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I’ve had nightmares for as long as I can remember, some so intense I’d wake up terrified and sweat-soaked, my heart pounding furiously in my chest. The nightmares used to be so bad I would be afraid to go to bed, afraid to watch horror movies, and often slept with my light on and the door open, giving me an escape route should the demons attack. And, if you believe some people’s horrific interpretations of nightmares, they would only reinforce this fear, these defense mechanisms.

Some of this information really requires you to push the envelope in terms of suspending disbelief.  James Odinga recently published a non-fiction novel titled: OVERCOMING SPIRITUAL MARRIAGES: A practical help for people who are sexually assaulted by DEMONS. What? Sexually assaulted by demons?

Hang in there. It gets richer.

According to Odinga, these incubus and succubus demons, who normally attack while a person is sleeping, have even seduced people in their waking lives, murdering their spouses “to continue their practice without much rivalry.”

Odinga’s not alone.

Noel and Phyl Gibson, authors of Evicting Demonic Intruders, write: “A young lady was lying in bed in a caravan when she heard a voice in her ear asking permission to have sex with her. No one was with her at that time. She readily agreed, then felt the weight of a body, was stimulated and came to orgasm without seeing any one. From then onwards, she was subjected to periodic internal stimulation.”

The authors provide other examples of these demon attacks: “A young man who had been deeply into all forms of sexual pervasions and witchcraft, ended owning two massage parlors, he confessed to having had naked female demons masturbate him frequently at night. He said ‘I used to think it was in my mind until I woke up and found they were really there.’”

In his book, Curses, Unforgiveness, Evil spirits and Deliverance, Rodger Miller says: “We have worked with several people who have these problems but didn’t know it was demonic (I am not aware of anything in the bible that specifically named these demons as incubus and succubus). There are vicious spirits, which can molest and torment individuals. Those attacking females are called incubus and those concentrating on males are called succubus. They often come in prominence in connection with witchcraft, spells, love potions and other curses of lust. They can also operate when people consciously and habitually experiment with sexual sin….The attacks are usually concentrated on the individuals while he or she sleeps and he or she may be awakened with fondling hands, caressing hot lips and tongue and other forms of lust-inducing stimulation.”

But, I’m not going to debate whether the aforementioned writers are actually documenting real-life experiences or not. It’s a common belief that nightmares are a terrifying and destructive force in our lives. As a horror fiction writer, I exploit that notion myself, but only for the sake of an entertainingly scary novel. Typically horror fans just love to be scared.

But in my younger years, that was my view of nightmares; powerful, destructive, terrifying, maybe even real. Until I began looking a little deeper. If you look at nightmares in the context of lucid dreaming (being aware you’re dreaming while you’re dreaming), nightmares become a hugely valuable healing mechanism. Let’s say you were in the throes of a terrible nightmare, and suddenly became lucid. That would give you the power to step outside of the horror movie and view it from the outside looking in. This change of perspective from victim to spectator created by lucid dreaming would then allow you to come to grips with the source of the fear, control it, and lessen it considerably. After all, the nightmare is a product of your subconscious mind. It’s a part of you, wanting to be heard.

In one of my nightmares, I was being pursued by a rather nasty-looking killer. Or at least I thought he was a killer. Suddenly I became lucid, realized I was dreaming, and it gave me the courage to confront the attacker, confront my fear. I stopped and turned around to face him. He stopped so close to me his acrid halitosis-breath assaulted my senses. “What the hell do you want?” I asked. “Why are you chasing me?”

He scratched his stubble chin and ran a hand over his pock-marked face. His beady black eyes rolled around in his head. “How the hell should I know? It’s your nightmare.”

Then the attacker vanished, my fear vanished and I woke up with an epiphany of sorts. Nightmares are not to be feared. Nightmares are to be embraced.

According to lucid dream educator Charlie Morley, nightmares are powerful psychological statements. By confronting them in a lucid dream, we learn to face our psychological issues and fears. He says if we face them with lucid awareness they cease to be nightmares and turn out to be amazing possibilities for transformation and “clear-seeing.”

Notable psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Carl Jung takes it a step further, using a term he calls “Shadow Integration.” The Shadow describes the part of the mind which we have denied, disowned, or outright rejected. It’s our dark side. But Jung maintains that while the Shadow operates as a reservoir of human darkness, it’s also a wellspring of all human creativity; not something evil or bad, just a part of ourselves that we are unwilling to face. Shadow Integration means going to the source of the fear and forming a relationship with your dark side. By doing so, the shadow becomes a source of warmth and positivity rather than a destructive force.

During one of his lucid dreaming retreats, lucid dream educator Charlie Morley asked one of the participants how his night went. The man said he’d had a wonderful night, full of nightmares. Initially Morley thought the guy was crazy. But, after he developed a fuller understanding of lucid dreaming in the context of nightmares, he realized the man was right.

So, next time you have a terrible nightmare, try and get lucid in it; form a relationship with your dark side, and come to grips with your fears and phobias.

It might be the greatest gift you can ever give yourself or anyone else.

Have you ever been dreaming and then realized you were in a dream? This psychological phenomenon is known as conscious dreaming or lucid dreaming—a sudden awareness while you’re dreaming that you are dreaming.  And, according to lucid dream teachers, researchers and therapists, it can lead to limitless possibilities. People all over the world have developed a love affair with this magical world, believing it to be a key to happiness, mindfulness, awareness, kindness, love, inner peace, and spiritual enlightenment.

For over a thousand years, Tibetan Buddhists have practiced lucid dreaming as a means to promote spiritual enlightenment. They’ve developed elaborate techniques to master this richly detailed, moving, exhilarating and inspiring world.

Tapping into lucid dreams, while facilitating a better understanding of consciousness, can also be riotously entertaining.

If you’re aware that you’re dreaming, it follows that you can control your dreamscape. Philosopher and physician Thomas Browne, in his Religio Medici, writes: “… yet in one dream I can compose a whole Comedy, behold the action, apprehend the jests and laugh myself awake at the conceits thereof.” If you can control this mysterious world, then the possibilities become endless. You are only limited by your imagination. My dream world is extremely complex and vivid and, even before I realized lucid dreaming had been scientifically proven, I experienced many lucid dreams.

And I had a riot.

During one such dream, I was walking down the street in a surreal landscape straight out of an old spaghetti western movie set. The sun was just setting on a desert-like crimson horizon. At first I wasn’t aware that I was dreaming, even though everything looked incongruous. Suddenly a fang-toothed monster stepped out in front of an old saloon, growled menacingly, and charged me.  With an adrenaline-fueled injection, I dashed behind an old building. I heard the beast coming closer and began to panic. I started looking around for a weapon to defend myself and magically an AK-47 appeared on the ground in front of me. As soon as I picked it up, the monster approached and I fired a staccato-burst of bullets. Riddled with blood-soaked holes, he dropped to the ground like a sack of hammers. Then it occurred to me. Wait a minute. Machine guns don’t magically appear just when you need one. I must be dreaming.

With that new awareness, I continued down the street, believing I had been thrust into a larger-than-life video game in which the object was kill or be killed. Sure enough, monsters of all shapes and sizes began attacking me and I cut them all down effortlessly with my machine gun. Soon all the monsters were dead and I was alone on the street, smoking gun in hand. Satisfied with my efforts, I began to think of other possibilities. Maybe I should spread my wings and fly. But before I could focus to try and achieve this, one of the dead monsters began to stir. It was as if the camera had been reversed. His spilled blood began to flow from the street and back into his veins. His bullet-ridden body magically healed itself. He rose stronger and more determined than ever. So did the others. They regrouped and attacked en masse.

I cut them down as they approached, but there were too many. Soon they were on me, biting, ripping and tearing me to shreds. With raw fear creeping into my veins, I tried to keep my composure, telling myself over and over that I was dreaming. Like the monsters, I would magically heal and launch a counter-offensive, deadlier than before. But the uncertainty was probably too much and I woke up, albeit with vivid memories of the dream and a not-unpleasant feeling of having escaped into another wild, wonderful and powerful world. I quickly documented the dream and it became the inspiration for Resurrection Point, a dark tale exploring the horrifying consequences of experimenting with death and resurrection.

But, many of my lucid dreams have been far less uncertain and overwhelmingly positive. As with many other lucid dream lovers, my favorite thing to do while lucid dreaming is to fly. I’ve accomplished this many times, soaring high in the sky over beautiful land and seascapes, mesmerized by the beauty and spellbound by the incredibly amazing experience.

Experts say if you want to explore this mysterious world often, you have to train your mind. The most important thing to do is keep a dream journal, document your dreams as soon as you wake up. Become familiar with your dream landscape and its recurrent themes, so you might reliably identify them and thereby put yourself into a life-changing lucid dream. They also say look for incongruous dream signs that will alert you that you’re dreaming. One technique to recognize a dream sign is the reality check.  During your conscious world, look at your hand and look away. Then look back at your hand. It should look the same. During a dream, look at your hand and then look away. When you look back at it, if you’re dreaming, ninety-five per cent of the time it won’t look the same. It might be elongated; you might be able to stretch your finger to ten times its normal size. Your hand may resemble a five-fingered water balloon. That’s because the file for pattern recognition of your hand is stored in the left hemisphere of the brain and dreaming is a right-brain phenomenon. Providing you’re dreaming, the hand-examining reality check will serve as a dream sign, alerting you and helping you become lucid.

Of course there are many other dream signs; flying pigs; talking to your dead father; being in your childhood home, and being nude in public. It’s just a question of training your mind to recognize them.

Many people claim they don’t dream at all. Their sleeping world is black nothingness, an unaware state. According to the experts, this just isn’t true. Experts claim that every human being has between three to seven dreams per night. Most people just don’t remember them. So, it’s not a question of not dreaming, it’s a question of recall. If you want to experience the transformative world of lucid dreaming, you have to train your mind. Start a dream journal, learn how to identify and use dream signs, and do reality checks.

You might be saying, Why bother?

But think about it. In an average life span, we spend a third of our lives sleeping. That’s about thirty years. Why, if you could develop a richer awareness and understanding of yourself and the world around you, would you choose to spend it in total blackness? It’s almost akin to being in solitary confinement for thirty years.

Experts say it’s possible for anyone to learn to dream consciously. Don’t knock on that door to higher consciousness. Leap right through it. Discover a colorful, crisply detailed and beautiful landscape with limitless possibilities—where you can control the characters, narrative and environment.  Based on my own richly rewarding experiences, I’m quite sure you won’t be disappointed. So sleep, dream, create, escape, enjoy and understand more fully what it is to be human in this complicated and stressful world we live in.

Watch for next week’s blog post on lucid dreaming in the context of nightmares. I’ll discuss the notion that nightmares, far from being a destructive force in our lives, actually represent hugely valuable opportunities to come to grips with our phobias and fears.

Sleep paralysis is a mysterious phenomenon that occurs in that transitional stage between waking and falling asleep during which a person becomes completely immobilized. During these episodes, people may hear, feel, or see things that are absolutely terrifying and panic-inducing. Regardless of their best efforts, they’re momentarily powerless to break free from an almost catatonic state. Since sleep paralysis often occurs on the absolute edges of dreaming, it’s something that’s difficult, if not impossible, to properly define or explain. How can you put rhyme or reason to something that occurs on the fringes of consciousness? Even though our knowledge of dreaming or semi-dreaming only scratches the surface of what might be going on in that complex world, it doesn’t prevent people from trying to understand it. After all, knowledge is power and might lead to a cure.

Dream researcher and educator Ryan Hurd writes, “Experienced by millions as supernatural assault, sleep paralysis (SP) often includes realistic, and often frightening, hallucinations that are projected into the waking world.”

Sleep paralysis often suspends the sleeper in a semi-dream state. They might be awake and aware of their surroundings but otherwise completely frozen, leaving some to wonder if they’re actually dying, experiencing an out-of-body experience, suffering a panic attack, a stroke, or even being kidnapped by aliens. Many report seeing frightening black shadow men, some with red eyes and elongated clownish grins. Others are all black, three-dimensional with an authoritarian “hat man” leading the charge. Indeed sleep paralysis sufferers have reported witnessing all manner of frightening ghost-like images; some even claim demon visitations by the succubus and incubus. The succubus is a female demon believed to have sexual intercourse with sleeping men, and the incubus is the male version of that.

During these “hellish experiences” many hear sounds such as door knocking, a thumping sound like an imbalanced washing machine, humming, hissing, static, zapping, buzzing and roaring. People also experience out-of-body sensations, numbness, electric tingles, tickling, and feelings of being dragged out of their beds or flying. Along with hallucinations, some experience pressure on the chest and difficulty breathing. Still others report flying through visually stunning colors and through some sort of a time warp and into another dimension.

And while it scares the hell out of many sufferers, the cause of sleeping paralysis is a matter of debate. The internet is full of videos and online blogs on the subject and it has taken on an almost cult-like following.  Many theories have been thrown at the wall: sleep deprivation, psychological stress, abnormal sleep cycles, diet, lifestyle choices, a dysfunction in REM sleep, even the result of being a victim of a violent and abusive upbringing.

Whatever the cause, I myself have experienced many episodes of sleep paralysis, long before I knew there was even a clinical definition for it or so much information available on the subject.

One night not so long ago, I was deep in an REM sleep. I remember having a series of mini-nightmares; demented people chasing me; monsters attacking me; people yelling and screaming in pain. Just my usual garden-variety night-time mayhem. I think it happened during the last nightmare in the horrifying series. I was in the woods, running away from a demented inbred-looking hillbilly who was chasing me with an axe. Precipitously a realization swept over me that I was in a nightmare. No problem, I thought. I got this. I stopped, curled up on the forest carpet, thinking I could just stay there for a minute or two, open my eyes and will myself awake and back into the comfort of my bed. After all, I’d done it before. But as I lay there trying to get my breathing under control, I heard the attacker’s footfalls growing louder, snapping twigs on the forest floor as he neared. Then suddenly he was directly above me and I could just feel his evil presence and evil intentions like a black tsunami wave.

“I got you now,” he said.

Then he crunched the heel of his boot onto my lower back and I felt a surge of hot red pain course up my spine. I tried to move. I couldn’t. I tried to shout out. I couldn’t. His boot pressed harder into the small of my back. “I bet that hurts. What I’m gonna do next will really mess you up.”

As the fear began to rise, I struggled to free myself. But it was no use. I was frozen to the spot, sleep paralyzed. I tried again to shout out, but it was useless. Not even a raspy whisper. Finally, after multiple strenuous attempts, I woke up. You might be thinking at this point, I was sweat-soaked, heart pounding out of my chest, terrified out of my wits. Yes, admittedly I was a little scared. But not terrified out of my wits. I might have been. If it was the first time. Problem was, it wasn’t the first time and I suspect it won’t be the last. I have been having nightmares for as long as I can remember, many of them accompanied by sleep paralysis. Sometimes my own voice wakes me up. Other times I struggle but eventually free myself from the immobilized state.

Initially my nightmares and sleep paralysis would render me terrified. But, since I seemed unable to escape the sleep paralysis demons, I realized I had to find a way to cope. I read many books on the subject and finally found one that helped me. It was so long ago I don’t remember the source. In essence the theory was that our nightmares (even those that include tormenting sleep paralysis episodes) are actually our subconscious minds processing information, working while we sleep to rid ourselves of the daily stresses of life, solve our problems and indeed cleanse us of negative energy.  According to the theory, the catharsis of sleep paralysis ultimately brings peace. It just has a strange way of doing it.

Maybe it was just a self-fulfilling prophecy, but it helped. Waking from my sleep paralysis and nightmares, I would examine them in the context of a therapeutic healing mechanism, talk myself into feeling cleansed, refreshed and rejuvenated and then go back to bed. After some time, I discovered another coping mechanism. Some of the nightmares, while horrifying in many ways, were indeed extremely lucid and colorful and I would awake and remember clearly many details, including entire verbatim conversations. So, before returning to bed, I would write the details down and file the information away. About six years ago, when I realized my calling as a horror writer, I turned to this file for story ideas. I found dozens and dozens of great ideas. Much of my books are inspired by my nightmares and I believe by writing them down and expanding on them, in some weird way it has freed me from my inner and outer demons. The exercise has not only liberated me from the terrifying nightmares and sleep paralysis but also endeared me to them in an inexplicable way. Now, although some of my nightmares do scare me somewhat, I manage to find the courage to embrace them on some level, if not in their entirety. Writing novels became my way of liberating myself from my demons. Weather we want to admit it or not, I suspect we all have inner and outer demons. To live a happy and productive life, or at least put ourselves on that path, we must find a way to defeat them; or in my case embrace them and simultaneously defeat them. Doesn’t fear give rise to demons and even empower them? Beat down the fear, in whatever way you can, and you’ll be transformed into a healthier mindset. Find whatever justification or crutch you can and hang onto it. As humans, that’s what we do. Explain, rationalize, discuss, understand, categorize and try to cure.

There are many examples of this in Rodney Ascher’s unique hybrid documentary and horror-thriller, The Nightmare. Combining surreal bedtime scenes, a creepy musical score, eerily underlit cinematography, and bone-chilling scare tactics, Asher examines the lives of eight people who’ve suffered from sleep paralysis. Connie Y. is one of them. She speaks of her sleep paralysis episodes—being frozen in utter terror, surrounded by a horrifying, icy cold, dark evil presence. “It feels like what death would be like,” she says. Although she started out abhorring religion, during one particularly terrifying sleep paralysis episode, she called out the name of Jesus to save her. After He answered her prayer (if you want to call it that), she became a devout Christian, married, and wanted little to do with sleep paralysis discussions, maintaining she wasn’t in that space anymore where she felt the need to analyze or address it. Her new-found faith had led to her salvation. She called out the name of Jesus. He came and banished the evil presence from her life.

Another person in The Nightmare claimed that after having a particularly vivid and terrifying experience during sleep paralysis, he stopped being an atheist.

While many sleep paralysis sufferers seek medical help, including psychotherapy, psychiatric treatment, sleeping pills, anti-depressants, and other medications, others outright reject the notion that it is merely a physiological sleep disorder, believing strongly that it is the manifestation of some otherworldly powerful and malevolent evil force. In the end, these beliefs have led them down paths that in some cases have lessened or eliminated the episodes entirely.

I’m not sure anyone can adequately explain the cause of something so mysterious; a phenomenon that occurs during a little-understood transitional state of consciousness called hypnagogia. Wikipedia defines hypnagogia as “the experience of the transitional state between wakefulness and sleep in humans: the hypnagogic state of consciousness, during the onset of sleep. Mental phenomena that occur during this ‘threshold consciousness’ phase include lucid thought, lucid dreaming, hallucinations, and sleep paralysis.”

With all that lucidity, to my mind it’s about as clear as mud. I couldn’t tell you if the condition invokes evil supernatural forces, aliens, or other dimensions. I know my episodes feel very real in a weirdly surreal sense, and at one time were extremely terrifying, even debilitating. But not anymore. I subscribe to the notion that sleep paralysis is my subconscious mind’s way of taking out the garbage.  And since I adopted that theory, just as Connie turned to Christianity, my episodes are far less frightening and far less frequent than before. Now I feel much less fearful about going to bed at night. Not only have I—in some measure—overcome the fear, but I feel psychologically in a much better place (of course some of my friends might disagree). Now, sleep paralysis serves as a gateway to creativity and inspires multiple story ideas. And, thanks to those dirty little demons, I’ve found my passion and calling in life. Hmm…I think I have a new idea for another new horror novel.

Millions of people suffer from sleep paralysis. Do you? Please share your story with me. I hope it has a happy ending.

Sweet dreams.

Tell your friends, tell your family, tell your neighbors; hell, even tell your enemies. Starting today, Boxing Day, fifteen gripping William Blackwell ebooks will be slashed to 25 per cent off the retail price. The sale ends after 11:59pm Pacific time on January 1st. Are you eagerly waiting to fill up that new Kindle ereader you got for Xmas with some great new books? Maybe you just love the hassle-free distribution and instant access to ebooks? Now’s the time; get them at tremendous savings.

If you’re not a fan of horror, psychological thriller, inspirational fiction, or post-apocalyptic thrillers (my main genres), worry not. Hundreds, if not thousands, of other authors will be participating in the Smashwords sale and also offering novels in other genres at rock bottom prices. And yes, even FREE.

Here is just  a sampling of what I’ll be offering.

Freaky Franky, my new release, revolving around the cult worship of Santa Muerte or Saint Death, will be reduced from $4.99 USD to $3.74 USD. Summary: When a disaffected group of people begin experimenting with the cult of Saint Death, brutal murders begin happening.

Of Freaky Franky, one reviewer says, “Tension is maintained at a high level throughout the novel and threads are expertly woven between the characters to pull them all together in the end. I highly recommend this book if you enjoy suspense, a fair bit of graphic violence and generally being scared to death!”

A Head For An Eye, admittedly one of my favorites, will get slashed from $4.99USD to $3.74USD. In macabre detail, A Head For An Eye juxtaposes the ruthless Tarahumara brand of justice with the questionable North American judicial system. This novel took months of painstaking research and has been praised by reviewers. Example: “Extraordinary story with well-researched details, captivating development of the characters and their relationships, and an important underlying message. The reader is quickly drawn into the scary and unpredictable world of drug cartels and follows the path of Matt and Angelique as they find themselves venturing into the thick of it.”

And that’s not even the kicker. Assaulted Souls, a favorite of my publisher, will be offered absolutely FREE, starting now, right through until February 28th, 2018. Summary: A post-apocalyptic thriller, it’s a raw and graphic exploration of a terrifying existence in a wasteland produced by humankind’s stupidity.

Reviewers:

“I would recommend this book to people who like fast-paced thrillers and enjoy reading of a world with society ripped out from underneath us.”

“A well-written story with a powerful shock ending. Really makes you think about the stupidity mankind is capable of. This story does not amble. The action is full-throttle from beginning to end. A gifted writer.”

“I like the clarity of the writing style and the authenticity of the dialogue.”

“The reader is drawn in from page one and can easily read this book in one sitting. I certainly found it impossible to put down!”

So, what are you waiting for? Click the link below, download and enjoy Assaulted Souls FREE, then take advantage of the BOXING WEEK BOOK BLOW-OUT!!!

As always, thanks for stopping by. A very Merry Xmas to you and yours. And a productive and Joyous New Year. May you have many more rum and eggnog-filled festivities. Here’s the link to books that will educate, influence, entertain, and scare the hell out of you. Scroll down when you land on the page. I promise it won’t take you long to find Assaulted Souls. Enjoy.

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/WilliamBlackwell1

Yes, dear readers, Christmas has come early.

For a limited time I am offering post-apocalyptic fiction novel Assaulted Souls for FREE.

This gritty roller-coaster ride into a wasteland produced by humankind’s stupidity has been praised by reviewers. Here are just a few of the comments:

“I would recommend this book to people who like fast-paced thrillers and enjoy reading of a world with society ripped out from underneath us.”

“A well-written story with a powerful shock ending. Really makes you think about the stupidity mankind is capable of. This story does not amble. The action is full-throttle from beginning to end.”

“I like the clarity of the writing style and the authenticity of the dialogue. The reader is drawn in from page one and can easily read this book in one sitting. I certainly found it impossible to put down!”

Here is a brief synopsis:

Nathan King wakes up one day freezing cold and starving with hunger on a tattered mattress in a dark cave and has no idea where or who he is.

He meets Edward Sole, apparently his protector for the last few months, who tells him a nuclear bomb has been dropped and most, if not all of the world, has been destroyed.

Slowly the realization sinks in that in this horrific post-apocalyptic landscape, there are no rules, no laws. Cannibalism is rampant, mutant animals and humans are on the attack.

With all communication cut off, and meager supplies, every day becomes a fight for survival and sanity!

Too make matters worse, a band of savages called The Neanderthals have emerged who rape, pillage and murder for more than just survival. They enjoy it.

Fighting for their survival and hoping to find a more hospitable island off the coast of Prince Edward Island, Ed and Nathan team up with Cadence Whitaker, Nathan’s girlfriend whom he has no recollection of, and fierce warrior Velvet Jones to try and hatch a plan to escape the island before they’re all killed.

In the meantime, Ed has begun a slow descent into madness, leaving the group wondering who the enemy really is.

A lightning-paced, action-packed exploration of a terrifying existence in a wasteland decimated by mankind’s stupidity.

Click the link below, download and enjoy. Please post a review and thank you.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/302655

Canadian author William Blackwell studied journalism at Calgary’s Mount Royal University and English literature at Vancouver’s University of British Columbia. He worked as a print journalist for many years before deciding to pen novels.

Prior to his writing career, Blackwell wandered aimlessly from job to job. He held many titles including laborer, painter, auto-body mechanic, road lane marker, fish plant worker, gas jockey, clothing salesman, used car salesman, hardware sales clerk, warehouse shipper/receiver, and even a short stint shoveling shit for a living. He has written for advertising companies, radio stations and many newspapers.

Although he writes predominantly horror novels, Blackwell has dabbled in other genres including sci-fi, psychological thriller, dark thriller, inspirational fiction, post-apocalyptic fiction and paranormal.  Some of his novels are difficult to categorize as they cross into multiple genres. His work has been characterized as “raw, gritty and real.”

Blackwell lived in Vancouver for many years, where he studied his craft and honed his skills. He also lived in Calgary for many years where he worked as a journalist for various newspapers. Currently he lives on a secluded acreage on Prince Edward Island and travels often to third-world countries where he finds the inspiration for many of his books. He loves to travel, read, write, socialize, and live life on the raw fringe of society.

Blackwell writes first to feed his addiction and satisfy his need to create. He also writes to “educate, influence, entertain, and scare the hell out of you.”

Here is a Q and A with William Blackwell:

Q: Where did you grow up, and how did this influence your writing?

A: I was born in a tough blue-collar neighborhood of Hamilton, Ontario, and that rough upbringing has influenced my writing in many ways. Growing up, I was one of the have-nots in a financial sense and it taught me street-smarts and to fight and work hard for what I want out of life. That blue-collar upbringing has created grit, determination, and toughness in many of the characters in my novels, along with some colorful language.

Q: Do you remember the first story you ever wrote?

A: I started Orgon Conclusion over twenty years ago, claimed writer’s block, and shelved it.  Then I wrote Brainstorm and sent it to my editor. If she would have said it was trash, I would have thrown it in the trash and given up on my writing career. But, she found it powerful and deeply moving and that encouraged me to re-write, finish and publish Orgon Conclusion and begin my career as an indie author; which I’ve long believed is my calling.

The irony wasn’t missed on me while doing edits on Freaky Franky, my latest novel that focuses on Santa Muerte, also known as The Angel of Death. One of the fastest rising cults in the world, people worship her for any number of reasons: wealth, health, love, and to come to grips with their mortality and insure safe passage into the afterlife. The irony is this.  Finishing up my edits on a novel that has as one of its main themes safe passage into the afterlife, I learned that two dear friends had passed away, one of them tragically and unexpectedly, snatched away at a tender young age; the other not even sixty, who lost a long and burdensome battle with the curse of cancer. The loss of two dear female friends less than two months apart led me to start thinking about my own mortality and how, in my writing and sometimes in my attitude, I flaunt death.

Maybe it was an epiphany of sorts that led me to believe otherwise. Hearing the tragic news, my first response was to stop editing, go into grief mode and begin reflecting on the strange thing called death and my view of it.

After much thought I realized I don’t flaunt death; I just embrace it with some mysterious and ineffable logic that there is an afterlife and that I will pass into this pastoral and peaceful place when my time on Earth is done. This knowledge isn’t based on a subscription to any institutionalized religion but rather on a largely undefined sense of spirituality.

Something else happened during this reflection. The feeling of grief and mourning that had initially swept over me was suddenly replaced by a sense of peace and tranquility and a profound yet inexplicable knowledge that my two friends had passed safely and contentedly into the afterlife. I could actually feel their spirits hovering above me, telling me almost telepathically that I shouldn’t be mourning their deaths. I should be celebrating their lives, and I should be happy that they are now in much better places.

It made me think of Saint Death, and how the mysterious saint brings followers happiness on Earth and happiness in the afterlife. I began to realize that Freaky Franky is much more than a grim story about death. It’s also a celebration of life and an exploration of the moral conduct necessary to achieve safe passage into the afterlife. After learning of the news, I flew to Calgary to attend celebration of life services and parties and to console and provide moral support to surviving family and friends of the deceased. Obviously production of Freaky Franky was delayed. Now entering my last round of edits, I hope that my recent first-hand experiences with death will help make the novel more powerful than I believe it already is.

Without any further adieu, I enclose some teaser chapters for your enjoyment. Watch for Freaky Franky coming soon to Amazon. Enjoy and thanks for reading.

FREAKY FRANKY PROLOGUE

I’m sick of being poor. Estella Mendoza peered out the misshapen window of her ramshackle home on the outskirts of the small city of Nacozari, Sonora, Mexico. All she saw was a barren and scorched landscape, the sun setting in the distant and bleak horizon. Her stomach was knotted by more than just hunger pangs. A sense of frustration and hopelessness was giving birth to a sense of desperation. A fly buzzed around her head and landed on her middle-aged cheek, leathered, lined and senescent by the cruelty of Mother Nature. Time had not been kind to her. With her right hand, she smacked her face hard, squashing the pesky fly and smearing its blood and guts across her face and hand.

“Got you, you son of a bitch,” she said in Spanish, wiping her palm on the knee of her dirt-stained, torn and weathered jeans. She ignored the fly remains on her cheek, moving away from the screenless and paneless window and rummaging through dusty cupboards for a morsel of food. Nothing. A grease-stained dented fridge door hung open, a small bowl of rice the only thing resembling nourishment on the otherwise empty shelves. Flies circled the rice, at times dive-bombing in for a small stale snack. Bending down, she reached inside, waved the flies away and picked up the small bowl. Looking around the cluttered kitchen counter, she found a dirty spoon, wiped it on her oversized and dirty white t-shirt and, sidestepping debris littering the dirt floor, walked over to a green plastic lawn chair, weathered by the elements and cracking in various spots.

As she sat down, a brittle leg snapped, catapulting her headfirst into a wooden wall. The rice bowl flew out of her hands, shattering against the wall and showering her head with rice and shards of glazed earthenware. She hit the ground ass-first and groaned. “You son of a bitch.” Dazed, she rubbed a small goose egg beginning to sprout on her forehead. Realizing she still clutched the spoon, she flushed and flung it against the door. With a metallic clang, it bounced off the door and skipped along the floor, stopping a few inches from her outstretched feet. Her face tightened and she reached for it, with the intention of throwing it clear out the window.

A knock on the door stopped the arc of her arm. “Who is it?”

From the other side. “It’s me,” the female voice said in Spanish. “Are you busy?”

Estella recognized the voice. Alejandra Rivera, her friend for over twenty years. Alejandra lived a few blocks away and in Estella’s view had everything. A middle-class home, a wonderful working husband, and a ten-year-old devoted and well-behaved son. Where Estella had famine, poverty and despair, Alexandra had an abundant food supply, an income stream, love and hope. Poison tentacles of jealousy and resentment coursed through her dazed mind. “What do you want?”

“I brought you refried beans. And rice.”

Estella slowly got to her feet. “Come in”

The door opened and Alexandra entered. “What happened?” she asked, concern furrowing her brow as she examined Estella and the accident scene.

Estella pointed to the shattered remains of the plastic chair leg. “It broke and sent me flying.”

“I’m sorry,” Alexandra said, putting the white bowl of beans and rice on a cluttered kitchen table and rushing to her friend’s aid. She escorted her to a nearby wooden chair, looking slightly less dangerous than the offending plastic one, and sat her down. The chair creaked and groaned, but held.

Alexandra produced a plastic spoon from a blue apron attached to her white dress and handed it to Estella. “Eat. It’ll do you good.”

Estella peeled the plastic wrap from the spoon, tossed it on the floor apathetically, and stabbed it into the food. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she waited a moment for her head to clear before digging in, quickly shoveling three spoonfuls into her mouth and swallowing them without hardly chewing.

Alexandra looked at the bump on Estella’s head and searched her friend’s eyes concernedly. “Are you okay?”

Between mouthfuls, Estella said, “Yeah, just a little bump.”

“Well, be careful.” As Estella ate, Alexandra approached the kitchen counter and began busily cleaning up, rifling food wrappings into a nearby wastebasket, and neatly piling dirty dishes next to the sink. It wasn’t the first time she’d helped her starving friend by bringing her food and cleaning her humble abode.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Alexandra spun around and looked at Estella cheerily. “It’s not a problem. And, look at you, you’re in no shape to do it right now.” She resumed cleaning, turning her back to Estella.

A blind rage—a dark and hateful energy—seethed through Estella’s veins. My chance. Now’s my chance. Before she even realized what she was doing, she leapt from the chair with a vitality and vigor she never knew she possessed, grabbed a hatchet and rushed toward Alexandra. As she swung the hatchet, Alexandra turned around, dropped her jaw in shock and horror and looked at Estella with fear-filled brown eyes.

The hatchet sliced into Alexandra’s throat, blood spraying Estella’s face and body. Two more swings and she chopped her head clean off. Alexandra’s decapitated head dropped to the floor, rolled along it, bumped into the front door and stopped.  Almost as if she was pursuing her head, Alexandra’s headless body convulsed and, spewing blood like a life-giving lawn sprinkler, staggered to the door, crashed into it and slumped to the ground, outstretched hands frantically reaching for her head for a second or two before growing still.

Estella put the hatchet on the now uncluttered kitchen counter, wiped her bloody face with a soiled dishrag, sat down at the kitchen table and continued eating. Perfunctorily she glanced at the lifeless head and body of her one-time friend. “By the way, thanks for the food.”

Two hours later, when the night had blanketed the day, clutching Alexandra’s head in both hands, she danced around a small skeleton statue, sprinkling blood on and around the shrine. Satisfied with her efforts, she placed the head next to the statue, lit a candle and placed it next to the skeleton. She knelt down and began praying for abundance. In the suffused candlelight, the skeleton saint’s hollow eye sockets glittered and glowed. Its grin seemed to mock her efforts and she realized there was more work to be done.

In the month that followed, Estella beheaded two ten-year-old boys, one of them her grandson, and sacrificed their blood to the skeleton saint. At the end of that month, she was convinced she had finally bought the favor of her Goddess. On that day the police raided her home and discovered the bodies of all three victims buried beneath her dirt floor. She was sentenced to life imprisonment, showed no remorse for the killings, and authorities labelled her a serial killer.

CHAPTER ONE

“I’m sorry, he’s dying.”

Anisa Worthington put both hands to her face and knelt down on the floor next to the bed. She spread two fingers and peered at her five-year-old son Connor, watching his labored breathing as his face flushed as red as the satin bedspread covering his sweating body. He had closed his eyes and appeared to have drifted off into sleep, or a coma. A lone tear snaked down her cheek and she brushed it away with a hand, suddenly turning to the doctor standing behind her, his brow furrowed with worry wrinkles.

“He can’t be dying. He was healthy three hours ago.”

“That was three hours ago,” Doctor Manuel Ricardo said. “I’ve checked his vitals repeatedly. His systems are shutting down. His heart rate is sporadic. He’s not getting enough oxygen to the brain. We need to get him to a hospital, and fast.”

“No hospitals.” They had been down that path before, soon after the doctor had rushed to the scene. Anisa had adamantly refused to have her ailing son taken to the hospital. Not long ago, her friend Melissa had died in the hospital after a heart surgery had gone awry. The heart surgery was apparently a success, but the towel left inside Melissa’s chest cavity was not. It had caused an infection that ultimately resulted in her untimely death. There was still a lawsuit pending. No hospitals. Definitely no hospitals.

Connor precipitously jerked, arched his back and clutched Anisa’s wrist. His sea-blue tear-filled eyes bored into hers, pleading. “Help me, Mommy. What’s happening to me?”

Earlier Connor had been outside playing in the large garden surrounding the small bungalow in Montague, Prince Edward Island. He had left the house as chipper as usual, excited about the prospect of getting outside on this sunny June day, the first day of summer. He played happily on the grass, somersaulting around, at one point leaping up and chasing a butterfly, even making funny faces that almost made his mother laugh. Then everything went wrong. He disappeared into the tree-line for a few minutes and suddenly emerged panting and puffing, as red as a beet and breathing so labored it appeared as if he was on the verge of massive cardiac arrest.

Why do I hate the first day of summer? Why do I hate all the seasons? Anisa put a comforting hand on his chest. “You’re gonna be fine, honey. It’s probably just an allergic reaction from something in the forest.”

His breathing became more labored. He released his mother’s wrist and slumped back into the bed. His panicked expression slowly morphed into a strange resigned dread.

Anisa stood and swung around to face Doctor Ricardo. Her hands were twitching, her face now wet with fresh tears. “Do something. You’re the doctor. Fix him for God’s sake.”

Doctor Ricardo moved in with his stethoscope and began listening to the erratic heartbeat. Connor’s eyes had closed again and his head tilted toward the bedside window, where a spear of light poked in, illuminating what appeared to be a yellow scythe swiping across the child’s throat.

Doctor Ricardo’s eyes bulged with recognition and he leaped back, turning to Anisa and wrapping his big arms around her in a bear hug, squeezing the breath from her lungs. “Santa Muerte… Santa Muerte.”

He finally released her. She gasped for breath, mirroring her son’s failing attempts to live. “What did you say? What is Santa Muerte?”

“Not what, who? Santa Muerte is Saint Death, or holy death. She is the personification of death. But she is also a great healer of many ailments. I believe she can save your son.”

Before Anisa could respond, Doctor Ricardo rushed from the bedroom.

Anisa rushed to the window and watched him snap open the trunk of his Audi Quattro, fumble around for a moment and then carefully lift a small statue—perhaps two feet tall—of a skeleton draped in a red tunic. He also removed a purple jar candle, tucking it into his jacket pocket. As he walked swiftly toward the house, she noticed the black scythe in the skeleton saint’s outstretched left hand, a small globe of the world clutched firmly in its right. What the hell is this? The grim reapress?

Inside the bedroom, Doctor Ricardo placed the statue on a bedside table. He placed the candle in front of the grinning statue and lit it. Flickering flames cast jagged yellow lines across its hollow black eye sockets.

“What’s with the purple candle?” she asked, clasping her hands together in an attempt to contain her nervousness.

“It’s the votive candle for supernatural healing and health.”

“Do you think it’s gonna work? I don’t believe in hocus-pocus.”

Doctor Ricardo’s face tightened. “Of course it’ll work. It always does. Please don’t use blasphemous words around this all-powerful saint. She might get angry.”

“I’ll be angry if it doesn’t work.”

“Calm down. “Do you have any tequila?”

Fear and panic coursed through Anisa’s body, an unstoppable debilitating tide. She clenched her hands tighter as the color drained from her face. A wave of dizziness washed over her. Her vision blurred. She put her hand on the wall. Don’t pass out. Connor needs you. “No.”

“Do you have any alcohol at all? To petition Santa Muerte to save your son we need an offering.”

“Rum.”

“Go get it quickly. And bring three glasses.”

Connor opened his eyes, turned to them, and started convulsing, spittle spraying from his mouth like a tiny erupting geyser, a grim picture of a boy who looked like he was possessed by a demon.

Turning to Connor, Anisa froze, finally overcome.

“Not now,” the doctor said. “Bring the rum.”

She stood motionless, now chalky white.

Doctor Ricardo shook her violently. “Don’t go catatonic. Get the booze. Now!”

Her eyes slowly focused on the man in front of her, deep concern etched into sharp gray eyes. Snapping out of the panic and fear-induced catatonia, she rushed from the room and returned quickly with a bottle of Bacardi white rum and three glasses. She set the glasses on the makeshift alter to Santa Muerte. Doctor Ricardo took the bottle and splashed a little rum into the skeleton’s face. He then filled all three glasses. He picked two up, leaving the bottle and a glass of rum on the shrine in front of the Skinny Lady. He offered a glass to Anisa. With an unsteady hand she took it.

“Drink it,” he said.

Connor’s convulsions became more violent. “Mooommmmy! Help me!”

Doctor Ricardo raised his glass to Anisa. “Drink.”

They clinked glasses and took large swills. He took her glass, set it on the alter, gently took her arm and pulled her down to a kneeling position in front of Saint Death. “I need you to pray with me. I need you to believe.”

She studied her son. Getting worse. She looked at Doctor Ricardo. “O… Okay.”

He clasped his hands in prayer, turned to the statue, bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Repeat after me, okay?”

Anisa did the same. “O… okay.”

“Most Holy Death, protector and restorer of bodily ailments.”

In a voice suddenly soft and calm, she repeated his words.

He continued. “Angel of death. Angel of life, whom our Father created to help and serve. I implore and beseech you to restore the life and health of Connor Worthington. May he live long and may his body and mind recover fully its youthful energy and vigor…”

Anisa repeated his words, her tone now pleading.

The child’s movements grew less frantic. But he still twitched slightly.

Outside, a gray bank of clouds descended over the house and it began to rain, torrential.

Thunder rumbled from the heavens. A fork of lightning cracked from the sky, struck the ground and exploded, fanning out mounds of red PEI dirt.

The boy’s convulsions slowed, stopped. He dropped his arms to his sides, splayed his legs out on the bed, lifeless. He closed his eyes. His expression grew calm.

Anisa stopped praying. She opened her eyes, glanced out the window at the torrential rain, saw the mound of dirt exploding into the air a few feet away and slowly looked at Connor, his deathly stillness unnerving her once again.

Doctor Ricardo opened his eyes and followed her gaze. He touched her arm. “Please, we must finish the prayer.”

Against her better judgment, she continued praying.

Once again, he continued. “I implore you, Most Holy Death, restore Connor’s health. For the sake of Jesus Christ, who died on the cross to save our sins, answer our pleas and bring him back. Amen.”

“Amen,” Anisa said. She opened her eyes and turned to Conner. Both hands were crossed on his chest, over his heart. His expression was calm and serene. His breathing was no longer labored.

He had stopped breathing.

Screaming bloody murder, Anisa sprang to her feet and rushed out of the room.

Doctor Ricardo heard the front door slam as the echoes of her grief-stricken screams were swallowed up by the old house.

He knocked back his glass of rum, bowed his head, and calmly continued praying to the saint of death.

CHAPTER TWO

Cofresi Beach, Dominican Republic, Sunday, 1:36 am. In the black of night, a million stars twinkling in the sky under the ominous glow of a full moon, waves lapped gently on the shore. The beach along the shore was quiet and still, the surrounding grassy park strewn with empty rum bottles, beer bottles and other debris. A motorcycle roared down the two-lane street fronting the beach, cracking the silence with the loud thumping sound of a broken muffler.  Six small dogs dashed out from a two-storey oceanfront apartment building, barking furiously. Two of them gave chase. The male driver kicked at the attacking canines as he slowed and they ceased their scare tactics and grew silent, retreating to the security of the apartment building front parking lot. A light went on in a main-floor apartment behind them. A sliding-glass door squeaked open and a dark-skinned thin man, wearing only white underwear, staggered out, a half-full rum bottle in his left hand. He shouted obscenities in Spanish at the dogs and they scattered. Then he face-planted the concrete parking lot, smashing his head hard. A tiny river of dark red blood poured out of his injured head, zig-zagging a path to the road. A small black mangy, mixed-breed dog returned, stopped at the man’s head, and began slurping up the red river. A Chihuahua hopped up—favoring its injured left hind leg—to survey the scene, sniffed at the blood, barked twice and hobbled down the street. Its barks slowly faded into the night.

A six-seater white motorized golf cart, also with a broken muffler—splitting the silence like thunder—roared up and skidded to a stop. It was occupied by four tourists, drinks in hand, laughing and slurring.

Seeing the fallen man, a fat man climbed out of the driver’s seat, promptly dropped his drink-filled plastic cup, splattering its contents on the road, and turned to the others. “We gotta help him.”

A woman with a cackling voice said, “Holy shit. That dog’s drinking human blood.”

“We gotta help him,” the man repeated.

“Screw that. He might have AIDS or something. We don’t know who he is.”

But the man ignored her. He staggered up to the face-planted man, knelt down, and hoisted him up, the half-full rum bottle still clinging to his blood-drenched hand. The dog that had been drinking fresh warm blood reared back and barked three times threateningly. The fat man kicked it in the ribs, not too hard, but not too soft either. It yelped, turned and ran down the street.

Dragging the bleeding man like a rag doll, the man leaned him against a white four-door sedan and slapped him gently in the face. “Are you okay? Wake up.”

“Let’s go Herman,” Cackling Voice said. “I wanna get to Ocean World casino.” The other couple occupying the back seats of the golf cart sat watching in stunned silence.

The bleeding man opened his eyes, muttered something incomprehensible, and closed them again. With one hand, Herman propped the accident victim’s head up. “Wake up.”

The bleeding man opened his eyes. “Al… Alfredo.”

“Is that your name?” Herman asked.

Afredo nodded.

A white and blue cop truck rolled down the street and stopped in front of the scene. Flashing red lights illuminated the neighborhood. As two Dominican cops got out, a young Dominican woman wearing a pink low-cut blouse, red hot pants and impossibly high heels ambled past, led by her flashing smartphone. She glanced briefly at Alfredo and Herman and the two cops then, click-clacking past, quickly refocused on the drama contained inside her smartphone, electronic virtual reality taking precedence over real-life drama.

Some conversation and pointing ensued. Herman peeled off his white t-shirt, Trust In Guns emblazoned on the front in black, and handed it to one of the cops, a tall lanky man, unsteady on his feet. Lanky Cop wrapped it around Alfredo’s bleeding head. It took only a moment for them to help Alfredo, now slipping in and out of consciousness, his hand still clutching the rum bottle, into the back seat of the truck. Before they pulled away, Lanky Cop, eyeballing Herman inquisitively, stuck his hand out the window, rubbing his belly with the other hand. Herman produced a US twenty dollar bill and handed it to Lanky Cop. He grinned, rolled up the window and sped away.

As Herman climbed into the golf cart, Cackling Voice said, “What are you doing giving the cops money? They’re all fucking corrupt around here. You gotta pay for saving someone’s life.”

Herman nodded. “Where’s the rum?”

“Oh no,” Cackling Voice said. “Turn this thing around and go back to Lifestyles hotel. We gotta get you cleaned up first. You’re full of blood. And no shirt.”

The golf cart U-turned and sped away, the metallic rattling sound of the ruptured exhaust pipe fading in the distance.

But for the gentle lapping of waves, silence once again prevailed.

Blackness enveloped the night, illuminated faintly by the moonlight and stars.

Behind and above the blood-stained parking lot, a light flashed on in a second-floor apartment, directly above the suite in which unfortunate Alfredo had emerged.

Franklin Reimer slid the balcony door open and stepped out. For the last five minutes, wrapped in the protective cloak of darkness, he’d been watching the scene below with unbridled glee. He rubbed his clean-shaven chin, rolled his hand across his six-pack stomach muscles and studied the blood stream below, marveling at how it glistened diamond-like in the glint of the moon. Looking down at his bare foot, his rapture was swept out to sea in the receding waves. Franklin tensed, veins swelling in his neck and forehead. He had stepped in fresh, steamy-warm dog shit. That wasn’t the first time. Nor would it be the last. As long as Alfredo kept collecting (he called it rescuing) street dogs, which he couldn’t afford to feed or properly care for, Franklin’s upper balcony would continue to be a mine field of doggy dung. The dogs wouldn’t shit on Alfredo’s balcony. Oh no. Don’t do-do on the hand that feeds you, or at least not on the hand that tries to feed you.

“You fucking piece of shit,” Franklin said, referring to Alfredo, but bending down and scooping up a handful of the moist fecal matter, “I hope you fucking die from that concussion.” With lightning speed, he dashed down the stairs and, using the handful of feces as a crude writing instrument, scrawled FUCK YOU on Alfredo’s sliding-glass window in large capital letters. Examining his artistic (at least to him) handiwork, his frown slowly morphed into a grin, highlighted with perfectly aligned white teeth. He swung around, took a few paces and picked up a small garden hose lying next to a steel cage draped with brown shower curtains. An outdoor shower caretaker Niamia Fernandez had fashioned, renting it out to beachgoers for fifty pesos a pop on the weekends when hundreds of partiers, locals and foreigners alike, descended on the beach, often playing unbearably loud and awful music and getting merrily pie-eyed and out of control. Fucking stupid bitch, Franklin thought as he washed the crap from his hands and then trained the nozzle on his shit-stained foot. She’s a piece of shit. She’s just a fucking caretaker here and gets free rent for that. But that’s not enough for her. Working every angle she can to make a buck, all behind the owner’s back. Using their water, that they pay for, and making a business out of it.

Franklin had a point. The makeshift beach shower was one of many of Niamia’s business ventures. During the day, and sometimes even during evening hours, there was a steady stream of people calling for her. She sold sandwiches, tourist trinkets from a makeshift shack in front of the apartment building, after-hours alcohol and cigarettes She’d even hired a Haitian man to rent out parking stalls (ostensibly belonging to tenants of the six-suite apartment building) during the busy weekends. Franklin couldn’t even remember how many times he’d blasted Niamia and the Haitian for renting out his parking stall to beach-goers during his absence. And each time, he was met with the same calm response. “Sorry about that. I won’t do it again. I promise.” But each weekend, either from his balcony, or returning home from a sex-filled evening of debauchery, he would see the dark Haitian, standing in the middle of the road, waving in oncoming traffic with a smile while Niamia stood or had her fat ass parked nearby, smiling, as calm as a glassy sea, counting her coins, thinking up new ways to exploit the property, exploit the property owners, exploit the foreigners. Franklin had counted sixteen business ventures that she ran from the comfort of her tiny main-floor, rent-free, apartment. But he knew he had missed a few, knew there were more and there would be more. Fuck it. Forget about her for now. She’s next, but not now.

He rinsed his foot clean, tossed the hose haphazardly on the pock-marked lawn, turned it off and made his way back up to his apartment. What a fucking gong show around here. Insane asylum, this building. I hate this country. Stepping inside his living room, he slid the door closed, flicked the light off and sank into the plush brown sofa. He reached for a fresh black votive candle, a symbol for protection, vengeance and death in the cult worship of Santa Muerte. He lit it with a match and placed it in front of a two-foot high skeleton statue, cloaked in black and gripping a silver scythe that glinted in the candle’s glow. He studied the skeleton saint’s hollow black eye sockets, her mocking grin that seemed to widen with the flickering of the candle. It took a few minutes of closed-eyed silence before Franklin felt calm enough to continue. He shouldn’t be angry. Shouldn’t be disappointed. Shouldn’t be sad. After all, Santa Muerte had answered at least part of his prayer of last night. Wishing to rid the building of its insane inhabitants, he’d prayed to the saint of death for the untimely death of Alfredo. And he had watched and snickered as he watched Alfredo slam his stupid head into concrete and bleed like a stuck pig. It was true he seemed somewhat alive as the cops had driven off with him. But that didn’t mean he would last the night. Maybe he would slip into a coma overnight and die. Maybe he would even die before he arrived at a hospital. That’s it, think positive. Now was not the time for negative emotion. It was a time to give thanks to Santa Muerte for answering his prayer.

He picked up the bottle of Brugal Anejo rum he had placed beside the ominously glowing statue and replenished the powerful saint’s empty glass. Then he closed his black eyes, and began praying. “Oh Holy Death, Sacred Death, Saint Death, thank you for answering my prayers. Thank you for causing the head injury to Alfredo. I pray that you finish the job. Saint of all saints, I am deeply in your debt. Amen.”

On a whim, he picked up the bottle of rum. Franklin was not much of a drinker, prided himself on never getting drunk in the three years he had lived in the DR, but surely a little nip wouldn’t hurt now. It’s what Saint Death would want. They now had a contract. She had done his bidding, or at least part of it, and she would want something in return. He was prepared to do anything she asked of him.

As well, this was a time for celebration, a time for rejoicing, a time to join with the venerated saint in the revelry that surely must accompany the answering of a prayer, the very first time he had ever asked the Skinny Lady for anything. And she had delivered. Delivered in spades. Well, maybe in hearts, meaning Alfredo’s heart would be returned to a stillness richly deserved, returned to its final destination. Franklin allowed himself a long swill on the bottle—swallowing a good four ounces of the potent rum—enjoying the stinging sensation in his esophagus as it settled into his stomach. A pleasant buzz slowly began to envelop and dull his senses.

He closed his eyes, shut his mouth, and sank into the plush couch, allowing his mind to wander, drifting back to a happier time, a time when his psyche wasn’t constantly engaged in a tumultuous battle between the forces of good and evil. But try as he might, the panoptic tragedy of his early life pervaded his troubled mind.

Growing up in small-town Montague, PEI, Franklin was the youngest son in a family of two brothers, Caleb and Nelson, and one sister, Anisa. He had a healthy relationship and a close bond with his brothers and sister. His father Cole was a dedicated husband, a good man, and a hard-working fisherman. His mother Marina was a consummate caregiver with the children and a devoted and loving wife. A Catholic, God-fearing, church-going family. Picture perfect. Or so it should have been. When he was only eight, and he was thirty-four now, his father died at sea, the victim of a tragic and ferocious storm that plunged the fishing vessel and his father into the depths of the ocean, never to be recovered.

Franklin was close to Cole, a favorite son actually, although Cole would never admit it. After his father’s death, Franklin went on a voluntary hunger strike, refusing to leave his bedroom, except for Mother Nature’s callings, for almost three weeks. Finally when he was as thin as a rail, and sick as a dog, it was his older brother Caleb who had convinced him to eat. “It’s what daddy would’ve wanted, brother. He would’ve wanted you to be happy and healthy. Please, eat something. Snap out of this or Mom will have you committed to a care facility for your own good.”

Three years later the tsunami wave of tragedy swelled and unleashed its fury. On a bright sunny day, Caleb and Franklin were playing soccer on the expansive front lawn. Franklin guarded a net improvised with old tires and Caleb kicked the ball. Franklin dove but missed. The ball went through the goal posts and bounced across the lawn toward the two-lane highway.

“You get it Franky,” Caleb said.

But Franklin had become frustrated chasing balls. It was the third goal in three shots. “I’m tired. You get it for a change.”

“Suit yourself.” Before Franklin could change his mind, Caleb raced after the ball. As it bounced into the middle of the highway, he reached it. As he collected it in both hands, he spun around, ready to return. But it was too late. A speeding pickup truck driven by an impaired driver hit him square on, catapulting him airborne for thirty feet, before he smashed into asphalt, dead on impact. Franklin never got over the guilt. It should have been me. Should have been me.

Exactly three years later the tsunami waved of destruction reared its devastating head again, unleashing another wave of tragedy. Franklin’s eldest brother Nelson was out in the garage, repairing a 1971 Mustang Shelby Cobra convertible. Nelson was underneath the vehicle, installing a right front shock absorber when Franklin entered the garage. All tires had been removed and the car perched precariously on four metal jacks.

“Adjust that right side jack will you bro,” Nelson said as Franklin, down on all fours, watched his brother work. “It needs to go up a notch.”

Franklin had never been mechanically inclined. “What do I do?”

Nelson pointed. “Just take that red handle, stick it in there and pump it up a bit. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“Don’t you want to slide out first?”

“No, no, it’s secure. Hurry I’m dying under here. Hardly any room. My shoulder’s killing me”

Franklin moved around to the front right side of the vehicle and picked up a small red hollow pipe.

“In there, “Nelson said, pointing.

“Okay.” Franklin put the handle in place and began cranking. The vehicle began to rise.

“Almost,” Nelson said. “Another inch or so.”

Franklin continued cranking.

“Right there is good.”

“Okay.” As Franklin got to his feet, he heard a whooshing sound. The hydraulic jack sprayed oil on his brother’s face and, with lightning speed, descended and tipped over, sending the front axle crashing onto Nelson’s neck, snapping it with a horrifying pop and killing him instantly.

A police investigation ruled the death an accident and Franklin was cleared of any wrongdoing. But the Poison Ivy tentacles of guilt ravaged him mercilessly from the inside out. He leaned back into the couch, opened his eyes slowly and took another swill of rum, hoping to dull the pain of his tragic past. He wanted desperately to escape the grim images haunting his mind day and night—especially at night. He gazed at the face of Saint Death, studied her menacing grin. Lit intermittently yellow-orange by the flickering candle flame, it seemed to mock his descent into his tragic past.

With a mountainous effort, he willed his mind away from the three horrifying deaths, although they had changed his life irrevocably—No, nothing is forever—and plummeted him into sociopathic tendencies. No, I’m not crazy, everyone around me is. Suddenly restless, he got up, strode through the dungeon-like quarters—most of the windows were sealed with tinfoil and a thick black blanket covered the sliding-glass door apartment entrance—pulled aside the makeshift curtain, and studied the dark street below. Studied the snake-like stream left by Alfredo’s blood. A motorcycle roared past, its headlights momentarily bathing Alfredo’s blood in a twinkling silver glow. Franklin scratched his black head stubble and a grin slowly replaced the frown. Alfredo, that little shit, is gonna die. Saint Death answered my prayer.

As he returned to the sofa, now relishing his third glass of rum, the grief was once again replaced by glee. As he commenced another prayer, the dark irony of his situation was missed on Franklin. As a die-hard Christian, in his youth, he had prayed for the resurrection of his siblings. Prayed for life.

Now, he prayed exclusively for death.

She goes by many names: Lady of the Shadows, Lady of the Night, Skeleton Saint, Grim Reapress, Lady of the Seven Powers, Black Lady, White Lady, Skinny Lady, Bony Lady, Lady of the Dead and Most Holy Death. But she is probably best known as Santa Muerte, Spanish for Saint Death. But who is she? Considered by some to be vengeful, she is the personification of death and patron saint of the religious cult of Saint Death, currently the fastest growing religion in the Americas. While her roots and origin are a matter of debate among religious scholars and devotees alike, worship of Saint Death has been going on for over half a century, exploding like wildfire from Mexico into the United States and many other countries around the world.

Some say she gives job security and advancement, justice, protects loved ones, and is a miracle worker in matters of the heart and happiness. She is also known for her supernatural healing powers. But others, including the Catholic Church, have condemned her worship as blasphemous, evil and satanic. To be sure murders in Mexico and the United States have been committed in the name of Saint Death. Some victims have been decapitated and their blood poured out on or around Saint Death shrines as sacrificial offerings to win her favor.  Many devotees come from the fringes of society, marginalized in some way by poverty and unemployment. Others are petty criminals and a small percentage are violent drug cartel members, who pray to Saint Death using various colored symbolic votive candles, asking her to destroy their enemies and insure safe passage of illegally smuggled drugs.

But still other devotees are successful professionals; police officers, doctors, lawyers, or just everyday working middle-class members of society. A large percentage of followers are decent people searching for a religion they can identity with, free from the often more rigid protocols of an institutionalized religion like Catholicism. Saint Death doesn’t discriminate. She accepts everybody.

And while one can argue, in the face of violent and sacrificial decapitations, that Saint Death is nothing more than a dangerous and evil cult, think for a moment about the other religions. For centuries people have been perverting the good tenets of Christianity and Islam; in some cases perverting those religions in their entirety and committing heinous atrocities. You don’t have to look far to find hundreds of examples. Some say more blood has been shed in the name of religion than anything else in the world. So, as people would mask their evil deeds by holding up religion as a false banner of righteousness, so too would people kill people and justify it as a sacrificial offering to win the favor of Saint Death. But, as with Christianity and Islam, that doesn’t mean it represents the majority of followers.

Saint Death adherents also believe she provides safe passage into the afterlife. And, perhaps more importantly, she helps devotees come to grips with death so they might enjoy their lives. If you face your mortality, wouldn’t that encourage you to live every single minute of every day to its fullest? The grim reality is, we are all going to die some time. The irony, of course, is that while she helps followers come to grips with their mortality and provides safe passage into the afterlife, she is also revered for her healing powers.

In perhaps one of the most scholarly books written on the subject, Dr. Andrew Chesnut, in Devoted to Death, explores this: “…One of the great paradoxes of the cult is that a saint who is the very personification of death is charged with preserving and extending life through her awesome healing powers.  Here Santa Muerte isn’t the Grim Reapress harvesting souls with her scythe but the Mother of all Physicians mending broken bodies and fractured bones.”

Chesnut writes, “Santa Muerte is first and foremost an unofficial saint who heals, protects, and delivers devotees to their destinations in the afterlife.”

In my latest novel, tentatively titled Freaky Franky, I took great care to be fair to the cult of Saint Death. As a work of horror fiction, I certainly embellish some of the violence that has been associated with the Grim Reapress, but I also include many examples of her benevolence as a protective saint who helps with health, wealth, and love. I recently completed the first draft and it will likely hit the shelves in about two months. I hope it entertains and provides you with a better insight into a patron saint who is often misunderstood and maligned. Without any further adieu, here is a short summary:

When an enigmatic town doctor saves the life of Anisa Worthington’s dying son, she abandons Christianity in favor of devotion to the cult of Saint Death. Some believe the mysterious skeleton saint will protect your loved ones, help in matters of the heart, provide abundant happiness, wealth, health, job security and justice. But others, including the Catholic Church, call the cult blasphemous, evil and satanic.

Anisa introduces Saint Death to troubled friend Helen Reiger and strange things begin happening. An enemy of Helen’s is brutally murdered and residents of Montague, a peaceful little town in Prince Edward Island, begin plotting to rid the Bible belt of “religious heretics.”

Anisa suspects Helen is perverting the good tenets of Saint Death but a terrible nightmare propels her to the Dominican Republic in search of Freaky Franky, her long-lost and unstable brother, who mysteriously disappeared twenty years ago without a trace.

To her utter shock and horror, she learns Freaky Franky is also worshiping Saint Death with evil intentions. As a possessed and hell-bent lynch mob gathers momentum, mysterious murders begin occurring all around her. Unsure about who is an ally and who is an enemy, she’s thrust into a violent battle to save her life as well as the lives of her unpredictable friends and brother.

As an infrequent blogger, I haven’t been around my web pages lately. But rest-assured, I’ve been busy. Thanks to a writer’s grant from The Government of Prince Edward Island (I do have many reviewers who actually like my work), all sixteen of my titles are now available in paperback and ebook formats. Previously only two or three titles were available in both formats. They are easy to find on my website and on Amazon.ca and Amazon.com. Some of the titles have yet to appear on the website but soon you’ll see them all.

In the decision to make all my ebooks available in paperback format, I decided to revisit each novel and do one last editing and revision pass.  I also revised the inside front and back pages, my author biography and tightened up each novel summary. Book covers were also tweaked by talented cover artist Johnny Breeze and made much more visually explosive than before. Although Johnny has three jobs and works harder than almost anyone I know, he calls me “a brother from another mother” and put my cover designs as a priority.

The whole project was a four-month process that also involved painstaking proofreading, editing, rewriting, and even a few times when I threw my arms up in frustration and disappointment and proclaimed, “I hate editing.” Trust me, if you edited for eight hours a day for a solid four months you might say the same thing. But then I started to think. Without disappointment there can be no joy. It reminded me of a quote by Pascal Mercier, author of Night Train to Lisbon:

“Disappointment is considered bad. A thoughtless prejudice. How, if not through disappointment, should we discover what we have expected and hoped for? And where, if not in this discovery, should self-knowledge lie? So how could one gain clarity about oneself without disappointment? One could have the hope that he would become more real by reducing expectations, shrink to a hard, reliable core and thus be immune to the pain of disappointment. But how would it be to lead a life that banished every long, bold expectation, a life where there were only banal expectations like “the bus is coming”?”

Through the disappointment of revising twelve titles, there was a certain joy. Part of my disappointment came from the simple knowledge that my writing style when I started writing novels five years ago was nothing like it is today. Much more satisfied with where my storytelling ability is now, I initially wanted to dramatically rewrite dozens of chapters. To be sure, I did major rewrites on several chapters spread through many titles. But then a realization occurred to me. The books show an evolution of style, a polishing of skill, a honing of talent. Serious readers might want to see the evolution of a writing style. Hell, I even found it interesting to note, at least in my own mind, how far I’d come. That’s where the joy came in. With a smile, I thought, I’ll clean them up for crispness, glaring errors of fact, typos, and grammar. But I’m not about to go changing major elements of the novels; like inserting characters, changing main themes and sub-texts, things like that. Let the early works stand alone as a representation of a time period in the early career of an author.

Besides, not that I have hundreds of reviews, but the majority of them are four or five stars. These are readers who are not saying my writing has potential. They say it’s already there. They say I’m a proficient storyteller, writing tales that grab them, and make them want to keep going without a pause right to the finish line. If readers seem to like the early works the way they are, who am I to tell them anything different?  And there is something to be said for letting go of a work of art, with all its imperfections (that others may consider perfections). Release it and move on to the next. So I’ve done that and I hope you enjoy the result. What is the next, you ask?

I recently returned from a three-month trip to the Dominican Republic where I was researching another novel. That, in conjunction with the twelve-novel reformatting project. I’m continuing my research but am also well into writing the novel. I’m moving along at a decent clip. On the next blog, I’ll reveal what the latest work-in-progress horror novel revolves around. I’ll give you a hint. It deals with a cult religion that over the past few years has exploded in popularity, becoming the fastest growing religion in the Americas. Some claim it’s evil and satanic, while others say adherence brings abundance, prosperity and can help in matters of the heart.