by Shock Totem
turn me lose, one last time
do it, do it, do it
and he did, said-screamed
Burn 'em out, burn 'em all, boys
FIRE FIRE FIRE).
He breathes out
a smoke and fire fox that drags
out his throat twisted shapes burnt onyx black:
it animates them, makes them crawl
back in through his eyes.
Dominik Parisien is a Franco-Ontarian living in Montreal, Quebec. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Goblin Fruit, Stone Telling, Mythic Delirium, Ideomancer, Strange Horizons, and Tesseracts 17, amongst others. He currently provides editorial support for Cheeky Frawg Books and is a former editorial assistant for Weird Tales.
STRANGE GOODS
& OTHER ODDITIES
Bigfoot Crank Stomp, by Erik Williams; Deadite Press, 2013; 152 pgs.
I may not be the sharpest crayon in the box about some things...hell, about a lot of things. But I was smart enough to know exactly what I was in for when I opened the package from Erik Williams and pulled out his latest novella, Bigfoot Crank Stomp. From its gloriously whacked out cover art of a tweaking Sasquatch rising ominously from a cabin basement to the Deadite Press logo on the back, I knew it was going to be quite a strange ride. I changed into my special pants for the occasion and began reading.
The twisted saga starts with Russell and Mickey hiding in the woods, surveying a cabin. The inhabitants have the TV so loud that the programming can be identified from yards away. They apparently like Animal Planet. Russell and Mickey are about to raid the cabin. Being the top-dog meth peddlers in the area they don’t like the infringement of these cats. Weapons in hand they attack—a not-so-smart move that is about to prove deadly.
What they don’t know, is that these new meth cookers have a Bigfoot. Chained in their basement and addicted to their product. They feed him bowlfuls of the stuff...just to keep him pacified. We are never really told how this gang of dope makers got him there. But they have him and they have him hooked.
What would prove a destructive catalyst, the Bigfoot had not yet been “fed” when the two set upon their rivals.
There’s gunplay and bodies, chains break, arms are ripped off, and Bigfoot escapes. Then we literally tear off on the remainder of this 152-page journey into boondocks madness. Filled with a retired Marine sniper who hears voices, a plucky camper girl on a mission, a sheriff of questionable morality, and his deputies, and then we have our hero, the seven-foot-tall methed-out Bigfoot. This concoction is liberally seasoned with the kind of bloodshed, sodomy, and depravity that you cannot read straight-faced. It’s ridiculous and so much fun.
Williams is a great writer. His short chapbook, The Reverend’s Powder, is amazing. He didn’t let down with Progeny or Blood Spring, either. A talent to watch for certain. Ease of prose and taut plotting are his strong points. As well as his chameleonic ability to go from “mainstream” horror to ridiculous bizarro nuttiness without missing a beat. If you want a quick read that will entertain, this is for you. If you consider yourself a puritanical person of high moral fiber and no sense of humor...keep moving.
–John Boden
Isabel Jane, by Catherine Dale; Pendragon Chapbooks, 2011; 36 pgs.
Isabel Jane is a small, beautiful chapbook put out by Pendragon Chapbooks, an imprint of Pendragon Press. A high quality, well-edited chapbook with a striking cover by Neil Williams, it contains two stories. The title story, “Isabel Jane,” is a first-person tale of a teenage girl who is kidnapped and imprisoned in an older man’s home. It’s a timely story, especially after the horrors of the recent news story concerning three kidnapped women in Ohio who were held in their captor’s basement for ten years.
“Isabel Jane” is beautifully told from the protagonist’s point of view. There’s an alluring, almost disconnected reality that we see here and there. Vital pieces of the story are carefully laced throughout and I found it to be an effective way to keep the reader slightly off-kilter. I loved this story. It was satisfying and darkly lovely. I found myself thinking of it after I had finished the chapbook.
The second story, “Teething,” is an imaginative, surreal story about an antisocial man who finds a giant tooth growing from the ceiling of his bathroom. This tooth and his care for it—brushing it carefully, putting his arms around it, holding his ear to it in order to ensure silence from the chaos going on around him—juxtapose his non-relationship with the unfortunate woman who lives upstairs.
“Teething” is a study in loneliness and regret. Dale handles the story’s heavy subject matter with a delicate hand. It filled me with quiet horror.
Isabel Jane was an enjoyable, if sobering, experience. It was difficult to read about two women in different but terrifying circumstances. There is a sense of foreboding and danger in this chapbook, but it’s written in such a satisfying, dreamy way that it cannot be missed.
–Mercedes M. Yardley
Eerie, by Blake Crouch and Jordan Crouch; Self-Published, 2012; 286 pgs.
Haunted house stories will always have a special place in this reviewer’s heart. One of the first ones I ever read was Ghost Story, by Peter Straub, and I was instantly hooked. They’ve been staples of my late-night summer reading for years, everything from The Haunting of Hill House to The Shining to Hell House.
When I first picked up Eerie, by the brothers Crouch, I was more than a little excited. I’d read Blake’s Abandon, found it to be wonderfully creepy, and thought for sure this would be yet another addition to a subgenre of story I already loved.
The story of Eerie begins with a car accident in which young Grant and Paige Moreton lose their father. Oh, he survives the crash, but he’s an invalid for the rest of his life (which in some ways is worse than death). The story then moves forward thirty-one years, and neither of these two children has handled life very well. Grant has grown up to become a detective with a drinking problem, while his sister, who has struggled with drugs and depression for years, is a prostitute. Their paths cross while Grant is investigating a string of missing persons, the paths of the men he’s searching for leading directly to Paige, who, despite her status as a high-price prostitute, is in a sickly state.
The reason? A strange power is holding her in her house. And now it’s holding Grant as well.
This is the main plotline for half the book: Grant and Paige trying to figure out what in the world has trapped them in the old brownstone while his partner, Sophie (a somewhat cliché yet still enjoyable character), searches for clues throughout greater Seattle. This part of the book is deliciously eerie, just like the title suggests. Strange things living under beds, sounds in the night, some demonic force making the siblings perform acts they would otherwise never even consider, a mood of impending dread...it is all there. I held on tight, prepared for a harrowing ride to either salvation or destruction.
Then the second part of the book kicked in, and it all fizzled.
What began as a genuine horror yarn became something much, much different. It began to sway into the realm of science fiction, which in and of itself isn’t such a bad thing (I love a good genre mash-up), but in this case the direction the authors took just seemed to come out of left field. The tone of the work shifted, becoming self-serving and honestly a bit silly instead of working off the atmosphere of anxiety and terror that had been so carefully crafted over the first hundred or so pages. I couldn’t believe it. What had begun with such promise simply stopped making sense and fell flat. I was quite disappointed with that.
Not that there are no redeeming qualities to Eerie. The complex relationship between Grant and Paige was expertly told, though the end does cheapen this aspect a bit. And as I said, the first part of the book is great. If only the authors had stayed on that path, or at least didn’t decide to go for a shocking twist just to go for a shocking twist, then this could have been a special book.
As it is, it’s only okay. Which makes me quite sad.
–Robert J. Duperr
e
After You, by Prowler; Slaney Records, 2013; 9 tracks, 43 min.
Do you like your heavy metal served with a bloody helping of horror? If so, South Carolina’s Prowler (named after the iconic film, The Prowler) might be of interest to you.
Shortly after forming in 2010, the band released a series of four EPs, Part 1 through Part 4, each consisting of two tracks based on a horror-movie classic—Night of the Living Dead, Halloween, The Lost Boys, Hellraiser, etc. Earlier this year, my buddy Kieran O’Loughlin released After You, a full-length album that collected those four EPs and one additional track, through his label, Slaney Records.
(A great thing since the EPs were CDRs, which surely won’t stand the test of time.)
Musically, Prowler’s influences—Metallica, Slayer, Iron Maiden—are on full display. There is nothing here, stylistically, you haven’t heard before. But standout cuts like “The Dead Rise Again,” “Haddonfield,” and the album’s best track, “Knives for Fingers,” make it easier to overlook such trivial things.
Despite my love of its subject matter and heavy metal in general, After You isn’t perfect. Far from it. Lyrically the band keeps things rather bland and boring, offering up little creatively and instead just reciting movie plot points with seemingly little concern for melody and hook. For instance, this line from “Book of the Dead,” based on The Evil Dead: “record plays, incantations, trees attack Cheryl, hallucinations; Ash and her try and leave, the bridge rails bent back in the shape of a hand.” Hardly lyrical genius.
The other major flaw is with the samples. Anyone interested in hearing perfect examples of songs seamlessly fused with horror film samples, look no farther than White Zombie and Rob Zombie. That’s how you do it! On After You most of the samples are jarring, distracting, and out of place. And when they do work, they’re not mixed well enough to do the songs any deserved justice. Such a shame.
All that said, After You is an enjoyable album, warts and all. It’s easy to forget that this is a debut offering. One can hope that the band only gets better with future releases. And hopefully they find a better qualified producer/mixer, too.
If you’re looking for a decent heavy metal album dripping with horror, give After You a listen.
–K. Allen Wood
Sole Survivor, by Thom Eberhardt (writer and director); starring Caren Larkey; 1982; Rated R; 98 min.
Long before the Final Destination franchise began giving new-millennial teens nightmares, this film had mined that theme. And is still creepier than anything those films ever attempted. Written and directed by unknown Thom Englehardt, who would later in his career give us the cult classic Night of the Comet. With Sole Survivor, his first film, he creates a chilling and unsettling atmosphere, one that does not let up throughout its entirety.
The film opens with a horrific airplane crash. Denise, a young woman, is the only survivor. Soon after her release from the hospital, she begins seeing things. Strange and ominous things. As horror film protocol dictates, she seeks advice from a psychic friend. Her friend gives her numerous warnings about cheating death, all of which go unheeded. Denise does her best to move on with her life and the fact that she somehow cheated the Grim Reaper.
She finds that she will not be successful in such an endeavor as Death and his minions seem willing to stop at nothing to claim what they were denied.
While the premise will seem played out, remember that this was made nearly twenty years prior to the Final Destination films. And wherein those films play, primarily on amped up CGI and how creatively people can be kill people, Sole Survivor harkens back to the old days of film, relying more on atmosphere and subtle creepiness over shock and gore. The subtle eerie feeling that permeates this film more than makes up for the hokey templates it seems to follow at times.
I discovered Sole Survivor when I was a teen and I was renting anything in the horror section of our local video store. I loved it, then forgot about it. Fast forward twenty years and I overhear some kids at work raving the hip new movie they have just seen called Final Destination. I frowned and remarked that they had done that movie decades before.
When I went home and searched the Internet for some info on said film, I discovered that the fine folks at Code Red had given it a DVD release. I snagged it right away. It was every bit as disturbing as I recalled. Almost more so. Definitely shoulders above most of the shite that Hollywood tosses our way these days.
–John Boden
The Day and the Hour, by Ennis Drake; Omnium Gatherum, 2012; 41 pgs.
This piece of long fiction isn’t to be taken lightly.
The Day and the Hour is a complex, carefully nuanced tale of tragedy, responsibility, decay, and desperate hope.
Ennis Drake introduces us to Jason Grae, a fatally flawed protagonist. After his death, Grae is shown some of the most tragic future scenes of destruction ever to occur on Earth. Dates. Times. Scenarios. What force is submitting him to these visions? What is the purpose? And what will Jason do with this unwanted responsibility?
He does what any of us would do. Stands paralyzed. Tries to tune it out. Scrabbles after pills in order to escape. Breaks. And eventually decides that he will do what he can to make things as right as possible. A haunted man in a Florida Gators hoodie with a bat slung across his shoulder becomes a powerful symbol for all things right and simultaneously wrong with the world. People look at him with relief and horror, as either The Samaritan or the Angel of Death.
The complexity and intensity is characteristic of Ennis Drake’s work. Drake, who was just nominated for the Shirley Jackson Award, writes with a raw, unflinching style that exposes emotions and realities that others shy away from. There’s a surprising grace to his prose that softens the jagged edges of the dark subject matter.
This piece has a literary, experimental writing style. Occasionally the fourth wall appears to be broken and it can be distracting as a reader, especially if one is easily pulled out of the story. The time jumps and visions can also be distracting and it’s possible to become lost. However, all of this chaos lends itself nicely to the overall schizophrenic feel of the story. If you want a breezy, linear read, then The Day and the Hour is not for you.
While Drake pulls no punches and seems to revel in the ugliness that he splays on the table, humanity still glimmers throughout. Whether or not Jason Grae’s world goes down in flames, there will still be somebody struggling to stand until the very end.
–Mercedes M. Yardley
The Nine Deaths of Dr. Valentine, by John Llewellyn Probert; Spectral Press, 2012; 87 pgs.
Like everything else released from the UK-based Spectral Press, this book is a thing of beauty. Collectible hardcover, rich dark cover art, cool little built-in red ribbon bookmark—which we all know screams, “This is a classy thing, you hold here.” And it’s true.
The Nine Deaths of Dr. Valentine is a richly detailed and very warmly rendered love letter, to not only those gloriously overwrought horror films we grew up with but to the man who starred in so many of them, Vincent Price. Probert has crafted a novella that simultaneously lifts the plot from the cult-lauded Price film Abominable Dr. Phibes and turns it on its ear.
We have a beleaguered inspector, trying to solve a series of bizarre murders. The murders are carried out in mimicry of famous death scenes from various films of Vincent Price. As the police come closer to solving the riddle-like crimes, we get some nifty surprises.
This was a very enjoyable read and a helluva lot of fun. I grew up worshipping at the altar of Vincent Price. Stood by him from The Last Man on Earth and his later appearance on The Muppet Show, right up to his final screen credit as the sad and lonely inventor in Tim Burton’s classic, Edward Scissorhands. I am quite certain, that were Price alive today, he would adore this book. It is sincere in its jovial flattery. It is honest in its giddy adoration. This is an honest, fun, and very well-written novella. Track it down.
–John Boden
MediEvil, developed by SCE Cambridge Studio; pub
lished by Sony Computer Entertainment, 1998; Playstation
Yeah, okay, this takes me back. Takes me waaaaay back to college, sitting on the floor eating Wheat Thins with my then-boyfriend, and marveling at the super amazing Playstation graphics. Which were so much cooler than SNES graphics, right? I mean, there were little movies and stuff!
Fast forward to today. How would one of my favorite games hold up? The Playstation 2, unlike the majority of the PS3s, are backwards compatible, which means that they still play the original Playstation games. Which...I’m sure most of you know. This is in case your mother is reading this. Or mine. Hi, Mom!
The first thing I had forgotten is that the PS2 still had chords attaching the controllers to the console. It’s been a while since I grabbed a little banana chair and scooted closer to the TV so the cord would be long enough, but it wasn’t bad. Except that my little ones kept running into, falling, and tripping over the cord, which unplugged the controller during delicate on-screen situations. That...wasn’t so much of a concern during college.
The game itself held up beautifully. Sir Daniel Fortesque, the hero of Gallowmere, was famous for slaying the evil wizard Zarok during a big battle. In all actuality, Sir Dan was the first casualty on the field, shot through the eye with an arrow and killed before the battle had even really started. One hundred years after the battle, Zarok is back. He raises up an army of undead, including our skeletal Sir Dan, who is forced to defeat Zarok for real. If he can.
The game is charming. Dark in a humorous, Tim Burtonesque vein. There are plenty of laughs sprinkled throughout. Our poor protagonist is constantly the butt of scathing commentary, looked down on by gods and sarcastic gargoyles alike. The dialogue is witty, reminding me slightly of Tim Schafer games. Much is made out of Dan’s missing jaw and eye, and he occasionally mumbles back unintelligible retorts.