Happy Halloween!

So it's the last post for Coffin Hop and I couldn't think of anything to blog about today. But then I had an idea. Remember those old choose your own adventure books? Well, this is a choose your own blog post. I have another blog that I started several years ago. It's my silly side and where I blog about my family. And one year, I did several fun Halloween posts. So I'm going to post links to those posts and you can read what you want.

Would you like a real life ghost story from my own personal experiences? Then you should read "That story I promised you on Sunday" or maybe "So about that haunted house...."

If you want a spooky video from the web, try "The Pantry Ghost."

Another little bit of real life and two movie reviews? Read "Ghosties Again."

If you'd like a spooky poem, try "Come in for a spell."

Want a funny post? Try "The one where I loose a tooth in a pumpkin carving accident..."

And for completely ridiculous, try "The one with zombie giraffes."

Leave me a comment and let me know which one you chose and what you thought about it. All comments are an entry to win a signed (by several authors) print copy of  Fading Light. Or your choice of an eBook version of any of AKP's titles.

Don't forget to visit the other Coffin Hop blogs here .

Happy Halloween & Happy Hopping,
♥Stacey

The Vagrant by Bryan Hall

Hello!! *waving wildly* I'm so excited. First, we are releasing a brand new novelette today by Bryan Hall. It's called The Vagrant and it's the first in a series of novellas/novelettes called the Southern Hauntings Saga. And let me just tell you-- they are GOOD. If you don't love them, there might be something wrong with you. Okay, so I might have become something of a "fan girl." So sue me. Anyway- you can purchase The Vagrant (and see that I'm right) here.

Second, and just as exciting, Bryan set up a website for his main character Crate Northgate. You can access that here. And I have been privy to an awesome, if somewhat awkward, attempt to interview Crate. And you, lucky folks, get to read it here first. Without further ado~

To whom it may concern,

My name's Joshua Roy.  I'm writing in regards to the man known as Creighton Northgate, or "Crate" for short.  I had heard of him months ago through a few local rumors, but finally learned a bit more about him through the http://www.whoiscratenorthgate.weebly.com site (which I'll also send a copy of this letter to).  A few days after visiting that site, I was in the right place at the right time.  It was a seedy little bar just outside town (I live in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas) and I heard a couple of fellas talking about the man that George and Ella Jenkins had hired to root out something going on at their farm.  They pointed him out to me, sitting at the bar.  Said his name was "Crate Something or Other".  I switched on my cell phone's audio record feature and tried to strike up a conversation with him.  I could tell within the first three words he said that he was getting close to being shit-hammer drunk.  It wasn't a long conversation, but I figured it would interest somebody.

 What follows is a transcript of the conversation:

Joshua - You look like a feller who could use another drink! Name's Joshua! Never seen you before...whereabouts you from ?

 Crate – Around.

Joshua - Never knew anyone from "Around"...that over by Bluff City? Hey next rounds on me! 

Crate - I appreciate it, but I think I've about had enough, friend.  Last thing I need's a hangover in the morning. Just needed a couple to...to help me sleep.

 Joshua - Oh yeah? I have problems too. Odd jobs have me going in every direction and I never know if I'm waking up or going to bed at 6am! What causes your troubles? 

 Crate - Heh.  Nothing you'd understand.  (a long pause)  Hell.  You heard of the Jenkins Farm?  Problems they've been having?

Joshua - They had to call in some sort of voodoo snake handler or something. How'd you hear about it?

Crate - They called me.  I ain't got much use for snakes, though.  Or voodoo.  Had a bad time with that shit a few years back.

 Joshua - Oh wow! So that's you. So this is how you make a living? Strange things happen and people call you to fix it?

 Crate - More or less. They don't always get fixed, though.

 Joshua - So what is it you try to fix? Ghosts? Spirits? Zombies? 

 Crate - Yep. Well...aside from the zombies.  Ain't seen a dead body yet that can stand back up.  Rigormortis is hell on the muscles.  You ought to try and drag a body that's been dead for a little while.  It don't bend and go all limp like in the movies.  Few hours and it's as stiff as a log.  Heavy as one too.  So nah.  No zombies.  (another long pause).  I'll have that beer now, I guess.  One more won't hurt.  Anyways...there's plenty out there you've heard of, friend.  Plenty you probably ain't believed in.  I'm here to tell you....believe it.  Believe it all.

Joshua – How the hell did you end up doing this?

Crate - Some folks are good at football.  So they play football.  Some of 'em are good at numbers.  So they become accountants or something.  I've got...talents that let me do what I do.  Beats being a carpenter all to hell.  Ain't like I've got a lot of competition. 

 (Note - at this point I noticed him eying me oddly and could fill his suspicion growing.  I filled the next few moments with idle chatter about the football game on the television until I was confident I could work in another serious question without drawing suspicion.  That portion of the conversation has been edited from this transcription for the sake of brevity)

 Joshua – You ought to film it.  When you're helping folks, I mean.  Fella could get rich off stuff like that, way all those Bigfoot and ghost hunting shows are all over the TV.

 Crate – I ain't trying to get rich.  And the last thing I need's to get famous.

Joshua – Hell…you are kinda famous.  Everybody's heard a little about you.  Didn't you have a brother or something that went missing?

(A long pause – I could tell I'd stepped over the line)

 Crate – Time for you to get the hell on from here, you lying son of a bitch.  You knew who I was.

Joshua – Hey man!  I'm just –

Crate – I said go to hell.

And that was it.  He finished his beer and left the bar a minute later.  I never saw him again, but I heard that that same night he managed to take care of whatever problem it was that had really been going on out at that farm. 

 I don't know if this helps shed any light on Creighton Northgate…but I can say he's not like anyone else I've ever met.

Thanks for listening,

Joshua Roy 

Go on, you know you want to see what all the fuss is about.

♥Stacey

The making of a horror writer

I've seen a lot of posts lately on why horror writers write horror. What is it that draws a person to the darker side? Honestly? I have no idea. No easy answers here folks, sorry. Someone suggested that our minds work slightly differently and that may be the case. I do know that my mind works way differently than almost anyone I know. Why? It's probably a little bit nature and a little bit nurture.

As for the nurture part, I'd like to thank my parents for being horror fans. Sure, letting a four year old watch "The Birds" was maybe not the best thing to do, (I have this horrible bird phobia. Seriously, those aviary things at Zoos? Can't get near them.) but that and Twilight Zone, Night Gallery and an endless stream of horror flicks set me up with a life long love of all things paranormal. And I don't consider that a bad thing.

I write horror because I want to scare people. I love that "Omigod, I cannot look behind me right now" feeling that you get when you watch a good scary movie or walk through a haunted prison (Mansfield Penitentiary- Ohio). That wonderful little thrill when you,re walking through the woods at night. That thrilling sensation when you're home alone and hear that inexplicable noise. Love it. If that makes me slightly crazy, so be it. It's how I roll. And I want to share that feeling. I've said before that if I can make one person sleep with the light on after they read my work- I've succeeded. And according to a friend who shall remain nameless, I'm a success. But I won't stop there. I've got more scaring to do.

Recently while blog hopping, I came across a giveaway, and you know I can't resist a giveaway, especially when the prize is a signed copy of a horror novel AND a DVD collection of horror films. It's like Christmas. So the entry is that I have to tell a true supernatural story that actually happened to me. I have several to choose from. But my favorite is also the basis for a novel I've been working on haphazardly for the last two years. So grab a snack & a drink, and give me your full attention.

From the age of 4 to 6 we lived on Okinawa, a small island off the coast of Japan. My father was career Air Force and we were stationed at Kadina Air Base there. I remember some of it, but being so little at the time, not all of it stuck with me. The following story is one my mother tells and my father corroborates. I don't remember much of it.

Around the age of 5, I developed an imaginary friend. I wasn't a loner, I was in school and played with neighborhood friends so my Mom thought it was odd that I'd develop an imaginary person to keep me company. Then again, I was a highly imaginative child, so they dismissed it at first. My mother says that I started spending most of my time playing with the imaginary friend, a little boy I called Manny, instead of other real children. She began to get a little creeped out when I started insisting on a place setting for Manny or cried when someone "shut the door on Manny's arm". But we were headed stateside and she had a million other things to worry about. When we flew back to the US we made the rounds of visiting relatives and ended up at my maternal grandmother's house here in Illinois.

One day I was playing on our suitcases in the upstairs hall outside the bathroom. My dad was taking a bath, but since he's 6'2" and its an old clawfoot tub, he needed my mom to come in and help rinse his hair. My mother told me to stay right where I was. And I did. Unbeknownst to us, my grandfather had come home that afternoon, drunk as a skunk, and was threatening my grandmother with a shotgun in the kitchen below the hall. One thing led to another and the gun went off. Luckily for me, I'd run to the bathroom door split seconds before the shotgun blast came through the floor on the side of the suitcase, where my leg had been just moments before. Of course my father, after assessing the situation, ran downstairs and took charge of the gun rather forcefully.

My mother examined me to make sure I was alright and then rather warily asked me why I'd run to the door. I told her "Manny told me too!" After that day, I never mentioned Manny again.

Do you have goosebumps yet? I don't know what Manny was; ghost, guardian angel, or what. But I do know, that if he hadn't been around, I might not be here at all. And that thought is truly scary.

The link to the contest is here. Go read more entries, vote for your favorites, or join yourself. The more, the scarier. Good luck! And sweet nightmares. I mean dreams. Yeah, of course I did.

♥Stacey

#Friday Flash- The Ghost Hunters

Yes, I do know it's not Friday. It's Wednesday. But I didn't get to play last Friday because my grandbaby had his first Doctor's appointment. And I had an MRI on my bum shoulder. But I still wanted to play along. So here is my offering- even if it's on the wrong day. This week's theme was haunted places.

The Ghost Hunters

Brian and Amy traipsed down the tree lined street; heavily laden shoulder packs making their shadows appear hunch-backed. Amy shivered as she looked towards their destination- a deserted house at the end of the road. The moonlight glinting off the house’s windows made them look like eyes peering from the gloom. She shook off the thought. She was scaring herself before they even got to the house. Some ghost hunter she was going to be.

“Where did you get all this stuff?” she asked, indicating her pack.

“I bought it.”

“You did what?”

“I bought it,” he replied. “I had to. If we’re going to be serious about this we’re going to need the right equipment. You don’t think those two old plumber guys skimped on the equipment do you? And look: now they have their own ghost hunting show. If it’s going to be a business, you’ve got to treat it like a business.”

Amy sighed loudly, muttered under her breath, and hitched up her pack. She still wasn’t convinced she wanted to be in this business.

“So where’d you hear about this house?”

“I told you. I saw a card about it on the bulletin board at a store on Maine Street. You know, the one that sells the weird shit.”

“You mean Eccentricities? They don’t sell weird shit. They sell antiques.”

“Okay. Old shit? Better?”

Amy rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue at him, knowing he wouldn’t see the gesture in the dark.

“So what did it say? Ghost hunters wanted: haunted house?”

“No. It said ‘For rent: haunted house’.”

“Really? Who the hell would rent a haunted house?”

“People who shop at an old shit store.” He put a finger to his lips and and pointed to the house. They were almost there. “Get out the heat camera.”

“Like I know which one that is,” Amy muttered under her breath. She put her pack down in the yard and knelt down to dig through it. Finally she found the small hand held camera that picked up heat signatures. She scanned the yard, nothing. Brian urged her forward and they went up to the porch. A sound made Amy jump.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Shhh. Jesus, Amy, are you trying to wake the dead?” Brian stared at her.

“Oh that’s funny Brian, har dee har har. I’m not playing around. I heard something.”

They both got quiet for a minute and looked around them. The sound came again. It was a low moaning. They froze.

“What now, Mr. Ghost Hunter?” Amy asked. “What does your book say we do now?”

“We need to get out some more equipment, get some baseline readings…” he broke off as they heard thumping from inside and more moaning.

“Are you sure we want to be here?” she asked. “Because I’m beginning to think I want to be anywhere but here.”

“No. It’s fine. It’s just the wind or something. Old houses settle.” Brian glanced around nervously. Suddenly, the thumping increased in tempo and volume and seemed just on the other side of the door. Amy stared at Brian wide eyed as she fought her body’s fight or flight response to what was obviously imminent danger.

Brian appeared equally petrified. Slowly the door began to swing inward on creaky hinges. With one last look at each other, they turned and fled back down the street, leaving their packs discarded on the porch.

A new sound could be heard coming from the doorway; a soft chuckling followed by a wheezy cough. Karl Barnard stepped out onto the porch and shook his head. It never failed. Some sucker was always ready to play ghost hunter. And Karl was always ready to play ghost- especially when it meant they’d flee without their gear. That left him something to take to Old Louie at the pawn shop for enough money to keep him in whiskey and smokes for awhile longer. Yessiree, this was the best con he’d run in years. He sifted through the packs and whistled through what was left of his teeth. This was high end stuff these folks had left, top of the line and brand new. He’d have some extra dough for maybe a decent meal or two as well as his usual haul.

“Huh?” he muttered to himself as he noticed a glowing set of lights inside the pack. He pulled out the piece of equipment and stared at it. It was some kind of indicator; it had a set of five lights on the tip and they were all glowing a bright red. He looked at the writing.

“E. M. F.” he read aloud. “What the hell…” he broke off mid sentence as a flashlight that had rolled to the end of the porch clicked on by itself. Karl froze. It was then he noticed the temperature had dipped considerably in the last few minutes. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he shivered. Good thing I don’t believe in ghosts, he thought to himself, or I might start believing my own propaganda.

He tried to shake off the feeling of unease, but it refused to abate. In fact, it was getting worse and Karl was sure something stood behind him. There’s nothing there, he thought. Nothing. I’m just letting the dark and that story I cooked up and spread about this house get to me. Turn around, he told himself firmly. Turn around.

Fighting against his own body’s response, he managed to turn. He found himself staring into a face more evil than any he’d ever encountered in his fifty six years of squandered life. It would be the last thing he saw. After several frantic erratic beats his heart gave up and stopped beating. Karl grabbed his chest and fell backward onto the porch steps, still gazing into the hate filled countenance of the house’s very real resident ghost.

Please leave a comment if you like it, or if you don't. All comments are welcome. And if you do like it- send some more readers my way, will ya? Thanks!

♥Stacey