Wednesday, September 30, 2015


I'll be busy all month long with the great folks at Apparition Atlas & The Chat Room Network present: Haunted Halloween Party . 

There are a ton of great things happening and you will be able to meet some super nice people and win some great goodies as well. My bride, Terri DelCampo, will be doing her first radio interview. She's nervous, but I'm pumped up. She'll do just great. A lot better than I would for sure. I'm very proud of her.

Keep tuned everywhere as everyone has a blast together. We'll all keep you posted!

Blaze McRob

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We'll be whooping it up all October long Culminating in Big Bash on Halloween - on The Chat Room Network Radio Show- There will be Music, Prizes and Surprises with Grand Prize Announcement LIVE on at 5PM PST, 6PM MST, 7PM CST, 8PM EST

Inviting you to come on board as we get ready to Party all October long.
There'll be lots of surprises and prizes Everyday as we build this up to the day long party on Halloween!

Oh, and did I mention that every time you LIKE and SHARE gets you an entry into the pot for prize drawings too! So the more you share, the more chances you have to win!

Jump in now and start SHARING it out to your Friends and encourage them to Party too!



Horror authors Blaze McRob and Terri DelCampo have joined evil forces to bring you tales of the macabre so chilling they had to create their own press to contain them.

Thus, Blazing Owl Press is thrust into the literary world with shrieks and moans!

And our very first offering, appropriately for the Halloween season, to be released by mid-October is our twisted little collection of horror tales, Blood Spatter.

Look for future books if you dare!!  Visit our site often for updates on Blaze McRob's and Terri DelCampo's latest mischief!  Muahaha!

Tuesday, September 29, 2015


 The Dover Demon, by Hunter Shea, is a mean motor-scooter! Yes, I am partial to Hunter's work, but sometimes we don't always like everything a particular author writes. I like Stephen King, but there are a few of his books that bored the crap out of me. My opinion. So far, everything I've read from Hunter has been great.

Go to the free sample section on Amazon for this great novel and see what I'm talking about. It doesn't get any easier than that. Base your opinion on what you read. I'm sure Hunter will become one of your favorite authors.

Blaze McRob

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 Book description:

 "Hell Hole is the most engaging and entertaining read of the year. This western themed creature piece is loaded with everything a genre fan could possibly hope for." [One of Top Ten Horror Novels of the Year] -Horror Fiction Review "With Forest of Shadows Hunter Shea combines ancient evil, old school horror and modern style. Highly recommended!" -Jonathan Maberry, New York Times best-selling author of The Dragon Factory The Dover Demon is real...and it has returned. In 1977, Sam Brogna and his friends came upon a terrifying, alien creature on a deserted country road. What they witnessed was so bizarre, so chilling, they swore their silence. But their lives were changed forever. Decades later, the town of Dover has been hit by a massive blizzard. Sam's son, Nicky, is drawn to search for the infamous cryptid, only to disappear into the bowels of a secret underground lair. The Dover Demon is far deadlier than anyone could have believed. And there are many of them. Can Sam and his reunited friends rescue Nicky and battle a race of creatures so powerful, so sinister, that history itself has been shaped by their secretive presence?

Format: Kindle Edition
The Dover Demon is a fantastic monster story. The citizens of the sleepy town of Dover, Massachusetts have had these monsters living right under their noses for years. These monsters were first spotted in 1977, and now they’re back for what they have claimed as their own.

I love what Hunter Shea has done with this story. What does a horror author do when he or she wants a monster? They can create a completely new monster and try to scare their readers with that. While this can work, the monster lacks the fear inspiring history that is built into our human consciousness. The author can also use one of the standby, or stock monsters, but let’s be honest, vampires and zombies have been done to death. Hunter Shea has gone above and beyond following in the footsteps of Bram Stoker, he has taken an urban myth and built an intricate story out of a chance sighting from nearly forty years ago. This monster is real, tangible and frightening. There are still people around today who saw it…or are they?

Hunter Shea has created a great cast of characters for his story. Each one has his or her own personal demon that they must overcome. They are all intricately developed and I was able to relate to them. This always helps in pulling a reader into a story. Just like with a good horror film, I found myself saying, “Don’t go there!” or “Run!”

Hunter Shea gets horror, and knows how to make it work. The Dover Demon makes me want to read more by this author.

* I received a copy of the book from the publisher (via NetGalley) in exchange for an honest review.

Monday, September 28, 2015


 Read this fantastic interview between Terri DelCampo and Fiona Mcvie! Terri pulls no punches and Fiona asks all the right questions. I only have the very beginning below. Go to the link above and read from the very beginning. I found out things about Terri I didn't know, and we were married two weeks ago. Imagine what you will find out.

Terri joins many other fantastic authors who have done interviews with Fiona. Thousands, in fact. 

Blaze McRob

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Here is my interview with Terri DelCampo

Name  Terri DelCampo
(I will continue to use Terri DelCampo as my pen name, though I recently married Blaze McRob aka Robert Nelson, and will be using, in my personal life, Terri DelCampo-Nelson.)
Age 57
Where are you from?
Originally from Wilmington, Delaware, but I’ve lived in Georgia for the past fifteen years.

Sunday, September 27, 2015


I get messages all the time about people I follow on Amazon with new releases out. This morning I received one about Lori R. Lopez having a story in Toys In The Attic: A Collection Of Evil Playthings. Her story, Etched In Blood, is a great one. This is an anthology not to be missed, and Lori's story is one of the reasons for it.

Buy it now. Give yourself a great gift.

Blaze McRob

                                                                        *    *    *    * 

Book descriptions:

 Imagine… An old house; one that has stood many generations. WAITING… You step inside and begin to explore. Was this a good idea? You begin to doubt, but continue to step deeper within the eerie darkness. Something stirs above. Should you investigate? Wandering, you reach the second floor landing. In the center of the upstairs hall, directly above, you discover a trap door. You know, the one that leads to something so terrible, you dare not think to touch it, much less attempt to open the latch! Nevertheless, you are drawn to inspect further. Something is stirring above… of this, you have no doubt. You stand upon tiptoe, stretching as far as your fingers will allow, until you grasp the cord attached to the door. With a loud creaking, it opens, releasing a set of stairs, descending before you. Gazing up, there is nothing but a black hole. There! Again! That stirring! Against your better judgement, you begin to climb. Sweat forms upon your brow with each step, as your stomach turns sour. Still, you climb. Those few stairs feel an eternity to ascend. There at the top, nothing. Dark and empty… nothing. Your eyes adjust… Wait! Beneath the cobwebs and years of layered dust, stands a long, wooden chest. Is it locked? Hmmm… You step within the musty room. There, propped against the side of the chest, an old metal rod. You pick it up, using it to pry open what should have been left locked away, eternally. Toys! Old toys! Somewhere in the darkness, a melody plays, soft and haunting. A music box?
NO! A small carousel is moving beside you, its once colorful horses bobbing in time. You look about. There are toys everywhere! Old, broken, forgotten toys fill this attic room. A doll, cracked skull, hairless, limbs askew, stares from behind one eye, the other an empty, hollow socket. A rocking horse begins to sway in the corner. Toy soldiers, their green metal chipped and rusted. How odd; they appear in battle stance, staring… Suddenly, the trap door closes. Darkness… the stirring… These toys… You know why they have been locked away. You stand among evil incarnate. The melody stops. No one hears your final cries…

TOYS IN THE ATTIC: A COLLECTION OF EVIL PLAYTHINGS is an anthology of horror like no other. Step inside…WELCOME TO THE ATTIC

Saturday, September 26, 2015


Utterly Shattered, by Nina D'Arcangela, is this week's Scary Saturday Tale. This is a sweet, haunting piece, bringing greater insight into what the soul has entwined within it. This is definitely a literary horror story. Are not the worst horrors contained within? I believe they are. Read Nina's great story and you'll see what I mean.

I only have the very beginning of Nina's story posted below. Go to the Pen Of The Damned website and read the entire story and more of Nina's fantastic tales. You will love them all.

Blaze McRob

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Utterly Shattered

Why must I feel so utterly shattered when smashed upon your jagged edge? Why can you not let me fall into the beautifully delicious pain that exists inside you – pain that has been waiting for me to find it for so very long? You hide such an exquisitely luring anguish from me, thinking I cannot see it – but I see it with my very essence – my entire being; I see it in the blink of your depthless eyes even when not at your side; I feel it in every breath you draw whether that breath be taken roughly in my ear or drawn in a spat of anger at all the world has made of you.  I long so desperately to be near you, to revel in your darkest pangs, your deepest wounds, your most hidden crevasses where your shadows stretch the longest.
My soul is no longer in my own keeping as it has already been fully engulfed by you – it is given with utter bliss and unhindered submission, bowing to your every whim and fancy.  My pain is yours to have, my pleasure yours to give or withhold. I beg of you to open your shadowed darkness and let me submerge myself, gulping it in as though it were my own life’s breath; for it is, as I cannot be without you any longer.
Give to me all that I would allow you to take from one so undeserving as I.  I offer you a glimpse of the salvation you have sought at only the cost of my own damnation. Why must you hide in a darkness you feel is precious only to you? My darkness is equal to that of yours and calls out in pain to touch, to merge, to become one with that mournful depth which dwells within you . . .

Wednesday, September 23, 2015


I am very happy to announce that Terri and I can show this great wedding youtube to all our family and friends! Beverly Cialone did an absolutely fantastic job! Beverly does our youutube book trailers and I asked her about doing this for us. She gladly took the task on. If you need book trailers or special occasions like ours, get a hold of her. This is the link to her great youtubes:

Once again, I want to thank Patricia Burgess for being our wedding officiant. She was absolutely perfect. Here is her business link .

We had a small wedding, filled with much love, with family and friends. Thank you for making our day so perfect. All these lovely people were present at our wedding:  
Linda Gregg, Havard Gregg, Christine Heeger, Ashlyn Nicole Heeger, Alex Heeger, J.P. Heeger, Terry Margoluis Segal, Fred Segal, Alma Cabel Dytoc, Bronne Dytoc, Patricia Burgess, Jorge Ascunce, and Nicole Harris.

To all the ones we love who could not be at our wedding, we have this lovely youtube for all of you. Again, much love to everyone!

Blaze McRob

Tuesday, September 22, 2015


From JG Faherty:

"This Tuesday at 4:50pm EST I'll be a guest on The Horror Happens Radio Show (Http://, talking about my novel The Cure as well as other books and the horror genre in general. Just the thing to kick off the Halloween season!"

If you don't know who JG Faherty is, this is your chance to discover him. Of course, If you enjoy horror, I'm sure you know the author and love his work.

Showtime today! Don't miss it!

Blaze McRob


Pentacle, is a new novella from William Meikle, one you will surely enjoy. From Willie:

"I got to wondering what might happen to Carnacki's pentacle if it survived up to the present day and was found in a strange house, on a borderland. So here it is... a new novella from me."

Sounds pretty cool, doesn't it? I think so.

I stole Willie's Amazon bio so you can see the interesting chap he is:

"I'm Willie, Scottish but now in Canada, and I write pulpy adventure stories in the main, with big beasties, men with guns, occult detectives, lost worlds, things from beyond, slime, ghosts, more beasties and more slime. And beer. I have 20 novels and over 300 stories published in the likes of Dark Regions Press, DarkFuse and Chaosium with many more still to come. And did I mention beer?

I'm mostly over there at a writer's page. Mostly. »

My current best seller is THE INVASION, a sci-fi alien invasion tale with mass carnage, plucky survivors, and last minute rescues. It has been as high as #2 in the Kindle > science fiction charts. (and #4 in Kindle > horror ).

Please check it out. »"

                                                     *    *    *    *  

Gotta love his thinking. 

I'm certain you will love Willie's new book. Give it a whirl!

Blaze McRob

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Book description:

There are houses like this all over the world. Most people only know of them from whispered stories over campfires; tall tales told to scare the unwary. But some—those who suffer—know better. They are drawn to these places to ease their pain. If you have the will, the fortitude, you can peer into another life, where the dead are not gone, where your love might live forever.

But that’s not the case for the residents of the Edinburgh house, for something has disturbed the quiet reflection in that old building. A creature has slipped through, sniffling and snuffling in all the dark places, disrupting the balance of time and space.

And it's John’s job to fix it…by any means necessary.

Monday, September 21, 2015


He Sang She Sang is a great musical duo living in Northern Georgia, consisting of Alma Dytoc and Bronne Dytoc. As you can see below, they have some friends helping them out: 

Members: Bronne Dytoc - songwriter, arranger, guitarist, vocalist Alma Dytoc - songwriter, arranger, keyboardist, percussionist, vocalist Joyful Dytoc - band mascot and DOGager (canine manager)
Genre: Acoustic Rock: compelling originals & inventive renditions of hits from past and present
Hometown: Pilipinas
Terri, my new bride, and I met Alma and Bronne on our first excursion to Alpharetta, Georgia's Food Truck Alley. This is the site where Terri and I have our weekly date night. We loved their fantastic music styling from their first tune. And . . . and their stage presence. I love that!
In the picture above, you will see Alma and Bronne - Alma is wearing the blue dress - standing behind us as Terri and I are taking our vows. Guess it's pretty easy to tell that Alma and Bronne are part of our family now. This goes far beyond appreciation of their musical expertise or friendship. Chosen family is always the best.
He Sang She Sang is a great musical duo. Alma and Bronne Dytok are wonderful family. 
Blaze McRob

Sunday, September 20, 2015


 Toys In The Attic: A Collection Of Evil Playthings, is ready for you you to enjoy! This great anthology is chock-full of some of my favorite authors and is compiled and edited by Mary Genevieve Fortier. Hustle to Amazon and get the Kindle or paperback version. Heck! Get them both. There is great reading to be had here!

Blaze McRob

                                                                   *    *    *    *

Book description:

 Imagine… An old house; one that has stood many generations. WAITING… You step inside and begin to explore. Was this a good idea? You begin to doubt, but continue to step deeper within the eerie darkness. Something stirs above. Should you investigate? Wandering, you reach the second floor landing. In the center of the upstairs hall, directly above, you discover a trap door. You know, the one that leads to something so terrible, you dare not think to touch it, much less attempt to open the latch! Nevertheless, you are drawn to inspect further. Something is stirring above… of this, you have no doubt. You stand upon tiptoe, stretching as far as your fingers will allow, until you grasp the cord attached to the door. With a loud creaking, it opens, releasing a set of stairs, descending before you. Gazing up, there is nothing but a black hole. There! Again! That stirring! Against your better judgement, you begin to climb. Sweat forms upon your brow with each step, as your stomach turns sour. Still, you climb. Those few stairs feel an eternity to ascend. There at the top, nothing. Dark and empty… nothing. Your eyes adjust… Wait! Beneath the cobwebs and years of layered dust, stands a long, wooden chest. Is it locked? Hmmm… You step within the musty room. There, propped against the side of the chest, an old metal rod. You pick it up, using it to pry open what should have been left locked away, eternally. Toys! Old toys! Somewhere in the darkness, a melody plays, soft and haunting. A music box?
NO! A small carousel is moving beside you, its once colorful horses bobbing in time. You look about. There are toys everywhere! Old, broken, forgotten toys fill this attic room. A doll, cracked skull, hairless, limbs askew, stares from behind one eye, the other an empty, hollow socket. A rocking horse begins to sway in the corner. Toy soldiers, their green metal chipped and rusted. How odd; they appear in battle stance, staring… Suddenly, the trap door closes. Darkness… the stirring… These toys… You know why they have been locked away. You stand among evil incarnate. The melody stops. No one hears your final cries…

TOYS IN THE ATTIC: A COLLECTION OF EVIL PLAYTHINGS is an anthology of horror like no other. Step inside…WELCOME TO THE ATTIC

Friday, September 18, 2015


Okay, I write horror and not political columns. Actually, I did at one time, but that's another story. The word on the street is that horror authors stick to horror and not talk about anything else. My reply to that is: horseshit.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not about to name names and write about the stupid people holding office at the local, state, and federal levels. I would be spending all my time doing that. I prefer to write these blow-hard idiots into my tales of horror and be rather unkind to them. Of course, I change the names to protect the innocent: that being me. No laughter please.

I am a liberal/conservative/independent. What does that mean? I vote for issues and people and not along party lines for everything. The independent part of who I am says I am my own man. Sounds cool, huh? I can't and won't be bought out.

Get ready to take some notes. Here I go:

1. Let's say the incumbent - for any office - bugs you and does nothing you like. Don't vote for him/her.

2. Primary time comes around and you don't like the people running against the incumbent. They share the same opinions as the guy you want out of office. Don't vote for them either.

3. You could work on behalf of a write in candidate now if you find one. If you don't, then go to #4. 

4. You're in the voting booth at election time. You look at the candidate for the other party. Oh, oh. Another idiot.

5. At this point, don't just settle for the best of the bad. Don't vote for any of them. Write yourself in. You're laughing now. Don't. I was elected to office twice. By one vote the first time. Mine. By two votes the second time. Mine and one other person's. Yes, no one voted for anyone else.

One other thing you can do is to vote for an unproven person who shares a lot of your ideas: if you are fortunate enough to find such a person. If you're not, go to #5 above.

Truth be told, I don't like any of the Washington politicians. None. Kind of harsh, huh? They need to earn my trust and respect and they're not doing it. You might not feel this way, but that's okay. You don't see a list of folks for office that I'm supporting on this post. Use your head when you vote and you'll be just fine.

One other point. Even if a candidate holds the same spiritual beliefs as mine, I will not vote for that person if it becomes a part of her/his platform. We need a separation of church and state. My opinion again. I'm not running for anything, so you can either use this post as a simple statement of fact, or you can disregard it.

One thing I do know is that there will be quite a few write in votes when I'm in the booth.

Happy voting.

Blaze McRob


Wednesday, September 16, 2015


 Here's a review I posted a while back for Eden Underground: Poetry Of Darkness, written by Alessandro Manzetti. I'm having problems at Amazon posting reviews because of the fact I know so many authors, so I am sharing my reviews on my website that have been allowed in the past so you will get to know about some of my favorite authors. If you enjoy dark poetry, This book is for you.

Blaze McRob

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Book description:

 Another snake, another tree, another Eve.

A new dark poetry collection from the Bram Stoker Awards® nominee Alessandro Manzetti.

Eden Underground is a surreal journey into obsessions and aberrations of the modern world and its darker side, which often takes control of the situation. Madness, violence, aberrant sex, war, hallucinations, sadism, disturbing archetypes: these are the black fruits of human loneliness, these are the bloody roots of Eden Underground.

In this untold world, men and women build their deformed, artificial underground Eden, where they can unleash their dark side.

Death is the hidden queen of these strange places designed by human alienation: harem of silicone dolls who come to life, abandoned warehouses with copper tubs full of broken pieces of Eve, a bloody collection of copies of the first primordial woman, imaginary worlds inspired by the ghosts of the drug, small Eden dug into the bowels of the sand of war, trenches for refuge from too much horror, the religious fanaticisms and their heretics and violent Eden stained with blood, open air glittering brothels turned into landfills of souls and lost loves.

Haven't you ever heard the loneliness knocking at your door? Or the steps of our dark side, freed from the body and the cage of our conscience, that is coming to take us with a shimmering cleaver in its hand? In Eden Underground you can hear all these ghostly noises, too real, too close.

The Last Prey
The Monkey with the Big Head
Pieces of Eden
Dead Circus
Green Apples
Interiora II
Eastern Heaven
Red Monsoon
A Modern Berserker
The Half Bride
Eden Underground
Carlos, Diego, Vamos!
The Wrath Sings, Goddess
The Rime of the Mad Mariner
The Pawn Shop
The Cockroach King
The Garden
Dames de Voyage
Electric Monkeys
The Tenth Circle
Almost to the End

Book Cover by Vincent Chong, back cover by Ben Baldwin, illustrations by Paolo Di Orazio.

By Robert C. Nelson on July 10, 2015
Format: Kindle Edition Verified Purchase
This is horror poetry at its best! Nothing in Eden Underground: Poetry of Darkness is made to look like there might be a good side to it. Alessandro Manzetti shows the depravity of the human condition, and displays it with total honesty. When Alessandro tells of prostitution, death, and depravity, he shoots from the hip and his aim is true. Dark, intense, and disgusting jump out at you from the pages, the revolting truth surrounding you, pulling you in even though you wish to escape. But there is no escape, not even when you have finished this outstanding collection, for your mind cannot expel what has been absorbed. Sleepless nights? Yes, you will have many. But that is why you read horror, is it not?

Alessandro has done his job exquisitely. Horror poetry is alive and well.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015


This post is up on William Cook's website on the link above. I only posted a small tid-bit below to pique your interest. I find anything that Armand Rosamilia says to be interesting, and this interview between him and William Cook is that and more. Hit the magic link above and get rolling. You'll be glad you did.

Blaze McRob

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Secrets of Best-Selling Self-Published Authors #9 – Armand Rosamilia

Hi again and welcome to the next fascinating interview in the popular series, Secrets of Best-Selling Self-Published Authors. This interview is with the very interesting Armand Rosamilia. Armand is a staunch indie author who has been at the coal-face of digital publishing for many years. Along the way he has written many great horror books and has supported and implemented many initiatives in the indie publishing world, especially in his favorite field of zombie horror fiction. Anyway, before we kick off this interview, just a quick reminder on some of the wickedly good interviews lined up for you over the next month, including VIP guest interviews from best-selling indie authors David Moody, Jeremy Bates, Michael Bunker, J. Thorn, Michael Bray, Michael J Sullivan, Ruth Ann Nordin and Michale Thomas. Don't miss any of these interviews, make sure you subscribe now to get on the mailing list for all updates and new-release information (there is a link with a special offer at the end of this interview if you'd rather get straight into it). Here he is, the talented Mr Armand Rosamilia.

Monday, September 14, 2015


In The Clearing, by Jon Olson, is this week's Monday Madness Tale. Jon has given us a story of a very unusual monster . . . a special monster. Jon is becoming the master at tales in this gender/sub-genre. I look forward to his stories. He has me hooked. And his story this week only cements his esteem in my mind. Go to the link above and read the story in its entirety. I have only given a little snippet below for you to read. While you're at the Pen Of The Damned website, read not only this story by Jon, but many more as well.

Blaze McRob

In the Clearing

George Sutherland followed Francine McKenna farther into the forest. His interest in Sasquatch had led him to join the Nova Scotia Bigfoot Hunters Society. When he met the group’s leader Francine, however, his priority instantly became to get into her pants. When she asked him to go with her on a short overnight expedition, he saw it as good a chance as any.
Only one tent for the two of them.
“Come on,” Francine said, looking over her shoulder. “Pick up the pace back there.”
Her red hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and although her cheeks were red from the excursion through the woods, George could still see her freckles. He couldn’t help but smile.
“Easy for you to say,” George said adjusting his backpack straps. “I’m the one carrying all of the heavy shit.”
“I can give you the lighter one if that one is too heavy for you. I bet the rest of the group would love to hear about that.”
George made a face but increased his speed, trying to catch up to her.
Clouds were slowly overtaking the blue sky that had been present earlier in the morning when they parked on the side of the logging road and ventured into the woods. Some blue jays chirping in the trees suddenly darted out, catching George’s attention. He didn’t see his boot catch the exposed root and fell forward with the weight of the backpack forcing him to the ground.
Francine laughed. “Are you okay?”
“Fuck sakes,” George said, pushing himself off the ground. “Where is the rest of the team anyways?”
“Matt and Ryder had to work and Beverly’s out of town visiting family. They’re going to regret not coming out on this one.”
“So exactly why are we out here? Why this particular area?”

Thursday, September 10, 2015


This is my Friday Frights for this week. The theme this month is Hidden In The Dark. My story is based on things happening on and around Clinton Road, New Jersey, the most haunted road in the world. Take a peek into what you might encounter there. If you dare . . .

 Clinton Road  

Damn! It’s cold! Mere moments ago I was sweltering from August’s oppressive heat: ninety degrees with humidity to match.

Mists rise from the reservoir, drifting towards me, luminescent shapes taking form, my imagination running wild. Through the darkness I see indistinct forms, looking human but with no solidity to them, almost like shadows with features. But the eyes . . . the eyes are staring at me, watching me intently. Within minutes I am surrounded.

The chill intensifies as they close in on me, drawing nearer with each second.

And then it’s all gone: no more chill, no more forms with eyes. Nothing. Even the mist is gone. The oppressive heat and humidity are back, and everything is as it was.

No one else fishes here at night. The stories, the legends, chase them away.

“Don’t venture onto Clinton Road at night,” I’m told. “There are mysteries waiting there, ones you don’t want to know the answers to.”

Okay I’m worried now, not so much by what just happened, since those “things” are gone, but by what might happen next. I’ve seen strange things before on my fishing trips here. Those things were always off in the distance; tonight was up close and personal. Damned near too personal.

Settle down, Bob! All these tales are in your head. Ghosts, Satanic cults, demonic beasts, body parts strewn all over the forest- food for the vultures. You’ve been listening to this stuff for too many years. Get a grip!

Yeah, right! I don’t care how good the fishing is tonight. I’m getting the hell out of here. I’ll reason it out at home-far away from the reservoir and forests.

Playing my light along the trail, I find my way back to my jeep, half expecting to find it either demolished or inoperable, but all is well and my old Willys starts right up for me. People can keep their fancy-schmancy new jeeps. The best jeep ever made is a Willys.

The stench of decay rips through the jeep via the open windows as I drive south. Behind me, barreling down fast, is a dark truck, driven by a person wearing a baseball cap. The way he’s taking the curves, it’s easy to see he’s in a hurry and has driven these roads many times before.

Fuck! This bastard is going to catch up to me and run my ass off the road! My jeep is dependable and built for off-road driving, but this is open road driving. Whatever he has under the hood has a lot of power. He’s gaining on me! There are still two miles left before I’m off this road.

I do the best I can, accelerating as much as I dare on the straightaways and easing off on the turns, hoping I don’t flip over. But he keeps coming. Closer and closer. With a mile to go before I hit Route 23, he pulls alongside me and grins. It’s a grin of death. His face is covered not with skin but a tight layer of what could pass for leather, barely stretching across his skull. His eyes are not eyes but deep recesses from which a reddish glow emits.

There is no way I am going to out-run this figure of death, so as he steers his truck towards me to shove me off the road, I slam on my brakes and watch his truck going where he intended me to go: off the side of the road and down an embankment of about six feet. It lands on its side and I speed out of there, not stopping at the light when I hit the highway, only slowing down enough to turn right. It is only when I reach Franklin, get inside my house, and bolt the door behind me that I feel safe.

And even then . . .

My nerves are fucking shot now. I go to the fridge and grab a cold bottle of beer. No way can I go to sleep yet. The good thing? Clinton road is ten miles away, and everything that happens there stays on the road and in the woods surrounding it. It’s like some evil enclave of terror exists there according to the stories. Devil’s land. A place forgotten by God.

No sense comes to any of it. I never drink before I drive, so it wasn’t some drunken stupor causing the illusions at the reservoir. Some kind of natural phenomenon must have momentarily worked its way across the water and into the forest-a shifting of light due to convection currents. Yep, that’s what it was.

The driver of the truck? Probably just some redneck living on the fringe area of the forest: a close-breed. That would account for his face. It’s a wonder he had enough smarts to drive.

Six beers later, I’m relaxed enough to go to bed. Shit, by tomorrow I’ll be ready to go fishing there again.
Not even bothering to shower, I take my clothes off and lie down on top of the blankets. I always sleep naked and sure don’t need any blankets tonight. It’s hotter than hell in my little bedroom. I won’t even turn the fan on; I want it quiet in case something has followed me here; I want to be able to hear it.

The beer works its magic, and I’m asleep before I know it.

At least I think I’m asleep. My head is spinning, reliving the memory of the luminescent shapes, but with even more eyes staring at me this time. It’s as if I’m under a microscope, slipping around on some slide while they attempt to dissect me with their eyes and reach inside my mind to read my thoughts. Repeatedly, I fall back asleep only to have it happen again.

I wake in the early morning, my blankets soaked, not so much from the heat but from the uneasiness of my sleep.

Make the coffee extra strong this morning, Bob. You’re going to need it.

I start brewing the coffee while I brush my teeth, shower, and attend to other business. It’s still hot in my little house, so I don’t even bother to towel off completely. Grabbing a cup of hot joe, I step outside in my boxers and sit in a lawn chair, waiting for the darkness to leave and the sun to rise. Living alone has its perks: I dress however I want in the house and come and go as I please. Being retired means more freedom.

Deer are still milling around the big lawn in front of the school across the street. They come down from the forests at night to feed on the lush grass. Most people think New Jersey is nothing but Parkways and city streets, but there are pockets of farmland and forests scattered around. I live in one of those places.

I’m into my third cup of coffee by the time the sun starts coming up over the hills to the east. Sitting here that long has given me the chance to sort things out in my addled brain. After I eat breakfast, I’m going back where I was last night and check things to see if any pieces of the puzzle will fall into place. Maybe nothing will come to me to shed any light on anything, but I need to give it a try.

“Good morning, Bob,” says Jack, owner of the Franklin Diner, as I walk into his place. “The usual?”

“The usual would be great, Jack,” I say. “I worked up an appetite last night.”

“Was the fishing great?”

“You could say that.”

“One of these days you’re going to catch a new state record Bass out of that reservoir, although I still don’t know how you can fish there at night. That whole area gives me the willies.”

I laugh, trying to hide my true feelings. The last thing I want is anyone to know that I, too, have fallen prey to the stories. At least I have the guts to do something about it, though.

“Mighty big Bass there, Jack.”

“Yes, there are. The warden still tells the tale of the time you put that huge one in the antique tub on his porch. Came out the next morning and there was this Largemouth staring him in the face. Only two ounces off the record. “

“I’m a catch and release guy. That’s why I carry that huge chest around filled with water. He keeps that tub filled up now. After he weighed it, he put it in the big pond on his property. One of theses days he might catch it again and he’ll have the new record.”

“Wouldn’t that be cheating?”

“Nah. I’ll just catch a bigger one.”

Jack laughs and leaves, shaking his head. He returns soon with my pancakes and I get to eating. I’ll need some fuel for the day ahead.

I leave a tip on the table, get my thermos filled, and buy some doughnuts for lunch. Twenty minutes later I’m on Clinton Road. The first place I check out is the area where leather-face went off the road in his truck. It takes some looking, but I find the skid marks from my jeep. I see nothing else there. The ground is undisturbed. Not only the shoulder area, but the embankment has no evidence of anything having happened here.

Okay, Bob! There’s some wonky shit going on here. You know something happened. Your skid marks are here. That was no fucking dream last night!

I get back in my Willys and drive to my fishing place from last night. I’m not surprised when nothing of interest shows up. Things happen; evidence vanishes; and Bob looks like an idiot.

Now I’m getting angry. There’s a reason for what’s going on, and I aim to find out what it is.

There is one thing I notice that on the surface seems insignificant, but with what happened last night, I won’t discount anything. An odor of burned wood permeates my nostrils. It’s coming from the island in the middle of the reservoir. I’ve seen fires there before: not last night, but that doesn’t mean anything. A fire could have been made after I left. How do these people get out there at night, and what are they doing?

I drive the length of the road to Upper Greenwood Lake and see nothing to tickle my interest, although an ominous feeling sits with me, almost as if it’s a passenger I’m driving around before he decides he’s waited long enough to drive a knife deep into my ribs. I’m compelled to pull over to the side of the road and work through the anxiety attack I’m experiencing. I can hardly breathe and I’m forced to grab the door handle of the jeep to keep from falling over. Pressure and pain rain down on my chest; my neck pulsates, sending tremors around my shoulders and down my arms.

The worst of it all comes when lightning bolts of agony shoot from my upper back and chest simultaneously, going towards each other and meeting in the middle. My hand breaks loose from the door handle, and I fall to the ground.

                                                             *   *   *   *
My eyes open and stare at a white ceiling. It’s dark, the only lights being the ones flashing on some machines. There are patches on my chest and needles in my arms. Fuck! I’m in a hospital. From the pain in my head, I know the patches are nitroglycerine. They always give me headaches.

I have to get out of here! I’m not finished with what I set out to do.

Damn, Bob, what’s wrong with you? You had the supreme panic attack to end all panic attacks, and you think you’re ready to up and leave. These people at the hospital thought you had a heart attack even. Just kick back and relax.

“Oh, Mr. Oldham, I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

A middle-aged nurse is standing at the side of the bed. At least I think she’s middle-aged. My eyes still aren’t well focused yet.

“You gave us quite a scare. Had that mailman not spotted you alongside the road, you might still be there. Are you able to talk? Maybe you could shed some light on what happened.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

This sucks! I want out of here, but I can’t even tell anybody!

“That’s okay, sir. You can talk when you have the strength. Our diagnosis is that you had a heart attack, but we are confused because all your vital signs are looking good. It’s as if you had a heart attack and then completely healed.”

She checks the machines and makes sure the patches and all are connected well. I wish I could tell her I’ve had enough of the nitro patch, but that’s a pipe-dream.

“I don’t believe you’re ready for solid food quite yet, so I’m going to give you something to help you relax. We’re going to be watching you closely.”

The last thing I want is drugs! I’ve been asleep: for how long I don’t know. I need to get strong and get out of here!

But I’m too weak to resist, and she slips the needle in. My pain lessons, but the grogginess is coming fast. Morphine . . . she gave me morphine!

She leaves the room, closing the door behind her. Once more I am plunged into a state of near darkness. I welcome it, though: my eyes and head both hurt. The darkness will soothe them. However . . .

The luminescent figures return: and with them, the eyes. They are everywhere again, but this time it’s different. They try to tell me something, but eyes don’t talk.

Yet . . .

New forms come in to sight this time; humans, dressed in black robes, their heads and part of their faces covered by hoods. A fire is burning and these people-whatever they are-chant and throw something into the flames, causing the fire to get much larger. The increased light shows a few women shackled to trees, completely naked, looks of panic etched into their faces.

One at a time, they are brought to an altar in front of the fire where they are held down by four men holding on to their limbs. As some sort of a ceremony unfolds, the apparent person in charge picks up a knife and carves a reverse pentagram into the stomach and forehead of each woman. I know now what is happening!
The two men holding on to the legs of the women spread them out even farther apart, and the chief sorcerer calls for something standing in the shadows. As the women scream in pain, each one is brutally raped by horrific looking beasts. They appear to be part human. Whatever else they might be is a mystery. I can only surmise.

Over and over again they are tortured, their cries filling the night until they can cry no longer. When the desires of the beasts are sated, the Priest of Evil eviscerates the women, laying their entrails on their bodies as the assembled watch them die in agony.

I tremble from the horrors I have just witnessed. This is more than a morphine induced high causing delusional visions. Even as the images vanish from sight, filtering outward against the walls, causing grotesque shadows that laugh at me before being gone for good, I find it difficult to fathom the terrors that were hovering around me in this room.

The darkness returns and with it a solitary pair of enormous eyes: a look of pain etched deep within, and tears welled up at the corners. I nod; I understand.

                                                                *    *    *    *
Bert is waiting for me when I get released from the hospital, reading a copy of Field & Stream-good reading material for a Game Warden.

“Well look who they’re letting out,” he says. “Of course, from what I hear, once you started to heal you did nothing but insist on getting out of here. They hid your clothes even so you couldn’t vanish in the middle of the night.”

“I am happier than them that I’m leaving. You know me, Bert: I’m a busy guy; I’m always moving.”

“Your Willys is at my place. C’mon, busy guy. I’ll take you there.”

We don’t talk much on the trip to Bert’s house. Just pretty much a little shooting of the shit, but he doesn’t have to say anything when I stare at Clinton Road as we pass it on Route 23. I can feel his eyes burrowing into my back.

“C’mon inside for some decent coffee before you go home, Bob. I’m sure that watered down shit in the hospital didn’t suit you much.”

“Thanks, Bert. You’re a pal.”

Bert makes his coffee in an on-the-stove percolator, the kind where the coffee shoots up through the glass bubble on top when it’s hot and getting ready to drink. No Mr. Coffee for him. He grinds his coffee fresh, too. Shit, he puts Jack to shame.

“Are you going to be able to drive the jeep home, Bob? Do you feel well enough.”

“I should be okay; I hope so anyway. What I would really like to do is check out the road again.”

Bert gets up and pours coffee into a couple of mugs and brings them back to the table. “You stupid son-of-a bitch! That road almost killed you and yet you want back on the mother-fucker again?! Where are your brains?”

I stare at Bert, wondering what’s eating at him. This goes beyond me returning there. He has a vendetta against the road.

“What’s wrong, Bert? You talk as if the road is a living thing.”

“Don’t you get it Bob?! The road is a living thing. It feeds off of pain and suffering. Evil nourishes it.”

“What evil?”

“What evil?! The same evil that almost killed you; the same evil that chased your ass down the road the other week and almost pushed you off the side. And there’s more evil out there. The evil behind the evil!”

Something’s wrong . . . very wrong here! Bert has always warned me not to go on the road alone, but he’s obsessed. I thought he’d laugh at me because I believe in the old stories now. However, he is the one who feels that I’m not taking things seriously enough.

I drink some coffee and wait for him to talk some more. From the way he’s fussing around, the sweat pouring off him, the nervous twitching, I know there is a lot more.

“Okay, Bob, I’ll get to the point. Years ago my sister vanished. Right off the face of the earth. She was in an abusive relationship, and one night she packed her things and left. We all just thought she went far away so her husband would never be able to find her. I know different.”

“What happened?”

“She became a victim of the road, to the terror that resides there and within the forest. You’ve been having dreams, right?”

“Yes, I have. How did you know?”

“I’ve had them for years. My sister . . . my sister is one of those sets of eyes. She keeps imploring me to help her, but I don’t know how. I haven’t pieced it all together yet. It is the eyes you dream about, right?”

“Yes, Bert, it is the eyes. But there is more. A new dream I had in the hospital. It answers some questions.”

“Jesus, man! What new dream? Tell me about it?!”

“Devil worship; Satanic rituals; witchcraft. Women are being raped by man/beasts and used as human sacrifices. I don’t know the ultimate power behind it, but it seems to me it’s a deity of high status. Maybe the highest of the Dark Powers. The eyes showed me this and are begging for me to help them. How, I don’t know, but I know I have to try.”

Bert gets up, pours us some more coffee, and wanders around the room. He starts to talk several times but seems unsure of what to say. His prancing about is worrying me: he has always seemed to be a strong individual. Today, that’s not the case. He wants to act on his impulses, but like me is unsure of what to do.

“Okay, Bert, sit your ass down and let’s reason this out. I thought I was crazy, but I see I’m not. Neither of us alone is going to be able to get to the bottom of this, but together we have a chance. We need to cover each others backs or we could both wind up as food for the vultures. These eyes belong to souls longing for revenge so they can go to their proper resting place. We are the keys for them to achieve this; we need to find the doors these keys fit.”

“But you were almost killed. During the day no less.”

“True enough, but I was alone, and the spirits, those with the eyes, seem to only have strength at night. So even though it sounds stupid, night is the time to ferret out the evil. The tormented souls might be able to help us then.”

“You just got released from the hospital, Bob. You’re in no shape to go after whatevere’s out there.”

“Okay, okay, maybe I’m not ready yet. Give me a couple days to regain some strength.”

“Why don’t you stay with me until we’re ready? That’ll give us time to formulate a plan and give you time to heal as well.”

“Makes sense to me. Is your cooking any good or do I have to cook?”

Bert laughs. “I can cook. Don’t worry about it.”

I’m not used to staying with anyone; I’m set in my ways and don’t like to adjust. Bert wants to watch me to make sure I don’t go back on my own. That’s pretty obvious. However, we do need to get ready. This won’t be easy. I’ll go along with his wishes. Once on Clinton Road, though, I think I’ll have to be the one directing things. Bert is too close to the situation.

                                                                *    *    *    *
We load up the Willys. Maybe it doesn’t have the speed to outrun the truck if we encounter it again, but if we need to dodge down a side road it’s just the ticket. My big cooler is out-we’re chasing demons, not catching Bass-and we are loaded to the hilt with artillery of all sorts: two 30/06s, a couple of twelve gauge shotguns loaded with buck-shot, and we’re packing side arms; .38s. I even had Bert get us some plastic explosives. I’m sure he had to do some fast talking for that. However, I was an old explosives man in the Marines and I want some of this shit.

“Looks like we’re getting ready to mount an insurrection instead of doing some ghost hunting, Bob. What do we need all this stuff for?”

“The ghosts are on our side, Bert. We’re hunting other things. I’m hoping we can take them out with what we have.”

“And the canoe?”

I laugh. “We’re taking a moon-light paddle on the reservoir.”

“I’m not liking the sound of this.”

“Then don’t listen: just do.”

“You are a crazy fuck, Bob! Let’s get moving before I have you committed.”

Bert doesn’t want to wait for the crazy stoplights on Route 23. They’re the longest in the state, perhaps the country. “Barrel through those suckers, Bob! No one else is here. Let’s get this done.”

I do as he asks and we slide onto the southern end of Clinton Road. The first two miles are uneventful enough until we hit the long straightaway. A truck comes up behind us.

“Shit! That’s my sister’s truck, Bob! I swear to God. It’s coming after us!”

“It’s not your sister behind the wheel. I tell you that much. Let me try to outrun the bastard.”

Like the last time, the power and speed of the truck is greater than my Jeep, and he gets closer and closer. “Hang on, Bert!” I holler as I make a spinning turn in the middle of the road and go towards the truck. The driver is caught off guard and goes speeding past us.

“What the fuck is that thing?!” Bert hollers.

“Some sort of leather-faced goon. Watch what happens next.”

I pull the Willys sideways into the middle of the road and jump out, grabbing a shotgun. Walking towards the advancing truck, I draw a bead on the gas tanks and pump both barrels into it. The truck explodes into the air, the impact knocking me to the ground. Debris scatters all around. Fire erupts and sets off mini-explosions. The truck is gone.

But the driver isn’t! He advances towards me, that leather face of his melting to whatever lies beneath the exterior. He is one pissed-off dude. I stand and reload the shotgun, waiting for him to get to me. A split second before he grabs me, I empty the shotgun into his head, splattering his brains all over.

"You’re dead now, cock-sucker!"

“Holy shit, Bob! Are you okay?! I wanted to get him with the 30/06 but I was afraid of hitting you.”

“I’m okay. Not very happy about wearing leather-face's brains all over my clothes, but yes, I’m fine.”

“How did you know the truck was real and not a ghost in itself?”

“You said it was your sister’s. I was just hoping, that’s all. I was lucky.”

“One down. How many more to go?”

“Who knows. Let’s go get them, though.”

The Willys is undamaged by the explosion and we’re off to the reservoir. Time is wasting. I can feel that this is the night to bring them down or be brought down trying. Whatever “them” is.

We reach my fishing spot from the other night and drive the jeep to the water’s edge. After placing the canoe in the water, we load the weaponry in and carefully paddle towards the island which even now has a big fire going on it.

“Shit! I don’t want to alert them to our presence, but the sacrifices will start any time now. We have to hurry, Bert!”

We slice through the water, pumping on the paddles as fast as we can. It seems to take forever to reach the island, but we do it fast and grab our weapons. We’re loaded down, and I slip the plastic explosive into the pockets of my khakis which I deliberately wore for the occasion.

Following the path illuminated by the huge fire, and made easier to locate because of the excited shouts of the onlookers and the screams of the women, we burst into the middle of the whole she-bang.

“Sweet mother of God!” Bert shouts.

Sweet mother indeed! Those monstrous human/ beasts are all over the place, and the same head sorcerer from my vision is here, and the wicked smile on his face says he’s not the least bit upset by our being here.

“What took you so long,?” he says. “We’ve been patiently waiting for you. Our spirit friends seem to think you will help set them free. Delusional bitches!”

We’re in a world of shit! Even with our weapons, we’re overpowered. There are too many of them. Bert and I start emptying bullets and buckshot into some of them, but the sorcerer sets up some kind of a force shield, protecting himself and most of the others. We can’t penetrate it.

The wicked one roars with laughter knowing he has us now. It is just a matter of time.

Rolling mists come in, surrounding the fire, the moisture dimming it and then extinguishing the flames completely. Next . . . next the eyes arrive, some attached to luminescent shapes and some completely apart from them. The sorcerer explodes with anger, trying to cast a spell on them, but he can’t find any.

In his anger, he forgets about the force shield and it drops away. Bert and I blast away at the mutant miscreants and take aim on the sorcerers. We manage to get all of them but the leader who vanishes from sight.

The eyes and spirits lead us to a place where a few rowboats are sitting. This must be where the bastard went. In the moonlight I can see waves and a small shape way ahead of us.

“Shit! We lost him!” Bert shouts.

“Only for now,” I say. “There’s no way he’s letting us go. We’ll be seeing more of him.”

“Oh happy day!”

“Quick, let’s get the ladies in the canoe and get back to the jeep.”

There are four women, and it will be a tight fit, but the canoe is faster than the rowboats. We strip off our shirts so two of them can cover up, grab some more clothing from the dead sorcerers, and we beat it to the waiting canoe.

“Oh shit, I forgot something!” I say and high-tail it back to the quenched fire. I set the charges in the plastic explosives, place them on the altar, and rush back to the canoe. “Paddle like hell! It will be showtime soon.”
We’re about 100 yards off the island when the altar becomes a thing of the past, stone chunks flying everywhere, some getting close to the canoe.

“Nothing like timing everything so we’re almost knocked out of the canoe,” Bert says.

“Thought you guys needed some excitement.”

The Willys is undisturbed when we get back to shore. That’s good. We load everything into the jeep after the women are crunched together in the back.

“You ladies can hold these weapons for us. If something happens, you can hand them to us,” I say.

I turn the key and off we go, the sure-footed jeep digging in and reaching the main road in record time. The ladies breathe a sigh of relief, but the spirits and eyes are back once more, and I know it’s not over.

We haven’t gone far when the road changes, twisting and turning, becoming a serpent-like animal trying to throw us off into the forests. I can’t see him yet, but I hear the High Priest laugh.

“The road is mine, you fools! I control it. I am its Lord!”

There is no escape from the road: we are in its clutches. It changes shape at will, ensuring that we will remain captives to its whims and desires.

The spirits and eyes stop in front of us, motioning that we do the same. It seems like madness to sit here, waiting for the Dark One to finish us off, but I do as they say. I have no answers. They know the sorcerers devious mind far better than I do.

From the forests he comes, calming the road, advancing towards us, his hands shaking in the joy of what he is going to do to us. But . . .

The spirits lead them towards him: two huge dogs; Hellhounds with eyes of yellow and red. They snap and snarl, making their obvious hatred of him known. The High Priest stares in horror as they advance. Years ago he took them from their homes and forced them to stay here. He has not been a good master to them. But that will end now.

They tear into him, ripping him to shreds, blood pouring onto the road, his intestines soon joining the red liquid. He breathes his last breath.

As we watch, the road splits open and swallows him up, chewing, grinding, until he is completely out of sight. The road repairs itself and all is calm again.

The eyes and spirits come to the jeep and Bert and I smile as they converge on us, telling us in their own special way that they are free to go now. A new existence awaits them. They thank us, and all but one go towards a far off light. She flashes her eyes at Bert and gives him a wink, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

“Good bye, sis. Go to your new home,” Bert says. “I love you.”

She is soon out of sight, and the night is dark once more, only the moon and stars left to shed any light.

“We need to get these ladies to the hospital,” I say. “I don’t know what kind of a story you’re going to give them, girls, but don’t tell them the complete truth or you’ll wind up in a padded room.”

Once they are safely delivered to the hospital, Bert and I go back to his house. “I need a cold beer, Bert.”

“Tell me about it, Bob. Tell me about it.”

We sit on the porch, sucking the beer out of the bottles. One leads to two. Two leads to three. After that, we don’t count.

“Do you think it’s really over, Bob? Have we seen the last of the horrors?”

“I can only hope so, Bert.”

The battle is won. All the evil has been banished. We can rest now.

                                                                    *    *    *    *
A dark figure emerges from the ruins of Cross Castle. He is freed now. The road and the forest belong to him. He has waited a long time for this moment.

Too long . . .

Blaze McRob

Tuesday, September 8, 2015


Beverly Cialone does great book trailers for a fantastic price! I have commissioned her to do a number of them for author friends of mine in the past. She also was gracious enough to do one, gratis might I mention, for my upcoming wedding to Terri DelCampo this Sunday, September 13th. I have commissioned her to do one of our actual ceremony, as well, so that folks unable to be there can see it.

You will not believe her fantastic prices! For book trailers,  they are only $30 if the author has their own pics and music they want to use. $35 if Beverly has to obtain the pics and use her own music collection. For special occasions such as my wedding, they are only $50 and up.

She does a guaranteed trailer of 2 minutes or more in length for books or special occasions. Anything longer than 5 minutes, the rate will be higher. She does not make homemade videos by filming with a camera. Everything is computer generated regarding the pictures. She also has a guaranteed turn-around time of one day, except for special events/occasions and custom videos.

In addition to my wedding ceremony, Beverly will be doing all of Terri DelCampo's novels as she adds the paperback versions to the ebooks Terri has already published. Also, Terri and I are starting up a new Press for our own books, and Beverly will be doing trailers for those. We have a Halloween book coming out soon. I have other books of mine coming up as well.

So, my friends, for those of you who have been wondering about spending a fortune on book trailers, check out the link above and see what Beverly has done. The quality is there, and the price can't be beat.

Blaze McRob

Monday, September 7, 2015


Amazon is not playing nice with allowing me to post book reviews because I know so many authors. Weird. However, I am going through book reviews of mine which are posted, as these great authors deserve recognition. I only post Four and Five Star reviews. I either love a book, and I post a great review, or I don't post one. I will never post a bad review. That's not my style. So, if I give a review, it is because I genuinely love the book.

The Last Vampire, by Kathryn Griffith Meyer, is one of those. This is my favorite End Days tale of all time! My review is below. I guarantee you will love this super book.

Blaze McRob

                                                             *    *    *    *

 Book description:

 Author's new revised edition...never before released as an ebook! The earthquakes with their falling ash, the global floods and the devastating fires arrive first. Then the worldwide plague with its stench of death. And as mankind suffers and dies out, vampires, their numbers dwindling, struggle and fight fiercely among themselves to survive in a world where there aren’t enough humans to prey and feed upon. As the weeks go by they become fewer, more desperate and more ruthless.

Emma, as the world disintegrates around her, finds herself alone, family all have perished…and fending off an unnatural hunger as she becomes one of the undead. Fighting her unwanted destiny she’s determined to resist the bloodlust she feels, the need to kill and feed on humans, of losing her humanity, for as long as she can bear it…but she’s so hungry…and the night calls.

on November 1, 2010
Too often, vampires are either the horrific beasts of old or the new romantic heart throbs. I prefer the nasty buggers. This novel certainly has those, but it also comes up with an entirely different concept which personalizes the protagonist and endears her to your heart. Without destroying the story for you, when you blend this in with the other horrific aspects of the world taking place, it becomes riveting, drawing you in to see where the author is going to take us next. Just when I thought I had it figured out, there would be new twists and turns. My kind of novel! I read roughly 100 novels a year. The Last Vampire is at the top of my list

Sunday, September 6, 2015


Children Of The Grave, published by Crystal Lake Publishing, is out on Amazon Kindle. Get it now for only .99. On Tuesday it goes up to $3.99.

This is an interactive book and the hero's name is Blaze, so it must be great. Just saying. There are some great authors in this baby.

I also have the link above for the release party on Facebook. You know you want to go.

I had to get a copy to see what happens to me.

Quick like a bunny!

Blaze McRob

                                                                  *    *    *    *

Book description:

 Six talented zombie authors take on the After-life in an interactive shared-world zombie anthology.

Welcome to Purgatory, an arid plain of existence where zombies are the least of your problems. It’s a post-mortem Hunger Games, and Blaze, a newcomer to Purgatory, needs your help to learn the rules of this world and choose the best course of action.

Purgatory is escapable, so aid Blaze to win the favor of the ruling Gatherers by earning this right. But what’s waiting outside Purgatory, is beyond what the human mind can fathom.

His fate. Your choices.

Your six different choices have been penned by Joe McKinney, Armand Rosamilia, Tonia Brown, Joe Mynhardt, Aurelio Lopez III, and Alex Laybourne.

Allow the opening scenario to engulf you into the shared-world, after which each author not only chooses the fate of Blaze, but also brings in their own take of this world, and Blaze’s backstory, since each backstory affects the choices our ‘hero’ makes. Each author also brings in a few surprises ranging between earthly creatures to beasts from the pits of hell itself. And what waits at the end of Purgatory? Some say if you fight hard enough you’ll get a free pass back to life on earth. Perhaps even Heaven. Then again, Hell might be closer than they think.

Welcome to a world of death, pain, hunger, regret, and thirst, accompanied by the uncertainty of what waits after. What waits ahead is a world beyond this one where it’s every man and woman for him or herself.


Salamander, by Magenta Nero, is this week's Scary Sunday Tale. This is one of those stories that grew on me. The more I read, the more I saw of me in it. Perhaps this is good, or maybe not. Okay, it's not. Damn me anyway! Read the story for yourself and see if some of Magenta's words apply to you too.

I have only included a snippet below. Go to the link above and read this great story and more of Magenta's super tales. You'll love them all.

Blaze McRob 


“Fulfill your divine potential. Connect with your higher self and spirit guides. Manifest the life you want,” read the brochure.
It sounded like a good idea at the time, but sitting there, in a circle of misfits, Jess regretted going along and wondered how she could politely excuse herself.
A woman with long white hair rang a little bell to announce the meditation was about to begin. People hushed their soft chatter. They nestled on their cushions, getting comfortable.
“Okay. Let’s begin. My name is Isadora. I will be leading the guided meditation with you tonight.”
Isadora glanced around the room, smiling warmly. She wore long flowing clothes in shades of pink and white. Her neck and fingers were adorned with gemstones. Jess hated her immediately.
“Let’s close our eyes. Begin by taking a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And another deep breath in…and out. Allow all the thoughts and worries of the day to slip away. Become fully aware of your body. We’re going to count backwards from ten and you will gradually feel more and more relaxed. Ten…”

Saturday, September 5, 2015


Do you want to be an author? Just write. Easy peasy. You don't have the time? Horseshit. We all have time. I worked at many jobs at the same time, not having a day off for nine years. I still wrote. I wanted to, so I did it. In twenty something years, I wrote and had some seventy five ghostwritten novels published.

There are many moments you can use as writing time. Get up early and write. Do you work at a desk job? Write at lunch while you're eating. Carry a little notebook or tape recorder and take notes. Put the notes together and you'll have a story. Write at the end of the day when the kids are asleep. I think you can see a pattern here.

Why am I writing this now? Simple. Some folks have been bombarding me about how they want to be a writer but can't find the time. Writing takes no time. If you want to get published and sell some books, that's a different matter. This quickie post is not about that. More to come about that later, as with other articles I have written about it in the past.

It's kind of interesting how this post comes out now over the Labor Day weekend. A lot of folks are at the beach, watching football games, whatever. Hmm. They could grab some writing time. Prioritize. If you don't want to be a writer, then don't write. If you do: write.

If you're still reading my discourse, and you want to be a writer, you're in luck. I'm finished. Time for you to write. I want to see your books bandied about so I can tell the world about them.

Happy writing.

Blaze McRob