A Visit from Hunter Shea

Hunter has been a friend since we both were in the initial crop of Samhain Horror authors to debut in 2011. His latest is Tortures of the Damned and he offered to give us all some insight into this latest terrifying treat. Who am I to refuse?


The Real Life Event Behind Tortures of the Damned

by Hunter Shea, Author


Back in late 2013, I spent a lot of time puzzling over the next book I was contracted to write for Pinnacle. The Montauk Monster was getting final edits before its print run in the summer of 2014. I was dead set on spinning an elaborate Bigfoot tale, one that I was sure had never been told before. Hell, I was ready to go travel and do some of my own squatching just to get a feel for things.
All that changed on a cold night in January.
My family was sitting in our living room, watching TV at around 10:30.
Suddenly, three tremendous explosions rocked the house! My first thoughts were – our furnace exploded, someone set off a bomb, or a plane exploded in the sky. The walls and floor literally shook. My kids were terrified, tears brimming in their eyes. I ran outside to see what had happened.
The frigid night air was as still as the calmest winter night. I waited. Neighbors came out to see what had happened. But there was nothing to see. We didn’t even hear a single siren.
Calls to 911 were answered by operators who were inundated by frightened people all across lower New York. We were told that the blast could be heard for a 50 mile radius. We all went to bed not knowing what the hell had happened. Even the news was silent. How was that even possible? When I say it sounded like a plane exploding, I’m not exaggerating.
The next day, the early news said someone had gotten hold of industrial fireworks and set them off in the Bronx. The lot they showed where they’d been set off looked to have zero damage. We’ve been suspicious ever since. In a few days, it slipped from our collective conscious. No one died, so why dwell on it?

There was one casualty. Bigfoot died that night. The fear my family experienced, the total lack of knowing what had happened was the seed for my latest book, Tortures of the Damned.
That night could have been much worse. Tortures of the Damned explores a world where the unthinkable happens when you least expect it. The damned are not the dead. It’s those left behind who are forced to trek through a hell they never saw coming.



You can purchase Tortures of the Damned in mass market paperback at more retail stores nationwide, as well as bookstores, both independent and chain.

You can also buy online at:


Barnes and Noble-

And there’s a giveaway here.



One of Those Milestones

In 4th grade, Pete, one of the cool kids, used to sneak Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine into school under the nuns’ radar. He’d hold court on the playground and boys would gather around for a glimpse of Gamera, Lugosi, and all the cool things our parents wished we would avoid. From cover to cover, I never ceased to be amazed.

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In this month’s FMoF issue, not only is my novel, Q ISLAND, advertised by Samhain Horror Horror, but it is the Editor’s Book Pick for the month. Better yet, it is right alongside a commemorative reissue of Phillip K. Dick, and follows last month’s selection of JG Faherty’s amazing THE CURE. Rare company indeed.

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There is something dumbfounding about being part of this FMoF universe, especially with such a nice write-up.

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This author’s journey has taken me a lot of places I’d never though possible. Today it took me someplace I’d never considered at all. I mean, what’s more amazing than sharing copy space with Godzilla?

More Scary Tales From Catherine Cavendish

Catherine Cavendish writes some wonderful horror stories set in the United Kingdom. She likes to have a real life basis for many of the fictional stories she spins. She joins me here to share some background on her latest novel Dark Avenging Angel, which I loved.

The Legend of Sundel Bolong

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My latest novella – Dark Avenging Angel – is, as its title suggests, concerned with revenge. In this case, revenge of the most demonic kind. We’ve all heard the old adage, “Be careful what you wish for…” Jane learns the truth of this in graphic ways.

Avenging angels and demons abound in the traditions and folklore of people all over the world. One such character is Sundel Bolong and she belongs to Indonesian and Malaysian mythology.

Sundel Bolong is associated with prostitution. This was not a career she chose for herself, but one into which she was forced. She was beautiful, with long, cascading black hair. Just as well really, because this concealed a hole in her back, where she had given birth – in her grave no less. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she did not rest in peace and her ghost roamed the land, targetting men. Any that upset her could expect to find themselves castrated and some versions of this story have her exhibiting distinctly vampirish tendencies.

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She wafted through her undeath in a long, flowing white dress and, when the fancy took her, was able to transform back into human form. She would lure men with her beauty and promise of sexual favours before revealing herself as she truly was – suppurating, maggot-ridden and decayed. The horrified man would have just seconds to reflect on the sins of the flesh before she tore into his body’s most delicate parts. Not once did she relent or show mercy.

The story of the ‘Ghost With a Hole’ was handed down through oral tradition for generations and, along the way, developed multiple variations. These have been exploited in a number of Indonesian films, one of the most famous being Sundel Bolong made in 1981 and starring the late Suzzanna. This film has now taken on legendary – even cult – status.

One thing is for sure, if you are male and find yourself in Malaysia, beware of any beautiful women with long black hair who try and tempt you. You may get far more than you bargained for!

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Now, here’s the blurb for Dark Avenging Angel: 

Don’t hurt Jane. You may live to regret it.

Bullied by her abusive father, Jane always felt different. Then the lonely child found a friend in a mysterious dark lady who offers her protection—a lady she calls her “angel”. But that protection carries a terrible price, one to be paid with the souls of those Jane chooses to suffer a hideous and eternal fate.

When Jane refuses to name another victim, the angel reveals her most terrifying side. Payment must be made in full—one way or the other.


And here’s a brief extract:

Something had woken me from a deep sleep troubled by my recurring nightmare in which I was in a wood, being chased by some unimaginable horror. I never saw its face, assuming it even had one. But I knew if I didn’t find sanctuary, it would kill me. I had just made it into the strange little house that always appeared in the clearing, when my eyes opened and I gasped at the white, smiling face looking down at me.

That night, my angel seemed different somehow.

Oh, she looked the same. Same black cloak, but this time it shimmered and I wanted to touch it. I was sure it would feel soft as velvet under my fingers.

She put her finger to her lips and stroked my hair. Her touch was like a gentle breeze in summertime. My eyes wanted to close, but I forced them to stay open.

I knew I mustn’t speak out loud, but I could still whisper. “I wish I knew your name. Who are you? Please will you tell me?

She continued to smile. Her lips moved, but the answering voice I heard was again in my head. Do not be afraid, child. It is not yet time, but soon you will have the power to avenge yourself on those who have done you harm. Look for me in the shadows and I will be there, taking account.

I understood nothing of what she said. But, from somewhere, a calm I had never felt before emerged and wrapped itself around me.

I blinked in the darkness as she faded from sight.

Then I closed my eyes and slept. I never had that nightmare again after that night. But what if I’d known what was ahead for me?

Some things are better off left in the dark.

You can find Dark Avenging Angel here:


Samhain Publishing

Barnes and Noble 




About the author:

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Following a varied career in sales, advertising and career guidance, Cat is now the full time author of a number of paranormal, ghostly and Gothic horror novels, novellas and short stories. She was the 2013 joint winner of the Samhain Gothic Horror Anthology Competition, with Linden Manor, which features in the anthology What Waits in the Shadows.  Her novels, The Pendle Curse and Saving Grace Devine are also published by Samhain. Her novella – Dark Avenging Angel – will be published on August 4th and her next novel – The Devil’s Serenade – will be released by Samhain in April 2016.

You can connect with Cat here:

Catherine Cavendish






Brian Kirk Talks “Monsters”

I’m visited by Brian Kirk this week, who has a new horror novel out by Samhain Horror called We Are Monsters. It is a great read about things going horrific in an asylum. It is rare that the first Samhain title from an author is this strong. I met him at World Horror Con and he’s a great guy. Everyone needs to download a copy of this book today.

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Hi Russell. Thanks for having me on your site. Very kind of you, my friend. You asked me to talk a bit about what inspired my debut novel, We Are Monsters. Well, like many works of fiction, this one was inspired, in part, by psychedelic drugs.

In this case, by the most potent psychedelic chemical known to mankind: dimethyltryptamine, more commonly known as, DMT.

Most fans of horror fiction are familiar with altered states. But, for the uninitiated, DMT is a chemical that exists in most all living creatures, including us. It is presumed to be produced by the pineal gland and released during REM sleep and moments of extreme duress, such as at the time of death.

It may be what causes us to dream, and be responsible for what we see when we die. Some consider it to be the doorway through which our souls enter and depart our bodies (if you believe in such things).

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 A representation of someone under the influence of DMT.

When concentrated doses of DMT are consumed, either injected or smoked, the drug produces a 5 to 10 minute hallucinatory experience whereby people often report having their perceptual filters stripped away allowing them to view the underlying fabric of reality.

People also report visiting, what they believe to be, alternate dimensions where they establish contact with alien entities. These reports come from government funded clinical studies comprised of serious, sober individuals. Or so we’re told.

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 An artistic rendition of the DMT realm.

In We Are Monsters, a troubled, yet brilliant psychiatrist is experimenting with a derivative of DMT to see what effect it has on people suffering from schizophrenia. At first, the drug he creates shows great promise in alleviating his patient’s symptoms. It appears to return schizophrenics to their former selves. But (as you may imagine) something goes wrong. Unforeseen side effects begin to emerge, forcing prior traumas to the surface, setting inner demons free. His medicine may help heal the schizophrenic mind, but it also expands it, and the monsters it releases could be more dangerous than the disease.

One’s immediate reaction upon reading this may reasonably be, “Why the heck would anyone give someone with mental health issues an hallucinatory drug?”

While I’m certainly not advocating doing this, it’s not nearly as far-fetched as it may sound. There has been a huge resurgence in the research of psychedelic chemicals. And many of these tests are showing these compounds to have several therapeutic properties, particularly in the field of psychotherapy. While it may sound counterintuitive, these psychedelic compounds have proven effective in the treatment of a variety of mental ailments, such as chronic anxiety, depression, PTSD, OCD, and even schizophrenia.

The truth is that we don’t properly understand what causes altered states of consciousness, be it in someone suffering with schizophrenia or someone ingesting DMT. But there appears to be a biological purpose for it, otherwise it wouldn’t exist in nature, and our brains wouldn’t be designed to interact with them in the way that they are. Or, in the case of DMT, to produce it and release it into our system.

I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of altered states of consciousness, and am intrigued by the latest research being conducted in the fields of psychotherapy. What if, not too far from now, you go to see a psychiatrist and leave with a prescription to LSD? That would redefine the phrase, “Take two of these and call me in the morning.”

This general interest helped inspire the drama that unfolds in my debut novel, We Are Monsters. Probably not what you were expecting to hear, huh?

Thanks again for having me. Anyone interested in checking out my book can order a copy here.

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/We-Are-Monsters-Brian-Kirk-ebook/dp/B00VNK4PL6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434397972&sr=8-1&keywords=we+are+monsters

And for anyone interested in striking up a virtual friendship, please connect with me through one of the following channels. Don’t worry. I only kill my characters.

Website: http://briankirkblog.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brian_Kirk

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/brian.kirk13

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5142176.Brian_Kirk

A Work in Progress

This Work in Progress is called The Portal. In it, Satan returns to a small island town in Long Island Sound to use an enchanted portal to permanently open the doorway between our reality and Hell. Here’s how the whole thing starts, back in 1716.


At minutes before midnight, five matches flared in the darkness, and then five tallow candles flickered to life.

The dim, yellow flames illuminated a large circle etched into the drafty barn’s dirt floor. The circle encompassed two triangles, one inverted upon the other, all six sides radically concave. An upside down wooden cross impaled the ground at the star’s center. The musty air smelled of dried dung.

Five girls carried their candles to their designated points on the circle. Providence Neely’s wick’s amber glow lit her face, that brimmed with anticipation. In moments, Mr. Blackwell, agent from the East India Company, would fulfill his promise, and whisk her and the others on a journey to a place far away, where sermons did not fill each Sunday, where drink and dance were not forbidden. They would exercise control over all creatures that walked the earth, and they would be forever young.

Beside her, Sarah Rogers giggled. Providence stopped herself from slapping the stupid girl. If Sarah’s barn had not been the place the East India Man had selected for the ritual, Providence would have never let the silly, freckled girl into the group. One of the other girls shushed Sarah.

Thoughts of Mr. Blackwell swirled in Providence’s head. Though stout and bald, he was somehow captivating. His presence set a fire between her legs she’d never felt before, a fire he promised in private to quench, after the girls opened the portal to the magic place beyond.

“This is the time,” Providence began, “and this is the place Mr. Blackwell chose. Are you ready to commit yourselves to his service?”

“Yes, we are ready,” the girls answered together.

“Are you prepared for the Cleansing,” she asked, “to strip away the impurities heaped upon you by the church and your families?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Then clear your minds.”

Providence went to the rear of the barn. On the ground lay a burlap sack adorned with the gold twin-lion crest of the East India Company. She knelt, opened it, and slid out the Portal, a disk three feet across, carved in thick, polished cherry. The symbol from the barn floor covered the center, inlaid in actual gold. Each triangle point hosted a picture of a strange, unrecognizable creature. Mr. Blackwell had taken her to find it, washed up on the shore outside Stone Harbor. Its arrival was a mystery, Mr. Blackwell’s refusal to touch it even more so. He explained this was the door to his kingdom, and the girls were the key to unlock it.

The far doors to the barn swung open. A mob of men with blazing torches charged in. The girls screamed. The torches’ flames overpowered the candles’ dim light and the girls squinted against the sudden brightness.

Providence gritted her teeth at the sight of the Stone Harbor elders. The men were armed, two with muskets, the rest with knives, pitchforks, one a rusty whaling spear. Reverend Snow, the aged, scrawny windbag, led the pack, ever-present Bible clasped against his chest. His eyes burned with his usual self-righteous fire.

“There!” He pointed his bony finger at the cowering girls and their flickering candles. “Just as I warned you! Witchcraft afoot in Stone Harbor!”

Providence doused her candle and ducked into the shadow. She shoved the Portal back into the burlap sack and pulled it over to her feet.

Sarah’s father muscled his way to the front of the group. His hard, angry face melted into shocked disbelief as he recognized his daughter at the strange symbol in the dirt.

“Sarah? How…how could you…?”

Sarah dropped her candle and scrambled over to her father’s feet. She wrapped her arms around his legs. Her face, white with fear, turned up to face his.

“Father, it wasn’t me!” she implored. “’Twas the East India Man. He bewitched us.”

“Did I not warn you all?” Reverend Snow said. “That man’s promises to make us a great seaport were falsehoods.”

“We are but his pawns,” Sarah said, “surely compelled we are, by him and by Providence.”

Providence wanted to beat the whiny weakling with the Portal. Sara had never been worthy of following Mr. Blackwell.

“Providence is here?” Reverend Snow said.

“She’s the full witch,” Sarah said. “Not me. She rides a broomstick and speaks black magic to cats.”

Providence knew that pack of lies would earn her a perfunctory trial and a death by pressing. She needed to get out of here now. She grasped the sack to her chest and stole out the rear door and into the night.

A blast of cold wind off the harbor whipped her long skirt around her legs. She clenched the heavy sack tight and ran for the sheep pasture. Behind her, torches lit the night as some of the elders left the barn.

In spite of her pounding heart, she tried to think clearly. Above the other four girls, Mr. Blackwell had entrusted her with the Portal, and with special instructions for its care. Should the Cleansing be unfinished, she had to hide it, to keep it out of the hands of the Reverend and the others. Mr. Blackwell promised to keep her under his protection forever if she would protect the Portal.

She crossed the pasture at a run. Bleating sheep scattered ahead of her. As the sheep’s cries rolled down toward the barn, the clamor of men’s voices echoed back in reply.

“She’s up there!”

“Grab her, brother! Use care for her spells!”

She cut right and entered the forest. The autumn’s bare branches reached for her like goblin hands from the darkness, each revealing itself a split-second before ensnaring her. She ducked and weaved, but one branch snagged and ripped her blouse. Then another whipped against her cheek and drew blood. From behind her came the sound of men charging across the pasture. Their voices grew louder as they closed on the forest.

Her heart seemed about to burst, her leg muscles burned. The Portal felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. She sagged against a tree, and scanned the forest for a hiding place.

Starlight lit a large, flat piece of shale amongst the fallen oak leaves. She stumbled over, dropped the sack beside the rock, and fell to her knees. Her hands shook as she grabbed the stone’s sharp corner and pulled with all her strength. The stone yielded and revealed a patch of soft, brown earth. With her bare hands, she attacked the ground. Her nails split and tore as she dug through roots and rocks. She scraped a shallow grave for the Portal.

Sheep again bleated a warning. Torches flickered at the forest’s edge. She tossed the sack in the hole. It was just deep enough. She grabbed the rock, and heaved it back over the exposed earth. It landed with a sharp crack. The edge of the stone shattered, leaving a jagged border along one side. She kicked the soggy leaves back over the rock. Trickles of icy sweat ran down her face. She stood and raised her chin in triumph.

I did it, she thought. I saved the Portal. Its resting place shall never pass my lips. My East India man will shield me from their torments. Even if they capture me, no stones will crush my chest. Mr. Blackwell will rescue me. I know he will.

Leaves rustled at her feet. A flash of tan and copper lunged at her leg. Twin spikes of pain lanced her calf as a copperhead snake clamped on her calf. She dropped to one knee with a scream. The snake released her, slithered off, and coiled a few feet away.

Her leg went numb. Panic surged within her. She knew that many had died of copperhead snakebite. But didn’t snakes slumber this late in the fall?

The heavy shuffle of a dozen feet through the detritus of the forest floor came closer. Torches bobbed between the thick tree trunks. The voices grew louder, but the words less distinct as the poison made Providence’s head spin.

What grievous fate befalls me? Providence thought. How can this happen? All he asked, I have done.

She collapsed to the ground. All around her went dark. Her last breath passed her lips, and she wondered why her East India man had not protected her.


A little higher on the hill, Mr. Blackwell, as he called himself this time, stood in the shadow of a great glacial boulder. A broad black hat shielded the stocky man’s face from the cold, only his chin and black goatee poked out from its shadow.

With a sweeping hand gesture, he sent the copperhead retreating into the woods to return to its interrupted hibernation. Blackwell was indeed there to protect, just not to protect poor Providence.

This window of opportunity had closed. But the Portal lay safe. He’d be back in a few hundred years. Immortality bred amazing patience.

The rest coming soon. Somewhere. I hope.