Cthulhu Mythos Writers Sampler 2013

by Various Writers

  There is also a certain amount of perspiration, especially in writing a novel. But I find if it feels too much like work, I’m heading in the wrong direction and it usually ends up in the recycle bin.

  And, yes, there’s a certain degree of desperation in that I want to get better, to make the big sale, to see my name in lights, all that happy stuff. But I try not to think about that too much. :)

  How do you cope with the global marketplace these days?

  The ebook revolution has been kind to me, opening up a new market, boosting my book sales substantially and in the process allowing me to do this full time, so I’ll always be grateful for that. Dark Regions Press and Darkfuse are working in a different direction, bringing me to the notice of hardcover collectors and die-hard genre fans. Then there’s the short story sales to foreign markets, with recent sales to magazines in Japan, Romania and Russia all helping to raise my profile. It’s a worldwide market these days, and I intend to take full advantage of it.

  What can you tell us about any ideas behind your work? Any favorites in the bunch?

  It’s all about the struggle of the dark against the light. The time and place, and the way it plays out is in some ways secondary to that. And when you’re dealing with archetypes, there’s only so many to go around, and it’s not surprising that the same concepts of death and betrayal, love and loss, turn up wherever, and whenever, the story is placed.

  And in my case, it’s almost all pulp. Big beasties, swordplay, sorcery, ghosts, guns, aliens, werewolves, vampires, eldritch things from beyond and slime. Lots of slime

  I think you have to have grown up with pulp to -get- it. A lot of writers have been told that pulp=bad plotting and that you have to have deep psychological insight in your work for it to be valid. They’ve also been told that pulp=bad writing, and they believe it. Whereas I remember the joy I got from early Moorcock, from Mickey Spillane and further back, A E Merritt and H Rider Haggard. I’d love to have a chance to write a Tarzan, John Carter, Allan Quartermain, Mike Hammer or Conan novel, whereas a lot of writers I know would sniff and turn their noses up at the very thought of it.

  I write to escape. I haven’t managed it yet, but I’m working on it

  Probably my favorite book, (available now in Limited edition hardcover, paperback and ebook) is The Creeping Kelp. It’s a synthesis of many of the points of this interview. It’s a cautionary tale of what man is doing to the environment. A WW2 experiment resurfaces; a Shoggoth fragment meets some bits of jellyfish and some seaweed and together they decide they like plastic. They like it so much that they start to seek it out, and grow, and spread... and build.

  It’s a homage to several things. There’s more than a touch of Lovecraft obviously, given that I’ve appropriated the Shoggoths, but there’s also a lot of John Whyndham in there. I wanted to do a big-scale, Britain-in-peril novel for a while. The title came to me one day and I knew immediately that there was a story to be told there. There’s also a bit of Quatermass in there too—the old “British scientists screw up” genre has been with me for a long time and it’s also something else I’ve always wanted to do. Here it is. It’s available now from Dark Regions Press and in all the usual online places.

  Have you had your works made into e-book?

  All the longer work is now in ebook. I’ve got a whole load of short stories from magazine and anthology appearances that might get collected together someday

  Where do you find the time to write?

  A6: I made a decision five years ago to quit work and try to make a go at it full time. So far, so good. I spend at least eight hours a day writing. Even at only 500 words an hour... which is slow... it adds up pretty damned quickly to a lot of words, stories and books.

  How many genres have you written in?

  Counts quickly... Horror, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Crime, Western and Thriller. Plus the subgenres, like ghost stories, occult detectives, creature features, sword and sorcery etc. But I don’t really think of them as being different. It’s all adventure fiction for boys who’ve grown up, but stayed boys. Like me.

  How has your experience with having multiple publishing companies been?

  Mostly very positive. There’s been one or two hiccups along the way, but all of my current publishers are professional, hard working, and keen to get books in front of readers, which is what it’s all about. The main problem I had in the past was with companies who were looking to make a quick buck rather than publish books. They learned the hard way that the industry isn’t too kind to that way of thinking.

  What advice would you give to a young writer whose just starting out?

  Write, write, then write some more. It’s like getting an engine turning over. Once it warms up, it just keeps on running.

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  About William Meikle

  William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with eighteen novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. His work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines with recent sales to NATURE Futures, Penumbra and Buzzy Mag among others. He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company. When he’s not writing he dreams of fortune and glory.

  Also by William on Kindle

  The Hole

  Clockwork Dolls

  Night of the Wendigo

  The Invasion

  The Creeping Kelp

  Carnacki: Heaven and Hell

  Island Life

  The Amulet

  Connect with William Online

  Website: http://www.williammeikle.com

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/williemeikle

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/williammeikle

  Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/22123.William_Meikle

  Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/williammeikle

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  The Gate and the Way

  Kevin Lucia

  The following short story appears in Kevin’s short story collection, Things Slip Through.

  The woods behind Bassler House stank worse than anything Jesse Kretch had ever smelled. He looked up to bitch about it to Scott, but a tree branch smacked him in the face before he could speak.

  “Ow! Dammit! Watch it, Scott!”

  Small lines burned his cheeks. Scott looked back as he pushed through brush and more branches. “Sorry. You okay?”

  “Yeah. Guess so. Stings like a motherfucker, though.”

  “Pussy.”

  “Ass.”

  “Whatever. Just keep movin. We don’t have all day. Gotta have Mrs. Wilkins’s yard mowed by dinner.”

  Jesse scowled but said nothing as he followed Scott through the woods behind old Bassler House. They could’ve taken the easier way along Bassler Road, but that started off the end of South Main Street and looped around town. Way too long. This shortcut – through the woods behind the Commons Trailer Park – was quicker.

  But smellier, way smellier. The air reeked of bad milk and old piss. Mounds of bulging white plastic bags dotted the ground, some split open like alien egg sacs, spilling out their moldy contents: greasy food wrappers, rusted and slimy tin cans, diapers and other junk dissolved into unknown gray mush. Enough to make anyone blow chunks if they stuck around long enough.

  “Gee-zus. Stinks here. Why we doin this anyway? What’s the deal?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Aw, c’mon. Smells like shit up here. Why we gotta…”

  “Suck it up. Tell you when we get there. Now quit cryin and move.”

  Jesse fell silent. He loved Scott to death, but sometimes? He was a major pain in the ass.

  A few steps later they stopped near the forest’s edge, behind the crumbling house. Jesse glanced at its empty windows. They spilled out an inky blackness. He shivered and looked at Scott instead, instantly feeling better.

  Jesse always felt good when he looked at Scott. He tried to hide it, though. Didn’t want anyone thinking he
was queer. But it was hard not to look at him. Tall and lanky and muscled, all the girls loved him. His sharp eyes saw everything. He moved in a fluid way Jesse couldn’t. Sometimes it hurt to watch Scott, because he wished he could move and act and talk like him, but somehow knew he never would, no matter how hard he tried.

  Scott grinned. “So. Guess what we’re after?”

  Jesse shrugged, still pissed but trying to hide it. “Dunno. What?”

  “Beer and soda cans. Bottles, too.”

  “Huh? Why?”

  Scott popped him one in the shoulder. “Duh. Didn’t you see that article in The Tribune the other day about the new recyclin laws?”

  Jesse winced and shrugged. “Nope. I just read the comics.”

  Scott ruffled his hair. Jesse ducked and scowled. He knew Scott didn’t mean it, but that always made him feel like such a little kid.

  “Stop! Butt-hole.”

  “Dick-breath. Anyway. There’s a new law sayin you get a nickel for every can and bottle you turn in. A nickel. For each one. Mr. Greenwood at the Great American’s gonna start takin em.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Duh. Think of all the kids an drunks sneakin out here to booze up. Gotta be tons of bottles an cans here.”

  “Still don’t get it.”

  Scott pulled two crumpled plastic bags from his pocket. “Look. These’ll hold about a hundred cans an bottles each. If we fill em up, we can get close to ten bucks. We’ll split it, five bucks each.” Scott winked. “I was over at Brooks Pharmacy yesterday. Guess what they just got?”

  Jesse smiled hopefully. “New comics?”

  “You bet. Secret Defenders, The Hulk… an Dr. Strange.”

  “Cool.” Jesse paused. “Wait. You don’t read comics. What’re you gonna buy with your split?”

  Scott shrugged and looked away. “Dunno. Think of somethin...”

  He paused and cocked his head.

  Jesse broke out in goose pimples, though he didn’t know why. “What?”

  “Thought I heard somethin. Like a door openin.”

  Jesse swallowed, his guts squirming for some reason. “Screw this. Let’s split.”

  Scott smirked. “C’mon! Take off your skirt an grow one, willya? Just the wind blowin a door or maybe some shutters closed. That’s all.” He looked over his shoulder and asked, “You comin?”

  “Whatever. Let’s hurry, though.” Jesse kicked a wadded up newspaper along the way. “I’m readin a buncha issues of Dr. Strange, where he an the Secret Defenders are fightin vampires. I wanna finish em before we cut fatso Wilkins’ yard.”

  They stopped at an open door leading to what Jesse figured was the basement. He tried hard to ignore that sick feeling in his belly, which had gotten worse. He scowled. “We goin or what?”

  Scott flashed Jesse a smile he could never refuse. “You bet.”

  #

  He stares at old Bassler House. Noon’s high sunlight flickers off shattered glass in moldy window frames, setting off the deep shadows that ooze from those empty windows. Anything could be lurking inside and he’d never know until too late, but he breathes deep, swallows his fear and starts forward. A terrible destiny waits inside this house. He feels this, in his very bones, and also feels that now is the time to do what must be done.

  As he walks, an old pistol – a .38, stuck under his belt buckle – rubs against his belly. He clenches and re-clenches sweaty fingers around the handle of Grandpa Carlton’s old Army hatchet, given to him when he was a boy. Little had he known then what it was for.

  His footfalls drum out dull rhythms as he nears the house. Three steps. Two. One. He mounts the porch and approaches the front door, pushes it open with the hatchet’s blade and enters the front hall. He blinks as his eyes adjust, nostrils twitching at a rotten odor.

  He coughs.

  It echoes against the silence.

  He looks around. Sunlight peeks through crooked shutters, shadows jig on the floors. To his left and right sit empty rooms. Before him, a staircase curves upwards to the second floor landing, and under the staircase, against the back wall…

  There.

  The door to the basement. He starts for it and stops when he hears a muffled thud. A door opening?

  He listens for more. Nothing. Except maybe… voices. Footsteps. Where?

  A scrape. Shuffling feet. Then, a faraway shattering.

  His heart pounds as he advances on the door leading to the basement stairs.

  #

  “Sam Higgins says this place is haunted. Says people see lights in the woods an hear screams at night, shit like that.”

  Scott paused just inside the basement and touched the rotten door-frame. “Sure. Whatever.”

  “Sam don’t lie. He’s okay.”

  Scott shrugged. “I guess, but I’m tellin ya… it ain’t haunted. Wise up, chief.”

  Jesse swung his empty plastic bag at Scott. “You wise up, fart-knocker…”

  Scott dodged, slipped, and bumped against a table next to the door, knocking over a glass jar. It hit the floor and shattered.

  They froze.

  Standing still for several hushed minutes, hearing nothing.

  Scott relaxed and gave Jesse a weak grin. “Geez. Got me spooked with all those stories. And,” he pointed at Jesse, “if you hadn’t swung at me I wouldn’ta bumped that table.”

  Most of his fear had melted, but enough unease remained to make him feel snappy. “Well, maybe if you wasn’t so damn clumsy an all.”

  “Nice. You kiss Mom with that mouth?”

  “Whatever. Stick it, ass-breath.”

  Scott held up his hands. “Okay, enough. I give up. We good?”

  Jesse stuck his hands into his pockets. He couldn’t stay mad at Scott, not for long. “Yeah. Suppose.”

  Scott jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “All right then. Let’s move.”

  #

  As he descends the basement steps he notices he’s made no progress, like he’s been descending an escalator the wrong way. The door at the bottom isn’t any nearer. He stops, glances over his shoulder and sees that the rectangle of light on the first floor also isn’t any farther away. That, and…

  Faint whispers hiss around him.

  Beneath that, he hears things crawling behind the walls, leathery bodies sloshing and squirming.

  He stops.

  Glances back at the door above. Its bright rectangle beckons, and as he looks at the light, the whispers fade, and he feels peace.

  But he can’t turn back now, so he digs into his pocket and withdraws a folded piece of paper and a small flashlight. He sticks his hatchet pommel-first under his belt, clicks the flashlight on and reads the strange words silently, realizing that after this, there’s no return.

  Without looking behind him he reads the words printed on the sheet. Harsh consonants rasp against his teeth, twisting his tongue in unnatural ways. His voice, low and guttural, gurgles and croaks and echoes as he comes to the end of the strange invocation. He looks up, shines his flashlight on the door…

  Nothing.

  And then…

  Rock shifts against rock, and what sounds like a great wind – though not a breath touches him – moans down the stairs. The rock-on-rock sound swells, then fades. The whispers fall silent.

  He holds up his flashlight and stares.

  The walls and ceiling of the stairwell have been replaced by a cold darkness. He looks down. The steps remain, as does the basement door, but now they float in a nothingness that makes his stomach roll. He doesn’t bother looking behind him, figuring the door to the first floor has disappeared also. He imagines the stairs ascending forever into an endless black sky. He shivers and keeps looking ahead. Doesn’t need to push his stomach over the edge. This isn’t the best time to yack up his breakfast of bourbon and scrambled eggs.

  Voices again drift from below, fading in and out like a radio station not in tune.

  “… this is great… we’re gonna be friggin rich…” />
  Cold desperation puckers his skin. There’s not much time left. He has to move. He stuffs the flashlight and paper back into his pocket and snatches the hatchet from his belt. He then descends, trying very hard to ignore the swirling nothingness all around.

  #

  There really wasn’t that much to see in the basement past some old scattered tools, rusted metal bits and gutted appliances – like old toasters and transistor radios – cluttering a workbench against one wall. Also on the workbench, a few overturned mason jars spilled screws, nuts and bolts into rusting piles. Several pieces of broken and rotting furniture littered the floor, giving the basement its only smell: a light, musty, damp-wood scent that paled in comparison to the woods out back.

  But it turned out to be the mother lode. After only twenty minutes their bags bulged with their finds, Scott and Jesse finding most of the cans and bottles in dusty corners or stacked on shelves. At first, Jesse hadn’t collected many because they were old and didn’t have “refund” stamped anywhere on the, then Scott told him the new law afforded a “grace period” on any aluminum can, so he stuffed his bag full of crusty but not too disgusting cans of Genesee, Coke, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Schlitz. Two cans floating in a bucket of black, mucky water, however, he left for Scott.

  Many years ago, someone had split the basement into the main workroom and several smaller rooms connected by a short hall. At the end of the hall, a door led upstairs.

  “Man,” Jesse said as he followed Scott, “this is great! We’re gonna be friggin rich!”

  Scott pushed open another door. “Dunno about that. Not if the rest of the house looks like this.”

  Jesse peeked around Scott into the dark room, saw litter everywhere, but except for a shattered Sunkist bottle in the corner the room was mostly empty.