Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Cleansing Flames

This short story will be presented in 3 or 4 parts. I hope you enjoy it. This story is up on the Graveyard group on Facebook. A new Terror Tuesday adventure from the mind that is Blaze McRob's!



Cleansing Flames

Smoke poured out of the hallway and tumbled into the living room, jolting me from my lethargic attempt to wake. I threw my cup of coffee onto the table adjoining my Lazy Boy and got down on my knees as fast as I could. Time was wasting! I had to rush to my bedroom and get my baby to safety. Everything else was secondary.

The heat stabbed at my head and back, the flames already sending tendrils of horror into the hallway. I had left the door open when I got up so I could hear my son if he started to fuss. Now the doorway itself was totally engulfed by the fire, the crackling sound getting louder as pieces seperated from the wood, floating into the surrounding air.

Damn! Why didn't my wife wake up and grab the baby? Was she overcome by the thick, black smoke?

I surged on, moving much faster now, not caring that I could barely breathe, the stench of my seared skin meaning nothing.

The white walls changed their color to gray, then black, before exploding into flame. Shit, the fire was racing through the house. How the hell was I going to get my baby out of this?

Black smoke and multi-colored flames greeted me as I forced myself into my room. Even the floor was excruciatingly hot to the touch, my hands and knees joining my back and head with fast forming burns. I felt my way to the crib and pulled myself up.

I panicked! My baby was not in the crib!

That's when I saw her: a young, Native American girl, maybe ten years old. She was holding my little Robert in her arms, completely oblivious to the raging fire forcing itself throughout the room. Her long, black hair tumbled down onto her dress, an old garment, like in the settlers' pictures going back to the latter 1800's. A luminescence formed around her and engulfed Robert, appearing to protect him from the flames. Her jet black eyes drilled into mine as she handed him to me, motioning that I should stay close to her.I did as she asked, and we ran out the door just as the fire trucks arrived. After handing Robert to a fireman, I collapsed onto the lawn, seeing my wife at the side of the yard.

The words I wanted to say stayed in my throat, trapped by the smoke and overriding panic still dwelling in me. As soon as they put the oxygen mask over my nose and mouth, I passed out.

                                                       ....

I spent thirty pain filled days in the hospital, wondering as to the whys of the fire, thankful that my baby had suffered no injuries at all: not so much as a scratch. My other children, thank God, had spent the night at a friend's house.

But my wife...

The cause of the blaze was attributed to an escaping fire from the wood stove in the downstairs family room. I never used the damned thing; it wasn't safe. The venting just wasn't easy to get right. Janice, my wife, on the other hand, was determined to use it, and on that night, she did. Our bedroom was directly above the stove, easy pickings for the escaping fire. It ran right up the wall: straight to my baby.

Janice had tried to stop the fire but couldn't get the fire extinguisher to work. She panicked, bolted up the stairs, and ran outside. It must have been when I was crawling to our room. One thing that clouded my mind was: exactly when had she gone downstairs? Was I so tired when I got out of bed that morning that I failed to notice she wasn't there? I don't know. What difference did it make? She went downstairs and wham: one fire in the making. It wasn't even her that called the fire department. My neighbor did.

My family moved back into the house a week before I left the hospital. I thought it would be burned to the ground, but the fire department worked a little magic. Shit! They did some major magic.

There was still a bit of smoke-tingued odor in the house, but it wasn't overpowering. My nose, Teutonic wonder that it was, was pretty sensitive and could pick up scents that most other people didn't notice.

Everything else was back the way it had been before the fire, and in some instances, even better.The walls were bright white and the trim was new and freshly finished. No soot tracks were anywhere.

I couldn't understand one thing, though: Robert's crib was virtually untouched. It had been in the middle of a blazing inferno and was unscathed. My bed was trashed and had been replaced, but the crib...

The furniture in my other children's rooms, as well as the rooms themselves, had also been spared.

Janice acted weird when I returned home. No hugs, no kisses, no explanations. In fact, other than cursory conversation, she said nothing. My children were glad I was back and rushed to greet me when I walked in the door, and Janice told them not to jump on Daddy because of the bandages and all, but not much else was said.

No one mentioned my little Native American friend. I must have been the only one to have seen her. There was no way I was going to ask Janice about her: she was already acting strangely and I didn't need her flying off the handle about what a nut case I was for seeing ghosts. She was harboring something weird inside her; something she wasn't going to open up about. This went well beyond any guilt she might have had about starting the fire.

I knew my little friend was real: as real as a ghost can be. She had saved the lives of my baby and me. It didn't matter what kind of stress I had suffered that night. She had been there. Why hadn't I seen her before? Maybe, just maybe, she was only there the one time we needed her. Would she move on now, or was she attached in some way to the house?

Her clothing confused me. My house had been built circa 1950. The dress she had been wearing was 1880 or 1890'ish. Costume maybe?

I was stuck in the house for awhile. Until my wounds were completely healed, there would be no work for me. I had one of those jobs that required crawling around on my stomach in tight places and manuevering on my back as well. All of this would certainly tear the dressings off of me and aggravate the burned areas. It wasn't easy hanging around the house, but I had no choice. My non-stop work ethic had to back off a bit.

There was a bright side to my forced work inactivity: I would get to spend more time with my children. My work usually kept me away from them far too much.

My sleep patterns didn't deviate from my norm. I was used to getting up at 2:00A.M., and my natural alarm clock just kicked my ass out of bed at that time. Rather than try to fight it, I stayed with the routine: at any rate, it would be easier to return to work if I didn't have to adjust back again.

One morning I was sitting in the recliner drinking my coffee, and I saw her again. She stood no more than eight feet away, still wrapped in her veil of luminescence. Once more, she wore her old dress. She was a beautiful child: long black hair and eyes to match, and a beautiful bronze complexion to her skin. For a long time she just watched me, and I have to admit that I was totally entranced by her. I suppose most people would have been freaked out by her presence, but she had a very calming effect on me. It was...it was like she was there for a reason: a very important reason.

She left the living room and walked down the hallway, vanishing before my eyes. I got out of the recliner and tried to follow her path.

I opened the first door to the right - my daughters' room - and there she was, smiling down at my youngest daughter, Mary, only three years old. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back, not quite certain what was going on but having a pretty good idea.

We left the room. I allowed her to leave first because I wanted to see where she would go next. My question was answered as she vanished at the door to my sons' room. Once more, I opened the door to find her inside, tenderly looking down on them.

From there we went into my room, and the look on her face changed dramatically. That tender, smiling face changed into one of complete disgust when she looked at Janice. Her entire body shook, and the edges of luminescence turned darker, almost black, the longer she looked at her. It was only when she turned her eyes to Robert that her sweet smile and brightness returned. Obviously, she did not like Janice.

"What's wrong? Why are you staring at the crib?"

I looked at Janice, sitting up now on the bed, staring in my direction.

"Just making sure the baby's okay," I said.

Janice showed no awareness of seeing the little girl, even though she was still in the room, tendrils of black forming once more around her.

"Don't wake him up," she said. "If you do, you'll have to hold and feed him."

I merely nodded at her. It appeared Robert was safe, and that was all that mattered to me, but there was some kind of powerful force at work in this room; a force that made the hairs on my neck bristle with alertness, waiting for something to happen; something that was not good.

Once Janice went back to sleep, I reached down and picked Robert up. It just didn't seem right to leave him there. All the nerves in my body were painfully aware that all was not right here. Everything was okay in my other childrens' rooms, but in this room, there was a foreboding of evil.

My little friend looked at me and smiled, telling me I had done the right thing. We left the room, and I took Robert to the Lazy Boy. When I sat down with him, the little girl was gone, but somehow I still felt her presence.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

God's Last Stand


This is the final installment of the tales of Algol and family and the end days. It has been a real joy writing this. I hope you enjoy the ending.


God's Last Stand



     For now, everything is quiet. All the outcasts are settled and calm, enjoying the time spent away from the war for dominance. Algol knows it will be short-lived, but he muses on this kind of peace if they somehow become the victors in the up-turned miscalculations of the Creator and his chief foe. For now at least, Satan is on their side, and with no more wondering about Trishil, they can focus on the plans for the battle to come.

     Yes, the battle to come. There will only be one more with God. Of that, Algoi can be sure. Win or lose, He will not be ready to mount any more attacks. Algol's forces have beaten them back at every turn. True, Destiny was the power behind the victories, but they fight as one; no one claims to be the chief architect of victory, but they all pledge allegiance to the child warrior.

     Gargos and Algol stare at the baby sleeping so peacefully in his mother's arms. How such a seemingly helpless baby is able to mount the strength to fight the way he does is beyond them. They shake their heads and walk away.

     Gargos, my friend," Algol says, "we are rapidly approaching the final battle with the Creator. He is not finished with us yet. What he has left in his little bag of tricks is beyond me, but we will find out soon enough. He has shoved His mightiest warriors at us and been stopped at every turn. Whatever warriors he summons next will be completely unknown to me. I have seen everything there is to see that I am aware of."

     Shit! That's it! Damn, how stupid Algol has been; he has seen God use all the available forces on this planet. However, this planet is not all that exists. And this plane of existence is not the only universe available to the Almighty. What is hiding in the multi-verses bordering this one? Creatures like him are supposed to be sub-human in intelligence, especially that dealing with physics and the theorems involving alternate, neighboring existences, but Algol is well versed in these things. He has overheard much over the years.

     Damn! Heaven could occupy an entire alternate parallel universe. The stupid humans think of Heaven existing in the clouds, but clouds are mere vehicles of condensation entrapment. Heaven is a place: not one of tenuous footing but a solid place with form and structure.

     Could this be the same for Hell? Does Satan exist within his own world, another plane, another manifestation of evil that is like what this planet harbors but goes a step above and beyond?

     "Gargos, I have been very stupid and have not seen the obvious truth. We need to prepare now for what is to come. Our enemy will not come from above but from around us. The firmament to Heaven resonates from there. That is why we feel the presence of the departed without being able to determine their whereabouts."

     The Cyclops leader understands and nods. He too is able to sense these other beings.

     God is going to sacrifice the holy and righteous ones in heaven to try and win this battle! The line . . .the line between good and evil is very thin. Algol is finding it difficult to determine where exactly the good abides from either side.

     There is no good! There is only the need to win at any cost. Algol can not accept this. Somehow, good must come from all that is happening.

     "Prepare the men, Gargos," Algol says. "the firmament is ready to open."

     Gargos does as Algol requests and leaves as the air around them stagnates then changes to a vicious whirlpool sucking everything into its center. The odor of ozone is strong in the air. Algol is ready to do battle. Damn the electricity ready to strike them down! They will beat whatever comes through the gateway to the neighboring multi-verse.

     And come through, they do: majestic Angels ready to give their all for their Lord and Master; the most noble of humanity, the ones who made a positive contribution to the welfare of their fellow man in the name of their God; and all the heroic soldiers who gave their lives for just causes. All of them are here now, ready to do battle with the heathen forces of the Dark side.

     But are they? Is not the Dark side the focal point of attack from both God and Satan. And what have they really done to deserve annihilation?

     Joan of Arc, a very confused lady at the moment, steps through the firmament and surveys those she is supposed to attack. These poor deformed creatures have suffered enough, so she stands at the side of Algol, ready to protect him from annihilation. In her mind, blind obedience to a God intent on extinction of His enemies is not reason enough to strike them down. She did that before and was burned to death for her beliefs. She will not allow others to suffer the same fate as her when they don't deserve it.

     One by one the others pass through the fissure of time and space, only to align themselves with Algol and his mighty warriors. Not a one raises a sword to smite those assembled there. God has made a monumental goof: the last of his attacking forces were to come from the purest of his creations, but the problem was that they were too pure. They recognized the Almighty for the flawed God he is.

     As lightning attacks everything around then, Jehovah makes His appearance and stands before Algol.

     "My forces are all traitors!" He shouts. "But I will cut you down like the insignificant piece of garbage you are."

     "Think again!"

     The assemblage stares at a smiling Destiny, sword in hand, ready to do battle against his sworn enemy.

     "The chosen one speaks again, does he?!" God shouts. "Time for me to put the baby to sleep for good!"

     He strikes at at Destiny with his sword, this one bigger than the one he used before. Shorn of the bedazzlement of the jewels, it is a far more effective weapon. But Destiny laughs at his efforts and lashes out with his own sword, delivering blow after blow to the Creator, carving Him up before the eyes of all those there.

     For over an hour, they go at it until God no longer has the strength to raise His sword, Destiny standing in front of Him taunting him to fight back. But fight back he does not and crawls through the fissure of heaven and earth and closes it behind him. His last bastion of hope remains behind, but they are happier where they are at than if they were to return to the supposed holy place from whence they came. Surely God would have wreaked revenge on them for failing to fight his war.

     "Is it over, Destiny?" Algol asks. "Has God left for good?"

     Destiny nods. "Yes. He's gone back to the parallel universe where Heaven resides."

     "Heaven won't be a happy place with the Creator pissed off."

     "Worse yet, a lot of Heaven's residents are living with us now."

     Algol and Gargos look at each other. What's going to happen now? The residents of this village are getting more diverse all the time. Shit! Joan of Arc is here. How the hell are they going to tear the humans apart and eat them with these people watching?

     "I guess it's a change of diet until we figure something out," Destiny says.

     "That's easy for you to say," Algol says. "You're still feeding off your mother's tits."

     Destiny smiles and Algol laughs along with him. Imagine the lunacy of the whole thing: A breast-feeding baby whooping God in a sword battle.

     "With all you can do with your sword and other powers," Algol says, "maybe we should all start drinking milk."

     "Not from me you won't," Lillith says. "Destiny needs everything I can give him."

     They all laugh at that. A little frivolity in the midst of uncertainty about the future. God has packed it in, but . . .

     "Has anyone seen Satan?" Algol asks.

     "No," says Lillith. "He vanished when Destiny was sending God packing.'

     A chill works its way through Algol's hair, his sensors going crazy. "That bastard!" he shouts.

     Destiny motions for them all to remain silent. He hears things: things his father doesn't even hear. Running to the edge of the forest, he raises his sword, the smell of evil filling his nostrils. bastard indeed! Satan's Hell does not reside on earth either. Through a rift amongst the trees, all sorts of demons rush out, malformed creatures belonging to this world, but not belonging, much like the horrific offspring of Trishil.

     The chosen one feels the blood of the Devil coursing through the veins of the advancing horde. There will be no change in the hearts of these creatures. They are behind their father 100%.

     Not waiting for the others to join him, Destiny charges into the middle of the horde of evil, deftly swinging his sword, destroying one after the other. once the others arrive to join him in battle, the outcome is pretty much decided, but not until the last one is killed will the battle be over. No remorse can be shown to them.

     Once more in this stupid end-game scenario, a combatant for power is willing to sacrifice everything most dear to him. Children, friends, loyal followers mean nothing. It is all about winning. everything hinges on it.

     Blood flows from Satan's children, mixing with the debris formed from mangled body parts, intestines flung everywhere, and the mess created at death when all body functions cease and shit and piss flow like water.

     The last of them is dead and there is still no sight of the Dark Angel. He is not changing his cowardly ways. The rift closes back up and Destiny tries to get to Satan before he enters, but he is too late.

     A massive cheer goes up from the warriors. The war . . .the war that killed and maimed so many of them is now over. Destiny is hoisted up onto Algol's shoulders and the warriors go back to the village. They have won the most unlikely victory. The world is theirs! Nothing more to fear.

     The village is quiet, everyone finally able to rest. Algol, Lillith, and Destiny are sleeping peacefully in the same bed.

     A cool breeze enters the room, and Destiny opens his eyes. Nothing is in the room.

     Not yet, anyway . . .



Blaze McRob

     

   

     

    

Friday, October 21, 2011

Old Van Tassel


This is my Friday flash for the Vamplit blog this week. Welcome to Dutch country.


Old Van Tassel



     Halloween night in the valley. For this time of year, it is exceptionally mild. Usually, the ground is pretty firm and there might even have been a snowfall or two in addition to some hard frosts. This year has yet to see a hard frost, and an eerie, pea-soup fog about four feet high covers the entire valley floor.

     Yet, the trees are almost stripped of all their leaves, the branches looking like long, skinny arms raised in supplication to some unseen force, the finger-like tips appearing as though they are deformed hands reaching out for something: but what?

     This part of Northern New Jersey is in the middle of old Dutch country, and a lot of the old legends still persist, even after centuries of change. Tales of the spirit of old man Van Tassel always surface on nights like this when the landscape is transformed to that of a different place, a different time.

     The George Inn sits in the middle of McAfee. Pretty much, it is the only business between Great Gorge in Vernon and the junction of Rt 94 and state Highway 23. On weekends, the place is busy, people preferring to stop here to drink rather than venture to the north and be forced to hob-nob with the tourists. This place belongs to the locals, and they are loyal customers; not that it takes much to get them out of their homes and down to the tavern to quaff a few and share some lies.

     Tonight the lies are flying around, but is there possibly some element of truth attached to some of them? After all: this is Halloween night, and the fog of the legends is present.

     These are the conditions ripe for the emergence of old Van Tassel.

     "That damned fog is thick, Jack. Chest high and dense enough to cut it with a knife."

     The bartender pours another beer for Fred and sits it in front of him. "Damned thick, Fred! I, for one, am not leaving here until it's gone. Shit! You can't see the fucking road anyway. How could you get home in this?"

     "Funny how it waited until the place was packed before the fog rolled in. It's almost like the fog can think," Fred says.

     "Or someone is controlling it," Zeke says, shaking his head around.

     "C'mon, Zeke," Jack says, "you've been listening to the old stories again. Only God can control the elements."

     "Maybe the Devil has his hand in this, Jack," Zeke says. "What I feel has nothing to do with God."

     A murmuring of approval spreads throughout the bar, everyone knowing that on nights like this, evil things happen, and it appears the Inn is smack-dab in the middle of a festering of growing horror. It's not just the fog that's thick tonight: the impending terror awaiting them all sits heavy in the air. The stench of old injustices and the need for retribution is everywhere. For some of them: it is difficult to breathe, the presence lying thick and heavy on their chests.

     Jack knows this will not be a normal night, but he tries not to increase the anxiety of the patrons.

     Years ago, Van Tassel was strung up and hanged for the murder and rape of one of the barmaids. The real perpetrator was found out a few years later when he was caught in the act of the same crimes to the Presbyterian minister's wife. Fortunately, she wasn't killed. He confessed to the barmaid's killing and rape. A good, rightful hanging and the town was safe once more.

     Yet, it really isn't. Van Tassel is still around. Forget the fact he's been dead for hundreds of years. The grave isn't stopping him. Heaven or Hell can wait: he hasn't accomplished his mission.

     The mission is not a good one. not for the locals anyway.

     Through the fog he comes: easily 6 feet 5 inches and broad as an ox. The heavy moisture falls below his massive chest, and his eyes, black as coal, focus on the Inn. A broad grin covers his square jaw and face, and he slowly walks towards the beckoning door.

     The door to the tavern opens, and in he walks, dressed in the costume of the day. Not a particular Halloween costume for this day and age, but a costume befitting someone of his stature hundreds of years earlier. His neck still bears the horrid, jagged scar associated with a slow hanging. Van Tassel was a brute of a man and refused to die easily.Three men were forced to jump onto him for extra weight to make his demise come sooner.

     Wild panic hits the Inn as the patrons realize the supposed legend is real, and the look on his face says some of them will join others who have been singled out for revenge in past years.

     Jack grabs a shotgun from under the bar and unloads both barrels filled with buck-shot into his chest, but no blood comes from the wounds, and the Dutchman from the past reaches behind the bar, lifts Jack into the air, and brings him down across the bar, killing him instantly as the sound of his broken back fills the room. Methodically, the giant goes through the crowd, destroying one patron after another, some killed as quickly as Jack but others forced to linger in pain longer as limbs are torn off, and they virtually bleed out from where arms and legs had found a home just moments before.

     The doors are blocked with the debris of the dead and dying, preventing anyone from escaping. All fifty patrons are slaughtered at the whims of the maniacal Van Tassel.

     Happy with what he has done, the butcher goes behind the bar and grabs a bottle of beer, sucking down the smooth taste as he surveys the carnage before him.

     "Thanks for the beer, Jack," he says as he removes the costume worn over his other clothes. The bullet-proof vest he leaves on. One never knows when the cops will come. He is big; he is invincible, but he is not immortal.

     "I hope that my ancestor is happy I have kept up the tradition."

     Mike Van Tassel walks out the door of the Inn, back into the fog where he soon disappears from view.

     Twisted revenge: once more served.



Blaze McRob   

         

   

    







Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Katina Solomon

Katina Solomon has sent me another list of movies. This one is great! I'd forgotten about some of these. Now I'll have to see them again. Thank you very much Katina! See the link below and visit her and her buddies at Zen College Life.

 

 

The 9 Weirdest Horror Movies Ever Made

All horror movies are weird, when you think about it. How often do you really find yourself fighting a psycho in a hockey mask when you go camping? Or worrying about whether your local hospital will suddenly start spitting out zombies? Not that often. Even so, some horror movies look like documentaries compared with some of the genre's weirder entries. You want a possessed bed? Evil snow? Sentient human waste? Then you're in luck. Here are 10 of the weirdest horror movies ever made, for anyone feeling brave or bored enough to give them a try. Don't say we didn't warn you, though.
  1. Death Bed: The Bed That Eats

    Immortalized in a Patton Oswalt routine, Death Bed: The Bed That Eats offers everything its title promises. There's a bed, and it eats people who sleep on it. Period. Released in 1977 by writer/director/producer George Barry — who is apparently a one-man operation for gems like this one — the film tells the story of a bed possessed by a demon that kills and eats anyone who tries to sleep or make love on it. The production values are, to put it kindly, not very good, but the final product is just crazy enough to be watchable. Just sit on a couch when you do.
  2. Tourist Trap

    The 1970s and 1980s were kind of a golden era for weird American horror. The genre was still considered an illegitimate offshoot of "real" filmmaking, and it took game-changers like The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and Halloween to start convincing people that horror was more than just goofy shocks. That was a tough fight, too, because movies like Tourist Trap were nothing but goofy shocks for 90 minutes at a time. And make no mistake: This is a weird movie. It's all about a group of friends who stumble upon an old man who owns a run-down museum full of mannequins and wax figures that he — wait for it — controls telepathically. He picks the kids off and turns them into plastic monsters to fill up his collection. Creepy, darkly humorous, and definitely worth your time.
  3. Teeth

    Mitchell Lichtenstein's slightly campy, definitely uncomfortable horror movie deals with a teenage girl cursed with vagina dentata. It is every bit as awkward and weird as it sounds — it's not uncommon for the horror to happen just out of frame, only for a severed organ to fall with a thump to the ground — and its unevenness keeps it from working as a thriller or a comedy. It's not straight enough to be scary, and it's not nearly funny or smart enough to play as a satire. It's just off-putting.
  4. Cannibal! The Musical

    Before they got going with South Park, Trey Parker and Matt Stone did what all college students do: They made a musical about cannibalism in the days of gold prospecting. Originally titled Alferd Packer: The Musical and retitled Cannibal! The Musical when it was picked up for distribution, the horror-comedy tells the tale of Alferd Packer, a prospector involved in a cannibalism incident in the winter of 1873 on a journey from Utah to Colorado. The movie is hilarious and bizarre in equal measure, veering from upbeat songs to moments of absurd gore with a glee that Parker and Stone would later bring to their landmark animated series. Watch it for the experience, but don't be surprised if you start humming the songs. (Photo above courtesy of Troma.)
  5. The Baby

    Now this is one for the books. Released in 1973, the film revolves around a social worker who starts working for a family whose patriarch is a mentally impaired man in his 20s who still crawls around and acts like a baby. The man is also regularly abused and sexually assaulted by his mother and sisters (and a babysitter). It's a psychological thriller with a bizarre execution, and it's the kind of insane flick that fell through the cracks of the world and drifted through grindhouses and cable stations in the years after its debut. The ending is the perfect capper to a twisted story. It's a horror movie, yes, but more than anything it's just crazy.
  6. Monsturd

    Monsturd is a haunting examination of man's own inhumanity in a postmodern age. Kidding! It's about a killer made of poop. It's a real movie, too. You can buy it and everything. Released in 2003 to an unsuspecting world, Monsturd is about a serial killer who escapes his pursuers by hiding in a sewer, only to fall into a pool of chemicals that turns him into a monster that's half-man, half-feces. Understandably unhappy about his new form, the Monsturd throws himself into a rage-fueled killing spree. Does Monsturd come up through toilets to get people? Watch and find out! Or don't. Actually, just don't. It's boring, badly acted, and impossible to watch without being dangerously drunk. Just enjoy the premise and move on.
  7. Night of the Lepus

    If you know your Latin, you know that "lepus" means "hare." That's right: This is a horror movie about giant killer rabbits. Based on the comedy-horror novel The Year of the Angry Rabbit, the film loses any hint of satire or social commentary and goes right for awful scares and laughable effects. The mutant rabbits that do the killing are played by real rabbits set against miniature sets or by humans in rabbit costumes, which makes the film about as scary as an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba! and twice as surreal. All silly, no scary, and weird as can be.
  8. House

    This Japanese horror flick from 1977 has a considerable cult following and even earned a recent remastering as part of the Criterion Collection. But don't be fooled: It's deeply, bravely weird. It will break your brain. The plot very loosely deals with a young girl who travels with a few of her classmates to her aunt's home, only to find herself doing supernatural battle with a sentient house that wants to kill them. That description actually sounds somewhat normal (ish) until you see the actual movie. It's a masterpiece of WTFery that can never be topped.
  9. Mystics in Bali

    Cheap, Indonesian, and not at all worried about making sense, Mystics of Bali is in the running for weirdest of the weird. The story follows a woman who heads to Bali to investigate the locals and their history of witchcraft; yada yada yada, she befriends a demon queen and transforms into a variety of animals before eventually terrorizing the village as a severed head on a stump of organs. You know, as one does when one goes to Bali. The film's straightforward presentation of twisted images and gore make it a surrealist's dream come true, and it relies more on sheer bizarre ideas than typical shocks and scares. Not for the faint, but a must for the curious




    .http://www.zencollegelife.com/the-9-weirdest-horror-movies-ever-made/

Friday, October 14, 2011

Mr. Jack



This is my Friday flash for the Vamplit blog this week. Tricks might not always play out as planned!

 

Mr. Jack



     Devil Night is what they call it: the trick part of Halloween; mischief only; no treats other than those the evil-doers feel they are experiencing. Theirs is the high derived from causing other people grief.

     He sits on the porch railing doing what he is here for. Every year the stupid bastards come. They never learn. Of all the houses in the neighborhood, this is not the right one to vandalize.

     The flame inside him burns bright, flickering gently with the breeze, exposing the jagged teeth which now are becoming part of a wicked smile. "They're coming," he thinks. "I can smell the vermin."

     The evil-doers are not especially quiet, their senses dulled from the cheap hooch they've been drinking. Maybe it's a good thing for them, The pain won't be quite so bad. Oh, Mr. Jack intends   for there to be some pain. Yeah: a broader grin will be derived from that.

     "Look at that wonky jack-o-lantern, Bart!" one of the guys says as they approach the porch.

     "Whoah! The fucker is ancient! Get a whiff of it. Smells like old mold."

     "You're right, Fred. Damn! it's disgusting!"

     "Let's trash the thing; toss it through the window. No one's home that I can see."

     Before they can put their hands on it, a sudden chill surrounds the two two young men. The burning candle inside the pumpkin bursts into intense flame and dark shadows work their way across the porch and the exterior walls of the house.

     "I wouldn't do that if I were you!"

     The two twenty-somethings stare in amazement at the jack-o-lantern with the hideously twisted, evil grin. Fred reaches out to grab him, but Mr. Jack sends a warning in the form of a blast of flame emanating from out of his mouth, catching him flush on his startled face. He screams out in pain, grabbing his burned face before realizing that is not very wise as chunks of charred flesh adhere to his hands making the pain only worse. 

     Bart grabs a rake leaning against the porch railing and attempts to swat the pumpkin with it, but the shadows reach out with long black arms attached to wicked hands, the finger-tips replaced by sharpened talons. Like a series of knives, they slash away at his arms, causing him to drop the rake. Blood pours from the wounds, the splatter creating a ghastly effect in the garish light.

     "Do you need any more warnings?"

     The no longer intrepid duo are now only intent on escaping this porch laden with horrors they can not understand, but there is a force of unknown origin holding them here, keeping them glued to where they stand.

     "Oh, did I forget to mention that you will not be allowed to leave here? Tsk, tsk. The sins of the transgressors in this place are doomed to rot within the confines of their own evil."

     The shadows cast other shadows, completely blocking all avenues of escape. The men are pushed towards the door of the house which opens as they approach it, the creaking of its hinges creating fear and confusion in the minds of the two men. Misshapen figures reach out to grab them as they try to find refuge within, only to discover they have been duped; tricked into a sense of false security.

     "Welcome, strangers. You will not be strangers much longer. You will soon be surrounded by many others, people like you intent on destruction and mayhem."

     Groans come at them from everywhere as the shadows vanish, only to be replaced by twisted appendages which once belonged to humans. Now, their humanity stripped from them, they merely go through the motions of what  memory remains of the days . . . the days before they dared attempt to destroy the beauty of this house.

     Beauty. Yes, there is beauty here now: if one revels in the dark side of humanity imprisoned within a tomb of their own making. Jack laughs as he watches the inhabitants of the demonic domicile grab Bart and Fred, making them into creatures the same as them. Tantalizing shrieks of pain rip through the air as the two are dragged into the basement, a place of unspeakable horror, filled with devices of torture.

     The physical pain for them will be beyond comprehension, but the real agony will last forever. Their minds will belong to the damned for eternity.

     Mr. Jack sits on the railing once more, waiting for the next group of wanna-be evil-doers. Off in the distance he hears them approaching. Their minds are formulating plans.

     "Oh, I don't believe the fools will be receiving their expected treats tonight," Jack says.

     "My treat will be their trick."



Blaze McRob   

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Stacey Turner-CEO



What do you do when a publishing house started up by Yvonne Bishop and Blaze McRob takes off like crazy, and the work load intensifies to a point beyond insane? The solution is simple: you make your highly qualified Editor, who is doing so many things besides editing, your CEO. Stacey Turner is taking on this huge responsibility immediately. She is the to-go-to person. In addition to her CEO duties, she will be our Chief Editor. Yes, the way things are going, we will need more editors, I'm sure. Stacey will be handling so many facets of Angelic Knight Press' business.
Does this mean Yvonne and Blaze will sit back and take it easy? No way. The owners have work to do. We have to pay the bills. Stacey needs a raise, we must keep Rebecca coming out with her fantastic art work, and Kathy Rowe needs to buy hay to feed her horses. For too long, Blaze has not had a chance to do the marketing and promotional work he so wants to do. Today, he actually got out and did some non-online things to boost sales for Angelic Knight Press authors. What did he do? He set accounts up with two Indie book stores in town to take our books. Yes, he had to sweeten the pot a bit, but it works for all of us as well as the stores. Book-signings are being set up. He has also contacted some big Indie stores in the Boulder/Denver area to take our books. And, he just happens to be friends with one of the top editors for the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle in Cheyenne who is fascinated with Angelic Knight Press. When Cindy Keen Reynders' novel "The Seven-Year Witch" comes out, we are going to get a big spread in the paper. Cindy doesn't know this yet. Will she ever be happy! 
So, my friends, let us wish Stacey the best with her new job and responsibilities! She is very capable and loves the Press as much as Yvonne and I do. Angelic Knight Press has exploded out of the gate, and Stacey is a huge factor in this great growth. We will have to update our what's coming up list very soon so everyone can see where we are going.


Saturday, October 8, 2011

Tim Marquitz

Tim Marquitz is the featured author in The Writer's Chatroom tomorrow night, October 9th at 7:00 P.M. Eastern time. You don't want to miss this!

  The Writer's Chatroom http://writerschatroom.com       Chat with Tim Marquitz From gravedigger to horror author...
Raised on a diet of Heavy Metal and bad intentions, Tim Marquitz  has always been interested in writing, but it wasn't until about 1995 the urge became a compulsion. However, it would be many years later before the ability matched the interest. Fortunately, the two have reconciled...mostly.

Writing a mix of the dark perverse, the horrific, and the tragic, tinged with sarcasm and biting humor, he looks to leave a gaping wound in the memories of his readers like his inspirations: Clive Barker, Jim Butcher, and Stephen King.

A former grave digger, bouncer, and dedicated metalhead, Tim is a huge fan of Mixed Martial Arts, and fighting in general. Involved in the Live Action Role Playing organization, Amtgard, since he was fifteen, he derives great pleasure from bashing people into submission.

He lives in Texas with his beautiful wife and daughter, a neurotic dog and their finger-crippling cat. WHEN? Sunday, October 9, 2011
Eastern USA Time.....7 PM
Not sure what time that is wherever in the world you are?  http://www.worldtimeserver.com
WHERE?
The Writers Chatroom at:  http://www.writerschatroom.com/Enter.htm
Scroll down to the Java box. It may take a moment to load. Type in the name you wish to be known by, and click Login. No password needed.
Please note:  The chatroom is only open for regularly scheduled chats.
Don't forget the topic chats on Wednesday nights, 8-10 pm EST!

Friday, October 7, 2011

Tenement Treats


 This is my Friday flash for the Vamplit blog this week. I hope you enjoy it.



Tenement Treats



     Every year it's the same thing: no place to go for trick or treating. And if there is a place, what difference does it make? There is no money for costumes; there is barely enough money for essentials. While other kids tear up their clothes to look like hobos and such, the kids of the tenements wear those clothes every day.

     Winter will come early this year. Already the winds are tearing around town and the chill is spreading from the evening and encompassing more of the daylight hours.

     Little Danny is doing poorly. This could be his last Halloween unless his parents scrape up enough bucks for the operation he needs. but he so wants to go out trick or treating, and his parents are trying to find a solution. They want only the best for him. It's not their fault they both lost their jobs to a rotten economy and the fact the Democrats and Republicans care only about enlarging the size of their coffers. Fuck the people who need things the most.

     Across the street, on top of the roof, he sits and listens. For the past year he has been silent, standing by, observing what takes place here, wanting to help, waiting for the time.

     Damn it to hell! Someone has to do something!

     An abandoned school bus sits on the corner, obviously stolen, but around here the police aren't about to venture into the neighborhood at night without some major reason: life or death, and even then . . .

     He walks up to the bus and starts it up, the keys sitting on the floor next to the driver's seat. Smiling, he drives it to a more affluent part of town and pulls up in front of a large party store, which at this time of the year sells Halloween costumes. Pulling his black hood down over his eyes, he walks in and strides over to the manager.

     "You know what I want," he says. "I would appreciate your help. I'm sure you'll be most co-operative.'

     Terrified, the manager nods and calls all of his staff over. "This man must be helped. I want all of the costumes loaded into the box truck. I will need drivers for all the other trucks as well. This will be a memorable Halloween as long as we do what is right."

     Confused about what is going on, the employees none-the-less do as they are asked. Something is happening here; something magical; something mysterious but ultimately good. They warm to the strange man and do as he asks.

     The Dark-clad man drives the bus to Danny's house, walks up to his apartment, knocks on the door, and says, "Danny's bus is here. All of you are welcome to come along. Time's a wasting. Let's go."

     Something in the man's demeanor soothes Danny's parents and they go with him. Once out on the street, they meet up with the other kids in the neighborhood and their parents. They are all putting on their costumes, getting ready for the big night. There is a festive atmosphere surrounding all of them.

     Danny's parents look in amazement at the costumes and wonder which is the best choice for their son, his crippled legs and worn heart not suited for most of them.

     "Don't worry," the stranger says. Your son is an Angel. I have his costume in the bus."

     "But he can't walk," his father says.

     "I will carry him, don't worry."

     Not entirely convinced, they go with him anyway and find themselves at the fancy part of the city. No lights are on at any of the houses, a sign that trick-or-treaters are not welcome.

     The stranger gets out of the bus, smiles, extends his hands to the sky, and all the lights magically go on, people rushing out to greet their guests, inviting them into their homes, lavishing food, candy, and money on them. The children and their parents are treated as friends: very special friends. This is not a night that will die off from the memories of those present. This is an evening of magic and happiness and will not be lost with the coming of the dawn.

     Carried in the stranger's arms, Danny is aglow with the joy of the night. His parents almost have tears in their eyes, happy that their son's last Halloween is a happy one.

     The largest house in the neighborhood opens its doors and calls to Danny to come inside. His parents stare at each other, wondering how they know who Danny is.

     "Our son's name is Danny," they tell them. "He died on Halloween night ten years ago. Every year he brings a child named Danny to our house. Always, the child he brings needs help. Your son will receive the operations he needs. Our son was wealthy and set up a huge fund for the needy and downtrodden. You are welcome to live here. The other Danny's do, with their families. This house is your house."

     Danny is in his father's arms now, a huge smile on his face. He is home; his family is home.



                      *     *    *    *




     He sits on the roof again. Another year, another Halloween. Death claimed him, but he is not ready to go to the light. There are many more Danny's, many more years.

     The night belongs to Danny. Each and every one.



Blaze Mcrob

   

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Trishil's Move





This is my Terror Tuesday for the Graveyard group on Facebook. The battle intensifies!



  Trishil's Move



     From everywhere they come: flying denizens of horror; another round of Dark Angelic hybrids. If anything, the ferocity of these beings is worse than anything Algol has seen thus far. Trishil is making his big move now. It's do or die. All the cards are on the line, and Trishil is seemingly holding aces.

     Satan is enraged as Trishil's children attack his forces. Debauchery to the max! What Algol said was true: his supposed friend is not what he thought. He DOES want it all for himself. Why is he doing this? Together they could have beaten God. Now they are split, and this band of mongrel renegades who merely wish to survive seem to hold power. Much power. And with the Chosen One in their midst, they might just pull it off.

     Algol marvels at the size of the flying behemoths. They are easily twice the size of Trishil's last force: sharper teeth, bigger wings, longer talons. They swoop in and decimate the giants who are powerless against them.

     While Satan cowers, failing to rally his troops or leading the charge himself, Algol goes into the midst of the action, his sword singing a song of devastation as beast after beast is laid bare at his feet. He refuses to back down, his fortitude increasing as the battle wages on. Gargos feeds off of his adrenaline and pushes himself and his troops to majestic heights. A contagion of teamwork between all of them ensues and the flying fortresses of Trishil start suffering huge losses as their protagonists gain the upper hand.

     And still, Satan does nothing . . .

     The sorcerers work their magic with the fire, keeping the flanks and rear safe for Algol's troops, and even though Trishil's progeny keep coming at them from the skies, spreading the stench of their vehemence throughout the evening air, the outcome is becoming firm in Algol's mind. They can not lose; they will not lose. Victory will be theirs no matter what it takes.

     Destiny steps alongside his father. They touch sword tips and fight side by side, piling up casualties for Trishil's side, but this is going to be the big battle for Trishil: win or lose. Algol senses the dynamics of what is running through Trishil's mind, an entity so determined he would sacrifice his children for his goals. Selfishness to the limits of feasibility.

     Father and son, their swords singing, take down the beasts attacking them. The family of miscreants fight as one, not caring for themselves, concerned for the common good of the imperfect creations of the Almighty. Victory will belong to them.

     They keep coming and get plowed down, father and son getting stronger and stronger, becoming an unbeatable team. Destiny's esteem in the eyes of the downtrodden and forgotten increases with every stroke of his sword. The family . . . the family knows what is happening, what will be. It has been written.

     There is no mystery any longer. Only reality.

     And still, uncertainty reigns, not so much about the final results of end times, but as to the journey to achieve finality.

     Over and over again, Destiny swings his sword, the decimation of the evil offspring of the traitor upper-most in his mind. He has had to grow up in a hurry, the very existence of his people dependent upon his strength, his powers, and he is not letting them down.

     Choking on the odor of smoke, charred bodies, and scattered body parts littered with entrails, Algol finds it more difficult to function as the leader he is, but his inspiration comes from his son, seemingly impervious to everything but the job at hand.

     The last of the flying monstrosities is dead. Trishil has played his trump card and came up empty. Only he is left to face a vast army. He will not back down. Even with absolutely no chance of survival, he will fight to the end. He will go out with honor. It is all he has left.

     Satan finally comes from out of the shadows, ready to strike Trishil down. "You vile traitor!" he shouts. "You will pay for this!"

     As he raises his sword to strike him down, Destiny stands between them and deflects the sword of the Devil.

     "Get out of my way, child!" Satan hollers. "He dared to defy me and must now pay the price!"

     Destiny stares Satan straight in the eyes, causing him to drop his sword and fall to his knees. "You have no more power, Dark One. You are a coward. You stood by, watching without doing anything."

     The child raises his sword into the air, lightning coming down from above, touching the sword and illuminating the entire area.

     "We control the ground, the physical part of the planet. All our foes here are vanquished. Only the skies above do not belong to us. They are still the Creator's domain. Trishil has been defeated at a horrible cost to him. He has suffered enough. He is welcome to join us. No more will he attack our people."

     Trishil drops to his knees before the child. "You are right, My Lord! I will do your bidding from this point on."

     A roar of approval goes up from the crowd. Trishil has been defeated and is now an ally. What could be better than this? 

     Satan seethes! His power usurped by a mere child! Total humiliation! "What about me, Destiny? What do you plan for me?"

     Destiny looks inside the soul of the Devil and knows that it will take a long time, if ever, to gain his confidence.

     "Your power is gone, Satan. You would do well to join forces with us and fight God. He is our common enemy."

     "And if I don't?"

     "We will have to deal with you, and it won't be pretty."

     Satan's giants and other troops stare the Dark One down, letting him know whose side they are on.

     "Okay," Satan says. "There will be no more resistance from me."

     Destiny and Algol both know that the Evil One will have to be watched. It is just not in him to capitulate this easily. They merely nod.

     For now, things are calm.

     For now . . .



Blaze McRob     

Sunday, October 2, 2011

State Of Horror Series



Check out the new group on Facebook that my friend, Armand Rosamilia has started up. Being an old New Jersey boy, we can only guess which state will be first on my list!
Rymfire eBooks has decided to do something a bit different…

We’ll be opening up our

State of Horror

series all at once, to include a block of States that we’ll be doing a reading for…

Effective Immediately the following States will be Open for Submissions:

Nevada

North Carolina

New Jersey

Maine

Washingston state

Maryland

Illinois

Colorado

Alaska

Florida

Reading period will be Until Filled with 5 – 7 Horror Tales for Each Release
Length and submission…

We are looking for tales in the 2,500-7,500 word range. Nothing more, nothing less. We will return (unread) anything not within these guidelines. You can submit a story as either an attachment to the e-mail address in Word (NOT docx) or in the body of an e-mail. We do NOT accept snail mail. Please put “State of Horror: (respective State)” in the subject of the e-mail (and it MUST have the State listed or it will be deleted unread!) and give a word count in the e-mail itself, even if the story also has it listed. Our reading time is usually 10-12 weeks NO multiple submissions, NO exceptions. Reprints accepted.

Payment info…

We pay $3.00* for each story accepted via PayPal. That’s it. We are a brand new eBook-only publisher looking to get the name out there and get some quality releases under our belts without making the mistake of so many other small-press publishers and overdoing it in the beginning. We pay everyone once the anthology has been officially filled and proofed. If this is acceptable, kindly submit to us.

* Our eBooks will generally sell for $2.99… we offer the $3.00 flat rate, but an author can earn royalties after each 150 eBooks sold as follows:
~ 1-149 eBooks sold = $3.00 flat advance
~ 150-300 eBooks sold = an additional $3.00 per author
~ 301-450 eBooks sold = an additional $3.00 per author
~ 451-600 eBooks sold = You get the idea…
ADDITIONALLY, we will be publishing a PRINT version as well, and for every print book sold it will count towards THREE sales to reach each 150 level

rymfireebooks@gmail.com

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Darren Frey

The Writer's Chatroom http://writerschatroom.com  
Chat with Darren Frey
Darren Frey was born in Belleville, Illinois and lived in St. Louis until just before his tenth birthday. He then moved to Virginia where he began writing short fan[Image] fiction stories. When he was just thirteen years old his mother bought him a computer which he used to write short stories and poetry.
After graduating from high school, Darren continued to write poetry and song lyrics due to his love for heavy metal music. In 2004 he met his wife Angela and got married on February 11th, 2005.
In 2009 Darren began work on his first book, The Blood Reapers. Nearly a year and a half later he finished it and submitted it to Damnation Books where it only took three days to hear back from the publishing company. His book would be published! 
As if that was not enough good news, Darren and his wife Angela discovered that their first child was on the way.
The Blood Reapers was released September, 2011.
WHEN? Sunday, October 2, 2011
Eastern USA Time.....7 PM
Not sure what time that is wherever in the world you are?  http://www.worldtimeserver.com
WHERE?
The Writers Chatroom at:  http://www.writerschatroom.com/Enter.htm
Scroll down to the Java box. It may take a moment to load. Type in the name you wish to be known by, and click Login. No password needed.
Please note:  The chatroom is only open for regularly scheduled chats.
Don't forget the topic chats on Wednesday nights, 8-10 pm EST!

Check this out! Darren Frey will be on Writers Chatroom tomorrow night. He'll be certain to have some great things to say!