Scareanormal

“P.S. Gifford is thrilled to announce that he hall be in Fresno June 28th, 29th, and the 30th for scareanormal. ( http://www.scareanormal.com/event-info/ ) Many big names in horror and pop culture shall be attending including; Sid Haig, Michael Berryman, Walter Phelan. John Dugan, Angus Oblong, Danielle Harris, Hal Sparks, Sean Whaten, Cleve Hall, Roh Morgan, Brad Hodson. Eric Guinnard, Lisa Morton, Dana Fredsti, Fred Wiehe, and many, many more. On Saturday 29th P.S. Gifford shall be on the panel “The best in Horror Literature: From the classics to the Modern.” At 2:00 P.M and then reading at 4:30 P.M. On Sunday 30th at 1:00 P.M. he shall be on the panel “Psychological vs. Physical Horror - What Scares Us the Most?” and might even do an additional reading afterwards. Of course the rest of the time he shall be found at the World Horror Association’s Booth explaining to everyone why they need to be involved with this fantastic organization. He will also have copies of his books on hand, and, no doubt, also a purple pen. Rumors persist that Bob might also be present at various times. And if you don’t know who Bob is you will need to show up and find out- or at least check out his facebook page. “

Dealing with Alzheimer's

Alzheimer’s and dementia are cruel things to suffer from and, I must add, being a caregiver you must assume nothing- as everyday offers new challenges. At two this morning I literally cried. My father was calling for his mother- and asking where she was. But that wasn’t that generated those tears. What impacted so dramatically was the fact he was talking like a little boy. Not just his choice of words but the tone, pitch and feeling in his voice. Even the expression on his face was soft and almost angelic. When he arrived in the front room to discover me watching television his brain began deciphering who I was for the pieces no longer seemed to fit. He looked puzzled at first but soon reality seemed to gradually ease back and he stated, perhaps in an all to matter-of fact tone, “She is dead isn’t she?” I got him back to bed, comforted, and then retired myself. As I lay there in search for sleep I kept reliving those surreal few minutes. For a time he genuinely was, or believed himself to be, seven years old once more and carried all the innocence of that age with him, it was an emotional transition to witness. A few hours later my dad was yelling at my bed side. As I suddenly awake in a panic he told me this time he had been stuck outside in a lot of water with numerous other folks- and everyone was screaming. As I blinked the remnants of sleep away he added that he had been stuck there all day and had been screaming for my help for hours, and he only just escaped. He wanted me to go and take a look as he did not think I believed him. I eased myself from the sanctuary of my covers, and my dogs did not even bother to stir. The patio was, naturally, just how it always is at five in the morning. “No not that back door- that one,” he said pointing at his bedroom door. I went in, and again all was as it should be. “They have all gone,” my dad said as I turned on the light. “How did that happen?” I got him back into bed and watched him fall asleep. Soon he was snoring deeply and looked at peace. I too then went to bed. As it happened I endured an intense nightmare- in fact I am still shaky as I write. But when I awoke it took me the longest time for me to stop believing the wacky far-fetched events I dreamt about did not actually happen. My dream also encompassed an entire day- on about three hours of deep sleep. I shall not divulge the details as many friends and family played key characters. I will say that lies and betrayal seemed to be the prevailing theme and I relived experiences, albeit it in different circumstances, that make my heart break still to this very day. My own son was around none years old for instance- and we cried as we saw each other and hugged. Now my dad sleeps peacefully in his chair as I write this and attempt to pull myself together and consume cup after cup of black coffee. It is a reminder that the body and mind has a hard time distinguishing from dreams from reality.

My son turns nineteen today

Today my son turns nineteen. Hardly seems possible….It is a bittersweet occasion as I know he is happy- but I will not be getting to see him. I rarely do. Jonathan was just eighteen months old when I met and fell in love with his mother. Things went fast and before I knew where I was I was raising him- and ultimately adopted him. Over the years I have written several dozen accounts of this upbringing. Anecdotes ranged from the silly, to the poignant to the loving; all wonderful memories.
Due to my own upbringing I always attempted to make him feel loved and included. He went to his first concert at aged two- Brian Setzer- and went to at least one a month from that day on. Many a time I took him in his teenaged years to bands I had seen when I was his age; Echo and the Bunnymen, Squeeze, Psychedelic Furs, The Specials, Devo, to name just a handful. Again all wonderful memories we shared and I am sure he remembers fondly. He even attended several conventions with me- which he thoroughly enjoyed. Many a well-known author gifted him books – which I know he still has and treasures.

In 2005 my father broke his hip. We almost lost him to infections and complications that arose from this injury. Yet he was strong and fought back. He was still able to drive and used to come over to our house three or four times a week to join us for dinner. My wife and appreciate he should not really be driving- but it was straight run that involved no major highways. I discussed him moving in with us. We had the room and seemed to be the perfect option.

On those nights my father was due over my wife started to come home later and later. In hindsight I could appreciate why. This is where I shall be cautiously candid. My wife’s childhood relationship with her father had been similar to mine. Despite its shroud in vagueness I am sure you get the gist of that remark.

My father’s health deteriorated and so did the relationship with my wife. Only I failed to notice. We had a blow out one night and the next day I returned home to a moving truck. My life was about to fall apart. After fifteen years she was gone….
For a while I was in touch with my son…picking him up for school and attending his soccer matches and so on. But when she started to seriously date again this became strained. Eventually I was shut out of the loop. He was seventeen at the time and along with all the stress that inherently comes along with the teenaged years I refused to let him be a pawn between me and his mother. I texted him frequently, and have always acknowledged holidays with cards and gifts yet slowly the distance seemed longer. At eighteen he was barely spending time with his mother anymore and had settled into a new life with his girlfriend. He is a straight A college student and I am frightfully proud. But, I so wish I could be there today to see him.

It wasn’t long before my father was back in the hospital- and before I knew where I was taking care of him became a full time concern. After he got out of hospital I moved in with him. Little did I know what I was taking on….two years ago they told me he had six months at the most; I am glad they were proved wrong. Since Christmas he has deteriorated fast. I take things day to day now. To be honest I have no idea even where I will be living in a month’s time...I thought I had a safety net- but that has recently been pulled from under me to.

I do pay someone to come in of an evening so I can escape. And yes that escape generally involves Guinness and live music. I shall also be (hopefully) making it to this year’s World Horror Convention and Stoker award banquet. (Everything is booked but it will be down to the wire…) It will be a wonderful weekend shared with old and new friends alike.

I have no doubt that me and my son will reconnect…and who knows this time next year we may be making plans for him and his girlfriend to attend New Orleans- for next year’s festivities. How amazing would that scenario be?

It is also a reminder to never take anything or anyone for granted. My wife was only candid with me about her feelings about my father long after she had left. I should not have expected her to help take on the responsibility of this. She had also observed what a similar situation went on with her father, her sister and brother-in-law. It almost tore their marriage apart.

It is amazing how a life can change. I had a loving family, the perfect home, nice cars and a lifestyle I could have never ever dared to dream as a working class kid back in Birmingham. Within weeks my life was thrown upside down. Icannot grumble for at least I have the memories of the best years of my life.

Yet my experienes have taught me this- you never know what delights and opportunities are on tomorrow’s horizon. Perhaps, just perhaps I say, the best is yet to come.

PS Gifford's website

The Great Shoe Caper




This is an absolutely true account, none of the names or facts have been changed to protect the innocent, because there were no actual innocents involved.

It was an incredible ten years ago it all happened, almost exactly to today's date. It was my only day off from my work managing a restaurant, a Tuesday, and I decided to do whatever manly man wants to do on his one and only day off -spring clean the bedroom. Hey, what can I tell you, I am a bit of a neat freak.

In particular I decided that our modest sliding closet was in dire needs of reorganizing, as every square inch had been jam packed with my wife's stuff. Where's my stuff you ask? A good question, just as I know many married men reading this can relate to, it all had long since been relegated to the third bedroom's even more modest wardrobe.

As I dutifully slid the doors open, about fifty pairs of various shoes decided to fall out in a pile. (What exactly is it with woman and shoes?)

With my dog looking on evidently confused, I poured myself a rather large black coffee. Armed with my morning caffeine, I set about the daunting task of sorting them out all into the appropriate pairs, and in hindsight taking my life into my own hands deciding which ones needed to go into a cardboard box with the possibility of being thrown away. (Naturally, only with my wife's full approval, as even I am not that foolhardy!)

Three hours later, my mission was nearing completion. Several of her dress shoes I had lovingly cleaned up and polished, new laces had been placed into now washed tennis shoes, and everything had been neatly arranged back into the closet. I could not wait for my wife's reaction. Boy was she going to be pleased with me.

At 6:15 my wife arrived home, dinner was cooking in the oven, and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon was breathing on our kitchen table.

"Hello honey bunny," I cried flinging open the front door.

"Hi boo," she responded with a healthy note of caution embedded in her tone.

"How was your day?" I chirped cheerfully.

"Bloody awful," she replied (although not English herself being married to one for so long has had its impact.)

"Well, how about I run you a nice bubble bath, and bring you in a glass of wine whilst you soak away the day's troubles and relax," I countered still feeling cheerful at my day's cleaning.

"Erm, okay...I suppose that would be rather nice." Being a male I was not able to ascertain the increasing suspicions growing in my wife's now squinting eyes.

"Right then, dinner is in twenty five minutes!"

With that she proceeded to take her bath, and quickly consumed that first glass of wine. I replenished it promptly; it evidently was indeed a bad day at work for her.

Dinner was just set, everything looked and smelled perfect. Sarah was drying herself off and she was putting on her pajamas when the scream echoed ominously from the bedroom.

"Gifford, get in here now!" I always knew great trouble was in store when she called me Gifford.

She had apparently just opened the closet and was staring in at her shoes; this wasn't the reaction I had hoped for.

"Whose shoes are these?" She cried pointing to a freshly washed pair of sneakers sporting new laces. "For they sure the heck aren't mine!"

"But, but, but," I feebly countered. "Sure they are!"

"No there not!" she proclaimed confidently and I swear steam was starting to come from her ears.

"Whose shoes are they?" She demanded and gave me that look that all married men know so well. Whatever I said I was now doomed. She, for the time being at least, was not going to be reasoned with.

"But they are yours!" I was desperate now. "Besides do you think that if anyone else was over they would leave barefooted, and put there shoes in your closet?"

"Maybe," she yelled, "I have met some of your ex-girlfriends remember and some of them weren't that bright."

Dinner that night was eaten without a further word being spoken. Occasionally I opened my mouth in preparation to say something, but her fierce gaze shut me up again. Whatever I said at this point was only going to add to my doomed fate. Why oh why had I done it? Kept echoing over and over through my mind. I watched on nervously as she angrily chomped down her steak, baked potato and broccoli and finished the bottle of wine and opened a second.

It was after dinner, as she silently made her back into the bedroom and re-examined the shoes. I got up and cautiously watched her sitting on the foot of the bed. Recognition seemed to be finally washing over her face.

"Wait a minute," she suddenly said her tone suddenly less fierce. "You know, thinking about it I do remember these shoesI haven't seen them in years."

I have to admit that whilst making up that night was particularly fun. I have never since reorganized my wife's closet.

The end.

(Written about five years ago.)

An early one

The Serial Killer Next Door

by P.S. Gifford © 2005
________________________________________

“There is a serial killer living next door,” Fred tried to explain.
“What?” His half asleep wife Hilda replied from their deluxe queen four poster bed.
“I said there is a serial killer living next door.”
“Go back to sleep,” Hilda scowled revealing her distinct lack of teeth.
“You are bloody hopeless!” She then added entirely for good measure. As she pulled the pink, flower decaled sheet tighter around her flabby, wrinkled torso.
Fred looked at the digital clock- 3:03 it proudly flashed.
After putting on his dressing down, and his favorite slippers, he slowly meandered downstairs without turning on any lights. He allowed his eyes to adjust. Entering the kitchen he opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle and poured himself a tall glass of milk. Still in almost complete darkness he longingly took a gulp.
‘Nowt beats the taste of cold milk,’ he thought as he finished the last of it.
It was as he was rinsing the glass out in the kitchen sink that he noticed it his neighbors light on.
“He’s bloomin’ well up to something,” he mumbled before exiting the kitchen, “that light is on almost every night these days.” Fred made his way back up the pink carpeted staircase deep in thought. Returning to bed he grimaced at Hilda’s obnoxious continual snoring.
Fred lay there for a moment examining his wife illuminated by the pink cat figurine nightlight and stared at the large mole upon her chin. He tried to count, in vain, just how many black stubby hairs were forcing free from it.
“Twenty-seven years sleeping next to her.” He moaned under his breath as he finally closed his eyes and drifted back off to slumber.

* * *

The following night Fred suddenly awoke again.
As he always did he stared at the clock. 2:52.
“I am going to catch him!” He shouted out loud. Surprised at the sudden adrenalin which was now racing through his system.
Hilda sat upright.
“What?” She sneered. Her piggy eyes condemning him along with her screeching voice.
“You couldn’t catch a cold-bloody useless you are.”
She then returned her chubby red bloated face to her pillow and in a matter of seconds resumed snoring.
Fred got up and once more donned his dressing gown and slippers. A few minutes later as he finished his nightly glass of milk he saw that his neighbor’s light was once more on.
Feeling peculiarly empowered Fred marched out of this front door surprised at his own vigor. Not bothering to go down his driveway and up the other, he clambered over the fence. He swaggered up to his neighbor’s door and pounded firmly on it.
“I know what you are bloody doing! He hollered.
The light was quickly extinguished.
But Fred undeterred rapped his clenched fists even harder on the door and yelled.
“If you don’t open the door right now I am calling the police.”
This did the trick as within a few moments the door opened. Revealing his neighbor, Ernest, standing there in a long white overcoat, a hairnet, and rubber gloves. Red stains liberally adorned his unusual night time outfit.
The two men simply looked at each other for several seconds. Then Fred proceeded by pushing through the front door and into the kitchen with Ernie at his heels.
He saw it sitting on the counter, big silver and impressive; an industrial sausage machine. Right next to the wonderful contraption it he saw what looked like the remains of a human left foot.
Fred spoke first.
“I have got a proposition for you,” he whispered leaning into his Ernie.

* * *

One week later Fred awoke and cheerfully looked at the clock. 9:00.
He peered at the empty space beside him and grinned.
“I’ll think I’ll have some of those lovely sausages for breakfast again,” he said as he climbed out of bed, stretched lazily, and put on his dressing gown.

Please vote....It is free and quick

The prompt was Starlight- and I was thirty nine. It is short and admittedly clumsy- I found it on line- but aspects of it I do appreciate. I admit forgetting all about it. Felt I owed it one more airing. Perhaps, just perhaps I say, it is worthy to revisit, rewrite and let myeself expand upon it.


'What a way to spend my fortieth birthday,' Sam thought as he stared at the flashing calendar on the bottom of his screen - March 7th 2134. He stretched awkwardly in his pilot seat, 'still, I have got to pay the bills, and when I arrive back on Earth in six days, boy will there be a party!' Blitz, his beloved catog licks the back of his hand reassuringly. It had been a stroke of genius when he had cloned his last dog and cat into one perfect pet after their death's, and this was going to be the first of a long succession of identical Blitz's.

"Where did life go wrong Blitz?" The catog affectionately gazed up at his beloved master, as if comprehending every word.

"Forty years old and still driving a goddamn intergalactic transporter, this was not the plan I had in mind growing up…I was going to be someone. I was going to be a writer- the next S.P. Griffin."

Sam examined the co-ordinates and seemed satisfied. The first delivery stop will be in less than an hour, to the planet Duzzel. He always liked the Duzzies; they were such a friendly race. Same smiled as he remembered being back at the academy as a young boy learning all about them. When Earth began expanding into the universe under the pretense of manifest destiny they had invaded dozens of small neighboring planets and Duzzel was one of the first. Their lovely small planet once was so beautiful. It, many decades before Earth had discovered it, was covered in blue trees, purple flowers and orange soil that glistened under the planet's two suns. However, as he had been taught it, the paradise quickly transformed, under the guidance of humans, into the Universe's second largest galactic toxic dump. The Duzzies had simply smiled, as all this transpired, and welcomed them enthusiastically upon each dumping.

He set the controls to auto command, 'just time for a micro-nap Blitz,' he mused sleepily.

An hour later Sam's seat vibrated him gently awake and he checked his monitor. 'Good' he thought as he noted the grey planet quickly approaching, 'just on schedule.'

Sam made radio contact; English had long since been the intergalactic official language.

"This is Sam Farnaby asking permission to dock."

At the other end of the receiver as he heard abundant cheering and clapping.

'Those Duzzies are just so darn nice, Earth could learn a lot from them,' he considered.

A few minutes later the thousand ton cargo ship docked at the distribution center in Garup- the capital of the small planet Duzzel. This was an exciting time for his employee; as these were the first deliveries of the company's new product. For years there had only been one beer available in the Universe, having long brought up all of the tastier competition. Duzzel had been a great market to capture, five years ago they did not even know what alcohol was, and now they were some of the biggest drinkers in the known, and quite probably even the unknown, universe. Gallons of the frothy liquid were eagerly consumed by the average Duzzie each week. Just as the beautiful landscape began to transform so too were the Duzzies …

Sam suddenly got alarmed by the sight, and brought his transporter to a sudden halt. Surely something was wrong, terribly wrong. A small army of Duzzies were descending on his ship, grasping a variety of pointed tools, and they were hissing uncontrollably with their flabby nostrils flared. There usual smiling faces were gone, replaced by ugly snarls and grimaces.

"Oh my God!" Sam realized they are acting like drunken Earthlings hooligans.

The Duzzies gleefully demolished the ship, seemingly just for the sport in it. As they smashed, and painted strange logos on the stainless steel walls they began singing songs that suspiciously sounded, to Sam, English rugby ones. One Duzzie raised a long pole over Sam's head. Sam curled up in a ball and began to sob. Blitz licked his cheek as the Duzzie looked on. The Duzzie hissed the turned to join his comrades start unloading the cargo from the ship, cases and cases of the company's new beer-Starlight!





__._,_.___



By the way- there is a poll at http://www.virtualtales.com/Promotions/curious-poll.html asking for readxers to vote for my favorite stories. Everyone who votes gets a free copy....

Helpful Hints from Helloise


"Thanks for all the feedback on last weeks helpful hint 'Be kind to your chainsaw and it will be kind to you.' And Bob in the Bronx- that was a brilliant and rather creative notion you had for eliminating your mother-in-law. Please let me know how it works out for you.

Well today s tip is how to remove a dead body from your kitchen floor. I am quite sure that I am not the only one amongst us who has had to deal with this trifling dilemma at least a dozen times. I know that I have! Gee, only last week I felt obligated to dispose of a pesky neighbor who insisted of showing me his recent holiday snaps from his trip to the Greek Islands. And the last thing I wanted to see is, Fred, (not his real name for legal reasons...) posing on a nude beach with sunburn in places where the sun shouldn t even be shining.

So there he was Fred, dead, on the middle of my newly tiled marble kitchen floor. Naturally I needed to dispose of Fred in a timely and effective fashion. Now, I know what you must be thinking, why don't you chop him up and dispose of him chunk by chunk in the waste disposal? But, as I am sure you know from experience, this can be both messy, extremely time consuming and utterly exhausting. And besides unless you have an industrial strength disposal they do tend to jam. And explaining how you managed to jam it up can take an awful lot of explaining to the befuddled plumber. The first thing I suggest doing is placing on a full length white apron. Always use white, so afterwards you can wash it in boiling water and bleach out all those grim stains. When it is on slip on your rubber gloves, mine are a lovely floral pink color, but go with what suits you best.

When dressed apropiately you begin the process by getting rid of any identifying marks. What I suggest, after a lot of messy experimentation, is using an iron for this. Put the iron on the highest setting. As it heats up place a white towel on the floor, and position the body's right hand palm up. With that done it is a simple procedure to iron each finger until there is not even a hint of fingerprints. I must caution you that the stench can be a little off putting. So please make sure that you open a window or two. I normally have a couple of jasmine scented candles burning also to camouflage the stench of cooking flesh. When the right hand is done simply repeat with the left. Easy peasy!

Next, cleanse the bottom of the iron, and put it neatly away. Cleanliness is next to Godliness after all.

The next task is a little harder, but a critical step.

Arm yourself with a pair of pliers. I always keep some in my all-purpose kitchen drawer as I find they often come in handy for little jobs throughout my day.

Take a deep breath and reach into the mouth, still wearing your gloves, and pull the teeth out. I was fortunate to have had to dispose of a body in England once, and there were only five teeth to remove- and three of those were rotton. It works easiest working to the front to the back. Naturally there will be a little blood, but as their heart (has hopefully) stopped beating at this stage, it should not be so bad. The back teeth are the trickiest, and you might have to place your foot on the head as you force them out. Remember always bend with your legs and not your back.Safety first in my book!

The next step is to canvas the body for any distinguishing features such as tattoos or birthmarks. Now, depending on the victim this can be a jolly fun or incredibly nauseating. I find that music is a great distraction as you do this bit. I strongly recommend Liberace to be played. There is something so uplifting in his music don t you think?

If you do by chance come across a tattoo or birthmark you are going to have to remove it. I recently procured a lovely set of Japanese ceramic sushi knives that are jet black. As you surely know they are much sharper than steel blades, and do not absorb any odors. Just be careful not to drop them as they will shatter. Now, anyone who has ever skinned a fish should have no trouble with this process. If you aren't experienced in such matters might I suggest that you practice by skinning a fuzzy peach? And afterwards you can reward yourself with a refreshing Peach daiquiri. You simply put the sharp blade against the skin and slice away. You cannot go too deep. Sometimes to remove all the ink you need to go back and shave of several layers of skin. A note of caution, however much you are tempted to keep it as a souvenir- please do not!

With that done you are ready for the trickiest part of the entire process. I suggest that at this point you take a breather and enjoy a nice cup of herbal tea- I am fond of Chamomile- but anything is appropiate just as long as it does not contain caffeine. Panicking is your enemy. Let calmness be you friend. Breathe in slowly through your nose and out through your mouth as you sip on your tea.

Once you are fully composed and relaxed it is time to proceed with the task at hand.

First you need to redress the body. I happen to have on hand several clown outfits- trust me there is a reason for this- I dress them up into something straight out of a Stephen king book! I apply makeup; big white circles around the eyes, an exaggerated red mouth, and I stick on the honking nose. Please do not be tempted to put the oversized shoes on the cadaver yet. As that makes the body extremely troublesome to maneuver.

When your corpse is all jollied up in the clown suit, make sure that it is late enough for no-one to be about. You might have to wait several hours. Ideally, from years of experience, between three and four in the morning works best for aany unsavory tasks.

Steady your nerves and drag the body by the feet into your garage. Next you need to do a fireman's lift on your victim. If you do not know how to do this I explained in great detail two months ago on my column on arson.

You ease your clown into the trunk of your car, and place the shoes on top! Firmly close the trunk, and set out into the night.

What you need to do is find a nearby school. A school for younger kids works best I have found but use a high school if you must.In my experience Catholic schools work best of all- and that would be the ideal scenario.

As you pull into the parking lot, once more make sure that there is no-one about. When you are completely confident that you aren't being observed moving as quickly as possible, transport the dead clown to the middle of the playing area. When he is posed appropiately in place race back for the shoes.After the shoes are on is a good time to accessorize. Anything clown related will do; from plastic flowers that squirt water, to giant horns, to colorful balloon animals. Anything jolly anhances the trauma of the unsuspecting kid when stumbling upon your trophy.

I know at this point you will be tired! But I urge you to get up early the next morning and watch the local news! You have no idea how much alarm it causes when some child encounters a dead, toothless clown in the playground.

I have done this seven times now, in different schools across this great land of ours, and the hoopla it has created has been astounding. Can you even imagine what would happen if dead clowns started to appear all over the country on a weekly basis? Oh what a laugh that would be.

So there you have it!

Stay tuned for my next helpful hint next month.

'How to while away the days in a mental asylum.'

Yours truly,

Helloise."

KillerCon Vegas

KillerCon


What an amazing weekend I had. In fact amazing is quite the understatement. I have to confess I did have concerns as the morning prior to my departure I discover that the location changed. No longer was it to be held at the Palace Station but at the Stratosphere. Now bear in mind that many folks were traveling from distant parts. A quick phone call resulted in my money back from the Palace and within ten minutes a new reservation was made. I will state this from the outset. Wrath James White did a stellar job of pulling it together and saving his convention after some dirty tricks were played on him. I always knew Wrath was a gentleman- but when he had his back to the wall, and all seemed lost, he (and his lovely better half) managed to save the weekend. And in many ways I suspect it improved it. The Stratosphere stepped up to the plate and knocked it out of the park for us.

Okay….The drive up was exhilarating in the rented little sports car (thanks sweetheart!) and the check in was smooth as silk. Now, those who read my report last year know that I found myself in a dire situation that night and ended up in the seediest part of town. (for that blog click here).

The first night was spent carousing my usual haunts. We are not talking the glitzy new Multi trillion dollar hotels and casinos here- no I am on about O’Sheas (with its fabulous beer pong and dollar frozen Baileys shots), Slots O fun (with cheap beer and the best foot long hot dogs on the planet for mere chump change) and Jimmy Buffet’s Margaretville. Okay I admit, not the cheapest bar on the strip- but certainly one of the most entertaining to people watch.

Next morning we roll into the convention’s registration to be greeted by Wrath. I spy Gord Rollo, John Paliasano and a few other old friends in the process. I shall be forgetting some names as I go here…Some might be deliberate to avoid embarrassing you- so please do not be offended.

Then more mingling and meeting old friends (and making some new ones began) John Skipp, Cody Goodfellow, Gene O’Neil, Hal Bodner, R.J. Cavender, Mercedes M. Yardley, Bill Gagliani and numerous others.

This was not the largest convention I have ever been to. But it certainly was the most intimate. Everyone felt like extended family.

That evening things picked up. I was fortunate to be in the crowd for a Q & A with the guests of honor. That is when I first encountered Brian Lumley. After a highly entertaining hour and discovering how everyone broke into the business, I decided as the guests ambled away to approach Mr. Lumley. Those who have been unfortunate top meet me know that I am not known for my shyness. But, I found myself tongue tied. However luck was on my side as that event slid into the mass book signing which had a bar. I heard myself saying “Can I buy you a drink sir.” Now being from the Northern part of England he naturally said yes. Half an hour later I found myself attempting to sell my latest book sat next to Brian (as he now insisted I called him) on a five top round table. Unbelievable. But here is the kicker he asked for one of my books- and asked me to sign it for him. That was one of those perfect moments that life rarely serves out. We ended up chatting, and drinking for about ninety minutes or so. He was so gracious and offered some wonderful advice.

To be continued….

My experience at the Bram Stoker awards

I did the signing at Dark Delicacies on Thursday night- and whilst everyone else was heading back to the hotel to drink and mingle- I headed home. I live sixty miles or so from Burbank. I took my son to the signing- but I wanted my wife at the Stokers.

The signing itself was a hoot- more like a party than anything else. Imagine close to thirty horror writers crammed into the coolest book store ever drinking beer and wine and munching on snacks. Ye,s a few books got signed- but I don’t think that was the actual point!

We got up at 6:00 on Saturday. I had barely slept a wink in two nights, due to nerves and excitement, and I was running on adrenaline. My wife had worked to past midnight the night before- to clear her desk. She typically goes in over the weekend to keep on top of things. So we were both running on empty.

We somehow manage to set off around half seven. I was convinced I had forgotten to pack something…But for the life of me I could not figure out what.

Being a Saturday morning L.A.’s traffic was not completely unbearable and at just after nine we arrived at the hotel. My first ‘Kaffeklatche’ was at ten with Mick Garris. That is where twelve people sit in a mini conference room sip coffee and chat.

At first the smartly dressed front desk clerk informed me they had no rooms available to check in- and if I could wait a short while. Then my guardian angel must have had a chat with him as a gleam suddenly came across his face.

“We do have a suite available and we can upgrade you for no additional cost.” He said.

“Thanks!” I said as I signed in.

Moments later we were unpacking in about the biggest hotel room I have ever stayed in. I have no reason for the upgrade…Other that I was part of the convention, had an English accent, looked ready to drop and was friendly. Perhaps he thought I had just flown in from the U.K? Still I have found it prudent not to question when fate smiles on you.

After unpacking we headed downstairs for coffee and something to munch on.

We soon found ourselves perched on a stool in the hotel’s Starbucks. A few old friends acknowledged me- as well as some new ones from the signing. At ten to ten I realized I needed to leave. I went for my wallet.

“There is no charge,” the woman who served me said. I then noticed she was the manager on duty at the hotel. Obviously someone had called in sick.

“Thanks,” I said as I walked away.

Sarah and I went in search of the conference rooms. By this point the adrenaline and caffeine had combined and my pulse rate was racing.

According to the snazzy program it was to be held in room 123- but room 123 was conspicuously not set up.

I soon found the correct room 129; Sarah kissed me on the cheek, and wished me good luck.

“Thanks!” I said as I entered the room.

To my amazement Mick was already there.

“How embarrassing, I am the first one at my own Kaffeklatche,” he said.

We began to chat as another gentleman- whose name eludes me- entered the room.

I suddenly felt bold.

“I am not sure of protocol of these things but might I have my photograph taken with you?” I said at a speed that would put an auctioneer to shame.

“I don’t know the protocol either- and of course you can have a photograph.” Mick answered.

“Would you mind?” I said offering my camera to the third gentleman.

“Not at all,” he said taking the camera.

Two photographs were taken, then Mick took the camera.

“How about I take a photograph of you two?” He said.

“Thanks!” I said as I posed for the photograph.

There were still few people there. I mentioned that the room had been changed.

That is how Mick Garris and I ended up walking down the corridor to try and find the missing.

Upon our return a few more bodies had appeared…Including Rocky Wood an Australian famous for his writings on Stephen King. I have known him via the internet for a number of years. It was one of those instant friendship scenarios.

The conversation for an hour whizzed by and much was discussed- including, naturally, his work with Stephen King. Bag of Bones, their latest collaboration, should be one heck of a movie. We discussed the state of horror in Hollywood. And how it was considered the lowest of the low right now. He also went on about how horror movies have been marketed to the teenaged crowd for years- and now the only people who see horror films are teenagers. So now Hollywood is not interested in making horror movies for the more intelligent mature viewer. (Not that all teenagers lack intelligence…But you get my point.) If Bag of Bones is a success hopefully the tide will turn.
It was a very insightful hour.

The conversation also, again naturally, went to The Shining and the Overlook hotel. Now the original movie is a great movie in its own right- but hardly a faithful rendition to Stephen king’s brilliant book. We got the ultimate insiders view of how the television miniseries of it came about, how happy King was with it, and just how much bloody work goes into filming a project like that. The crew works six twelve hour days a week- the director works seven fourteen hour days.

I mentioned that I would love to stay at the Overlook hotel and that my wife is not interested. In my most heavy foreshadowing yet, Garris and Hood told me that they would talk her into it.

Afterwards I got to mingle in the dealer’s room and chat with a few folks I knew. Sarah was sleeping at this point. At two I had my first pitch session- with Don D’Auria. He is the man behind Leisure fiction- which is the largest publisher of mass market fiction there is. No pressure!

I had prepared three pitches and a biography all neatly bound in a folder.

At one I ventured back to the hotel room to get a half hour’s rest beforehand. Naturally I did not sleep- I fidgeted.

At ten minutes before the allotted time, I splashed ice water on my face, and straightened my hair.

“Good luck,” Sarah said from under the sheets.

“Thanks!” I said as I exited the room.

As the elevator went down I ran over in my head what I had intended to say.

As I got off I saw my good friend John Everson talking with Don- he is published through them and writes brilliantly. I walked on over. I introduce myself to Don. I cannot tell you word for word what went down yet. John mentioned I was a great guy and a talented writer. I told John drinks were on me for the rest of the day. Don chuckled.

Don and I headed over to where the pitch sessions were being held- right in the lobby.

A child about eight was sitting in his allotted space.

“I need to take care of my lunch tab- I will be back in a few minutes,” Don said.

“While you are gone I will tell that kid a horror story that will put him in therapy for at least ten years.” I said.

Don laughed.

“That’s you job isn’t it?” He said as he went outside.

So there I sat a whirlwind of emotion, my head about to explode, and still the kid sat there.

Fortunately the youngster left after a couple of minutes and I took over his seat.

An apologetic Don returned to the foyer and joined me.

“All I had to do was offer the kid candy,” I said “and I have never seen a kid run that fast before.”

Don laughed.

The pitch session began. I will not go into any detail about it- as that is not professional.

However of the three proposals I pitched he loved the first one.

I will have a completed manuscript in his hands in four months.

Naturally I could not believe it- and wanted to run around the hotel screaming at the top of my lungs. However I realized that getting arrested might not help my career.

I went and told John and a couple of other writers I knew- then I returned to the room to tell Sarah.

“I always knew you could do it.” She said peering at me through her angelic green eyes.

“Thanks!” I said as I poured myself a shot of vodka.

A short while later at three I found myself in my second ‘Kaffeklatche,’ with two heroes of mine…Richard Matheson senior and junior. Rocky was also there. At this point I genuinely began to question if the day was a dream. It all seemed to surreal to good to be real. The Mathesons’ proved to be not only charming, engaging and intelligent- as I knew they would be- but remarkably humble and approachable. There are five writers I routinely slate as having a major influence on me- and Richard Matheson is certainly on that list. Robert Bloch is also on that list- and as you might know they were great friends. Listening to Richard talk about Robert put me on the edge of tears. I must share this one account he told us.

When Robert was close to death Richard contacted everyone who was anybody in the world of horror to write a short tribute. Naturally everyone responded. Richard’s initial intent was to read these at the memorial service. However somebody (his son perhaps?) suggested that he put them all together and have Robert read them. Now that is pure class.

That hour went all to fast. I did have a chance to question him on his writing. I asked if he always knew the ending when he started on page one. He said he did although sometimes he would change it before getting there. He said his best ending were the ones that caught even him by surprise. He then asked me how I did it. I told him I did the same. That is a moment I shall never forget.

The chat ended at three- and at three I was supposed to have my second pitch session.

At this point I was walking on air.

It took me a few minutes to find Zac Sanford. I apologized for being tardy and told him where I had been.

He understood.

It was a wonderful chat and he is someone with true passion for making movies. I have bandied that word a lot in this account-passion- but that is what it takes to be a success. Zac is certainly that- his last movie was “Ghost Town.” Well it turns out he is a fan of short horror stories and I gave him a copy of my latest book. He told me he would read it and get back to me by Friday.

“Thanks!” I said as we shook hands and said goodbye.

I went upstairs and reported in to my better half. I then had a second shot of vodka. I seriously don’t expect any phone calls from Hollywood- but at least I got to chat with one of the brightest lights in the movie business.

Well I went upstairs to relax before getting dressed for the Bram Stoker awards and an eighties themed party that preceded it.

More fidgeting ensued.

It was at five, when I was putting on my black suit that I realized what I had forgotten.

Socks.

So that is how I came to be in my best suit, mingling with everyone, without any socks on.

Rocky Wood came up, I introduced him to my wife, and he started to tell her all the reasons she should stay at the Overlook hotel! Afterwards I brought him a drink!

A few minutes later I introduced her to Mick- and after his opening bit of conversation, Sarah got suspicious that a conspiracy was afoot!

The Stoker banquet was a hoot- and I had to keep pinching myself that I was actually there.

I will not go in to the details. For those of you interested there are many better blogs out there with writers of a much better caliber than me.

However I did make an accidental mistake which could have been epic.

Early on Sarah, me and Bill Breedlove saved four tables on one that had prime real estate value near the centre of the room. I rested my jacket on the back of a chair and went off again to socialize.

Upon returning I discovered that Cody Goodfellow, John Skipp and Don D’Auria were seated there.

My thoughts went to my lack of socks.

Don smiled at me, got up, and kneeled besides me.

He spoke in a hushed, yet serious tone.

I knew something was wrong- but what?

“I know our pitch session went extremely well but this table is reserved for those already published by Leisure.” He pointed to a sign which I had failed to notice before hand.

I could have dropped dead with embarrassment right there on the spot.

I explained what happened as sweat from my forehead poured down my face and burnt my eyes.

Then Sarah and I got up, and skulked away to a table at the back.

The night ended with a few drinks with Stephen Jones and me retiring early to bed.

All in all quite the experience…Wouldn’t you agree?

The Message

The Message



Yesterday was mother’s day. The basic plan was a day of laziness for my wife- who is the hardest working person I have ever known. She awoke yesterday to get the usual cards and chocolates- and our sixteen year old son Jonathan cooked breakfast. My wife had expected me to cook dinner that night- as I am the one who always cooks. However I had something a tad more exciting up my sleeve…A date. I had procured tickets to one of her favorite bands-Keane- without her knowing. Due to the financial climate we have been forced to cut back on entertainment- and whereas a couple of years back going to a concert was a regular occurrence it is now a rare happening.

My instincts proved correct as she was thrilled with the tickets. Even though her voice was telling me I shouldn’t have- her body language contradicted the words she was saying. She literally bounced about with energy.

At five we set off for an early dinner and to enjoy our date night. Jonathan was left in charge of feeding the dogs- and himself. Parenting is a strange process for a couple of years ago I would have had no qualms about leaving him- as he was too respective and fearful to even dare to step out of bounds. However at sixteen things have taken a decidedly different turn. For the most part he is still very respectful and well behaved- and I feel he is better than most young men of his age. I swear I can sometimes catch a glimpse of the devil on his right shoulder daring him to test the boundaries.

As we left we reminded him to be responsible- and stick to the rules. He nodded without even realizing he was rolling his eyes.

It was a pleasant dinner at a local brewery- and reinforced with good eats and a pint of ale we set off to the venue. As we drove along the freeway I realized I was clasping hands with my wife. It seems to me the longer we are married the closer we become.

We arrived at the theatre in decent time and placed ourselves near the front of the sold out crowd.

The opening acts were stellar- and got rousing rounds of applauds. However when keane came onto stage the audience seemingly erupted into a screaming hysterical mob. You might be thinking that the audience was full of teenaged girls. And yes, whilst they were there in abundance the age group was varied. The lady in front of us was seventy years old and with her daughters who were just this side of fifty. She whooped it up with the best of them!

The band delivered with each song and it truly was a remarkable night.

We decided, as usual, to make our exit as the final encore began. This would mean a speedy escape from the parking lot.

We chased across the car park with the music still ringing in our ears. We were like two school kids on their first date- hands clasped and full of joy. We climbed into our car and quickly left the venue and sped onto the freeway.

It was then it happened.

Sarah glanced at her phone.

There was one message and ten missed calls.

“It is from Jonathan,” my wife explained as the contentment in her eyes was replaced with apprehension.

She fumbled at her phone and placed it to her ear.

“Jonathan wants us to call him immediately,” she said, her voice beginning to quaver. “He called us ten times since- all within five minutes at nine.”

By this time it was eleven.

Sarah frantically called home.

No-one picked up.


“Jonathan, Jonathan,” she squealed into the answering machine. “Please pick up.”


Nothing.

I placed my foot on the accelerator a little harder and went from sixty to seventy-five.


“Call again,” I said trying to remain calm.

She dialed again- and still there was no response.

I looked at the speedometer and realized I was pushing eighty.

It was then our minds began to work over time.

“What if he got hurt,” my wife said.

“What if he set the house on fire,” I answered realizing I was grasping the steering wheel a lot tighter than usual.

Over the twenty five minutes it took us to get home all the joy of the evening had been squeezed from us.

Every last single drop, our faces were drained and our nerves frayed.

We were two nervous, paranoid parents, who had gone through two dozen possibilities of why he called sounding so urgent. Not one of the scenarios was a pleasant one.

As I pulled into the driveway we realized that not a single light was on inside.

Before I had even managed to engage the parking brake Sarah was out of the vehicle and turning the key in the front door lock.

Soon I was at her heels.

The dogs greeted us with their usual buoyant affection, and seemed disgruntled at the brushing off they received.

At least one scenario was eradicated from my throbbing brain.

We raced upstairs.

Jonathan’s bedroom door was closed.

Sarah took a deep breath, and I placed my hand on her shoulder reassuringly; although I was far from assured myself.

The room was pitch black.

Sarah fumbled for the switch.

The light flashed on to reveal Jonathan wrapped up in the covers with a copy of ‘Pet Semetary,’ by his side.

The light stirred him from his slumber.

“What’s going on?” He murmured, still half asleep.


“What is wrong,” Sarah demanded. “Why did you call?”


“I just wanted to see if you were having fun,” he replied before pulling a sheet over his face.

We turned off the light and closed the door.


Moments later, downstairs, playing with the dogs…We decided we are going to have to teach him better communication skills.



The end.

A reminder I shall be at HyperiCon June 5th-7th www.hypericon.info and then on the 11th i will be at a mass signing at the coolest book store ever- Dark Delicacies- www.darkdel.com and that weekend i shall be attending the Bram Stoker convention- and be at the banquet when the winners of this year's Stoker awards will be announced.

You might think I am beside myself with excitemnt.

You would be correct!

Paul