Today I spotlight the horror anthology, An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. This book is a delightful and strange collection of Sherlock Holmes stories from Mocha Memoirs Press, edited by A.C. Thompson. Enjoy...
An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
“When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Sherlock Holmes is one of the most recognizable characters in Western literature. Conan Doyle’s inimitable detective has been the subject of literally thousands of books, movies, television shows, plays and even songs. With the rise of the BBC series and the release of most copyrights, the beloved character has found a new life among modern audiences.
In An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 14 authors of horror and mystery have come together to create a unique anthology that sets Holmes on some of his most terrifying adventures. A pair of sisters willing to sacrifice young girls to an ancient demon for a taste of success, a sinister device that can manipulate time itself, and a madman that can raise corpses from the dead are just a few among the grisly tales that can be found within these pages.
Curl up with a warm cuppa and leave all the lights on. This is not your grandfather’s Sherlock Holmes.
EXCERPT From "The Canaries of Clee Hill Mines," by Robert Perret
Holmes placed a hand on my arm and we came to a stop. I could see him close his eyes and slow his breathing. Lacking his Eastern training in meditation I did my best to make as little noise as possible. I saw Holmes jerk his head to one side ever so slightly and then a moment later I felt the gentlest of winds stir the hairs on my right hand. I looked down at that hand and was surprised to see the pistol it was holding shaking erratically. Even my fingers had gooseflesh and it was then I realized with a shock that I was terrified so far beyond reason that my mind appeared to have disassociated with my body. Holmes began smoothly stalking down the passage from which the wind had blown. I looked down and saw my feet clumsily stomp along one after the other. As we progressed down the tunnel I heard a clicking sound like crickets in the distance. I think my mind read it as an indication that we were exiting the mine to return to the surface, for I found myself strangely soothed. However as we progressed the clicking became chattering and scraping and squealing and my terror returned. We saw an opening to a larger chamber ahead and the inhuman sounds now echoed all around us. In the lamplight I saw a strange constant movement ahead.
“The royal chamber,” observed Holmes. When I failed to give a sensible response he continued.
“I’ve taken to studying bees as of late. Admirable creatures. Truly superior. But I digress. We have followed a proverbial worker bee back to the royal chamber. I suspect we will not be welcomed.”
As we crossed the threshold all noise and activity stopped. In the silence we could hear the sound of water dripping from overhead into an underground reservoir. Around us, on every possible surface of the cavern, like bats, were hundreds of the uncanny Feeders. They regarded us with their milky, dead eyes. Holmes continued in and pointed his lantern around, taking in the ceiling, the walls, the floor and then moving to the lake. He gasped.
“Watson!”
To my own amazement I found myself hurrying to his side. In the water, floating vertically in translucent vein-shot sacs were a dozen bodies. Umbilical cords seemed to trail down into the darkness. The way they moved in unison showed that there were all attached to one large abomination down beneath the inky, subterranean depths. Still, the Feeders regarded us passively. I took my lantern to the edge of the water and attempted to inspect the sacs more closely.
The thing below seemed then to turn around, for all of the sacs bobbed along in a circle. The first few appeared to contain juvenile Feeders. The next few my mind refuses to recall except in the abstract. They were of poor souls, presumably the lost miners, mid-transformation between man and Feeder. The strange mutilations of their human bodies was horrifying to see.
~*~
An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes is available at:
A.C. Thompson is the editing alter-ego of novelist Alexandra Christian. Lexxx is a native South Carolinian who lives with an epileptic wiener dog and a pet ghost hunter. She has published several novels, novellas and short stories with Ellora’s Cave, Purple Sword Publications, and Mocha Memoirs Press. Her long-term aspirations are to one day be a best-selling authoress and part-time pinup girl. Questions, comments and complaints are most welcome at her website: http://lexxxchristian.wordpress.com/
Today I present another Fireside Chat for the paranormal anthology, Beyond the Wail. In this character interview our intrepid Richard Dale sits down to chat with Father Mahoney, from the story The Poltergeist and Aunt Betty by Ginger C. Mann.
And don't forget to keep scrolling down past the interview for a giveaway, book trailer, and a listing for the book's wonderful blog tour.
And now I give you...
A Fireside Chat with Father Mahoney
“Welcome everyone, to
another Fireside Chat. I’m Richard Dale, your host. Today, our guest is Father
Mahoney, of the St. Philip’s Catholic Church in Lake Charles, Louisiana.” Richard
nods to the man sitting opposite to him. “Welcome
Father.Why don’t you begin bytelling our audience a bit about yourself.”
“Thank you,
Richard, and thank you for having me here. A ‘bit about myself?’ I am a son of
Irish immigrants from Chicago, and now I'm the newest priest at St. Philip’s
Catholic Church in Lake Charles, Louisiana. It's a beautiful parish, and the
church is over 100 years old. This is my fourth year to serve there.”
“As you said, you are
now firmly established in your faith, but you essentially rejected the Church
for some time in your younger days. Care to elaborate on the reasons for your
crisis of faith?”
Father Mahoney pauses. “There was a time that I rejected the church, yes. It is
difficult to remember it, but I will tell you a brief account. As a child, I was
badly bullied by a minister. I was raised a strong Catholic, and my family was active.
Of course, as a son in a an active
church family, I soon became an altar boy. It started out well for me, but as
time passed, I discovered that the priest who advised me was not a gentle man.
In fact, I now recognize that children frightened him. For any tiny mistake I
made, he was careful to berate me publicly. He used other tactics, too – no, no
details, but many things that kept me in fear of him. He was good at control,
and he terrified me so completely that he gave me nightmares. I was too
frightened of him to ask for help, so this went on for some time. One morning,
after I served Mass especially poorly, he grew so angry that he began to hit me. I was lucky that my mother was standing
there to witness that, or it could have gotten much worse. She pulled me away
immediately, and took action with church authorities. However, like so many abusers,
this priest was not disciplined. I stopped serving on the altar, but the next
week, another child was up there in the same position. That burned in my gut
until it wore me down. I could not let it go, and neither could my family. We
left the church over it. After awhile, I could not stand the sight of any church.
My mother returned to a different one after a few years, but I was sure I would
never go back.”
“Yet you did, but not
before pursuing other interests, such as ghost hunting.” Richard pauses
slightly. “Your first substantial paranormal encounter was at Auschwitz. How
profound an experience was that, and are there any ongoing consequences?”
Father
Mahoney closes his eyes, as if struggling with himself. He looks down, then
gathers his strength and faces the host. “This is less of a reaction and more of
a story, Richard, if we have the time?”
Richard
nods. “We do.”
“First, your
audience needs to know that I considered myself an Atheist before I studied the
paranormal. In fact, I rejected all spirituality. God’s representative hurt me,
and for me that made God a monster. So, I wrapped all spirituality in the same
package with that monstrous God, and threw it out. I chose psychology as my
course of study, but then I discovered parapsychology. I liked that subject a lot, mainly because it tended to view paranormal
activity as a mental condition, and nothing else.
“I was fond of ghost hunter groups back
then. I found them so easy to ridicule: plenty of gadgetry, lots of heartbeat
monitors and ultra sensitive cameras, and for what? Time-lapsed, blurry melodrama. Oh,
and folklore. They were great at folklore. Tell a story, find a blur in a
picture frame. Tell the story again, and sell the blur.”
“Not
an uncommon reaction to these types of groups.” Richard murmurs sympathetically.
“Apologies, Richard, I am being
unkind. It's an echo of who I was back then, and I hope I am not the same now.
I often cringe at how callous I used to be. Well, there was a group of ghost
hunters who tolerated me, even though I was a young Ph. D. student who “knew it
all,” and talked to them like they were idiots. However, they were
thick-skinned and refused to take it personally. They dismissed my ideas about
as thoroughly as I dismissed theirs, and then we would go out for beers
afterward. I enjoyed giving the “logical rebuttal” speech in the middle of
their films – the kind that set their
entire premise on its ear. They enjoyed pipping me the rest of the time, and so we called it
even.
“So I was
happy when they approached me with a “special project”. They wanted to film a
sequence on location at Auschwitz. (Don't even ask me how they worked that out
with the bean counters at the University.)
Before I knew it, we were there on site, hunting for disembodied spirits and
fog wisps. They set up their thousands of wires and their beep-boop machines
and started crawling the place dressed in jumpsuits and night vision goggles.
Comical. Then, it happened.
“I didn't follow the troop, I just
sat there in the middle of the courtyard. Looked to be the same one where
prisoners were brought for mass meetings by the Nazi keepers. As an abused
child, my heart breaks for the oppressed. I found myself remembering the victims
of the slaughter, thinking on them solemnly. I told myself I might have said a
prayer, back when I believed in anything. Instead, I grabbed my sketchbook. I had
pasted a list of Auschwitz victims inside
the front cover. I studied it for a minute, thinking about how their lives
ended. Then, on a whim, I began to mention them out loud. Right there in the middle of the courtyard, I spoke
about about ten names at random.
“I paused and looked up from my book
for a moment. A skinny man stood there, staring
me down. I thought for a moment that he was with us, but then I noticed that he
was almost naked. His face and form faded back and forth, as if he were made
out of mist. His eyes sagged like pits. Before I could react, another man came
forward. Both of them stared at me in the same way, as if they were trying to
make up their minds about something. The first one spoke. He said, “Do you see
us?” All I could do was nod.
“Then, I noticed something else, Richard:
looking around that courtyard, I saw no fewer than ten wispy forms wandering the grounds. I watched them walk
right through the ghost hunters, who ignored them. On a hunch, I began to speak
again, reading the same ten names from that list in my book. One by one, they
wandered in my direction. When I passed their names, they wandered off again.
Most of them sat down, hugging their legs. Some of them stood up on occasion, and
they would begin to flail as if they were taking a beating. I was looking at suffering
people, but never once did I see any of their oppressors. Furthermore, my
colleagues continued to turn a blind eye, and so did their equipment. Not so
much as a “blip” registered on the
paranormal tracking devices. Looked like another folklore-telling,
smudge-selling outing for them. I was the only witness to this scene, or so I
believed.
“The place was dark and dank, and
the people looked to be in hell. I witnessed them there, still in their torture
chamber, as if their souls languished here after their bodies left them behind.
I wept openly, casting about for something to do, some way to help. I focused, not
with my eyes, but with my heart. I concentrated on my connection with them. As
I did so, their forms grew clearer. I
sat there beside them, watching their agony and weeping tears of grief.
“It was then that I looked up. Above
the scene, misty like the spirits around me, I saw a radiant light in the sky. Something
felt . . . alive in it. To look at it filled me with joy. I turned to the man
next to me and tapped him on the shoulder. I pointed up, trying to ask him what
it was. He stared at the ground and hugged his knees. I tried again, he shook
his head and wailed. I sat and cried with him. It was all I could do.
“I moved on to the woman next to
him. I sat by her and said, “I see you.” She was startled – so startled that she
looked straight at me. One of her eyes was missing, and the other was streaming,
either with tears or disease. I reached
out my hand, and she took it. Felt like a downy feather, her touch. I said,
“There is something up there. A beautiful light. What is it?”
“It was then that I witnessed my
first miracle, Richard. She raised her face and looked straight into the sky. As
she looked, the eye that had been missing reformed itself in her skull. Her
flesh filled out and hair grew on her head. She was suddenly young and
beautiful. She stared back at me, two crisp blue eyes wide with surprise. “I
don't hurt anymore,” that is what her face said. She turned away, and I saw her
take the hand of the man next to her. He tossed her off initially, but she
shook him until he looked up angrily, with war on his face. Then, he caught
sight of her, all new and restored like she was. He said, “Schlomit?” Then, he
looked past her and froze in place. As the light in the sky bathed his eyes,
his body straightened into a handsome young man. He gazed at Schlomit, who I
assumed was his wife, and they embraced each other.
“The two of them walked away after
that, hand in hand. They were headed toward the light that healed them, but I
honestly can't say where they went. For my part, I gazed for a moment on that
spectral light. Nothing logical about this, but for the first time since my own
abuse, I thought I might be worthy of love.
“Now, we scientists like to have cross-validators
in these little field experiments, so imagine my surprise when I caught the
tour guide staring straight at me. This was no university educated “paranormal
specialist.” It was a minimum wage adult, babysitting a few college kids on a
ghost safari. He didn't speak, he just pointed to each and every spirit who
remained on the grounds, and then up to the sky. He saw exactly what I saw. We
locked eyes. Knowing that my German was as rusty as his English, I chose not to
speak out loud; but eyeing each other, we made a gentlemen’s pact nonetheless.
One by one, we approached every spirit and encouraged them to look up; look
away from their private hell. Some of them listened. Some of them did not.
“We had to leave, and I could not
give my debunking speech on the ghost video. I took all kinds of snark for it,
but I didn't care. Instead, I buckled down, focused on trying to help the
victims I could still see. In the end, I could not force any decision on them.
I could just show them and watch the healing, or respect their decision to
suffer. If they suffered, I would sit next to them, hold them, and cry. That
changed a man's mind once. Just one man, but it was enough to make me keep
trying. I stayed in that same courtyard until my colleagues dragged me out.”
Father
Mahoney pauses, visibly upset. “Someday, Richard, I will go back. I will sit
with those souls for an eternity in that squalid place, if there is a chance of
saving even one more of them from hell.”
There is a moment of silence before Richard speaks. “Well. A profound experience indeed. I’m not
quite certain what to ask as my next question—wait, I believe it’s time for some
refreshment.” They are interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman carrying a
tray with shot glasses and a decanter. “I
see Jenkins has brought the whiskey. Wonderful.
I believe it’s just the thing we need.” Richard smiles as Jenkins sets the
tray down and waits. “Care for a nip?
It’s an excellent Irish whiskey. Jameson I believe.”
“Jameson is
a fine whiskey, thank you Richard. I'm still an Irishman to the core. I do love
a nip from time to time.”
Jenkins pours two glasses of liquor, serves both men, and
then retreats. Richard Dale takes a sip of whiskey and asks, “As someone with a gift for interacting with
the otherworldly, what most fascinates you regarding the paranormal and ghosts
in particular?”
“I think
the most fascinating, and also confusing, aspect of spirits is the fact that
they are well aware of what they are. It's cliché to imagine them wandering the
earth believing they are still alive – as if they ignored their death somehow.
However, I find that rarely happens. Death is a major event, and the dead are
even more aware of it than the living. Now that I am attuned to them, I see
them frequently. Most of them pass on to wherever they are going. But some stay.
It is rare, but they have their reasons. Those reasons are as individual as
they are.”
“On a different
subject, do you have any hobbies outside the Church?”
He smiles.
“I love a good game of chess. I was once a tournament champ all across the
Midwest. Care for a match, Richard?” He turns his head. “Or perhaps you,
Jenkins?”
Jenkins blinks, and replies. “I shall have to decline, sir.
I don’t play. But thank you.”
Richard smirks somewhat. “Yes, I believe Jenkins is a bridge man. I’d be happy to take you up on
your offer of a game, after the interview. And speaking of such, what is your idea of perfect happiness?”
“I have
seen and felt perfect happiness. It is in that Presence that I saw for the
first time in Germany, and still see today. I dream of spending every moment in
that eternal Light.”
“And admirable
sentiment, Father.” Richard finishes his whiskey and sets down the glass. “What is your fondest memory?”
“Ah, this
is where I can tell you about Her.
“After some time in Auschwitz, I
began to remember my own mornings of hell, when I was beaten down by my
tormentor. They paled in comparison to what the wailing spirits of Auschwitz had
seen, but somehow my stay there made my monster rear its ugly head again, and
so my nightmares returned. I found myself crouched in a ball, an
eleven-year-old boy sniveling, waiting for a troubled priest to beat me up
again. I would not uncurl for anything or anyone, because he was as real to me
as you are Richard: standing above me, holding a stick. My instinct was to protect myself.
“I felt a touch on my shoulder.
Downy, like the touch of Schlomit. The wind blew my hair, and I smelled roses.
The touches persisted, they would not leave me alone. I finally peeked out
through my fingers, the way kids do sometimes. A woman looked back at me. I
never saw her face clearly – its form kept shifting; but I saw she was a spirit.
She was made of light, though, not the misty, grey, filmy stuff I saw in the
other ones. She pointed with her hand, inviting me to stand and look at
something. I was too frightened, so I hid my face again.
“She did not leave me. Instead, I
was surrounded by the fragrance of roses, and little downy feathers seemed to
fall all over my skin. I peeked through my fingers again. Her face was still
there, out of focus, but . . . I could tell she was weeping. She surrounded me with
herself, light and fragrance and feathers. Wind through my hair, and soft
melodies in my ears. I struggled between self-defense and enchantment,
determined to keep safe, but wishing I could look at her longer. Finally, I
dropped my hands. Fingers made of light lifted my chin, feathers in the breeze caressed
my face and urged it up, up, up. Without knowing what I was doing, I looked
straight into the sky and gazed on that radiant light. She held me there while
I took it all in. The love, Richard, it was indescribable. Nothing hurt me
anymore, not even my most secret fears. I fell for Her that day, and She has
been with me ever since, an adorable Presence by my side.
“You see, priesthood is a logical
vocation for a man like me. There is not a woman alive who could take Her place.”
“Quite amazing. As to
your vocation, what is the most rewarding aspect of being a priest?”
“It continues
to reward me when I see the healing of a broken soul. One does not have to be a
ghost to suffer, Richard. I lost my love of the Catholic Church because
someone's bad actions defaced God. I strive every day to right that wrong, and
represent God with kindness. Sometimes, one of the sufferers listens, “looks up,”
and sees the love that waits for them. Those are good days, Richard. Very good
days.”
“One last question. Have
you ever met anyone else with your particular gift for seeing ghosts?”
“A relevant
question! The answer will surprise you. I find that almost everyone has this
“gift”. It's just a question of focus. Some minds are especially attuned to the
unseen. I find that these are people whose minds are not burdened by
expectations of “real” and “normal”. I notice that many children and animals
see exactly what I see.
“Other minds are sensitive as well:
people who are diagnosed “mentally ill” sometimes are seeing spirits that walk
the earth. Where it gets dicey is when they can see actual spirits, but then
hallucinate others. I find that I can sometimes guide these types, and help
them to tell the real from the imagined, and do some good. Spirits usually want
to be seen by someone, and they often gather around a
living person who can discern them.”
Well thank you Father
Mahoney, for agreeing to this interview. It was a distinct pleasure. Now for
that game of chess…
What is it about fear and the unknown that pulls so passionately at the human heart? Perhaps we are drawn not to the darkness itself, but to the resolution, the overcoming of what we most deeply dread. After all, the more terrible the struggle, the greater the victory when it comes at last. Presented in this anthology are twelve remarkable stories of the darkness that overshadows us, and the resolution that may be found beyond them. They are stories of fear and oppression, but ultimately stories of hope, stories that will take you BEYOND THE WAIL.
Today, is last day of October Frights, but also the first day of the Beyond the Wail Blog Tour!
So I have a jammed pack post of a spooky spotlight, a review, an interview with one of the authors, Danielle Shipley, two giveaways, and more! Hold on to your hat as I present, the new paranormal anthology from Xchyler Publishing...
Beyond the Wail: 12 Grave Tales of Love and
Loss
What is it about fear and the unknown that pulls so passionately at the human heart? Perhaps we are drawn not to the darkness itself, but to the resolution, the overcoming of what we most deeply dread. After all, the more terrible the struggle, the greater the victory when it comes at last. Presented in this anthology are twelve remarkable stories of the darkness that overshadows us, and the resolution that may be found beyond them. They are stories of fear and oppression, but ultimately stories of hope, stories that will take you BEYOND THE WAIL.
Today is the official release of the book!
There are some wonderful stories in this anthology, from a troubled Grim Reaper, mischievous poltergeists, vengeful ghosts, demons, magic, and much more paranormal fun. Here's a quick look and review.
Beyond the Wail
12 Grave Tales of Love and Loss
OF MICE AND MONSTERS by Tirzah Duncan: Troubled by ghosts within and without, Benjamin struggles to become the man his girlfriend needs instead of the monster he is.
GO GENTLE by Julie Barnson: After the death of her boyfriend, a young musician uses her talents and a fabled violin to stop the fatal accidents at a dead man’s curve.
DEAD WATER by Amanda Banker: A stalled truck, an abandoned graveyard, and a town not found on any map take two brothers on a detour they’ll never forget.
COLD SPOT by Jay Barnson: When a laptop is stolen from their computer security company, two high school buddies go to extremes to investigate. But, will they manage to return?
THE WEEPING LADY by A. F. Stewart: Eva Douglas must face her mother issues, past and present, when the disappearance of her sister forces a confrontation with a terrifying ghost.
THE POLTERGEIST AND AUNT BETTY by Ginger C. Mann: Aunt Betty is eccentric, but how much is ghost, how much is medication, and how much is just plain crazy?
THE ‘GRIM’ REAPER by L. K. McIntosh: When a soul reaper loses the source of their power,
they must either find the witch who stole it or a new purpose for living.
SHRINE OF MIRRORS by F. M. Longo: A spy on a mission becomes a believer in the supernatural when the theft of three ancient relics threaten to bring down the empire.
DEAD MAN HOCKING by T.N. Payne: A world-weary zombie learns to beware what you wish for, and not all sure bets are worth the gamble.
ST. PETER’S FISH by Alex McGilvery: Sam is a walking disaster of biblical proportions, but how much is he willing to sacrifice to escape, and will the Powers That Be allow it?
THE DIORAMA by Sebastian Bendix: A play set turns life around for Martin Taper, but things take a turn for the worse when he neglects it and the lonely child obsessed with it.
DATE DUE by Danielle E. Shipley: A magic library’s guardian determines to protect her treasured books, whether their authors elect to do things the easy way … or the fatal one.
Review of Beyond the Wail:
Since I’m one of the authors, I’m not going to do an in depth review, but rather give you one or two thoughts on each story.
OF MICE AND MONSTERS by Tirzah Duncan:
I loved this story. It is powerful, haunting, and so excellently written.
GO GENTLE by Julie Barnson:
Soft and sadly sweet, like the music that swirls in the story. I enjoyed it.
DEAD WATER by Amanda Banker:
A terrific story, it pulls you in and doesn’t let go. Nicely engaging and chilling.
COLD SPOT by Jay Barnson:
A nicely written interdimensional adventure, with some technological twists.
THE WEEPING LADY by A. F. Stewart:
What can I say about this one? I wrote it. I like it.
THE POLTERGEIST AND AUNT BETTY by Ginger C. Mann:
A quirky little story, amusing, a little disjointed in spots perhaps, but a fun read.
THE ‘GRIM’ REAPER by L. K. McIntosh:
An interesting twist on the grim reaper theme, and nicely written. I’m not sure how I feel about the ending, but a great story nonetheless.
SHRINE OF MIRRORS by F. M. Longo:
I might be a bit biased with this one, as I’m partial to historical fiction, but the author does a skilful job with the myths, legends and history of feudal Japan.
DEAD MAN HOCKING by T.N. Payne:
A good solid zombie tale, very entertaining, and some nice depth of character. I liked it very much.
ST. PETER’S FISH by Alex McGilvery:
I found this one delightfully offbeat, a bit surreal and even philosophical.
THE DIORAMA by Sebastian Bendix:
This is a quiet story, with a creepy edge that sort of sinks into you as a reader.
DATE DUE by Danielle E. Shipley:
This author is fast becoming one of my favourites, and she certainly doesn’t disappoint with this story. She weaves her words in a wonderful spell that creates a mesmerizing fantasy story.
Presenting Danielle E. Shipley, author of Date Due
1. How did you come up with the concept of your story?
I came across an image accompanied by the
phrase, “I wish I had a secret library with all the books
in the world in it.” My brain’s third reaction – after playing a few bars of
the intro from “Into the Woods” and just generally drooling over the thought of
ALL THE BOOKS – was to question: Suppose someone had a library full of all the
books never written? How far would this bibliophile go to keep the books’
authors from writing them out of his/her possession? I wondered “aloud” on my
Facebook page, and multiple responders commented, “You totally have to write
this.” My muse seconded the motion, and the “Losers Weepers” theme of Xchyler
Publishing’s then-upcoming anthology contest matched my premise perfectly, so I
basically had no choice but to get the tale down on paper.
2. How did you come up with the title?
I wanted something equal parts library-related
and ominous. “Date Due” – the little phrase seen on library book check-out
cards/receipts everywhere – fit both criteria to a tee. Like a librarian’s dark
day of reckoning.
3. Please provide some insight into or a secret or two about
your story.
One of my inspirations was Edgar Allen Poe’s
“The Tell-Tale Heart”. Both Poe’s narrator and mine are anonymous – the text
never once gives their names – and both insist throughout the story that
they’re not insane, despite the fact that they are blatantly out of their minds.
And, y’know, they’re both murderers.
4. What was the most surprising part of writing this story?
It was slightly slow going, for a short story
of mine. I can normally knock out a story of this length in a day or two, but
this one took me ten. My narrator would not be rushed. She wanted to give me
her tale just so, and in her own sweet time.
5. What was the hardest part of writing your story, and how did
you overcome it?
The hardest part was titling all of the books
the narrator called out by name. Coming up with a title is hard enough for me
when I’m familiar with the story in question. To name a book I’ve never read?
Horror! Fortunately, once I’d gotten a first draft out of the way, with
“[TITLE]” acting as a placeholder wherever necessary, a couple of my best pals
were willing to toss out some random options, and I picked and tweaked my
favorites from the list to insert into the blank spaces.
Danielle's just for fun nerd Q&A:
Star Wars or Star Trek?
Not into either one. Sci-fi doesn’t generally
do it for me.
Hunger Games or Divergent?
I’ve yet to read any of the Divergent books,
but the Hunger Games trilogy made an impression on me, for sure.
James Bond or Jack Ryan?
Which one’s closer to Galahad from “Kingsman”?
Or Carmen Sandiego?
Sherlock: Robert Downey, Jr. or Benedict Cumberbatch?
Very much enjoyed what RDJ brought to the
table, but I’ve got to give this one to Cumberbatch. All my love to BBC’s
Sherlock!
Spock: Leonard Nimoy or Zachary Quinto?
Aaaand we’re back to
the final frontier. I respectfully abstain.
X-Men or Avengers?
Mad love for the X-Men, but come on. The Avengers
have Captain America. Forgive me, mutants!
Aliens or Predators?
I’d prefer to be preyed upon by neither.
Minions or Penguins?
I’m not sure how far either one would assist
my rise to evil overlordship, but I think I liked the trailer for the penguins’
movie better, so we’ll go with that.
Batman or Superman?
Batman. Because we are the night.
Harry Potter or Pirates of the Caribbean?
ARRRRGH! *hoists the colors* *releases the
Kraken* *drinks up, me hearties, yo ho* …Which is to say, PotC all the way.
Beatles or Rolling Stones?
Not sure I could even name a single Rolling
Stone song. Beatles by default, then?
Peter Jackson or James Cameron?
Raising my glass to he who took me to Middle
Earth and back again. Thanks, Mr. Jackson!
Steven Spielberg or George Lucas?
*flips a coin* Spielberg.
Vampires or Werewolves?
I consider vampires to be the more intriguing
“what if…?” of a monster.
LARP or MORPG?
I’m told that the socializing I do with my
characters on a daily basis counts as a live-action roleplay, so we’ve got
ourselves a no-brainer!
DANIELLE E. SHIPLEY
Danielle E. Shipley’s first novelettes told the everyday misadventures of wacky kids like herself. . . . Or so she thought. Unbeknownst to them all, half of her characters were actually closeted elves, dwarves, fairies, or some combination thereof. When it all came to light, Danielle did the sensible thing: packed up and moved to Fantasy Land, where daily rent is the low, low price of her heart, soul, blood, sweat, tears, firstborn child, sanity, and words; lots of them. She’s also been known to spend short bursts of time in the real-life Chicago area with the parents who home schooled her and the two little sisters who keep her humble.
You can find Danielle about and about the internet at these social media links:
I’ll be picking the winners in my ebook giveaway tomorrow
(and most likely will be posting the name here on my blog tomorrow as well). Xchyler Publishing will be picking its own winners, and they will be contacted after the end of their giveaway.
It's ten days of of chills and thrills, scares and hauntings!
Come revel in terrifying tales and drabbles of dread!
To kick off October, Are You Afraid of the Dark? will be playing on the dark side with a fantastic bevy of other paranormal and horror writers as part of the October Frights Blog Hop (running from Oct. 1st to 10th). It promises to be lots of scary fun and and there will be tons of prizes (and you won't even have to sell your soul to enter the giveaways).
As my part in this whole ten day terror fest, I'll be doing a ghostly theme.
Yes, that's right I'll be posting ghost stories. I have some short tales, some drabbles, and some haunting poetry for you, all about those phantoms that linger after death. Plus, I have a look at the new Xchyler Publishing paranormal anthology, Beyond the Wail, that includes my ghost story, The Weeping Lady.
Now a bit about my contest. I have a ten day long Rafflecopter giveaway for a prize pack of four of my Smashwords ebooks. These are my books up for grabs:
And to end out today's welcome, I have our feature story...
Midnight in the Graveyard
Every night I walk through the graveyard.
That may seem strange to some. Some may say there are better places and a better time to wander. Such people may be right, but my nightly strolls have never seemed strange to me.
I’ve always found cemeteries to be peaceful places. No one around to make chit chat or bother you with small talk. Even in the daylight hours. Everyone cocooned in his or her own private world of grief and remembrance.
Of course, at night, a graveyard is quite different. Very atmospheric. That’s why I love to walk there, especially under the moonlight. It has such quiet beauty, a serenity. Yet, there’s an untamed edge, almost mystical. Or so it seems to me.
Yet, the ambience is not my only motivation. There is the gravestone.
It sits on a small rise well in the rear of the cemetery. Every night I walk there, and pause beneath an oak tree. I stare at it, afraid to go closer. I have cause to be afraid. The person interred beneath that soil is why I haunt the graveyard at night. The stone is the reason I cannot leave this place in peace.
The grave is an old one, some say the oldest one here. Some even say the body buried there was cursed, bound to the earth and the stone that marked her grave.
Those people would be correct.
I am a coward. I fear to read my own name etched into that grave marker. It’s a hard thing for me to admit I’m dead. That I’ve been dead for centuries. That the only peace I’ll ever know is in the beauty of a graveyard on a moonlit night.
