Thirty Days till Halloween, Day 11. A short Story: “Cemetery Dogs.”

   In Dallas, my family’s house  was  on Lombardy which was directly across from Crown Hill Memorial Park Cemetery, which held the grave of Bonnie Parker. (Her grave is shown below) It was a troubled time of my teen-aged life, but I remember walking through the cemetery at night and seeing so many feral dogs running through it. That troubled memory gave me the idea for this short horror story, “Cemetery Dogs.” I do hope you like it. If you do, I’d like to hear from you either by email or on FB.

CEMETERY DOGS

Kenneth Dyer was a senior at Thomas Jefferson High School.  On his walk home, stopped at the 7-11 at the corner of Webb Chapel Road and Lombardy Lane.  School had started in mid-August this year, and it was hot, so he bought a bottled Coke.  He stood outside the convenience store, and stared blankly at the Mount Calvary Cemetery cattycorner from the store.

The dogs were there again.  They were silent, and in a straight line, facing the road.  He watched an animal control vehicle drive through the cemetery gate and park near the dogs. A uniformed officer stepped out of the truck.  

“Run, boys,” Kenneth whispered.  “He wants to take you to the pound.  They’ll put you to sleep there.  Not a good place for dogs, my friends, not good at all.”

The officer walked toward the dogs with a noose-stick in one hand and a cattle prod in the other.  The dogs moved back toward the creek a few steps, lined up once again, and squatted down.  The dogcatcher cursed them.  Every time he advanced, the dogs backed up.  This game continued until the pack had led the dogcatcher out of sight.  

After Kenneth drained the Coke, he pitched the bottle into a trashcan, and walked across Lombardy Lane to his house.  His father was in his Lazy Boy reading the paper. 

“Hi, Dad,” Kenneth said.

His father looked up from the Dallas Times Herald and frowned. “When are you going to get a haircut?  Every other boy in Dallas has a crewcut and you have to wear your hair like a sheepdog or a durn girl.”

Kenneth knew better than to say anything when his father was in this kind of faultfinding mindset, but he popped off anyway.   “I know, Dad.  I know.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll get a Frankenstein haircut and a gallon of Brylcreem.  Then I’ll join the ROTC or football team.  I’ll make you so proud someday.” 

“Don’t be a smart ass, Kenny.” 

Kenneth heard the dogs as they ran barking down the alley, and Kenneth’s father jumped out of his chair.  “Dam those dogs!”  He opened the back door, snatched a rock from the ground and chunked it at them.  When he came back in the house he said, “This is the nosiest damn neighborhood I’ve ever seen.  Those dogs carry on every night in the cemetery.  You’d think we didn’t have a leash law here.  I called animal control and told them to get them out here and pick them up.  Folks are tired of them feeding out of the trashcans.  The postman has been nailed twice and has threatened to stop door delivery until something’s done.”

Kenneth looked out the window and saw the pack making tracks.  He felt relieved and he figured they must have all gotten away.  “Aw, don’t bother them, Dad. They don’t bother anyone and they’ve got a right to live too.  At least they’re free. I actually admire them—living on the fringe of civilization, surviving and breeding in spite of all odds. I think we should just leave them alone.”

“Damn.  Listen to yourself.  I hope you’re not going to end up one of those tree-hugging communist hippies. How was school?”

“Alright, I guess,” he replied. Actually, it sucked, Dad, but I know you don’t want to hear that. “It was kinda hot walking home.”

“It’s supposed to be hot in the middle of August,” his father said. “Winter will be here soon enough, and you’ll want the dog days back.”

“T’was the winter of our discontent,” Kenneth said. 

“What?”

“Nothing.  Just something I heard the teacher say in English.  She’s started the year quoting Shakespeare.  I hate school.”

“Good.  Maybe you’ll hate enough that you’ll pass this year.”  His father lifted the paper again. “Besides, if you had been raised working on a farm, you wouldn’t complain. I loved going to school and I had to walk there every day.”

“Well, I don’t. I wish we could move to another house.”

“Nothing’s wrong with this house. You should be grateful.  Your mother and I lived in a barn on my daddy’s farm when we first married.” 

And you deserved every minute of it, he thought.  Kenneth wished his father knew how much he hated the house, and how much he wished they could live somewhere else. A lot of bad things can happen to a boy in houses.  Every time Kenneth stepped into the house, he stared straight at the patched up hole on the sheet-rock wall.  A reminder of a sad night, an angry night, a night when both he and his father had said and done things they shouldn’t have, a night when both of them were hurt—one on the inside, and the other on the outside and inside.  A tear-blinded and panicked run to his friend’s house.  Weeks of silence when he returned.  His mother going to the store one night, but never returning.  Abandoning Kenneth to the care of his father, the way some people take a pet out to the country.  

“I’m going to play my stereo for a while, okay, Dad?”

“Just don’t play none of that loud hippie shit.  I don’t see how you can even call that stuff music.  Do you have homework?”

“I’m supposed to read a chapter or two of Heart of Darkness. After I finish, can I go to the roller rink for the battle of the bands? 

“No.  Stay at home.  It’s a school night.  You think you can do anything you want, anytime you want.  I’m not going to let you go wild on me.  Last time you went there you didn’t get home to nearly midnight.”

“Well, if I was a football player or a cheerleader, I’d be out past midnight two or three nights a week.”

“But you aren’t a football player.  God, I wish you were.  I think it would be good for you.   Football builds character.  But the music you like listening to doesn’t help you as far as I can tell.   So, you aren’t going to the battle of the bands at the Starlight Roller Rink.”

“Dad . . .”

“What did I say?”

“Okay.”  Once in his room, Kenneth put on the Cream album, and the blues melodies of Eric Clapton’s guitar calmed him.  When it finally grew dark, he turned on his black light and studied the psychedelic posters of Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix he had hung, then contemplated the photographs of wolves and dogs tacked to his wall.  One was a picture a traveler had taken of some pye dogs in Africa.  Somehow the pye dogs reminded him of the cemetery dogs.  He waited, listening to the music and to the hated house as it settled, to the attic fan, to the restless tossing, breathing, and finally the snoring of his father.

Then, as he did nearly every night, he peered out his window with his father’s binoculars.  Directly across the street from Kenneth’s house was the 7-11, and catty-corner from their house was Mount Calvary Cemetery, where supposedly one member of the Bonny and Clyde gang was buried.   Kenneth was a bit of an insomniac, and usually it seemed that the longer he stayed awake, the more wired up he became.  So, he spent most nights gazing through his father’s binoculars at the few stars that bled through the Dallas smog, at the late night visitors shopping at the 7-11 across the street, and looking at the dogs as they played in the cemetery.  

There was a full moon tonight, and Kenneth could make out the forms of tombs, crosses, cenotaphs, and gravestones with rounded tops. Finally, he heard the dogs, baying, and barking.  He had read that dogs usually got together in packs when a bitch was in heat, but he thought this bunch was more like a gang, a brotherhood.  There was something that made them want to sing when they were together.  The howling of the dogs’ voices was not like that of Dracula’s wolves, but Kenneth thought of the dogs as his own “sad children of the night,” and he found their chorus beautiful and comforting, and the songs awakened something primeval and feral in him. 

He watched the dogs emerge from the thick brush-lined creek that ran behind the cemetery.  At first, they were only dark streaks, moving, gliding back and forth in the distance, playing with each other and moving closer to the front and center of the cemetery.  As they neared, Kenneth began to make out details—pointed ears, curled tails.  He watched them play for a while, chasing each other, running in circles around the tombs.  When he saw the black mastiff, which was the pack’s leader, he pulled the sack from under his bed, pushed open the window screen, slipped outside, and strolled over to the cemetery.  The animal control vehicle was still parked by the gate, and he could hear its CB radio belching out gibberish, but there was no officer in sight.

The dogs saw him and trotted his way, tails wagging.  They were a motley crew—a Great Dane, a Doberman, A German Shepherd, a bulldog, a pit bull, and one with a beautiful howling voice that Kenneth thought had to be half-wolf. 

Kenneth felt no fear as the dogs approached him. He thought of them as friends or family.  The Mastiff led them.  He stopped, barked once and the other dogs sat on their haunches.  Then the Mastiff moved up and licked Kenneth’s hand.  Kenneth knelt down and petted him. “Good boy.  So how you doing tonight, General?  I brought you boys some dogfood. Hungry, General?”

General licked his face and barked. The others came closer, and soon they were rolling around, wrestling, jumping, nipping, chasing each other, playing the way dogs play—ways he never got to play when he was a kid.  Kenneth promised himself he would come tomorrow with more food, and some worm pills and flea powder if he had enough money to buy it for them. 

He felt privileged being part of the pack because he knew they were particular about adopting strangers—even other dogs.  One night a stray bitch slunk up to the circled group.  She looked like she had just whelped, but there was no sign of the pups.  She was also covered with mange and ringworm.  He felt sorry for her for a while. She did everything right.  She cowered submissively before the alpha dog, but General didn’t want anything to do with her. General’s growl was the signal. The band rushed in and killed her, and within a half-hour, they had eaten her—bones, hide, everything.  Just like wild dogs do when they kill something. Kenneth had read that eating the whole animal was how dogs obtained all the necessary vitamins. 

Early the next morning, Kenneth saw two police cars parked by the cemetery gate. The officers walked through the cemetery, called a tow-truck for the pound’s truck, and left.

On his way to school, Kenneth strolled through the cemetery.  He walked to the edge of the thick brush at the back of the cemetery.  On the creek’s bank, he saw some hairballs.  When he heard an unfriendly growl coming from the brush, he turned around and walked home.  

“I hear you,” he whispered.  “Don’t worry, I won’t give you away.  What did you fellows do with the dogcatcher?” 

That night, Kenneth looked out his window to again see the dogs silently lined up, waiting.  Kenneth wondered what they had in mind.

Directly across the street, he spotted a man skulking in front of the convenience store.  Kenneth raised his binoculars to check out the man better.  The man’s hand tightly clutched a sack wrapped around a bottle of malt liquor.  A ragged bedroll lay beside him and something indefinable cried out “homeless.” His eyes twitched and flitted, and something about his expression suggested that the wiring was loose upstairs.  Kenneth could tell he was a misfit, a man who would never blend in with the rest of men.  Kenneth knew that the man must have stunk, and by the way the man studied the store’s customers, he suspected he was a thief, a man looking for the unlocked, unwatched car.  He might even be a purse-snatcher should he become desperate enough.  The intoxicated man staggered from the store toward the cemetery.  The dogs were silent and still sitting in position.

Kenneth popped out his window screen, slipped out, picked up his sack of dog food, and trotted across the road, following the drunk at a distance.

The drunk either didn’t see the dogs or he ignored them.  He crawled on top of a tomb and spread out his ragged bedroll as if he planned on sleeping there.  Kenneth watched as the dogs filed to the tomb the man lay on and circled it.  General barked several times.

The drunk threw his beer bottle at General and shouted, “Get out of here you mangy mutt!”

General trotted up and licked his hand.  The drunk laughed and rubbed the dog’s head.  “Good doggie.  Man’s best friend. There’s always a dog that will understand.  You had me going there for a minute.”

General pulled at the man’s pants leg. The drunk laughed and stood up.  Another dog likewise latched onto his pants leg and pulled.  The sot laughed harder.  Working together the dogs herded him toward the back and dark portion of the cemetery near the creek.

“You boys gotta let me get some sleep,” the man said. He kicked his pants loose from their mouth and started back to his sleeping spot.

That was when General, the alpha dog, growled. The growl was followed by a chorus of the other dogs, who began growling, snarling, their teeth popping and snapping.  The drunk stiffened and managed to scream once before General ripped out his throat.  Then the others moved in, and Kenneth watched them tear the man to pieces.  The dogs dragged the man’s corpse back to the creek.   For some reason Kenneth began humming a song, “One is the loneliest number . . .” And then an idea came to him.”Holy shit!” he said as he crawled into his window.  “I can’t wait to introduce Billy to General and the pack.”

For the first time, Kenneth went to school the next day looking for Billy.  Usually, Kenneth would avoid Billy at all costs.  Billy was the redneck version of a nemesis. If Kenneth passed anywhere close to him, Billy would insult him, hit him, knock his books from his hands, and some days even take his money at lunch.  It seemed like Billy’s purpose in life was to give Kenneth a hard time.  But today before school started, instead of hiding from Billy, Kenneth stood close to the door where Billy and his moron friends hung out. Billy spotted Kenneth and walked over.

“I need some lunch money today, Kenneth.”

“What’s wrong? Your white trash mama didn’t do enough two-bit tricks last night?”

Billy’s face reddened, and he pushed Kenneth against the wall, so hard that Kenneth’s teeth rattled. 

“You just created a heap of trouble for yourself, you long-haired sissy,” Billy said.

“Watch out, Billy. Here comes the coach,” one of the morons said.

Billy raised a fist. “Give me some lunch money, Kenny.”

Kenneth dug in his jeans and handed him the two quarters he received every morning for lunch.

“That’s not enough.”

Kenneth swallowed hard. “I’ll give you more, really. Don’t hit me.  I’ll give you ten dollars.  But I don’t have it now.”

“When can you have it?” Billy asked.

“I’ll have to pinch it from my father.  I can meet you at the cemetery by my house after school.  My dad won’t be able to see me that way.”  

“If I was the suspicious sort, I would think you were planning on having some friends with you to jump me.”  Billy smiled, then slapped himself on the head. “Boy, that was stupid. You don’t have any friends. Okay.  But, you better be there with the money, wimp.”

“I’ll be there.  Billy, please.  Don’t you tell nobody about this ten dollars.  If you do, they’ll want me to give them some money too.  I can’t give money to everybody.”

That afternoon, Kenneth sat on the top of the tomb, next to General, and waited for Billy.  The other dogs were scattered around them eating the dog biscuits Kenneth had pitched out.  Finally, he saw Billy walking their way. 

“Get ready, General. He’s the one I been telling you about.  He ain’t no good. You can tell that, can’t you?”

General licked Kenneth’s hand.

As Billy approached the tomb, General’s hair bristled, and he growled, low and deep.  He barked twice and the dogs eased up from their resting-places and circled Billy.  

Billy kicked out at them. “Go on, git out of here!”

“What’s wrong, Billy?  Scared of dogs?” Kenneth said.

“I ain’t scared of dogs. Give me the money.”

“I ain’t gonna give you no more money, Billy. You’re not scared of dogs?  You should be scared of these. They’re my friends.  You see that big one, he’s General.” Kenneth stood up, bowed, and motioned to Billy with his arm. “General, I leave this bully to your capable care.  As Ms. Evans said today in her Shakespeare class, ‘Let slip the dogs of war!'”

General had been staring at Billy.  He hopped up on the tomb and issued a low malevolent growl. They say you shouldn’t run from a dog, but Kenneth didn’t think it would have made any difference if he had run or stayed put. Billy tried to run. The wolf-dog caught him by the throat and held Billy while one of the other dogs disemboweled him. The pit bull clamped on his arm so hard that Kenneth heard the bones snapping.  In a moment, Billy quit struggling.  Kenneth knew this was one bully who wouldn’t be at school tomorrow.

Kenneth helped the dogs drag Billy back to the creek, and until dark he watched as the pack played with Billy’s clothes, bones, skin, and hair, then watched as they ate most of him.  When the pack was finished with Billy, General led them out of the cemetery.  This time Kenneth followed at a dogtrot.  They traveled up Webb Chapel Road then down an alley.  After the pack stopped behind a house, Kenneth watched the Great Dane jump the fence, snatch up a poodle in its mouth, and then clear the fence again without breaking stride.  General, followed by the other dogs, climbed the chain-link fence and slipped inside the devil’s door originally designed only for the poodle.  Directly, Kenneth heard the family members screaming.   And he knew what was happening.  He hopped the fence, and crawled in the devil’s door behind them.  

Later that night, howling like the others, Kenneth sat naked on the tomb next to General, sharing a leftover piece of Billy’s flesh, tearing at it with his teeth, he and General snarling, and snapping at any other dog that came too close.  

Toward dawn, Kenneth woke to the sound of the gunshots and the shrill yelps and screams of the other members of the pack, but the danger didn’t register.  A sharp beam of light probed his eyes, a hand shook him roughly, and a voice as harsh and contemptuous as his father’s cursed him. Kenneth snarled and lunged at the flashlight, and latched onto the policeman’s hand with his teeth. The policeman hammered Kenneth with a nightstick until Kenneth let go, and then he and another policeman beat him like a dog, hammering him until he lost consciousness.  

 

Thirty Days Till Halloween, Day 10

I’m a writer and one of the genres I like to write in is horror.  I’ve attended the Texas Haunters Convention in Mesquite for three years, Last year, I heard this song for the first time, Below you will find a video for and the lyrics to a song, “Drink with the Living Dead.” I hope you enjoy it. Email me or FB message me if you do. First the video, then the lyrics:

Lyrics:

I was sittin in The Thirsty Devil, one sheet hung to the wind
When the bat wings doors creaked open and a stranger sauntered in
He moved his head from side to side and glared with a sunken eye
I heard the spin of a rusty spur as he shook off the dreary night

He lowered his hat, checked his gun and headed toward the bar
Walked on up beside me, I knew he’d traveled far
In a voice as thick as mud he looked to the ‘keep and said
“One shot of whiskey for myself and one for my new friend”

The patrons whispered hushed and low, they seemed to be afraid
As if a ghost had stood right up and walked out of its grave
His face was shallow and dirty, his skin like leather hide
Sure he spoke like any man, but something wasn’t right

So I twisted on my stool, turned to him and said
“Thank you sir, but just the same, I’m chasin worms instead”
He growled and shoved the drink my way, his eyes cold as death
“I pick the drinks, you knock ’em back, else draw against my hand”

When it’s six to midnight and the boney hand of death is nigh
You better drink your drink and shut your mouth
If you draw against his hand, you can never win
Go ahead, drink with the living dead

“Who the hell do you think you are?” my patience growin thin
But swallow hard, I had to do, when the story he began
His lips curled back and words came forth starting up the tale
And every face inside that bar turned a shade of pale

“My name is Stanton Cree and I died three years before
I shot a man to steal his drink, at least that’s what they hung me for
Now I’m cursed to walk the earth and challenge every night
A man to match me drink for drink or by the bullet die”

When it’s six to midnight and the boney hand of death is nigh
You better drink your drink and shut your mouth
If you draw against his hand, you can never win
Go ahead, drink with the living dead

“Now wait a minute, mister, no one makes me a fool”
I pushed the shot of whiskey back on over towards the ghoul
“I love a drink like any man but that’s a losin game
To drink or draw against the dead would only be insane”

Stanton Cree tipped his hat and laughed a wicked laugh
“You see, the lord cursed my soul for killin that poor man
There ain’t no choice so you must try to match me shot for shot
If you win, then you’ll go free and I can finally rot”

When it’s six to midnight and the boney hand of death is nigh
You better drink your drink and shut your mouth
If you draw against his hand, you can never win
Go ahead, drink with the living dead

The barhop nodded slowly and I knew that I was screwed
If I chose to duel the dead then I would surely lose
So I took the glass and threw the shot into my throat
I would match him drink for drink, no matter if I choked

Whiskey, tequila, vodka, rum or gin
Ain’t no man that I can’t beat, be him live or dead
So into the morning I matched him ounce for ounce
Til Stanton Cree fell over and a winner was announced

Now he rests in his pine box and I still walk the streets
But I don’t forget the night when death had chosen me
There ain’t no fancy moral to go with this I fear
Unless you aim to kill a man and drink down his last beer!

When it’s six to midnight and the boney hand of death is nigh
You better drink your drink and shut your mouth
When you draw against his hand, you can never win
Go ahead, drink with the living dead
Go ahead, drink with the living dead
Go ahead, drink with the living dead

Source: Musixmatch

Songwriters: Robert Steadham

Day 9: Thirty Days to Halloween: A Horror Tale of Little Red Riding Hood

 

Photo courtesy of Stefani Loeffler

 

The Redhead in the Woods

“If you want trouble… find yourself a redhead.” – Unknown

I’ve always had a weakness for redheads. On a hiking trail on the Natchez Trace, I heard a runner’s footsteps and turned to see a girl in a red hooded cloak approaching. I stopped and leaned against a hickory and lifted my canteen as if taking a drink.  She slowed her jog to a walk. “Hello,” she said.
“Hi, yourself.”
“Are you okay? You look a little out of breath and your face is red. As red as my hair.”   She slipped the scarlet hood of her cape back to reveal a porcelain neck and thick, dark red hair that seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.
I took another drink of water. “I’m fine.” Liar! my thoughts shouted. She has stupefied you. I thought I’d take a chance. I corked the canteen and extended my hand. “My friends call me Lobo. And you are?”
“Scarlett.  I’m going to finish this trail. A little bit beyond that is my grandmother’s house. Want to walk with me? Grandmother always has a good meat pie ready for me.” She tightened the strap on her small backpack and slipped her arm into mine. “Please come with me. Grandmother loves company!”
“Sure.” As we resumed our hike, a thousand questions and thoughts buzzed through my mind.
“Guess how I got my name,” she said.
“Your parents loved Gone with the Wind?”
She snickered. “You’re funny. Obviously, I came out of my mother’s womb with red hair.”
“I like redheads,” I said.
“You’d be stupid not to. I like you too.”
I felt like howling.
As we walked, she told me all about redheads. “Did you know Scotland has the largest percentage of redheads, but the United States has the largest redhead population? The Greeks liked to say that we redheads are emotionally un-housebroken. They believed we turn into vampires when we die.” She looked at me and grinned. I blinked because for a moment I thought I saw a jagged tooth. She continued. “The Spanish Inquisition thought redheads were witches.” She sighed. “That may be partially true.”
“Aren’t there some famous redheads, like Lucille Ball?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Many.”
We walked on past the trailhead and followed another path past a NO TRESSPASSING sign.  “There’s her house,” pointing to a small clapboard house.
When we reached it, we stepped up on the porch. She opened the door and stuck her head in. “Grandmother, I’m back! I’ve a friend with me too.” She took my hand and pulled me inside.
“Grandmother, this is Lobo.”
“Glad to meet you, ma’am.”
“Oh, Scarlett, I’m glad you have a polite boyfriend this time.” She looked at me. “This girl has such a hard time keeping a boy around. Won’t you sit down to eat? I just finished cooking this meat pie.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She set down a steaming bowl with a spoon. “Dig in, boy!”
I ate like a condemned man eating his last meal. I’ve never tasted a meat pie so good.  The grandmother and Scarlett had grown silent and sat as still as statues, staring at me. It felt really weird. Finally, the grandmother moved over to her kitchen counter and rolled a pie filling that she pressed into a pie pan.
“Yep, you got a good one this time, Scarlett. I like him. He will taste real good. Make a fine meat pie. The cleaver’s on the shelf, dear. You know what to do.”

Thirty Days to Halloween: Day 3. Under the Witch’s Mark: Reviews

      Under the Witch’s Mark is my novel that tells a story fitting for Halloween. It is the story of Sheridan, a young musician in the Led Zeppelin generation who falls in love with Bronwynn,  a dark-haired beauty who becomes a witch and then vanishes. The novel tells of Sheridan’s search to find her.  It is available on Amazon, Kindle, Audible, and other streaming services.Here are some short reviews. The first is written by Sandy Johnson, an actress in horror films. She’s was Michael Myers’s sister In Halloween, a horror classic!

Hey, I wanted to share this novel with you. I met Rickey Pittman last year at Texas Haunters Con and he was kind enough to give me a signed copy of his Under the Witch’s Mark. I read it on the plane going and returning from California last month and really enjoyed it. Really interesting topic and well written. Made the flight so much better as I was immersed in a great story. Love ya’ll!–Sandy. role=”link” href=”https://www.facebook.com/therealsandyjohnson?

“I loved a witch, once. Her name was Bronwynn,” Sheridan confides in the very first paragraph of the story. I was hooked with just those few words. Consumed with curiosity, I could not put the book down. Love, magic, and the dark forces of witchcraft come together to create the perfect stormy romance that will keep the reader guessing until the last sentence of the book.–Kay

The journey in a relationship with a witch during a period when some in America was experiencing, mind-bending visions after taking drugs and listening to Led Zeppelin or comparable music can be summed up as, “A TRIP”. . . The content pulls you through the story, because it is an uncommon reflection of the sinister side of life, the average reader is unaccustomed to. Curiosity compels you to turn the pages and keep reading.–Larry

This book was interesting, some might say disturbing. A mortal man falls in love with a witch. Not really a new plot, however. More than anything this book shows how easily one can fall victim to the dark side of witchcraft. It’s seductive, mysterious, and once you’re hooked, it’s hard to get out.–R.H. Burkett

<Under the Witch’s Mark is full of Celtic mythology and British history mixed with a phantasmagorical trip back to the 70s. A smart read, the story is full of references to fine literature and poetry, not to mention its very own soundtrack of vintage rock! You can make an awesome playlist from all the songs mentioned in the book and really get into the groove of it. It’s a magical love story with a hint of mystery that will leave you breathless and wanting more.–Christine

Under the Witch’s Mark is the love story between Sheridan and self-proclaimed witch, Bronwynn, who has made things happen to people who have crossed her. Did she cast the spell that draws Sheridan back to her over the years? Written in the first person makes the story even more powerful.–Ann

Under the Witch’s Mark is an excellent example of coming of age during the Age of Aquarius. In the late 1960’s, millions of Flower Children rebelled against their conventional, post World War II upbringing by experimentation with psychedelic drugs, “free” love and out of the norm costumes and music. They (we) embraced any behavior that would shock society. By the early 1970’s the movement had become widespread with some young people learning that freedom from convention led down roads from which there was no return. Rickey Pitman simply and distinctly gives the reader a glimpse of how evil walks among us and how quickly innocence can turn into evil when the weak and susceptible. Those who believe the devil is a myth will rethink their convictions after reading Under the Witch’s Mark.–Rita Holcomb

Here’s a short video trailer of Under the Witch’s Mark!

Thirty Days to Halloween: Day 2. New Orleans Vampires

I had a great weekend in Lafayette for a major book signing of four of my books at the Tinsel and Treasures Holiday event sponsored by the Junior League. Several Arcadia authors were present, signaling books (See my FB page for photos!) One author of Arcadia/Pelican present was Marita Woywode Crandle and the chef of Vampire Café, Chris Dunn.  Marita is the author of the book, New Orleans Vampires: History and Legend, published by Haunted America, a Division of the History Press.

For those interested in horror, this is a fine read, as is her new novel, Mosquito: Southern Vampites, A New Orleans Penny Dreadful. Here’s a summary of the novel:

As the back cover of New Orleans Vampires says, New Orleans has a reputation as a home for creatures of the night! To learn more about this fascinating, multi-talented lady and her products, merchandise, art,  and work with Vampire Cafe (Boutique du Vampire) visit her websites. https://www.facebook.com/nolavampirecafe  https://www.feelthebite.com/

Her personal website is HERE:

Author photo is from vamped.org. Below is one of Marita’s  brochures about the Vampire Café.

 

Thirty Days to Halloween: Day One

Today, I begin my series, Thirty Days to Halloween, posted in detail on my blog with smaller summaries on my Facebook page. Since tonight will be a New Moon, I’ll begin with that as a topic and a photo from a lovely friend Stefani, who loves Halloween!
1. The Celts placed great importance on the phases of the moon and arranged their calendar by it.
2. Cerridwen is said by many to be the main Celtic moon goddess.
3. The Celts had many superstitions and rituals associated with the New Moon.
4. My first encounter with Celtic beliefs about the New Moon was from a reading of The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley that relates the New Moon’s role in Nimue’s seduction of Kevin.
5. In Stephanie Meyer’s novel, New Moon, the title points to the darkest period of Bella’s life.