BRIAN MORELAND: Interview

On behalf of Halloweenpalooza, thanks so much for agreeing to participate. Let’s start with some quickies:
Favorite color: deep purple
Favorite scene in a horror flick (the one that made your blood run cold): In the first Alien movie, when it goes on a rampage
Dogs or cats: I love both, but grew up with cats
Male or female friends: A mix of both
Guilty pleasure: Eating hot wings and fries at sports bars
Favorite scream queen: Jamie Lee Curtis
Have You Ever Carved a Pumpkin: Yes
Favorite monster: John Carpenter’s version of The Thing

1.       Since there are so many types of horror, can you please tell us about your work? What can a reader expect when he picks up a story written by Brian Moreland?

Wendy, thanks so much for having me as part of this year’s Halloweenpalooza. I write a mix of mysteries with supernatural horror and dark suspense. Some of my books are historical and others contemporary. I like to find strange unsolved mysteries, use the historical facts and weave a horror tale around them. I aim to write to stories that are atmospheric, have a sense of dread, and take the reader on a roller-coaster ride of entertainment. I strive to come up with fresh heroes, villains and monsters.

2.      Could you please post an excerpt from any of your works that best exemplifies what you bring to the horror picnic table?

Here’s an excerpt of the prologue from The Devil’s Woods:

British Columbia, Canada

Lake Akwâkopiy Cree Indian Reserve

Five days after the tragedy, Jon Elkheart returned to the forbidden forest. With a vengeful glare, he challenged the looming wall of aspen, spruce and vine-choked pines that guarded this unsacred land. The only entrance was a trail that disappeared into a black hole inside the jungle-thick brush. The darkness within Macâya Forest was an impenetrable void, a shadow world of shape-shifters, and yet its mysteries beckoned him.

There are places in the world where lost spirits never rest, Elkheart thought with a coppery taste in his mouth. And man is considered prey. Standing by a lake at the edge of the rainforest, he peered through the scope of his assault rifle, searching the woods for sudden movement. He listened for the slightest snap of a twig or brush of a leaf. The June morning was still and windless, as if all of nature sensed what he was about to do.

You should turn back. You can’t do this on your own. The scholarly part of Elkheart understood this logic. As an archaeologist, he had always put his research first, above all else. Until this last mission went haywire. Now the guilt and anger pumping through his veins would not let him rest. You have to go back in there, spoke a voice that was not ruled by logic. You have to find Amy.

“I’m here,” he whispered, noticing that his legs did not want to budge.

Elkheart looked up at the sun creeping over the mountains. Clouds drifted across the valley, as if shielding the forest from the approaching light. Soon only the tips of the branches pierced the white smoke. Stretching out his arm, he turned a small video camera toward his face. “June 10th, 7:00 a.m. My name is Jon Elkheart. I am a professor from the University of British Columbia. I am also one of the last surviving members of the Lake Akwâkopiy Cree band. Most of my people abandoned this reservation years ago. Those who stayed behind have suffered nightmarish visions from a forest that has haunted our reservation for more than a century. A week ago I led a documentary film crew and four mercenaries into Macâya Forest, an uncharted patch of rainforest located at the northeastern tip of the reservation.” A heaviness burdened Elkheart’s chest as he remembered that tragic night. The screams and gunshots echoed in his mind and guilt twisted his guts. “My crew was slaughtered by something that attacked us from the woods. My assistant, Amy Hanson, was taken alive. I’m going back into Macâya Forest to search for her. I pray the spirits of my ancestors will guide me.”

Never enter Macâya Forest with impure thoughts, Grandfather Two Hawks had warned. You must call in your animal spirit guide and enter with the heart of a warrior.

Elkheart blessed a large knife with an elk-horn handle. Grandfather had given him the hunter’s blade on his thirteenth birthday after killing his first elk. He had eaten the slain animal’s heart and earned his name. Now, Jon Elkheart dipped two fingers into a coffee can of elk’s blood and wiped red streaks across his cheeks, as if a mask of war paint could channel the ancient warriors of his tribe. The ceremony did nothing to settle his nerves. He faced the mouth of the forest where few men had survived before him. “This time I will not run.”

Nervous whimpers broke the silence. Elkheart’s German shepherd pressed against his leg. He stroked his dog’s bristled neck. Should have left him back at the cabin. “Scout, run on home.” He shooed the dog. “Go on.” But Scout refused to leave his master’s side. Elkheart sighed. “You’re just as foolish as I am.”

Taking a deep breath, Elkheart sheathed his knife. He gripped his M4 Carbine. The semi-automatic assault rifle had belonged to one of the mercenaries who had died for this mission. Trying not to think of the soldier who had been decapitated, Elkheart turned on a flashlight that was attached to the barrel. A long beam pierced the dripping gray gloom that shrouded the rainforest. Wary of every sound, he passed through the threshold. His dog followed.

As Elkheart crept down the narrow path between spiky pines, firs, and cedars tangled with spruce, ghostly voices filled his head, pulling his thoughts in every direction. His Cree ancestors would not give him peace until he returned to these unsacred woods and exposed its secrets.

A blanket of dew covered the bracken and surrounding leaves. Only splinters of sunlight lanced the dense canopy. The morning fog drifted between the trees, making visibility even more difficult. Elkheart could only see a few feet around him.

Scout sniffed along the ground a few feet ahead, a silhouette in the haze. They weaved between trees, crossing cold-water creeks and climbing up fern-covered hills. The darkness faded into a gray gloom, as the morning sun finally filtered through the tops of the trees.

Untying his green parka, Elkheart loosened the hood to cool off. Sweat soaked his black and silver hair. Slightly winded, he inhaled the pine-scented air. A branch shook above him, dropping pinecones onto his shoulders. He jerked the rifle upward. An owl swooped from its perch and disappeared into the mist.

Elkheart released his breath. Okay, stay alert. Be ready for anything.

Steadying his rifle, he stepped through a thicket. Large fern leafs and dangling vines made his efforts difficult. Only the twisting path separated the trees and underbrush enough to travel through the woods. To venture from the trail would be like wandering into an uncharted jungle.

The fog thickened. Smokey plumes circled his feet, covering his boots and the moss-covered trail. Scout began to fade in the mist. Elkheart bird-whistled the German shepherd to come back. Elkheart’s heavy backpack burdened his spine. Easing the pack off, he leaned against a tree. Scout sat on his haunches, watching the forest.

Fishing into his backpack, Elkheart retrieved his video recorder and a bottle of Stoli. The vodka had been a birthday gift from Wynona, his…what? Ex-girlfriend? No, their relationship had never been that formal. Ex-drinking partner was more fitting. “Friends with benefits,” his students would say.

Studying the clear liquor, Elkheart felt a brief tightness to his chest, remembering the drunken, lust-filled nights he and Wynona had shared before the whole mess started. He still loved her, still caressed the empty spot in his bed where she once slept. But some pasts just couldn’t be healed. And Wynona’s wounds ran deep as canyons. Letting her image fade, Elkheart swallowed a gulp of vodka. He glanced around warily, thumbed the camera’s record button.

“So far, so good. I’m about a half mile deep and all’s quiet.” Elkheart paused to listen to the forest a moment, turning his camera toward the surrounding trees. “For over a century, my people have feared Macâya Forest. The landscape here is different from the woods that surround the reservation’s compound. Here, the trees tower to enormous heights and intertwine with one another as if trying to conceal something the land never wanted man to discover.” He gazed up at the giant trees, the sacred elders, wondering if they were listening. He felt as if eyes were watching him. “I’m about a quarter mile from the strange ruins my team and I discovered before their deaths. I only got a glimpse, but what I saw was beyond belief. I should be there shortly, where I hope to find Amy. If I come across what killed my crew, this time I’m prepared.”

Elkheart hit the stop button. A strong wind blew along the trail, and the fog began to swirl. He half expected an ancient trickster to emerge from it. Or a threat much more real.

Elkheart rubbed the antler handle of his knife, drawing courage from his spirit animal. When that didn’t work, he drank another fiery gulp of vodka. He then slipped his backpack over his shoulders, grabbed his rifle and stepped toward the swirling fog. Scout sniffed the trail a few feet ahead.

As Elkheart grew closer to the ruins, his asthma kicked in. The fifty-year old professor started wheezing. Fear paralyzed him as questions rolled through his mind.

What the hell are you doing here? Why is revealing the secrets of this forest worth more than your life?

Part of him wanted to return to Vancouver with the evidence they had found. He had plenty of artifacts and footage to open up an investigation. He would be on CNN and every major talk show around the world. Time and National Geographic would cover his story. He would finally be respected in his field, and more importantly, earn the respect of his three grown children. But Elkheart couldn’t leave Amy behind. He took another step, a warrior’s vengeance surging through him. He jerked his rifle at a sudden sound. Low, huffing grunts.

Scout growled.

Elkheart tensed, raising the rifle. “Shh, boy.”

The shepherd silenced, but remained poised to attack.

Ahead, something lumbered through the pines with heavy footfalls that sounded like a grizzly. But this predator had run off all the bears from these woods.

Remain still. Wait it out. It’s only passing.

The heavy footsteps tramping over damp earth echoed off the pines.

Scout watched the path, waiting for his master’s command to attack.

Elkheart remained still, holding his breath. Out here, the slightest gasp could be heard a great distance. The asthma tickled his lungs like centipede legs.

The unseen animal lumbered away, its thundering footfalls and cracking branches growing softer.

The wind carried the beast’s familiar stench, stinging Elkheart’s nose, and memories filled his mind: images of a moonlit night, gunshots firing, his crew wailing as their shredded bodies flew through the air. Amy screaming as the thing dragged her off.

Now, Elkheart’s lungs clenched up. He groped for his inhaler, sucked in.

Somewhere beyond the trees, the beast stopped walking.

Elkheart fought to control his wheezing, pumping several gasps of asthma medicine into his lungs. The centipede legs abated and he finally silenced his panicked breathing.

Too late.

The snapping of branches rushed toward him.

Scout turned and barked.

The predator circled them, staying hidden within the fog.

Elkheart hugged his rifle with shaking arms. Staring through spiky branches, he aimed at the forest. God, the beast’s right here! Behind the fog! His heartbeat quickened as he realized he was about to see the thing in the light.

“Come on! Show yourself!”

A cacophonous roar erupted from within the forest.

Barking, the German shepherd dashed into the mist.

“Scout! No!”

The dog’s growling soon blended in with the roar of the unseen beast. Branches cracked, or were those bones? A fatal ripping followed by a canine yelp.

“Scout!”

A long, drawn-out shriek echoed across the valley. Branches snapped. Snarls filled Elkheart’s ears. He raised the rifle and fired a three-round burst into the fog. The shots whizzed between the trees, their final reports echoing across the valley. At least one bullet hit something solid.

The forest grew silent again.

Was it dead?

Elkheart flattened against a tree, watching the mist swirling with the wind. He dug through his backpack. Pulled out the vodka bottle and a jar that contained a rag soaked in kerosene. He stuffed the rag into the bottle, allowing a long strip to hang out. I will not back down. Holding the flame of his lighter beneath the wick of the Molotov cocktail, Elkheart advanced along the path. The forest remained so dead calm he could hear his own heart hammering his chest.

From somewhere in the infinity of trees a twig snapped.

Elkheart stiffened. He listened for the faintest sound. The surrounding pines, like silent observers to this game of cat and mouse, offered nothing.

Another twig cracked, this time sharper.

Closer.

He lit the wick of the Stoli bottle and threw it toward the sound. The make-shift bomb exploded against the trees, torching two of them. A tall shadow beyond the flames roared and lumbered back into the fog.

Elkheart gripped his gun, backing away. The research couldn’t end like this. Not after all his work. Twenty years of expeditions. Who would be left to warn the ignorant world? He had to escape. He was the last Cree descendent who knew enough to expose the secrets of Macâya Forest.

A woman screamed.

“Amy!” Elkheart left the trail, running between the evergreens toward her crying voice. Branches clawed at his clothes with wooden talons. The girl’s moans echoed off to his left, then shifted to his right, and then strangely, back behind him.

He stopped, confused. “Amy, where are you?”

Her crying changed to mocking laughter, and then Elkheart’s heart seized as he realized he had been tricked. He tried to fire his rifle, but it jammed. He tossed the gun and pulled out his knife. He challenged the fog, “Show yourself!”

From above, hot, blistering air heated Elkheart’s scalp. Something wet and sticky hit the nape of his neck, oozing down his back. He tilted his head up toward the tree and saw a large mouth with a rack of fangs. A shadowy thing was hanging upside down from the branches. Its hands gripped Elkheart by the throat, lifting him high into the air. He released a warrior’s howl and stabbed at the beast with his knife. Elongated fingers noosed around his throat, choking off his air. His dangling legs kicked the tree. His beloved knife fell from his limp hand. As the forest went black, Jon Elkheart heard the lost spirits of his ancestors calling him deeper into the cold and visceral darkness of Macâya Forest.

* * *

3.     Uh-oh! A mad magician has just cast a spell that would bring all your characters to life! What’s the name of the one character you would most not want to meet and why should she, he or it never be unleashed on the unsuspecting public?

That would be Mordecai from The Vagrants. He has the power to brainwash people and force them to join his underground cult. He’s also connected to some evil forces that I would not want to unleash onto the public.

4.      What scares you? Have you had any encounters with the supernatural?

As a kid it was monsters in my closet, beneath the bed, and the dark itself. Now, it would be real-life terrors like fanatical terrorists killing innocent bystanders or suicidal gunmen unleashing bullets on an unsuspecting crowd. I guess it’s sudden, extreme violence against innocent people going about their day. It can happen to anyone, anytime, anywhere.

5.      Given the popularity of ghost hunting, would you be up for spending a night in a haunted location? If, yes, where would it be and what would you like to find out? If, no, why not?

Absolutely. I’m game for any haunted house that’s proven to have regular ghost encounters. Also haunted hospitals like Greystone Park in New Jersey and the Molly Stark Hospital in Ohio.

6.      In terms of Halloween, what’s your best memory of the holiday?

I love Halloween. When I was a kid, it was all about dressing up in costumes and going Trick-or-Treating and then afterward, pouring a large bucket of candy onto the floor with my sister and friends to go through our spoils. We would barter and trade for the candies we wanted so that our collection of sweets would be mostly our favorites. I always loaded up on candy corns, mini Reese’s peanut butter cups, bags of Peanut M&Ms, Snickers bars, Twix, and Krackles. I was more a connoisseur of the chocolate variety than the hard candies. I think my favorite Halloween was when I dressed up as a werewolf. I painted my face brown, glued on some fur, pointed rubber ears and wore these long claw-tipped fingers and fangs in my mouth. I was a huge fan of the Wolf Man.

 7.     What is it about Halloween that makes it so popular?

I think because it allows people to dress up in costumes and express an alter personality. You get to be someone else for day, or possibly your secret self. And there’s something fun about the horror theme of the holiday.

8.      What’s the best thing about writing horror?

Making up scary stories. Growing up I used to watch horror movies. Some of them would be riveting experiences that delivered a mind-blowing experience by the climax. Most movies started out intriguing but then when the mystery or monster was revealed, I’d be let down. In those cases, I always had a different idea where I thought the story was going to go. Writing allows me to write the stories how I would most enjoy them to play out. And the creative process, building the characters, the fictional world, is a whole lot of fun, as well.

9.      If you could channel one master of horror that’s passed, who would it be and what do you think the result of your collaboration would be?

Hands down, that would be Richard Laymon. I love his books and strive to write entertaining stories like he does. I think the collaboration would be his loveable characters and witty dialogue with my cinematic style of writing. He’d get most of the credit, but I’d relish the chance to write with Laymon and learn from him.

10.    What’s next for Brian Moreland? What can your fans look forward to reading?

My newest release is Darkness Rising, a story about love, revenge, and what happens when bullies mess with the wrong person. Here’s the synopsis:

It’s all fun and games until...

Marty Weaver, an emotionally scarred poet, has been bullied his entire life. When he drives out to the lake to tell an old friend that he’s fallen in love with a girl named Jennifer, Marty encounters three sadistic killers who have some twisted games in store for him. But Marty has dark secrets of his own buried deep inside him. And tonight, when all the pain from the past is triggered, when those secrets are revealed, blood will flow and hell will rise.

* * *

TODAY’S GIVEAWAY

TEN ECOPIES (YES, 10 AS IN “FREAKIN’ TEN!!!!”) of Brian Moreland’s DARKNESS RISING!  

To win: go to the Official FB Event Page; find the post announcing  today’s giveaway; and comment, “I WANT TO WIN” in that post and you just might!!!

OFFICIAL FB EVENT PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brian Moreland writes novels and short stories of horror and supernatural suspense. His books include Dead of Winter, Shadows in the Mist, The Girl from the Blood Coven, The Witching House, The Devil’s Woods, The Vagrants, and Darkness Rising. Brian lives in Dallas, Texas where he is diligently writing his next horror book.

Website: http://www.brianmoreland.com/

Follow on Twitter: @BrianMoreland

Like Brian’s Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/HorrorAuthorBrianMoreland  

Brian’s blog: http://www.brianmoreland.blogspot.com

Darkness Rising

It’s all fun and games until...

Marty Weaver, an emotionally scarred poet, has been bullied his entire life. When he drives out to the lake to tell an old friend that he’s fallen in love with a girl named Jennifer, Marty encounters three sadistic killers who have some twisted games in store for him. But Marty has dark secrets of his own buried deep inside him. And tonight, when all the pain from the past is triggered, when those secrets are revealed, blood will flow and hell will rise.

ERIC WILDER: DEAD OF NIGHT

DEAD OF NIGHT

By Eric Wilder © 2015

The sun illuminates all things, the moon nothing but the shadows of our minds.

Cold mist had settled on the distant cemetery. The moon was almost full, and Elise watched as incandescent light danced across the graves. Big arms of her grandmother’s rocking chair comforted her. One of the few possessions she’d managed to save from the fire that had recently consumed her home. Now, it creaked on the front porch of the house where she and her daughter had moved.

Winter begins early in the mountains, and a late fall chill encompassed the valley. Elise wrapped Grandma’s Afghan around her shoulders as wolves howled in the foothills. She flinched when someone tapped her shoulder.

“Sorry, Mama. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You got school tomorrow, Jesse. Why are you still awake?”

“There’s a voice in my room.”

“What?” Elise said.

“A man’s voice.”

“You hear things.”

“No, there’s something in there.”

The coal oil lamp gave off so much soot and smoke, Elise only burned it for short periods. Now it didn’t matter. Jesse followed her through the tiny house to the bedroom.

“No one here. You were just dreaming.”

“But I saw him.”

“Your imagination is playing tricks on you.”

Jesse shook her head. “He was all aglow, his eyes blazing red.”

“A nightmare, then. There’s no one here but you and me.”

Elise was only an inch or so taller than five feet, daughter Jesse’s chin already reaching her shoulders. They were different in other ways: Elise’s hair and eyes were dark. Jesse had green cat eyes, her hair reddish-blond and cut in a tomboy’s bob.

“You’re almost tall as me, Miss Jess. Must have got it from your dad’s side of the family.”

When mention of her dead father caused Jesse’s eyes to dampen, Elise wiped them with the sleeve of her dress.

“Sorry I’m such a baby.”

“It’s okay. I miss your daddy much as you do. He’s in a better place and watching over us from heaven.”

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“You’re too big to be sleeping with your mama.”

“But I don’t like this house.”

“It’s the only place we have. Tomorrow, before school, we’ll meet our new neighbor.”

“You mean the crazy old woman that lives on the other side of the cemetery?”

“I didn’t know there was a house there.”

“More like a shack. The woman sits on her porch all day. She scared me when I was looking at the big grave.”

“What were you doing in the cemetery?”

 “Chasing a rabbit. I found a grave with a big iron fence around it. I almost bumped into the old woman when I turned. She gave me this crazy grin, cackled like a witch and hurried away before I could say anything.”

“She’s not the neighbor I want to meet. I’m talking about the house on the way to town. Meanwhile, please stay away from the cemetery.”

***

Elise and Jesse waded through ground fog as they left the house the next morning. Sun peeked over the mountains, warming the long hike to their neighbor closest to town. Smoke wisped from the big stone chimney as Elise knocked on the door. A smiling woman with snow-white hair opened it.

“I’m Elise, and this is my daughter Jesse. We’re your new neighbors from the house by the cemetery.”

The woman grabbed Elise’s wrist and pulled her inside. “Your arm’s ice cold. Warm yourself by the fire. I’ll get us something to drink.”

The roaring flame felt so warm and comfortable, neither Elise nor Jesse heard the woman when she returned.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

“And we didn’t mean to barge in,” Elise said.

“Glad you did. I don’t get many visitors. I’m Hattie.”

Elise held the warm cup with both hands, letting wisps of steam warm her nose before taking a sip. Jesse was busy looking at family pictures on the mantle when a large white dog came running, its tail wagging. When Jesse bent down to hug her, Hattie’s smile beamed.

“That’s Moby. A killer pit bull, but you wouldn’t know it from this one. She’s a real baby.”

Moby was licking Jesse’s face. “Hi, pretty girl. I think I like you.”

“Seems the feeling’s mutual,” Hattie said. “She belonged to my granddaughter. Couldn’t take Moby with her when she went away to college. Moby misses her something terrible.”

“Can I take her outside to play?” Jesse asked.

“You bet. She’d love it, and your mama and me can talk.”

Once the front door closed, Hattie led Elise to the kitchen table and poured her more coffee.

“You’re white as a ghost,” she said. “Sure that scanty shawl you’re wearing’s gonna keep you warm?”

“We were in a fire. Most of our clothes burned. Jesse’s in school and I have a job at the fabric shop in town.”

“You’re living at the old house, aren’t you?”

“Something wrong?”

Hattie glanced out the window, but not before Elise noticed her look of concern.

“Nothing. How did you find it?”

“A distant aunt left it to me when she died. When our house burned, we had no other place to go.”

“Is your husband . . .?” A single tear ran down Elise’s cheek. “We’ll talk about it some other time. I have things you may need.”

Hattie returned with an armload. “Lots of clothes around this house I’ll never wear,” she said.

“We can’t,” Elise said.

“They’re cluttering my closet. They were my daughter’s and granddaughter. Both gone now. I bet they’ll fit you and Jesse. Try on this coat.”

Hattie helped her slip a wool jacket around her shoulders. “It’s warm,” Elise said.

“And it’ll keep you that way no matter how deep snow gets in the valley. Try on these boots. They look your size.”

“Won’t your daughter miss them?”

“My baby won’t be coming back.”

Elise hugged her. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m just a lonely old woman, and I’m so happy to see you and Jesse. Moby too.”

Elise didn’t remove the jacket. “And we’re happy to meet a friendly neighbor. Jesse told me the old woman that lives by the cemetery scares her, and our house is so cold and dismal.

“You got firewood?”

“I wasn’t expecting it to get this cold so fast.”

“I have a man that’ll bring you a wagonload,” Hattie said.

Elise shook her head. “Can’t afford it till payday. I been kinda making do till then.”

“Gonna freeze tonight. I have plenty of food and firewood. You two stay with me until you get paid.”

“Can’t,” Elise said.

“You sure? I have lots of room. You and Jesse are welcome to stay long as you like.”

“Something about our house frightens me. Doesn’t matter cause I’m determined to make our new life in this valley work. And that means living in our own house.”

“Something scare you?” Hattie asked.

“Jesse heard something last night in her room. A man’s voice. She got scared and I let her sleep with me. Is there something about the house I should know?”

“Nothing,” Hattie said. “You and Jesse stop by on your way home. At least let me cook dinner for you. I’ve been eating alone and I’d love the company.”

***

Early evening shadows crept over the mountains as Elise and Jesse returned to Hattie’s house. Jesse had waited at the fabric shop until her mother finished work. Mrs. Lambert, the store owner hadn't said a word to her all day.

“You like your new job?” Jesse asked.

“I love working with fabrics, their smell, touch and feel. I don’t think Mrs. Lambert likes me, though.”

“Why?”

“She never smiles.”

“You’re just nervous cause it’s your first week,” Jesse said.

“Hope you’re right. We really need this job.”

***

Elise was out of breath when Hattie opened the door. Moby, tail wagging, ran to meet Jesse. They were soon wrestling on the floor as Hattie helped Elise with her coat.

“You’re exhausted.”

“A little out of shape, I guess.”

“What did you eat today?” Hattie asked.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“I hope your appetite’s returned cause I got a pot of ham and beans simmering on the stove, and cornbread cooking in the oven.”

“Smells wonderful,” Elise said.

After dinner, they sat by the crackling fire as Moby and Jesse wrestled on the floor.

“Spend the night,” Hattie said. “Snow’s beginning to fall, and it’s a long walk from here to your house.”

“We’ve imposed enough,” Elise said.

“What are you doing for heat?”

“Lots of fallen branches in front of the house. Enough to keep us warm.”

“If you must, I insist you take Moby with you. She’ll scare away any critters you meet on the way home.”

“You mean it?” Jesse said.

“You bet I do,” Hattie said with a smile.

***

Elise was again out of breath when they reached their dark house. Snow whistled down the valley in cold gusts, a coyote howling by the cemetery.

“Look,” Jesse said. “Someone brought us a load of wood and stacked it on the porch.”

“But we don’t have money to pay for it.”

Jesse wasn’t listening, already carting an armload into the house. Flames were soon crackling in the fireplace, and Elise warmed her hands. Moby was busy nosing around the room, sniffing cracks in the floor and pawing at the door to Jesse’s room. When Jesse opened it, she ran inside and jumped on the bed.

“Good girl,” Jesse said. “I won’t get cold tonight with you sleeping next to me.”

Elise remained awake long after dark. She put another log on the fire before collapsing on her bed. A dog’s persistent barking awakened her. It was Moby.

“What is it?” she said, rushing into her daughter’s room.

Jesse could only point at darkness in the corner. As Elise tried to see what she was looking at, she became aware of the room’s iciness. Her breath, Jesse’s and Moby’s wafted from their mouths. A terrifying chill of death that raised the hackles on the back of her neck.

Jesse’s voice trembled when she said, “Who are you, and what is it you want?”

When Elise saw who Jesse was talking to, an involuntary sigh escaped her lips. Incandescent light illuminated the room. Two red eyes remained as it died away. Moby’s barking had become threatening growls. The light flickered like a dying candle, revealing the pulsing image of a frowning devil with demon eyes. Elise grabbed Jesse’s arm, pulled her from the room, slamming the door behind them.

“Get your coat,” she said.

Jesse grabbed her coat and raced for the door.

The moon was bright and almost full, its light filtering through snow falling in gentle waves. Hattie met them at the door, pulling them inside and hustling them in front of the crackling fire.

“I couldn’t sleep. I knew something was wrong,” she said. “Can you tell me?”

Elise shook her head as Jesse sat by the fire, hugging Moby.

“A demon with glowing eyes,” she said.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Hattie said. “People say your house is haunted.”

 “And you didn’t tell us?”

“I’m so sorry. Till I heard you knocking on the door, I didn’t know it was really true.”

“I knew something was wrong,” Jesse said. “The house had an under smell. Moby noticed right away.”

Elise gave Jesse a look. “You never said anything.”

“Didn’t want to scare you, Mama,” Jesse said.

Returning her attention to Hattie, Elise said, “I know you ordered wood for us. We’ll pay you when I collect my first week’s wages.”

“You’ll do no such thing. That’s my house warming present for you and Jesse.”

“Then thank you,” Elise said.

“You’re safe now. I’m not letting you leave. My granddaughter’s room is down the hall. Moby knows the way. She’s slept there since Mattie left for college. Elise, there’s a bed in the loft. No one’s used it since my daughter died.”

“I can’t take her bed.”

Hattie tapped her wrist. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Thanks, Hattie,” Jesse said, rushing down the hallway, Moby close behind.

“Will you tell me the rest of the story now?” Elise asked.

“Let’s have coffee first,” Hattie said.

Wind had begun whistling outside the house, snow piling up on the porch when Hattie returned from the kitchen.

“An immigrant family moved to town almost twenty years ago. A man, woman, and their daughter. They say he began having an affair with the woman living in the house on the other side of the cemetery. They were doing things. Crazy things.”

“Like what?” Elise asked.

“Devil worship. They say she put a spell on him.”

“And?”

“It was the night of a full moon. I’ll never forget because it eclipsed and turned blood red. Dogs were howling, along with wolves up in the foothills. The man went home from his lover’s house and murdered his wife and daughter with an ax.”

“Oh my God!”

“Neighbors found them the next day and buried the mother and daughter together.”

“What happened to the killer?”

“He went crazy, eyes all red and bloodshot and drool dripping from his mouth when they captured him. Townsfolk strung him up, and he died wailing like a banshee. Before he died, he vowed to return with the next Blood Moon and take his daughter with him. They built an iron fence around his grave, locking it with chains of iron to keep his spirit from escaping.”

“You’re serious?”

Hattie nodded. “I was there the night they buried him. Weather had turned cold, and Mama’s old coat couldn’t keep the chill off my neck. Blood red lights began dancing over the grave. I ran away, along with everyone else.”

 “Do you remember the daughter’s name?” Elise asked.

“Filippa. Why?”

“That’s what the demon called Jesse. When the moon turns red, I’m coming for you, he said.”

***

Elise awoke the next morning to the thud of someone adding wood to the fire. When she peered over the railing, Hattie glanced up and smiled.

“Bacon, eggs, and a fresh pot of coffee brewing,” she said. “Bring the blanket with you. It’s still cold down here.”

Snow drifted through the door when Hattie opened it for more wood. Elise climbed from the loft with the old blanket clutched around her shoulders. Jesse was already up, playing outside in the snow with Moby.

“You must never return to that evil house,” Hattie said as she poured Jesse’s coffee from a steaming pot.

“What did the demon mean by the moon turning red?” Hattie looked away without answering. “Hattie?”

“There’s a Blood Moon tonight.”

“What’s a Blood Moon?”

“The full moon will eclipse and turn red. Something that doesn’t happen often.”

“How often?”

Hattie sat the pot on the stove. “Been a while.”

“Did the murder . . . ?” Hattie didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. “Oh my God! What’ll I do?”

“Been thinking about it. You and Jesse have to leave the valley.”

“But we have no place to go.”

“My sister lives in Salt Lake City. We could take the train and visit her.”

“The demon would just follow us. I have to stop him somehow.”

“Child, there’s no pastor in town, our only church dark for over a year now.”

“I have to do something.”

Hattie stared out the window, watching a hawk float in a winter updraft. “Maybe Efe Hentooth can help us,” she said.

“Who is she?”

“A black woman from down south somewhere. People go to her for potions and poultices, and to cast spells.”

“She’s a witch?”

“People say she communes with spirits.”

“I have to see her. Can Jesse stay with you?”

“Course she can.”

“Then, where can I find this Efe Hentooth?”

“Her shanty, by the town dump.” Before Elise departed, Hattie handed her a bag. “You’ll need to give her this,” she said.

***

Elise’s new boots kept her feet from freezing as she slogged through ruts left by wagons from the mines. By nightfall, all the miners would be in the saloon, getting drunk and spending their week’s wages. Darkness had come early, and Elise had other things on her mind.

Cold nipped her nose, but not enough to mask the smell of the village dump. A tarpaper shack stood alone, smoke wafting from its stovepipe. The frozen porch creaked beneath her feet as she rapped on the door. A large black woman opened it a crack and peeked out.

“Mighty cold out there,” she said. “Better come in this house.”

Cardboard and tarpaper insulated the shack, heat radiating from an old potbelly stove. The woman seated Elise in front of it. When she pulled up a chair beside her, Elise gave her the bag. She grinned when she saw the bottle of whiskey.

“Thanks for the hooch. What’s your name?”

“Elise. Are you Efe Hentooth?”

“One and the same. What brings you out to see old Efe on a frozen night like this?”

“A demon.”

Efe’s smile disappeared. “You didn’t just move into the old Lenzo place, did you?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“You know what tonight is?” Efe asked.

“Blood Moon.”

Efe nodded. “Haven’t had one since that crazy man murdered his wife and daughter. Wish there was something I could do, but I can’t help you.”

“You were my only hope,” Elise said.

Efe, hands clasped behind her back, began pacing circles around the room. When she finally stopped, closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, Elise started to weep.

“Don’t cry, baby. I got an idea.”

“You do?”

Efe nodded. “Your only hope is to keep him from escaping the grave.”

“And how can I do that?”

Wind whistled outside the shack, blowing the door ajar and dusting the floor with snow. Efe shut it, parking a big rock in front to keep it closed.

“The town church had a little graveyard for the homeless. Later, they used it as a garden to help feed the poor and needy. It’s hallowed ground.” Efe handed her an empty pail that was sitting in the corner. “You must fill this bucket with dirt from that old garden.”

“Then what?”

“Take it to the demon’s grave. Pour an unbroken trail of dirt around it.”

“Will it keep him from escaping?”

“Don’t know, but it’s the only thing I can think of to do.”

“Oh my God!”

“One more thing. You gotta finish before the moon eclipses.”

“And if I don’t?”

Elise’s hand went to her mouth when Efe said, “Then the demon will drag you and your baby to hell.”

Efe opened the whiskey and drank straight from the lip. After wiping her face with her arm, she handed the bottle to Elise.

“Take a big swig,” she said. “You gonna need it.”

***

The moon was full and beginning to eclipse as Elise stepped off Efe’s porch, heading for the deserted church. Snow fell in wet clumps, the ground beginning to freeze as she dug with a stick in the garden. Her hands were bleeding and dirty, head spinning from Efe’s whiskey when she started away with the pail of dirt. 

The bright orb in the sky was near eclipse and turning red as she passed Hattie’s house. There was no time to stop though she thought she’d heard Jesse’s voice calling to her. Another mile and she passed the dark house where the murder had occurred. After peeking up at the moon, she hurried faster, knowing she was running out of time.

Moonbeams glimmered off the snow, an aura of milky red dancing over the grave. Elise began circling the iron fence with dirt from the pail when an eerie cackle stopped her. She looked up into the crazy eyes of an old woman.

“Too late, dearie. He’s already free!”

She hobbled away, talking to herself as Elise looked at the moon. By now, her heart was banging inside her ribcage as she stared at the sliver remaining. The gate to the grave was clanging in cold air gusting down from the mountains. The broken lock lay buried in the snow. Behind her, a fire was burning. Even in the cold, she felt the heat on her neck. Putrid smell of death almost gagged her as she turned to see what it was.

Flames danced across the snow, the skeletal image of a living corpse inside them. Pits of the creature’s eyes glowed red, its translucent body pulsating beneath the muted light of a moon about to eclipse. The demon’s voice spoke to her.

“How long I have waited. The moon is red,  you and Filippa about to join me.”

Something behind Elise frightened her almost as much as the wraith moving toward her. It was Jesse and Moby.

“We followed you from the house.”

“No, baby, run!”

Jesse didn’t listen. She and Moby stepped in front of her. Moby crouched with fangs barred, her low growl menacing enough to halt any human in his tracks. The demon moving toward them wasn’t human. Jesse and Moby began backing up.

“You stop right there,” Jesse yelled.

“Or what?” the demon’s voice boomed.

Elise looked up at the moon. It was blood red.

“Run, Jesse!” she called. “Please run.”

Jesse yelped in pain when she tripped and fell backward in the snow. Moby was giving no ground, growling and biting at dancing flames growing ever larger and stinking to high heavens. The moon had eclipsed, Elise thinking, maybe it’s too late. Gasping an icy breath to keep from fainting, she rushed around Jesse and Moby.

“Take me, not my little girl.”

“I’ll have both of you,” the demon bellowed.

The fiery monster, heat from its glowing body, began raising blisters on Elise’s face and neck. Jesse was in the snow, Moby guarding her. The demon was almost on top of them when she launched the dirt from the pail.

“Go to hell!” she yelled.

Elise didn’t expect what happened next. The demon issued a guttural groan as if mortally wounded. The glow of its body flickered, turned brown, and then began erupting like a mud volcano. When it reached its crescendo, it exploded into a million pieces, knocking Elise into the snow.

It wasn’t the only explosion.

The valley rocked as the grave behind them blew into a thousand pieces. Their house, and the hag’s also exploded into balls of fire. As silence of a blood red moon engulfed the valley, Jesse and Moby joined Elise in the snow.

***

A thaw had begun, icicles dripping when the sun arose the next morning. Jesse, Elise, Hattie, and Moby, along with half the town, trekked to the spot where the haunted house had stood. Like the demon’s grave, nothing but charred earth remained. At least almost nothing.

A chair, rocking in a gentle breeze, stood alone in the middle of blackened soil. Elise’s grandmother’s chair. Crumpled but uncharred, her faded Afghan was draped across its back.

END

GIVEAWAY

FOUR PRINT COPIES of Eric Wilder’s FRENCH QUARTER!!! Because these are a print copies, winners are limited to U.S. and Canada!

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AUTHOR BIO

Born on a Louisiana bayou, Halloween night, beneath a full moon, Eric Wilder grew up escaping snakes and alligators, and listening to his grandmothers' tales of ghosts, voodoo, and political corruption. Author of eight novels, four cookbooks and many short stories, he now lives in Oklahoma, about a mile from historic Route 66, with his four dogs, one coyote, and cat, but not a single alligator.

FRENCH QUARTER

From Book 1: Someone is killing New Orleans street people and it's affecting trade in the venerable old city trying to recover from Hurricane Katrina. More than murder, voodoo is involved, the killer possibly an actual Vodoun deity. N.O.P.D. Homicide detective Tony Nicosia seeks the help of private investigator and Big Easy insider Wyatt Thomas. Wyatt has his own problems: a new client interested in ghosts, possession, and the supernatural backside of New Orleans. He enlists Mama Mulate, Tulane English professor and actual voodoo mambo, to help him. Will the moody sleuth find love in the arms of his client's beautiful daughter? Will Mama's gris gris protect him from a horrible death? Can they unravel the strangest paranormal mystery thriller to hit the Vieux Carre since the era of Marie Laveau before they both become victims? Read Big Easy, the first book in the Wyatt Thomas French Quarter Mystery Series and find out. The New Orleans paranormal mystery series includes City of Spirits, Primal Creatures, Black Magic Woman and soon-to-be released River Road.