• Who We Are

  • Schedule

    Mondays ~
    Tuesdays ~ Snarky
    Wednesdays ~ Dreamer
    Thursdays ~ Naughty
    Fridays ~ Dreary
    Saturdays ~
    Sundays ~

    Whenever ~ Smokey, Mighty, Eerie and Wicked

  • Snarky’s Tweets

  • Kinetic’s Tweets

  • Dreamer’s Tweets

  • Wicked’s Tweets

  • Eerie’s Tweets

  • Mighty’s Tweets

Haunted By Literary Ghosts of Horror

Greetings and Salutations noble readers of the blog,

Tonight we are in the unconsecrated graveyard of the old Catholic Church. If you’ve accompanied me to this location before, you know you are in for a special treat. Tonight’s guest is not specifically known as a horror writer. His vast body of work includes, travel logs, poetry, historical observations, letters, novels and short stories. His best known work is Treasure Island. With no further ado, please give it up for, Robert Louis Stevenson.

“Welcome Robert, please make yourself comfortable.”

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Our guest Robert Louis Stevenson

Robert Louis Stevenson's Grave on Mt. Vaea Samoa

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Grave on Mt. Vaea Samoa

 

“Thank you so much for having me. My impression was you wanted to talk about my more fanciful work.”

“That’s true, but I can’t begin without first telling you what an impact Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and The Black Arrow had on me as a boy. I’ve fancied myself a ‘Young Jim Hawkins’ on more than one occasion. Hiding in the apple barrel, or keeping a weather eye out for a seafaring man with one leg.”

“It’s kind of you to say sir.”

“To your point, we here are most interested in your tales as they relate to the unexplained. The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde for example.”

“A most interesting tale of a good man, who in the name of science, commits atrocities.”

“The doctor over reaching is certainly a recurring theme in literature. Mary Shelly’s Dr. Frankenstein is possibly the most well-known.”

“Quite, Mary’s concept of man subjugating the Creator has always been one of my favorites. How I would have relished a summer on Lake Geneva with the likes of Percy and Mary Shelly, Lord Byron, Dr. Pollidori.”

“The good Doctor Jekyll creates an elixir that separates good from evil in a man. Is this a discourse on the dual nature of man?”

“Exactly, it illustrates how our good, tempers our bad, by showing what our natures are like when isolated.”

“Some will point to this story as an example of an individual suffering from mental illness. Dissociative Identity Disorder, Manic Depression, Schizophrenia, and Psychosis are the most closely related diagnosis. Did you know someone who suffered from any of these illnesses?”

“Of course, we all encounter people in our lives who suffer from disorders of the brain. The earliest physicians recognized that there are illnesses that they could label, but not treat.”

“Speaking of doctors.  Dr. Jekyll is not the only antagonist doctor you’ve written about. Of course I’m thinking of Dr. Toddy Macfarlane. The Body Snatcher is one of my favorite short stories. One I often read  when the I’m moved to scare someone.”

“I too, am quite fond of that tale.” His broad smile reaches past his eyes lighting up the night. “‘Did you think me dead? We are not so easily shut of our acquaintance.'”

“Very nice Robert, I don’t suppose you’ve memorized every line of every thing you’ve written.”

“Hardly sir, but at least one telling line from all the fiction to be sure. And much of the poetry. It seems in my current state my faculties have remained sharp. Oh, but if I could only write something from grave, the stories I could tell.”

“What keeps you from it?”

His countenance darkens at my question. “There are powers to be reckoned with. Formal Federations that must be abided. They do not take kindly to one who would disregard their authority.”

“We had a visitor who simply walked away from here into the world of the living. That must be against the rules.”

“Yes, quite, to remark that the regime was distressed by that act of indifference would be to understate the obvious.”

“I’m getting the wrap it sign Robert. Can you stay a while after my guests have gone?”

“I’ll stay until I get the hook as they say on the stage.”

“Wonderful, give me a moment.”

“Folks I suggest you make your way from the cemetery while the spirits are protecting us. Mr. Stevenson has agreed to hang around a while for those who are willing to risk it.”

Next week I expect Mischievous Raven will be back from his business meetings on the left coast. in the interim be safe.

As is our custom, I leave you with this quote.

“hark, now hear the sailors cry,
smell the sea, and feel the sky
let your soul & spirit fly, into the mystic…”
― Van Morrison

Writ On,

Eerie Dwarf, AKA Dave Benneman

P.S.

Mr. Stevenson kept us through the night until dawn broke telling tails of his life on Samoa and sailing the South Pacific. I say this as an explanation as to why this did not get posted last night. My apologies for any inconvenience.

E.D.

 

 

The Monastery of The Werewolf Monks

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Greetings and salutations distinguished readers of the blog,

Please keep your voices down some of the intrepid visitors who joined us last week for our adventure into the Impenetrable Forest are still recovering. Sadly some did not complete the trip, but that’s what we call acceptable losses. If everyone made it through it wouldn’t really be dangerous.

last remains of one of our followers after the piranha hummingbird attack.

last remains of one of our followers after the piranha hummingbird attack.

This is the famous monastery of the monastic order of The Werewolf Monks. They have made us feel very welcome. As to the reason we’re visiting, to be honest, they weren’t as much help as I’d hoped. They won’t help with the horde of hungry, shambling, zombies. (I know too many adjectives, but every once in a while you have to cut loose.)So rather than go home to a bunch of angry neighbors, I thought we’d hang out here for a while. Brother Lawrence has agreed to give us a tour.

“Grrrreetings folks and welcome to the monastery, if you’ll all follow me. I hope you don’t mind stairs we have many of them. We’ll start with one of Eerie’s favorite places.”

At the top of the stairs Brother Lawerence opens a narrow wooden door banded with iron straps. Once inside the guests are treated to the stunning three-story library.

“We have books, manuscripts and scrolls that date back to 1,200 years BC. This room for example contains the renaissance period. A most prolific time for men to put their ideas down on paper. For instance we have the largest collection of Leonardo Da Vinci’s work including diagrams of machines that wouldn’t be built for two more centuries. Through that doorway is Eerie’s favorite room of study. It contains writings about vampires, witches, fairies, dragons, trolls, leprechauns, elves, dwarves, and all the creatures that are today thought to be mythological.” 

10404508_814719525212964_1708668224599247983_n“Excuse me Brother Lawrence, but shouldn’t you share these precious works with the rest of the world,” a guest asked.

“Grrrrrrrr, the rest of the world does not deserve these works. Nor would they take them seriously. You would do well to remember you are a guest here.” Brother Lawrence salivates.

I move quickly insinuating myself between my visitor and Brother Lawrence whose nails have already begun grow. “Sorry Brother Lawrence, they mean no harm they are only human. Allowances must be extended.”

“Of course you right, Eerie, but it’s been a while since I’ve fed, and I have no patience for such impudence!”

“Why don’t I finish showing them around?”

“Very well, keep them out of the basement. We’re pressing a fresh crop for the new wines.”

“Yes of course. No basement.”

“Bother Lawrence comes from a long line of Werewolves, his family name is Talbot.”

Folks if you’ll follow me, I show you to the chapel. Down that corridor are the monks sleeping quarters and the room where they take their repast. Silence once we enter the chapel. I’ll answer any questions you have when we leave.” The smell of incense is strong when we enter the chapel. The light passing through the stained glass windows is diffused into rainbows. The altar is simple and dominated by a stone carved into a large table with a depression designed to drain fluids to the end where a collection barrel sits.

“I hope you got a good look at the windows. Each one depicts the many stages of the moon throughout the year. Of course the best known panel is the Blood Moon that dominates the chapel at the center of the altar. The stain glass work dates back to the 12th century.”

“What was that table for on the altar?”

“That is where they prepare the Eucharist.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“You would have to make an application to become a monk and go through years of training before you will learn the secrets of the Holy Sacraments.”

“It looks like–“

“Like we’re almost out of time. This way. Come along. No stragglers please. This is the complimentary wine tasting area and gift shop. Please sample some wines and browse as long as you like. You can purchase any of the wines to take home with you. I’ll see you all next week.”

Whew, I thought that guy would never shut up. It’s been a long day, I think we better wrap it up and I have a wrap it up quote ready for you.

“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear.” H. P. Lovecraft

Write On,

Errie Dwarf  AKA Dave Benneman

 

 

 

 

 

The Impenetrable Forest

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Greetings and Salutations Insightful readers of the blog,

Sorry about the interruption last week. I hope the zombies didn’t eat too many of you as you made your way here. The muses only rounded up 20 of our missing zombies last week. Mischievous is meeting with the producers of The Walking Dead today. He will try to appease them after we shorted the order by 5 zombies. The muses got distracted when they were searching around Dreamer Dwarf’s cottage. It seems the pretty flowers she grows do more than provide a colorful backdrop. Some of them can be ingested for medicinal purposes. The muses aren’t sick mind you, unless using Dreamer’s flowers for recreational use is an illness. In short, last weeks search was abandoned by the muses for more nefarious motives.

Today we will be embarking on a dangerous excursion through the Impenetrable Forest to seek the assistance of the Werewolf Monks. They live in the monastery on the other side of the forest. I hope their extensive library and knowledge can help us with the zombies. Who currently have The Swamp surrounded. They’re scaring away visitors and eating everything in sight.

While in the forest keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. In the event we lose cabin pressure a mask will drop down from the overhead compartment, place the mask over your nose and mouth and… sorry wrong script.

15 YARDS TO THE IMPENETRABLE FOREST TURN BACK NOW

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Pay no attention to that sign. it’s there to scare you away.

10 YARDS TO THE IMPENETRABLE FOREST YOU ARE IN IMMINENT DANGER

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Stay close together now. If you get separated from the group blow the whistle that I handed out earlier.

5 YARDS TO THE IMPENETRABLE FOREST YOUR DEATH AWAITS

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Stay alert it is mating season for the Piranha Hummingbirds, they are especially hungry during this time of year. When the Piranha Hummingbirds attack the only way to identify your remains is through dental records. They pick your skeleton completely clean.

WELCOME TO THE IMPENETRABLE FOREST

WE HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR BRIEF VISIT

HAVE A NICE DAY

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It is most important to be silent as we venture in. The Killer Koalas are vicious, but slow. We will stay in a tight formation. Hold hands with your neighbor. Don’t scream under any circumstances. Human screams drive the Giant Vampire Tarantulas crazy. Does everyone have a partner? Good.

Any questions? Listen up people, the question is, what happens if Killer Koalas attack? If you’re attacked by Killer Koalas, trip the person next to you and run like hell. Don’t Scream.

Next. Don’t worry about The Piranha Hummingbirds. They are to busy finding mates, they shouldn’t be a problem.

All right one more, then we’ve got to go before it’s gets dark. What if someone screams?  Good question. Get down on the forest floor, tuck your head between your legs, and kiss your butt goodbye. If your remains are ever found, a dry husk will be all that’s left. Giant Vampire Tarantulas drain every last drop of moisture from you. Then they use your dried carcass to build there nests. Nothing gets wasted in nature.

Let’s review the rules. Don’t scream. Stay together. Don’t scream. Watch for Piranha Hummingbirds . Don’t scream.

Let’s go I’ll see you all on the other side.

One last thing, this weeks quote, it may be the last.

This one come from Tom Waits. The song Mr. Siegal

“Where they live hard, die young
And have a good lookin’ corpse every time”

Write On,

Eerie Dwarf AKA Dave Benneman

 

 

Free Range Organic Zombies Abound

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Greetings and Salutations most reputable readers of the blog,

(deep, intimidating voice of announcer) Eerie’s message has been preempted for this important announcement from Dave Benneman.

If you are a returning visitor to The 7 Evil Dwarves blog site you are accustomed to the chaos the reigns supreme here. We are a critique group from various backgrounds and experiences. We started our joint blog several years ago on a whim. The idea is to keep fresh content up 7 days a week. The fly in the soup is of course that we have no rules. So on any given week you find discussions about honing the craft, or someone sharing a recent experience at a conference, or it may not be related to writing at all. Our content is as diverse as our group. I say this here to encourage you to keep coming back because I’m certain you will find something for you.

My day is Friday. On Fridays you will join Eerie Dwarf and his ragtag band of misfits on a variety of adventures. This is always written off the cuff with much tongue in cheek, strictly for entertainment. Friday is about getting in touch with the my creative brain and your inner child. I hope you get a an opportunity to laugh out loud at Eerie’s antics. It is all in fun.

Sunday is the day we update Swamp Tales, which is a round robin style story where each writer picks up where the last writer left off. It is total chaos with 7 different styles and voices all steering the story for a few paragraphs. Sometimes we will feature guests who want to toss in their two cents. To check it out, click on the Swamp Tales tab.

Because we are writers and insecure by nature please click like if something tickles you. If you’re really moved leave a comment. When you find yourself dumbstruck, tell your friends. If any of these things happens regularly you might want to become a follower. This is the only way we can learn what you like.

(Announcer, a little less intimidating this time) Now returning to the regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.

“I’m coming as fast as I can Mischievous, not all of us were born with wings you know.”

“Not only do you not have wings, you were short-changed in the leg department too. If I were you I’d hire C.Rock Adile to sue for Legligence.” Mischievous flies into a tree he’s laughing so hard. “Ouch, that smarts.”

“It serves you right for making fun of my stature.” Eerie looks up to see his guests have finally arrived. “Oh hello folks. Give us a few minutes there seems to problem with our herd of zombies.”

“Hurry, you can see the corral from here.” Mischievous hops up and down pointing.

Eerie stops in his tracks. “What happened here? Where are the Zombies?”

“I don’t know. They were here last night. This morning I found the gate unlocked.”

“This is terrible.”

“I know I have an order to ship tomorrow for The Walking Dead. Where am I going to get 25 Free Range Organic Zombies (registered Trademark) in time to ship tomorrow.”

“I think your missing the bigger picture. When did you feed them last?”

“Yesterday, why?”

“So we have how many hungry Zombies wandering around.”

“There were 97  yesterday.”

RESERVATIONS SUGGESTED

RESERVATIONS SUGGESTED

“This is bad. This really bad. Go check that new Zombie restaurant that opened last week. If they’re hungry, maybe we’ll catch them there.”

“And what do you propose I do if I find them. Now that they’ve tasted freedom, so to speak, I don’t think they’ll come back because I ask them nicely.”

“You keep an eye on them. I’ll gather the muses. If anyone can get them back in the cages it’s them. Now go. What are you waiting for.”

“Your not getting HER too, are you?” Mischievous’ voice shakes.

“Of course, if Wicked can spare her. Don’t worry, she was kidding about needing a new feather pillow.”

“Maybe the zombies will get the best of her, then I won’t have worry at all. Although I bet she’s too tough for our Free Range Organic Zombies taste.”

“Stop stalling, the sooner we get them back where they belong the better.” Mischievous alights in a rustle of ebony. “As you can see folks we’re kind of busy today. I’ll issue you all free passes to return next week. In the mean time, be careful on your way home. Zombies abound.”

As is our custom on Friday, I leave you with a quote. (some weeks it may be the only thing worth showing up for).

“Let’s do what you fear most
. That from which you recoil
, but which still makes your eyes moist”  Lou Reed

Write On,

Eerie Dwarf AKA Dave Benneman

 

 

 

 

 

valentines day

Greetings and Salutations,

I was going to do something like, my top 20 love songs or some other weepy crap. But then it occurred to me, it is my job to bring some horror into your life. This is the first story I ever read by Edgar Allen Poe. It was fifth grade, so I must have been ten years old. It made quite an impression on me. And so, with no further ado I present;th

The Tell-Tale Heart

 

Edgar Allan Poe


TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously — oh, so cautiously — cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed , to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening , and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, “Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief — oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, “It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or, “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions ; but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye — not even his — could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o’clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, — for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness — until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND — MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no? They heard! — they suspected! — they KNEW! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again — hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! —

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

Write on,

Dave Benneman AKA Eerie Dwarf

T’was The Night Before The Zombie Apocalypse

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Greetings and Salutations,

This is the last Friday before Christmas so I’m re posting my version of The Night Before Christmas. It is in the name of fun, so enjoy.

On a serious note, remember we are celebrating the birth of our Savior. So be a little more patient, a little more forgiving, and a little more loving.

 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE

T’was the night before Christmas when all through our shelter,

Not a creature was stirring, not even the smelter.

The mac-tens were hung by the chimney with care,

For the undead horde that soon would so

The guard dogs were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of raw meat danced in their heads.

Mom and her uzi and I with my launcher,

Had just settled down to plan for the slaughter.

When out on the lawn there arose such a racket,

I leaped from the bunker and put my jacket.

Grabbing my Kevlar I flew like a flash,

Turned on the search lights looking aghast.

The lights on the breast of the new fallen dead,

Gave luster of midday to zombies in red.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight zombie reindeer.

The driver was quick, his head wrapped in gauze,

I knew in a snap it was Zombie Clause.

More rapid than missiles his coursers they came,

He grunted and slobbered, and called them by name.

“Now, Femur! Now, Sacrum! now, Kidney! and Bicep,

On, Liver! On, Stomach! On, Colon and Tricep.

To the top of the porch and over barbed wire!

Now dash away! Dash away! Far from the fire!”

Above all the landmines and away from the moat,

They went higher and higher like some flying boat.

So up to the lookout the reindeer they flew,

With a sleigh full of entrails, and Zombie Clause, too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof,

The prancing and pawing of each rotting hoof.

I switched off the safety and pulled back the hammer,

Down the chimney came Zombie with quite a clamor.

He was dressed all in fur from head to the floor,

And his clothes were all bloody and splattered with gore.

A bundle of severed limbs on his back,

He sat himself down to have a late snack.

His eyes—they were sunken, his flesh was so pale,

His nose was held on with a bright shiny nail.

The stump of a leg he held tight in his teeth,

As I pulled my new sword clear of its sheath.

He was rotten and putrid but looked quite surprised,

As I sliced off his arm and poked out his eyes.

He ran to the chimney forgetting his snack,

So I picked up my shotgun and gave him a whack.

Sticking a finger far up his nose,

Giving a nod up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the led from my pistol.

I heard Zombie moan, as he flew through the night,

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good bite.

To You and Yours,

Have a Scary Christmas and a Happy Ghoul Year

Dave Benneman

Friday the Thirteenth

hwabutton

Greetings and Salutations,

I know many of you think it’s ludicrous to hide in a dark cave completely isolated from the world because of the date.  You certainly have the right to draw your own conclusions.  I’ve experienced several very nasty consequences as a result of ignoring specific signs and warnings.  You shouldn’t mess with the unnatural  laws of the cosmos.  Friday the Thirteenth is in fact a very serious force to be reckoned with.  There are many precautions to be taken, like never use any form of technology.  Internet and cell phones are guaranteed paths to the destruction of your soul.  Even two cans and a string can lead the forces of evil to your doorstep.  I don’t even use fire.  Too risky.

The number 13 alone is a serious threat, hotel owners leave entire floors out buildings. Clearly they understand the threat. In numerology, the number twelve is considered the number of completeness, as reflected in the twelve months of the year, twelve hours of the clock, twelve gods of Olympus, whereas the number thirteen is considered irregular, transgressing this completeness.

Friday has been considered an unlucky day at least since the 14th century’s The Canterbury Tales, and many other professions have regarded Friday as an unlucky day to undertake journeys or begin new projects. Black Friday has been associated with stock market crashes and other disasters since the 1800s.  According to the Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute in Asheville, North Carolina, an estimated 17 to 21 million people in the U.S. are affected by a fear of this day. I ask you, can they all be wrong?

Of course there are other things that must be avoided as well. Break a mirror and you’ll have seven years of darkness filling your life.  Allow a black cat to cross your path, I shudder to think of it. Do you have any idea how many mothers suffer from back aches because their children ignored the step on a crack rule.  I mean really the statistics are staggering.  Walk under a ladder?  You’d have to be suicidal.  Spill salt, evil eye.  I could go on (some might say I have, but those who know me best know I’ve gone off the deep end long ago.)  My slogan is superstitious and alive is better than not and well…not.

Here’s the good news.  Throw some salt over your shoulder to cancel spilled salt. Carry a rabbit’s foot in your pocket to ward off the evil eye.  Turn yourself around in a circle seven times to cancel out bad luck. This four leaf clover in my lapel isn’t a fashion statement you know.  If you wear your clothes inside out it insulates you from bad luck.  For some things you must buy spells from the old crone who lives deep in the forest.  She’s a little pricey, but she’s good.  I bought this warthog tusk charm from her.  It has saved my bacon on many occasions.

I’ve got to catch the last bus to the caves, so until next week, I’ll leave you this quote from Alfred Hitchcock

“Revenge is sweet and not fattening.”

 

Write On,

Dave Benneman AKA Eerie Dwarf

Fright-days welcomes, drum roll please, Howard Phillips Lovecraft

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Greetings and Salutations,

Today we are back at the unconsecrated graveyard to visit with another author. I’ve been hoping for weeks that our next guest would grant us an interview. I am very excited to have him with us.

He is a writer who is widely seen as the most significant 20th century author in Horror Fiction. At the time Weird Tales Magazine was building a reputation, he was a regular contributor, he turned down an offer of the editorship. Some of his most celebrated tales including The Call of Cthulhu, canonical to the Cthulhu MythosHorror, fantasy and science fiction author Stephen King called him “the twentieth century’s greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale.” Graham Harman said, “No other writer is so perplexed by the gap between objects and the power of language to describe them, or between objects and the qualities they possess.” So with no further a due, I present, Howard Phillip Lovecraft.

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HP; Thank you, Bob warned me the accommodations were less than ideal, but he assured me the warm welcome would make up for it.

You’re referring to Robert Bloch?

HP; Yes, he convinced me to come. I tried to make two weeks ago, but something happened on our end and some other guy jumped through ahead of me. A Richard Baitman, or something? He was too big for me to argue with.

Richard Bachman.

HP; That’s it, Bachman. He wasn’t a very nice fellow.

That was very unsettling for us all. He hasn’t returned either. I do hope that fellow Steve Brown, and Stephen King are doing alright. He made some thinly veiled threats as he left. Enough about him please let’s talk about your influences.

HP; Of course Edgar Allen Poe was very big. Arthur Machen’s tales of ancient evil returning to the modern world. Joseph Addison and Jonathan Swift. My own vivid nightmares are certainly a contributing factor.

E.A Poe and yourself have many biographical details  in common. Like Poe your work was out of step with your time. You both passed on at a young age and you were both penniless when you did so.

HP; The loss of our parents, bouts of deep depression, self-imposed isolation, the list goes on. 

You must be happy with the high regard with which you are held today and the endless list of authors you have influenced.

HP; Happiness is not something experienced in the plain where I exist. It would have nice if all this veneration presented itself in my life time. It does me little good to know that I am appreciated years I died a painful, lonely, penniless death.

Sorry I brought that up. One of your reoccurring themes is the mysterious information stumbled on by unsuspecting characters.

220px-Weird_Tales_March_1944220px-Cthulhu_sketch_by_LovecraftHP; Ahh yes usually with a Promethean ending. You say unsuspecting character, yet they are driven to learn knowledge that is forbidden them. Their curiosity, ambition, and the temptation of acquiring power compel them to open Pandora’s box and unleash the evils within. They are not naive dupes as you suggest. on the contrary they often make choices without consideration to the consequences. hence the person who acquires the knowledge is utterly destroyed.

Of course you’re right, but the reader identifies with the character as somehow being coerced or deceived into making those choices.

HP; That would be naiveté on the part of the reader. Just as in the Cthulu stories the antagonist is an alien being who is indifferent to humans at best more often hostile, and yet they are worshipped by clans of humans as Gods. You may see the worshippers as poor savages, Where as my view is they bring this on themselves at the hope of becoming the beneficiary of the god like powers.  They are not innocents, they are greedy, manipulating, and selfish. They perpetuate a modern era decadence, and they receive their just deserts.

What of, The Rats In The Walls or The Alchemist, surely you make exceptions where a character gets punished through no fault of their own.

HP; Inherited guilt is something of a paradox. Where the fortunate circumstances of the character are due to the misdeeds of a forebear and yet they themselves are innocent. The piper must be paid, Mr. Benneman, better he is paid in this life than in the next.

I see my flame is burning low, so allow me to leave you with one thought. Support living writers and artists now, while they are among you. Do not wait until they have long passed on to acknowledge their commitment to society.

Whooosh

“Wow that was a pretty dramatic exit. I didn’t get to ask him about all the films based on his stories. OH, well. What an amazing guy.

Let’s close with a quotation from the man himself.

“It is only the inferior thinker who hastens to explain the singular and the complex by the primitive shortcut of supernaturalism.” H.P.Lovecraft.

Thanks for stopping by,

Write On,

Dave Benneman

  

The Spotlight’s on…me! My turn in holiday anthology! #ThingsThatGoBumpForHolidays #holidays #anthology #paranormal

As part of my part in spreading the word on the upcoming holiday anthology THINGS THAT GO BUMP FOR THE HOLIDAYS coming December 14th by the fantastic group of Black Opal authors, the spotlight has spun to…me!

My contribution, WRAPPED IN SHADOWS, takes place before Shadow’s Edge. A fun, quick ride with Raine McCord, Gavin Durand and Xander Cade, this story proves holidays can really be hell. I hope you’ll add it to your To Be Read list. 

For my teaser, I actually choose an excerpt from the third installment of the Kyn Kronicles, SHADOW’S MOON, coming Spring of 2014…

Dread settled like a stone in her stomach. “Do you think it’s Chavez?”  Someone had an ax to grind with Warrick. The psychic peek of those venomous taunts directed at him was very personal. Normally it wouldn’t give her pause, her Alpha was more than able to take care of himself, but something about this set her and her wolf on edge. The urge to protect this stubborn male dug in with vicious claws.

He rose to his feet and shook his head.  “There hasn’t been enough time.”

Not enough time for the grieving Southwest Alpha to get past losing his psychopathic mate who had almost killed Xander three weeks ago. Nowhere enough for him to forget that Warrick had approved her death and stood aside while it was dealt.

“He’ll come hunting us.”  Her voice was soft, but her certainty was rock solid.  No wolf, no alpha, would forgive the death of a mate.  Even if their mate deserved it.

“I know.” Warrick move to stand beside her.  “But this isn’t him.” He turned back to Ryuu and Sebastian. His leg brushed her shoulder, sending a streak of heat through her that chased away the icy trepidation.

“Then which enemy are we facing?” Ryuu’s question was directed at Warrick as the shrill song of sirens came to a screeching halt outside the club. 

Xander set Sara aside once again and rose to her feet. 

The thump of car doors slamming sounded from outside. It was soon followed by raised voices trying to corral the agitated crowd outside.

Warrick’s lips thinned and his frustrated anger leaked through their connection.  The loss of this lone wolf had hurt him, just as it was suppose to.

An echo of the hateful taunt whispered across her mind. “How many deaths will it take?” 

“The phone call says its personal.” She kept her voice low and even as she moved closer.  No need for his wolf to think she was challenging him. 

Those who knew Warrick understood the line between his human mind and his wolf was thinner than most.  Which meant you had to deal with the animal as much as the human.  She could challenge the wolf in private, and had done so numerous times, but in front of Pack he was first and foremost her Alpha.  

Standing next to him she couldn’t miss his low growl or the way tension had stiffened his body. She fought her wolf and kept her hackles down.  Sebastian and Ryuu kept their gazes lowered.  No one moved, holding still and giving Warrick’s wolf a few precious moments.

Slanting a look at him from under her lashes to judge his control, she continued.  “Someone wants your job. Who’ve you pissed off lately?”

Suddenly he was crowding her. The weight of the power that made him alpha pressed against her, demanding submission. “Just you,” he growled.

She let her wolf out just enough to stand against him.  It was dangerous, so dangerous to do this dance with him publicly, but it was necessary.  One of the reasons she was fighting their bond so hard was because Warrick was the most dominant male in the Northwest.  She had no intention of turning into his submissive bitch. She had fought tooth and nail for her independence.  There was no way she was going to toss it all away because he had decided she was his.  Even if Warrick was a wickedly intelligent hunter who knew all about patience and prey. She wanted to be a partner, not a door mat.

“Besides me,” she hissed.

Even as she stood her ground, there was a tiny part of her that wanted to tuck tail and bare her throat in the face of his fury. But the woman knew if she gave in, whatever slim chance they had of this relationship working would be snuffed out. So she locked her knees, clenched her fists, gritted her teeth and met that burning stare without blinking. 

Grim amusement lit his dark eyes.  “No one else important.”

“Vidis,” Ryuu’s voice snapped the tension. “Incoming.”

Warrick shifted his attention from her to the club’s entrance, inserting his body between her and the approaching humans.  She let out a shaky breath and prayed Warrick wouldn’t lose it. 

“Non-threatening,” she muttered the reminder and stepped around him.  Too many witnesses meant they had to stick around and help. At least until Division joined the party.

His eyes narrowed as she stood at his left.  She raised her hands above her head and arched an eyebrow at him.  His lips quirked as he copied her movements.  Sebastian and Ryuu followed suit.  She sighed and watched the cops pour into the club. 

The first two books, SHADOW’S EDGE and SHADOW’S SOUL are available now, just click the BOOKS link on the website tabs above!

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Stay tuned because next week we get to meet Juila Joseph and Liv Rancourt!

Fright-days Welcome ???

Greetings and Salutations,

We’re continuing our interviews of famous authors today albeit they are from beyond the grave. Normally I know who is coming so I can prepare myself for the interview, but this week there seems to be some confusion, or maybe the spirits decided to surprise me. Last week Robert Bloch promised to put in a word for me with H.P. Lovecraft. I do hope Mr. Lovecraft is coming and true to his nature, he is being mysterious about it.

A nearby gravestone overturns and from the mist walks…

“I’m sorry, I was expecting someone else.”

“I’m sure you were old hoss.” He said with a smile that never reached his eyes. “But I’m who you get.”

“Yes,” my voice shook. “And you would be?”

The apparition stepped in closer. Too close. “It’s going to be like that is it, old hoss?” His voice was smooth, calm, and intimidating.

“I don’t mean to offend, I really don’t recognize you.” I back up a step to create some room between us and to escape to pungent odor he carries with him..

“Why I’m Richard Bachman. You know me now?

RichardBachman

“Ahhh, but you aren’t real your just a–

RB; “Don’t go losing your happy thoughts there hoss, you know what happens when you lose your happy thoughts, don’t you?”

“If memory serves me right, you fall out of the sky.”

RB; “That’s right old hoss, see now, I think we’ll get on just fine, you just keep them happy thoughts.”

“Very well.” He can smell the fear on me, I know it. “let’s start with your body of work. There was Rage, The long Walk, Roadwork, and the The Running Man. Four stark and chilling novels.”

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Runningmanbachman

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TheRegulatorsRB; “Let’s not forget Thinner, one of my favorites. Then The Regulators and Blaze. There are others too.”

“I’m not very well prepared for this interview I do hope you will bear with me.”

RB; “Of course Davey boy, I don’t want to hurt you.”Blazecat-197x300

“Good to know. So back to Thinner, yes, I remember it very well, the strawberry pie, wow. That was a brilliant ending. The Regulators and Blaze were both published postmortem as I recall.”

RB; “About that, you see, that’s kind of why I’m here. I was cut down in my prime. Lot’s of good stories left up here.” He taps his temple with a finger. “If you catch my drift? I plan on telling them too. I’ve just have to get Stevo’s attention.

“How do you plan to get his attention? Surely, you don’t think Stephen King reads my blog.” This elicits a soft terrifying laugh.

RB; “No Davey boy, Our Mr King is much to important to be reading this fluff. Although if he knew I was coming, maybe. No, of course not. First things first, there is a thing to square away with that bookstore clerk. Mr. Steve Brown and me, we have a little settling up to do. After that I’ll be getting in touch with Stevo.”

“I say this with the up most respect Mr. Bachman, sir, how exactly are you going to do anything, you are as the say passed on? I believe you succumbed to are rare form of pseudonym cancer.”

RB; A pearl handled straight razor flashes in front of my face. “I’ll show you what a pseudonym can do to that ugly mug of your’s if keep it up Davey boy.”

“Maybe–we–should–get back to your writing and save this other stuff for another time.” The moon light reflects off the blade as it whispers past my face. “Or not.”

RB; “We can talk about my new book after I take care of some personal business, but right now I’ve got to travel.”

“Where are you going Mr. Bachman?”

RB; “Endsville, where all rail service terminates.”

But you can’t leave the unconsecrated graveyard. This is–

RB; “Wrong again old hoss, I can and will be leaving here. So, all you good folks out there keep a weather eye out for my next book it’s going to be a killer.” He let’s loose that sinister laugh again and walks away. His tall hulking form and broad shoulders obscuring the moon light.

“I don’t think he’s a very nice guy. If any of you can reach Stephen King, tell him, the starlings are flying.”

I hope Mr. Bachman returns soon. In the meanwhile I’ll leave you with this quotation from, Stephen King, On Writing.

“Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.”

Write On,

Dave Benneman

http://www.davebenneman.com

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