But lots of characters meant far too many POVs: in addition to Ben and Lilian's story, I had a plotline for Sara Jane Amblin, the inventor; one for Detective Beadle and another for Allison, the psychologist; still another for the GRP2 people. I felt like juggling all of these characters was pulling focus away from the story I wanted to tell, a simple tale of two kids on the verge of adulthood trying to survive a twisted theme park gone awry, but also in the world prior generations had left for them.
And while the two main characters are young adults, Ghostland is by no means a Young Adult novel. It seems that this sort of book, novels written for adults about children, have become less and less popular over the years. The common wisdom seems to be that adults want to read about other adults. When they read about children the stories must be tame, with very little violence—certainly nothing gratuitous—absolutely no sexuality, and happy endings where everything is tied up with a nice, neat bow. (Consider the infamous sewer scene in Stephen King's IT. Would that book sell today, with the scene intact?)
I think if you've read my previous work you can agree that sums up my writing in a nutshell. *wink* "Ghostland, the brand-new YA novel from the author of Woom." Yeah, probably was never gonna happen.
Another strange tidbit about that "first" draft (there were many rewrites of the opening chapter before I came up with the idea of the haunted house rolling through Duck Falls, appearing to float before Ben and Lilian’s eyes): for some reason the main antagonist was a film star from Hollywood’s Golden Age the other characters called The Black-and-White Man. I can’t even recall what I was thinking with this character, only that I liked the idea of a B&W celluloid phantom taunting them at every turn. I wrote almost an entire draft of that very different book, but it never truly clicked for me, so I wasn’t able to finish writing the final act.
Thematically it began to trouble me as well but I think that's a tale for another time.
I also realized while this version was essentially a horror-themed roller coaster ride, I had drained most of the actual horror out of it, and by trying to shoehorn too much theme into the narrative I also took out much of the fun. I needed to focus more on Ben and Lilian's friendship and their coming of age story.
That was the part that mattered to me the most. I hope that came through in the writing.
This book took probably the longest time from initial idea to final form of any of my books, with the exception of my first novel, Salvage. The reason for it is that I felt as it was likely going to be my most mainstream horror novel—at least thus far—and because the concept was so big, I decided I would try to find an agent. I had hoped that the concept would sell itself. And to an extent, it did. I received far more full manuscript requests than I'd anticipated, along with plenty of rejections. I also got some great notes from a handful of agents and early readers, which I think improved the book a fair bit from its first "final" draft.
In the end, I decided this was a story universe I'd want to dip into at least few more times. And with self-publishing I'm in complete control of my toys—much like Rex Garrote with his army of ghosts.
There's a war on the horizon, first off. Sides will have to be chosen.
Secondly, what we've read so far about Ghostland wasn't the complete story. There are more tales of survival, of sacrifice and heroism. Ben and Lilian weren't the only ones to "survive" that day. Because of their efforts, others were able to escape. Though many more died in vain. If you don't believe me, check out the blog at www.ghostlandpark.com.
I think I'd also like to hang out with the Ghost Brothers a bit, too. They featured—or at least their holograms did—in a previous draft of the novel. They've planned a return to Ghostland for a "television event of the decade," and I think I might join them for the ride.
Last but not least, there are some "lost" Rex Garrote novels which might someday find their way into my editorial hands.
Of course, no novel is a work of just one person. There are always first readers, those few folks we trust who will tell us when the emperor is buck naked. There are editors, publicists, cover designers, fellow writers, friends in low places, etc.
For Ghostland, I need to thank my friends and colleagues from Shadow Work Publishing, Thomas S. Flowers and Jeffrey X. Martin. Writers of some excellent dark fiction themselves, they helped me craft the initial pitch to agents, which also worked as a good motivator to keep the story on track. Thank you, you talented bastids. As always.
Then comes those all-important first readers. Thanks of course to my wife, Sherri, and my mom, Carol. Without their support and helpful comments, I don't know if I would have made it to Book Eight. Thanks to Chad A. Clark, another indie writer who's putting out quality stuff, for his input and advice; thanks to Tony Jones and George Ilett Anderson, readers and reviewers extraordinaire, for their insight and in-depth notes; thanks to the agents who took a chance on the full manuscript and offered some helpful notes. For professional courtesy they will remain nameless. Thanks also to the co-host of B-Movies and Ebooks, Craig Wade, and to fellow Canuckian Tommy Frayne.
Special thanks to Mike Tenebrae, who designed the amazing park logo and map.
Moral supporters need love, too. They are as follows: Matt Shaw, Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi, Peter Frain, Jim Mcleod at Ginger Nuts of Horror, Chris Hall at DLS Reviews, Jack Ketchum, Marie Kirkland, Michael Cushing, Cindy Jensen, Mary Kiefel, Justin Woodward, Leanne Peart, Dane Cobain, Eleanor Merry, Tara Losacano, David L. Tamarin, Alex Kimmell, Shaun Hupp, Lydian Faust, Rich Hawkins, Steve Stred and too many others to name. Thank you all. You each make the horror community a little brighter and a lot more enjoyable.
And thanks, of course, to the readers, the reviewers and the dreamers.
Okay, I suppose I've held you all captive long enough. Until next time, please kindly consider leaving a review where you purchased this. And as always, keep it creepy.
DR
October, 2019
_________________________________________
SALVAGE
Prologue:
Suffer the Children
WHEN OWEN SADDLER was thirteen years old and his sister Lori was five, the two of them went down to the cool, clear waters of China Cove to play, on a rare summer day when the whole family was together. Owen loved his sister, but he'd taken her along with him only begrudgingly. What he didn't like, more than anything, was being told what to do, and as it was his stepfather who'd stuck him with looking after Lori, he liked the task even less.
Already he felt a strong loathing toward the man pretending to be his father, a man Owen's mother had told him to call "Dad," but whom she herself called "Gerald," and never "Gerry." Owen couldn't remember his real father, but he was certain the man couldn't have been more different from Gerald. His real father had been a strong man, a determined man. He knew this because his mother had often said so, and Owen had a vague sense—not enough to be called a memory—of its truth. Gerald was neither of these, but he was tall, was often quick to anger, and he usually drank so much on these infrequent little trips that Owen's mother would have to drive them home. Yet for all the man's faults, he had given Owen a younger sister to pal around with (or ignore, depending on his mood), so Owen supposed he owed the man at least a little credit.
Lori plodded along in her candy-striped tank top and Adidas swim shorts, scooping up bottle caps, pop tabs, and candy wrappers with her shovel, crinkling her nose in disgust, and flicking them away in a scattering of sand. Owen followed along a short distance behind her. Farther down the beach, some older boys were throwing a football, chasing each other, and laughing once they'd piled on top of one another, fighting over the ball. Owen made sure not to be caught too close to Lori, for fear the boys might lump him in the same category as her and call him a baby.
"Let's go back this way, okay?" he said, taking her hand and directing her away from the boys.
"I wanna go swimming," Lori said, pouting. She knew all about his dislike of water, of lakes in particular—he di
dn't like to call it "fear," but truthfully that was what it was—and he supposed she knew he wouldn't take her much closer, let alone join her. The sun beat down on the beach in China Cove, where the islands of Georgian Bay and the endless blue of Lake Huron came together. Owen wore a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt to cover his scrawny chest (the smart one, Donatello, was his favourite), long board shorts, and his shoes and socks. He had grown too hot not to cool off his legs, but just the idea of stepping into the shallow surf troubled him. There was no reason for it, as far as he knew. Gerald had called it a "phobia." His mother had held her tongue when he'd said it, something Owen had thought unlike her.
"Mom said no swimming," he lied.
Lori's scowl was deepened by the shadow of her sun hat. "That's not true!"
"It is. Go ask her if you don't believe me."
Lori turned away from the water, toward the trees, where Gerald and their mother sat in the shade, her reading, him blowing the foam off a can of beer from the cooler. It was too far to shout, so Lori squinted up at her brother as if to assess his honesty. He struggled to keep a straight face. "Fine," she said finally, sulking until he let go of her hand.
Owen recalled snippets of a hushed conversation in the car on their way up to the lake, while Lori sang along to the music from her colorful "My First Sony" Walkman. Their mother hadn't wanted to come here, that much he'd been able to hear. But Gerald, who was usually neither strong nor determined, had put his foot down—literally, stepping on the accelerator—and had refused to reply to Margaret Saddler's passive-aggressive comments about Gerald's impending drunkenness until she'd finally given up her protests, saying "Fine," in the same sulky tone their daughter did now.
Lori trudged to within a few paces of the water and peered back, apparently waiting for Owen to follow. He did, but only after realizing, too late, what she'd had in mind. Once she'd figured out he was too far away to catch up to her, she turned and ran: the sort of deke-out the boys playing football might have applauded.
"Cripes," he muttered, and chased after her.
Lori's little legs carried her into the surf before Owen had made it halfway to the water's edge. She was already up to her waist when he stopped dead where the waves left shapes in the sand as they retreated, disintegrating bit by bit a small mound of wet earth that had once been a sandcastle. Suddenly Owen no longer felt the sun's baking heat; instead, a cold, shuddering fear gripped him from head to toe.
There were creatures in the water with sharp teeth and spiny fins. There were bloodsucking leeches and turtles with vicious alligator snouts. There were slippery, slimy things that squirmed in the muck at the bottom of the lake, hideous blind invertebrates that had never seen daylight.
A wind whipped his hair. He turned and watched as it swished through the trees, tilting pines and rustling the branches of enormous maples. A steel-gray cloud suddenly blocked the sun. Owen frowned uneasily, and turned back toward the water to see Lori's sun hat blowing from her head. She cried out, half-laughing, and chased it farther out into the lake.
Out where it should have been too deep to stand, a man Owen hadn't noticed before was standing up to his ankles in the lake. Dressed in a white buttoned shirt and loose-fitting black pants, from whose right pocket Owen caught a glimmer of gold, the man locked eyes with him, and Owen found himself unable to look away. The wind caught the man's dark hair, and a malicious grin spread below his moustache. The man stretched out a hand toward Owen.
"Lori!"
Owen hadn't meant to scream, had only meant to call her out of the water. But the boys farther down the beach looked over at the sound of his cracking voice and snickered. Owen wheeled around to see Gerald and his mother rising from the picnic blanket. Oh God, they're coming over, he thought, feeling the familiar warmth return, rising up his neck to his cheeks as embarrassment seized him.
"What's the big idea?" Lori grumbled, having retrieved her hat and waded back to where Owen now stood. She looked back out over the water, following his troubled gaze toward the man standing in the lake.
"That man," Owen said. The dark grin on the man's vaguely familiar face widened. "I think he's dangerous."
Lori shaded her eyes with a hand and squinted out at the lake. Owen was certain she was looking right at the man, but Lori turned back to her brother with a look of curiosity in her blue eyes. "What man?"
"Right there! You don't see him?" Owen jabbed a finger at the man, whose grin widened even further as he began to stride toward them, his brown leather shoes splashing on the surface of the lake, dampening the cuffs of his pants. "He's right there!"
"Who's right there?" Gerald said, approaching the children with a smirk. Owen turned to face him. Gerald stopped just in front of Owen, and planted the hand not holding a can of Old Vienna beer on his hip, in a posture of obstinateness with which Owen was all too familiar.
"Nobody," Owen said to him, still feeling the presence of the man behind them, wanting to turn and look, as he would have when retreating from a darkened basement. Watching for the monster. Sensing its approach. Finally, he couldn't stop himself from turning back to look. But there was no one. The surface of the water was clear, flat, empty. The man was gone.
Owen turned to Gerald, not comprehending. His mother approached then, and stood behind her husband wearing a disapproving scowl under her mass of brown curls. Owen felt tears begin to well up as a wild urge to defend himself overcame him, despite his reluctance to admit what he'd just seen. The man had been there. He'd seen him. A man walking on water. It wasn't possible… was it?
Seeing things, he thought.
Lori peered up at him sympathetically.
"There was a man," Owen said, his voice starting to quaver, his lower lip quivering: the telltale onset of weeping. "He was… he was standing on the water. He was right there!"
His mother and Gerald made a show of peering out at the bay where Owen pointed, but it was obvious they didn't believe him. Owen wouldn't have believed himself if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes.
"I don't see anyone," Gerald said.
"That's because he's gone now. He must have… he must have gone underwater."
"Owen, don't be silly," his mother said.
"I saw him, Mom."
"It was your imagination," she said, scowling off toward the water herself.
"You don't know what's in my head."
"Don't sass your mother," Gerald said.
"Shut up, Gerald!"
"Owen!" his mother scolded.
Gerald crushed the beer can, his face expressionless. Gerald with his pale legs and potbelly, with his lame jokes and stupid crumpled Panama hat. "All right," he said calmly. "This has gone on long enough." He let the crushed can fall from his fingers into the wet sand, then made toward Owen. Lori saw it coming and stepped out of their way.
"Gerald…?" Concern like broken glass in his mother's voice.
Owen backed away from Gerald's reach, glancing cautiously at the water behind him. "What are you doing? Get away from me!"
"No more phobias," Gerald said, snatching out at Owen, who quickly sidestepped out of his reach. The fear Owen had seen in his mother's eyes caused tears that had been standing in his own to brim and fall. "You're going in that lake!" Gerald growled. His long fingers nabbed Owen's right arm, squeezing so hard the flesh around them went stark white. Owen swung with his weak left fist, pounding feebly at Gerald's ribs while the much larger man dragged him toward the water.
"Let me go! Let me GO!"
Tears streamed down his face. Lori followed their progress with wide, fearful eyes. The older boys stopped playing to watch the spectacle.
Baby. Crybaby. Little loser. I deserve this.
Owen stopped fighting and let Gerald drag him in, shoes and all, up to his knees. He wept silently as the cold water filled his shoes.
"There's nothing to be afraid of," Gerald yelled, his face red, raised veins zigzagging his temples, the tendons in his neck stretched taut. "See?" He dragged Owen f
arther in, up to the cuffs of his shorts. Owen came along like one of Lori's stuffed animals, held by the arm, his muscles lax. Gerald shook him until his teeth clacked. But the cold had numbed Owen; he felt far away. "See?"
"GERALD!"
The scream snapped Owen from his stupor. Gerald's grip loosened, but not enough for Owen to pull away. Gerald's hat fell off his balding head and he snatched it up, squaring it back on his head with a sheepish look.
Margaret Saddler had ventured into the water up to her ankles. The wind fluttered her curls and the hem of her sundress. In the shadow provided by a cloud, she was beauty and fury. "You let my son go this instant!"
Gerald held firm. They stood several feet apart, the water lapping at Margaret's ankles and at Gerald's knees, staring each other down. Behind her, Lori's fear was palpable.
He let go.
Owen splashed down onto his hands and knees. He stood up quickly, shaking off like a wet dog, and scurried to shore, blowing right past his mother. She watched him go. All of her rage had apparently vanished; she appeared deflated, weary.
They caught up to Owen at the parking lot, where he'd been mindlessly chucking gravel at the surrounding trees, enjoying the hollow, wooden thock. Gerald lugged the cooler, unnaturally quiet, sulking, while Margaret carried the knapsack and held Lori's hand. As Gerald and their mother loaded everything into the car, Lori sauntered up to Owen, who attempted to ignore her until she tugged on his shirt.
Owen hefted the small stone in his hand. "What d'you want, squirt?"
Lori reached out and took his hand, her small fingers squeezing his. "I believe you," she whispered. Owen looked down at her, certain she was messing with him. But the sincerity of her smile had his tears threatening to return.
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