Bite Me

Today, I have the honor and pleasure of being featured on Selah Janel’s blog — Come Selahway With Me — with a vampire-themed guest post for the Vampires Don’t Sparkle! portion of the SSP Anthology Blog Tour! Care for a little taste?

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

Father Knows Best (Part 5): Hell Hath No Fury

FATHER KNOWS BEST

PART FIVE

“HELL HATH NO FURY”

“I can’t believe you walked right into this mess. What were you thinking?”

Allen Parker strained his eyes against the darkness, making out the crude shape of his brother Dale roughly ten feet away. He was sandwiched in between their father, Stephen Parker, and their frequent tag-along, Sarah Jones. All were chained to the walls of an old cistern with rusty irons, the only light filtering down from a dozen feet overhead. The light danced, flickering as if from a fire. A candle perhaps, or a fireplace? It mattered little. The Parkers were well and duly screwed.

“Me?” Allen replied with obvious indignation. “In case you didn’t notice, brother, you and pops got dumped down here first.”

“Boys,” their dad barked, “that’s more than enough from both of you. There’s more than enough blame to go around. What we need to be focusing on is our escape, not the folly which landed us here.”

“Father knows best,” Allen quipped. He was sore, and not just in the physical sense. Dale was right, of course, he and Sarah had walked right into the proverbial lion’s den and now they were completely hosed. Sure, he’d called and left a message with Dr. Connors, but who knew if he’d get it in time. Had he been thinking clearly he never would have allowed Sarah to get mixed up in this, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have let Cheryl Larson get the drop on them.

Cheryl Larson. He still couldn’t believe it. Sarah’s best friend’s older sister? He knew she was mixed up in Tracy’s disappearance, that the whole family were some kind of demonic offspring and knee deep in the school killings from two years back, but he knew those girls. Hell, he’d had one major crush on Cheryl back when he was in the seventh grade and she was a senior cheerleader for the Converse Bordermen. And she’s a freaking half-breed devil woman? Hm, when you think about it, it does kind of make sense.

“You know, Allen, there’s no need for your being a complete ass,” Dale jabbed. “Dad will figure out a way to get us out of this and then we’ll deal with the Larson girl.”

“Bite me, Dale, if our father were going to get us out of this he would have by now.”

“I am right here, you know.” Stephen Parker was doing his best not to lose his cool. Allen wasn’t making this any easier, and neither was his older brother. He expected better of his boys, but given their situation…

“How about all three of you knock it off,” Sarah growled. Allen heard the clank of metal on stone then saw her dark form moving across the small room.

“What the —?” Allen perked up. “How’d you get loose?”

“I’ve got big wrists and small hands.” Sarah knelt down beside him and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Now, the big question is, now that I’m free, how do I get you out of these shackles?”

“You don’t,” Stephen Parker said. “Not yet anyway.” He stood up, the chains giving him just enough slack to reach his full six feet. “You’re going to climb up me and get out of this hole and run for your life. Once you’re safe, you’ll call for help. Once you’re safe, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he replied.

“I’m scared.”

“Of course you are, Sarah, but you will make it. We all have faith in you. Now, let’s get you up and out of here before Cheryl Larson looks in on us. What do you say? Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, now get yourself up this wall and you run like there’s no tomorrow. Don’t look back, you hear me? Just run.”

The elder Parker braced himself as the young girl scaled his frame. Standing on his shoulders she was just shy of the top rim of the rock-hewn well. A slight hop and she’d be able to grab the ledge. She steadied herself, visualizing what she had to do.

“Sarah,” Allen called from below. “Just in case, you know, I wanted to tell you… I… I love you.”

“I know.”

Sarah leaped, her fingers grasping the fragile ledge. Kicking with her legs and scrambling with all her strength, Sarah Jones rolled onto the basement floor, then she was up and running as fast as she could. And she didn’t look back. Not even once.

***

NEXT WEEK:
PART SIX
“A KNIFE IN THE  DARK”

Writing in Theory & Practice: Dreams of Winter

Now available for pre-order from Seventh Star Press — Vampires Don’t Sparkle

What would you do if you had unlimited power and eternal life?

Would you…go back to high school? Attend the same classes year after year, going through the pomp and circumstance of one graduation after another, until you found the perfect date to take to prom? Would you…spend your days moping and brooding, finding your only joy in a game of baseball on a stormy day? Or would you…do something else?

The authors of this collection have a few ideas; some fanciful, some humorous, and some as dark as an endless night. Join us, and discover what it truly means to be “vampyre.”

Here’s an excerpt from my contribution to Vampires Don’t Sparkle — “Dreams of Winter”:

A line from Longfellow comes to me as I stare at the pale, lifeless child at my feet. ‘The leaves of memory seemed to make a mournful rustling in the dark.’ The Dark, capital ‘D’, if you don’t mind, has been of particularly nagging interest to me of late. As for mournful rustlings, well I’ve been knee-deep in those too. And it’s starting to piss me off.

            Surrounded by the girl’s belongings, it’s not hard to fathom how Megan Gamble’s mind worked. There’s a poster of a shirtless Alexander Skarsgard on the back of her door. Bookshelves overflow with Jim Butcher, Laurell K. Hamilton, Kim Harrison, and Charlaine Harris urban fantasies, a well-read copy of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight rests on the nightstand. Evanescence, Pretty Reckless, and Nightwish CDs are scattered on the floor beside an old school jam-box. The clothes in her closet? All black and lots of lace and frills, plunging necklines and short skirts.

            I crack a window, light a cigarette, and watch the snow fall. Dreams of winter, I muse. No more dreams for her. I’ve got the itch for a drink, but I let the nicotine placate my self-destructive tendencies for now. I do my best to ignore the sounds of the cops behind me, grumbling about their business and their distaste for my presence. The feeling’s mutual. Grim thoughts give way to grim tidings and I’m on the verge of giving myself over to them, but there’s work to get to. Dark work.

Writing in Theory & Practice: A picture’s worth a thousand words

Here’s the the cover for Oddfellows Serenade
by Chris Wilson & myself.

Coming soon to a comic store near you?

Father Knows Best (Part 4) — Waking the Dead

FATHER KNOWS BEST

PART FOUR

“WAKING THE DEAD”

There was a wind-chime hanging above the carnage, spiraling in the slight breeze that invaded through the broken basement window. The soft, ethereal music it made was like a preternatural dirge played by unseen spirits, lamenting the death of the fragile creature who’d met her end at the hands of primordial violence. Blood painted the gray masonry carmine, filling the small space with the overwhelming stench of death  and decay. In the midst of the abattoir, the occult detective knelt, examining the crude sigils drawn on the cellar floor mere inches from the young girl’s ravaged body.

“Damn it, Parker,” Connors said, rising from the body, “what have you got yourself into?”

Landon Connors was no stranger to the scene before him. He was born into a world where magic was a part of his everyday existence and his mentor, Private Detective Sam Hill, specialized in occult mysteries and ritualistic murders. No, he’d stood in far too many places just like this one, marked by the cruel hand of unmistakeable and unfathomable evil. It weighed heavily on him, leading him down dark paths few could escape from, but when people he cared about were caught in the cross-hairs of the kind of black magic he found here in this dank basement, then the pressure was nigh unbearable.

The detective reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a silver flask, taking a slow and methodical draw of soothing bourbon. He circuited the room, looking for clues, pausing to light a cigarette as he examined blood splatter near a broken down workbench. The young girl, in her late teens or early twenties, had been struck here by a blunt instrument, then drug into the center of the room and ritually disfigured. The sigils circling the body were a common enough magical language, a variant on the Transitus Fluvii alphabet. A quick translation and it wasn’t hard to surmise the ritual’s purpose. The sacrifice, however, was extreme for what the black magician was attempting, which could only mean that the entity called up was a major player.

He thought about the frantic phone call he’d received from Allen Parker slightly more than an hour before. Allen had hurriedly explained how he and that fiery little redhead, Sarah, had got themselves into a bit of trouble while trying find Allen’s father and brother. Connors and Stephen Parker had been friends and colleagues for more years than either would care to admit. The occult detective was quite fond of the Parker brothers, and had even become attached to their red-tressed tag along and her cousin, Cassidy. They were all like one big dysfunctional family… and now that family was in danger.

Connors snuffed out the near spent cowboy killer on the basement floor and took a deep breath. Reaching into his metaphysical bag of tricks, he began reciting ancient words of power, drawing forth the tortured spirit of the slain girl. He needed answers, and fast. Waking the dead seemed the quickest route to his most pressing question, what the help was he up against?

Slowly, a shadowy form began to manifest above the dead girl’s body, like a mist rising from a lake. It twisted about, writhing with an eldritch energy that sent shivers through Connors’ bones. Something wasn’t right. This girl, she wasn’t a victim. She was a willing participant. Suddenly, it dawned on the detective — this was no mere black magic ritual to conjure up some infernal spirit for gods knew what, this was a trap… and it was set for him.

***

NEXT WEEK:
PART FIVE
“HELL HATH NO FURY”

Father Knows Best (Part 3) — The Whispering Wind

FATHER KNOWS BEST

PART THREE

“THE WHISPERING WIND”

“Well, it’s been fun, but I really think it’s time we should be going.”

Allen was either ignoring her, or was so engrossed by the bloody scrawl on the wall that he just didn’t hear. He’d already snapped several pictures with his digital camera. Now he leaned in close and sniffed, then, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed it onto the smear and placed it into a plastic baggy.

“What are you —?”

“Evidence,” Allen said, cutting her off. “Might be useful.”

Sarah was growing impatient. “Useful? To who?” She grabbed him by the arm and spun him around. “Allen, I’m scared. And not just a little bit. That… sigil… is written in blood. Blood, Allen. This is happening. I’ve seen too many horror movies to not know how this is going to end.”

“I know, Sarah, but my dad and brother were here. If anything’s happened to them…”

“I get it,” Sarah replied. “But you’re not going to be doing them any favors if we get ourselves killed out here.” She touched his cheek, tenderly. “we need to come back in the morning with the DNR. We’ll find them.” She stepped away from him and motioned toward the door. “I promise.”

“You’re right,” Allen said. “We’re not going to —” His eyes widened as the front door slowly began to open. He looked to Sarah who was already backing away. He grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed toward and up the stairs leading to the attic. The scurried up and through the attic door. Allen kept it slightly ajar, eyes intent on the living room. The front door moaned and creaked as he and Sarah listened to footfalls echoing up from below.

“Who is it?” Sarah asked from behind him.

“Shhh.”

Allen watched, his heart and mind racing. He heard the footsteps clearly, and sensed that whoever it was should have been in the center of the room, but there was no one there. The wind whistled through the open door, cold and mournful. For a moment he thought he saw… but no, surely it was a trick of the ill-lit room, soft moonlight the only source filtering in through the tress and the broken windows. But still, his eyes had focused on a smokey mass of pale effluvium, drifting on the wind before dissipating near the kitchen entryway.

“Damn it, Allen, what do you see?” Sarah harshly whispered.

He turned to face her. “Nothing,” he said. “No one.” He rose from his crouched position and turned on his flashlight. Sarah followed suit and the two cast their beams about the dusty old attic, piled high with antiques, boxes, and various and sundry novelties and bric-a-brac.

“Wow, it really is like these people just up and vanished.” Sarah walked slowly through the room, taking it all in.

“I told you.” Allen followed her. Though he’d been here a couple of times before, he’d never really had a chance to really look the place over.

“Who would just up and leave everything behind?”

“That was certainly my dad’s thoughts.” Allen paused to look through a stack of record albums, all from the late fifties and early sixties. “Surely no one would, unless they were running from something, or they were…”

Sarah finished it for him. “…dead.” She took an album from Allen’s hands, Marty Robbins’ Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs. “Hot pink,” she said, a slight smile on her lips. She was trying to be brave, but it was all too much. Not long ago her best friend had gone missing and a handful of her classmates ended up dead. And now, here she was, in an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere. She couldn’t help but wonder if her fate might be the same.

“Come on,” Allen said, “Let’s get out of here. The coast is clear. We’ll head back to my bike, hightail it back to Casa Parker and call the authorities. Or better yet…”

“… call Dr. Connors?”

“You really need to stop doing that. I thought your cousin was the psychic in the family.” He smiled and thankfully she returned it. “Let’s go,” he said, and the two made their way down the stairs and back into the frigid night.

The two teens were on edge, but Sarah was relieved to be heading back home. But that all ended with a sound on the wind, whispering through the trees. It was just a murmur at first, incomprehensible, but slowly snatches of words were carried to her ears, whispers that sent shivers up her spine.

“… Sarah… please… I’m here… Sarah…”

“Allen?” Her companion had stopped dead in his tracks. “Do you hear —?”

“My brother? I sure as hell do.”

“No,” Sarah responded, “It’s Tracy.”

“What? Tracy Larson?” Allen took her hand. “Sarah, it’s my brother. He’s saying my name, over and over.” He was looking deeper into the woods, toward the voice being whispered on the wind.

“That’s not what I’m hearing at all,” Sarah replied. “It’s my name. Tracy’s calling for me. She needs my help.” She pulled away from him and walked toward the voice.

“Dammit, I don’t like this.” Allen walked after her. “Not one bit.”

“What’s out there?” Sarah asked.

“There’s another abandoned house, about a hundred yards back that way.”

Sarah gave him a stern look. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“What? Are you crazy? You really want to traipse through the woods, toward some  incorporeal voice that’s obviously trying to lure us into god knows what kind of a trap? After you practically begged me to get your ass out of here and back home?”

“Yes, Allen Parker,” she said, turning on her heel and marching off into the woods toward the sound of Tracy’s voice. “That’s precisely what I want.”

***

NEXT WEEK:
PART FOUR
“WAKING THE DEAD”

New Parker Brothers Mystery starts today!

FATHER KNOWS BEST

PART ONE

Allen Parker drove his shoulder hard into the advancing lineman before spinning away toward the sideline, cleats digging into the frozen tundra of Bordermen Field. With a stutter step, he juked the linebacker that had come up to cover him, and with a burst of speed he was racing toward the endzone. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the ball sailing through the crisp autumn air, the sound of approaching footsteps thundering in his ears. Don’t look, he thought, eyes on the ball. The Converse Bordermen were trailing by five with mere seconds on the clock. This was do or die time.

The football arrived, grazing Allen’s fingertips, just as an energized free safety delivered a devastating blow into the young Parker’s right side. The ball tumbled from his grasp, but he managed to bat it once, twice into the air. Safety and tight end crashed onto the hard ground, the ball flipping end over end. With a last ditch effort, Parker reached for it, straining against the pain and then it was in his hands. He’d done it. He caught the damn ball. Somewhere a starter gun signaled the end of the game and an eruption of joy exploded from the bleachers.

Allen rolled over, football held close, and he looked toward the endzone. He was mere inches shy of the promised land. Mighty Casey had struck out. Gathering himself, he walked off the field with his comrades, their despondence and weariness made all the more so by the resonant cheers of the visiting Argylls. While Allen’s teammates fell into the comfort of their girlfriends and parents, young Parker’s eyes focused on the emptying bleachers. There was no father there waiting to say “nice try, son”, no brother to say “you’ll get ‘em next time, kid”. No, his father and brother were elsewhere  this Friday night. They were tending to the family business… the business of hunting ghosts.

To be continued…

Descendant: An Occult Novel of the Liber Monstrorum

Just in time for the End of the World —

Descendant: An Occult Novel of the Liber Monstrorum

Descendant is a supernatural thriller filled with daring action, adventure, and artifice set against the backdrop of a very familiar world – but it is a world in which preternatural entities, clandestine magical orders, ancient bloodlines, and unholy alliances converge within the shadowed recesses of our darkest imaginings. Federal Agents Selina Wolfe and Martin Crowe are called in to investigate a series of bizarre deaths in a small rural community. What first seems to be a misadventure involving black magic and satanic ritual soon takes on even more deleterious overtones, as the agents become embroiled in a plot by a sinister cabal intent on unleashing Hell on Earth.

“Descendant is like the bastard lovechild of The X-Files,
H.P. Lovecraft, and Doctor Strange;
and I mean that in the most loving way possible.“
- Erik Smith, The Monster Librarian

“Descendant is up there at the top my favourite paranormal
investigation novels… the depth of occult knowldege
that has been intertwined into the story is vast.”
- Jim McLeod, Ginger Nuts of Horror

“Between ancient bloodlines, unholy alliances and
magical orders of great power, Freeman’s knowledge
of dark magic and its history shows throughout every page.“
- Rodney Carlstrom, The Sci Fi Guys Book Review

Available now via Createspace for only $9.99.

Coming soon to Amazon and Amazon Kindle.

Watch for the release of Shadows Over Somerset
and Keepers of the Dead in early 2013

Sneak Peek: Oddfellows Serenade Pencils

selected panels from Oddfellows Serenade
pencils by Chris Wilson

coming… soon?

GRAVE CONCERNS: A Parker Brothers Mystery (Part 3 of 5)

GRAVE CONCERNS
A Parker Brothers Mystery

by Bob Freeman

PART THREE

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Cassidy paced back and forth nervously, eyes on the bare trees and their lone inhabitant, a mottled brown and gray barn owl who was just as curious about her as she was it.

“You’ve always got a bad feeling about something,” her cousin replied. Sarah was more intent on the work of the Parker brothers than on the local wildlife. “Quit with the traipsing about already. You’re making my skin crawl.”

“Well excuse me, Miss Ain’t-Scared-of-Nothing,” Cassidy barked. “You’ll have to forgive me for not being overly fond of watching two of my best friends waist deep in a grave they’re intent on robbing.”

“We’re not grave robbing,” Sarah was quick to respond.  “We’re… liberating something buried here.” She turned away from her vigil over Allen and Dale’s digging “If Dr. Connors is correct, that is.”

“Well I’m not as well versed in local folk lore to know what the hell we’re after. What is it about this Cairnwood place anyway?”

“You want the legend or the fact?” Sarah asked.

“Fact, of course.”

Sarah took a seat on one of the headstones and motioned for Cassidy to join her.

“Beats the hell out of me then. What I do know is that this place has been abandoned since 1988, right after this terrible flood and a couple of suspicious fires. One that nearly burnt down Somerset, the other that did a number on the manor house. It’s old, built sometime before the Civil War, I think, and there have been ghost and monster stories attached to it almost from the very beginning.”

“And the people who lived here?” Cassidy’s eyes focused on the Manor.

“The Cairnwoods? Oh, they were of old money, but the line died out with a crazy old wizard named Leland. He passed away just before the fire that ruined the mansion, but there’s more to it than that. I overheard Dr. Connors talking to the boys and he said something about two sets of books he had that had differing historical records about Cairnwood Manor. I didn’t quite follow all of it, but it was enough for him to send us out here to snoop about.”

“Well, that’s all as clear as mud,” Cassidy rose from her headstone seat. “Why are we digging up this Michael Somers’ grave? What does that have to do with the house and its mysterious past?”

“That’s what we’re about to find out,” Sarah replied. “I think.”

The girls both turned as they heard a loud chunk resound from the grave. The Parkers stopped their digging and stared at one another, then looked to the girls.

“We hit something,” Allen said, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“By something you mean a… coffin, right?” Sarah and Cassidy slowly approached.

“Yeah,” Dale said, “a coffin.” He knelt down and brushed dirt away from the coffin lid. Sarah shined her flashlight into the nearly six foot hole. “Michael Somers’ coffin,” Dale added with a confident smile. “Toss me the hammer and pry bar from my pack, please.”

“Are you sure about this, Dale?” Cassidy asked, taking a step back as Sarah retrieved the items.

“We’ve come this far,” he replied. “Allen, give me a hand here, little brother.”

Allen and Dale set to work on opening the coffin lid, prying at the old and rotting wood. The barn owl hooted its displeasure and took flight. Cassidy wished she could as well.

“Sarah, remember what I said about having a bad feeling?”

“Yes,” Sarah replied, taking her cousin’s hand in hers.

“It’s worse,” she whispered.

Then came the sound of rending wood and the guttural growl of something altogether unnatural. The two boys clamored out of the grave with terrified urgency as a great and furry beast erupted up and out of its underground prison. It cried out toward the moon overhead, a long and mournful howl that bristled with rage and unrepentant fury.

Sarah and Cassidy fell backward, crashing to the ground, eyes wide with fear, scarcely noticing the Parkers scrambling toward them as they were transfixed by the magnificent and mind-numbing beast that stood above them. The creature roared, it’s hot breath bellowing forth as if the very fires of hell were trapped in its lungs, as broken chains fell away from its rippling sinews. It sprang away from them with amazing grace and speed, hellbent for Cairnwood Manor. The four of them watched as the beast burst through the once mighty doors of the house, disappearing into the darkness within, the sound of its fury echoing through the night.

“Wh-what the hell was that?” Cassidy stammered.

“That,” Dale replied,” was a werewolf.”

Dale wandered toward the grave as Allen helped the girls to their feet. “Bro, we need to get out of here. We  need to call dad… and Landon. We need to… ” He couldn’t believe his eyes as his brother dropped down inside the now empty grave. “What are you doing?”

“Dale, we’ve got to get out of here,” Cassidy cried.

The elder Parker climbed up out of the hole, something large in his hands, wrapped in worn cloth.

“Not without this,” he said.

He knelt on the ground, unwrapping the object as the others surrounded him. Inside was a large leather-bound tome, intricate and foreboding. On its cover, in gilt lettering, was a title, below it the familiar family crest of the Connors family.

“Liber Monstrorum,” Sarah read aloud. “What does that mean?”

Dale looked up at her and replied, “The Book of Monsters.”

End, Part the Third