray Foster, Jack Martin, and Terry James, just to name a few. You’ll be introduced to them during Joanne’s Wednesday’s Wild Bunch initiative if it comes off as planned.

The western is making a comeback. With Gary Dobbs’ Tainted Archive blog spearheading a revival, as well as planned Hollywood movies with such stalwart characters as the Lone Ranger (with Johnny Depp as Tonto) and Jonah Hex, and the Black Horse Line increasing print runs and production, the future is starting to look a lot brighter for a genre that was considered moribund not so long ago. And much of that is because it reflects something that holds true even today—the strength and spirit within mankind.

The western can do what any other genre can and in fact more, because it lends itself to blending with others better, as well as being entertaining and action-filled. Whether it’s the true historical West or the Mythical West that lives within the writer’s imagination, its possibilities are as boundless and as persevering as the landscape and people upon which it is based.