The Order of the Dragon, “That’s not a Cross…” (excerpt)

(excerpt from The Order of the Dragon)

Tom Bradshaw sat at a table near the windows that looked out to the beach and Lake Huron. With the morning fog covering the lake, he couldn’t see Mackinac Island. But he knew it was out there, and in the back of his mind he was hoping another body hadn’t been added to the count of violent crimes being committed on its pleasant shores. Continue reading


#crime, #noir-2, #novel

The Haunting of Weasley Manor, Chapter 1

I’ve had this idea for sometime to write a series of books about a pair of sleuths, an investigative journalist and his adopted teenage daughter. The idea came about many years ago, and has gone through many iterations without much words being written. I don’t do this often with stories, I normally get an idea and jump into the deep end of the pool and start writing. I tried that with these stories at first, and the deep end swallowed me whole. My first outing was very much churning up garbage, so I discarded that and went back to the drawing board. It needed way more development before I could start writing it seriously. Continue reading

#ebook, #horror, #longread, #novel

Stick-shifts and safety-belts

I’ve let the blog sit and collect dust lately. Things have been nutty and I haven’t had time, nor thoughts, for posting. Well, I’m here to give a little update on things… but first, strap in your safety-belts and watch out for the stick-shift.

Now that we’ve established that. Shall we continue on? I think so.

Writing Cronies and NaNoWriMo Continue reading

The Affairs of Mrs. Blackwater, Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Townsend woke when the carriage he was riding in hit a rock and became airborne. It crashed down hard on its wooden wheels, and kept right on going. He nearly fell out of his seat. He rubbed his eyes and saw he had spilled the file on Mrs. Blackwater’s account all over the floor of the carriage. He bent over and began picking them up, one by one, looking each over as he did in an attempt to keep them in order. But a gust of wind and rain came crashing through the curtains of the carriage and caught up several sheets of parchment. They quickly rustled straight out the window. He promptly shoved what he had into his messenger and leapt to his feet. He stuck his head out of the window and screamed head first into the wind and rain.

“Stop the carriage! Stop the carriage!”

The driver didn’t hesitate and brought the carriage to a halt. Townsend flung the door of the carriage open and ran out into the rain, chasing papers through the weeds. One document lodged in with some weeds, and he snatched it up into his messenger. Another stuck to a tree trunk, which he promptly recovered. But a third kept picking up pace with the wind and began to be carried into the forest. He ran at it full speed, but shortly into the woods his foot caught a tree root and he fell face first into the mud. He looked up as the wind carried the document higher up to the tops of the trees and further away from him.

He sighed.

Rising to his feet, he gathered his surroundings for the first time and found himself among the ugliest patch of plantation he’d ever seen. The trees were old, bending and twisting around each other. They reached towards the heavens in curves and wrinkles. Not one limb carried a leaf, and all appeared to be dead. The rain beat against their bark, and some of it broke off and fell to the ground. He could hear the sounds of bending wood and noticed that the forest moved about to and fro with the wind. The noise was akin to the rocking and creaking of a ship at sea. He took note that he saw no signs of life in these woods. It was as if when the forest died, the animals gave up and moved somewhere else like a human might do when the local economy runs dry.

His driver yelled at him from the carriage. “We should be moving, Mr. Townsend!”

“Right!” He yelled back and returned to his bumpy ride.

“We shouldn’t be out here after dark.” The driver told him. “Wolves.”

Townsend took one more look at the desolate forest and doubted even wolves could live in such an environment. They’re predators, which means they need prey, and it didn’t appear any prey could exist in this harsh climate. He ignored the old man’s superstitious ways and climbed into the carriage once more. He tapped the wall behind the driver, and feeling the vibration he set the horses in motion.

Townsend opened his luggage bag and dug around for a rag he had brought. He found it and began to wipe the mud from his face. The front of his clothes were a disaster, with mud from head to toe. He took off his boots and decided to make his change now, so that when he arrived in Wolfedale he could look respectable. Or, at least as respectable as he could. He only owned two suits. One was brown and one was gray, both were older than him and looked it as well. The style of the suits gave the age away, as did the worn appearance. By the time his father had outgrown and given them to him, they were already overused.

It was a daunting and frustrating task trying to change attire on the bumpy road leading into Wolfedale. He had been surprised to learn there was only one road in and out of Wolfedale, as he’d never heard of such a thing for a village that was this far inland. He wondered why no one had ever bothered to continue the road past Wolfedale, and that instead it simply stopped. Like a one way ticket on a train, the road reached its destination and called it a day.

His mind began recounting some of the information he had learned about Mrs. Blackwater. She was indeed rich, filthily so as Manchester had described her. It was none of her own accord or making, but through several inheritances. It was the number of inheritances that caught his eye early on, and sent his left eyebrow upward. Mrs. Blackwater had been married seven times. She had borne eight names in total since her birth, and Blackwater had finally remained her last. She was a Lankford at birth; but then married a Kinsman by age 14, Pennyworth at 18, Whittle at 21, Einstein at 23, Hansford at 27, and Frankfurt at 31. She had married her final husband, Frederick Blackwater, at age 36 and he had died when she was 40. There had been no letters of divorcement, each and every last of her husbands had died and left her a widow. And each suitor she had married left her a small fortune. She had more money than she would have ever been able to spend.

In the file, he had not found a certificate of birth, but had done the math and figured she was roughly 60 years old when she passed away. He still couldn’t determine the connection between her and Manchester, as it had seemed to him there was something personal involved by the way he had spoken of her. Based on her age, she likely would have been a proper age for marrying several times for Manchester, who had remained a bachelor his whole life and now had no one in his family to continue his name or take over the firm after he died. And knowing Manchester’s pension for greed, he could only imagine how desperate he may have been to vie for the affections of such a wealthy widow.

Perhaps Mrs. Blackwater considered herself in too high a station for the likes of Manchester, a working a man. True, he was a lawyer, but that only gained him so much status in life. And based on the amount of wealth Mrs. Blackwater had accumulated over the years, he was hardly in her circle.

Townsend had just zipped his pants, when the carriage arrived in Wolfedale. His driver knocked on the wall behind him, letting him know they had arrived. Townsend pulled back the curtains to take in a view of the village. The rain had let up some, but the damages were showing by way of flooded streets and running guttering along the rooftops of houses and buildings. There was a blacksmith, doctor, and oddly enough a well-established looking mortician’s office. He saw the courthouse and made a note of where it was as he’d be visiting it shortly.

The carriage pulled up outside Wolfe’s Howling, an Inn and tavern. This was where he’d be resting his head during his stay at Wolfedale. It looked old and dilapidated, a wooden sign hanging by a thread. The sign had the picture of a wolf standing on two legs, howling at a moon, and the name of the establishment was written in red beside the creature of the night.

He stepped out of the carriage and handed his driver the agreed upon payment. Immediately, the driver turned his carriage around and headed back from whence he had come. Townsend shook his head at the man’s superstitious attitude, and stepped into Wolfe’s Howling.

Immediately his senses were overwhelmed with the smell of smoke, alcohol and something rotten. His throat wanted to choke at the intensity of the smells, but he held it back and swallowed dry. He looked around and saw that there were several men already well wetted, and the bartender was cleaning shot glasses. There was a roaring fire in the oversized fireplace with carved wolves of stone on either side of it. An older woman stood in front of it, stoking the fire, and added another log. He nearly dried completely to the bone just by entering the doors.

He approached the bar. “Good evening, sir. I believe I have a room, reserved by a Luke Manchester.”

The Affairs of Mrs. Blackwater, Chapter 1

Author’s note.
I’ve had this desire to get back to writing some horror again, and in that vein I started developing a story tentatively titled The Affairs of Mrs. Blackwater, which will likely be my homage to the old school Hammer Horror and Universal monster movies. Below is my first jab at the opening chapter of the story, which has been nudging me for the past few days to be written.

Hope you enjoy, and let me know how I’m doing and what you think? Would you read it? Does it have your attention? What’s your favorite Universal monster movie (Dracula, Wolf Man, Frankenstein, etc)?

Chapter 1.
Godfrey Townsend entered the office of Manchester and Townsend, and found the remaining owner of the original partnership, Luke Manchester greeting him with a smile.

“Godfrey, how good to see you.” He gestured to his office. “A word?”

“Yes, sir.” Godfrey recited his usual response. “May I?” He began to remove his overcoat, which was dripping from the rain being dumped on Whitechapel without mercy. “A moment to dry off?”

Manchester nodded sternly and retreated to his cold office.

Townsend deposited his hat and coat on the rack, and took up near the fire that was nearly all but ashes. He picked up the poker and bent over to stoke it some. The coals were still hot, and he moved them around a bit, encouraging them to do their purpose. He found a few logs to the right of the mantel, and laid them neatly above the coals and attempted to get warm. It was a nearly fruitless task, as the office just did not hold heat. And the cold streets of Whitechapel rolled their brisk air under the doors, around the window panes, through the ceiling and even down the chimney.

Standing there his mind wandered from him, as his eyes met a portrait on the mantel. It was a small oil painting, a likeness of his grandfather, who was the founding father of the firm. His name now relegated to second place behind Manchester, and would likely remain so. Manchester was a crude business man, and Townsend always had trouble understanding why his grandfather ever went into business with such a man. It was his father, Robert Townsend, who had found himself in debt, who allowed himself to foolishly give up 25% of his half of the firm. Manchester had told him, it would suffice as a loan while he paid off the debt that was breathing down Robert Townsend’s neck. That in a year or so, he could easily buy it back and become half owner once more. But Robert Townsend had underestimated the shrewd and greedy nature of Manchester, and he found this out when he went to buy back his piece of the pie. Manchester simply sneered at him and said, “I’m not selling at the moment. Sorry.”

Townsend took a deep breath, not sure what to expect from Manchester on this damp morning. He was sure of one thing, it wouldn’t be getting back the 25% his father fizzled away.

He picked up his messenger bag, dusted the rain off the side with his sleeve and entered Manchester’s office.

“Have a seat, boy.” Manchester just loved to call him boy. He smiled a wicked grin behind his white beard. “I’ve got an important task for you. Are you up to it?”

“Yes, sir.” He sat and held his messenger on his lap.

“Well, pen and paper. Write this down.” Manchester also loved making him take notes, as if he were just some messenger boy writing a note to deliver to the cook about how many eggs to use for breakfast.

Townsend took out a quill, ink and paper. He sat the ink on the edge of the desk, popped the top off and dipped immediately. “Ready, sir.”

“There’s an old bird up in Wolfedale.” He stopped and sneered over his small, round lenses in their wiry frame. “Have you heard of this, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. Well, this bird has had an account with this firm since its first year of establishment. And, up until last night, was an excellent client.” When he spoke, he looked around the room as if he had an audience.

“What happened? Did she drop the account?” Townsend asked.

“No. She died.”

“Oh, well, sorry to hear that.” He tried to be empathetic, afraid Manchester was going claim he really liked the old woman.

“Good riddance, really.” He picked up some warm tea and took a sip. “But…”

“But what, sir?”

“She was rich… filthy rich… and lousy at accounting.” He sighed long and hard. Then he spoke fast and sharp, like a ball from a canon. “I need you to ride to Wolfedale, and check into their Inn for a few days while you sort out the affairs of the late Mrs. Blackwater.” He raised a file from his a drawer and placed it on the desk between them. “This will give you the address, and some background to her account with us.” He bit his lip. “I never could get her to come in and write up a will, the stubborn old bird. Even sent one of our agents down there once.” He stopped again.

“Well, what happened?” Townsend asked.

“I didn’t get that will.” He leaned forward on to the desk, resting his heavy arms across the file, still unwilling for Townsend to look at it. “I’m going to be honest with you, Godfrey.” Which meant he was about to lie. “This isn’t going to be easy. A lot of paperwork to sift through, no doubt. But, it is very important to me that you do this. And that you do it well. It’s a test in a way, to see if you’re ready to take on some more responsibilities around the firm. What, with your piece of the partnership, it stands to reason you should.”

Townsend could see that it pained him to admit he owned a piece of the company. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“You won’t.” He spoke sharply. “You’ll do better than your best. Because I’ve seen your best, and it wasn’t good enough.”

“Quite right, sir.” Townsend hated these conversations, and always looked for the easy way out, which usually involved agreeing to a lot of things he didn’t agree with. “When shall I start with the Blackwater account?”

“Now, boy!” He finally released the file from his arms and sat back up in his chair. “I’ve already sent a telegram ahead of you to reserve a room at the Inn. The owner is a friend of mine, treat him nice, and tell him I sent you.”

“Yes, sir.” He rose to his feet and turned to leave, but Manchester called him back for one more thing. It was his standard practice to intentionally forget something.

“Oh, yes.” Manchester said. “And one more thing…” He opened a drawer and pulled out a revolver. He dropped it on the desk for effect. “Do you have a pistol, boy?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then take this one. It’s old, but it gets the job done.” Manchester smiled a queer sort of smile.

“Why would I need a gun, Mr. Manchester?”

Manchester’s eyes darkened and he leaned forward once more. “Because there are all manner of beasts in those woods near Wolfedale, and you will want a proper companion.” He patted the revolver.

For once, Townsend had to disagree, though it came out as a whisper. “I don’t like guns.”

“Trust me, boy, when you have to decide between a wolf chewing the flesh off your bones and pulling a trigger… you’ll choose the trigger every time.” He gestured the pulling of a trigger with his finger as he spoke.

Townsend caved, and took the revolver with six rounds in its chamber. He gently placed it in the bottom of his messenger and headed back out into the Whitechapel rain.

#fantasy, #horror, #novella

MYRNA – Preview of coming short film

Every winter in Missouri for the past five years or so, I’ve gotten the itch to go out into the Missouri back hills and film a western. So far I haven’t scratched that itch.

But this winter I’ve come close.

On January 1, 2013, I took +Rafe Preston into my woods and we filmed a short sci-fi western. Close enough, right?

It’s a short scenario/excerpt of what’s to come in my science fiction piece MYRNA (read some excerpts here and here).

Here are couple of snapshots for preview sake. I’m sort of back and forth on how to color-correct the short film, and part me is starting to lean towards going black and white with the piece. Color is so overrated.

Stay tuned, I’ll post the short film once the score has been put in and we’ve finalized the product.

MYRNA – Humble Beginnings

Myrna had watched her whole life, her entire tiny life, as her father went through the same vicious cycle over and over again. He’d come in the house half boozed or all the way gone, and go straight into grumbling about how much he deserved and about how much little respect he got. He would inevitably fill her and her mother in on some fellow comrade in the UN Peace Federation. Her father was a captain, though at her young age she couldn’t fathom how he had climbed to such ranks with such obviously despicable behavior. What she didn’t realize is that she and her mother were alone in the plight against the despicable Captain Jon Fletcher.

The truth was that he had barely lifted a finger in his life, much to the dismay of his parents. They had tried so hard to raise a child befitting of their prestigious lineage, but all they ever got from him were half baked results and an attitude of superiority. They had always begged for others to be as hard on him as needed, but he would just remind them of who he was and what his last name meant. He was the father of Admiral Fletcher, the highest ranking officer in the UN Peace Federation, the UN’s only military, which governed all of earth and all of the galaxy. That his father and uncle had fought side-by-side in the last war earth had known, and by his name they’d never see another war so long as there was a Fletcher in the Federation. And then, he would be ushered on to his appropriate billing.

Facts were facts, as far as little Myrna was concerned, and the fact was that Captain Jon Fletcher was none other than Coward Jon Fletcher. A woman beater, a child beater, and a deadbeat drunk all around.

It was no surprise to Myrna when her father burst in the door on a Saturday night, drunk and with another drink in his hand. She had learned to detect the smell of liquor, and recognized that there was something different about the way he smelled that night. It was a mixture of liquor and something sweet, which she couldn’t put her finger on right away. Her mother entered the living room just as Jon fell on the couch, and without thinking before she spoke, she inadvertently accused him of infidelity.

“Is that perfume?” She asked, and then literally bit her lip.

His eyes whitened and he corked his head up at her. “And what if it is? What if it is perfume? What are you gonna do about it?” He threw the bottle on the floor and came out of the couch. He stood up to her and grabbed by the neck. “I work all day. I work all day protecting idiots like you. I work ALL day for scum like you. You don’t even know what I go through. You don’t know what I see, EVERY DAY. You don’t know what it’s like on the front lines.” She was choking for air and her knees began to give out on her as she begged for forgiveness. He bent his knees with her, pulling her face down onto the coffee table. There he continued his verbal assault inches from her eyes. One hand was choking her, the other pressed her head against the glass of the coffee table. “Scum… scum like you. That’s what I do. FOR YOU. You can’t even appreciate what I do. What I see. What I know. So YEAH… I have to shake it off. At the end of the day, I have to shake the filth of this world off. Because I know when I come home to you, you insufferable… you…” He leaned in to ear and whispered. “Dog vomit.”

Myrna had been screaming the whole time, as was her custom during these tirades, but tonight nothing was getting through to her father. Usually, she could get him to balance his wrath between the two thus preventing any overkill on either her or her mother. But tonight he wouldn’t hear her. He hadn’t even acknowledged her existence with a glance of those black eyes of his.

She watched in horror as her mother gasped for air and he continued to rail on her about how it was all her fault, and Federation’s fault that he was an adulterer. Suddenly there was a slight moment of peace where Myrna drowned out her father and met her mother eye to eye. She watched her mother lip the words You will live moments before a blood vessel popped in her eye, filling it with blood. Seconds later her body was limp.

As soon as Jon recognized his wife was dead he felt a cold rush over his body. He let go of her and stood straight up over her. He could see her bloody eye staring up at him. A single tear of blood escaped and ran over her nose. He kicked her to the floor. “Quit staring at me!” He screamed. There were a thousand thoughts flooding his mind, and none of them were putting him to ease with the situation. He was confused and afraid. He had played this drama out so many times before, why now did she give in? He had never felt her give up before.

Before he could figure out his next step, he felt a long, sharp pain in his leg. He grunted instinctively and grabbed at the pain. His hand latched onto a small, warm hand. He looked and saw Myrna standing beside him with a face of extreme hate. He could see in her eyes that she intended to kill him. He followed her arms with his eyes and saw that she plunged a kitchen knife in his leg, and he grabbed a hold of her hands that gripped it.

He pulled his hand back and backhanded her face with all of his might. She fell to the floor, losing the grip of the knife. He towered over her, while she tried to get back to her feet. “So you think you can take me, huh? Well, come on! Let’s see what you got?”

Myrna was seeing spots. She shook her head, trying to get her vision back. She had to finish this once and for all. She was not going to be another victim of Coward Jon Fletcher. And she would see her mother avenged, one way or another.

“COME ON!” He shouted at her. “You can take me now, or end up like–“

He had stopped speaking abruptly, and she turned around to make sure she wasn’t in immediate danger. She blinked twice, and got half of her vision back. She could see clearly, but only in black and white. Her father stood staring across the room at his own father, who stood firmly in the doorway to the living room. Admiral Fletcher was twice the size of his son in muscle, and stern as an ox.

“What’s going on here?” He asked.

Jon began to stutter, which was his custom when he knew he was in hot water. “Well, it was an accident. She, she must have been stressed, I guess. She came, came at me with this knife and–“
“THAT’S A LIE!” Myrna yelled.

Jon lost it and came limping at her, but Fletcher stepped between them and caught him. “Dad, stop, she’s crazy. Can’t you see?! She killed Lana and now she’s trying to kill me with this knife!”

Fletcher pushed him onto the couch, and he screamed in pain as the knife scratched against the bone. Fletcher then turned to Myrna, and spoke directly to her, only inches away from her face. His tone was always calm and warm. “Honey, I need you to go to your room. Look yourself in and don’t come out for anyone, but me. Got it?” She nodded. He kissed her on the forehead and she went down the hallway to her room. She closed the door, and waited until she heard voices again. She cracked the door open just enough that she could see her father sitting on the couch. He was looking up at her grandfather, pleading and begging. He kept telling stories about how he had come home to a bloodbath, and how he thought that she must have gotten the bad gene from her uncle. A shadow came closer and closer to her father until he was completely covered in it.

Fletcher had heard enough of his son’s rantings, and excuses. He and his wife were certain for some time there was something afoot in the home, but he had been yet to prove it. It had only been the night before that they had decided in bed, he would start making uninvited house calls. They were hoping one day he could walk in something, but he wasn’t expecting this. Not murder.

They had failed their son, they had failed their daughter. It was time to cut the tie that bound them, because he was not gonna fail his granddaughter.

He came at him with a father’s wrath, but unhinged, without borders. This was no longer his son, this was some scumbag wife killer. And there wasn’t much room in the world for lady killers. He pinned him to the couch with one hand pressing against his shoulder, and began to assault his face with a fist. He pounded his face harder and harder, like he had done once before when he found a stray drunk in an alley standing over a dead hooker. And like that drunk, Jon didn’t fight back, he just threw his hands up and begged for mercy. They hadn’t shown mercy, and they weren’t getting it from him.

Fletcher stood up straight and backed away from him. He fell over onto the couch crying, holding his face with one hand and his leg with the other.

“Son.” Fletcher spoke wearily. “I’m gonna call The Order. They’re gonna come here and arrest you for murder, child abuse and attempted murder on a minor–“

“Dad, please, no!” Jon sat up, begging for mercy.

Fletcher kicked the handle of the knife sticking out of his leg, and his head shot back in pain. “You let me finish talking, or I’ll kill you myself.” Jon went back to crying, but chewed his lip in pain. “When they get here, I will testify to what you have done, and Myrna will testify to what you have done. When they call us before the courts, we will both testify to the heinous crime you have committed and to the monster you are. You will never see your daughter again, except when she is throwing you to the wolves. And the last time you see me and your mother, is when you are executed for your crimes. Nothing will be held back, no one will give you a pass. It will be just and dispassionate.” Though he spoke these words firmly, and meant every last one, he couldn’t help but tear up. He wiped the tears from his face with no change in his demeanor. “You lived a pathetic life, and for that I am sorry.”

Myrna was still watching from the door, and her heart beat with excitement. Finally, Coward Jon Fletcher was going to get his due justice.