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Nickolaus A. Pacione

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· The Writings Collected: Vol. Two

· Nickolaus Albert Pacione Delivers: A Library Of Unknown Horrors

· Emanations

· Dirty Black Winter

· An Eye In Shadows

· The Ethereal Gazette: Issue Five

· Quakes and Storms: A Natural Disaster Anthology

· Tabloid Purposes

· Collectives In A Forsaken Landscape

· Reality Check (Short story: Bite of the Spider)

Short Stories
· Il nostro mondo violentata

· Fandom Weirdness

· A Personal Stalker

· The Monster Amongst Man

· Inquistion Revisted

· Witch's Party

· Misguidance

· Spectral Exile

· The Ichabod

· Ghosts In The Tornado: The Notes

· Examining The Blogosphere

· Gothic Tinged Memoir Anthology Call

· Gothicism on Trial


· The Aftermath: 2 Days of Darkness

· Review: The Tooth Fairy

· review: The Garden

· The Author Speaks

· Hammerhead: SHARK FRENZY

· Writing The Fossil

· Desolated Oblivian

· Gates Of Charon

· Stonehenge

· Feburary Forlorn

· A Morpheus Sleep

· untitled

· eternal judgement

· Birthed In Ashes....

· Passing Judgement

· In Memoriam...

         More poetry...
· Magazine Submission Guidelines

· Gothic Extreme Horror

· Flying Cigars gets accepted..

· Story will be slated to appear in Insomnia Magazine

· Colaboration gets accepted -- then a sequel is available

· Lake Fossil II is live as a downloadable story

· In the Hospital.. got accepted on The Writers Post Journal

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Books by Nickolaus A. Pacione
A Rural Weird Tale
By Nickolaus A. Pacione
Posted: Friday, November 04, 2011
Last edited: Friday, November 04, 2011
This short story is rated "R" by the Author.
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Recent stories by Nickolaus A. Pacione
· Ghosts In The Tornado: The Notes
· The Cabbie Homicide: Oct 13, 1993
· I Want To See You In Black
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· The Statue
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Originally an exclusive on a site called Since I was overthrown from the cult, and have the master copies of the story I will post it here. This one is on me. N.P. Written in the memory of a former classmate, Elmer Alleman, this is my last gift to him because before he died I called him a bastard for pulling out old drawings I did.

“When you’re hard up for material, maybe you end up writing about us…..”
----- Stand By Me (Columbia Pictures 1986)

I am withholding the name of the library here or the region where it is as I tell this story, but I haven’t came across a person like the one I came across since the days I was living in Glendale Heights. Namely with one of my old friends from college saying, “What you write Nick should never be written, it’s evil. It should remain unwritten.”
    I honestly get the chills thinking what he said there about that. Especially, since he was caught up in pornography before coming to what he became when he was alone in a shower with opened wrists like Christmas presents.  He was my successor when I was working as a personal assistant when I was transitioning to working for the college campus of Elmhurst College, I really loved the fact it was next door to a cemetery. Can’t get anymore ghoulish than that. I sometimes asked myself if the dead were sitting on their headstones laughing at the living. Knowing they can’t hear us, or we can’t hear them one could speculate the grim jokes they’d make about the living. THE DEAD MIGHT BE LAUGHING AT US!  
    I’ve encountered someone like this before who was giving me a slew of books wanting me to denounce horror fiction as a writer. My sister was just a baby back then and I would push her around in a stroller. Now seeing her as a teenager, and wanting to get into the family business. Her ideas are those that give me the chills, especially when she read my story The Typewriter. She definitely learns from her brother.
   “Isn’t horror supposed to be gory?” I found her asking me. This was where I got my start reading horror, but I was younger than her. I had bizarre dreams about dead classmates after they graduated high school, telling me how they died. The frightening thing about this, this was happening years before they died.
   Evil?  Sorry, but what I do is just dealing with madness, the supernatural, and other gothic themes. With this lady with raven hair and having to be in her mid-forties estimate. I keep thinking the scene I wrote in the story JESUS FREAK when I think this one. I actually do visualize her in the streets of Chicago or Naperville tossing books by Stephen King and H.P. Lovecraft into the fire like they’re satanic -- or even some of mine for that matter. Stephen King, it’s public record he’s a Believer.
    I also noticed when I pulled up the gothic social networking website and an industrial band blaring from the speakers, she was saying, “Goth social networking site, sounds satanic. That music on the site sounds like it‘s from the Devil.”
I stared at her and thought, if you only knew lady--if you only will. If you really understood different subcultures instead of bashing on them like their evil.  I might not agree with one lifestyle, and sometimes very vocal about it. It’s because my integrity drives me.
    There are some people in the world that think Gothicism is too much for them, and she saying that I felt my old nightmares reappear again when I was sitting in the food court in Iowa or in the diner trying to sketch out my nightmares. I ended up I drawing them out instead.
    I thought when she said that, where did she come from? This is the real life version of some of the characters I penned within the pages of short story that took the subject of censorship head on. Faith without information is the horror writer’s playground.
    I had some industrial coming from the speakers when I was digging up a picture to nail a bastard for coming on as one of my titles, a typical tactic of a faceless idiot and didn‘t know the computer had sound on the thing It‘s because with my own computer I live in the dark ages.. If she read about the real stuff I encountered, I mean when I was in Canada limping with an ingrown toenail or laying on a pet shop floor in several pools of blood, that would shock her more than anything imagined.   I couldn’t get over the whole thing about my foot being soaked in blood, and when I was in Baltimore my left pinky finger had a fingernail that fell off while I was waiting for the train back to Chicago.
    Let’s give her the name Jane Carolyn Thomas, that’s not her real name nor do I know her real name for that.  But she has to realize there are two horror writers in the southlands, one a little more Gothic in themes than the others. Jane Thomas is a rough sketch here -- a surreal sketch if you will, and my guess she never read a story written by either Edgar Allan Poe or Richard Matheson. I sometimes picture her walking around Justice, Illinois, and encounter Resurrection Mary or Cuba Road to see the phantom headlights.
   This would be any small town that’s less than 3000 people much like Hampton, Iowa, I wonder what would come if she encountered some of the writers from the dark edgy anthology that was instrumental in reaffirming my Christian faith.  I am still doing genre fiction, and especially the gothic tinged material, and sometimes I wonder if she has dreams about Charles Beaumont wandering the small town streets doing a sequel to The Howling Man or Elegy.  Horror writers in small towns, there’s eyes everywhere; meaning everyone is watching. In my observation where they were raised in urban areas, they really don’t mix at all.
Some things are stranger than fiction here, this one was one for the books.  What I mean I wonder what her nightmares are like.   
   I will give this town a location somewhere in an unnamed county, and what I see of this becomes the fodder for other horror writers who actually do the blasphemous material. Rural areas from my experience from living with my ex-wife-to-be, have their own unique weirdness to them and being from an area like Chicago or Glendale Heights the weirdness there was something that rests within the diner in Carol Stream.
   “Have you read any horror? I am just doing the finishing touches on a book that I am uploading and personally wanted to show you one I did about my apartment -- a horror that was born from real life and does show some hope; it‘s all true , “ I replied to her comment.  The book I was putting the final touches on is the one for the ages in my own material, some of the most frightening material I ever compiled.
    No answer. I guess she sees all horror as evil and breathing of blasphemy. The one writer who was depraved in the Victorian era, and he’s only written one novel.  The whole thing about finding a man in an evening gown on the floor dead, was shocking back then. Shit, it’s shocking even now personally I am repulsed by something like that.  Men shouldn‘t wear dresses unless they lost a bet and mowing the front lawn in their wife‘s wedding dress.  One of those things one just can’t look away -- it’s like a damned train wreck.
    As one of my friends said on AOL Instant Messenger, a noted horror actress “Religion sells more than sex in horror as well Controversy.”
    With this one, Jane Thomas, someone who can be anyone -- what kind of things she doesn’t want to dread or imagine are the things I come up with on a regular basis. The only thing that gets  to sometimes is  the damned scary thing about me is my readers.  I sometimes get Satanists and Witches reading me, and they look at it wondering how does someone come up with things like that.
Well, if you have Resurrection Mary wandering around in your dining room or a classmate from your homeroom serving life in prison.  The stories will sometimes pen themselves, and just need a person who can curate the museum of the macabre.
   I wonder what would Jackson say about the appearances within the magazines I appeared in, wondering if he had nightmares about a library constructed from human bone.  My most macabre material seems to be stemmed out of history, and the subject does intrigue me.  I seriously wonder what dark corners Jane Thomas might step into, what nightmares my world will give her. She would be praying asking for the cup to be taken from her, it was like my best friend who woke up in a cold sweat because he pictured me as this dark Demi-God with a quill pen using blood for ink.  Sometimes I had weird dreams about sitting in a diner drinking a coffee with Charles Beaumont specially after publishing Elegy.
  “Pacione, I thank you for preserving this. It’s been more than years since I died, and much of my work is rather lost with time. I am surprised you found this if I was still alive I would sincerely say thank you,” he would say as he’d drink is coffee. Man talk about weird, talking to a dead guy from Chicago. I speak of a man who created a very dark picture that almost mirrors what’s going on now, and the story I am seeking out because I want to read this is called The Crooked Man.
   “Mr. Beaumont, when you died you were around my age. I am the same age as you are right now and just got a story published by a staff of thirteen editors.  The subject matter I was dealing with was something that came about very common at the end of the last decade and it’s starting to see media attention even now -- as what you did in your day,”  I’ve replied as I took a sip of coffee, wishing I could take a drag of a cigarette at the time.  As of writing this I’ve been smoke free for two months.
    I wonder what Charles Beaumont’s reaction would be with this Jane Thomas caricature. I’ve seen some dark ideas crawling around in my mind at the time when I was living in Mason City, Iowa, but the journal I wrote these in got lost.  They were lost when my ex-room mate in the white duplex locked me out of the place when I was getting ready to move back to Illinois. I personally invite this woman to my museum I curate in print form to give her a better understanding how horror works, what horror is after all a dark reflection of how disturbing reality really is.
    When  one lives across a cemetery for a little more than a year with two room mates who have a Goth appearance, and no cable.  One would be looking at the balcony drinking a beer and looking the funeral precession .  She would ask, “Who’d died today?”
   “You know it’s hard to tell but I think we got new neighbors across the street,” I would respond, well along the lines of that.
When you have a cemetery across the street from where you live, such as myself you’d see some strange things wandering around such as  an ageless woman who’d faded in the darkness. Now looking at Stand By Me with a young River Phoenix after he died. Him walking away and fading out is when one thinks about it, vintage Stephen King without him knowing about River Phoenix’s death from a drug overdose.  Thinking about that part of the movie and thinking of what he did, it’s nightmarish when you put the two together.
   I wonder if Stephen King thought about that when he watched the 1986 macabre coming of age classic story, regretfully I’ve yet to read the story it was based on called The Body from DIFFERENT SEASONS though I’ve seen another movie from that collection too called The Shawshank Redeption. I was a junior at the time when this happened. I would have mentioned this in the memoir but it would have gone 290 pages instead of what I intended it to be -- besides, I wrote about a strange real life horror occurrence in the book.
  “What are you afraid of lady?  Fear and trembling of the unknown and that would be an educated guess,” would be something I ask in a polite tone, but didn’t because I didn’t want to piss her off.
    Everyone is afraid of something, and the thing I faced that I am truly frightened of is someone telling me that I turned into my biological father.  I had some bizarre nightmares about wandering around within the hospital that Vinnie, my young son was born in -- but seeing him about my height, long red hair and saying,    
   “Father, you turned into my fucking unknown grandfather. I am talking about the father who was void in your world, the one that left you like you left me. You never loved me or mother.”
   “Vinnie, wait--I was stabbed five days after you were born. I was reading DRACULA to you because I wanted to instill some culture. As my parents instilled in me as a teenager and my step-family did as well.  I really wanted to get you out of Iowa and raise you in my hometown of Chicago, you have my blood running through your veins. My anger on your lips,” I would respond. When I think about a dream like that, personally it’s a father’s worst horror coming to life. I would hate to hear that being said of a teenager whose family was rooted in addiction and madness. What disturbed me about my father, Russell, was he turned around and punched a teacher in the face.
    “Really, you were doing that?” he would respond.
  “Your old man is a horror writer, and my reasons of getting published now is help you eventually find me.  As I see you now, you really might not remember me back when you were in diapers,” I answered in a dark, sincere tone, “The place we stayed at when you were intensive care.  I was working nearly 5 hours away and couldn‘t drive. The thing during that time, I still have family in Chicago and you were the only family I have in Iowa.”
  “I was reading the horror books to you aloud because I was showing you a huge part that is in the blood of your father. Someone who is rooted in the classics in the genre that I write and love as equally as I love you -- when I lost custody of you my works became my children,” I continued.
 “You see, Vinnie, I am nothing like your grandfather who is known as Russell. I put you up for adoption because I was going mad because of the accusations that were thrown at me saying I was neglecting you,  my only hope is this -- that you learn the truth of me and not the things you‘re mother will say of me.  You see, when I gave you up. I worked out a deal to have an open adoption meaning I can send you things as you get older -- I am just waiting for the right thing to give you so you can see me as I am now,”  I added.
  “I love you, and you are my son.  I love you unconditionally.  I gave you up because of this,  the torment of trying to get you back was causing me to go mad -- suffering two nervous breakdowns and losing everything but my soul.  One when I was accused of child abuse, and the other when I was released then my apartment was broken into then cleaned out. The combination of the stabbing and the accusations along with what happened on that day. I got blamed for that horrific thing in Colorado.  That would be in the history books when you get older or online because this would be the way you would communicate with people as you got older,” I continued.
   He sat down and listened to what I was saying, in the dream I was actually giving him fatherly advice. Though it was surreal seeing him as he was older, and this dream came about the night he was born on a full moon and a stormy January night in 1999. I wish that he would become the prodigal son.
  “So what your saying father, I will grow to understand why you did what you did?”
  “As you get older, you will want to seek me out and what I do now is drawing out a map of where I am with my written works.  I am doing like what John Carpenter did with his one movie with the author using his covers as a map of New England; horror will be in your blood after all your mother being a witch and your father being a horror writer -- and as you see me in the dream I was only twenty-two, for a man that’s still a kid when it comes to parent hood.  I was there when you were in the delivery room when they were cutting your mother’s stomach like a fish,” I continued.
  Those nightmares might be plagued by a lot of lies that his late grandmother would say about I am not going to amount to anything.  But when I think of places like these small towns, they have this eerie kind of weirdness and a darkness which lies within the everybody knows everybody.  I grew up in a small town, by radius but it was quite densely populated meaning there was no downtown.  The bus driver would joke when he sees the strip mall driving the pace bus converted from a school bus, “I like to personally welcome to Downtown Glendale Heights.”
   I was thinking back on this as I have visited around the area for my first ever signing, it was something I barely recognized yet at the same time had this eerie familiarity to it.   If Jane Thomas were to wander around the spook house  which was in our back yard at the time in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, one would only speculate what kind of horrors would dwell in the shadows of her nightmares or her dreams.
  When she said that, it made me remember what this college friend said and part of the reason he didn’t touch my work back then.  If you had a classmate who’d eventually be a strung-out murderer and someone who made a very bold statement about how he escaped from homosexuality along with being caught up in the occult. One would catch upon the haunted strangeness within those hallways or had friends die off on you  like I did in a stretch of four years. Two of them rather young, one of them being Charles Beaumont’s age. He taught me how to laugh at myself, because for the longest time I took myself quite seriously until I wrote The Fandom Writer and Bleed The Freak, then one of the more abrasive works in my latter part of my career.
  What gets to me is I never really had a chance to make my amends for calling him a bastard. He was a good man though and meant well. The only crime he committed was he really didn’t know the way some horror writers tick, and how superstitious a lot of us are. What he didn’t understand when I yelled at him like that, it was more like an annoyed type joking matter. So wherever he is or seeing these words, wherever you are man -- this is my apology for calling you a bastard. In truth, I was the illegitimate child.  
   The history of my father was open for speculation. Even for me especially where I sometimes don’t see myself in the mirror -- though I am looking at me, but the face I see wasn’t me. It was my father, and sometimes I nearly punched the mirror in anger. So what I do as a writer is a healthy way of getting this anger out there, that dark and surreal weirdness that’s my world. I sometimes picture Jane Thomas wandering around in the word worlds of Chimeraworld, if anything, she would have the worst nightmares of her life from those books.  A nightmarish world born without belief, and revealing a nerve shaking horror in realization they’re all on their own.
  My superstition is not have any photos of me before the age of seventeen floating around or have photos with my hood and some kind of cover on my head when I had my hair fall out on me.  I refuse to wear my hair short because of the scar I bare upon my head, which was the reminder of an evil deed done by two kids that was harbored by a now former youth pastor.
  I picture her drifting off into a lucid slumber and slips into a dark dream. I can image where she would hear Charles Beaumont say to her, “Please take my hand.  I want to show you a dark world that’s not evil, frightening yes but not evil because what horror is.  What it does, it’s the mirror’s truth.”
  “What in Jesus ‘ name?  Who are you,” she freaked.
  “I am the man who created a man who howls in the shadows but wasn’t a werewolf.  My name is Charles Beaumont, I died when I was only thirty-four years of age. You do have two horror writers walking among you, one is similar to H.P. Lovecraft’s creation of Cthulhu in the human form while the other wrote about a witch in the river, The Kankakee River” he’d introduce himself.
He was referring to Paul and his novel, The River Witch.
  The one of mine, I wasn’t sure which one he was speaking of just yet.
  But I think he was describing the one that has the old Gothic church on the cover taken near the hostel I stayed at from time to time. I snapped the photograph when I was buying some gel roller pens to sign the black background on my front pages because I use photography for that. I wasn’t sure which one yet because I was just doing the finishing touches on this.
Cthulhu in human form was something described of me by an author I would eventually publish, a horror writer whose got some serious movie star looks named J.M. Heluk.  He was referring to in the dream, the story I wrote called Darkness From The Skies because I was imagining The Great Old Ones looking over the vast freshwater inland sea.
  “What you can’t be? You’ve been dead for quite some time,” she stares on shielding herself with the Good Book in her hand.
  “Two horror writers who walk among me?” she stared on at Mr. Charles Beaumont in horror.
  “I might be deceased, I died the same age or slightly older as the writer who’s Cthulhu in human form.  He takes horror from his life, and combines much of the nightmarish shadows that wander around within the sands of time. Reigns in the northern territories of Illinois, walks in the areas where I walked along in the areas where Robert Bloch got his humble beginnings,” he continues.
  “What do you mean by that?” She asks in an alarmed tone.
  “I’d personally would drink a coffee with the guy because he comes up with ideas that would even scare Edgar Allan Poe, and this would be something that time will give him his proper due,” he answered.
  “Is he evil? Her voice trailed off as she shook thinking of the one who wrote about a witch in the river.
   Man that would be the shadows of rural weirdness for you, especially coming for a dead guy whose horror legacy is rooted in Chicago, Illinois. The kind of thing I would observe and speculate here -- what I write of the events of this day are the seeds of what would be born of the speculative.  Where Jane Thomas could live in Anytown Small Town, Illinois, and has the nightmares about a man who gave Chicago it’s own Gothic Horror heritage. She said that horror is evil to someone who is a historian and a curator of a book that has stories from the nineteenth, twentieth and twenty-first centuries.  What I draw from the sentence she said of Goths and horror being of Old Nick -- the frightening thing about this observation she made calling both satanic.  It would be coming from someone who is very misunderstood when it comes to legacy of fear and a museum which is born in a way of the one in France of the one with their skin removed and their muscle tissue was waxed.  That of a woman and a horse kept behind plastic.  I sometimes ask, “What if she was able to see this particular exhibit”
  Another would be what if she was brought into the museum of medical oddities.  Horror is also rooted in medicine in some ways.  Especially in mental health medicine because they would stick the mentally ill within torture devices that were then called “restraints.”
  Continuing within her dream, she kept seeing other things wandering within the darkness as well.  Something of one of my creations being a library born of the dead where the stories are written by the dead, just as they died.  Seeing that she was stepping out of the shelter of a rural world, and a dark, haunting world standing before her. Nightmares forged out of the shadows and wandering within the depths of Gothicism; these are the works that compliment the landscape of these old structures.  As a matter fact, Jane C. Thomas could in fact be a character in any type of  Gothic story, and in madness she shall dwell.
   She is the kind of character one can imagine being the subject of a rural weird tale. She wasn’t prepared in her dream described that there was a changing of the guard, in a world where ghosts, demons, angels, gothic entities, the power of prayer, depravity, sinister deeds of unspeakable natures and virtue clawing over the deceased  horror writers to gain dark supremacy.  
  What she doesn’t understand and something that doesn’t need to be forced into her but with composure, educate people similar to her that horror is a tool of both the devil and in Him -- it can be used to help the greater good to expose the dangers of the occult. A faith based type where they say horror and Gothicism is flat out evil, that’s an open invitation for every horror writer to make her nightmares their personal playground.  She just rang the dinner bell so to speak.
  Her dream carries on, Mr. Beaumont was escorting her through a library made of human skulls much as the churches underground areas that were in France where the walls are that of human skulls.
  “Where are we?”
  “Where we are is in a creation of another author,” Mr. Beaumont answered.
  “I hate this place, it’s evil. Please take me out of this horrendous place!  Bring me back to sacred ground, I feel like a vampire that was exposed to a sacred object. Except I am not burning from it, I am truly afraid of what I would find here.  The person who created this? How did he get the idea or where did he get the idea for this infernal place,” she responded trying to hold back a scream of nerve shattering horror.
  “The person behind this.  He got the idea from a dream he had when he slept under the stars on the top of a mausoleum when he was living in Mason City, Iowa.  He woke up with blood flowing down the stones and blood stained his sleeping bag, he got a bite from a rodent that touched bone,” Beaumont explained.
  “His dream name is Isaac Beaumont, not related to me but someone who wanted to carry on a legacy that almost died with me when I died at thirty-four.  The way I died back when I was thirty-four when I passed  away. This one would sleep in cemeteries just for inspiration,” he continued.
  “Does he follow the Left Hand Path?” Jane Thomas asked, borderline now horrified by the realization he revealed to her.
   “He’s neither a witch or a Satanist if that‘s what you mean, just a man who is addicted to knowledge and books.  But a man who has a vast knowledge of what dwells within the depths of what stems from the fear mankind portrays,  he had some dreams of me sitting with him in a diner near where he used to live outside of Chicago, Illinois. He lives with a lot of torments that came to him just as he became a teenager, one tragedy after another -- he found intrigue with both the sacred and profane, walking the fine line between the two.  His words as they‘re written go into a fine line between what they come to be faith and madness,”  He says as he looks upon the dark grotesque structure which is my creation.
  Jane looked on in disbelief.
 “I came across such a man in a library where he was uploading something I noticed his affinity to heavy metal.  I believe heavy metal and horror is Satanic,” she continues.
  “I guess you don’t realize the reasons why I am showing you the things I am showing you.  You have such sights for me to show you.  He chose a path in horror that counteracted everything that really corrupted the genre over the past years and did this well into his early twenties,” Beaumont continues.  
  “He does this because he discovered Howard Phillips Lovecraft at the age of nineteen, but didn’t buy his first Lovecraft book until he was twenty years of age.  He didn’t discover my friend, Richard Matheson‘s books, until after he got published but been raised around his work.  He’s been doing this since he was a kid, some of his stuff in grade school was even macabre.  He did an assignment where he told a story about a kid who shot himself before a math test, if that isn’t someone who’d become what he is now then I don’t want to know who is,” Beaumont then added.
  “Can’t be!  Please take this cup from me, I don’t want to see no more. So much darkness… please let me run to the light,” she shrieked.
  She was laying in her bed with her head moving left and right violently then murmuring in her sleep, “please let me run to the light, please let me run to the light, so much horror. Too much horror, so much fear, so much darkness,  seen too many abominations!”
  She woke up in her cushy bed where she had all her religious texts staring at her screaming bloody murder, “PLEASE LET ME RUN TO THE LIGHT!”
  She looked to the cross and said, “What did I say that invoked this nightmare? I woke up to a bad dream, May You help me understand where these people really come from? Please give me Your infinite wisdom.”
  After her little prayer she laid back down again and pulled the covers back up to her neck and drifted up to sleep.  What she doesn’t understand, is that horror writers draw from everything around them --- they draw from death, madness, faith, their nightmares and everything in between. Tormenting by the constant questions of “What If” or “Why” -- where their questions have no answers.  I stare at her as I walked out of the library, thinking if she only knew didn‘t she read the article about me in 2005 the one called Tales from the Dark Side about a man who signed his works using blood and not shy about dropping really macabre details in a grotesque form.
  Yeah what can I say, that’s rural weirdness don’t-cha-know.  Sorry, I spent some time in Minnesota and friends with a few people from there so it rubbed off on me. What it comes down to, someone as Jane C. Thomas to really understand the light she would have to wander in darkness in her own way.
  As she slept, she thought please don’t let me have that dream of the library of human skulls again? It makes me think of that infernal longhair.
  Dreams turn to nightmares… Black Sabbath would sing in Sabbath Bloody Sabbath. Jane C. Thomas was having her version of this. Sort of like the ending in the movie version of Stephen King’s first novel Carrie about how one of the characters were walking to the place where they want to see where she died out of morbid curiosity and a hand covered in pig’s blood reaches her from out of the dirt.
  In her dreams---she was wandering the playground of late author Barbara Malenky, a world full of human oddities on a subliminal level.  For someone who believed in the man upstairs without information of artistic forms of literature, their ignorance is a horror writer’s playground. So with this, let the games begin in the pages of this rural weird tale within her nightmares are where the words of horror writers reign in her sanity, welcome to our world our dark, dark world!
  What she doesn’t realize who she prays to, HE ABOVE had a disturbing sense of humor. THE OLD TESTAMENT is full of horror, namely the last book in THE OLD TESTAMENT and the final book in the new relate some macabre details. Stephen King actually confirmed this, and acknowledges this -- so why can’t Jane C. Thomas. Sometimes He uses horrific things to test his believers and allows dark things to happen to them to see if they stay faithful. What she doesn’t understand about us, though we write of dark and frightening things we come from all walks of life. What she doesn’t understand was that Stephen King’s Storm of the Century actually had a lot of Biblical references in there -- the most frightening thing of it all there was sacrifice.
  I sometimes wonder when she comes to the realization that two horror writers do live in the area as her dream played out.  One who wrote THE RIVER WITCH and the other writes details about their nightmares in a style that would play havoc into others who try to sleep at night who dwells a little more underground. If she really realized what she said, something like that would tend to haunt a person for quite some time.  I’ve seen people go mad because of it because I’ve actually driven someone mad. People like Jane C. Thomas are those  who are not to be hated, just need to be informed and a little more educated on the subject before making such a judgment call. The frightening thing is there is a Jane C. Thomas in every small town or suburb of a large city. THERE IS ONLY JUST ONE WHO WOULD BEING THE WITCH HUNT.
  There is only that one that would invoke a real life Gothic tale, and I’ve seen this too many times before.  The cycle is a snake devouring it’s own tail.  The nightmares she receives are infinite, and doesn’t know when such dreams about the library of skulls will begin again.

Web Site: Writings From The Grave  

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Reviewed by Stinky Cat 6/27/2014
There's a lot of name-dropping of horror authors in this. You may want to tone that down and fully describe scenes so it doesn't come across so fan fiction-ish:

"a surreal sketch if you will, and my guess she never read a story written by either Edgar Allan Poe or Richard Matheson."

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