Category: Mystery/Suspense Publisher: Writers Club Press
ISBN-10: 0595260012
Type: Fiction
Pages: 226
Copyright: December 19, 2002
ISBN-13: 9780595260010
A fantasy "quest" story set in modern times, STRAY NOT BEYOND is an adventure fraught with humor, horror, mystery and suspense--a satire steeped in the supernatural, with deeper undertones of meaning lurking below the text
When Irving Carlisle left his Pennsylvania home and headed south towards Otterwood, North Carolina, all he wanted was more "Suttlespyce (Number 17)"—the richest, rarest, most wonderful and elusive pipe tobacco in the world. It was going to be a long, strange, horrible time before he ever got back...
In STRAY NOT BEYOND Carlisle details the increasingly desperate adventure which engulfs him once he arrives in Otterwood to search for Theodamus Rroyhall, the only person who'd ever offered “Suttlespyce” for sale. As soon as Carlisle hits town the suspicion and hostility against him are apparent—everyone he meets tells him a different version of Rroyhall's whereabouts and activities, none of which is true. Only when Willie, the teenaged waiter at a motel restaurant, decides to befriend him and explain to him what's going on does Carlisle begin to make any headway...toward disaster. Carlisle and Willie soon find themselves descending into a whirlpool of mounting troubles—beaten up and thrown out of Carlisle's motel by Simms, the short-order cook with mysterious ties to Rroyhall, they are then kidnapped and imprisoned in Fozlo's Cave along with Willie's “ole man”—bad enough, but it's only when they make their way out the other side of the cave and find themselves lost in a sinister, unknown, ruin-strewn forest that the terrifying nightmare really begins. The insane ice-cream-truck driver…the Mold Man…the Ghost of the Museum—the Cookie Trial, and the horrors of the Final Valley—
Excerpt
NOTICE
Theodamus Rroyhall’s “Suttlespyce (Number 17) Raisin-Flavoured Brandy-Cured Crimp-Cut Tobacco for Pipes” is not sold in stores. It can no longer be ordered by mail, as no catalog left in the world offers it; only one ever did, anyway, and it’s been out of print for nearly five years. It will, in fact, be impossible to find even a pinch of Theodamus Rroyhall’s “Suttlespyce (Number 17)” anyplace on the planet except one: inside the garage of a certain home near East Roolox Lane, Whippoorwill City, Pennsylvania—
My place.
I, myself, have a long-term supply of the stuff—easily the finest smoke ever tamped into briar—but before anyone gets the wrong idea, let me state flatly that not one shred of it is for sale. This should NOT be construed as a challenge to the reader (“Not for sale, eh? I’ll bet I could get the sonofabitch to part with a can or two!”); I put a hell of a lot on the line to come by Mr. Rroyhall’s product, and I plan to hang onto every ounce of it myself.
This attitude may seem unreasonably selfish to those who have no idea what I’ve been through. Nevertheless, I will not change my mind, and I keep a loaded shotgun handy to discourage persons who might come around to change it for me. Also, Tweedler, my Exceptionally Intelligent Watchcat, is fond of stretching out across the tops of my tobacco crates, and the image of him clawing and rending overenthusiastic smokers who’d try to clandestinely cart them away comes easily to mind.
—Irving Carlisle
