THE END

Just yesterday I typed the oft-sought after words THE END at the completion of a new novel, tentatively titled Lost In The Woods (might change it to The Thinning). Now, it's just the first draft, so have a long journey of revision ahead of me, but that's OK. I like revision. Like smoothing and polishing a statue (I guess - never actually carved a statue, but allow me my metaphors). LitW is a novel I'd started a few years back.... quite a few, actually. I'd put it down, pick it up, worked on another novel for a time, then another. But kept finding myself returning to this book. It's goofy fun horror, and I'll let you know as revisions commence.

Last Stop: Christmas, Childhood Fears Tour

So we come to the last stop on the Childhood Fears blog tour, with author Christine Hayton, author of the novella Scarecrows which is part of the collection, discussing some decidedly dark (I mean dark, people) traditions of Christmases past, in honor of J.G. Faherty's novella Winterwood.

Check it out here, but be warned, you might never look at Christmas the same way again.

Childhood Fears: L.L. Soares & I Talk Scarecrows!

In honor of the release of the novella collection, CHILDHOOD FEARS (Samhain, 2015), containing our novella Nightmare in Greasepaint, as well as J.H. Moncrieff's The Bear Who Wouldn't Leave, J.G. Faherty's Winterwood, and Christine Hayton's Scarecrows, L.L. Soares and I discuss our own childhood fears, in particular: Scarecrows...

(THE SCENE: A cornfield at night. DAN KEOHANE and L.L. SOARES meet in the middle of the stalks. DAN sees a flashlight beam and waves his arm.)

DAN: There you are. I thought you’d leave me waiting here all night. And there have been lots of spooky noises…

LL: This cornfield is so weird. I actually feel smaller. (Looks behind stalks). Hey kid, where’s Dan?

DAN: It’s me. I’m a kid again. So are you. There’s something magical in this field.

LL: (holds his hands out in front of him) Wow. This is so weird. And it must be close to Halloween, because you're dressed as… who are you dressed as?

DAN:  G Daniel Gunn

LL: Who? Oh, never mind. So why did you ask me to come here at midnight?

DAN: So we could discuss our CHILDHOOD FEARS of course. And we’ve been given a topic. Scarecrows.

LL: Like the one hanging over there (Points flashlight). I have to admit, that’s the most lifelike scarecrow I’ve ever seen. I almost expect it to jump off its post and dance around.

DAN: When I was a kid, scarecrows were usually fun. I never considered them frightening in any way, just big like pillows stuffed with leaves, with badly-made paper bag heads. Not to mention the Scarecrow from THE WIZARD OF OZ (1939) was one cool dude.

LL: If he only had a brain! Maybe he was a hungry zombie!

DAN: All was Great Pumpkin fun, until—and I’m dating myself here—I saw a commercial for the Wonderful World of Disney’s Sunday night movie THE SCARECROW OF ROMNEY MARSH (at least I think that was it, 1964… though for me it must have been a re-run since I would have been only 1 year old).

LL: Hey, I remember THE SCARECROW OF ROMNEY MARSH on Wonderful World of Disney, too. It must have been a rerun, since we would have been way too young when it first aired.  They basically took a British movie called DR. SYN, ALIAS THE SCARECROW from 1963 and chopped it up into chapters for TV. Dr. Syn was the leader of a band of rebels who dressed like a scarecrow and rode around on horseback scaring people. Or something like that. I remember the scarecrow left a big impression on me, too. At the time, I thought it looked so cool!

DAN: Not that I went running in the other direction when I saw a real scarecrow (like I did, and still do, with clowns), but suddenly there was a darker side to a normally fun tradition. During the day they were still fun, dog-pee laced leaves raked in a pile and stuffed into old pants and shirts.

LL: Ah, the joys of suburban life.

(A RUSTLING sound is heard. LL turns his flashlight beam on the scarecrow behind them, but the pole it was tied to is empty)

LL: Where did that scarecrow go?

DAN: He probably just fell down…..I hope. Anyway, years later I’d be shocked to learn the man behind the ROMNEY MARSH scarecrow mask was one of my favorites, Patrick McGoohan, from THE PRISONER TV series.

LL: Yeah, I liked McGoohan, too. He was also in the Disney production THE THREE LIVES OF THOMASINA (1963), about a cat that brings a girl and her father closer together. How sweet! DR. SYN/ROMNEY MARSH was actually the second version of the story. The first one was in 1962 and was a Hammer film called NIGHT CREATURES, which featured Peter Cushing in the lead role as Dr. Blyss. But instead of dressing up as scarecrows they dressed up as skeletons on horseback!

DAN: But back to scarecrows. When evening fell in Octobers, and the winds picked up and everything got very Ray Bradbury-ish, I’d remember that stupid, scary commercial and a sense of dread would begin creeping in. Hollywood (and all those friggin' horror writers) has a nasty way of peeling back the goofy marker faces of our childhood joy and adding a dose of our nightmares to the mix. I remember the commercial for ROMNEY MARSH more than the series. Much like the commercial for MAGIC (1978) gave me ventriloquist dummy nightmares for years, this commercial put a dark, terrifying spin on such a fun aspect of October. Granted, I was a bit of a sensitive little soul, I was.

LL: That commercial for MAGIC was amazing—and much scarier than the actual movie. I’m sure lots of kids had nightmares about that one. The best/scariest commercials when I was growing up were that one and the one for Dario Argento’s SUSPIRIA (1977), where a woman has her back to us and is brushing her hair and suddenly she turns around and SHE HAS A SKULL FACE! Ahhh, the days of great movie commercials. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

(More RUSTLING among the corn stalks. DAN and LL wave their flashlights around, but they don’t see anything. Now it sounds like multiple RUSTLINGS)

LL: I always thought scarecrows were very atmospheric and had the potential to be great movie monsters. There’s also a cool TV movie called DARK NIGHT OF THE SCARECROW (1981). I always wondered why there weren’t more movies about supernatural scarecrows. They look so great. It just seemed natural to me that they should become horror icons, especially since scarecrows and jack-o-lanterns are so strongly identified with Halloween. But unfortunately, they never caught on in the movies, like vampires or zombies.

DAN: Yea, because the nature of scarecrows can be pretty frightening. String up a likeness of a man in a field, and let the wind move it about. A makeshift, rural crucifixion. There's something macabre and wild about these things.

LL: Not to mention they're so closely associated with autumn, the harvest and slow death of summer.  

DAN: So, what scared you as a kid?

LL: I remembered other kids would have nightmares after seeing horror movies. That never happened to me. I guess I identified too much with the monsters. I seem to remember seeing stuff on the news – “real life” horrors – that were scarier than any scarecrow or clown.

DAN: Funny you say that. Between us we've got the universe of fear covered. You'd peer under the shades of your bedroom at night and see a serial killer standing there, looking back up at you.

LL: Dressed as a scarecrow!

DAN: Me, I'd see a demonic scarecrow with a scythe.

LL: Or a clown.

DAN: A scarecrow and a clown?

LL: Why not? Everyone needs a friend.

DAN: Of course there was that night when I was cutting across a field as a short cut and passed a scarecrow mounted up on a stake, then heard a rustle behind me, turned and noticed it was gone. But the rustling continued, and got closer. But that’s another story. It probably just fell.

LL: Really?

DAN: No, I made that up.

(RUSTLING gets very loud, and LL turns to train his flashlight on a whole ARMY of scarecrows approaching them, some holding pitchforks and scythes)

DAN: Where did they come from?

LL: I don’t know, but they look angry. Maybe they don’t like us talking about them in the middle of a cornfield.

VOICE (suddenly very loud and close): I am He Who Walks Behind the Rows!

DAN: You don’t have to tell me twice. Let’s get out of here!

(DAN and L.L. run away)

If scarecrows scared you as a kid, or still do, check out Christine Hayton's novella Scarecrows, part of Samhain Publishing's collection CHILDHOOD FEARS.

They do more than frighten birds. Much more.

Early one morning in the fall of 1964, Robert searched for his missing six-year-old daughter, Cathy. He found her asleep in a nearby cornfield, covered in blood and holding a small axe. A few feet away lay the mutilated body of her classmate Emily.

Assumed guilty of murder, Cathy lived in a hospital for insane children. She always gave the same account of what happened. She talked of murderous scarecrows that roamed the cornfield on moonlit nights. Her doctors considered her delusional. The police, her neighbors and the press thought she was dangerous. And so she remained incarcerated. No one believed her. That was a mistake.

Author J.H. Moncrieff on Killer Clowns (Real and Imagined) and Childhood Fears

Clowns are strange entertainment for children, at least to some of us, and sometimes, they can be deadly. In honor of the release of the novella collection CHILDHOOD FEARS (Samhain Publishing), the authors of the four stories contained therein are discussing what fears affected us.

As a child, and as adults.

Because sometimes, the monsters are real. Author J.H. Moncrieff drags into the light the question: what real nightmares strike terror in the hearts of society. Killer clowns, both imagined, and real. Click Here to read a discussion about the most terrible of the bunch.....

Also included is an interview with me and co-author of "Nightmare in Greasepaint," L.L. Soares.

JG Faherty on a Twisted Japanese Rendition of Hide and Seek

In honor of the release of the novella collection CHILDHOOD FEARS (Samhain Publishing, 2015), those of us who are featured in this paperback / kindle collection are talking about childhood fears of our own, strange and bizarre stories of what kids will do (as in today's entry), or simply talk to each other about how we came up with out story in the first place.

JG Faherty (author of Childhood Fears' "Winterwood" novella) talks about the Japanese game of Hitori Kakurenbo, a decidely twisted and frightening rendition of Hide and Seek, only between you, and a demon-possessed Teddy Bear. True story, which makes it all the more creepy.

Check it out here: 

http://jgfaherty-blog.blogspot.com/

CHILDHOOD FEARS Officially Released Today!

For those of you waiting for the print edition of my novella NIGHTMARE IN GREASEPAINT (with L.L. Soares), wait no longer. CHILDHOOD FEARS, a collection of 4 terrifyingly awesome novellas custom-fit to keep you awake under the covers at night, is now available from Samhain Publishing. Evil clowns, scarecrows, demons and even Teddy bears! A perfect Halloween treat for you or someone you love... or someone you simply want to scare the boogers out of. :)

Local Authors Roundtable, This Thursday, Oct 8th In Sharon, MA

I'll be participating in another Local Authors Roundtable discussion this Thursday, October 8th, beginning at 7:30 PM at the Sharon Public Library, Sharon MA, with the following authors:

Click Here For All the Information

The event will be held at 

11 North Main Street, Sharon, MA 02067

Come on out and learn about the craft of writing and meet some fun, local authors. Maybe even get a sample of their wares! Mine included. 

NEHW Author Panel, Q&A and Signing Next Saturday, 10/3 in Lancaster MA

Hi, everyone. I'll be moderating a panel with the New England Horror Writers next Saturday, October 3, 2015, from 10:30 - 12: 30 in Lancaster, MA. See below for all the information, and list of my fellow writers who'll be attending. If you can make it, it'd be great to see you. The link to the event, as well, is here:

http://sevenbridgewriters.blogspot.com/p/author-talks.html

Publishers Weekly Review of CHILDHOOD FEARS

Publishers Weekly Review for the upcoming (Oct) novella collection in which my and L.L. Soares' NIGHTMARE IN GREASEPAINT opens. It's a pretty good review - and my first (I think) Publishers effing Weekly appearance! 
http://www.publishersweekly.com/978-1-61922-613-5

CHILDHOOD FEARS

So, remember when NIGHTMARE IN GREASEPAINT, written by me and L.L. Soares was released in May as an ebook? Well, the plan is for this novella and three other awesome titles in the series to be packaged in print as one collection, called CHILDHOOD FEARS. It's coming out next month from Samhain Publishing, but isn't yet available anywhere for pre-order (the kindle version of the collection is, but it's priced more than if you just bought the 4 novellas separately, so obviously things are still in flux). I got my author copies in the mail yesterday and it looks awesome (picture is a bit washed out but trust it, it's a gorgeous product, in its creepy way).

Most Recent Newsletter

I recently sent out a newsletter. Normally I archive them here, but there's so much going on, including some upcoming readings / signings, I'll post it here, too....

Hello. Been a long time since I’ve sent one of these out. Will get right to it, and will try to keep it brief. I’ll put the timely ones first so you can mark your calendars. Been a busy few months….

UPCOMING APPEARANCES / SIGNINGS

Reading and Signing, Saturday, October 3rd

I’ll be doing a reading and signing with other members of the New England Horror Writers in Lancaster, MA

Seven Bridges Writers Collaborative: New England Horror Writers Panel Discussion

Saturday October 3, 2015 10:30 AM – 12:30 PM

Thayer Memorial Library, Dexter Thayer Room 

717 Main St, Lancaster MA

Will be reading & signing books along with Matthew Bartlett, Remy Flagg, Dale Phillips, Jennifer Allis Provost, Morven Westfield and Trisha Wooldridge

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Authors Roundtable and Signing, Thursday, October 7th

I’ll be joining other local authors for a Rountable discussion and QA at the Sharon Public Library

Thursday, October 9, 2015, 7:30 PM – 9:30 PM

With Michael Bailey, Pete Kahle, Jason Parent, Rich Feitelberg, Jennifer Allis Provost, Kenneth Heard, D.A. MacQuin and Rob Watts

Sharon Public Library, 11 North Main Street, Sharon MA

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I’ll also be speaking to High School English class this Thursday, September 10th, at St. Peter Marion High in Worcester. A number of students chose Margaret’s Ark as their summer reading project and we’ll be doing a Q&A with the author (aka Me). Should be fun. Thanks to Dawn VanRiper for setting this up.

NIGHTMARE IN GREASEPAINT

My horror novella written under my horror pseudonym G Daniel Gunn and co-authored with L.L. Soares, is available currently as an ebook at all major outlets (Amazon (http://goo.gl/jc9iZ4 ) Barnes & Noble (http://goo.gl/LUqGyV ) or anywhere ebooks are sold), and sells for less than three bucks.

The printed version, containing our novella plus three others, is slated for early October under the name CHILDHOOD FEARS. I don’t see it available for pre-order just yet, but hopefully coming soon

If you’ve read and enjoyed it already, consider leaving a review! The more reviews a work has the better the retail outlets usually list them

WICKED TALES, From the New England Horror Writers

On June 1st of this year, the New England Horror Writers released our third anthology of short stories, called WICKED TALES: THE JOURNAL OF THE NEW ENGLAND HORROR WRITERS, VOLUME 3. I don’t have a story in here, rather, I co-edited the collection, along with Scott Goudsward and David Price. It’s an amazing collection of stories from New England authors, with an introduction by Chet Williamson and awesome cover art by the artist Ogmios. 

http://smile.amazon.com/Wicked-Tales-Journal-England-Writers-ebook/dp/B00YK2WU5M/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1441397234&sr=1-1&keywords=wicked+tales

PLAGUE OF DARKNESS

M most recent novel as Daniel G. Keohane is still available. It’s gotten some nice reviews but could always use some more. If you’ve read it, why not leave a review, let others think, good or bad. I’ve thick skin. 

http://smile.amazon.com/Plague-Darkness-Daniel-G-Keohane-ebook/dp/B00PFYZV3W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1441397310&sr=1-1&keywords=plague+of+darkness

UPDATE ON CURRENT PROJECTS

Some MARGARET’S ARK news coming soon: in negotiations to create an Audio book of the novel. More as it progresses, but this should be cool when it’s completed later this year.

My latest novel-in-progress, a rather unique horror novel written as G Daniel Gunn, is called (for now) LOST IN THE WOODS. Still working to finish the first draft and type those ever-elusive final two words: THE END, hopefully soon. More as this progresses.

I’ve a number of Movie Reviews out, most recently for the blockbuster action film MISSION IMPOSSIBLE – ROGUE NATION (2015) and the independent sci-fi film LOVE (2011). Coming soon a review of the awesome family movie MR. PEABODY & SHERMAN (2014). For a full list of reviews you can visit (http://dankeohane-reviews.blogspot.com/)

“My Dearest Gwendolyn,” a short story, is coming eventually to the shared anthology MADHOUSE, once all contributor copies are signed. Currently the sig sheets are traveling the country.

OK, that’s about it. Hopefully I’ll be better about sending these out more often. Of course, I’ve said that before.

Dan

Interview at the Taco Society Now Playing

I was interviewed by The Taco Society, a local access program about horror and the industry at large out of Goffstown NH, recently. The program is hosted by Tony Tremblay, with Gardner Goldsmith, Sydney Leigh and Phil Perron. Had a great time talking about my work and meeting a lot of new folks, including the other two writers interviewed: Patrick Lacey and Kyle Rader. My interview is first, and you should be able to watch it below!

Destroyer of Worlds, Opening Chapters

As I build this new website, thought I'd offer some free reading: the opening chapters of Destroyer of Worlds, below. Enjoy. If you like what you read, consider buying a copy here.

Corey

Saturday

I

On the last weekend before the world came to an end, Corey Union carefully lifted the shed door’s clasp and let it drop. It swung silently back and forth on a single remaining screw. The woods around him were thick with midsummer humidity, cooled only by puddles of shadow from the crowded canopy of mountain laurel and elms overhead. Corey wiped rust from his fingertips onto his jeans, then gripped the door handle. It had been in the sun and was hot against his palm. The air swarmed with gnats. No mosquitoes yet, though they’d be out in force later this evening when it cooled.

Why would anyone have a shed this far back on the property? According to the realtor, most of the six acres had never been used. The old man who’d sold them the land had another hundred acre parcel on the other side of town. Until the sale, he’d let both remain old growth – that term was used a lot in this town. Corey thought a better expression would be going to seed.

The door was twisted in its frame. He pulled gently. When it did not move, Corey stepped back and gave a quick, hard yank. It opened, the bottom dragging along the thick growth of green along the forest floor, hinges grinding and snapping in protest.

After opening the door a few inches he waited, listening for the sound of bees. He’d heard them earlier: a distant buzz, soundtrack to a life outside the city. No swarm came charging out so he pulled the door the rest of the way open, having to lift it and step down on the clumps of moss and teaberry to give it room.

He stood in the doorway, letting his vision adjust to the gloom inside. The shed was no bigger than a one-car garage, at least from what he could see through the mountain laurel rising on either side of the structure and hiding the back from view. A sheen of black mold grew over every board. No one had come back here in a long time.

The idea of bringing a flashlight in the middle of such a bright day had never occurred to him. Corey hadn’t been this far into the property before, but supposed since he now owned the land, the shed was his, too, and whatever might be inside. Old places begat old things, his wife Samantha would say.

His shadow stretched along a dull, gray dirt floor. Aside from an s-curve left by a snake at some point recently, no other prints, no other sign it had been disturbed for some time. Corey stepped further inside, moving slowly to avoid kicking up dust.

The interior was hot and stagnant, though an occasional wisp of air circulated through cracks and fissures in the walls and roof. A lone ceiling timber ran the length of the room. From this hung an old length of rope, like shed snakeskin, probably once used for hauling stuff to the sagging loft. Most of the room was lost in a dull charcoal murk while his vision adjusted. Corey He HehHcrouched, letting light spill in from outside.

The object was barely discernible, save a half inch of exposed metal reflecting back the light from the doorway. It could have been anything, a piece of half-buried rock, an old nail (though any nail in here, he reasoned, would have long rusted over). Corey rose slightly, still stooping to keep the object in the light. His crouching steps were silent on the dirt, small breaths of dust kicked up with each. He glanced to the right side of the shed. There must be a concrete foundation; otherwise the building would have long ago fallen in on itself. Hard to tell. He reached the object and crouched beside it.

A key. An old fashioned sort, judging from the long neck and ornate metal loop at the exposed end. He dug away at the dirt with two fingers, hoping it might be embedded in something... but no. Once enough gray earth had been cleared it fell soundlessly on its side to expose the two-pronged end.

He thought of his father’s ugly old clock, currently buried in one of the dozens of boxes yet to be unpacked in the basement. Corey picked up the key, brushed it clear. Some rust along the prongs and the handle. Nothing he couldn’t clean up. Once upon a time it might have fallen from someone’s pocket, but minor gusts blowing in from the cracks in the walls had long buried any tracks from its former owner.

Corey looked around from his new perspective, ignoring the growing ache in his ankles. His pupils were probably so dilated he’d have to shield his eyes when he stepped back outside, but the shed’s interior had finally begun to reveal itself. Empty, no treasure chest or Pandora’s Box which might be opened with the key which he held in his palm. Heavy. Cast iron? He thought again about the silent, old clock in his basement. The odds of the key fitting were so astronomical he almost let it drop back onto the dirt.

In that moment, the wasps chose to announce themselves. Corey looked up at the ceiling. Nothing but the single beam and dead rope, lines of sunlight peppered with motes of snowy dust, swaying green shade beyond. Still, the unmistakable whirring of a nest. He looked around with only with his eyes at first, then slowly turned his head from side to side. The sound was growing louder, filling the small room.

He thought, Shit, shit, shit....

Corey clenched the key into his right fist and moved only his feet, toes first then the heel, pivoting on the dirt floor until he faced back towards the door. He Corey raised his left hand to block out the light.

The edge of the nest was a massive growth pushing out of the wall two feet from where he’d stepped inside. It spread upward from the floor into the darkened eaves, then stretched back into the corner. The nest was taller than he was, and wider, filling the corner of the shed like a disease on the trunk of an old tree. There had been a window on the front wall, but Corey hadn’t been able to see through it when he’d arrived. What he’d mistaken for an old, opaque curtain had been a small fraction of this nest. Gray, papery, crawling now with tiny dark objects which had apparently waited until Corey moved as far into this damned place as possible before springing their trap.

Some of the wasps rose from the nest, tentative recon patrols of ten or twenty, drifting a few feet from the safety of the nest before returning, replaced by twenty or thirty more, back and forth like this until the bright, taunting daylight outside the doorway was dimmed with their presence. The lower half was still clear. Could he crawl out without being stung? Out to clean air, and maybe another forty years of breathing? He wasn’t allergic, but that wouldn’t matter with a hundred or a thousand tiny drops of poison flowing through his system.

He waited, heart pounding so hard he began to worry it might incite the swarm to attack, and tried to get a read on what type of wasp he was dealing with. Hard to tell in the gloom, but no yellow that he could see. That was good, wasn’t it? Did plain old black wasps have poison, or just a bad temper and painful bite?

A drone landed on the dirt in front of him. It skittered across the ground in a slow motion dance. Its fat, white-striped black body showed Corey just how screwed he was. Fucked Royally, as his coworker, Robert Schard, might say. The creature skittering along the dirt in front of him, an advanced scout most likely, was a Paper Wasp. Known for their aggressive, sting first and ask questions later attitude. He’d had a few run-ins with them in the past, most recently at the old house in Worcester when he was trimming the hedges. Get too close, they stung you. Simple as that. Left unchecked, their nests could swell to horrific sizes. This one had been unchecked for years.

The scout finally lifted off the floor and joined the growing swarm filling the upper half of the doorway and now the rafters. Like a blanket about to drop on top of him. So many of them, thousands! The sound of their anger became a roar, the pathetic label buzz long obsolete. A thousand pissed off lions pulling together into a ball, getting ready to explode over him like a thunderstorm.

Now or never, he decided. With the key digging into his palm – knowing it would be his only reward for the pain he was about to suffer – Corey rose again into a half crouch and ran directly into the cloud, trying to keep as low as possible.

The cloud lifted before he reached the door. Only the tap, tap of a few slow-movers bouncing off his forehead. Then he was through and running upright, watching the ground as the sun poured into his expanded pupils, casting everything in a wash of white and yellow. He’d caught them off guard. They were probably grouping themselves into a giant fist behind him like in those old cartoons. Corey jumped over, and sometimes through, the gauntlet of mountain laurel through which he’d come to reach the shed, praying that he wouldn’t miss the threadbare path he’d followed from the house to get here. He almost tripped when a branch grabbed his ankle. Instead of falling, he hopped on his free foot, keeping a jerky forward motion until the plant gave up the fight and released him.

Only when he found the path at the edge of the property did he risk stopping and turning, ready to sprint towards the house if even a single wasp gave chase.

A dark cloud circled the shed, but nothing followed.

He leaned forward and rested his clenched fists against his legs, trying to breathe the hot summer air. All the while he watched the shed. The wasps spread like ink across the front wall, covering the useless window, filling the door frame. But they traveled no further. Corey took another deep breath, tying to get his body to calm down. His face ran with sweat and his right hand hurt. 

He opened his fists. The key had pressed so hard into his palm its impression remained when he plucked it away with his left. There was a small cut at the bottom of his hand, barely bleeding but enough to make him double check that it wasn’t from the rusty section. He opened and closed his hand, trying to work loose the impression in his palm while he tried, more successfully now, to slow his breathing.

His system was not yet ready to shut down the flight reflex which had probably just saved his life. Breathe in; hold it. No, can’t hold it, so just breathe out and try again. Slowly, slowly, his pulse calmed. The air drifted more leisurely into him instead of pouring like magma.

At some point, he’d closed his eyes. He opened them with a start. The wasps were gone. With the exception of the door which now hung drunkenly open, the shed looked much as it had when he’d first wandered back here to explore his new land.

Where the hell had they gone? He’d expected the wasps to linger after chasing a giant from their cave.

He took another long breath, let it out. Maybe he’d take a nap when he got back to the house. He’d had enough excitement for the day. Wishful thinking, since Sam had her Hundred Things To Do This Weekend list waiting for him when he returned, near death experience or not.

Corey stood up, keeping one eye on the shed, and stretched muscles that were now stiff with an over-abundance of adrenaline. He hoped the wasps had gone back inside and weren’t creeping through the underbrush, getting ready to spring on him while his guard was down.

That was stupid, but the image was enough to make him pocket the old key – he’d give it a better look when he got back to the house – and turn towards home. He glanced behind him, further down the path. It wound through the rest of the property and beyond. A roof and one white-shingled wall were visible through the foliage. Maybe his neighbors enjoyed walking through the woods. The path was overgrown enough to give him the sense it wasn’t a frequent occurrence. Did they know about the nest? He’d mention it if they ever got around to meeting. Hopefully they were decent people. With such a limited choice of neighbors, it took only a single crappy one to ruin your day for a long time.

Corey gave the shed one final glance then headed for home.

II

      Hank Cowles enjoyed Saturday mornings, especially the hour just before noon. People-watching. An odd pastime for one of his ilk, but it gave him an ironic sense of belonging. Here he was, an old man, sitting in a wobbly folding chair on his front lawn, watching families scurry to the next big event in their vans and SUV’s and feeding his fascination. On occasion, Hank would attend Saint Malachy’s church, sometimes even served as usher. He loved that, passing the collection basket from one cheapskate to the next and watching them squirm when he lingered beside their pew after they dropped in a measly dollar or two. Not that he gave two shits about the church, he just liked screwing with the people inside.

“Fucking crow-bar wallet heads,” he muttered. Nurse Charles looked up from her spot beside the chair, decided he’d only been talking to himself and laid her small head back onto her paws.

Fucking crow-bar wallet heads, Hank thought, smiling. Amazing what nonsensical gibberish came out of his mouth when he wasn’t being careful. But he enjoyed the nuances of human language. Cursing, especially. Something therapeutic about telling a person to fuck off and get away with it for no other reason than that he was a doddering old man who probably didn’t have complete use of his faculties.

 The sun was hot. Hank ran both hands over his face and balding head to wipe nonexistent sweat away. He did not perspire, not unless he chose to and as a rule he did not. Still, his palms were cool against his overheated scalp and he did enjoy touching himself. During these rare, hot, New England summer days someone invariably walked past on their way to the Greedy Grocer  – one of six ridiculously small shops crowded together in Hillcrest’s only strip mall – and commented that perhaps he should spend a little less time in the sun. He particularly looked forward to that idiot Josh Everson who managed the Grocer. The kid would drive past on his way to check up on his unreliable employees. If Hank was out front, he’d stop his car dead center in the road (something only possible in a sleepy little town like this). The moron would wave, look at Nurse Charles and ask how Hank’s little “Shit Sue” was doing. He never spelled it out, but Hank heard it in his voice, in his mind. The kid was insatiably amused by the dog’s name, but made it a point never to ask how she got it. Hank would never tell him, anyway. Still, of all the assholes in town, Everson was OK. Nurse Charles wanted to rip his balls off with her little teeth, but she wouldn’t. Not if Hank didn’t want her to.

No sign of him this morning, and that was fine. Hank had other matters to ponder. The wasps kept zipping past, telling him over and over, ad fucking nauseam, that the game was afoot. The clock would soon be ticking. That probably meant Vanessa would be making an appearance soon. She always did. Key in hand, Corey Union would get things moving along quickly. No wasting time, putting off what could be done tomorrow, no, sir. He wasn’t that kind of guy.

Hank opened his eyes and laughed softly. Nurse Charles continued to lay on her paws and pretended to doze, dreaming of death and blood and pain and...

...and the same shit he, himself, had begun to dream. Last night, only a snatch of memory remaining of a bright white cloud burning into orange, then red. A close up of one child’s eye widening in wonder, then terror at the sight...

The Shih-Tzu growled.

“Yea, yea, fine,” Hank muttered. “What do you care?” He closed his eyes again and turned his face towards the sun. “It’s a beautiful summer day, Charlie, and hot. I’m allowed a little reflection.”

The dog did not reply.

Hank lowered his head, waved absently as Agnes Lewis drove by in her LeSabre. She didn’t see him, too intent was she on not quite remembering which side of the road to drive on. Looking at Nurse Charles, Hank decided, Tomorrow, maybe. Or the next day. They’d go for a walk across town and pay a visit to the nice family who had bought his property. Between the dog and the wasps, he’d keep tabs on them, including Vanessa, and make sure the clock was wound and kept on ticking....

Excerpt from the Destroyer of Worlds

© 2012  G. Daniel Gunn

ISBN 978-0983732921

282 pages

Other Road Press

Available Here and wherever books are sold

Great Reviews For Nightmare

We've been getting some great reviews in for the Billy Story (as I've always referred to what eventually became Nightmare in Greasepaint):

"Manages to build some serious suspense and will easily freak out those who suffer from Coulrophobia. A satisfying, well done creep-fest."  - Nick Cato, Horror Fiction Review

"This is a very good novella with a couple twists that are sure to keep the reader guessing and cause nightmares in their own right. Soares and Gunn handle the story with a deft hand...." - Josef Hernandez, Examiner.com

"...whether the reader is afraid of clowns or not, Nightmare in Greasepaint is a creepy and enjoyable read." - Tim Potter, Hellnotes

"Soares and Gunn are a cohesive, well-oiled machine... the two manage to pull of an exciting, comprehensive adventure into fear that will resonate with many long after the final pages." - Dave Gammon, Horrornews.net

"This, folks, is serious horror: the ugly underside of life where true evil hangs out. ..one fascinating, unputdownable story." - Mallory Heart Reviews

We also got a very cool video review for the book here!

Nightmare in Greasepaint Now Available as ebook!

My new novella with L.L. Soares (based on the very first short story I'd written a quarter century ago), Nightmare in Greasepaint,  is now available from Samhain Publishing. Available as e-book only for now - coming in October in print form as part of the Childhood Fears collection, more as that develops. The ebook is a great price, and a great scare! Clowns and horror. How can you go wrong? Order now!

Amazon for your Kindle: http://smile.amazon.com/Nightmare-Greasepaint-Childhood-Fears-Soares-ebook/dp/B00VNK4MCI/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

Nook at Barnes & Noble:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/nightmare-in-greasepaint-ll-soares/1121694930?ean=9781619229037