Friday, September 30, 2011

The Shell

When I was five years old my family went to the beach. I’d never been before, or at least, if I had I didn’t remember. My mother told me if I put a seashell up to my ear I could hear the ocean inside.

I put the shell up and something crawled out of it, and inside my head.

No one believed me, but I knew it was there. I could feel it scurrying around the top of my brain. And I could hear it when it told me to do things.

Like the time our house caught fire—the thing from the shell told me to do that. No one ever found out.

Or when I pushed my little sister down the steps—it was because the thing from the shell said I had to. Everyone thought she just tripped—even she thought that. But I knew the truth, and so did the thing from the shell.

I suppose I could’ve stopped for a minute and questioned the thing from the shell---asked it why I had to do all these things. Or even refuse do to them. But you have to understand—this thing was inside my brain. It could hear my thoughts. It never everything I was going to do before I did it. So really, when you think about it, I didn’t have a choice.

So you can’t really get mad at me for that one summer when all the pets on our block disappeared—even though I knew exactly what happened to them.

And that time when my family moved, and I had to start a new school in the eighth grade, and that bully tried to push me, and I stabbed him right through his hand with a pencil. Believe me, I DIDN’T really want to do that! Even though that kid was a total jerk. But the thing from the shell—it told me exactly where to stick that pencil point.

When my parents started crying, because the therapist said that I might have some sort of “personality disorder”, I felt really rotten. I don’t like making people cry—I swear. I wanted to stand up and say I was sorry, and say that it wasn’t me doing this stuff on my own—I was being controlled, like a puppet. The thing from the shell nixed that idea, though. I remained quiet, my hands folded on my lap, while my mother sobbed and the doctor told her I would need serious therapy .  

While I’m on this subject, I’d just like to put down on paper how sorry I am for that time, during my freshman year in high school, when I got sent to that hospital, and I stole that one patients meds, and she got really, really sick and almost died. I felt like a real jerk about that, but the thing from the shell was pretty sure it was hilarious.

Also, I’d like to point out to my doctors that when you finally let me out of that hospital, and proclaimed I had made great improvements and was ready to enter society—well, you guys really are kind of dumb. That wasn’t true at all, but the thing from the shell, it knew exactly what buttons to push, and you fell for it.

Once I got out, I was only seventeen and I really wanted to go back to school so I could graduate, but the thing from the shell thought that was a terrible idea. Instead, it wanted me to steal that car from that nice woman and crash it right into the church. What the heck do I have against a church. I never even went to that church! So you can tell, it really wasn’t my idea.

And Mom, Dad—believe me when I say I really wanted to go home, and get help. I did. I even tried, and made it as far as our street, but the thing from the shell turned me right around, and made me hitch-hike two counties over, and made me get that miserable job washing dishes at the diner, and made me rent that really crumby room above the gun shop.

So, I know you might be hearing a lot about all these girls that are disappearing. A lot of them are customers who come into the diner where I wash the dishes. So right away, you probably want to point the finger at me. But I hope this makes you understand that really, it’s not my fault.

I have to go now. The thing from the shell says it’s time to have some fun.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Talking with the Dead

“A few simple instructions are all that is necessary, and I shall be pleased to give these, free of charge, to any one.”

--Aleister Crowley on the Ouija Board

  • Former Italian Prime Minister Romano Prodi claimed under oath that, in a séance held in 1978 with other professors at the University of Bologna, the "ghost" of Giorgio La Pira spelled the name of the street where Aldo Moro was being held by the Red Brigades in a Ouija. According to Peter Popham of The Independent: "Everybody here has long believed that Prodi's ouija board tale was no more than an ill-advised and bizarre way to conceal the identity of his true source, probably a person from Bologna's seething far-left underground whom he was pledged to protect."

  • In London in 1994, convicted murderer Stephen Young was granted a retrial after it was learned that four of the jurors had conducted a Ouija board séance and had "contacted" the murdered man, who had named Young as his killer. Young was convicted for a second time at his retrial and jailed for life.

  • Bill Wilson, the co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, used a Ouija board and conducted seances in attempts to contact the dead.

  • The poems written by Patience Worth, an alleged spirit, contacted by Pearl Lenore Curran, for more than 20 years, were transcripted via a ouija board.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

A Dark Day is Going to Come

On the night of his death, the farmer’s children painted the barn black by the light of the harvest moon.

By dawn the paint cans were empty, the bristles of the wide brushes ruined, caked together.

They’d torn up all the crops and set all the livestock free. The wooden fence-posts that surrounded the property were set ablaze. The fire would not stop. Even when a storm blew in from nowhere, it still burned.

Strange monuments made from spare tractor parts were erected all around the house. People came from miles to fall on their knees in front of them and babble.

Summer’s end, a flood washed half the town away. But the black barn still stood.

And it seemed to be growing.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Soldier's Wife

Who are you, calling to me from across these deafening waves.
I stand on the shores with fist-fulls of sand
at my sides
watching you wade out into the empty sea.

Your blue dress floats around your hips
like a jelly-fish.
Your head down, your hair in your eyes,
the terrible sun sinking into the horizon.

What am I,
if I am not the man
who has an unhealthy obsession
with the kind of creature you are.

I swear to the horrible, blood-thirsty gods
I meant every word I didn’t say.
You will never know what
madness goes in within my head.
It’s thick, and palpable,
overwhelming and hot to the touch.

If you never come back to land,
if you remain amongst the foaming waves,
I will burn every single scrap of paper
that identifies I ever walked
this cursed earth.

“What am I?” asked the voice.
“If I am not something distant?”

Monday, September 26, 2011

Review: Evil Things

Like it or not, the Found Footage aka "Mockumentary" horror sub-genre is here to stay.

I don't have a problem with this, but sometimes the results are less than perfect. The problem with found footage movies is that pretty much anyone with a camera can make them -- you don't need stars, you don't need fancy special effects; you just need a creepy setting and a well-charged battery pack.

The best of these types of movies -- in my opinion, at least -- are the indie ones, simply because it's very distracting to see a "real" actor in these movies. We need to believe these are real people--not someone we've seen in movies or on TV.

Which brings us to Evil Things.

Are you freaked yet???

Just how EVIL are these THINGS?? (OMG.....sorry).

Evil Things is about five college friends -- Miriam, Cassy, Mark, Tanya and Leo (who is a film student who is going to film the whole trip, of course) -- decided to get away for the weekend to celebrate Miriam's 21st birthday.

So they flee big bad New York City for the snowy countryside, and right away Evil Things is off to a good start, mood-wise. The cold, wet, snowy atmosphere goes a long way to setting up a truly isolated feeling.

Along their journey, the friends encounter a mysterious van. They can't see the driver, but one thing is for sure: he's a dickhead and he has very poor driving skills, which must mean he's from New Jersey.

They seemingly leave the Van Man (he doesn't have a name, so I'll call him that) behind – but, at each pit-stop they make, the van seems to turn up.

After they finally get to the house and settle in, we get to spend time with the characters, and this is one of Evil Things ' strong points. The actors never feel like they're acting; they all come across as real, average college students and --gosh darn it-- they're all pretty likable. It would have been very easy to have the characters fall into archetypal stereotypes -- the Slutty Girl! the Asshole Guy! The Stoner! -- but the film avoids that. They're just people. There's a nice little moment where the friends throw Miriam a surprise birthday party, with a cake and those annoying candles that you have to keep blowing out over and over again. This scene could've been pure cheese, but the way the actors carry themselves is believable and even a little sweet.

Looks like someone had too much pie...

The following day, the gang decides to go on a hike, which turns out to be a big mistake because they get lost for hours. This whole sequence seems a bit out of place, as it doesn't really lead to anything. It's just the characters wandering around the woods, getting freaked out and yelling.

And then they simply find the house and are fine.

However, their trouble is really just beginningwhen they receive a mysterious videotape (remember those things???) on their front step, which they proceed to watch.  They discover that Van Man has a camera of his own, and he's been filming them THE ENTIRE TIMECUE SCARE MUSIC.

So far, so good. In fact, really good. The tension really begins to builds, and the terror begins to mount, and then---

Well, I don't want to spoil things but the truth is there really isn't much to spoil. And that is the biggest weakness of the film.

Things just sort of fizzle out. There's no real payoff. I'm not saying I needed a big solution spelled out for me, but it would've been nice if there had just been....well, something. 

Evil Things is not without its charms. A big plus is the fact that unlike many other found footage movies, Leo--the character filming the friends--is using a steady-cam rig, so the camera doesn't shake and bounce around and make everyone want to throw up into their hats.

When the film works, it really works. But you can't help having the feeling that as they got closer and closer to the end, the filmmakers just sort of said, "Eh, let's just end the movie now."

Still, if you go into the film not expecting a big pay-off, you most likely won’t be disappointed. The creepy atmosphere and realistic characters might be enough to float your boat.

I liked Evil Things--but if the filmmakers had just gone a little bit further, I might have ended up loving it.

Afterthought: I have no idea why they called the movie Evil Things, because the title doesn't fit...

Sunday, September 25, 2011

longing for cold weather....

Autumn has begun, but you sure wouldn't know it around here, with all the humidity. Here's hoping REAL Fall weather kicks in soon....very soon...

image source

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Soundtrack Saturday: Hand Covers Bruise

Every Saturday I'll be posting a selection from a movie soundtrack.

Today's track is Hand Covers Bruise, from the fantastic soundtrack for The Social Network,  by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. Can't wait for their soundtrack for The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Click the ghost:

Friday, September 23, 2011


Andrew Wyeth is one of my favorite artists.

There's just something creepy about some of his paintings, as if they depict rooms and landscapes where horrible murders once took place and stained the earth red.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

How to Hunt Ghosts

The following are excerpts taken from How to Hunt Ghosts by Dr. Samuel Sneed, DDS

So you've decided to hunt ghosts. Good for you--the world needs more go-getters like yourself. 

This won't be an easy task. You'll be faced with many challenges, so I hope you are prepared. Ghost hunting is not for quitters.

Are you the type of person who feels tired carrying the laundry basket up the steps--when it's empty? If so, get out. Put down my expensive ghost hunting equipment and leave my creepy bookstore. That's right, you heard me. Don't touch my EMF detector or that thing that beeps (I don't even know what the hell it's for, it just looks good)--you're outta here.

Glad that guy is gone. Now we can continue.

To begin hunting ghosts, you will need the proper equipment:

1. A puffy jacket (ghosts like cold places) and/or cape (cloak).
2. Really expensive detection devices, that you can buy from me in bulk.
3. A video camera with night-vision on it.
4. A bag of trail mix (preferably the kind with peanuts and/or M&M's or peanut M&M's)

* * * *

Ghosts have been around for about a hundred years. No one knows who the first ghost was, but we do know that it was probably someone white, in their late 50's, possibly with hair.

Skeptics everywhere abound with clucking tongues and wagging fingers; they scoff at the notion of ghosts. Well, if ghosts aren't real, then how do you explain THIS?:

* * * *

One time, a ghost insulted my wife.

* * * *

You are now ready to begin hunting ghosts. 

I hope you are prepared to enter the world of the supernatural, my friend! And I hope you survive!

If not, someone might just end up hunting YOU!! 

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

A Brief History of Current Events

We must never forget that we came from the sea.
Boy & girl stroll hand-n-hand down the pier,
a thief comes in the middle of the night and robs the rectory.
Matilda paints portraits for pennies, dreams of pirate ships,
her mother’s brain is being slowly stolen.
She claims that the phone keeps ringing, when she picks it up there’s no one there.
I am becoming increasingly paranoid.
A man in a long coat and dark hat followed me for twenty blocks yesterday.
I lost him in the cemetery where they buried
the poet who hung herself when her lover left her for a word processor.
Matilda calls me late at night, sobbing,
she has run out of watercolors.
I suggest she try oils or pastels,
she slams the phone down in disgust.
The children in the schoolyard on Coral Ave.
all swear they saw something moving in the woods across the street.
Their screams could be heard twenty blocks away.
Matilda and I go to the beach, lift shells to our ears, wait for an answer.
A bonfire burns behind us, someone strums a guitar badly,
we’re all out of Whisky and beer and money.
We must never forget that we came from the sea.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Last Born


If I wake before dawn, and I feel that the air is colder than usual, I know it is because the lighter half o’ the year is coming to an end. And if I wake before dawn, and smell a crispness that was not there before, I know it is because that which was alive is slowly dying, and that at least one soul I know will not see as many more moons as I. Who shall it be? My husband? One of our twelve children? I can hear the baby begin to wail, and an aching feeling in my heart pleads with me to stay in bed; to bury my head beneath the pelts. But I will rise. I will give the infant my breast. I will go out into the cold morning and make my water and wash my torso in the icy river stream that flows by the tallest pine. And I will whisper to the shadows that crawl across the forest floor as the dull sun climbs: If I should never feel you again, let my blood turn to putrid, stagnant water--and let my bones turn to dirt. If I wake before dawn, and I hear your sweet, sad singing in my ear, I know it is because the darker half o’ the year is upon us. I invite you into my skin. I beckon you into my breath. I lust for your carrion-flavored flesh. I strip off my layers and lay down in the tall grass. I feel tiny insects against my bare, freckled body. I take your shadow into my mouth, and oh, my cup runneth over. Never let me wake from this. Never release me.

Never let me know what it is to be pure.


Mr. Leeds died during the second week of October. The night before his end, there was a
frost covering everything, and several of the children were sobbing about how they could feel ice in their bones.

Mrs. Leeds had soothed them with a song she could not remember the origins of. She stroked their hair, and touched their cold cheeks, and told them to be still.

Mr. Leeds was complaining of an ache in his left arm--likely brought on from cutting wood for the fire, he mumbled.

Mrs. Leeds was quiet. She sat on the small stool by the fire, and listened to the flames flicker and pop. She sat there for hours, until Mr. Leeds bade her come to bed. She complied, and lay on the hard bed, listening to the heavy breathing of her twelve sleeping children.

Mr. Leeds had made a weak attempt to put himself inside her, but she had offered him no help in the matter, and he had fallen asleep--unsatisfied.

And in the morning, his body was ice cold.

His brother, a tall oak of a man, had arrived soon after he heard the news. He dug the grave himself, which was no easy feat; the ground was frozen solid. Mrs. Leeds had watched him from the porch of the house--his broad shoulders hunching, and his muscles rippling, his breath escaping from his gaping mouth in puffs of white. Inside, the children wept. The baby screamed. Mrs. Leeds did not leave the porch.


I am told that the night I was born, the sky caught fire. Mamaí was sick with fever, and Dadaí was laid up on account of the drink. The doctor told Mamaí that I was being good and stubborn and refusing to turn. He might need to use his blade on her belly, he said.

And then the sky caught fire.

A neighbor came running in, screaming. His face was red, and his eyes were wet, and he
wouldn’t stop babbling about the lights he saw in the sky. Dadaí had come round and threatened to wallop him, but he followed the man outside, and he saw with his own two eyes that there were brilliant, fiery lights racing across the night. Prettiest and scariest thing he ever saw, he said.

He was a cruel man. He had heavy hands, with coarse red hairs across the knuckles. When I was in my tenth year, he bade me sit on his lap. He whispered a melody in my ear and slid those heavy hands up the hem of my dress. All this while Mamaí was watching. She never said nothing. She was a good woman, but she had a dead heart.

Dadaí died on the night of my thirteenth year. He choked on his dinner, those heavy hands of his grasping at his throat as if he were strangling himself. His face turned the color of the summer sky at sunset, and his eyes got as big as saucers. He was making this awful, gurgling sound.

And I couldn’t stop laughing.


Two days after Mr. Leeds had been planted in the earth, rumors began circulating through town that Mrs. Leeds was pregnant.

It seemed impossible, especially since she had just given birth to her twelfth child no more than a month ago. And yet, children playing near the river by the Leeds’ home had sworn they saw Mrs. Leeds, with her belly big and swollen, out on the porch, beating dust from a rug. Her belly was so big and swollen, in fact, that the waist of her dress could not cover it, and her pale round flesh was exposed.

Children lie, of course. Everyone knows that. But the rumors persisted and grew. Who knew just what the Leeds family had been up to, hidden away out there in the Pines?

Mr. Leeds’ brother had left town to go back to the house to see just what was going on. He never returned home. The last anyone saw of him, he was sitting on a tree stump, holding a large black stone in his hands. He fingered the stone with a blank expression on his face. And then he began to weep. After that, no one had any sight of him again.

Dr. Lanchester ventured by horse to the Leeds home and found Mrs. Leeds standing knee-deep in the river. She was completely nude, and as the doctor rode into her line of sight, he found she was staring right at him--as if she had been waiting for him to come all this time.

In Mrs. Leeds’ exposed state, the doctor could see she did indeed appear to be pregnant—very pregnant. In fact, if the doctor had been pressed about the matter in an inquest, he would have to state that Mrs. Leeds appeared to be ready to go into labor at any moment.

Mrs. Leeds cradled her bulbous belly and looked up at the doctor, making no attempt to shield her nakedness.

“Doctor,” she whispered.

“Mrs. Leeds, are you...with child?” Dr. Lanchester asked. The words felt foolish in his mouth--a blind man could tell this woman was pregnant. Yet he could think of nothing else to say. He climbed down off his horse and waited by the edge of the water

Mrs. Leeds stepped from the river, water dripping off her legs. She came mere inches from the doctor. “You are the physician,” she said. “You must tell me...” And with that, she took his hand in hers and placed it on her belly.

She was ice cold to the touch, and Dr. Lanchester had to stifle himself from uttering a shocked cry. And then he felt the movement in Mrs. Leeds’ belly. He had examined dozens upon dozens of pregnant women in his fifteen years of practicing medicine, but he had never felt movement like this within a pregnant woman’s stomach. It was a slithering, unnatural movement. It made him sick to his stomach, and he was quite sure he could feel vomit rising in the back of his throat.

Dr. Lanchester pulled his hand away with a jolt. A coy smile came on Mrs. Leeds’ face, and, for the first time, the doctor noticed how utterly black her eyes were.

“I’ll...I’ll send for a midwife...” the doctor muttered, awkwardly climbing back onto his horse. He rode back to town at lightning speed. That night, the hand that had touched

Mrs. Leeds’ belly began to wither. It clenched itself into a claw-like shape that the doctor could not break out of. He would be dead before Christmas.


I was 16 years old when I first felt you. I was playing with my sister in the Barrens, and it was as crisp and clean a morning as anyone could pray for. My sister and I were hiding from each other behind trees, and giving our positions away by giggling like bandits. And then, for no reason at all, I ran from her. She was younger than I--much younger--and our mother had told me to watch over her. But I was running now. My feet were bare and the sandy earth was soft and cool to my skin. I was not trying to be cruel. I was laughing and signing, beckoning my sister to follow me. My red hair was flying out behind my head like ribbon, and I felt such a strong feeling in my chest that I was sure my heart was about to break out of my skin. And my sister did not follow.

I ran until I came to a clearing, and fell down onto my back, exploding with laughter. And just as suddenly, I began to sob. Hot tears streaming down my cheeks, and my chest heaving, and awful sounds escaping from my lips. I could not stop, and a part of me did not want to stop. A part of me wanted to cry all the fluid from my body.

You came to me then. You smelled of fresh cut apples and burning leaves. You whispered to me--at least I think you did. You did not have a real voice; indeed, you did not even have a mouth--or a face. But I saw you as I see you now, and I heard you as I hear you still.

“Why do you cry, child?” came your honeysuckle voice. It was the time of dying, and I knew that insects were not abundant at this time of year, and yet bees began to buzz around me. A few at first, and then a dozen, and then hundreds. And they were joined by flies alighting from rock to rock, and spiders crawling across my skin. I was terrified of spiders before that day, but as I felt their hairy legs tenderly touch my legs, I did not shudder. “Why do you cry? Are you sad?”

“No,” I sobbed. “I cry because I am happy...”

“And why are you happy?”

The words came to my mouth before I had even thought of them. “Because I was lost...and you have found me.”


The midwife arrived in the late hours of October 30th. An icy wind was blowing through the pines, and the children huddled against each other by the fire. The midwife saw fear in their eyes, and though she was affable with them, they would not speak a word. She asked the oldest boy to fetch her water, and he did so silently. He returned with the bucket shaking in his hands.

Mrs. Leeds lay on the bed, lit by several flickering lanterns. Her red hair framed her thin, pale face. She did not look in pain. Indeed, she did not look as if she were feeling anything at all. Her oval stomach was exposed, and the midwife thought--just briefly, mind you--that she saw the flesh on the stomach ripple and expand; but she chalked this up to the flickering lantern light.

As Mrs. Leeds went deeper into labor, the wind picked up, howling like a pack of wolves, pounding against the house and rattled the wood. The children began to whimper. The flames in the lanterns began to go out, one by one.

Mrs. Leeds began to scream now. Loud, ear-splitting screams. Sweat poured down her brow in sheets.

“Almost there...” the midwife called over the screams. “Almost through...breathe hard, ma’am. Breathe hard and push...”

Mrs. Leeds screamed louder now, and the last lantern blew out. The only light in the house came from the full moon through the windows and the dying fire in the fireplace.

From between Mrs. Leeds’ wide, exposed legs, the baby began to emerge.

And now Mrs. Leeds was not the only voice screaming within the four walls of the house. The midwife began to cry out, holding the back of her hand up to her mouth. The children, huddled and watching from a corner, began to wail.

The midwife made no attempt to cradle the baby, and it dropped to the floor, slick with blood and shrieking. Even in the dull light, the midwife could make out its hideous features--the eyes the shape of knife wounds, the nose nonexistent, the mouth an impossible shape lined with jagged, black-colored bits of what could either be bone or teeth. And the hands--oh, our Lord have mercy, the midwife thought--the hands.

Gnarled, malformed and lacking in any semblance of real fingers.

“I want to see him...,” Mrs. Leeds moaned. “Let me see my baby...”

The midwife wrapped the flailing, bloody thing in rags and began to move towards the door.

“No!” Mrs. Leeds screamed. “Bring him to me!” She tore open her shirt and exposed her left breast. “Bring him here so that he may feed!”

The midwife did not stop. She ran from the house. The thing squirmed in her hands; the very movement of it caused her to stop and heave up vomit onto her own shoes. Then she was moving again. The river lay ahead, the moonlight rippling off the wind-blown surface. Never pausing for a moment, she tossed the wailing creature into the black water. It sank into the darkness.

On shaking legs, the midwife returned to the house. She saw as she pushed open the door the twelve children. They lay strewn about floor, split open from groin to neck, their innards scattered and steaming.

The midwife’s brain had trouble processing this information. She had only been gone for seconds--how had this happened? More than that--what had happened?

“Mrs. Leeds!” the midwife called out.

Mrs. Leeds appeared in the doorway to her bedroom. She was completely nude, sticky with sweat and blood. She held a sickle in her hand, and a secret in her eyes.

The midwife became aware then: something else was in the house; something that made the very air thick. Something that made the small hairs on the back of her neck prick up. She knew it was behind her--she could feel its mass. Then, she felt it touch her shoulder. And she tasted her own blood in her mouth.


If I wake before dawn, and it is the 31st of October, and I feel the blood of my twelve children on my lips, I know it is because the lighter half o’ the year is coming to an end. I will go down to the river, and let the cold water come up to my distorted belly. I will wait for our son to come back to me. And if I wake before dawn, and smell the fires burning in the North, and hear the ravens singing your praises in the trees, and feel our son crawling from the muddy river bottom, up into my flesh, I know it is because the darker half o’ the year is upon us.

Monday, September 19, 2011


Elegy for John Wayne

He made a vehicle from bones
and bottles
in the desert
and drove it straight into the heart
of the city.
Made love to a barbed wire fence
and dripped blood from his teeth.
Killed a woman for breathing too loud
kissed a man for pulling
a thorn out of his throat.
He had never seen the ocean,
he was afraid something so big
would swallow him whole.
His pistols shot fireworks into the night
and children cheered
and the news made it their lead story
and someone lost an eye.
He died in the saddle,
was buried with his boots on,
and rose from the dead on New Years Eve.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Return to form (Maybe)

I haven't updated this thing since June. Time to get back to this.

My story "Last Meal", which is on the blog here, has been "acquired" by literary journal Barbaric Yawp and will appear in their November issue.

This is very exciting to me, because while I've been published before, it was mostly online publishing (and something published in a really crappy zombie anthology book that I'm not really proud of...), so this is my first "real" print publishing.

In the months since I've last posted I have become addicted to coffee, switched to new antidepressant medication that seems to be working better (fingers crossed), and struggled constantly to get my weight under control for my wedding--which is like, 40 days away (!). Also, my good friend Joe Tonzelli & I have written three young-adult horror novels that we are currently editing and planning on getting published (hopefully for one hundred billion dollars).

That's all for now, DUDES.