Just a Story

“And that was when Father Carrick banished the devil from that place and trapped him inside the stone. To this day you can see the print in the rock where the devil’s foot touched down.”

Mike and Jason stood against the garden fence. The younger children were gathered on the porch to hear the spooky tale that was pulled out and dusted off each October.

“Come on, Gramp. You’re not still telling that ol’ tale, are you?” Mike had heard it every year since he was seven. After ten years it was getting tired.

“It’s a crowd pleaser.” The old man winked at the wide eyed youngsters and turned to the two older boys. “And besides that, it’s a true story. You can look it up yourself.”

“Looking through books, trying to separate the facts from the superstition? Sounds too much like homework to me.” Mike grinned at his grandfather, to show he meant no harm.

Gramps waved the boys away. “Just because you don’t understand it, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Now get out of here you two scallywags. You’re ruining story time.” He rubbed his hands together and turned back to his audience. “Over the years the stone has worn and cracked. Perhaps one day it will finally break open, and the devil will be free once more, and bring evil to our little town…”

Mike poked Jason and jerked his head in the direction of the road. “I’ve got an idea.”

Dusk was closing in. Long October shadows reached out from houses and trees, and a light wind rattled the remaining leaves. One week before Halloween, and it was a good night for mischief.

“What do you think would happen if that stone was cracked open?” Mike asked.

Jason stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. “Well, for one thing, we’d find out if your Gramp’s story is true.”

“Right. But we’d also have a great set up for a Halloween prank.” Mike opened the gate to his backyard and headed toward the tool shed. “We could tell everyone that devil has escaped and he’s running around the town. The kids will be freaked. They’ll jump at every sound. It’ll be epic!”

The latch on the shed door was rusted. Mike yanked hard and the door creaked open. Jason grabbed a falling rake before it hit his friend in the head.

Mike sorted through the long handled tools stacked inside the door. “The stone could take a hundred years to split on its own, so we’ll help it along.”

“Should we ask your dad before we take his stuff?”

Mike snorted. “Are you kidding? He’ll be glad I’m actually using tools.” He handed Jason a pickaxe and gathered a shovel and crowbar. “We just have to wait until dark.”

By ten o’clock the town was quiet and the roads were empty of all but two boys with a shovel, a pickaxe, and a lantern.

The Devil’s Rock sat right at the edge of the road by the side of an old work shed. The boys held the lantern high to inspect the fissure. Light flickered across the craggy surface, and in the shadows they could plainly see the print of the devil’s cloven hoof.

Now that they were out in the dark, with the cold biting at their faces and hands, and the leaves rattling above, the task didn’t seem as spirited. With each swing of the pickaxe the undertaking became more intense, the effort more concentrated. Jason stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow as Mike jammed his shovel into the deepening crevice and pulled on the handle.

Something skittered through the bushes. Jason jumped and dropped the crowbar with a loud clang. The sound echoed though the quiet harbor. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, then all was quiet again.

Jason took up the crowbar to chip away at the stone. With one more heave on the shovel handle, the rock gave, and a large piece of stone fell away, throwing Mike off balance. Jason quickly dropped the crowbar and grabbed the pickaxe for one more mighty swing.

As the rock split apart, a strong gust of cold wind screamed along the street, pelting the boys with dry leaves and dust. It died off as quickly as it came, and the eerie silence that followed was broken by Mike’s laughter.

“Whooo! What a rush! For a second there I thought the devil was going to pop out of the rock to get us.” He laughed raucously from excitement and relief.

Jason stood staring into the hole created by the split in the rock. The crevice went down into the ground, a dark hollow revealed by their work. Mike stood next to him and held the lantern above the hole.

“Not much room in there,” said Mike. He looked around the street. All was quiet, serene, normal. There was no howling demon, no fire and brimstone, no cloven hoofed devil arriving in a puff of smoke to steal their souls.

Mike shrugged and slapped Jason on the back. “I guess it was just a story.” He picked up the shovel and turned back toward home.

Jason focused on the back of Mike’s head and grinned. “Yes. Just a story,” he said, and swung the pickaxe high.

Short and Scary Reads

Looking for something good and scary to read? Short on time? With Halloween approaching, the best late evening stories are those dusty volumes sitting patiently on your library shelf. When you want that feeling, that deep down chill in your bones, it's time to turn to the masters.

Here are a few of my favourite October short stories.

The October Game by Ray Bradbury. While The Emissary will always be my favourite Bradbury tale, The October Game is the perfect read for this time of year. Unsettling from the start, this story will have you looking at the innocent fun of Halloween in a new light.

The Body Snatcher by Robert Louis Stevenson. It's an image that is burned into your mind once you've read this story - two men, standing over a grave, shovels and lanterns in hand. But this classic tale has so much more to offer.

The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe. Being buried alive is a popular theme in horror, but Poe's Cask of Amontillado takes the idea to a new level.

The Monkey's Paw by W. W. Jacobs. Imagine what you could do with three wishes. Now imagine each of those wishes came at a terrible cost. This is the set up of W. W. Jacob's classic short story, and the ending is so wrought with suspense it will keep you up late at night, thinking about what might be knocking at the door.

The Hand by Guy De Maupassant. A story within a story, told from the safety of a warm room with pleasant company, this tale of the supernatural will have you questioning the safety of your own warm room on a cold October evening. A perfect example of the effectiveness of an uncertain ending.


What's your favourite classic horror story?

The Banshee

I was there the night the banshee came for my grandmother.

My grandfather told me the stories. It was said that the banshee would bring death to all who heard her song, and place a curse upon the household. These stories were not true, my grandfather assured me. She did not bring death, he said, but was summoned by it.

I went upstairs to my bed as the sun sank and bled into the hills. The evening was eerily quiet. I lay awake in the growing darkness and listened. And waited.

That night the banshee’s mournful cry carried over the trees like a brittle wind. I pulled the blankets tight and held my breath. I knew my grandmother lay ill and dying in her room, but I feared the banshee would find me and take my soul as well.

I heard the banshee as she emerged from the woods. Her keening grew louder as she crossed the bridge at the creek. I was sure I heard all the voices of the dead moaning as she moved through the graveyard at the bottom of the hill, and follow her as she swept toward the house.

I heard her enter the house and come slowly up the stairs. Her woeful cry echoed through every room. I pulled the blankets over my head and shivered with fear. I heard my grandmother cry out, and then there was silence, broken only by my grandfather’s gentle weeping. I knew then that she was gone.

I rushed to the window but I could see only the wind in the autumn grass and the cold, pale moon.

Many years have passed. I still live in the old house and sleep in the room of my childhood. My bones complain with every step of the stair and the drafts get colder with each passing winter.

Tonight I climb into bed, blow out my candle, and pull the blankets tight. Outside I hear the wailing wind rise and fall and sweep toward the house.

Tonight the banshee will come for me.

10 Things Ruined by 50 Shades

I have a confession to make. I read 50 Shades of Grey.

Wait. It gets worse.

I enjoyed it.

Before you gasp and start fanning yourself with your dog-eared copy of Tess of the D'Urbervilles, let me tell you that my enjoyment had much more to do with how it was read than the actual material. But that's another story for another time.

Clandestine Classics, a publisher of erotic e-books, has announced that it will be releasing selected classics with added 50 Shades style sex scenes. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, and Sherlock Holmes will all get the Christian Grey treatment. Predictably, the outcry has been fierce. The classics will be forever ruined by 'kinky-fuckery'.

Let me tell you, it isn't just classic literature that is at risk. This diabolical E. L. James creation has had far-reaching effects. 50 Shades has ruined many things that I used to take for granted.

1. Classical Music. Just this past week, EMI Classics released the 50 Shades of Grey Classical Soundtrack. Chopin, Bach, and Pachelbel are spinning, and spinning, and spinning. Brides will never again walk down the aisle to Canon in D without someone giggling in the background.

2. My Subconscious. I never really gave it much thought. It was none of my business what my subconscious was doing. I figured it did its thing and I would, consciously, do mine. But then I learn that Anastasia Steele knows what her subconscious is up to, and that makes me think mine is defective, or I'm lacking some deep thought process that allows me to connect with it. I hate feeling inferior.

3. Coffee Shops and Lattes. Ana goes to a coffee shop with Christian although she doesn't drink coffee. What is wrong with her? Who can turn down a beautiful, creamy latte topped with rich, swirly foam? Used to be that I couldn't, but now my beverage of choice has been forever marred by this:

"He has a coffee which bears a wonderful leaf-pattern imprinted in the milk. How do they do that? I wonder idly.”

That, and I can't look at the tea display without thinking "bag in, or bag out."

4. The Song Mrs. Robinson. As soon as it comes on the radio I flip the dial. I can't hear the chorus without thinking of the older woman who ruined Christian Grey for all others.

5. Lip Biting. I bite my bottom lip a lot. Or I used to. Did it without thinking. Now I'm very aware that I'm doing it and think of this:

“I’d like to bite that lip,” he whispers darkly.

Blech!

6. Visiting the Bookstore. Something else I do a lot. I visit the bookstore at least twice a week. Now whenever I go I'm assaulted by monochrome book covers. There are references to this book in almost every section of the store, not to mention a table of books that are being pushed under the Grey umbrella. Another good reason to hide out in the horror section.

7. Holy... I used to think of Robin, now it's Anastasia Steele and her penchant for saying "Holy Crap!" for Every. Little. Thing.

8. Red. I like the colour red, but it has become difficult to look at any shade of it without thinking, "Is this Room of Pain red?"

9. Neck Ties. A man in a neck tie. Nice. Or I once thought so. Now I just wonder what kind of print it would leave on one's wrists.

10. Cable Ties. Do you even know how many cable ties are lying around my house? I feel like I have to hide them all away if I have company in case they think I've been doing something dirty. In the same vein, I can't walk past the rope and chains aisle of the hardware store without blushing.

I'm sure there are many more things that have been ruined by this book that just haven't come to the surface. Years from now I'll be wandering down the road and a helicopter will fly overhead and I'll have horrible flashbacks of 'Charlie Tango'.

I won't even get into what this book has done to my last shreds of respect for the publishing industry.

Dog-Eared Books

I saw this old library poster somewhere in my Internet travels this week. Underneath, someone commented that they hated it when books were all dog-eared. Books are supposed to be loved and cared for and not defaced with creased corners.

I have to disagree. I do love opening a new book - the fresh ink and paper smell, the smooth pages - but old, well-read books have a certain charm.

Go to a second-hand bookstore and take a book off the shelf. Note the condition of the cover and the page edges. Now open it. Perhaps the dog-ears have been turned back, but the creases are still there. Little scars left by the previous owner. You may see imperfections, but those creases are so much more.

These are the places where the reader was forced to stop. Perhaps it grew late and the reader struggled to make it to the end of the chapter. Or maybe the book was reluctantly put aside for more urgent things: the end of a commute, a crying baby, a knock at the door.

Maybe those lines mark the pages that were the most important, that held the best lines, the juiciest scenes, the most intriguing dialogue.The reader was marking his or her favourite parts of the book so that they could be revisited again and again.

So many of my books have the best parts marked by a bend at the corner.

Sometimes dog-ears and worn covers are not evidence of a careless owner. Sometimes they are the sign of a well loved book.

Surprise! There's No Twist

It's one of my pet peeves, one of the most annoying things about sharing your work online. The Internet is a wonderful place for a writer. You can share your work instantly with a wide audience, and you receive immediate feedback on that work through comment forms or email. That feedback is like a drug. Let's face it, we writers are an insecure lot. It's good to know that they like us, they really like us.

And sometimes the feedback comes in the form of constructive criticism, and that's good too. It's especially handy when it comes from others in the writing field. It's how we improve, how we grow.

But every now and then I get one of these:

"Good story, but I saw that ending coming."

I enjoy a good twist as much as the next guy, but really? For me, the story is about the journey, all the things that happen to bring you to the end. And sometimes that tale brings you to a logical conclusion. It might be predictable, but it's what's supposed to happen. The joy in reading is in the story itself.

Sometimes there is a twist at the end, and that's always fun. Personally, I enjoy these stories more when there are little winks and nods along the way. Foreshadowing is a lovely tool, and a clever reader will be able to guess the ending through the clues the writer drops. It's like being let in on a private joke.

A twist at the end of a story just for the purposes of yanking the rug out from under the reader rarely works. These endings often feel contrived, and the reader feels cheated. The deus ex machina is a rarely appreciated device.

A good ending should be organic, tie up loose ends, and resolve the central conflict. It needs to be true to the story in order to be satisfying, and that there should be the author's goal.

So maybe you didn't get the surprise ending you expected, or maybe you picked up on the clues and guessed the outcome. If you didn't enjoy the story, or felt that the ending was a let down, by all means make it known. But a story without a twist is still a story. Enjoy the ride.

Soundtrack to the End of the World

Who knew the end could sound so good.

A suicidal nudist strolls into traffic.  An eccentric Buddhist claims he can occupy other people’s bodies.  All the while, whispers of a new form of entertainment blow through town.  Prompted by these strange occurrences, Marty Raft, a not-so-gentle giant, investigates and discovers underground clubs peddling music that induces an out-of-body experience.   Marty and a wannabe comedian, Corey, set out to prove these special frequencies are nothing more than a hoax, or at worst, a mass-drugging.  Instead, they uncover a secret with world-ending possibilities.

If you can hear the music, it’s already too late.

---

One of the first things I noticed about this book was the paper on which it is printed. It’s so smooth; I wanted to touch it with my lips to see what my less sensitive fingers were missing. That’s quality.

But it gets better.

The words printed on that paper are so kick-ass, they will make you forget all about kissing the pages.

Soundtrack follows Marty Raft and his friend Corey as they stumble upon a new form of entertainment. They call it head-hopping (among other things) and this new extra-sensory experience has some major side effects.

This is not just another zombie novel. In this apocalypse, the usual tropes are left abandoned like cars on a highway. The characters are well developed, and most importantly for a zombie tale, you care what happens to them. They follow the rules, make up their own, and they all bring something to the story.

Skinny will introduce you to the new music craze, Naomi will impress you with her strength and insight, and Anna Marie Carell will charm you from the minute she comes screaming into the spotlight.

Rapino weaves these characters into a unique setting full of atmosphere to create a tale that resonates. There are no cardboard cutouts here.

On the surface, this is a story about a group fighting to survive the end of their world. But beyond that, this is a story about loss, and about moving on to create something new.

A friend once said that the fall is for heavier sounds. I couldn't agree more. This soundtrack is made for cold, dark evenings. It will definitely have you reaching for your ear buds. May I suggest something loud? How about some Nine Inch Nails, or Tool, or maybe even some Opeth. It might hurt a little, but you’ll thank me later.

 

Win a $50 Amazon Gift Card!

Collect all twelve game pieces (available from each blog stop during my tour), put the pieces together, and decipher the code.  It will lead you to a secret website.  If you’re the first person to comment on the site, you win the $50 gift card!  The second and third place prizes are horror gift packs.

Join us in the Insanity Rocket to discuss the contest.

Stop by the blog tour page for all upcoming dates and more contest info.
 

Anthony J. Rapino resides in Northeastern Pennsylvania, somewhere between the concrete of the city and the trees of the forest.  On occasion, you’ll find him moderating the feverish battles between the creatures of these two arenas.  Whose side he’s on is anyone’s guess.

His newest fiction can be found in Black Ink Horror, On Spec, Arcane Anthology, Electric Spec, A cappella Zoo, Space Squid, TQR Stories, and carved inside a variety of autumn gourds.  His short story collection, Welcome to Moon Hill, is currently available, as is his first novel Soundtrack to the End of the World.  Proof of his psychosis can be found on his website: http://www.anthonyjrapino.com

 

Poetry, and Why You Should Love it

So many people have the wrong idea about poetry. It is not for the faint of heart. If, when you think of poems, you imagine flowers and sweetness and love, you are only getting a very tiny part of the experience. Poems can certainly make you feel all mushy, and lovely and beautiful, that's true. They can also tear your heart out of your chest and leave it to wither on the floor, or leave you with an ache so deep it lingers for days.

Though I love words in every form, there is something very special about poetry. There is an exquisite sense of timing and structure. The weight of each word is immense. A poem is like a tiny piece of a life left exposed and vulnerable.


Or it's just plain fun with a gum-chewing sort of cadence. Whatever.

Don't think you have time for poetry? Oh, come on. No matter what's happening to you right now, there's a poem for it.

Too busy watching TV? There's a poem about that.

Lose your head? There's a poem about that too.

House on fire?

Trying to get rid of the kids? Or rats? Or both?

Tormented by a demon bird. You know there's a poem about that (read brilliantly by Christopher Walken)

And of course there are love poems. Too many to count. But there are also poems about that other side of love.

Falling in love with the wrong person. (read here by John Hurt)

Trying to get your girlfriend to put out.

Whatever your situation, there's a poem for it.

My dad got me hooked on poetry when I was very young, and now I'm trying to do the same with my kids. Shel Silverstein and Roald Dahl have been a wonderful help there. When I was a kid, the school library had a book called "Scary Poems for Rotten Kids". Now that was my kind of poetry. I've scoured second hand book shops everywhere looking for a copy. So far no luck.

I've mentioned before our new favourite app, If Poems, which has my youngest listening to Helena Bonham Carter recite on a daily basis. Bill Nighy reads as well. And you can hear Tom Hiddleston read the above linked poem "To His Coy Mistress" (I can hear the fan girls from here...)

I also have the pleasure of knowing a few extremely talented poets.

Linda Simoni Wastila

Mark Kersetter

Angel Zapata (especially if you like it dark and twisted)

Visit them and get your habit kick started.