Brian James Lane's Blog

 

Here's to creatures that roam in the night,To witches that take on their eerie flight,To ghouls and goblins, shadows and frights,May their spirits be dark and flowing tonight.On this Halloween, may we raise our glass,To stories that linger, and nightmares that last.Sláinte to the fear and the thrill we adore,From this world to the next, and forevermore!

"Claw & Gore-der" Opening Segment:

In the creature justice system,monsters are represented by two separate yet equally important groups—thelycanthropic cops who investigate crime and the vampiristic attorneys whoprosecute the offenders. These are their stories.

Central Crypt Park - Midnight

The fogrolled thick over Central Crypt Park, shrouding the towering skeletal trees. Loomingshadows fell across the cobblestone path. A pair of ghouls, Slackjaw and Ghoulbert,shuffled through the darkness. Their red eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight.

“Ghoulbert,you hear that?” Slackjaw muttered, pausing as a low groan echoed through themist.

“Probablyjust the wind,” Ghoulbert grunted, dragging his clawed feet along the ground.“Or maybe the banshees are at it again.”

As theyrounded the bend, the source of the sound came into view—something crumpledagainst the base of a twisted oak. Slackjaw sniffed the air, his nostrilsflaring.

“Thatain’t no banshee,” he said, stepping closer.

Ghoulbertjoined him, peering down at the figure. The creature was motionless, its furmatted with blood, eyes glassy and lifeless.

“Holyhell, Slackjaw,” Ghoulbert whispered, his voice trembling. “That’s a werewolf…and he’s been shredded.”

Slackjaw'sface twisted in a snarl. “We gotta call someone.”

Crime Scene – 1:32 am

Detective WrecksLupin, a grizzled werewolf with silver fur and a permanent scowl, surveyed thescene. His partner, Officer Snarl Threadbare, hovered nearby. His predatorylupine eyes scanned the ground.

“Lookslike whoever did this wanted to send a message,” Wrecks growled, crouchingbeside the body.

“More likerip out a page from a horror novel,” Threadbare replied. “This isn’t just anywerewolf. This is Viktor Shadowclaw, pack leader of the West Howlers.”

Wrecks’sears twitched at the name. “This is gonna spark a full-on turf war if we don’tfind the monster who did this.”

OfficerKrustrattle lumbered over with a small evidence bag. Inside was a small clumpof scales.

“Foundthis on the vic’s throat,” Krustrattle said in his deep, rumbling voice.

Wreckstook the bag, examining the scales closely. His expression darkened. “Thisain’t no ordinary murder. This was supposed to look like a werewolf on werewolfcrime. I ain’t so sure.”

Office of Bella Donna, VampireProsecutor, the next night, 10:17 pm, winds from the south-southwest

Bella Donna,a sharp-dressed vampire with piercing blue eyes and a voice smooth as velvet,leaned back in her chair as Wrecks and Threadbare briefed her on the situation.

“Awerewolf pack leader, torn apart in the middle of Central Crypt Park,” Wreckssaid. “And we’ve got a bunch of scales that don’t match any known perps onfile.”

Bellasteepled her fingers. Her fangs gleamed as she spoke. “This goes beyond simplemurder. Whoever did this knew exactly who they were targeting. We need to findout who, and fast, before the packs start tearing each other apart.”

“I’ve gotmy team working around the clock,” Wrecks replied. “But if this is what I thinkit is, we’re dealing with something, or someone, far more dangerous than we’veever seen.”

Bella’s eyesnarrowed. “Then let’s make sure we’re prepared. I’ll get a warrant for everysupernatural enclave in the city. You just get me a reason.”

As Wrecksand Threadbare turned to leave, Bella’s voice cut through the silence. “And Wrecks…watch your back. If they’re bold enough to go after a pack leader, no one’ssafe.”

Wrecksnodded, “Don’t worry, Ms. Donna. We’ll find them.”

Nosferatune’s Lair, 11:52 pm, humidity 36%, the moon is in Scorpio

The neonsign outside the nightclub flickered intermittently. It was a place where theundead and the undying could unwind. Inside, the bass thumped like a heartbeat,vibrating through the very bones of the club’s patrons (some of which didn’thave much flesh to speak of).

DetectivesWrecks and Threadbare pushed through the entrance. Wrecks pushed throughthrongs of the monsters milling through the dance floor. Threadbare sniffed theair, his senses sharp as ever. He growled under his breath, which was drownedout by the blaring music.

“Thisplace smells like trouble,” Threadbare muttered.

“I’llsay,” Wreck replied, “And not just those stinkin’ zombies.”

The clubwas packed with a motley crew of creatures of the night. A DJ spun a vinylrecord with talon-like fingers with his pale face lit by the pulsing strobes.On the dance floor, a mummy twirled, her bandages fluttering in the artificialbreeze caused by large fans in the ceiling. By the bar, a ghoul sipped from aglass of something dark and thick.

Threadbarenudged Wrecks, nodding toward a shadowy figure slinking through the crowd. Theyrecognized her instantly from the length rap sheet at the station. She was aghoul named Moribund Holes who was notorious for her grave-robbing sidebusiness. The detectives weren't sure if she was connected to the recentmonstercide, but she might have heard about it. Wrecks nodded, signaling theyshould question her.

“Let’s notspook her,” Threadbare whispered gruffly.

“Spooking’skinda our thing,” Threadbare replied with a mouth full of sharp teeth.

They wovethrough the throng towards their suspect. Salem Hex watched them from a cornerbooth, her black cat perched on her shoulder. Her eyes gleaming in the darkness.Salem was a reliable source, but they would have to circle back to her in abit. Moribund would not stay there long.

Finally,they reached Moribund. She turned slowly, her eyes glinting with somethingbetween curiosity and contempt. “Detectives,” she purred, “What brings you tomy lair?”

“We justhave a few questions,” Wreck started.

Before hecould say more, a clatter erupted from the other side of the club. A barstool crashednoisily to the floor.

All headsturned as Glum Hackavitch bolted from his seat after spotting the detective,also known as a repeat offender by the detectives. His black trench coatflapped behind him as he sprinted for the exit. The fellow was quick for a gill-man.

“Scales,Wrecks! That’s our guy!” Threadbare barked, already giving chase.

Wrecksgroaned inwardly. The chase was cliché and predictable. They pushed through thecrowd, knocking aside a few zombies who grumbled in protest. Other monsters hadsense enough to jump out of the way.

GlumHackavitch was fast, but Threadbare was faster. His wolfish agility propelling himforward at a predatory run. He leaped onto the stage, diving off the edge toblock Hackavitch’s path.

But GlumHackavitch was desperate. He veered sharply, heading for the club’s back door. Thegill-man was out in the dark before the detectives could stop him.

The backalley was a foreboding tunnel that seemed to swallow sound. Hackavitch had gonesilent, hoping to evade pursuit. Threadbare was right on his tail, though, andsniffed eagerly for the scent. Wrecks, despite his less-than-athletic build,wasn’t far behind.

Threadbaresnarled as he found the scent. He pointed to a dumpster. As the detectiveswalked towards it, Glum Hackavitch’s fin claws echoed against the pavement as he bolted.The alley was a dead with no escape. The full moon hung low in the sky, castinglong shadows that seemed to point the way to their pursuit.

Just as Hackavitchreached the end of the alley, a brick wall looming before him. Threadbare tackledhim to the ground. He struggled, but the werewolf’s strength was too much. Wreckscaught up, panting with his long werewolf tongue. He was out of shape and thiswas a reminder to eat less furry treats.

“Goingsomewhere?” Threadbare growled, baring his teeth.

Hackavitch’seyes darted around. The gill-man was desperate, but there was no way out. Hewas caught. Threadbare held the slimy aquatic monster to the ground as Wreckscuffed the creature.

Threadbaretightened his grip, pulling Hackavitch to his feet. “Listen up, Glum,” Threadbaregrowled, “You have the right to remain inhuman. Anything you moan, groan, orhowl can and will be used against you in a court of claws.”

Wrecks nodded,leading the gill-man to the squad car.

“You havethe right to a witch, warlock, or other supernatural counsel. If you cannotsummon one, the underworld will provide one for you (though I wouldn’trecommend it).”

Threadbare’svoice dropped to a menacing whisper. “And you have the right to remain silent…but we both know, in the end, you’ll spill your guts. Figuratively orliterally.”

Hackavitch’sgills fluttered spastically. Panic crept into his fishy veins. The gill-ma knewthere was no escaping the inevitable.

“Do youunderstand your frights as they’ve been recited to you?” Threabare asked.

Hackavitchgave a reluctant nod, knowing all too well that in the world of Claw &Gore-der, the monsters who don’t play by the rules always end up six feet under(or worse).

Thedetectives knew this was just the beginning. Now, it was up to the districtattorney to prosecute the case. Wrecks smiled, knowing Bella Donna’s convictionrate. Glum Hackavitch would pay for his crimes. His fish was fried.

 

Imposter Syndrome©2024 by Brian James Lane 

    The rain poured down in sheets. It was relentless and cold, a fitting backdrop forthe night's macabre promise. Nestled deep within the woods, the small town of Willow Creek was his hunting ground. It was the sort of place where nothing much ever happened—untiltonight. The blissfully ignorant townsfolk were tuckedaway in their homes, the assumed. He would change all that, he knew. 

    He stood at the edge of the woods just beyond the reach of porchlight. He stood visible, nonetheless. Though he was a dark figure, he was cloaked in a bright yellow raincoat that sheened with nearly a light of its own. It wasn’t hisfirst choice, of course. No, he had always imagined himself wearing somethingmore ominous—perhaps a mask like the one that Michael Myers wore, or a hockeyone like Jason’s. But the raincoat had been a spur-of-the-moment decision,plucked from the remnants of a forgotten attic after his escape from the asylum for the criminally insane. It was his signature, his identifying trademark, and he hated it. He had to commit now, though, as he was already in the papers as having escaped wearing yellow abomination. "The Raincoat Maniac" they had called it. Even the name was lame.

    The killer had beenstalking the town for weeks. He watched from the shadows, studying potential victims. He waited for the right moment to strike. Perhaps an identifying holiday like a Friday the 13th or Halloween. But as each day passed, he couldn’tshake the nagging doubt that gnawed at his mind. He was no Michael Myers. Hewas no Jason Voorhees. He was just… him. He decided just to go with the autumnal season by pure default.

    In the time planning his homicidal attack, he had started to notice the little things. The details set the reallegends apart. Myers had that slow, methodical walk. He put out an air of indifference like a force of nature. Jason had the unstoppable, inhuman strength, the sheer force that made you believe he could never be killed. But what did he have? Araincoat and a sense of inadequacy.

    He had tried to model himself after them, mimicking their movements, theireerie silence, their unrelenting pursuit. It never felt right, though. He felt clumsy, unsure. Every time hecaught a glimpse of himself in a puddle or a broken mirror, all he could seewas a sad imitation—a man playing dress-up in a world where the real monsterswere legends. A sad imitation, just like that pathetic Scream killer. How incredibly stupid was that?

    Tonight was supposed to be different. He had planned it all out,meticulously. There was a group of teenagers, perfect fodder for a killer likehim. They had snuck out to the old abandoned house on the outskirts of town. It was the kind of place where horrors were supposed to happen. He had followed them,careful to stay out of sight, and waited for the right moment. But as heapproached the house, his nerves got the better of him.

    What if they didn’t take him seriously? What if they laughed at him, at hisridiculous yellow raincoat? The thought was almost too much to bear. He couldfeel the familiar panic rising in his chest, that crushing sense of inadequacythat had plagued him his whole life, even before he became… this. The Raincoat Maniac. At least the name was better than "Ghostface". A little, anyway.

    He stood outside the house. His breath came in short, panicked gasps.Inside, he could hear the teens laughing. They were oblivious to the danger that lurkedjust outside their door. He should have felt powerful, in control. Instead, allhe could feel was doubt. He wasn’t like Myers or Voorhees. He wasn’t a force ofnature, an unstoppable killing machine. He was just a man—a man with a raincoatand a hunting knife. Nothing more.

    But he had come this far. He couldn’t back out now. With a shaky hand, hereached for the door. The cold metal of the knob sent a chill through hissystem. He turned it slowly, the creak of the door echoing through the emptyhallways of the house. The laughter inside faltered. The unknown had replaced the levity with a tensesilence. They knew something was wrong. They could feel it, that primalinstinct that told them they were no longer alone.

    He stepped inside, his rain-soaked boots leaving muddy prints on the wornfloorboards. The house was dark, save for the flickering light of a singlecandle. It cast long, sinister shadows across the walls. He could hear their whispers,their frantic breaths. They were scared. That was good. That was how it wassupposed to be.

    Unbeknownst to the killer, a voyeur was watching the group from the opposite side of the cabin, his nose fogging the glass from the outside as he stood in the crumpled azaleas. A potential witness to the horror that The Raincoat Maniac would unleash.

    The killer moved through the house, the knifeclutched tightly in his hand. He found them in the living room, huddledtogether. Upon seeing him, they didn't laugh. Instead, their eyes were wide with fear. For a moment, he felt that surge of power that the greats must have felt. But then one the girls let out a nervous giggle. It all came crashing down.

    They weren’t afraid of him. Not really. They were afraid of the idea of him,of what he was trying to be. But him, the man in the yellow raincoat? He was ajoke. An imposter. He was never going to be a Myers or a Voorhees. He was not even going to be a lame Ghostface.

    Rage boiled up inside him, a bitter, seething anger that had been buildingfor years. He lashed out, the knife slashing through the air. It cut throughflesh and bone. The room filled with screams. The sickening sound of metalon flesh reverberated through the halls of the old cabin, but all he could hear was that laugh—that mocking, pitiful laugh.

    When it was over, he stood in the center of the room. The blood-soaked knifehanging limply at his side. The bodies lay around him, twisted and lifeless. The thrill and satisfaction he had hoped for never came. All he felt was insecurity.

    He turned and left the carnage behind. The rainhad stopped, the night air cool and still. He looked down at his raincoat, nowsplattered with blood, and felt a wave of disgust. He ripped it off, throwingit into the mud, and walked away into the darkness.

    He would never be like them. He would never be a legend. He was just a man,an imposter, playing a role that he would never truly fit. As he disappearedinto the night, he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone would even remember him. Would he simply fade away, another failed imitation in a world full ofreal monsters.

    As the killer disappeared, the voyeur emerged from shadow. He walked up and grabbed the raincoat, trying it on for size. Now, he would make them pay for always excluding him, the voyeur considered.

 The Porch Swing

©2024 by Brian James Lane

It was an early, cool October evening. I shivered asI knew the first frost of the year would soon kiss the crisp autumn night itsgreeting. I could feel the change in the air. The leaves had begun their danceof crimson and gold, swirling around the entryway steps blown by a gatheringbreeze. The pumpkin on my porch glowed warmly; its toothy grin flickered in thesoft light of the setting sun as if grinning towards the coming nightfall.

I had just settled into my old weathered porchswing. It creaked with a contented sigh when I eased into it. I was about toopen my notebook to scribble down a few more lines of my latest story when I sawtiny, hesitant ghost on the sidewalk near my mailbox. Or at least a youngsterwearing the nearest approximation of a ghostly veil they could find. Icertainly did not expect such an early trick-or-treater.

This was still a time when the young were safe towalk the streets at night, so I was not so shocked to see that the child wasnot accompanied by an adult. My front door never locked in such a place. It wasa good neighborhood where people were kind and crime had not yet spilled overfrom the distant metropolis.

I beckoned to the figure shrouded in a ghostly sheetwith holes cut out for eyes to come forth. The child looked over at me andcocked their head to the side, slightly. There was a hint of that bravery onlythe very young possess.

“Well, hello there,” I said, “I wasn’t expectingvisitors so soon. I see you’ve come prepared with the right attire, though, so howcan I refuse?”

A high-pitched, fervent reply filtered out frombeneath the sheet. “I know it’s early, but I wanted to be the first to hear thescary stories.”

I chuckled, for it wasn’t often that an author hadthe pleasure of hosting such an eager little listener. “Why, you’re just intime. I was about to sit on this very porch swing write down such nightmares.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the ghost clamberedup onto the swing beside me. I scooted over a bit to give the child room,though they barely needed it. Up close, the youngster was so tiny.

“We begin our stories knowing that words havepower. Once a scary story is born on an October night such as this, it remainsin the air and continues to haunt for many seasons to come.”

“And the first to hear it gives it life,” added thechild.

I smiled broadly. The neighborhood children knew ofsuch legend. I was only so happy to propagate such myth.

As we settled into the swing, I began with a storyabout the old oak tree at the edge of town. The gnarled lifeless thing had seenmore than its share of strange happenings. It was an object of marvel,inspiring it as both landmark and one of solemn reverence. I spoke of a timewhen the tree was still alive. The falling October leaves spoke in whispers. Itrevealed secrets buried deep within the soil. The ghost listened intently. Thechild’s eyes widened appreciatively as they reflected the glow of the candle inthe pumpkin.

Next, I wove a tale of the wandering lantern thatdrifted through the midnight mist. It guided lost souls to a forgottengraveyard, long since lost to the ravages of time and progress. The littleghost squirmed with delight. I could see the spark of imagination dancingbehind their eyes.

More stories followed. I told of vampires,werewolves, ghouls, of monsters, and even of distant galaxies. The porch swingcreaked and rocked as we travelled through the tales. The night had come. Thebreeze carried the scent of autumn leaves and distant fireplaces fending offthe cold.

Soon, the tales extinguished like smoldering ash ina dying fire. Stars began to peek through the velvet curtain of night. I drewquiet to signal the end. The child sighed softly. The reluctance to leave waspalpable.

“Surely, your parents might grow worried. It’s timeto go back,” I urged.

“Yeah, I guess so. My mom visits, sometimes,”whispered the youngster.

I frowned, realizing the child’s mother and fatherwere no longer together. I tried to soothe the tiny one. “I see. She must loveyou very much. How often does she visit?”

“She makes it into town whenever she can to visitmy grave. More around this time of year, for that’s when I left,” admitted thechild.

A chill ran down my spine, but I quickly recovered.After all, it wasn’t the first time I had met the supernatural. I smiled.

The ghost hopped off the porch swing, sending itrocking back and forth. It turned and nodded in gratitude. I waved a heartfelt farewell.

It began to walk away. I called out, “You arewelcome to come back again. Any time you like. There are always more stories totell.”

“Thank you. Next year, I’ll come back,” it replied.

It left then behind a trail of shimmering moonlightand the sweet, fleeting echo of childhood wonder. It disappeared before it hitthe perimeter of light cast by my sole Jack-o’-lantern. I sighed, wondering howlong since the child had died.

I settled back into the swing, feeling the familiargentle squeak beneath me. The autumn night spoke the assurance of more storiesyet unborn. I knew that as long as the porch swing creaked and the pumpkinsglowed, the magic of storytelling would never truly end.

I closed my eyes to let the night envelop me. Thecrickets chirped very slowly. Soon, their song would be gone entirely. I heardthe breeze carry leaves to the neighbors where I would not have to rake themand I grinned mischievously. I inhaled the wonderful seasonal aroma, inspiredby my ghostly visitor and the onset of another delightful Halloween season.

 It’s the Great Pumpkin, H.P.Lovecraft!

©2024 by Brian James Lane

Amid the wearisome toil of the library’s archives inthe year of our Lord 1966, I was appointed to an unsettling task—a meticuloussurvey of ancient and obscure boxes unearthed in the forgotten recesses of theMiskatonic University Library’s newly reopened annex. Formerly consigned todust and decay, this forsaken domain resurrected to accommodate theever-expanding accumulations of knowledge. It yielded something far moresinister than mere forgotten manuscripts.

As I ventured into the dimly illuminated chamber,the oppressive atmosphere seemed to press heavily upon my chest. Thick fetidodor of decay and disuse clung to me as I proceeded with my grim duty. Themusty smell of mold and age—old parchment birthed a malady of sorrow. There,behind the splintered wooden doors of a small, dismal office, I encountered acollection of wooden storage boxes whose very presence exuded an aura ofmalignant purpose.

The office itself was a relic of a bygone era, itswalls adorned with faded ornate wallpaper etched with inexplicable geometriesthat seemed to writhe and pulsate in the flickering light. Adorned with arcane symbolsand otherworldly runes, the boxes spoke of forgotten rites and forbidden eldritchpractices. It was amidst these recondite artifacts that I found the heart of mydiscovery—two objects of unutterable strangeness with their formsincomprehensible to mortal understanding.

These artifacts were more than mere physicalobjects; they were the withered and near-spent bodies of entities yielding a profoundand insidious nature. These were ancient gods of devastation and malaise—theold ones. I observed them with growing unease as they radiated an unsettlingluminescence in unnatural hues of blues and greens. Their pulsations formed adisquieting rhythm that suggested an ancient, unspeakable connection to timeimmemorial. The corpses bound the beings within the confines of a whollyotherworldly prison. They awaited my next deed.

The terror intensified as I delved into the crumblingtexts associated with these artifacts. They revealed a horrifying truth—theentities were not mere spirits of the void but malevolent beings intent ontranscending their spectral confines. Arcane mystery shrouded their ultimategoal. This was to consummate a vile union, thereby spawning progeny that wouldbreach the veil between their ethereal realm and the physical world. Thisabominable progeny was to be born from an unlikely vessel—a pumpkin, not justany pumpkin, but one cultivated in the most sincere of seasonal patches. Onlyin such a pumpkin patch would the malevolent spawn find its true vessel andemerge into our world.

As weeks passed, an insidious malaise pervaded theannex. Strange phenomena became frequent—eerie whispers in the darkness,spectral apparitions flitting at the periphery of vision, and an ever-presentchill that seemed to sap the vitality from the living. Whilst perusing theaccursed manuscripts on one such ominous evening, I unearthed the full extentof the impending horror.

I translated tomes in a tongue long dead throughinexplicable insight, drawing upon sinister forces through ritual and malignmagic. I performed the dark arts and the veil between the worlds thinned on theverge of the season’s most solemn celebration. I had convinced myself it was ofmy own doing, yet I knew that there were other influences scheming against me.

The knowledge of such a calamity drove me tofrantic measures. In an effort to thwart this abominable convergence, I soughtto sever the arcane link between the entities and their intended fruity womb. Thevery fabric of reality seemed to resist; it was as if the office itself wereconspiring to aid the malevolent entities in their dark design. I was the solevoice of reason, yet I feared my sanity long gone.

I engaged in the final, desperate rite one fatefulnight to contain the malevolent entities. I resolved to imprison them within aneven more improbable vessel—the seed of a pumpkin instead of a full-grown gourd.The night air was thick with an eerie energy as I cast the incantationsnecessary to transfer the beings into this frail vessel with the desperate hopethat their malignant essence could be subdued within the confines of such amundane object. The office was engulfed in a wave of unearthly energy eruptingfrom the artifacts. The walls seemed to close in, warping and twisting underthe strain of the entities’ burgeoning power. The very essence of realityseemed to bend as the grotesque, eldritch forms of the beings slithered andwrithed with malevolence that defied human understanding.

In the midst of this nightmarish struggle, I foughtwith all my strength to contain the horrors and directed the final vestiges ofmy otherworldly incantations into the pumpkin seed. The beings writhed againstthe confines of the kernel, which fought wildly in my grasp. The strugglereached its zenith and soon the germ stilled. I buried it in a potter’s fieldspeaking a cleansing ceremony that was more of an apology to God than ofnecessity or function.

Unbeknownst to me, the seed grew and formed a patchof pumpkins. It was to be a glorious harvest of orange fruit like none seenbefore. There, under the light of a full Halloween moon, an unlikely group arrived.They were bent on summoning the beast, drawn by the earnestness of vibrant andunfettered growth.

A young boy and even younger girl shivered in thecold night. The duo awaited the arrival of the insidious offspring. Nearby, abeagle howled an eerie summoning call. There, in the most sincere of pumpkinpatches, it arose. They watched in silent horror as the Great Pumpkin, emergingfrom the biggest pumpkin in the patch’s hallowed ground, burst forth into theHalloween eve. The grotesque spawn emerged into the autumnal twilight without somuch as a promise of tricks or treats.

Thus, without the full knowledge of my error, Itook the malignant collections I exposed and buried them in the hidden alcoveof a wall amid in the annals of forgotten history. I hoped my experience wouldmerely remain a stark reminder of the ancient horrors that slumber just beyondthe veil of human understanding, awaiting the opportune moment to unleash theirdarkness upon the world. Yet, I feared, I was too late in my conspiracy.

 

 

    The marketing arrival of autumn (just after back to school sales havefaltered and discounting the mega-marts that skip the Halloween season in favor of Christmas revenue generation starting in August) has arrived. In its wake is an artificial flavoring ubiquitous toevery coffee shop, grocery store, and candle aisle. Yes, it is the orange-huedshrine to the almighty dollar pumpkin. But not just any pumpkin—oh no.We’re talking about the saccharine, artificial, pumpkin-flavored impostor thathas hijacked our beloved season. Welcome to the era of “Pumpkin, Ad Nauseam.”

    Once upon a time, autumn was aboutmore than just this squashy invasion. It was a season of nostalgia, ofgathering around the bonfire, of carving jack-o'-lanterns with giddyanticipation, and of course, the thrill of Halloween. The real spirit of fallwas in the stories we told, the costumes we wore, and the sense of wonder andmischief. Somewhere along the line, things went awry.

    It probably started innocuouslyenough—maybe with a simple pumpkin pie or a classic pumpkin ale. Harmless,really. But then, the marketers saw an opportunity, and like a ravenous hordeof ghouls, they descended upon it. They churned out pumpkin-flavored lattes,pumpkin-spiced muffins, pumpkin-scented candles, and even pumpkin-flavored dogtreats. And that was just the beginning.

    Before we knew it, the pumpkin spicejuggernaut had overtaken everything. Pancakes, pasta sauces, cereals, chewinggum—nothing was safe from this orange menace. And let’s not forget thecountless pumpkin-themed products that have absolutely no business beingassociated with pumpkins. Pumpkin spice deodorant. How aboutpumpkin-flavored toothpaste? It’s as if autumn itself has been swallowed wholeby this corporate concoction.

    But what really grinds my gears ishow this faux-pumpkin frenzy mocks the true sentiment of the season. Autumn isnot a flavor; it’s a feeling. It’s that quiet melancholy as the days growshorter, the thrill of seeing the first Halloween decorations appear in theneighborhood, the warmth of a cozy sweater, and the chill that runs down yourspine when you watch a good horror movie on a chilly October night. It’s the timeof year when the veil between worlds grows thin, and we revel in the mysteryand magic of it all.

    And yet, here we are, drowning in asea of insincere pumpkin-flavored everything, all while the true spirit of fallgets diluted in artificial sweeteners and syrupy lattes. It’s as if the essenceof the season has been bottled, spiced, and mass-produced to the point ofabsurdity. The autumn we once cherished has been transformed into a kitschy,over-commercialized parody of itself, where the smell of fake pumpkinspermeates every corner of our lives.

    So, here’s to the real autumn—theone that exists beyond the pumpkin-flavored mania. Remember the traditions thatmake this season special, the stories that give it depth, and the simple joysthat can’t be captured in a flavor. Because when it comes to fall, I’ll take awalk in a leaf-strewn forest or a night by the fire over a pumpkin-flavoredmonstrosity any day. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’ll take a pumpkin spiced latteif you’re buying.

 Summer, Slowly Dying.

In the twilight’s sigh where the sun begins to fade,

There’s a figure with a shadow in the heat of the charade.

He walks through the golden haze where the summer dreams decay,

As the sun dips low into the night’s velvet sway.

Summer, slowly dying, in the whispers of the night,

Where the creeping shadows dance in the fading light.

Summer, slowly dying, as the dark starts to creep,

In the twilight where the echoes of the past softly weep.

The street lamps flicker like ghosts in the cooling night air,

He’s a phantom of the dusk with a vacant haunted stare.

The crickets play their tune, and the wind begins to moan,

In a place where the summer’s warmth feels cold and overblown.

Summer, slowly dying, in the whispers of the night,

Where the creeping shadows dance in the dying light.

Summer, slowly dying, as the dark starts to creep,

In the twilight where the echoes of the past softly weep.

As the moon takes the stage and the stars start to crawl,

There’s a murmur in the night like a forgotten call.

The man’s footsteps echo through the silent path of gold,

In a world where the sun's warmth fades and shadows grow bold.

He’s a drifter of the dusk in the dying summer’s dream,

With the whispers of the dark where the moonlight’s cruel gleam.

Through the empty, haunted spaces where summer’s ghost resides,

He’s a wanderer of sorrow, where the daylight slowly hides.

Summer, slowly dying, in the whispers of the night,

Where the creeping shadows dance in the dying light.

Summer, slowly dying, as the dark starts to creep,

In the twilight where the echoes of the past softly weep.

In the endless twilight where the summer’s grace is torn,

He walks into the fading light where the night is forlorn.

Summer’s slowly dying, in the stillness of the night,

As the man drifts on into the darkness out of sight.

 As Halloween season draws near,These tales are the ones you should hear,Each story’s a fright,To match autumn's night,Perfect reads for the season’s dark cheer.
31 for October Series

In October, when shadows grow tall,
Each night brings a tale to enthrall,
With ghouls, spells, and doom,
In each crypt, tomb, or room,
Dare you venture and read them all?

31 Graves for October

Thornton met a vamp with a dare,
To eat corpses and secrets to share,
Each grave had a tale,
In the end, would he fail?
Or win the dark charm she’d ensnare?

31 Tombs for October

Thornton won the charm in a bet,
But Addison wasn’t done yet,
She offered a keep,
With tombs dark and deep,
Where secrets and dangers are met.

31 Spells for October

A werewolf caught mid-attack,
By a witch who knew magic, no lack,
Now frozen in place,
He must listen with grace,
To her spells 'til the moon's cycle tracks.

31 Dystopian Realms for October

When the world’s at its bleakest and cold,Dystopian stories are told,From zombies to ghouls,And dark cosmic rules,These realms of October unfold.

 

    In some horror movies, pubs often serve as more than just a backdrop—they’re a refuge, a place of sinister happenings, or the calm before the storm. Imagine embarking on a pub crawl through some of the most iconic watering holes in horror cinema where the ambiance is as dark as the finest Irish ale.

    Each stop on this crawl isn’t just about the drinks; it’s about who you’d share that pint with, delving into their stories, fears, and maybe even surviving the night. Whether it’s a dive bar in a haunted town or a pub that serves as the last bastion against the apocalypse, here’s your guide to the top 13 pub crawl in horror flicks. Cheers!

13. "The Innkeepers" (2011)Pub: The Yankee Pedlar Inn (the hotel bar).Beer: Samuel Adams Boston Lager – A classic choice for a historic inn.Share a Pint With: Claire. As a fellow ghost enthusiast, she'd be the perfect companion to discuss the eerie happenings at the inn. 12. "The Howling VII: New Moon Rising" (1995)Pub: Pappy and Harriet's Pioneertown Palace, California.Beer: Pabst Blue Ribbon – A simple, no-nonsense beer for a small-town bar. When you say, "gimme a beer, mate" that is exactly what you will get.Share a Pint With: Ted. He's the mysterious drifter with a past, and you might uncover some of the town's darkest secrets over a drink. Country line dancing is optional. We're sorry, Ted.
11. "Halloween III: Season of the Witch" (1982)Pub: The local bar in Loleta, California.Beer: Miller Genuine Draft – Hell, take a six pack with you, too.Share a Pint With: Dr. Challis. You can discuss the strange occurrences of the Silver Shamrock company, but beware of the ticking clock. It's almost time...
10. "Dog Soldiers" (2002)Pub: A local pub in the Scottish Highlands.Beer: Belhaven Scottish Ale – A robust and hearty ale, fitting for a Scottish pub.Share a Pint With: Sgt. Wells. He’d have some gripping tales of military encounters and werewolves to share over a pint. Things are sure to get a little hairy.
9. "From Dusk Till Dawn" (1996)Pub: The Titty TwisterBeer: Corona Extra – A light beer to start the night before things get heavy.Share a Pint With: Seth Gecko. The charismatic yet dangerous criminal would keep you on edge while sipping a beer, but you might want to keep your guard up. 
8. "Near Dark" (1987)Pub: The random Oklahoma dive bar where the vampires unleash chaos.Beer: Budweiser – A classic American lager, rough around the edges, much like the film’s characters.Share a Pint With: Jesse Hooker. As the leader of the vampire clan, he’s sure to have some dark stories and chilling insights. He'll order the Blood Light. 
7. "30 Days of Night" (2007)Pub: The Last Stop bar in Barrow, Alaska.Beer: Alaskan Amber – A locally brewed beer, perfect for the icy, isolated setting.Share a Pint With: Eben Oleson. As the town sheriff, he’s the guy you want to talk to about what happens when the sun goes down for a month. That sucks. 
6. "My Bloody Valentine" (1981)Pub: The Valentine Bluffs bar in Valentine Bluffs, Canada.Beer: Molson Canadian – A classic Canadian beer, fitting for the setting of this horror flick.Share a Pint With: T.J. Hanniger. He’s caught in a love triangle and dealing with a crazed killer – plenty of drama to discuss over a cold beer and wash away the coal mine dust from your lungs. 
5. "The Fog" (1980)Pub: The local bar in Antonio Bay, California.Beer: Anchor Steam Beer – A nod to the sea and foggy coastlines.Share a Pint With: Stevie Wayne. The local DJ would be great company as she shares tales of the town’s ghostly past and the ominous fog that rolled in - perfect with the hazy beer. Wait, isn't that Dr. Challis over there? 
4. "The Wicker Man" (1973)Pub: The Green Man Inn in Summerisle, Scotland. Beer: Fuller’s London Pride – A traditional English ale, ideal for a quaint village pub.Share a Pint With: Sergeant Howie. Over a pint, you might try to convince him to leave the island before it’s too late. 
3. "Shaun of the Dead" (2004)Pub: The Winchester in Crouch End, England.Beer: Boddingtons Pub Ale – A smooth and creamy ale, perfect for a pub under siege by zombies.Share a Pint With: Shaun. He’s the everyman hero who could use a break from the apocalypse, and you'd likely end up discussing everything from zombie survival to everyday life. Just don't forget there is an apocalypse just outside the stained glass windows. 
2. "The Shining" (1980)Pub: The Gold Room at the Overlook Hotel in the Rockies, Colorado.Beer: Heineken – A crisp and clean beer that contrasts with the dark, haunting atmosphere.Share a Pint With: Jack Torrance, but be wary – as the conversation deepens, you might find yourself questioning reality just as much as he does. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy, but a quick drink will fix you right up. 
1. "An American Werewolf in London" (1981)Pub: The Slaughtered Lamb in East Proctor, England.Beer: John Smith’s Extra Smooth – A classic British ale, comforting yet with an ominous undertone, much like the pub itself.Share a Pint With: David Kessler. His stories of strange dreams and transformations would make for an unsettling conversation in this eerie, rural pub. Perhaps a game of darts? Anything to keep you off the moors.

    At this point, you're blotto or bloody. Either way, it has been a memorable romp through the smoky beer halls of horror. Cheers to a truly terrifying pub crawl that would make your skin do the same!

 

    I must admit to a certain level of AWDD (Attention Writing Deficit Disorder), specifically as to how that pertains to finishing projects. For every one piece of finished work I have accomplished, I have ten more "in flight". I am sure that is a made up statistic, but it feels right nonetheless.

    This means that I have several works in progress that I alternate working on to try and finish. This is not to say that the ones I do complete are better (in fact, some of my favorite pieces are yet to be done). All this means is that I was able to finish something over another body of work for whatever reason the writing gods have allowed.

    In an effort to forge a semblance of culpability for those unfinished works, I am adding a new recurring blog post category called "Pages in Flight". This will highlight something I am working on to hopefully keep me working on it to completion. It will also hint at future works and perhaps even garner some reader interest.

    For the inaugural post of this category, I wanted to showcase the first book of a hopefully new series. It is drawn from a character, Dane Lowell, who first appeared in the short story "House Wine" from my book 31 Spells for October (the third anthology in the "31 for October" quadrilogy). He is an Elizabethan Era paranormal detective and in "House Wine", he solves the mystery of the Vargas Wine label, a libation that enables ghostly possession in those who partake. 

    This differs from my usual fare in that the book is non-linear in approach. Much like the Choose Your Own Adventure Books, only targeted for adults, horror readers, and fans of H.P. Lovecraft, it has several dynamic paths to follow which make for a completely different reading experience. 

    Here is concept cover art for the book:

        As professed in the description of the book, there will be 111 difference ways to be killed off (violently). There are also six completely different endings, which are derived from three unique paths (so, basically, it is several books in one with three main directions).
    A great deal of planning has gone into the book so that the choices readers' make will be fluid and cohesive. I used an organization tool to map out the various paths called FreeMind. Here is a flowchart of that process:

    From there, I mapped out each portion of the book using Excel. Here are branches of the story from each of the three main paths:


    Regarding its completion, I have it all mapped out and have begun writing each of the beginning sections. It is likely to be finished soon, which is why I have included it as one of the "Pages in Flight". 
    I wanted to include the instruction and introduction page that explains to readers their unique role in the book. This is still considered a work in progress, so it is a rough introduction that could potentially change. Here it is:

YOU 

Context for your active role in this mysterynovel

My Dearest Phantom,

In therealm of the uncanny, one tale forged of the paranormal set forth the dubiouscareer of the world’s first supernatural detective. An unlikely pursuit wroughtfrom the sprawling vineyards of Santa Luna, Argentina. The land where thehistory and intrigue intertwine. At the heart of this enigma was a label ofwine – the Vargas label – whose sweet nectar held secrets darker than thedepths of its crimson hue.

DaneLowell was to cut his teeth on the arcane with this investigation. With ananalytical mind as sharp as the tip of a rapier, he embarked on a journey todecipher the unsettling riddle that shrouded the Pascal Vargas label. Thevineyard itself held a somber past. Unbeknownst to many, it grew over an old campode batalla, a battleground where the echoes of the Argentine Battle forIndependence still whispered in the wind. Beneath the vines lay the unmarkedgraves of countless fallen soldiers, Spanish and Argentinian alike, who had mettheir fate in that tumultuous clash. The roots of the vineyard intertwined withthe restless dead, their tortured souls reaching out from the ground and intothe sun-kissed grapes.

It washere that Dane Lowell studied a mysterious murder, amidst the rolling hills andverdant grapevines of the vineyard. Offered a glass of the Vargas wine, he heldit, his fingers tracing the delicate curvature of the stem. His instinctswell-honed and intune with the supernatural, he chose not to partake. Not dueto any moral stance, but one of caution. Something was amiss.

The enigmaof the Vargas label was far more insidious than anticipated. The tale held atwist that eluded even his discerning gaze. It wasn’t just the act of drinkingthat unleashed the forces of the restless undead. Even the simple act ofbreathing in the wine’s fragrance was enough to awaken dormant spirits. He waspossessed, but not completely overtaken. He was enchanted symbiotically, notmalevolently. He was haunted. By you.

And thus,it is here that our story unfolds. This is a tale where you and the detectivemeld, where the ethereal realm of ghosts and the mortal plane of Dane Lowell align.You, dear reader, are the ghost from another life. A past life. You a beingunbound by time and flesh, and yet intimately intertwined with Dane’sdecisions. Your presence shapes the course of events. Your choices are a chorusthat echoes through the meandering corridors of Dane’s subconscious. You arethe inner voice Dane follows. Choose the options to follow your shared destiny.

Theunknown awaits. The haunting influence of the past flows through you. GuideDane through the investigation. Make the right choices and keep him alive. Makethe best choices and unravel the mystery. The supernatural detective has you asthe paranormal ace up his sleeve. Keep him alive at all costs for if he dies,your soul is lost to the nether eternally.

With upmost respect and sincerity,

Your humble author
   This is a glimpse into my writing process as well as a look behind the veil of an upcoming horror novel. I am eager to hear your thoughts on the matter. Please respond to this post or you may email me directly at BrianJamesLane@writeme.com.