"Halloween: White Ghost" - The Story Behind the Story

Better late than never!

It’s been nearly a year since my first foray into official Halloween fiction—“White Ghost”—was published and I had always intended to sit down and write end notes for the thing. As a fan, I’m always fascinated to hear the “behind the scenes” stuff of the creative process so, just in case there’s anyone out there like me, I thought I’d sit down and share a few thoughts on the creation of “White Ghost”.



The first surprising fact that you will learn is that “White Ghost” was not my idea originally! That honor belongs to the head of the Halloween Comics beast, Stef Hutchinson. It’s ironic, because he came up with “White Ghost” and I came up with the idea of the movies Halloween 4-6 (which had been “retconned” out of the main Halloween continuity by Halloween H20) being a series of in-universe comics as written and drawn by an older and traumatized Tommy Doyle. Stef ended up alluding to the Tommy Doyle idea in his 30 Years of Terror comic anthology, and now I've brought one of Stef’s ideas to fruition.

Back when Stef first approached me to work on the Halloween Comics team, we talked a lot on the phone about the mythology and all the stories he had in mind. “White Ghost” was one of the earliest ideas he’d shared with me. The concept of doing a story about the tow truck driver who lost his life (and his clothes) to Michael Myers was especially exciting to me. Watching the Halloween movies, I’d always taken a shine to those minor characters in the background and always fleshed out their personal stories in my head. But, believe it or not, I had never given a second thought to that mustachioed naked dude lying in the bushes.

Originally, Stef intended “White Ghost” to be a short comic and include it in an anthology. When time rolled around to do that anthology—what became Halloween 30 Years of Terror—“White Ghost” was not included for whatever reason, and he offered me a chance to write a prose version of the story. He gave me his outline, which really just consisted of “Guy loses his would-be bride because of drunken infidelity at the Red Rabbit Lounge. She gets hit by train. He returns years later a broken mess. Michael Myers kills him.” Stef wanted the story to feel like a real ghost story, but with the twist that it wasn’t. I liked that idea. I ran with it.

One of the things I believe was in the initial draft was that the story would begin with Dr. Sam Loomis at Smith’s Grove at the time of Michael’s escape (as seen in the first film). That was to give the audience a sense of setting and bring them back to the first movie. I really jumped at the chance to write Loomis and Nurse Marion. One of the things I always enjoyed about Stef’s Halloween work is the camaraderie that developed between those two characters over their years together, so I extended a lot of the Loomis stuff—even cutting back to it—in order to write a kind of prequel to that relationship. I wrote Marion as practical as a counter-balance to Loomis’ driving obsession. Marion stops to consider the people, while Loomis is always focused on following the monster. I think that, together, they make a good team.

Also, in these scenes, I introduced Reverend Jackson P. Sayer of Dumont County.



Let me tell you, I love Halloween 4. It killed me when we were told that Part 4 was no longer canon because I have always had aspirations of writing the demon-hunting adventures of Reverend Sayer. Now with the idea of Halloween 4 being a comic that Tommy wrote, another idea blossomed that—in sort of a Shakespeare in Love concept—Tommy created these characters based on real people he’d met in his life. So, I decided to make the “real” version of Sayer. Now you ask yourself, “Well, when did Tommy meet him?” There’s a story for that. I hope to one day tell it.

Writing Sayer was a highlight, and I wanted to recreate that relationship that he had with Loomis from the fourth movie. Sayer is nuts, but he’s also right about the nature of Michael Myers’ evil. Loomis recognizes that.

I wrote the Loomis scenes in more of a classic horror movie motif, because that’s how his scenes were in the original film. The “baby-sitter scenes” with Laurie and her friends were an entirely different tone than the Loomis scenes. Whenever Loomis entered the picture, we were back in Hammer Horror Film mode; when we cut to Laurie, it was more slice of life character drama. I tried to keep that pace for “White Ghost”.

The character of Chris Hastings was actually born out of necessity. I had Stef’s original outline, so I knew the guy cheated on his girlfriend in a moment of drunken stupidity, and it ruined his life. However, Chris’ name, his age, the town where he lives, and the fact that he had a wife and daughter were revealed in his obituary in the Articles section on the Halloween Comics website. The writing duties on the in-universe newspaper articles were split between myself and Myron James. I didn’t write that article, so I’m assuming Myron did. Also, there was more information about where Chris’ body was found, and the state it was in, on the form for his morgue report—which I believe was written by me and Steve Cattaruzza, our awesome editor. So, I had all these separate facts about this guy and it was my job to bring them all together to make a unified character.

Stef likes his tragedy. If you’ve read any of his Halloween comics, you’ll know this. I, however, have a hard time with such a bleak outlook on life. I was also a pretty new father to a baby girl at the time of writing this story and the thought of a man dying and leaving behind his baby girl was especially painful to me. So, a coping mechanism was to write Chris as a complete scumbag :) My idea was that, his previous wrecked romance left him a shell of a man, unable to meet the emotional expectations of his wife and child. In some strange way, him dying at the end was almost liberating to his family. I tried to write Chris the exact opposite from me. First off, he doesn’t love his daughter. That seemed absolutely alien to me, so I really stretched myself to put myself in a guy’s head who looks at his kid as a screaming mouth to feed that he never wanted. Also, I made his wife super bossy. People who have read the story have commented on how evil this woman must be, but I think she’s just appears evil to a lazy husband who doesn’t want anything to do with his family. True, she’s demanding, but I think, to her credit, a lot of that developed out of having a husband who was emotionally absent and content to sit and drink beer all the time. There’s always two sides to the story in those situations. We’re telling the story from Chris’ side, so his wife is extra monstrous and fire-breathing.

What’s really interesting is that, despite this man’s flaws—and I packed as many as I could—I found myself feeling for the guy as I wrote his story. It’s especially interesting that others who have read “White Ghost” have sided with Chris. Understand, I intended him to be a jerk who had a grisly, impersonal death coming. But, people have taken to Chris. Some even identify with him. He sees his life as a failure of his own making. He’s sympathetic. We all make mistakes and we all live with consequences, and we can either choose to learn from them and grow as people, or we can be like Chris and dwell on the past and never move on.

When it came to Chris’ doomed romance, I tried to show the softer side of Mr. Hastings. He really loved Sylvia. He was a better person with her around. I imagine that if he’d had a kid with Sylvia, that baby would have been his pride and joy. He had the shot at a great life, but he blew it.

Enter: Jenny Reeves. Jenny is one of the River Folk from the Lost River. As part of my job at Halloween Comics.com, I wrote detailed histories on Haddonfield, its more famous locations, and the Lost River (that was mentioned in Halloween II). I practically created an entire world revolving around the Lost River and its backwoods denizens. Sadly, no one has ever seen this material because it’s yet to be published to the site (write letters *hinthint* :)), but I have since tried to make some connection to the Lost River in all of my Halloween work. Sort of a mythology-within-a-mythology. Will Jenny pop up, as some have asked? I don’t know. But, as long as I’m writing Halloween, I hope to keep taking readers back to the Lost River.

Sylvia finds out and I get to write the traumatic break-up scene. Next, it was time for bloody death-by-train. Stef stepped in and added a little gory detail to the incident, which I think gave it a nice flourish. I really liked this scene. I felt bad for Chris here.

Years later, Chris returns to the scene where his life ended only to have…well, his life ended. Michael shows up, in his flowy white hospital gown, and a drunken Chris thinks it’s his one true love come to offer him forgiveness. Chris joins Sylvia in death, his wife and child potentially move on to a man who will love them and care for them, and Myers has a new pair of slightly used coveralls. Everybody’s happy. See? No tragedy here :p

These days, Halloween Comics are sitting on the back burner for varied business reasons that I am neither totally privy to, nor able to divulge. I’m not sure what the future holds, or if my other work beyond “White Ghost” will ever make it to the surface. But, if “White Ghost” is my only Halloween story, it’s one I’m quite proud of. I think that it encapsulates what I’m about as a “tie-in” writer—it takes a no-nothing character that spends but scant seconds on screen and (I hope) develops them into a real, breathing person that people can be invested in. To those of you who’ve read it and enjoyed it, thanks for the kind words you’ve given me. If you haven’t read it, what’s your problem?

RANDOM BITS OF TRIVIA:

—My friend Thomas Mason did the cover. He was the colorist on WildStorm’s first Freddy vs. Jason vs. Ash comic and, these days, has had an impressive run on Marvel’s Cable. Check him out on his website at www.areumental.com. He does commissions!

—Page 5. Nurse Ethel Strickland is intended to be the red-headed nurse that shows Loomis to Michael’s trashed room in the television edit of Halloween. I’m a huge fan of the bonus TV scenes of Halloween. Some would say it slows down the narrative—and it does—but it adds more detail to the world and I’m a sucker for that stuff. To the best of my knowledge, this is the first time elements from the TV edit have been brought into canon proper. Some of you are going to ask “Is the TV edit canon, then?” Well, personally, I think it is. Regardless if you watch that version or prefer that version, I believe those things happened—off camera if you stick to the theatrical cut, on camera if you watch the TV edit.

—Page 6. “Bernardi” is the guard mentioned in that same scene in the TV edit.

—Page 6. Reverend Jackson Sayer, people. I love that guy. Also, everyone refers to him as “Mr. Sayer”, just as Loomis did in Halloween 4.

—Page 7. Loomis’ metal lighter that no longer works was first introduced in the online short story “Sam”, I believe. Written by Stef. If you know nothing of this story, it’s the last adventure of Sam Loomis. You should read it.

—Page 8. Loomis’ exchange with Sayer about Damnation being among us (“Yes, Mr. Sayer. I’m afraid he is.”), was meant to echo Loomis’ words (though not exact, but in spirit) to Laurie at the end of the first movie.

—Page 9. Nichols Hardware Store versus Stoddard’s Hardware Store. This is actually a retcon. In Halloween, the hardware store is Nichols. In the novelization for Halloween II, a cop mentions Stoddard’s Hardware Store. The idea was that, only in recent years did the name change from Stoddard’s to Nichols and some folks in Haddonfield still think of it as Stoddard’s. I wrote quite a bit about the history of the hardware store in one of those Locations pieces that still hasn’t made it to the public yet.

—Page 14. The first mention of the “River Folk”, though like I said, not the first thing I’d written about them. The Locations pieces I wrote delve into their history and their relationship to Haddonfield. Mostly, I wanted to make backwoods folk. Like Pumpkinhead or some of Lovecraft’s writings. Just this secretive, mysterious group of country people who live out along the River. I love driving out in the country and I see all these dilapidated country houses that look really creepy. I always wonder what kind of people live there. The River Folk is a romanticized, “typical horror” version of that.

—Page 14. The Red Rabbit Lounge is, of course, the name on the pack of matches that Marion kept with her in the first movie. It’s in the car when Myers takes it from her and it’s left behind at Chris’ murder scene. It’s the breadcrumb on the trail. So, the place where Chris ruins his life is tied to the scene of his death. Make of that what you will.

—Page 19. Wynn’s lost a patient apart from Michael Myers. Sounds interesting, doesn’t it? I believe Stef has some things planned for this escapee (that you may or may not have met already).

—Page 19. The last scene with Loomis is Chris’ “big appearance” in the movie where Loomis comes across the empty truck and Myers’ discarded gown. In the movie, the scene plays out with Loomis on the phone to Haddonfield, he hangs up frustrated, then heads to the truck. This scene is meant to be a sort of prequel to that scene—before his phone call.

—Page 20. “So, you’ve shed one skin, Michael. What form will you take now? What will you dress up for as Halloween?” I don’t think I have to explain to you the giddy thrill I experienced writing words that Donald Pleasance might form in his mind or say. That was awesome. He’s still missed.

Thanks for reading :)

I've Been Interviewed

If you head on over to the Lost Genre Guild Blog, you can read today's Member Spotlight--Me! Thanks to Grace Bridges and the Lost Genre Guild for their support and giving me a chance to get the word out :)

Just in time for Halloween--A new "The Coming Evil" short story!

Hey, folks! In honor of this spooky season, here's a special treat from Greensboro: A brand-new "The Coming Evil" short story for your reading pleasure. This is a fun little romp through the more lighthearted regions of "The Coming Evil" universe, though, in the town of Greensboro, even a simple thing like reading a bedtime story to a sick girl in bed can reveal something sinister... Now brace yourselves for the terrifying tale of...

Harvey the Grasshopper!!!

Happy Halloween :)



Historian’s Note: This story takes place approximately eight years before the events in “The Coming Evil, Book One: The Strange Man”.


“Tell me a story.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Dras Weldon sighed, his shoulders sagging. Though he was only fourteen, he felt like an overtired parent suffering a hyperactive child. “Just because,” he groaned.

“Please?” Annie Myers whined, throwing in a labored cough, just to remind him that she was sick.

Dras frowned, glaring at her. “I already played Barbies with you all day.”

“Tell me a story, and I’ll go right to sleep and you won’t have to worry about me anymore.”

The boy thought to suggest that Annie’s sister, Rosalyn, be subjugated to bedtime duty, but his best friend was busy washing the dishes from their makeshift dinner of Spaghetti-Os. With her mom away at an emergency PTA meeting tonight, flu-ridden little Annie had no one left to bother. Dras was over at the Myers’ house anyway, hanging with Rosalyn as he did most every night, and he had tried to do the decent thing by spending a little time with her six-year-old sister. Now his heroics threatened to be the undoing of his dignity.

At last, he relented, knowing it would mean a lot to Rosalyn. “Fine. What story?”

Annie scrunched up her face in little girl excitement and pointed to the dresser across the lamplit room. “That one!”

Dras sulked over to the book in question, snatched it up, and stared down the cover.

“It’s…” he studied harder, tilting the book from side to side, as if trying to decode an ancient text. The cover depicted a cheery-looking grasshopper—or cricket?—dressed to the nines in some sort of Victorian get-up, lounging about like Willy Wonka on the deck of an ornate pirate ship attached to a hot air balloon as it sailed over green fields. “Um…”

“It’s Harvey the Grasshopper and His Magical Dirigible!”

Dras dropped the book as though it had oozed grossness all over him and slowly craned his neck to regard the kid. “Say wha—?” He wasn’t even exactly sure how to say “dirigible”.

Annie snuggled up in her bed, pulling the covers tighter. “Harvey travels across the world, bringing good dreams to kids. Read it!”

Dras considered. He eyed the book again. “Riiiight.” I’ve got a reputation to think about, here, the boy complained to himself. He strained his ears toward the kitchen and, sadly, detected the clinking of dishes. Rosalyn was still slaving.

Go on, you lug. Just suck it up. No one has to know.

“Okay,” he blurted. Dras procured the book and sat on the edge of Annie’s bed, seeing her face light up with anticipation. He gulped once, ready to sacrifice his self-respect, but suddenly halted, a stroke of utter brilliance slapping his floppy blonde top. “Tell you what,” he began, grinning devilishly. “How about I tell you the real story of Harry—”

“Harvey.”

“—Harvey,” he rolled his eyes, “the Grasshopper. Would you like that?”

Annie squinted suspiciously, gauging the older boy. “Ooookay.”

Dras restrained a deliciously evil laugh. “See, they can’t print the real story about Harvey.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d never sleep again!” Dras shouted. “That’s why not!”

“I don’t believe you,” Annie huffed, her body tensing.

Dras stood and moved toward the lamp, nearly singing conspiratorial notes. “Well, it’s your loss.”

“Wait!” Annie called. Then she grimaced. “Fine. What’s the real story?”

Dras kept his back to her. “You sure you wanna know?”

“I said ‘yes’, didn’t I?”

“Alright.” Dras shrugged, as though it were no big deal. “But I warned you.” Without provocation, the boy reached out and jerked the chain on the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“Hey!” Annie protested.

A bright beam of flashlight luminescence split the evening gloom, aimed right at Dras’ face, twisting his smooth features into a horrible display of shadowed terror. He shouted, “Mwuahahaha!” and was swiftly met by a pillow to the face.

His expression fell as he retrieved Annie’s pillow for her. “Alright, alright. Enough funny business. Prepare to hear the truth that will forever shatter your young idealism.”

“Just make it good, Weldon,” she threatened.

Dras took his seat on the bed, held the flashlight under his chin, and began his tale.

* * *

To understand Harvey and his horrors, one must first uncover the macabre origins of grasshoppers.

Long ago, before Man spread his dominion over the Earth, the kingdom of fairies shepherded the All-Father’s Creation. The fair-folk cared for the animals, the plants, and each other, living in perfect harmony. But one fairy possessed special knowledge of future events, and he foretold of a coming day when Man would subjugate the fair-folk. This doomsaying fairy’s terrifying prophecies won him many followers who began to build an army to oppose the coming of Man. They journeyed into the shadow of the Earth and consulted the dark spirits who lost their foothold on the Earth when the All-Father spoke Light into existence. The fairy rebel struck a truce with the Dark, proposing an alliance to stomp out the race of Man, still in its infancy. The Great Rebel—as he became known in Old Legend—promised he would divide the Earth with the dark spirits, sharing the spoils of war. The spirits agreed to the proposal, all the time planning in their wicked hearts to turn on the Great Rebel and swallow the world in forever black night.

Together the Dark and the Great Rebel worked together, taking willing fairy warriors and...changing them. Soon, these fairies’ legs snapped and bent backwards, giving them incredible leaping abilities. Their slender, beautiful arms became serrated deadly weapons. A hard exoskeleton masked their once-fair faces, concealing them behind horrific visages of war. These poor creatures lost all ability to speak—to sing—only able to communicate by scraping together their claws in primal bloodlust. The Grasshopper was born. These elite warriors descended upon mankind but, despite their numbers, their diminutive size proved their downfall.

Man was simply too big.

The fairy kingdom soon fell, but the Dark, when they sought their revenge, discovered an unforeseen consequence of their allegiance with the fair-folk. The Great Rebel and his surviving followers were now more evil and powerful than even those ancient dark spirits. And the Great Rebel, or Harvey, as was his given name, demanded loyalty from the Dark and rebel fairy alike as he planned a future and final attack on Man...

* * *

“Are you making this up?” Annie groaned, crossing her arms. Her eyes wavered, though, revealing the tiniest bit of unease.

Catching on, Dras grinned. “Gettin’ scared, already? I haven’t even gotten to the bad part yet.”

Annie’s sassy attitude faltered, her eyes widening ever so slightly.

“We could always quit if you’re too scared,” Dras offered, just a hint of condescension in his voice.

“No,” Annie quickly replied. “Just…hurry up, okay?”

Dras’ lips parted and he sang, “Ooookaaaayyy...”

* * *

The first human to uncover the shocking truth of Harvey was a little girl named Francie Stephens. Francie and her brother Thomas, like many children, heard fantastical tales of a benevolent grasshopper in his magical dirigible, come to bring them sweet dreams. Harvey wrote those stories himself. It was all a part of his plan. In an effort to meet Harvey, Francie stayed up past her bedtime, hoping to catch a glimpse of the grasshopper. Sure enough, Francie heard the hiss of steam and mechanical grinding of tiny propellers over the evening breeze. Francie raced to her window and saw the floating ship journeying over the fields, headed her way. In glee, she hid under her covers, barely peeking out, as Harvey entered her open bedroom window.

Francie nearly squealed with delight as the smiling grasshopper in suit and top hat walked the deck and surveyed young Thomas sleeping below. Her eyes growing in pleasant astonishment, Francie watched as Harvey tapped a cane on the railing, and, with a wide, sweeping gesture, sprinkled magical golden dust over Thomas’ head. Francie wondered what wonderful dreams her brother must be having—

Until Thomas sat upright, stiff as a board. His eyes were glazed over, his small mouth open in a slack-jawed stupor. From his perch up above, Harvey cackled, shrill and tiny, as a horde of clicking insects exploded from every porthole of the magical airship, filling the room with buzzing. Francie gasped in horror, unable to look away.

The army of grasshoppers swarmed Thomas, seizing him by the pajamas and lifting him out of his bed, high into the air. Thomas did not kick or scream, just hung there helpless as a thousand grasshoppers flapped their miniscule wings and carried him out into the dark, windy night.

Francie wanted to scream, to chase after her brother, but she dared not move, fearful that she would be taken next. At least another thousand grasshoppers still hovered in her room. They charged the airship, disappearing inside, then re-emerged, carrying a small glowing pod.

Harvey danced on the deck, pumping his cane like the mad drum major of a parade straight from Hell. He pranced and giggled in mischievous glee, watching as his army slowly lowered the pod into Thomas’ bed.

Francie continued to watch in mounting terror as the pod glowed and expanded. It grew so large that a seam down the middle split and frothy white foam bubbled out. The insect monsters swirled around the blossoming cocoon, their buzzing reaching deafening heights. All the while, Harvey danced, clicked his heels, and flapped his coattails, reveling in his despicable deeds.

Soon, the pod took on the form of a little boy.

With the imposter planted, the insects returned to their place inside the ship. Harvey cooled, tipped his hat, and worked the levers. A hiss of steam, a pop of exhaust, and the magical dirigible casually floated away into the moonlit night.

Francie did not sleep that night or for many nights after. She never discovered what happened to her brother Thomas—though her parents never noticed the boy’s absence. For the thing that Harvey left behind looked just like Thomas. But the new Thomas did not pout or pull at his sister’s hair or ask for extra helpings of dessert. No, now he behaved as a perfect little boy, but Francie knew the terrible truth…

* * *

Annie sat in silence, her face pale and expressionless.

“Hey,” Rosalyn greeted, finally entering the room, her chore done.

“Ack!” Annie jerked with a start.

Dras stood, aiming the flashlight in Rosalyn’s face. She batted away the light, annoyed. “Dras, your brother’s outside to pick you up. What are you doing?”

“I was just telling her a story,” Dras said, innocently enough.

Rosalyn moved over and switched on the light. “Well, I’m done now. Do you want me to read you something, Annie?” The older girl spotted the children’s book on the dresser. She picked it up. “I could read you Harvey. It’s your favori—”

“No!” Annie shouted. She blushed, then relaxed. “No, uh, that’s okay. I’m pretty sleepy anyway.”

Dras snickered, but stopped abruptly when Rosalyn eyed him. He stammered, wringing the flashlight. “Uh…um…well, I’d better be gettin’ home. Later!”

“Fine,” Rosalyn replied. “And don’t forget to take your dumb Pod People movie home with you! It’s been sitting here since Halloween.”

Dras raced out the door, and Rosalyn turned back to Annie, raising an eyebrow. “Told you a story, did he? Was it scary?”

Annie nodded.

“Don’t listen to him. Dras is a goof.”

Rosalyn re-tucked her little sister into bed, kissed her on the head, then moved to switch off the lamp.

“Could you…” Annie bit her lip. “…keep it on?”

Rosalyn warmed. “Okay. ‘Night.”

She readied herself to leave, but Annie called her back. “Rosalyn?”

“Yeah?”

“Are…monsters real?”

“Nah.”

Annie considered. “…Okay.”

“Sleep tight.”

Annie lay alone in her room, listening to the night. From outside the sounds of chirping insects reached her attentive ears. They grew louder. Closer. She thought she heard the hiss of steam…

“Rosalyn, wait!” Annie hollered, grabbing her favorite stuffed animal and scurrying out the door. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”


Copyright 2009 Greg Mitchell

"Christian Horror" - Is that even possible?

Well, obviously, I think it is. I mean, look around this place :)

Over the years of writing/promoting "The Coming Evil", I've often used the term "Christian Horror". Mainly as a means of getting people's attention. You can't hardly walk up to someone with a straight face and say "Hey, I write Christian Horror" without them looking at you all bug-eyed and immediately asking "What's that?" Which gives me a perfect opportunity to tell them about my book :) But I've had to do my fair share of defending. I have been told on numerous occasions that the term is an oxymoron, that it's impossible (to which I say "bah!"), or that it's just plain wrong. I think the reasoning behind that response is that some people just don't understand "horror" (well, Christians, anyway. The horror fans have problems understanding or recognizing what Biblical Christianity is meant to be, but that's a blog for another day :p).

Recently over at the Cloud Ten Pictures Blog, there's been just a bit of controversy surrounding their upcoming release Dangerous Calling. It's a pretty good little movie that's been getting a lot of buzz. Kind of an exaggerated "Psycho" version of what happens when legalism and church politics get way out of hand. "Dangerous Calling" is more of a thriller (no supernatural elements, ya know), but some Christians are fearful that it's too close to the realm of "horror", which has led some to speculate -- "Is Christian Horror a good thing?"

Normally I'm not one for debate. Everybody's got an opinion and when we all jump to say ours (especially here on the internets) we get so caught up in hearing ourselves talk that we just start shouting over one another and things get heated and dramatic when they really shouldn't--especially among brother and sister believers. But, for awhile now, I've wanted to write a blog about what "Christian Horror" means to me. Because, it's not just a marketing label, but something that I live and breathe and am very passionate about. I figured now was as good excuse as any to give some of my many thoughts on the topic. In light of that, here's a version of the response that I posted on the Cloud Ten Pictures blog:

One of the biggest complaints I've heard against horror movies is that they are populated by “sex, nudity, drugs, profanity, etc.” But I would say that is hardly exclusive to the “horror” genre. In fact, I’ve nearly sworn off of comedies, because, as far as I’ve seen, modern comedies are nothing but sex jokes and profanity and bong-smoking and it’s all portrayed as being “good clean fun”. But, I wouldn’t say that the entire comedy genre is hopeless or Satan’s playground. I’d just say that it’s worldly and in need of some godly influence. Horror is not defined by its sex and violence. I run into many people who, when I tell them I write horror, they think I mean Friday the 13th. But Friday the 13th does not define the genre. I look back to Frederic March’s portrayal in the 1932 film adaptation of “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde”. What a wonderful, complex study on the struggle between the sin nature and the divine nature! I think to the Universal Monster movies. What great treasures that don’t rely on sex and violence and nudity and drugs and profanity at all. Just good stories with good messages—maybe not intended to be “Christian”, but there is definitely Christian influence in them.

I wholeheartedly understand and recommend using caution and wisdom in the kinds of horror moves one watches. As a happily married man who’d like to stay that way, the last thing I need is to see an hour and a half of some underpaid, surgically enhanced B-movie actress flaunting her naked body in my face. Discretion is absolutely needed, but, I’m not willing to rule out the genre as a whole because of those examples.

Before I had ever seen one single horror movie, I was captivated by ghost stories told around flashlight at sleepovers. I was terrified, but I wanted to hear more. I’ve always been a pretty introspective guy, and I really did a lot of soul searching into why I felt that way. I believe horror—at least for me—is about putting a face to faceless fears in life and confronting them. Fear of the unknown, of things beyond our control. Horror has always been here. “Horror” might be a bad term, because it evokes a lot of “slasher movie” images for people (which is unfortunate, because there’s so much more out there that is offered) but the essence of telling those scary stories is timeless. Even in the Bible, in 1 Peter, it says the Devil is like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Is the Devil literally a lion? Does he literally eat human flesh? I don’t think so. I think the intent in that passage is to convey a spiritual truth using fairly graphic and visceral imagery. When “horror” is at its best, isn’t it the same way? We’re using exaggerated pictures, perhaps, but what we’re saying is something of substance. What does horror say about us? Is it just rampant debauchery, as some would believe? I don’t think so. I think there are deeper questions there—people are afraid of death, afraid of that unknown. As Christians, we believe the Bible addresses those concerns with the light of truth! What more wonderful of an opportunity to go to those people who have those questions and are already looking for answers, and give them that hope in Christ? I’m not saying that “Christian Horror” as a budding genre has or always will live up to that potential, but that is certainly something I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to do. To face that fear head-on with faith and to give people looking for a way to deal with life’s difficulties some measure of hope.

That’s what writing “Christian Horror” means to me. I realize that it’s not for everyone. I’ve met Christians who have had problems breaking away from the occult in the past, and they won’t go near my work, and I encourage them not to. I wouldn’t want to cause a brother or sister to stumble. Some Christians who are recovered alcoholics are called to deal with other alcoholics, but others would find that only a greater temptation to slip back into their old habits. But, I still believe that the work is important and I’m not ready to hand over the genre to Satan or just plain worldliness. There will always be people drawn to the horror genre, and I hope that there can be mature believers waiting for them with something more than just fright-filled fun.

That’s my take on it.

Click here to read Part Two of my thoughts on "Christian Horror", entitled "The Coming Evil: Just an excuse to preach?"

If you've got an opinion you'd like to share, I'd invite you to head over to the Cloud Ten Pictures Blog (not here :p) and sound off. I'm not encouraging a flame war, here, but I think we can learn a lot from each other in civil discussion.

"The Coming Evil: Clown Time...The Remake!"

INTRODUCTION

Sometimes you just need a break.

After spending many weeks up to my eyeballs in the Sperry novel, all the words started to swim together and I needed a chance to clear my head and catch my breath. In an effort to decompress, I returned to my favorite world "The Coming Evil" for another little tale.

I love my group of characters from "The Coming Evil" and have often joked that I could write a whole story about Dras and Rosalyn talking about bananas and it would be just as much fun for me as having them fight monsters. Well, I thought I'd put that idea into practice. Very early on, I realized that I don't know enough about bananas to carry on a whole short story, but I DO know the pain of finding out that one of your favorite childhood horror movies is about to be remade by corporate Hollywood, and that got me to thinking about how Dras might react to such news.

What emerged from that was "Clown Time...The Remake." It's a truly SHORT story with no real bearing on the mythology (though there is a setup for a future story that I'm currently writing), but it was a heckuva lot of fun to write--especially since my wife, Meghan Mitchell, makes her debut. I wrote the first half of the story before turning back to my duties on Sperry, and Meghan read what I'd written. Then, she came to me with an idea for how it should play out and I said, "Write it!" She did and I'm really honored to have her on board.

Without further ado, we present to you--"The Coming Evil: Clown Time...The Remake".



Historian’s Note: This story takes place approximately a month before the events in “The Coming Evil, Book One: The Strange Man”.


“They’re remaking Clown Time?!”

Dras Weldon reread the rather brief, though no less heartbreaking, article off ShockMasters.com, his jaw dangling near the space bar on the keyboard. Rosalyn Myers leaned over his shoulder, brushing back her long, bouncy auburn locks, as if removing the veil from the dreaded news.

Once finished pouring salt on the fresh wound, Dras scooted back out of the chair and stood, animal adrenaline coursing through him.

“I can’t believe this!” He ran his fingers through his unkempt dirty blonde hair.

“This is an outrage! A travesty to cinema!”

Rosalyn blew out a huff and flopped down in the chair, absently leaving the offending site to go check her e-mail. “You knew this would happen eventually, Dras.”

“But Clown Time! It’s sacred! You know that the director, Bruce Hobbs himself, lived out his last years around this area, right?” Dras trailed off, “Though he never returned my calls…” then resumed his exuberant tirade, “But the man was a legend! He even co-hosted a special presentation of Clown Time 2 with Edmond Ghoulie on Midnight Matinee! Bruce Hobbs offered us one of the most probing studies ever into the psyche of the repressed and downtrodden!”

Pausing in between her login name and password, Rosalyn swiveled the chair around to raise an eyebrow at Dras’ protest. “It’s a movie about a killer clown with an axe.”

Dras paced in the cramped computer room of his apartment, ranting now, “No, Rosalyn. That’s what outsiders always say.”

Rosalyn nodded, already tuning him out, going back to her e-mail.

Raving, Dras flung his arms wildly, shouting to the gods who had bestowed such cruelty, “Clown Time teaches us something, Roz. It’s a morality tale about what happens when irresponsible teenagers get caught doing nasty things when there’s an undead clown on the loose! What do you think kept me out of the North Woods all those years, huh?! That movie quite possibly saved my life!”

Dras huffed and grumbled under his breath, “Bruce Hobbs was planning on making the fifth one before he died. Leave it to those soulless Hollywood executives to take a man’s life’s work and trash it the second he croaks.”

Unable to keep a straight face, Rosalyn finally laughed. “You want me to go see it with you when it comes out?”

“No!” Dras slapped his thigh in protest. Paused. Then slumped. “You paying?”

“Would that make you feel less like you were violating your strict moral code?”

Dras collapsed on the couch, deflated, now. “Maybe. Probably not.”

“You know you’re going to see it.”

“Of course I’m going to see it,” Dras groaned, rubbing his face tiredly. “That’s why I hate myself.”

Rosalyn quickly surveyed that she had no new messages, then logged out of her e-mail. With great finality, she stood and moved toward her best friend, dropped down beside him, then laid her head on his chest. “Listen, I know what can cheer you up.”

“Stop it,” he whined. “I don’t want to be cheered up. They’ve just ruined my childhood.”

Rosalyn pushed on, ignoring him, “Why don’t we go to Dave’s and rent the original. I’ll…” she took a deep breath. “I’ll even watch it with you.”

Dras carefully craned his neck to study her with suspicious and distrusting eyes. “You will. Really.”

“Really, really. But only the original one.” Poking her finger into his chest, she reinforced, “I don’t want to watch one of those lame sequels where they shoot him into outer space or something.”

“That was Part Three,” Dras responded automatically.

“The first one, Dras.”

Dras stood, newly invigorated, and held out his hand, gentlemanly. “Then let us be off. We have a date…with death!”

* * *

Rosalyn waited like a patient parent off to the side of the racks as Dras hungrily roved over the faded VHS covers in the horror section. Corner Video Store boasted the best selection of terrible horror movies in town, and Dras melted in its glorious presence. He’d perused these shelves many a time over the years, recounting the B-movies of his youth and diving back into that pool of time, enjoying the old classics.

Rosalyn did not hold the same appreciation for monsters and ghouls and masked maniacs, but she remained tolerant. Dras zeroed in on his target and located the box for the original 1982 slasher movie extravaganza, Clown Time. Shot on a shoestring budget by Bruce Hobbs and a group of friends fresh out of film school, Clown Time told the touching tale of a simple, backwoods man-child who loved nothing more than being a clown at the annual carnival until one fateful year when cruel teenagers played a trick that ended the poor clown’s life. Twisted by the screaming void of hell, the man-child returned as Mr. Smiles—the hellbent revenge-driven psychotic clown—to punish those teenagers and their entire hormone-led ilk.

“A-ha!” Dras exclaimed, reaching out for the box.

“Great,” Rosalyn replied, crossing her arms. “Now we pick one for me.”

Dras slowly lowered his arms. “Say wha—?”

“I watch one of your movies, you watch one of mine.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dras protested as Rosalyn began her trek over to the other side of the store—the side Dras never dared to explore. “We never agreed to that. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“It’s only fair,” Rosalyn defended, the hint of a smile in her dark, doe eyes.

“But-but-but-”

“Oh, grow up, you big baby. It won’t kill you to watch something without a monster or spaceship in it, just this once.”

Dras stopped dead in his tracks, a frown marring his boyish features. “It might.”
Rosalyn bent down, taking stock of the selection, before making hers. She flipped the cover toward Dras and called, “Steve McQueen. Bullitt. See? No chick flick.”
Crestfallen, Dras returned his attention to Clown Time and lifted the box…to find that no tape rested behind it.

“No…” he breathed, feeling his heart stopping with cold dread. “No, it can’t be…”

Rosalyn moved to his side, casually holding her McQueen, and glanced down. “What? What’s wrong?”

Dras turned to her, his face pale and his eyes leaning towards hysteria.

“Some…someone…someone checked it out!”

Nearly toppling her, Dras rushed for the front of the store where the illustrious Dave leaned against the counter, his head swallowed up by a large headset, Metallica blaring through. Dave bopped his head, looking away from the store he was to be minding, and through the glass front, watching the traffic pass by. Dras skid to a frantic stop at the counter. “Dave! Hey, Dave!”

Dave didn’t answer. Only nodded to the ferocious beat of his metal, his eyes glassy and unresponsive, watching the world outside his video store prison.

“Hey!” Dras shouted louder, drawing the annoyed stares of the other patrons. Rosalyn grinned on his behalf and waved to them all. With pursed lips, Dras stabbed at Dave’s shoulder until the clerk finally turned around and removed one side of his headset.

“You need to check out?” Dave asked lazily.

“No,” Dras countered, offended. “I need to know who rented Clown Time.”

“Dras,” Rosalyn quietly admonished him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Dras jerked free of her grip and held a warning finger to her face. Despite his intensity, she snickered. He spun back to Dave. “I need to know.”

Dave sighed and eased his headset off to dangle around his neck. “Look, dude, I’m not really able to give out that kind of information.”

Fishing around in his Velcro wallet, Dras procured a twenty-dollar bill. He clutched the money between two fingers and made a show of sniffing it in front of Dave. Then he waved it closer to the clerk, hoping to waft the smell of cold, harsh cash in the man’s face. “How about now?”

“Dras,” Rosalyn snapped. “The movie only costs a dollar-fifty to rent in the first place. Are you nuts?”

“Quiet, Rosalyn,” he replied, cool and condescending. “This is man’s work.”

Rosalyn closed her eyes and huffed, flabbergasted.

Dave eyed the twenty dollars with barely a spike in his enthusiasm. Looking to Dras to make sure the deal was serious—to be met by Dras slowly nodding his head, as if coaxing a frightened stray cat to eat some food—the clerk reached out and snatched the bill, quickly stuffing it in his pocket before Dras had a change of heart.

“That’s right, Dave. You treat yourself tonight, buddy. Just tell me what I want to know.”

Rosalyn smacked her head and marched off to put McQueen back on the shelf. She could already tell it was going to be a very long evening. When she returned, Dave was searching through the records, Dras anxiously drumming his fingers on the counter.

“Uh…” Dave read off, “Says here the last person to check it out was…Dras Weldon.”

* * *

Back at Dras’ apartment, a pile of old VHS cassettes and newer DVD cases lay strewn on the floor of the living room, getting comfy amidst the bits of stale food, soda cans, and horror magazines. Dras’ movie cabinet was empty and he stood scratching his head, flustered, before the mess.

“It’s not here,” he surmised. “Where could I have put it?”

“In here?” Rosalyn scoffed. “Dras, I don’t know how you find your left foot in this place.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, Dras continued through the apartment, checking such ridiculous locations as the refrigerator, his underwear drawer, and the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink. At last, defeated, he sank into the chair before his computer desk and moaned.

“Great,” he sighed. “Probably the last beautiful copy of one of the world’s classic horror films and I’ve lost it.”

Rosalyn entered the room, munching on some red licorice she’d purchased at the video store while Dras was spazzing out and begging Dave to check one more time, to make sure the movie wasn’t in the stack of returned tapes.

“Before you commit hari-kari, you might want to look under the bag of Cheese Puffs,” she observed.

Dras snatched the bag of snacks from the desktop to reveal just the sun-faded, curled-plastic-encased video he’d been seeking.

Dras embraced the cassette case and quickly pulled it open, then audibly gasped with glee to see that the tape was still inside. Stopping just short of crying actual tears of joy, he celebrated with himself while Rosalyn looked on in disbelief.

At last, Dras turned to Rosalyn with purpose in his eyes.

“It’s time for a victory viewing.”

* * *

Hours later, as Rosalyn gathered her things to go, she turned to Dras and asked, “Do you want me to drop off the video for you on the way home?”

“Drop it off?” Dras’ expression was one of utter confusion. “Why?”

“Well, Dras, you’ve watched it. Don’t you want to return it so someone else can share in the, what did you call it, ‘complete zen-like peace’ of being vicariously pursed by pure evil?”

Dras shook his head and took the final sip of his third can of root beer of the evening. “No way, Roz,” he asserted. “Far too early for that. It’s just a dollar-fifty to rent a flick for three days.”

“So you’re taking it back on Friday?” she questioned.

“No, I’m taking it back sometime next month.”

Rosalyn stood still, puzzled.

“Twenty bucks divided by a dollar-fifty, chica. Three days per dollar-fifty. I’ve got this perfect movie in my possession for thirty-nine days.”

Rosalyn was now totally dumbstruck. “Dras, you can’t even do that kind of math. You need a calculator for single-digit addition. You never applied yourself one day in any math class you ever took.”

“Yes, but then,” Dras said with a sigh, holding his precious copy of Clown Time, “it was never quite this important.”


Copyright 2009 Greg Mitchell

Breaking Ground on My Next Novel

God has really been blessing my writing these days!

Hot off the heels of my big "Apocalypse V" announcement, my longtime friend and mentor Rich Christiano (who I also collaborated with on the "Time Changer" novelization) contacted me about writing up the novelization of his next release "The Secrets of Jonathan Sperry". I owe a lot to Rich, so it's my treat to write this book for him. It's very much NOT in my element (not a fanged monster in sight :p). Rather it's an old-fashioned family film with a positive message. Kind of Hallmark-y, kind of Norman Rockwell-y, it's good, clean entertainment.

Rich has just sent me a preview copy of the finished film and the script, so, as soon as I get back from my big week at the Gideon Film Festival, I hope to get cracking on it. As any good novelization should, I believe, it's my hope to compliment the film, but add an entirely new dimension to the story, giving you a different experience and one that will, hopefully, allow you to see the film in a whole new light.

For those of you into the "heartwarming family film", take a peek at the trailer for "The Secrets of Jonathan Sperry" and stay tuned for updates on the release of the novelization.

"Apocalypse V" - the cat is out of the bag!

Well, I've been sitting on this news for awhile (since Christmas, when all this started) and I'm near ecstatic to finally be able to share it all with you.

I am officially writing "Apocalypse V" for Cloud Ten Pictures!!

Wait.

"What's Apocalypse?" you ask. For shame. For. Shame.

Allow me to educate thee.

Back in 1998, when "The Coming Evil" was still forming in the murky depths of my monster-laden imagination, I was easing into the Christian film industry. I had already met Rich Christiano (who I later collaborated with on the novel "Time Changer") and was even an extra in his End Times/Revelation flick "End of the Harvest". At that time, I was pretty much soaking up every Christian film experience I could, trying to see what had come before and figure out how I was going to be different and add my two cents to the whole thing. As you may or may not remember (or you may be trying to forget) there was a sort of "Millennium Fever" at the turn of the century, and between the "Left Behind" books, and "The Omega Code" movies (the second one had Kyle Reese, yo!), and Rich's own "End of the Harvest", there were a LOT of "End Times" flicks. I'd kind of grown sick of the whole thing, which is one of the reasons I stressed to everyone that "The Coming Evil" was NOT an "End Times" story. But, my church was having its first ever movie night and what are they going to show?



Another End Times flick called "Apocalypse". Well, good grief. So I watched, prepared to roll my eyes and tear the flick a new one.

However, much to my surprise, I found that I actually really enjoyed it. Yeah, it was shot on video and had the budget of a Craft catering table (perhaps a very small one), but there were characters that I was invested in (Leigh Lewis as Helen Hannah is an underrated gem. She appears in all the movies--mine included, I hope!!--and turns out quietly compelling and commanding performances every time), and a bad guy who was so awesome in his zany over-the-top evilness (Len Parker. Watch the movie, he's great) that I found myself wanting to know more.



I put "Apocalypse" out of my mind, moving on to begin writing my non-End Times Christian extravaganza in "The Coming Evil", but was curious when, a year later, the sequel "Revelation" came out. I watched it, because I'm a sucker for sequels, and REALLY enjoyed it. The production was elevated exponentially and they brought in a great director (some new guy named André van Heerden) who really gave it a very polished look (despite the still limited budget). Plus: Jeff Fahey! You mean, "Psycho III" Jeff Fahey?! Yes, I do! There was action, some great genuine character-driven humor on the part of Tony Nappo's character "Willie Spino" and a big boost in the mythology. What? A mythology? Well, now you've got me hooked.



Soon after that, part 3 was released. "Tribulation" with "Silver Bullet"'s Gary Busey! Hecks, yes! I really, really loved part 3. It had the occult, psychic phenomenon, a definite horror slant and continued to push the mythology and expand the characters. By this point, I was ready to jump in to write my own. It was still '99, I think, and I was convinced I could push the continuity even further. I was ready! But...alas, I had no idea what to do about it...



A couple years later (2001, I think), "Judgment" was released and, I'll tell you, I was a bit disappointed, at first. Coming off of "Revelation" and "Tribulation", I was expecting explosions and psychic enforcers and demons. But...I got a courtroom drama. It felt like a very quiet note to the end series on and then "Apocalypse" faded from the public eye...

So, it happens that last Christmas, my brother (a writer and mythology nut in his own right--go check out his stuff) and I decided, just for kicks, to pop in "those Apocalypse movies" and watch them again. I found myself JUST as entertained, if not more. Even "Judgment" shone through and I really understood all that movie had to offer--including Leigh Lewis' best performance to date (I think) and an exceptional full orchestral score. The "End Times" movie craze had thankfully slowed down (too much of a good thing, you know?), but I found that, even without that hysteria of impending global disaster, these movies still held up. Because, like I said, there are characters to believe in. Plots to follow. Villains to boo. It's FUN, man! Suddenly, all of my old ideas about how I would contribute to the series came flooding back in a wave of blissful nostalgia, and after a casual comment from my brother that Wikipedia said there was a proposed "Apocalypse V" on the horizon, I decided to seize my chance to make one of my dreams come true.

Out of the blue, I cold-wrote Cloud Ten and told them of my love of the series, a few of my credentials as a writer, and expressed my desire to try out for Apoc 5. I was thrilled and subsequently terrified when, the very next day I believe, that "new guy" director André van Heerden--now the CEO of Cloud Ten and the director on the last three films--wrote me back and asked for a pitch.

What?! Really?!

I spent all Christmas break cramming in everything I loved about "Apocalypse" and turned it in. And I had a BLAST doing it. What's more, Cloud Ten was interested. From that point on, André and I conversed quite a bit, eventually bringing in Paul Lalonde (head honcho at C10 and the co-creator of the entire franchise!!). We had lots of talks, going back and forth on the different characters we loved and how we might bring them back and use them again. We worked out story points and plot twists and I signed a contract and eventually turned in a first draft.

And they accepted. I "got the job". I'm writing "Apocalypse V".

:)

Needless to say, the process to produce a movie is a perilous one and anything can happen along the way. But, for this one moment, I've achieved a dream as a fanboy crossing over into the series he follows so closely. It's a treat and I promise to do my level best to turn out the best "Apocalypse" yet.

-Greg (a bit excited)

PS--Now, for your viewing pleasure, feast upon the trailers for all four "Apocalypse" movies and get ready for Part 5. Written by me! :p And, of course, if you like what you see below, go buy the movies!

Podcast Interview With Yours Truly

Yo.

Just finished up a podcast interview over at The Zoo pitching "The Coming Evil" and my latest work in Coach's Midnight Diner (what, you haven't bought that yet? What's your problem?). I was hoping to get the Head Fry Cook himself, Coach Culbertson onto the show, but podcast technical difficulties--what can you do?

The Zoo is a weekly one-hour(ish) political commentary run by my good friend, James "Shamrock Jim" Stacey and his cohort in political upheaval Kurt. James was actually the inspiration for the character of "James" in "Flowers for Shelly", so it was fun to bring it full circle and talk with him about the story.

Well, I stay far away from politics, so for the first half-hour I'm a ghost hovering in the room, but if you skip to about midway through the show, you get to me. Pretty good interview, if I do say so myself. Got to say a lot of things I'd always wanted to say about what it's like writing Christian Horror. Never really had an outlet before, but I had the chance to get some things off my chest and it seemed like the show got some good response, judging by the chatroom action. Unfortunately they were having some audio difficulties, so there's warble in my deeply masculine voice, but, hey, it is what it is.

Now, go. Go check it out. I have more writing to do.

"Halloween: The Diary of Judith Myers"--Coming Soon!

More non-"The Coming Evil" news today (Don't worry, I'm still working on it :p).

I've been sitting on this particular project for awhile because I've come to discover that, in the world of writing comic books, everything rests on a foundation of shifting sand. But, since there's the official announcement of it over on Comic Monsters, I thought it would be safe to spill the beans.

In the upcoming trade paperback collection of Devil Due's Publishing's release of "Halloween: The First Death of Laurie Strode"--written by Stef Hutchinson with art by the amazing Jeff Zornow--I am writing a prose piece entitled "The Diary of Judith Myers". I actually wrote this a year or so ago, and it looks like it might finally be getting its due (no pun intended).

Who is Judith Myers, you ask? For those of you uninitiated in the world of John Carpenter's original masterpiece "Halloween", Judith--or Judy--is Michael Myers' (that's the killer) big sister. She is, in fact, his very first victim. She plays a pivotal role in his life as a monster, but until now, her story has never been told (save for the opening scene of the first movie). Her life has been a blank slate, and it has been my honor to try to fill that.

The Diary is written from Judy's point of view, giving readers a sneak peak into Michael's childhood and home life. But, for those of you--like me--who believe that Michael Myers is the best when he's "The Shape"--a vessel of pure Evil with no motive for his madness--this Diary does not attempt to spell out why he kills. I'll leave that to Rob Zombie. I want to keep Michael mysterious, and, instead, shift the spotlight to poor Judy.

I'm really excited to hear people's reaction to the story. Like I said, Judy is a very integral part to the "Halloween" mythology--the event that begins Myers' reign of terror--but one that has been, so far, almost entirely ignored. Seeing how she is Michael's first victim, I went into the writing of this Diary as a sort of "Halloween 0"--a prequel and natural lead-in to the first film.

I'll keep everyone posted when it comes out.

I'm in "Supernatural"!

Well, sort of.

Let me explain. Anyone who knows me or "The Coming Evil" and my other work knows that I am a huge fan of monster hunters. I've gone on and on about how watching "The Monster Squad" every day for a summer when I was a wee, timid lad forever shaped my destiny. I love monsters--but more importantly, I love those brave souls who fight against the dark.

Naturally, when I heard about a show about two demon-hunting brothers on a road trip across "Backroads America" I was greatly intrigued. ...Then I found out said show was going to be on the teen-oriented WB and would be starring two "pretty boy" actors. I cringed. I was already coming down off my "Joss Whedon is a writing god" high and the thought of another cutesy tongue-in-cheek take on a subject matter that I hold very dearly made me want to hurl.

But, I watched that first episode of "Supernatural" and I was blown away. A) The pretty boys can act. Can REALLY act. B) The show is dark and horror based--not like I've seen since the glory days of "The X-Files". C) It's about monster hunters!! I was hooked from that point forward.

So, when I heard that the first tie-in novel "Nevermore" was coming out in 2007, I was first in line (only in line, I think) to get my copy on release day. It was a great read. The author--one Keith R.A. DeCandido--nailed the mythology and the voice of the characters and really showed that he knew this series. So, I felt so led to write him a long, gushy e-mail shouting my praise.

Turns out that letter was sent in good timing, for Mr. DeCandido was hard at work on his second "Supernatural" tie-in novel, "Bone Key". As soon as "Bone Key" was released last year, I was back in line (still the only one, I think) and cracked that puppy open. Then I get to Chapter Five on page 61 and my heart nearly stopped.

I read my own name.

Was it an amazing coincidence? I guess "Greg Mitchell" isn't really that uncommon a name. Or...did I dare to dream? Had Mr. DeCandido taken a name off a fanboy's e-mail and slapped it on to an original character in a "Supernatural" novel? I was floored with excitement, but tried to tell myself it was only a fluke.

However, since then, I've taken up the matter with the author, himself, and I am proud--and humbled at the same time--to say "Yes". I am a Supernatural character...albeit one who gets roughed-up by the ghost of Ernest Hemingway over a six-toed cat...but still!

Sure, none of this means a hill of beans to you people, but this was a small victory for me--a little kid who grew up loving monster hunters and now gets to be in a book about two very awesome monster hunters.

I'm writing all this to say A)Yay! B) Thank you, Mr. DeCandido and C) Watch "Supernatural". If the series mastermind Eric Kripke has his way--and I hope he does--, the story will finish next season. You've still got time to catch up on the DVDs and be a part of this amazing show.

That is all.

-Greg Mitchell

"Flowers for Shelly" is here!

Hey, all, I'm pleased to announce today that my zombie love story "Flowers for Shelly" is now available as part of the menu at "Coach's Midnight Diner: The Back From the Dead Edition". As their official site describes it, "Coach's Midnight Diner" is a "hardboiled anthology of horror, crime, detective, paranormal, and weird fiction with a Christian slant". I first heard of the Diner when their first anthology--the Jesus vs. Cthulhu Edition--was released. I thought "Hey, I've got to get in with these guys! This sounds awesome!" So, I'm very excited and honored to be a part of the Diner's latest offering.

"Flowers for Shelly" is the darkest thing I've ever written, but also one of the most personal things I've ever written--if not the most personal thing. It remains my wife's favorite of my work and I'm really pleased to see that it's finally being unleashed upon an unsuspecting public.

Coach has a special offer lined up for those of you who aren't quite sure what to make of the Diner and need a little sampling of the fine cuisine before placing your order. Available on their site, you can actually download the eBook, read a sample of the first two Editor's Choice pieces and then, if you like the book, you can opt to purchase the eBook and the rest of the anthology will be unlocked for your viewing horror.

I urge everybody to go out and buy a copy--not just to support my work, but also all the other Christian horror/weird fiction pioneers out there. This is an incredible opportunity to show the world that, just because we have "Christian" in the title, doesn't mean we're slouches when it comes to the gritty stuff.

Now, go! Hurry! Buy your copy today! Read "Flowers for Shelly"! Have your life forever changed!

"The Coming Evil: The Last Halloween" Part Two of Two

READ PART ONE

And now, the conclusion...



PART TWO

Halloween. Back then.

Their trick-or-treating done, eight-year-old Dras and Rosalyn hopped into the back of the Chevette. Rosalyn’s dad turned the radio to KDZY and tuned in to the special Halloween broadcast that played “Monster Mash” on a nearly endless loop, broken up only occasionally by “Werewolves of London” or “Nightmare on My Street”.

And, as usual, Rosalyn’s dad began to sing along with Bobby “Boris” Picket in his best—though undeniably terrible—Bela Lugosi voice. He gestured with his hands and pretended he had a cape, singing proudly.

“Your dad’s so cool,” Dras whispered in total awe, knowing he’d never see Jack Weldon indulging in such frivolity.

Rosalyn hid her face. “Daaad.”

Her dad leaned into the backseat, tickling Rosalyn’s side. “I vant to dlink your blood!”

She laughed hard and slapped at him playfully. “Stop it! You’re such a big dork!”

#

Fourteen years later, the laughter from that night still rang through her memories.

Rosalyn and Dras drove in silence. Seeing the Chevette again reminded Rosalyn of all the things in Greensboro she sought to escape. Pain. Death. Yes, there were good times, most of them spent with the “Weird Avenger” seated beside her, but…were they enough to keep her here?

Finally Rosalyn ventured, feeling nauseous, “I think I’m ready to go home.”

Dras balked at her, “We were just getting started.”

“Dras,” she said flatly, cutting through his boyhood theatrics. “I…”

He grew dark and the joyous mask that seemed fixed to his face slipped to reveal the man Rosalyn knew he could be if he’d just let it happen. “It’s the Chevette. Isn’t it?” he asked quietly, thoughtfully. “Thinking about your dad?”

Dad…

The word brought so many images to Rosalyn’s mind. Her dad playing guitar on the back porch, practicing for a gig with one of his bands. He frequented bars, fairs, and Main Street Festivals, singing Bob Segar covers and strumming a few originals, as well. By day he was a factory worker, a drone enslaved to the system, but by night Rosalyn saw the magic come alive in his eyes. He told stories and played songs, and on Saturday afternoons he took her and Dras wherever they wanted to go in his sky blue Chevette.

Then one afternoon, ten years ago, he blew his head off with a shotgun. No note. No good-bye. No explanation. It was quite possibly the moment that defined her life the most. Over the years, it had become the chain that kept her tied to Greensboro.

What would her Dad think about her leaving town? Would he be happy for her? Or angry that she was running away from his memory?

“Yeah,” Rosalyn admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah, it’s no big deal,” Dras replied, his voice warm and considerate. Suddenly he was a totally different person. “You don’t like Pod People anyway. But, you don’t have to be alone, you know? I mean, you shouldn’t be alone.”

But I am alone, she thought to say, but didn’t. She and Dras had been practically conjoined at the hip since birth, but when her daddy took his life, a wedge came between them, an unconquerable chasm that now grew ever larger. Dras stood on the side where youth and dreams lived, and Rosalyn where burdens and doubts dwelt. Dras believed in the magic of Halloween—of escapism and fantasy. Rosalyn hadn’t believed in much of anything since she was twelve. She thought, on occasion, to probe Dras further regarding God, faith, and the afterlife. After all, his dad was a preacher and Dras went to church all the time, albeit late. But this was Dras. The deepest thought he had was probably who would win in a fight between Darth Vader and Optimus Prime. Once after her father’s death, Rosalyn tried to believe in something beyond death. That same year she took a trip to the North Woods in search of her father’s ghost. She was just a kid, and it was a stupid delusion.

But tonight, seeing her father’s Chevette after all these years made her wonder.

What if Dad really is still out there, somewhere?

#

Rosalyn dropped Dras off at his apartment, and headed home. Sullenly, she parked the car on the curb and walked toward the front doors of her apartment building, jangling her keys, envious of the kids that ran by her, shouting and crowing into the night air.

Was I young like that? Yes, she had the memories to prove it. I wish I could be again.

Behind her, an echo from the past—the sound of bubbling potions—grew steadily louder.

It was the opening of “Monster Mash”.

The deep bass thrummed, echoing in the night, creeping on her back. She heard the familiar roar of an engine as bright light splashed against her, casting an elongated Rosalyn-shaped shadow in front of her. Like a sentry, the shadow stared her down, barring her passage home, commanding that she turn and face what she feared most.

She swiveled reluctantly, fixed to Fate’s design.

Sure enough. The Chevette.

Rosalyn held up a hand to shield the headlights’ beam, struggling to see inside the vehicle. The driver remained anonymous, only a dark shape, his glowing eyes boring straight through her heart.

“Who—who—?”

The engine stopped. The car rumbled to a hungry purr before dying out altogether, but the bright lights held Rosalyn in their sway. Ever so slowly, the sky blue door creaked and groaned open and a tall, lanky shape shambled forth.

Dras’ words shook her: Here we are, on Halloween night—the night when anything is possible…

“Dad?” Rosalyn whispered, her throat catching.

“Rosalyn?” the shape asked, one trembling arthritic hand raised to grab her. To keep her in Greensboro.

No. God, no.

Adrenaline burst through her veins like hot mercury, igniting her instincts. She turned around, breaking free of the headlights and their sticky luminescence and raced for the door to her building. Rosalyn tore through the door, knowing she had no time to lock it. The thing that was not—could not be—her father would be right behind her.

Instead, she clambered up the steps, two at a time, holding in a terrified shriek as she hurriedly unlocked the door to her apartment. With all her weight, she barreled into the dark room and slammed the door shut behind her, catching just a glimpse of the shadowed, lilting figure hobbling for her door.

“No!” she screamed. “Stay away!”

Dumb hands banged against the door and frame, and Rosalyn pressed herself against the wood, near tears. “Please… Just go away…”

“Rosalyn…” the thing on her doorstep moaned. It was the sound of graves opening and dead fathers returning for their daughters.

Here we are, on Halloween night—the night when anything is possible…

No, Daddy! No…I’m sorry for wanting to leave! I’m sorry! Don’t be mad, Daddy!

“Rosalyn Myers,” the voice said more clearly. “Are you Rosalyn Myers?”

Rosalyn’s heart fell into a steady boom-boom-boom as tense seconds passed. “Who are you?”

“I have something for you,” the man on the other side of the door answered. He sounded strong, though elderly. And a bit annoyed. “If you’re not too busy, that is.”

Suddenly feeling very embarrassed, yet still apprehensive, Rosalyn cracked open the door. “Who—?”

An unfamiliar man with insanely bushy eyebrows and a definitive limp barked, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“What do you want?” she pressed.

“Paul Myers your daddy?”

She swallowed, her heart slowing. “Uh…yeah. He is. Was.”

“That car out there—that his?”

“It used to be,” Rosalyn said, her brow furrowing. “I think.”

“Yeah, I met your pop a time or two. He was real good with a guitar.”

Dumbfounded, Rosalyn replied, “Thanks.”

“I just bought that car today. Was digging through the glovebox and came across something. I recognized him. Thought the other’n might be you.” With swollen hands, the man reached out for the crevice in the door. He held a Polaroid.

Carefully, for she was not accustomed to taking things from strange men, Rosalyn took the photo and turned it over.

“Looked you up in the phone book,” the man continued. But Rosalyn could not hear him.

She broke down in tears.

#

“Well, how’d you do tonight, pumpkin?”

Eight-year-old Rosalyn Myers finished watching Dras scurry up to his house, where his mother stood on the front porch, shaking her head with a sort of resigned indignation at his Halloween enjoyment. Rosalyn allowed herself a giggle before turning to her dad seated in the driver’s seat.

“Pretty good, actually.”

“Have fun, then?” her father asked brightly.

“Yeah.”

“I love Halloween,” he said, looking at the show that unfolded before him on the streets. His eyes happily glazed over. “Always a lot of fun. Life should be fun sometimes, too. Not always work.”

He winked at Rosalyn, and she grinned.

“Oh!” he said, reaching for something in the backseat. “I almost forgot!”

“Daaad,” she whined, rolling her eyes, but still unable to remove the grin.

“It’s a tradition. You can’t expect me to abandon tradition, Roz.”

He brought out a Polaroid camera and squeezed close to his daughter. He held the camera at arms length, aiming it back at father and daughter. “Come on, now,” he grinned, “Time to take our picture so we can show Mom all the fun she’s missing. Say ‘cheese’!”

Rosalyn stretched her smile and said “Cheese” through strained teeth. Dad snapped the picture and Rosalyn deflated, putting on her best aggravated look, though its sincerity was questionable.

“There?” she asked. “You happy now?”

Her dad waited for the photo to eject and began to flap it, hoping to coax it into developing faster. “I am,” he said, matter-of-factly, determined not to be brought down by her sourpuss. Then he softened and faced his daughter. “I just wanted to tell you, you’re a great kid. I love coming out here with you. Thanks for letting your old man tag along.”

Rosalyn blushed and could not hide her smile. “No problem.”

“I hope I can always tag along with you.”

“Yeah,” Rosalyn sighed, feigning consideration. “If you promise not to be a skeeve.”

“Skeeve? Where do you pick this stuff up?” her dad laughed, reaching over for a hug. “Come’ere.”

They hugged, he tickled, and she laughed.

She laughed…

#

Rosalyn sat alone in her darkened apartment. Halloween’s moonlight sprinkled through the window, illuminating the photograph in her hand. There she was. Eight years old and dressed like a witch, fake nose with a wart and everything.

There was her Dad.

She cried over the photo for hours. Pained tears at first. Then happy tears.

For so long she had feared leaving Greensboro, feeling as though doing so would betray her father’s memory, but now those shackles were loosened. Somehow she thought her dad would approve. At least, she wanted to believe he did. It seemed he’d sent her a message tonight, a happy memory in the midst of her confusion to let her know he was always here, tagging along with her, wherever she went.

Ten years ago, out in the North Woods, Rosalyn lost her faith. She went looking for her father but she couldn’t find him. But tonight, on Halloween, the night when anything was possible, here he was. Still dead, but never gone.

Maybe it was possible to believe again. If only for one night.

Somewhere, “Monster Mash” played in the night and Rosalyn smiled.

Copyright 2009 Greg Mitchell

"The Coming Evil: The Last Halloween" Part One of Two

Hey, all. Before you ask, yes I'm still working on getting the Expanded Edition of Book One out to you. And, yes, Book Two is actually finished and waiting for Book One to be picked up and re-released. So, yes, it's going to be a little bit longer. I hate it, too, but that's the writing business.

In the meantime, I've written another "The Coming Evil" short story. This one is entitled "The Last Halloween" and serves as a sort of spiritual successor to "Among the Dead". If you haven't read "Among the Dead", you can follow the links to your right or click right here and enjoy the audio production (It's quite nice). "The Last Halloween" is split into two parts. Tune back in tomorrow for the conclusion.

Hope you enjoy.



PART ONE

Historian’s Note: This tale begins the last Halloween before the events depicted in “The Coming Evil, Book One: The Strange Man”


“What are you supposed to be?”

Dras Weldon stared down at his costume—a mismatched ensemble consisting of a cheap cloak, some too-large workman’s gloves, a moth-eaten fedora perched atop his perpetually disheveled sandy blonde mop top, and a pair of very strange copper and leather goggles—and regarded his auburn-haired friend with sharp eyes. “Um…hello? The Weird Avenger?”

“Weird’s right.”

“It’s steampunk,” Dras defended.

“Mhm,” Rosalyn Myers agreed, chuckling at Dras’ expense, as she closed and locked her apartment door behind her. “Don’t you think you’re a little old for trick-or-treating?”

Dras huffed as the two twenty-somethings walked down the apartment building corridor, then downstairs and into the twilight street below. Rosalyn’s question was an all-too-familiar one, and Dras’ answer remained the same. “No,” he said flatly, a bit offended. “You’re never too old to enjoy Halloween.”

Rosalyn grinned absently, stopping on the sidewalk to unlock her car. She hopped into the driver’s seat, and Dras took his rightful place at her side, though had a spot of trouble gathering his costumed self into a bundled heap before he closed the door. His efforts proved unsuccessful, and a corner of his cloak got caught in the door and flapped in the October breeze when Rosalyn pulled away from the curb.

Inside the car, Dras bounced with childlike excitement, admiring the pumpkins and harvest time decorations that populated Greensboro. Cartoonish ghouls and black cats smiled back at him from crudely painted murals on storefront windows.

“Man! Look at that one!” Dras nearly bashed his face into the window when he spotted a colorful werewolf cutout standing behind the drugstore glass. “Coulda used more gore, though.”

Rosalyn sighed wistfully, allowing her best friend his fun, though she really wished that he’d abandon such adolescent pursuits. Halloween was fun—in small doses—but Dras would, no doubt, outdo it by dragging her to a number of costume parties, as well as the obligatory trip to Corner Video Store where he would rent Invasion of the Pod People, again. In vain she began to think of excuses to wiggle out of watching the silly sci-fi movie with him for the umpteenth time, but resigned herself to play along. She felt she owed it to Dras.

After all, this was their last Halloween together.

He didn’t know that, of course. He also didn’t know that she was beginning to fill out college applications with the hopes of finally leaving Greensboro behind and going to school somewhere across the country. A particularly picturesque campus in Vermont called to her these days, and the excitement of broadening her horizons—seeing what the world had to offer her—filled her with a sense of hope she had not felt in a long time.

But what would she tell Dras? When would she tell him?

And perhaps the scarier question: Could she really leave Greensboro and all its ghosts? Would the past really let her go?

Gazing out into the passing night, watching the carefree children in garish costumes that dotted the small town horizon, Rosalyn felt a tinge of sadness pinch her heart. The same sadness she always felt at Halloween time.

Then, as if Fate had conspired to twist the dagger of painful memories just a bit deeper, she saw a Chevette. The Chevette.

The last time she’d seen that 1983 sky blue Chevette…

It’s not the same car, is it?

“Rosalyn?”

Rosalyn gripped the steering wheel tighter, her dark eyed-gaze fixed to her left where the dingy ’83 Chevette sat parked at the used car lot, staring back at her.

Is that the same car?

“Yello? Not ready to die yet.”

A car honk slapped Rosalyn’s senses and she jerked the wheel, pulling the nose of her vehicle back into the proper lane. Dras sat erect in the passenger seat, looking a bit frazzled. “Keep it between the mayonnaise and the mustard, will ya?” When his sarcasm failed to elicit a response, Dras turned to Rosalyn, seeing her pale and stiff. “Hey, it wasn’t that close of a call. I’ve had worse.”

Rosalyn didn’t respond. Now he grew concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

“I thought I just saw my dad’s old car.”

#

Halloween. Back then.

Eight-year-old Rosalyn Myers and her best friend Dras Weldon—just her age, to the day—sat in the backseat of her dad’s 1983 sky blue Chevette, peering out at the decorated spectacle that was Greensboro’s Main Street. Everywhere they looked pint-sized goblins and machete-wielding maniacs, werewolves and ghouls met their wide, wonder-filled eyes. As the Chevette slowly crept by, Jack O’Lanterns smiled at them, beckoning the two friends closer to dimly lit porches and a trick or a treat beyond every front door.

As per the rules whenever they went trick-or-treating, Dras and Rosalyn were only allowed to haunt well-traveled, inviting neighborhoods. The Chevette pulled to the curb, the back doors popped open, and Dras and Rosalyn went shrieking out into the night, their cries of unbridled mirth mixing with the din of other excited trick-or-treaters. Rosalyn dressed as a witch that year, all black gown and pointy hat and a fake, warty green nose strapped to her face. Her mother had protested, of course.

Meredith Myers, a girlie girl if ever there was one, pleaded with her daughter to dress as something more ladylike and becoming—like a ballerina, princess, fairy, or cheerleader. Whether she was following her own tastes or doing her best to exasperate her mother, Rosalyn stuck to the witch’s costume all the same and loved every second of it.

“Hey!” her dad called warmly from the Chevette, pointing to something in the front seat beside him. “You forgot your broom!”

Rosalyn skidded to a stop, still clutching her plastic pumpkin basket, and looked back at her father, his ponytail lightly waving in the breeze, and a somewhat goofy smile lighting up his stubbly face. He looked almost as excited as the trick-or-treaters who passed to and fro between them on the sidewalk. Rosalyn hurried back to the car, popped the door open, and grabbed the broom she’d confiscated from her mother.

“Thanks, Dad,” she muttered, slightly embarrassed, but thankful for his good-natured assist.

Her dad winked, “Bring me back some Sugar Babies or something. I’m starving out here.” Rosalyn grinned and rushed back to Dras’ side.

Dras, meanwhile, watched the witch approach with shades of disappointment, and Rosalyn felt momentarily guilty for having such a great costume. That year for Halloween—as every year—Dras was going as an unassuming little boy whose parents wouldn’t buy him a costume. Dras’ father, Jack Weldon, was the most respected pastor in their small town of Greensboro, and there were those in his congregation who avoided Halloween altogether. Jack didn’t mind a little Halloween fun, but Dras’ mother refused to allow her son, who came from “a good Christian household”, to go out parading on “the Devil’s holiday”. So the Weldons compromised, with Jack adopting a strict “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy where Dras’ October 31st endeavors were concerned. Dras was allowed to go out on Halloween, but his mother was not going to buy him a costume or even a decorated bag to catch chocolate treats.

Thankfully, Rosalyn’s dad had procured for Dras a ghost bucket of his very own, for which the little boy was most grateful.

“Ready?” Rosalyn asked, catching up to Dras, their baskets already heavy with candy goodness.

“I get to knock this time,” Dras declared.

Rosalyn rolled her eyes. “You knocked at the last house.”

“Did not!”

A sigh escaped Rosalyn, mature beyond her years. “You’re such a child.”

Dry autumn leaves swirled around their feet as the two friends scurried up porches, joining the ranks of their enthusiastic kin. Dras raced to the nearest two-story house and pounded hard, grinning ear to ear.

A short, heavily-made up platinum blonde woman answered, dressed professionally, as though she’d just come home from the office. “Well, hi there, Dras.”

“Hey, Miss Lidell!” Dras beamed, holding out the ghost bucket. “Trick or treat!”

Miss Lidell, despite the dull, tired shine in her eyes happily obliged, dumping a lion’s share of goodies into Dras’ bucket. Rosalyn immediately stepped in line to receive hers, and could not help but spot the pack of Sugar Babies lying in the heap of Miss Lidell’s Halloween stash. When Miss Lidell instead handed her a couple pieces of taffy, Rosalyn blurted out, “Oh! Can I have one of those, too?”

Rosalyn glanced toward the street, where her father smiled back through the rolled-down window of the Chevette.

“It’s for my dad.”

#

The ’83 Chevette remained in Rosalyn’s mind for the rest of the night. An ever-present intruder, it continued to stare at her from the used car lot in her mind no matter where Dras led her on his latest Halloween extravaganza.

She was only half-conscious of the here-and-now when Dras banged on a familiar door. A tired woman, now older, but still pleasant, emerged, expecting knee-high visitors.

“Hey, Miss Lidell!” Dras beamed, holding up a large sack, just begging to be filled by delicious sweets. “Trick or treat!”

Miss Lidell’s brows met in quizzical conference. “Dras, aren’t you a little old—” she hesitated and shouted over his shoulder to the plainclothes beauty on the sidewalk behind him. “Isn’t he a little old for trick-or-treating?”

Rosalyn shrugged indifferently, still thinking about the Chevette. In a moment Dras joined her at the yard’s edge, somewhat deflated. Rosalyn walked on pensively, Dras in tow, until his grumpiness finally demanded her attention.

“What’d she give you?”

Dras automatically reached into his bag, grabbed the offensive material, and held it before her, presenting his case. “Dental floss.”

Rosalyn perked up. “Ooh.”

Dras halted. “Ooh? Here we are, on Halloween night—the night when anything is possible—surrounded by magic and the very spirit of innocence! But it’s the dental floss that gets you excited?” The young man paused, letting the sad irony set in, then walked on, grumbling, “You’re sick. A sick heathen.”

Rosalyn did not titter or snicker or any of things she usually did when Dras made insane declarations. Instead, she remained broody and silent as they ventured the rest of the way to the video store.

Once inside, Dras yipped with joy, holding high the worn VHS copy of Invasion of the Pod People like King Arthur retrieving Excalibur. “Yes!!” Irritated patrons cut eyes his way, but Dras carried on obliviously, jogging up to where Rosalyn stood by the front window, nervously chewing her lip.

“Hey! I got it! No one checked it out yet!”

“Dras,” she began, barely audible, her mind distracted, “Look.”

Dras looked out the window, scanning the busy night. “Um…what?”

It sat parked across the street, in the grocery store’s parking lot. Facing her.

“That’s my dad’s Chevette.”

Dras lifted his steampunk goggles and squinted against the darkness. “Where?”

“I saw it earlier. Now it’s over there.” She inhaled slowly, cold air burning her lungs, as she spotted a dark shape sitting behind the wheel. Watching her. “I think it’s following me.”

READ PART TWO

Copyright 2009 Greg Mitchell