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On this date five years ago my paternal grandmother passed away at the age of ninety-eight. I think about her a lot these days, remembering the times my brother and I would spend the night with her and she would regale us with tall tales while we drank our hot chocolate. My interest in horror was sparked by those visits and the ghost stories we would beg her to tell right before bedtime. (Probably why I slept with the hall light on until I was twelve.) And those tales didn’t stop being told after we grew up. My late father had a love for them as well.

Today my favorite subgenre of horror is still the ghost story. I have a tremendous collection – tales written over a span of two hundred years by both male and female authors. I even own books filled with supposedly true stories, which were my gran’s favorite kind.

Over the last decade I’ve written my share of (published) ghostly tales, and once in a while I like to “pimp my wares” and remind people where they can be found.

Here are a few publications that are still available:

HARLAN COUNTY HORRORS (Anthology) by Apex Book Company – “The Power of Moonlight”

DARK LIGHT (Charity Anthology) by MARLvision Publishing – “Crasher”

THE WHITE DEATH AND OTHER GHASTLY GHOST STORIES – My e-book collection of 8 reprints and 2 new tales

I hope to write more in the future – without giving up the editing gig. In the meantime, check back here soon for my review of Stephen King’s latest novel, MR. MERCEDES. I also plan to review Season One of the new Showtime series PENNY DREADFUL. Don’t forget to sleep with the hall light on, okay?

“Jesus, what’s that smell?” Leon grimaced in the dark.

“It’s not me,” Marco said. “What did you eat, Gunther?”

“Nothing…yet.” Gunther’s stomach growled ominously. He was supposed to be in Central Park by now, not trapped in an elevator with two co-workers.

“Laverne Finkelstein’s gonna be pissed,” Leon said. “This’ll make the third time I’ve stood her up for dinner.”

“Ain’t your fault, man.” Marco blew out a sigh. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck in here? It already feels hot – and the air ain’t too fresh either.”

Gunther wiped the sweat off his bald head with a trembling hand. The power would be out for several more hours. What was he going to do about this latest screw-up?

“Hold on, I think I’m gettin’ a Jersey station on this thing,” Leon said.

The men heard static coming from the pocket transistor radio and then the mellow tones of an announcer. He was talking about Eisenhower’s trip to the hospital.

“This just in, folks – history in the making. Nearly the entire northeastern seaboard has suffered a blackout. The FBI and Department of Defense are investigating the possibility of widespread sabotage as a prelude to an enemy attack. Some sources fear that Unidentified Flying Objects may be responsible for disrupting the earth’s magnetic fields, as there have been numerous sightings across the nation this year.”

Leon made a rude noise and switched off his radio. “Crap, the Russians are to blame for this if anybody is. Those jealous bastards just wanna make us Yanks miserable, and they hate New Yorkers the most.”

“I don’t care who caused it – I just want it to be over,” Marco said, his voice strained. “I’m gonna go nuts in here pretty soon. Claustrophobia, remember?”

Leon laughed. “Don’t worry, if you get too crazy, Gunther will sit on ya, right pal?”

Silence.

“Right, Gunther?”

The elevator filled with a mysterious greenish-yellow light.

I couldn’t help it, Gunther thought. My watch must be slow. Stupid, inferior technology.

“What the hell…?” Leon backed into a corner. “Gunther, man, you’re freakin’ glowing.”

“That’s not the worst part,” Gunther said, as his head began to spin. This wouldn’t be happening if he’d been allowed to have a decent meal every week.

Marco screamed like a little girl. “We’re being attacked by aliens! Gunther’s a Martian!”

The two men jumped over to the elevator door and tried to claw it open.

Gunther grabbed his head with both hands and stopped it from spinning. He felt sorry for his new friends, but he couldn’t possibly hold off any longer.

His body swelled to twice its normal human size, tearing his cheap business suit to shreds. Then the top of his head opened up and two long, wart-covered tentacles snaked out onto the floor.

Leon and Marco gave up on their escape attempt and tried frantically to stomp on Gunther’s hollow, gray appendages.

Marco started to cry.

The tentacles danced around, easily avoiding injury. The men were grabbed quickly around the ankles and lifted high into the air.

Gunther stared into their terrified, upside-down faces. “Listen, guys, I’m terribly sorry about all this. It’s embarrassing, really, but I can’t look human again if I don’t eat something right away, understand? I wish there was another solution.”

The alien slung the men against the walls of the elevator until their heads cracked open. Brains made for a messy meal, but they were the only edible part of an Earthling’s body.

Gunther sucked their skulls dry and then pried the doors of the elevator open with his powerful tentacles. He had stopped glowing already.

The hall looked pitch-black to everyone but him. By the time he reached the empty offices of the Worthmore Insurance Company, he had once again assumed his human shape – albeit bloody and naked – without anyone being the wiser.

Gunther rinsed off in the bathroom and donned a spare suit that hung in his office’s closet. Afterwards, he rummaged through the drawers of his mammoth desk until he found PATTI, hidden in a leather eyeglass case.

In English, the device was referred to as a Portable Automatic Time Travel Instigator. It looked like a cell phone from Earth’s not too distant future. The one drawback was that it could only be used to travel forward – not back. That meant he would have to meet up with the Mother Ship at some point.

Gunther didn’t want to think about that yet.

It was a shame he had to use the gadget again so soon, but he’d broken too many rules in 1965 to continue his studies.

The next full-scale invasions were due in 1977 and 2003. He’d heard all about the New York City riots of the ’77 blackout, and figured it would be the perfect time and place to go. No one would notice his solo arrival. He could get lost in the chaos.

Okay, what was that new password? He needed it to activate PATTI.

Ah, now he remembered.

Gunther punched in the letters R-O-S-W-E-L-L.

Roswell.

I had no intention of seeing the new “Godzilla” when I first learned its 2014 release date. But then I saw that excellent, intriguing trailer and I changed my mind. After all, I didn’t think I’d like “Pacific Rim” and I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed it. And “Godzilla” had Bryan Cranston. I missed “Breaking Bad” and was jonesing to see that actor again on any screen. I rushed to the cinema that first Friday, hoping for the best.

I was expecting a darker film more like the original movie “Gojira” (1954), with Godzilla as the destroyer of mankind. (I’ve always heard that the old monster was considered to be a metaphor for the atomic bomb and the destruction of two Japanese cities, with helpless citizens and a no hope scenario.) In the current remake, directed by Gareth Edwards, Godzilla is a hero – a creature whose purpose is to restore balance in our world and save humanity.

The film had a promising beginning. Bryan Cranston and Juliette Binoche play nuclear experts living and working in Japan with their young son. When an unexplained disaster occurs at the plant, causing the death of his wife and other workers, Joe Brody (Cranston) spends fifteen years looking for the truth. His son Ford (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) thinks he’s lost his mind. Joe might be a little crazy but he’s right about the cover-up. And humans will always be foolish.

The main premise is this: Two bat-like creatures (both referred to as a MUTO: Massive Unidentified Terrestrial Organism) arise from the ground and wreak havoc, awakening Godzilla’s slumber beneath the sea. He is compelled to track them down and do battle, resulting in much property damage.

And all that mayhem is exactly what diehard fans of Godzilla want to see. If you loved all the sequels that came after the original movie, then you will probably love this one, too. The special effects are truly awesome. No complaints there. The impressive monsters looked and sounded real.

But for some reason my temporary suspension of disbelief never fully kicked in. I was totally sucked into the “Pacific Rim” (robots vs. kaiju) universe. I think now it was mainly due to the degree of characterization present in that film. I cared about all the characters and that elevated the suspense for me. The main players in “Godzilla” all seemed one-dimensional in comparison.

Major spoilers ahead.

Bryan Cranston’s role was important, but it should have been a bigger one. I was disappointed that he didn’t appear in most of the film. I would have liked it better if he’d survived and fought the good fight with his son for a longer period of time. And Ken Watanabe was dreadfully under-used in his role as a scientist who stands around looking constipated and stating the obvious. David Strathairn plays a stereotypical over-zealous military commander.

Elizabeth Olson appears as war veteran Ford Brody’s wife, Elle. She’s a good actress, but her whining eventually got on my nerves. I also found it too coincidental when Godzilla and the other monsters decide to take their fight to San Francisco, where the Brody family now lives, putting Ford’s wife and son in danger. Taylor-Johnson (Ford) didn’t seem too invested in his role. I wanted to like his character, but I could never feel much empathy for Mr. Bland.

There were a couple of decent suspenseful scenes, involving children of course. And though I understand why one would want to save the best beast for last, I expected Godzilla to show up sooner and have more screen time. As for those close-up shots of the giant lizard staring knowingly into the lead character’s eyes after a near defeat, I just didn’t buy it. That would be like a human trying to communicate with an annoying insect.

Speaking of insects, I have to admit that I began to giggle during the military action, seeing the soldiers continue to shoot their machine guns when it was obviously having no effect on the monsters.

For me, the ending felt a bit abrupt and a tad hokey. I think Godzilla should have made the ultimate sacrifice in order to win the final battle. Instead, he gets up the next morning as though he’s suffering from a century-long hangover and staggers back into the sea – The End. I was hoping the final scene would have the camera slipping beneath the waves, showing us that his death had awakened his mate – the power behind the throne – thereby setting up a revenge flick for the sequel starring Mrs. Godzilla.

I shouldn’t have admitted any of this to a good friend of mine, who’s been a rabid fan of all the old movies since he was a kid.

“You just don’t get it. You’re not a true fan so you don’t understand the mythology. Godzilla is asexual. And this movie was almost perfect. You can’t totally trash such a classic monster.”

I backed off. “His radioactive dragon breath was pretty cool.”

“Of course it was! You can’t give ‘Godzilla’ less than three out of five stars. I mean it.”

Okay. Three stars it is.

But many of you out there might think it deserves five.

Time for another free story for Flash Fiction Friday. I wrote this one ten years ago after visiting my favorite haunted place in America for the first time, which just happens to be in my own town: Waverly Hills Sanatorium – an abandoned tuberculosis hospital that opened for business back in 1928. Thousands of men, women and children died there in the forty years it was operational. Some very strange things happened to me during my second visit, but that’s a long story for another time.

“One Last Night at Waverly Hills”

The sudden spray of watery blood stained the skirt of Nora’s crisp, white uniform. She caught the glass as it fell and laid a comforting hand on her patient’s shoulder. When the violent coughing spell had ceased, the woman met Nora’s sympathetic gaze with tear-filled, sunken eyes.

“I’m so sorry, hon.”

“No need to apologize. I’m quite used to it.”

Mrs. Davidson only had a few more weeks to live. Nora recognized the signs.

“What was I saying? Oh, are you leaving Waverly to get married?”

Nora smiled. “No. I’m transferring to a regular hospital downtown.”

The woman closed her eyes and sighed. “You’re young and attractive. You should find a husband to take you away from all this suffering and death. You’d make a wonderful mother.”

Nora didn’t bother to reply. She covered her patient with a clean white blanket. “Goodnight, Mrs. Davidson. I’ll check back soon.”

Nora’s last twelve-hour shift had begun five hours earlier at 6:00 p.m. She would take a break around midnight and run back to the dormitory to change her uniform. Bloodstains upset her littlest patients.

The children – they were the reason she had to leave. She couldn’t bear to watch any more of them waste away and die from the “white death” that was tuberculosis.

At midnight, she left the third floor nurse’s station and headed down the hallway to the elevator, her soft-soled shoes making no noise on the red and black tiles. It was quiet now except for the occasional hiss of a radiator, or the sound of a patient coughing.

Nora rode the elevator alone down to the first floor. When the doors opened, a hideous screeching noise assaulted her ears. She stepped out and looked to her left.

At the end of the dimly-lit corridor, the heavy metal door that led to the draining room was standing wide-open. A little girl with long, black hair appeared from behind it. She was dressed in a white hospital gown.

Katie Hanson?

It couldn’t be. Eight-year-old Katie had died on the operating table two weeks before. It had been a last-ditch effort to save the orphan’s life. Nora had been off-duty at the time and had not had a chance to say goodbye.

No, it must be Molly, Katie’s friend. The two had looked incredibly alike.

Nora watched in horror as the little girl entered the draining room.

She sprinted down the hall. No child should see what was in there. No adult could remain unaffected by the sight. The room was the last stop for infectious TB victims before they were carried through the death tunnel to waiting hearses.

Nora paused in the doorway, gasping at the sight and the overwhelming stench.

Two bodies – one male, one female – hung upside down from metal poles. They’d been sliced open from groin to sternum. Little rivers of blood, mixed with other bodily fluids, snaked across the sloping cement floor to trickle down one drain.

Nora caught a glimpse of the little girl behind one of the hanging corpses.

“Molly, honey, you should be in bed. We can’t stay in here.”

It was Katie’s voice that replied – accusatory and full of unshed tears. “They cut me, Miss Nora. You promised me you wouldn’t let them.”

“Katie?”

The overhead light flickered and went out just as the metal door slammed shut behind Nora. She screamed and threw herself against it, pummeling the unyielding surface with her small fists.

“No! Please, somebody let me out!”

“Don’t leave us, Miss Nora.”

Nora felt little hands tugging on the bottom of her skirt. The pitch-dark room was filled with the sound of labored breathing.

She let out a blood-curdling shriek and fell forward as the door suddenly opened. She shielded her eyes from the light and looked up into the stern face of a security guard.

Nora didn’t give him a chance to speak. She brushed past him and flew down the hall to the lobby. She leaned against one of the wooden pillars for several minutes, catching her breath, trying to think rationally.

One last night at Waverly Hills…she’d get through it somehow. Stress, guilt, and grief had led to that horrifying hallucination. It was that simple. She’d take a break and then get back to her rounds.

***

On her walk back from the dormitory, Nora noticed a light shining in Room 502. Only mentally ill TB patients were kept up there. They didn’t like to sleep.

She would check on them and see if anyone needed a sedative.

Nora took the elevator to the fifth floor – the rooftop. Room 502 was isolated and the open space around it was used by patients to take in the healing rays of the sun.

She crossed the roof under the night sky, shivering in the chilly March breeze. She fished the room key out of the pocket of her sweater, but the door was unlocked.

Nora entered cautiously and was met with silence. All ten patients were awake, sitting on their beds. The men and women stared at her with blank, pale faces.

Except…there should only have been nine.

Nora’s hands began to tremble as a tall, gaunt woman stood and faced her.

No. Alma Hanson was dead. She’d committed suicide rather than watch her daughter die.

“You can’t leave us, Miss Nora.”

Nora whirled around, stifling a scream. The front of Katie’s gown was soaked with blood.

“Mama knows how to make you stay.”

Nora felt an ice-cold entity invade every fiber of her being. She had no control of her limbs.

The ghost made her walk towards a darkened corner. Nora could see a wooden chair, a white sheet draped over one of the ceiling pipes, and the noose.

She tried to scream, but couldn’t make a sound.

Alma forced her to climb onto the chair and slip the noose over her head. Nora’s stiff, white cap tumbled to the floor. Hot tears streamed down her face.

“Don’t worry.” Katie looked up at her with an innocent smile. “Mama says it’ll only hurt a little.”

Alma kicked away the chair.

I’m quite pleased about the fact that my plans to attend the World Horror Convention this year in Portland, Oregon finally look solid. It’s just a month away now: May 8 – 11. (Here’s to hoping no last minute obstacles ruin my fun.)

Once again, the Bram Stoker Awards banquet will be held during WHC, and will also take place at the Doubletree by Hilton Hotel-Portland on Saturday evening, May 10. Luckily for all who’ll attend, author Jeff Strand will be returning as emcee for the sixth time. Writer Brian Keene will also be on hand to receive the 2014 Grand Master Award.

Special guests at World Horror this year will be Jack Ketchum, Nancy Holder, John Shirley, Paula Guran, Norman Partridge, Victoria Price, Greg Staples, with Toastmaster Alan M. Clark.

Check this link for more info.

Portland is a unique city and I look forward to exploring it more thoroughly. Of course, I’m excited about the prospect of seeing some West Coast friends again, and finally being able to meet many other online pals. I’m thinking about ordering a special “coffin” filled with Voodoo Doughnuts to share with my besties. If you see me there, don’t hesitate to say hello, okay? Perhaps we can take a field trip and get happily lost at Powell’s Books.

In the meantime, be glad that winter is over. Enjoy spring!

Happy Friday. Here’s another flash fiction tale – also a reprint from 2003. If you’re checking this out on Goodreads or Amazon, click on the link to my website to make sure you get the latest version. (Whenever I make changes/corrections to a post, they don’t show up on my various feeds, unfortunately.)

Hope you like this one. It’s a sequel to “Mr. Kroll.”

MARANTHA’S CURSE

It was the night of the midsummer moon.

Sebastian Kane stood silently in the warm, mellow darkness, gazing upon the pile of burnt debris that had once been his protégé’s cottage. Twenty years had passed since the young witch’s murder, since she’d cursed the villagers of Devington with her dying breath.

No innocent soul could live in the once prosperous town. All the babes were stillborn. Any child who stepped foot inside the boundaries of that poisoned place suddenly fell ill with mysterious maladies.

The warlock smiled. His lovely Marantha had punished the villagers well, and rightfully so. How unfortunate it was that he must now end their suffering.

That hypocrite and blackmailer – the Mayor of Devington – had given him little choice. Free the town or he would be hanged as a witch, along with his entire family. Succeed and he would be allowed to live in exile.

Sebastian was tired of running. It did not matter if one used The Craft for good or evil; one was considered damned for practicing it regardless.

The Mayor be damned as well – along with his late wife. The first Mrs. Hartwicke had been a member of the mob that had ended Marantha’s life – even though she had not deserved a death sentence. Now the Mayor’s second wife hoped to have his child, a son.

Sebastian sighed. It was time to complete the cleansing spell. And for that, he needed blood.

Why her bones cried out to me, I did not know. But I was compelled to heed the calling, to make my way back to the sad place that had once been our home. So great was the guilt and grief I carried after that fateful night that I had wandered aimlessly for several years, refusing to seek out another mistress.

I am a familiar – a feline endowed with demonic powers and human-like perception. And I had failed my beloved Marantha. The careless actions I had taken to save my own life had led to her execution.

Whatever her restless spirit required of me now, I was willing to endure.

Sebastian had discovered Marantha’s blackened bones in the rubble. He could not let himself dwell on the pain and degradation she had suffered, or he would not be able to undo the powerful curse that vengeance had crafted.

The warlock stood over her skeleton for the third midnight in a row. He pushed back the hood of his long black robe and raised his arms to the starlit sky.

“Call to him again, child. Summon your familiar. Bring him to me this night.”

An ethereal mist spiraled above the witch’s remains, and then snaked out into the surrounding darkness.

Sebastian could feel the creature close by. He masked his own presence so as not to alarm the black cat known as Mr. Kroll, who was as old as he was, and nearly just as savvy. The warlock did not look forward to the task that awaited him. He had brought his dagger for the ritual, and a tightly woven sack to be used for the burial. Marantha’s bones needed to be splattered with the blood of her familiar. Then the two would have to be interred together at the nearest crossroads before dawn.

Sebastian watched, hidden by an oak tree, as the familiar approached the ruins of the cottage. Mr. Kroll shifted direction, making his way towards his mistress’s remains. Sebastian quickly stepped into the feline’s path and mesmerized him with a wave of his hand. He pulled the dagger out of the deep pocket of his robe and knelt in front of the mystical creature.

I recognized the old warlock on sight. It was futile to struggle against his magic.

“Dear friend,” he said, “you can still see into my mind, as I see into yours. Believe that you served your mistress well. Know that we have a common enemy, and that I break this spell with a heavy heart.”

Yes, I understood survival. I had lived many lives at a great cost to others.

Sebastian Kane struck swiftly. I barely felt the sharp bite of the blade upon my neck. He carried me gently as I bled, and held me above Marantha’s bones. My life force covered the remains, my vision faded. I knew my spirit was slipping away.

I welcomed the release.

As I floated above my body, hovering unwillingly, I heard the warlock recite an incantation in a language unknown to me.

His derisive laughter echoed across the night sky. “Your memories will live on, Mr. Kroll,” he shouted. “The demon inside you will never die.”

I seemed to escape, then, into the ether. Peace and silence were my only companions in the beginning. After a time – I know not how to measure it – I felt myself enveloped by a warmth that was oddly familiar. The soothing murmur of voices kept me company.

I wanted to stay in this safe haven forever, but one day I found myself violently thrust into another world – one that was cold, bright, and filled with anguished screams. My lungs filled with air and I used them to convey my fear and displeasure.

The voices returned, louder. I opened my eyes reluctantly and gazed upon the face of a man I already knew.

My father. The Mayor of Devington.

Happy Friday. How about a free story? I’ve decided to post one of my flash fiction tales (most likely a reprint) at least one Friday out of the month. This month it’s “Mr. Kroll” – the short story of a witch’s familiar. Hope you like it.

“MR KROLL”

I believe I was once a man. That would explain the strange memories that live in my dreams. My special awareness, my ability to understand humans, comes from the demon spirit that resides in me now – though I am not certain if I was reincarnated for this purpose or changed into a feline and a familiar through witchcraft.

Only black cats like me have nine lives. It’s a mystical ability and, truthfully, it would be more accurate to call them nine chances. But there is only one way for us to cheat death.

Oh, yes, I am much older than I should be.

My beloved mistress, Marantha, died far too soon. She was born a witch, and if that made her evil, it was not by choice. She studied spells and curses, but also healed the sick.

What happened to her was my fault.

We were living a peaceful existence in a cottage just outside of Devington. In the summer of 1701, that English village was still growing, and it bustled with great activity at week’s end.

One Saturday afternoon, as I lay on a sunny windowsill sniffing the lilac-scented air, my mistress entered the tidy kitchen and addressed me with her musical voice.

“I need to sell some herbs and tonics today, Mr. Kroll.” She stroked the sleek fur along my back and smiled into my knowing green eyes. “Would you like to be my company?”

Always.

We could read other’s thoughts whenever necessary.

The two of us started off on the mile long walk and took the dusty dirt road that led to Devington. My mistress swung her large, round basket to and fro, and sang a lilting tune in a language I did not understand. Her lustrous long hair – as black as a moonless midnight – fanned out behind her in the warm breeze.

Marantha’s perfect features always attracted attention in the village. Men of all ages would pause in their daily activities to watch the young healer’s graceful, shapely figure as she carried out her errands. They openly admired her wavy dark tresses, her heavenly blue eyes, and the creamy fairness of her skin.

All the women stared at her with jealousy in their hearts. Soon I would give them a reason to be rid of her forever.

“Meet me here before sunset, Mr. Kroll,” my mistress said, as we reached the edge of town.

I went my own way, exploring the underbelly of the noisy village, scrounging for interesting food scraps and hunting rats that were almost tame. The mongrels running loose did not concern me. My presence terrified them.

It was the shiny crystals that caused my carelessness. They hung in a shop’s open window across the way, swinging gently in the wind, glinting in the sun. They mesmerized me.

I sprinted into the road and was caught up under a carriage wheel. It threw me clear, leaving me in agony. An ordinary cat would have died outright.

I forced myself to lie quietly for several minutes, gathering my strength and gaining control over the pain. No bones had been broken, but the damage to my organs was considerable. Finally, I struggled to a standing position and limped down a cluttered alley, using my powerful sense of smell to find what I needed.

I slowly climbed a stack of broken wooden crates to reach the ledge of an open window. Inside the stuffy room, an infant slept unattended on a cot, surrounded by rolled up blankets. I crept over to the bed and pulled myself up.

His damp gown smelled of sweat and harsh soap. I straddled his wee chest, but he did not awake. The crustiness on his lips was dried mother’s milk. When I began licking it off, the baby opened his mouth, and I covered it with my own.

I sucked my breath in and pulled his life force out. The invisible hot stream flowed into me and I could feel my injuries begin to heal.

Then I heard the mother scream. She knocked me off her baby with a broom handle and chased me out the window.

I was well enough to flee, and I headed for home in the gathering darkness. If I had not been interrupted the internal healing would have been complete. Eventually I would have to seek out another life force.

I entered the cottage through the open kitchen window and found my mistress in the front room, reading a thick, leather-bound book by candlelight.

She looked up in relief when I sauntered in. “Mr. Kroll, I knew you’d be all right, you naughty, careless feline.”

I curled up in her lap and allowed myself to purr.

Less than an hour later they came, surrounding the cottage, holding their fiery torches high.

“Show yourself, witch! You and your familiar!”

That was Hester the nosy seamstress. I recognized her deep, croaking voice.

Marantha opened the heavy wooden door and faced the angry mob. Most of them were women, with a few harried husbands standing in back.

“Friends, why are you here?”

“Oh, ain’t we the innocent one now,” Hester sneered. “Your demon cat was caught stealing a babe’s soul this very night.”

The women surrounded Marantha and held her prisoner while the men searched the cottage. They found the evidence they were looking for – a book of witchcraft.

Hester took the tome from her husband and held it high before the crowd. “The witch must burn! She must pay for her sins in Hell!”

I slipped past the mob and climbed an oak, watching helplessly as they bound Marantha’s hands and feet and carried her back into the cottage.

They set the house ablaze and then stayed to watch the spectacle. The women’s hard faces were lit with malicious glee. I heard Marantha’s agonized, heartrending screams, felt her blinding fear, and I couldn’t bear to linger.

There was someplace I needed to go, something I needed to do.

Hester had a baby daughter.

A fellow horror-loving friend of mine recommended I watch “You’re Next,” and suggested it was a cross between “Home Alone” and “The Strangers.” Yeah. Okay. I like my humor black, thank you.

Luckily, this flick – directed by Adam Wingard and written by Simon Barrett – delivered the evil giggles. The plot isn’t anything new, since it involves a home invasion, but some “tweaking” was done, and it held my interest all the way through. I’ll even admit that a couple of times during those 96 minutes, I jumped violently enough to spill my favorite beverage.

The Davison family’s night of terror begins with a chilling message being scrawled in blood on their murdered neighbors’ wall. It’ll be their turn next, as the four siblings, and their significant others, gather at their parents’ secluded mansion to celebrate the couple’s milestone anniversary. The family is annoyingly dysfunctional, and I got a little impatient waiting for the slaughter to begin. The first arrow crashed through the dining room window and interrupted their squabbling just as I was about to hit the MUTE button on my remote.

As much as I disliked the spoiled siblings, Crispian (A.J. Bowen), Drake (Joe Swanberg), Felix (Nicholas Tucci) and Aimee (Amy Seimetz), their significant others were considerably more interesting. Well, at least the women were – Erin (Sharni Vinson), Zee (Wendy Glenn) and Kelly (Margaret Laney). Aimee’s boyfriend Tariq (Ti West) isn’t around long. I tried to feel some sympathy for the parents, Paul (Rob Moran) and Aubrey (Barbara Crampton), but then I decided they needed to pay the ultimate price for raising so many obnoxious kids.

The invaders are three men wearing animal masks (tiger/lamb/fox), because we all know that makes vicious killers more intimidating. When the gory attacks begin, so does the dark humor. Right away I started picking up on clues from the dialogue and figured out the reason behind the invasion well before the end of the film. But that was okay because I had a favorite character to root for and I wanted to see how it all played out.

Crispian is unaware of his Australian girlfriend’s survivalist upbringing, and to everyone’s surprise, Erin turns out to be one feisty little Outback sheila. She quickly takes charge of the situation, helping to protect the clueless and the undeserving. The crossbow killers are in for a bloody big challenge. And, for me, that’s what made the movie worth watching.

I like a horror film that doesn’t take itself too seriously. Despite some noticeable flaws, this one provided decent acting to watch, some wicked chuckles and “gotcha” moments, and at least one cool character to care about. I even liked the Dwight Twilley music that accompanied much of the mayhem. Since the flick is definitely worth a DVD rental, I’m willing to give it three and a half goblins.

Unfortunately, I’ve had to put all fictional works in progress on hold the past few months to finish editing assignments and deal with the chaos of life, but my subconscious insists on creating mysterious tales to entice my lazy Muse to visit again. I dream a lot. Many times I don’t remember much about the details, though I might retain just enough memories to spark a story idea. The dream I had the other night was so vivid that I couldn’t get it out of my mind when I awoke. Not that I wanted to. That morning I wrote the whole scene down as it played out in my head. Perhaps one day it will become a full-blown short story or a novella. Perhaps not, but I admit I’d like to find out what happens to the narrator when she finally confronts her destiny.

“The Man with the Beautiful Smile”

I didn’t belong to them – I was aware of that from the start. I remember my real mother. Oh, my adoptive parents kept telling me those memories were just dreams, not reality, but I knew the truth.

Our last day together is forever etched in my mind. Party hats, and four candles on my Raggedy Ann cake. I had crazy red hair just like the famous doll I loved so much, and so did my mother. My fingers were sticky from the too-sweet icing. She cleaned my hands and took me out to play in the cool sand near the shore.

I was busy building a lopsided castle, listening to the waves crashing on the beach, and at first I didn’t realize that Mama had walked away from me. I looked up just in time to see her disappear behind a sand dune. When she didn’t come back right away, I got curious and followed her footprints until her slender figure came into view. She stood straight and still, staring out to sea, the foamy waves lapping at her bare ankles, the salty breeze lifting the skirt of her bright blue dress.

I called out to her, but she didn’t answer. When she turned to look behind her, that’s when I noticed the dark-haired man. He stood at the top of a nearby sand dune, dressed all in black. I still remember quite clearly how he smiled at her. That beautiful smile made me feel afraid, and I didn’t know why.

My mother was crying now. I could hear her sobbing over the noise of the surf.

I wanted to run to her, but for some reason I couldn’t move.

Mama started walking forward into the sea, only slowing down when she was waist deep and the waves slammed into her. She screamed right before she vanished beneath the water.

The dark-haired man appeared before me, suddenly, blotting out the sun. He knelt down and stared into my tear-streaked face. His eyes were the color of an angry sea.

“Run home now, darling Claire,” he said, with a voice deep and gentle. “Your mother is gone, but one day you’ll see me again.”

I must confess that I’m a sucker for television shows about vampires. (Pun intended.) And of course, I love movies and books that feature my favorite monster, too. Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” was the first horror novel I ever read. NBC’s re-imagining of this classic tale is different in many ways. (Actually, it differs in pretty much every way.) Six episodes in, with four to go, I’ve decided I’m committed to watching the rest of the first season – but not because the series is scary or shocking. Aside from a few scenes in the first episode, there hasn’t been much horror to witness. The main reason I enjoy the show is due to the fact that Dracula is being played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers (of “The Tudors” fame). This British-American production was filmed in Budapest, and I love the atmosphere, lavish sets, sumptuous costumes and the promise of a doomed gothic romance. So sue me.

In Romania in 1881, we first see Vlad Tepes as he’s being resurrected with a blood sacrifice by – surprise! – Abraham Van Helsing (Thomas Kretschmann). Apparently, Van Helsing has a bone to pick with a secret society known as the Order of the Dragon. He needs Dracula’s help to destroy them, knowing they were responsible for torturing the once powerful ruler known as Vlad Tepes and turning him into a vampire. Flash forward about fifteen years – the Count has arrived in London posing as a wealthy American businessman, Alexander Grayson. Van Helsing is a professor teaching medicine at a university and one of his star pupils is none other than Mina Murray (not yet married to Jonathan Harker). Mina (Jessica De Gouw) is a feminist with aspirations of becoming a doctor. Jonathan (Oliver Jackson-Cohen) is a reporter looking to climb the social ladder of success and Alexander Grayson gives him the opportunity. (Of course, Dracula has noticed that his employee’s fiancée looks exactly like his own late wife, Ilona.) I have never liked the character of Jonathan Harker and my opinion hasn’t changed. He’s supposed to be the good guy, but he comes across as wimpy, priggish and boring. (As my mother would tell you, I’ve always been more attracted to the bad guys – a serious flaw she happens to share.)

In this TV version, Jonathan and the Count aren’t the only ones in love with the beautiful Mina. Lucy Westenra (Katie McGrath) tries unsuccessfully to hide her true feelings for her best friend, while Mina tries to hide her growing attraction to Alexander Grayson. As for the Order of the Dragon, they have their top vampire hunter in bed with Dracula – literally. Lady Jayne Wetherby (Victoria Smurfit) is good with a sword, but she isn’t so good at relationships. I found it funny instead of ironic that she doesn’t know her lover is the vampire making snacks out of London’s prostitutes. Lust has made her blinder than a bat, and I think her bitchy, bad-ass character should be smarter. It’s not like the Count has “glamoured” her into believing he’s a warm-blooded human being. (As far as I can tell, this Dracula can’t shape-shift either, or turn into mist.)

In an interview I recently saw, Rhys Meyers said his Dracula was “a manifestation of pain and loss.” The show is mainly about betrayal and revenge.

Alexander Grayson is a charming con man. He plays mind games to gain Lady Jayne’s trust, knowing she is a member of the Order of the Dragon. One would think Dracula would destroy the secret society by finding each of the members and ripping their heads off, but his plan is more practical and long-term. The entrepreneur wants to wage an economic war and destroy their finances by coming up with a new energy source to devalue their oil interests. (Really, when I think about it, Dracula doesn’t seem nearly as evil as the diabolical J.R. Ewing.) The Count’s allies do their best to help him achieve this goal. Van Helsing works tirelessly on a serum that will allow Dracula to walk about during the daylight hours. An ex-lawyer, the loyal, intelligent Renfield (played by African-English actor Nonso Anozie) protects his boss at all costs, and the two share a solid friendship. (In this incarnation, Renfield is not a cockroach-eating lunatic.)

I think the right actors were cast in the right roles and I have no problem with their acting abilities. Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Jessica De Gouw have good chemistry. The smoldering looks they share are believable, and I have to admit that’s the main reason I tune in every Friday night. I want to see Mina betray Harker and enjoy it. Of course, this is supposed to be a “limited” series and one would expect for Dracula to be bested in the end by the good guys – although members of the Order of the Dragon come across as the true villains in this show.

The bottom line? If what you want to see is true horror, explicit violence and sex, you should look elsewhere (HBO or Showtime?). This series is more of a cross between “Downton Abbey” and “Dallas.”