An Open Letter to Dan Aykroyd

Dear Dan Aykroyd,

How are you? Are you ready for Christmas? Boy, I'm sure not! It's funny how the holidays sneak up on us, isn't it?

Anyway, please give up on trying to make GHOSTBUSTERS 3.

You seem like a pretty nice guy. I really enjoy that special you did on UFO's. I watch it on Netflix Instant when I'm bored. Not that I think it's well made--it isn't, it looks like crap (not your fault); and not that I believe in any of the stuff in it (I certainly think it's possible there is other life in the galaxy, but I doubt the existence of UFO's).

ALMOST as good as Nirvana: Unplugged

The reason I enjoy the UFO special so much is that you seem like a real interesting, intelligent guy. Your ideas may be a little kooky, but you have real conviction about them, and seem pretty knowledgeable. You also look really cool smoking cigarettes, which you do throughout the special.

I've never tried your Crystal Skull vodka, because it costs like 99 dollars and I don't have that kind of cash to spend on booze, but I really like the skull-bottle it comes in, and hope to someday own one and fill it with M&M's or jellybeans or something.

Indiana Jones and the Pricey Booze

Over the last decade or so, there's been much talk about a GHOSTBUSTERS 3, mostly from you. You've been saying for years you have a really good idea for one, and you're really excited to do it. And while the rest of the 'Busters seem game, Bill Murray is constantly the thorn in your side, saying "NO THANKS" repeatedly, occasionally changing his mind to say yes, then going right back to saying NO again. 

You've gone on record several times saying that you'd actually go right ahead and make GHOSTBUSTERS 3 without Bill Murray. This is a terrible, terrible idea. Part of what makes the Ghostbusters films successful is the dynamic of all of you guys, but let's be honest here, the real star of those films is Bill Murray. No offense to, say, Ernie Hudson, but if they announced a GHOSTBUSTERS 3 with Bill Murray but without Ernie Hudson, I don't think anyone would really give a shit. Dr. Peter Venkman is one of the all-time great film characters. He's a charming smart-ass that audiences love to watch. He can do truly mean things (like in part 1, where he frequently shocks that poor grad student) and still be likable. In short, he's the best thing about the movies.

Now, I've heard that Bill Murray can be a real pain in the ass. However, I don't think he keeps turning you down to be mean; rather, I think he keeps turning you down because GHOSTBUSTERS 3 is a terrible fucking idea.

Is it possible to make a good GHOSTBUSTERS 3? Sure, anything is possible. But it really feels like that ship has sailed. While it would be funny at first to see you guys all fat and old running around busting ghosts, you kind of already did that gag in Part 2.

Also, let's get into some of the potential plot lines that have been mentioned over the years. Bill Murray said several times that he would only come back if his character got to be a ghost--meaning, Peter Venkman has to die. You said you'd be fine with that. What are you, CRAZY??? Peter Venkman dying in a Ghostbusters film would be devastating  I don't care how tastefully or comically it would be handled. No one wants to see Bill Murray as a crappy CGI ghost, unless it's in a remake of GHOST DAD, with Bill Murray as the Ghost Dad.

Another potential plot point that's been tossed around is that the film would be about the old Ghostbusters training new, young Ghostbusters to take over. Ugh. No. I can just see it now, actors like Jonah Hill and Seth Rogen and, I dunno, Paul Rudd maybe, up there on the screen, learning the ropes. Nothing against those actors (who DOESN'T love Paul Rudd??), but this is stupid. People like Ghostbusters BECAUSE of the Ghostbusters--the original guys.

You know, THESE GUYS

We don't want to see new guys taking over; that's like when fat, bloated, plastic surgery scarred Axl Rose goes on stage with a bunch of random dudes and claims to be Guns-N-Roses; or when Billy Corgan gets a whole new band and still calls them The Smashing Pumpkins. It's not the same. People don't want that. They want what they grew up loving, not a facsimile.

Recently you talked about not only making a part three, but a part 4 & 5 as well. Holy SHIT, stop it! Put down that expensive crystal skull filled with vodka and realize that it's time to throw in the towel. If you really think you have a good enough script for GHOSTBUSTERS 3, take it to Dark Horse comics or something and get them to adapt it into a graphic novel. That way, the artist can draw you guys all a little younger and thinner, and you can probably get Bill Murray to sign off on his likeness a little easier than his actual performance.

I wish you only the best, Mr. Aykroyd. I hope you have a really nice Christmas and New Years. And I hope to god your New Year's resolution for 2013 is to never, ever bring up GHOSTBUSTERS 3 again.

Sincerely,
Chris Evangelista

art by Brandon Bird

My Brain Hurts: Dealing with Living Dead Press

In the last few months the internet has been exploding with stories about how Anthiny "Tony" Giangregori, "editor" and owner of Living Dead Press, is pretty much the most unprofessional small press owner in the history of planet earth.

Mandy DeGeit has an awesome piece about how Tony totally butchered her story, and then reacted like a complete tool when she questioned him about it. The post got so much attention that even super writer Neil Gaiman chimed in.

Since I feel it's important that writers stand up to Tony--who is a flat-out bully who threatens to beat people up if they talk bad about him--I figured it was time I share my own dealings with Living Dead Press.

A few years back, I had yet to be published--anywhere. I wanted nothing more than to have a piece published. So when I was put in contact with Tony Giangregori at Living Dead Press, I was overjoyed at the prospect of making it into a zombie anthology he was publishing. I knew nothing about Tony, or his seemingly endless (and terrible) zombie books. I was just happy for an opportunity.

But right from the start I noticed that Tony didn't seem "all there." First off, my full first name is Christopher, but I never go by that–I go by Chris, always. I signed my contract as “Chris”, I submitted the story under “Chris.”

Before the book went to publication, Tony sent me a proof and I saw my name listed as Christopher.

Now, obviously this isn't a huge deal, but the fact is that no one ever calls me "Christopher", and seeing my name like that sort of made it feel like it wasn't really MY story.

So I wrote Tony a very polite email saying essentially “If there is still time, could you possibly change my name to Chris? If not, no problem.”

He replied with an email in ALL CAPS, accusing me of not telling him beforehand I wanted to go by Chris and not Christopher–even though I had never used my full first name in any of our dealings. He seemed furious at me for even suggesting such a thing. I was about to respond and ask him just what the deal was, and then he sent another telling me it was fine and he fixed it.

I thought, "How odd." But I let it go.

Then there was an issue with my ending. My story involved zombie animals–feral cats to be precise. He wrote to me and said “I love the story but you need to add a HUMAN zombie at the end–people HATE animal zombie stories.” I wasn’t sure where he was getting that statistic from; I had never heard anything like that. A better way for him to phrase it would have been "I personally hate animal zombie stories." Instead he decided to make his opinion speak for the whole world. But at the time I was so excited and desperate to be published that I said “what the hell” and added a little extra bit to the end.

Next on the list of growing concerns was the total lack of publicity he generated for the book. Seeing as he was the publisher, and it was his publishing "house", it felt only natural that he should do some sort of publicity for the book--even if it meant sending free copies to horror review sites to see what they thought. He didn't do any of that. His attitude was "I have plenty of fans, and they will find my books."

Okay...fine. Whatever. I was still being published, and that was exciting!

Finally the day came. I got a copy of the book, and flipped to my story. The title wasn’t even centered on the page; it was clear someone had just hit “tab” a bunch of times rather than, you know, centering it. 

And things just got worse as I read. There were grammar and spelling mistakes that I did NOT make in my submitted copy. And then at the very end I saw he had added a whole section I did NOT write. And not only that, but it was a really BAD section totally not fitting the tone of the story. He had written almost an entire passage that had no right being in my story. Don't get me wrong--the story I wrote wasn't exactly on the level of Raymond Carver. But for him to so blatantly add things to it without even asking me made the whole thing feel cheap and false.

I was hurt more than I was angry. Why would he do this? I considered emailing him, but I had had such awkward dealings with him in the past that I just let it go, and never dealt with Living Dead Press again.

Tony is still putting out his books. He's only gotten worse with time. Back when he published me, he actually paid me (a very small sum, of course) and gave me a free copy of the book. I hear he doesn't do either of those things anymore. 

And he continues to attack people who question his skills--or lack thereof. Such threats also, for some strange reason, include his wife. He'll say things about how "My wife wants to have an angry talk with you!"

What the hell does his wife have anything to do with it? Why would SHE want to have an angry talk with someone? YOU'RE the one that screwed up.

So that is my little trip down memory lane. Since then I've been published in real publications, and the experiences have been rewarding. No one has added whole sections to my work, and no one has written back to me in an email in ALL CAPS. 

So to those struggling writers out there: beware. It's very easy to get published by Living Dead Press. And that's because they're just not very good. 

If I lose the light

"If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light. If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you."

Henry Rollins

EXCERPTS FROM THE HAUNTED HOUSE BUYER’S MARKET

Due to laws passed requiring realtors to provide full disclosure on their properties, we are obligated to tell you if a house might be traditionally referred to/believed to be “haunted.” To help reduce the amount of inquirers, we have compiled a listing of the following properties.

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34 Weetamoe Rd

Center Ossipee, NH 03814

Year round home on Ossipee lake with spectacular views of lake and mountains. Beds: 2. Baths: 1. Sqft: 572. Year built: 1940

Original owner, Carter Boggs, murdered his entire family on Christmas Eve, cutting off their heads and decorating his Christmas tree with their entrails. He then sat down for a quiet Christmas dinner.

Subsequent residents have reported hearing strange noises in the bedroom where Boggs killed his family. Occasionally, lights flicker on and off; no electrical problems have been found. On Christmas Eve every year, horrible blood-piercing shrieks sound all around the house. Blood-like substance (possibly blood) leeks from faucets.

Great value at $279,000!

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77 Starboard Ln UNIT 1

Moultonborough, NH 03254

Rare end unit with attached garage. Close to heated pool and your own private 26' deep water dock. Beds: 3. Baths: 3. Sqft: 2,552. Year built: 1975.

A previous occupant was an occultist who conducted black masses in basement, sacrificing several animals. The family who lived in the house most recently reports that low, horrible animal-like sounds come from the floorboards. A "demonic" (source required) face was spotted in the bathroom mirror, speaking Latin.

A steal at $439,000.

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13 Natalie’s Way

Gilford, NH 03249

Bank Owned

Serene and elegant, this private Governor's Island home is a dream. Set on almost 4 beautifully landscaped acres with westerly mountain and lake views. Beds: 3. Baths: 3. Sqft: 3,483 Year built: 1932.

Former tenants found several wasp nests in the attic. After calling an exterminator to gas the wasps, the wasps returned every night around midnight, screaming human-like screams. Human remains found walled-up in closet. Entire family reported vivid, murder-filled nightmares.

$432,299.

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299 Linden St

Exeter, NH 03833

Victorian with 3 yr. old heating system, new side stairs, fresh paint on exterior trim and porches and many interior improvements. Beds: 4. Baths: 4. Sqft: 2,404. Year built: 1890.

House built on former Native American burial ground by Dr. Robert Tweed, who was known as the Butcher of Exeter, due to his infamous, unnecessary surgeries on unsuspecting young women. Many occupants have reported that the house "moves"; they claim that looking out the window, they would no longer see their yard or front street, but a swirling black void. Upstairs windows will not open, despite frequent attempts to pry them.

Pregnant women reportedly miscarry while dwelling or even visiting the house. A dog-like creature prowls the yard during heavy rainfalls, his eyes glowing red. Dr. Tweed himself has been spotted standing on the roof, naked, laughing maniacally before vanishing into thin air.

Price heavily reduced due to lengthy time on the market.

$80,000 or best offer!

In Print

My first story in an actual print lit journal--Barbaric Yawp.

The Coffin

Two days shy of her sixteenth birthday, Mae caught the fever. It had been spreading through Hawthorne County faster than a brush fire, and everyone—especially people like Mae’s family, who were poor farm folk and could not afford the best medicines—was terrified.

Mae, being a bit too headstrong for her own good, had laughed at her Pa’s over-protectiveness.

“I’ll be fine!” she had insisted. But one night the fever walloped her like a horse kick to the head, and she was in such pain that even crying for help sent terrible agony shooting through her body. Her limbs ached and burned, and she was so hot to the touch that you’d near scald yourself if you felt her forehead.

Pa sent for Dr. Crawford, but the doctor lived almost twenty miles away from the farm. Mae was delirious—she insisted she saw shadowy figures in the bedroom, and once she swore she heard her mother singing to her, even though her mother had been dead for almost five years.

Pa wept at Mae’s bedside, and begged her to fight—to not leave him. Mae had tried to smile, to reassure him, but her pain was too intense, and she lost consciousness. Strange fever dreams took hold of her; dreams filled with slithering things from the darkness, and horrible blood-streaked faces with screaming mouths.

Mae awoke with a start, and an overwhelming feeling of confusion took hold of her. She no longer felt sick; in fact she felt better than she had in her whole life—rejuvenated. And while she was positive she had opened her eyes, she saw nothing—total darkness. Even when all the lamps in the house had been blown out, there was always a little light somewhere—from the moonlight shining in. But this was total, impenetrable darkness.

I’ve gone blind! she thought with sickening panic. The fever has made me blind!

She was laying flat on her back, and she quickly tried to sit up, and only banged her head against something solid above her. Mae cried out in pain, clutching her forehead and moaning. Confused, she reached her hands up into the darkness and felt rough, solid wood a few inches above her. Her heart began racing in confusion and fear. She reached down and felt her own clothing, and could tell from the material she was wearing her finest dress—the dress she only wore to church, or on those rare occasion when Pa would take the horse and cart into town.

The realization came screaming through her body: she was in a coffin. She had been buried—alive!

“NO!” Mae screamed, and began pounding on the lid of her coffin. She beat at it with her fists until her hands went numb. “Somebody help! I’m not dead! I’M NOT DEAD!”

She began to cry and hyperventilate. How long could she last like this—buried six feet beneath the earth? Already she could feel the air growing thick, and her lungs were struggling to take it all in.

“PLEASE!” Mae sobbed, kicking at the coffin lid now. “Please, somebody! I’m still alive!”

Mae paused, because she heard a sound, and it was like sweet music to her ears: digging. Someone above was digging into the grave. She was saved! They had realized their mistake, and were rushing to dig her up!

“Yes!” Mae cried with joy. “I’m here! Please, hurry!”

The digging sound increased. She heard the dirt being shifted; heard the sounds getting closer and closer.

Mae closed her eyes, smiling and weeping, relieved that she was going to be rescued from her premature burial. There were scraping sounds at the coffin lid now—the shovel was inches away!

“Oh, thank you, God!” Mae cried. A splintering, cracking sound followed her words—the coffin lid was being broken open. And it was then that her relief began to turn back into panic. No light was flooding into the coffin; neither from moon or sun. If the lid had been broken open, surely some sort of light would be coming in. And the air wasn’t changing either—there was no blast of fresh air; only the stale air scented with wet earth.

Mae tried to say something, and then let out a scream. She felt something crawling on her body. In fact, she felt several things crawling over her. A wisp of matted, dirty hair brushed against the bare skin of her hand, and Mae began to shriek in terror as she realized who her “rescuers” were: rats had found her coffin, and were ready to feast.

Witch Brains: A Romance

The cat was in love with the servant girl.

Of course, he hadn’t always been a cat. He had once been a boy named Edward, on the cusp of 16, full of hope for his life, working in his father’s cobbler shop. Then as misfortune would have it, the boy had come across a witch’s cabin in the deep dark forest, and the Witch had turned him into a sleek black cat. This was bad enough, but to add insult to injury, he could not leave her cabin. The spell held him captive within the crumbling walls.

The Witch was a terrible old crone, with two glass eyes and a mouth full of rusty nails. She had feathers coming out of the back of her head, giant spiders for hands, and what little hair she had on her tiny head was comprised of squirming maggots.

But the Witch also had a servant girl under her spell. The girl was beautiful; fair haired and fair skinned, with eyes that shimmered like reflecting pools. All day and all night she did back-breaking chores for the Witch. And the cat who was once a boy named Edward would sit perched atop a book-shelf made up entirely of femur bones, and watch her—and his heart would swoon.

The girl never spoke; this was part of her enchantment—or so said the tea kettle, who had once been a tax collector named Brutus.

“If only I could get away from here,” Edward sighed.  “And take her with me.”

“It’s hopeless, lad,” said the tea kettle.

“He’s right,” agreed the taxidermy boar’s head that was mounted on the wall. “Best not to think of such things.”

One fall evening, a wagon came cluttering through the woods, and out of the wagon stepped a particularly ridiculous looking man. He stroked his huge beard and demanded an audience with the owner of the cabin.

The Witch came out, her broom in hand, her glass eyes gleaming. Edward slunk along the ground and peeked his head out to watch.

“I am a salesman,” the man said in a bawdy, theatrical voice. “Specializing in potions and tonics. Would you care to see my wares?”

“I would not,” the Witch barked. “Get away from my property, lest I turn you into a field mouse.”

The ridiculous man laughed. “You think too highly of your powers, woman.”

The Witch pointed her broom at the man and spoke words in her own dead, guttural language. A bolt of lightning exploded from the handle of the broom and struck the man dead-center, but the man didn’t flinch. He rolled his eyes.

“You may have your magics, Witch,” he said. “But mine are made of stronger stuff.”

The Witch snorted and spat on the ground, and her glob of black phlegm turned into a hoard of cockroaches that scattered into the brush.

“Be gone with you,” the Witch said, and stomped back into her cabin. She disappeared into a back room, cursing the man.

Edward hopped up onto a windowsill and called to the man. The man approached.

“What can I do for you, talking cat?” the man asked, lighting a humongous pipe. The smoke that rose out of the pipe took on the shape of a crow, and flapped it’s smoky wings and flew away into the autumn wind.

“I’m not really a cat,” Edward said. “I was once a boy; the Witch put a spell on me! Can you help me break it?”

“Sorry, lad,” the ridiculous looking man said. “I’m afraid the only way to break a witch’s enchantment is to kill the witch, and eat her brains.”

Edward stuck out his cat-tongue in disgust.

“It’s the only way, young master,” the man said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be off. I have potions to sell.”

The man climbed onto his wagon, gave the horse reigns and tug, and was gone.

The thought of killing the Witch was not an all together unpleasant thought to Edward—but eating her brains? But in his once-human heart he knew that it would be worth it if it meant breaking his spell--and the spell of the servant girl. They could go away together--far far away from this place. And maybe she could love him.

But there was the problem of how he would kill the Witch. He was only a cat, after all. The most he could do is give her a few scratches and bites before she kicked him across the room.

Then an idea came to him. He crawled down into the basement, where the beautiful servant girl was asleep in her giant cage. Edward called to her, waking her. She looked at him with her beautiful eyes.

“I know you can not speak, but you can listen,” Edward said. “I know a way we can break our enchantments.”  And he told her all the gory details.

The next day, the Witch ordered the beautiful servant girl to go out and chop some wood, for the nights were getting colder. Now was their chance—instead of chopping the wood, the servant girl took the ax and in one fell swoop lopped the witch’s head clean off. It struck the floor and rolled into a wall. The glass eyes in the head shattered into shards, and the witch’s black-colored blood oozed out in a viscous puddle.

“Quickly!” Edward cried. “The brains!”

The servant girl took a cleaver and hacked the top of the witch’s head open, spilling her runny green brains. Edward hopped down from his perch and gagged. The brains smelled awful, but he knew it was the only way. He gobbled up a good portion of them, trying hard not to vomit at their taste—which was a little like moldy bread mixed with whale blubber.

His cat body began to shake and shiver, and in an instant he was returned to his true, human form.

“It worked!” he cried. “You next!”

The servant girl hesitated.

“I know it’s disgusting, but it’s the only way!” Edward said, wiping brain-residue off his lips.

The servant girl picked up a handful of the brains and began to eat them. Edward smiled, eager to have the spell broken so he could finally hear her voice. He imagined it would sound as sweet and pretty as she looked.

The servant girl began to shake. There was a blinding flash of light, which caused Edward to shield his eyes for a moment. When he looked back, he let out an anguished cry. The servant girl had been transformed into a large, gray, filthy rat—its tail cut down to a nub and its mouth foaming.

Which is what she had always been before the Witch enchanted her.

White Stag

The minute Mary saw the thing, she knew it was wrong. 

There was nothing outwardly ominous about it—it was, after all, a small porcelain statue shaped like a white stag. But the feeling of dread that lurched up in Mary’s stomach when she laid eyes on it was impossible to deny. She didn’t like the thing; in fact, she downright hated it.

And of course, her daughter Sarah was instantly drawn to it. Mary and her daughter had gone out for a drive on a warm Sunday morning, and had happened upon a very large yard sale taking place in front of a huge, old Victorian home.

There must have been hundreds of items, and there were half a dozen people mingling about—taking it all in. But out of the hundreds of random items, Sarah had gone right for the white stag. It was sitting on top of a small bookshelf, which was also for sale.

“Mommy, look at THIS!” Sarah had exclaimed, as if she had discovered something remarkable. Sarah held the statue up in her tiny hands and beamed.

“Put that down, honey,” Mary said, trying not to look as worried as she felt. “You don’t want to drop it and break it.”

“Oh, I don’t think that would happen,” came a sand-papery voice. Mary started, turning on her heels. An old man in a red cardigan sweater stood behind her. He wore dark mirrored sunglasses, and his face was grizzled with white beard stubble. 

“Is…is this your yard sale?” Mary said, forcing a smile.

“Sure is,” said the man, grinning with large, rotting teeth. 

“This thing is so cool!” Sarah said, turning the statue over in her hands. “It’s a deer!”

“It’s a stag, actually, little lady,” said the old man. “A white stag, point of fact.”

“Cool!” Sarah exclaimed. Mary looked down at the stag; looked at its blank, sculpted face and its black painted-on eyes. She shuddered involuntarily. What was she being so silly about? It was just a stupid statue—why feel so afraid of the thing?

But she was afraid, and she wanted to grab Sarah by the hand and pull her away.

“How much is it?” Sarah asked.

“Sarah, manners please,” Mary said. It was the only thing she could think to say. What she really wanted to say was “PUT THAT THING DOWN, and come with me THIS INSTANT.”

“Oh, for you, little lady,” the old man said. “One dollar.”

“Oh wow! Can we buy it, Mom?” Sarah said, smiling up at Mary. 

Say no, Mary thought. Say no way. Tell her to put that thing down and get in your car and get out of here…

The old man was smiling politely. He had a pleasant, warm smile—when he wasn’t showing those stained teeth. Mary looked from him to Sarah and then back again.

“Sure,” Mary forced herself to say. She paid for the statue, and they left. The whole ride home, Mary kept casting nervous glances at the white stag, and the white stag looked back with those empty black eyes.

At home, Mary told her husband Tom how nervous she felt about the statue. Tom laughed.

“It’s just a statue, hon,” he said. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

“There’s just something about it…it makes me SO nervous and I can’t say why,” Mary said. The next few months, Mary found her entire world turned upside down. She had been living what she considered an idyllic life—things were near perfect. Then, Tom was in a terrible accident at work. He was the foreman of a profitable steel mill—but the accident was so bad that the doctors said he would never walk again. He lost his job, and his health care benefits were revoked—making the medical bills near impossible. 

Mary’s mother, who had been in wonderful health for her age, suddenly died of a massive heart attack. Only a few weeks later, Mary’s father died of the same exact cause. 

Sarah was doing terribly in school---likely because of the family tragedies going on, the school guidance consoler had said. But she was failing her classes, and getting into fights with other students almost daily. Sarah had once been a sweet, innocent girl; now she came home from school with black eyes and bloody knuckles. It got so bad that she had actually broken the arm of another girl she got into a fight with, and had been expelled. 

Just when things couldn’t get any worse, the company where Mary worked was downsized, and she lost her job—and her health benefits, which were helping to pay for Tom’s medical bills.

Friends would try to help the best they could, and they would all offer their sincere condolences for all the bad luck the family was experiencing. But Mary knew in her broken heart that it wasn’t bad luck—it was the white stag. All the trouble had started the day after she had bought the statue. The entire time, the statue had been sitting on a coffee table, looking blankly at them as their lives crumbled.

As insane as she knew it was, Mary felt that if she got rid of that statue things would be good again. 

First, she threw it out in the garbage. She even watched the trash men dump the can into their truck, and saw the statue crushed. But the very next day, it was back on the coffee table in perfect condition. Next, she tried burying the statue in the park. But again, the next day, it was back where she left it. No matter what she tried—even smashing the thing with a hammer at one point—the statue would always be back in its place the next day.

She tried to find the old mans house where she had bought the statue, but she could never locate it. It was as if the entire house had vanished.

And then, an idea came to her.

“I think I’ll have a yard sale,” she told one of her friends. “We have a lot of old junk laying around here, and heaven knows we can use the extra money.”

So Mary had set up a yard sale on the front lawn, placing random items around the ground with stickers on them listing the price. And in a place of great prominence, she put the white stag. Before the sun had started to set, a woman and her daughter arrived. The daughter, who was the same age as Sarah, went right for the statue.

“Can we buy it, Mom? Can we?” the girl said. Mary saw the look of terror on the mothers face, but Mary’s own face betrayed no emotion.

“H-how much is it?” the mother asked, swallowing. 

Mary smiled--flashing her large, rotting teeth.

Beautiful Ghost

They said you could see her after midnight—if you really wanted to find her, that is.

No one remembered her real name; it became lost over time. But everyone in town knew the story. She was sixteen years old during the Civil War, and she helped care for the wounded—on both the Union and Confederacy sides. Her mercy did not discriminate, and she was loved by all. A beautiful girl, with fire-red hair and light freckles dotting her cheeks, and eyes that resembled two deep, blue pools.

But those were bloody times, and sorrow found her. She had the misfortune of falling in love with a Confederate soldier, and he with her. Their love was forbidden by her father, but she disobeyed him, and it cost her dearly. She was falsely accused of being a spy and giving secrets to the Confederates. And the girl who showed everyone mercy was granted no mercy of her own. She was found guilty, and hanged until dead.

And she did not rest easily. 

Ever since then, rumors have persisted that if you wandered over to the field where the ancient oak tree from which she was hung still stood, you might see her ghost. And if you did, it was a bad omen. Someone close to you would die, because her unjust execution had robbed her spirit of any of the tender mercy she possessed in life.

Or so they said. 

I'd never put much stock in these stories. That summer, I was seventeen years old, and was so hung up with finishing school and my almost crushing love for a girl named Alice who was in one of my classes, that ghosts and old legends were the furthest thing from my mind. But Alice rejected me—she was in love with someone else.

Feeling heartbroken and down on my luck, I took a late night walk to clear my thoughts. I spent almost the whole walk looking down at my shoes, unaware of where I was going and not really caring.

Before I knew it, it was well after midnight, and I was in that legendary field, right beneath that infamous tree. It had been a warm summer night, but the air was suddenly chilly. I shivered, and felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. 

And then I saw her. 

She came out of a beam of moonlight, her dress swaying in a breeze that was not there, her hair bright red like fire, and floating about her head as if she were submerged in water. And I could see the rope marks burned into her throat. She was beautiful, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I was enthralled with her, and at the same moment I was terrified. She whispered something to me, but I could not hear what it was. She smiled with sweet lips, and then she was gone. 

My whole body shook, and I felt suddenly exhausted, as if I had been sprinting for miles. My mind struggled to convince me that what I had seen had not been real—could not be real. But I knew I had seen it. And I knew that meant someone close to me would die. I was terrified—who would it be? One of my friends? My parents? I spent the next few weeks in terror, waiting to receive a phone call telling me that someone I held dear had met with a tragic end. But it never came. Weeks turned into months, and months turned into years, and the memory of that beautiful ghost faded away.

Returning home from college one Christmas, I happened to run into Alice—my high school crush. We began dating, and after graduating college we married. Occasionally I would have haunting dreams where the beautiful ghost would come to me, whispering her secret that I couldn't hear. But the dreams would fade. And time would march on. And I would forget.

Alice became pregnant, and we were both thrilled. She was as eager to be a mother as I was to be a father. The doctor told us he could inform us of the baby’s gender, but we wanted to wait—to keep it a surprise.

The pregnancy was going smoothly, and we were prepared for our lives to change for the better.

And then yesterday, I received a phone call at my office. It was from a state trooper. Alice had been in a terrible car accident after a tractor-trailer had derailed on the highway. She had been killed instantly.

I wept madly for my wife and unborn child. And last night, I went to bed, my heart aching, my body weary. And I dreamed I was 17 again, back in that field by the tree on that moonlit night. And the beautiful ghost came to me, whispering her secret.

Only this time I heard what she said:

"Daughter."

Brick Apartment Building, 1935

His Hands

rough and red

tiny individual dark hairs

on thick knuckles gnawed nails

Hands that reached for her in the darkness.

They were both loving and cruel.

They stroked her hair and blackened her eyes.

When he died

in his sleep that August night

she took the cleaver

from the kitchen

and lopped those hands off.

She buried them in a shoe box

in the small fenced

in patch of grass

that was the backyard

under a red moon.

When Spring came

tulips bloomed

along with five roses

with thick thorny stems.

Recorded spoken-word version of the poem, with music by Luke Willis:

Final Days

We shall all become cleansed when

we find the car,

nestled amongst the rubble and the ashes,

down in the alley,

where the wild root grows.

I saw the search-lights

reflected on your sooty skin,

and smelled the kerosene

in your clothes,

and pictured you in flames

among the art-work,

a come-hither smile on your lips.

When they call our numbers

on the megaphones,

we fix our hair in the reflection

of a cracked store-front window,

put on our best faces,

march two by two.

At the last hour,

you will be made powerful and terrible,

you will find beauty within the bones.

At the last hour,

I will become something

extraordinary.

Recorded version of the poem; Words by me, music by Luke Willis

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.

image source

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?”

Last Meal

I am driving Willa to work because her parents took the car away, and because it snowed the night before, and because I love her.  Barely 10 a.m. and she wears the alcohol on her breath like a fine perfume.
          
“I had a dream last night,” she says, tracing her index finger along the frost of her passenger window.  Her fingernails are painted with glittery green polish, chipping away.  Her platform see-through heels sit on her lap, along with a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a paperback novel, the cover stripped and the pages turned a coffee-stain color.  “In the dream, I was at a diner.  And I knew I was in a dream, too.  And I knew that since this was a dream, I could eat whatever I wanted.  So I ordered a double cheeseburger with extra bacon and cheese fries.  And the waitress brought it out to me.  And I was just about to sink my teeth into it.  And then the alarm went off and woke me up.  Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
          
“I suppose not,” I mumble.  The windshield wipers cut back and forth, back and forth, brushing the still-falling, flakey snow away. The streets are wet, reflecting everything and warping it hideously.  I feel tired and I ache like I fell down a flight of stairs.  I want to drive this car into a telephone poll to delay the inevitable.
          
Willa lights a cigarette from her damaged pack.  Normally I don’t let people smoke in the car, but what am I going to do?  After all, her fingernails are painted with glittery green polish--I’m powerless.
          
“What would your last meal be?” Willa asks, rolling her window down a crack and letting the freezing air into the car.  The heater is on the fritz again, not that I mind.  I can’t stand it; I usually get overheated and I start to sweat.  A puddle forms beneath my ass--it’s not pretty, let me tell you.
          
“I don’t know,” I tell her and make a left.  The sun hasn’t come out yet, if it will come out at all today.  It doesn’t matter.  I need to sleep.  I need to get beneath the flannel sheets and lay in the cold darkness of my tiny room.  I need to learn to believe in miracles and turn everything to dust with my very thoughts.  I need Willa to ask me to turn the car around.
          
But she won’t.
          
Instead, she says: “C’mon, if you were on death row--”
          
“Why am I on death row?”
          
“You killed someone.”

“Who did I kill?”

“It’s a tragic story--someone killed me, and you were out for revenge.  You thought you found the guy who did it, and you strangled him to death with your bare hands.  It turns out he was innocent, though.”

“You’re right; that is a tragic story.”

“So,” she continues, taking a long hard drag off the cigarette, as if it will impress me, “you’re on death row--what’s your last meal before they take you to the chair and make you ride the lightning?”

“I dunno.  Eggs,” I say, my eyes never leaving the wet road.

“Eggs?” she says, clearly not impressed with my choice.

“I like eggs.  Scrambled eggs.  I dunno--this is stupid.”

“Eggs?  Good lord.  You’re about to die!  You will never eat again!  And you’re going to have eggs?”

“Well, what would you have?”

“Oh god, I would go nuts.  Hog wild.  I would get five burgers, and a big plate of chicken parm, and a huge ice cream sundae.  And spicy wings--”

“I don’t like spicy food,” I say.

“I do.  Spicy wings, and sushi, and an Oreo milkshake.  And an entire bottle of tequila.”

“I don’t think they give you tequila on death row.”

“That seems cruel.”

We cross into Pennsauken and right about now would be a good time to press that secret button that turns this car into a rocket and sends us to the moon--the button that doesn’t exist.  Now would be a good time to lie and say we’re out of gas.  Now would be a good time to slam on the breaks so hard that I cause a massive pile-up, the kind you see on the news shot from the expensive news chopper.

Willa stuffs her cigarettes and her paperback into her small backpack, getting ready to arrive.  She checks her eye make-up in the mirror--black as night and thick as an Oreo milkshake being handed to a death row prisoner.  She applies glittery lip-gloss and puckers up.  She looks like she hasn’t showered in a week.  I badly want to bite the nape of her neck.  I badly want to press her into my flesh.

“You’re a doll for driving me,” she says.

“I don’t like driving you here,” I say quietly.

She gives me a sympathetic smile.  A “don’t be silly” smile.  A “you’ll never have me to yourself” smile.

I pull the car into the parking lot of the strip club.  The letters above the door scream FANTASY SHOWBAR in neon pink. I pull around to the back door, marked EMPLOYEES
ONLY.  There are broken beer bottles piled up on either side of the door, and someone has spray-painted a crude-looking cock beneath “ONLY.”

“Do you need me to pick you up?” I ask, my eyes focused on that spray-painted cock.

“No, I’ll get a ride,” Willa says.  She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the door.  The overhead light goes on, and I look at her.  She’s twenty-two years old this winter, and she looks forty.  And she suddenly looks sad, like her favorite puppy just died.  Like she was all out of cigarettes.  Like she was being denied tequila on death row.

She speaks soft: “You know, you can ask me not to go.  You can ask me not to do this.”

“Would you, if I asked?” I say.

Neither of us says anything for a full minute.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says, and she is gone.  She pounds on the door, her knuckles against that cartoon cock, and a large bouncer opens and the darkness of the club swallows her up.

I drive home listening to Christmas music with the volume low, and I cry softly, the scent of her and her cigarettes tickling my nostrils.  I think about her green fingernails and her black eyes.  I think about what I would have for my last meal.