Connor’s Third Year Diploma

Today marks the 110th anniversary of the birth of The Voice of the Mountains — Manly Wade Wellman. Called “the dean of fantasy writers” by the late, great Karl Edward Wagner, Wellman has been a tremendous influence on my writing, particularly his John Thunstone stories. It is unfathomable to me that Wellman is not better known to today’s writers. A unique and prolific storyteller, Wellman wrote for the pulps, comics (including the very first issue of Captain Marvel Adventures), and some of the best genre novels to ever see print.

Not familiar with his work? Well, why not make yourself comfortable and chew on this story from Weird Tales published in July of 1944 — “John Thunstone’s Inheritance” — then come back here and thank me.

Manly Wade Hampton Wellman was one of the greats and should not be forgotten. If you consider yourself a genre writer and have not read his work, then I suspect you’re not. Not really. Until you’ve drank from that well, you’re just pretending.

I’ve always had a fascination for UFOs. Let’s face facts, I’m a sucker for the whole bag-of-weird — sea serpents, Bigfoot, ancient aliens, crop circles, ghosts, Oak Island, werewolves, et cetera ad nauseum. If it tickles the imagination… if there’s a mystery… I’m there. I’m curious and I WANT to believe. But not on faith. No, never that. I want answers to all the spectacular mysteries this universe has to offer. It’s one of the principle reasons that I studied anthropology, archaeology, and ancient religions in college. It’s why, to this day, I continue to refer to myself as a paranormal adventurer.

With all that in mind, let’s take a look at a review copy of a book by Don Donderi, Phd I recently received from Hampton Roads titled UFOs ETs and Alien Abductions: A Scientist Looks at the Evidence.

First, let me state, I enjoyed the book. It’s well written and well packaged. A bit thin considering the subject matter at only 200 pages or so, but it manages to cover a wide breadth of material. I would not consider this conclusive, by any stretch. Donderi, for all his allusions to the contrary, will not sway anyone’s opinions. If you believe, you’ll continue to do so. If not? Well, there’s nothing here to change your mind.

Still, this is a well researched study on the matter, or at least, the beginning of one. As I said, considering the massive volume of case studies, this book makes a quick pass through the material, spotlighting a few high profile instances.

Don Donderi is well versed in the data and maneuvers it with aplomb. The primary focus of this paper, and that’s really what it is, is a call for government agencies be more forthcoming with information they’ve gathered concerning extraterrestrial surveillance, and for a more unified global response to what he perceives as an active and ongoing trespass by alien “visitors”.

Are we being visited by aliens? Are they experimenting on us? These are intriguing questions. Unfortunately, this book doesn’t answer them, but it does challenge our imagination and encourages an open dialogue in which these questions can be asked without prejudice or ridicule.

If you have any interest at all in so-called alien phenomena, UFOs ETs and Alien Abductions is a book well worth your time. You may not get the answers you seek, but it does ask all the right questions.

UFOs ETs and Alien Abductions: A Scientist Looks at the Evidence by Don Donderi, Phd is available wherever books are sold.

Bite Me: A Short Discourse on Vampires by Bob Freeman

“I like my creatures of the night a little nocturnal. My next big novel was going to have a vampire. Now, I’m probably not. They are everywhere, they’re like cockroaches.” — Neil Gaiman

It is no secret that vampires have been largely defanged, their mystique unceremoniously scuttled by Young Adult authors writing their angst-ridden Gothic fantasies for lovelorn teenage girls.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. It is a force to be reckoned with, to be sure. There is an audience for this vampire-lite branding, and more power to them. It’s a money making machine, and we’ve all got to eat.

That I prefer my creatures of the night to have a bit more bite should come as no surprise, but even I was first enthralled by the likes of another angst-driven bloodsucker — Barnabas Collins of Dark Shadows fame.

For all the vitriol spilled toward writers such as Stephenie Meyer and L. J. Smith, they were certainly not the first to ravage the vampire’s dark nature.

Continue Reading HERE

I resigned from Indiana Horror Writers today. It’s not something I wanted to do, necessarily, but felt I had to do. It’s been a long time coming.

I was there in IHW’s infancy, one of its founding fathers in a sense. I felt an immediate connection with Tracy DeVore, Michael West, Sara Larson, and Maurice Broaddus. They quickly became more than friends. They were (and are) family. As more members joined our troupe — Jerry Gordon, Michelle Pendergrass, and Natalie Phillips, to name a few — that family became even stronger. Oh sure, we were there to support each other as storytellers and craftsmen, but more than that, we leaned on one another, through good times and bad. The love was genuine. We all had a voice. We all mattered.

As IHW expanded its roster, as a whole, it began to feel less like a family. There were personality conflicts. There was infighting, bickering, and cliques were formed. The core relationships remained, but IHW as an organization was suffering.

Then Sara passed away.

A couple of unfortunate events took place recently within the group, the last of which being the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back for me. I won’t go into the details, but suffice to say that those original feelings I felt for that core group of members, my family, are still as strong as ever. To see them marginalized or disrespected in any way just doesn’t sit well with me.

Resigning from IHW was a hard decision, but in the end, it’s just a group that I am no longer a member of. The relationships I built within that group still remain. Tracy, Mike, Maurice, Jerry, Michelle, Natalie and Sara, gods rest her soul, are still family and I love them. Nothing will ever change that.

Walking away may have been hard, but remaining in IHW as it has become would have been much harder.

It was Mother’s Day weekend, and as my own mother was in far-off Arkansas for a family funeral, my wife, gods love her, got all of the attention Connor and I could muster. Saturday we made a run into Big R and purchased two trees, a Red Bud and Dogwood. We’d planned on planting them on Sunday, but a frost warning put that off until tonight once I get off work. Sunday we treated Kim to breakfast in bed (eggs & bacon), walked the yard and plotted out where we’d plant her new trees, then had chicken stir-fry for supper. We also hung up some of our art treasures in the house, old prints by John Waterhouse, that really put a bit of spark into our decor.

As evening fell upon us, we watched the season finale of Once Upon A Time, then I slipped off to watch Game of Thrones by my lonesome. Before bed, I got to marvel at a painting Connor did while I was in the back room. A very modern, surrealistic painting that appeared to be an alien with something bursting from its chest from one angle, a leaping wolf from another. Truly marvelous.

It was a good weekend, and much needed. Hell, anytime I get to lose myself in my two favorite people on this ravaged planet is a red letter day. I’ve got the best wife and son a bloke like me could ask for. I’m as lucky as a guy can get, believe you me.

And to top things off, I’ve been needing to write a story — something special — for a while now, and it all sort of hit me out of nowhere. It’s up there now, swirling around inside my haunted head waiting to be scribbled down.

A good weekend? Not even close. This was a great one…

An excerpt from Keepers of the Dead
(Book 2 of the Cairnwood Manor series)

Bathed in blood, Garrick Ward emptied his second clip into the winged creature overhead. The beast spiraled out of control and collided with one of the great support columns that lined the cathedral as Ward discarded the spent Sig Sauer. At full sprint he leapt and sprang, using an oak pew to help propel him into the air where he met another of the winged demons in mid-flight. Straining with all his might, Ward wrenched the gargoyle’s head back, snapping its neck. He rode the dead body to the ground, using its body to shield himself from the impact. Rolling to his feet, he freed his bastard sword from the confines of the scabbard on his back and prepared to meet more assailants.

Gargoyles. Hideous beasts with reptilian flesh and massive bat-like wings, these creatures were the byproduct of the mating between humans and vampires. Homo Demonicus Inferior were the children of a male vampire and female human. They had a life expectancy of roughly two hundred and fifty to three hundred years. Generally of not more than average intelligence, the male spawn was large and powerful and cursed with berserker-like rages making them extremely dangerous.

Homo Demonicus Superior had a vampire mother and a human father. Much harder to conceive and be carried full term, these creatures rarely lived more than a century. They almost always possessed a near genius intellect and could shape-shift into human form at will. Although all gargoyles were hampered by the fact that they turned to stone during daylight hours, the homo demonicus species proved to be an enduring menace to mankind.

Ward was desperate. Out of ammunition, he swung wide with his sword to keep the beasts off of him. Four of them remained, all male spawn. He knew he had little time before their rage turned into a suicidal fury. It would not pay to have four berserkers on him at once, but without a distance attack his options were quickly diminishing. Bolting across the cathedral, Ward made headway for one of the side crypts. From the smaller area he would be able to defend himself from a greater vantage point, all but eliminating their aerial advantage.

He hurdled one of the oak pews and managed to duck under one of the gargoyle’s swooping attacks. In front of the wrought iron gateway to the crypt of the Duke of Argyll, Ward swung hard as another gargoyle joined the melee. His sword went wide and the force of his swing left him vulnerable to a wicked swipe of the fiend’s talons. Fumbling with the gate, Ward staggered inside and spewed hot blood across the marble effigy of the Duke.

“Damn,” Ward grimaced. He switched sword arms and prayed to the gods of the north that his wound would heal quickly. One of the advantages to being near immortal was an accelerated healing factor, but even he had limitations. He placed his back against the wall as two of his adversaries stormed the crypt gate.

The lead gargoyle was in full berserker rage. It charged forward, propelling itself across the chamber with a beat of its great and terrible wings. Ward was quick to dodge its first two swings, but he was overwhelmed and slammed hard into the stone wall by the beast’s charge. Twisting, he drove his sword deep into the gargoyle’s chest. With a horrid scream of anger and pain, the gargoyle fell back, spinning into the Duke’s effigy. Ward cursed as the sword was wrenched from his hands, but he had no time to react to its loss as his second attacker buried a clawed fist into his side. Meat and blood were torn away as the second gargoyle roared in delight.

Ward slid his good arm in and around the gargoyle’s neck and slipped in an arm-bar that drew the creature’s head back and away. With his free hand, Ward let loose with a ridge handed chop to the beast’s exposed throat, but the strike lacked enough force due to his injury. The gargoyle half stepped backward and drew himself face to face with the immortal warrior. They were locked in combat, Ward utilizing skill and cunning to match the preternatural creature’s superior strength.

Garrick Ward stared into the inhuman face before him. Its fiendish appearance spoke to him of another time, centuries past, when he stared into a similar face, but under different circumstances. The year was 1447. The place? Cairn Wood, near Loch Shiel in the Highlands.

“That’s one gruesome face you’ve carved Artus,” Ward had said, though in that Age he had gone by another name.

“Aye, Erik, it is fearsome, is it not?” Artus MacGregor said. He was putting the stone figure in place over the doorway to the forest keep that had been his family’s home for more than one hundred and twenty years. “There,” he said stepping away from the sculpture and looking upon it with an artisan’s discerning eye. “Tha’ beastie’ll rob the courage from e’en the bravest of cutthroats.”

“Of that I’m sure,” Erik of Germania laughed. “So Artus, how heavy with child is Braeda?”

“Noticed have you?”

“I was there when you wooed her away from her father’s hovel, remember?” the German said, playfully punching the giant Scot in the shoulder. “She’s either with child or you’ve been fattening her up with too much Meade. Though for a woman as fine as she, I could see how you might have to keep her drunk so that she’d stay with you,” he laughed.

“Is that so, Erik Bowman?” The German turned to see Braeda with a pail of fresh water and a sack filled with lunch.

“Ah Braeda the beautiful,” Erik said, lowering himself into a courtly bow, “you look ravishing, my sweet.”

“Here ‘nd I was thinking I was a drunkard with an overfull belly of Norse wine?”

“Now you’ve done it,” Artus laughed.

“You must admit, Artus, she’s far too pretty for the likes of you.”

“Aye Erik, she is that.”

“Enough of your buffoonery. Let me have a look at our guardian here,” the pregnant maiden said climbing up on the scaffolding.

“Take my hand my love,” Artus said, helping his bride up to join Erik and himself.

“Oh Artus, it is masterful. You’ve grown so much, my man. You’re an artist… a true artist,” she said, obviously in awe of her husband’s excellent masonry skills.

“I had plenty of practice, is for sure. The commissions for St. Clair’s Pagan Chapel alone would have made a master of the simplest stoneworker.”

“How fares the work at Rosslyn, Artus?” Erik asked.

“They’re decades from completion, but I left them dozens of devil heads and pagan gods to decorate their Kirk with. ‘S good work, but none so great as this beastie ‘ere,” Artus laughed, patting the cool stone on the side of its face.

“Tis an unsightly thing, isn’t it?” Erik laughed, staring into its carved eyes.

It was not unlike the dead stare returned to him now by the blood-crazed fiend he was battling. The gargoyle bit sharply into Garrick Ward’s forearm. The warrior returned the favor with an elbow strike to the bridge of the beast’s nose.

Ward’s mind mulled over the thoughts of Artus and Braeda in Cairn Wood. It all made perfect sense to him now. He shifted his weight and hip tossed the gargoyle. It went up and over his head and Ward heard a crunch as he drove the beast into the marble floor. He had slipped his arm around the gargoyles neck in mid-flight, and the force of gravity helped the warrior snap the creature’s neck. Ward took a deep breath and grimaced at the pain. He’d heal soon enough, he thought. The important thing was that he had figured out the mystery of where his showdown with the forces of Darkness would occur. He knew now where the World Tree was… Rosslyn Chapel.

He had not paid a visit to the small, out of the way chapel in more than two hundred years, but he could remember nearly every detail of its exquisite architecture. It was a marvel, filled with the beautiful stone carvings of Artus MacGregor. Green Men, Norse Gods, Heroic Warriors… but what had caught his attention even more than the tremendous work of his old friend was the famed Apprentice’s Pillar. There were a number of legends surrounding this pillar, but its symbolism as a whole was quite clear. It represented the Nordic ‘world tree’, the Yggdrasil, the fountain of immortality. The pillar illustrated perfectly the perpetual conflict of the forces of light and darkness. At its base was “Jormungandr”, the Midgard Serpent of Norse legend, said to lie at the root of Yggdrasil, continuously gnawing away at all that was good and true.

Garrick retrieved his sword and cleaned the gargoyle blood from the blade and re-sheathed it on his back. With but an hour till dawn, this night’s work was finished. He slinked out of the cathedral and disappeared into the back alleys of Edinburgh. The time was nigh, and in spite of the countless battles lost, the War was still in reach for Garrick Ward and his allies.

Just learned via Steve Niles twitter feed that
another of my favorite artists has passed on.

RIP Dan Adkins — Legendary Creepy, Eerie, & Dr. Strange Illustrator

Man, his Dr. Strange work was a big part of my formative years.

He will be sorely missed.

RIP Legendary Filipino Artist Jesse Santos.

I just learned that Jesse Santos passed away on April 27.
He was 83…

I was a HUGE fan of his work on
The Occult Files of Dr. Spektor.

He will be missed.