Mark McLaughlin's Blog: Revenge of the B-Movie Monster - Posts Tagged "lovecraft"

BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM, my new collection of 25 Mythos-inspired tales, is now available.

Welcome to the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham. In this midnight den of dread and desire, you will find twenty-five rooms, each with a story of its own to tell. Here you will enjoy a delectable variety of otherworldly nightmares and blasphemies ... enough to satisfy even your most eldritch desires.

Here you will find evil pop-stars longing to devour their fans. You will meet a sophisticated secret agent in search of supernatural super-villains.

You will learn the vile secrets of Kugappa, the writhing octopus-god, and Ghattambah, a grotesque insect deity whose soul dwells beyond time.

You will smell the unhallowed stench of the Odour out of the Terrible Old Man. You will drink the creamy Milk of Time, an unholy substance which flows through the depths of a forbidden house of horrors known as Der Fleischbrunnen. You will even travel through deep space to a futuristic restaurant for alien connoisseurs, where you will sink your teeth into the monstrous specialty of the house.

You will find all of these horrors, and so much more ... in the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham.

Check out the book's cover here:

http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...

Excerpt No. 1 -- from the story, "The Embrace of Kugappa," one of the 25 horror tales in the Mythos-inspired collection, BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM:


Jasper always knew when he was dreaming, and yet the realization never woke him up, like it did most people.

He dreamed that he was on the beach of an island with bone-white sand, and before him stretched a horizon of dark green sea.

Sinuous – vines? – stretched up out of the water, huge vines overgrown with many smaller vines, and all those vines held an abundance of small, squirming things.

One of the vines swirled up out of the water close to shore, and he saw that it wasn’t a vine after all – how silly, how stupid, vines didn’t grow in oceans. It was a huge tentacle, overgrown with smaller tentacles, and those had even smaller tentacles on them, and so on in a sort of bio-fractal progression.

He knew he should be afraid, but he wasn’t. Not really. Because.

Because they.

They wanted.

Wanted him to be happy. Yes, the Great Old Ones wanted him to be happy, and Kugappa was one of the Great Old Ones, and the best way to be happy was to be like them.

Be.

Like.

Them.

Who’d told him that? Who’d told him about the Great Old Ones? He giggled – the initials of that spelled ‘goo.’ Why, that was who had told him. The goo had told him.

Before he knew it he was swimming in the dark green sea, even though he didn't know how to swim, and tentacles and tentacles-upon-tentacles were handling him, exploring him, sliding into every part of him, even into his pores, infiltrating his cells, embracing his soul...


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Excerpt No. 2 -- from the story, "Squidd, Inc.":

Henderson snapped one day in the department head meeting and began speaking in tongues: "Ulala pizani! Y'kha Shub-Niggurath ghakala! Azagga pupago ma'azu!"

Henderson's seat is right under the huge chrome Squidd, Inc. logo mounted on the wall, and his outburst was more than a little blasphemous – an affront to our disciplined business world. Or so I thought. We all looked to bulbous-eyed Old Man Squidd, our flabby corporate pooh-bah, to watch the fireworks.

The Old Man sat up in his chair (a formidable task for one so huge) and said, "By God, Henderson, I like a man with Spunk."

———

Spunk. Spunk. Spunk with a capital S became our watchword, our password, our office shibboleth.

At that time, Squidd, Inc. specialized in the production and distribution of pharmaceuticals, with interests in medical equipment and biochemical research. I was Director of Sales, and I longed for Spunk like the cartoon coyote longs for roadrunner meat.

I'd been with the company for twenty years; my hair had turned grey and my skin had grown spotty in the service of Squidd. My chair at the meeting table was choice: only three seats down from the Old Man. But did the younger Directors have any respect for my years of experience? Sorry, no. Whenever they deigned to speak with me, their smug expressions told the story too well. They saw me as nothing more than a corporate leftover – a dried-up old piece of sushi.

I wasn't about to let the matter of Spunk, and my lack thereof, cripple my standing with the company. I prayed at my desk: Gods of Commerce, I need more than just daily bread. Lead me deep into temptation and give me a magnum of champagne, a midnight-blue BMW, a penthouse office, a stock portfolio to die for, and most of all, a generous helping of high-energy, high-octane, high-and-mighty Spunk....


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Excerpt No. 3 -- from the story, "Cthulhu Royale":

Part I. Her Majesty’s Secret Shoggoth

“Bondcraft,” said the tall, lean, dark-haired, lantern-jawed man in the tuxedo. Black, of course: a tuxedo of any other color was madness, a veritable mountain of madness. “H.P. Bondcraft.”

“Dash it all!” ejaculated W., the Minister of Arcane Defense, a balding, heavyset man. “I know your name! Why, we’ve known each other since we roomed together at the London Academy for Young Espionage Gentlemen.”

Miss Tuppenceworth, W.’s pretty blonde secretary, looked out the window of her office, which served as antechamber to her superior’s sanctum sanctorum. “Why is it that whenever H.P. shows up, the sky is suddenly filled with multi-colored silhouettes of shapely women flying about? One can see outlines of guns among the female forms, and hear music filled with saxophones and trumpets. And there’s this sort of swirly gun-barrel shifting to and fro... Decidedly odd.”

“Not at all,” W. said. “It’s that private club down the road – the Society for the Advancement of Musical, Gun-Collecting Lady Gymnasts. Their ostentatious laser lightshows happen to coincide with Bondcraft’s visits.”

Miss Tuppenceworth fluttered her lashes at the spy. “So you went to school with W.? What was he like as a young lad?”

H.P. puffed thoughtfully at his cheroot. “Though Z. is the Ministry’s resident expert on curious devices, W. also showed signs of great mechanical aptitude back then. I remember one summer, he bought one of those jolly vibrating massage chairs, and added parts from a milking machine and an automatic taffy-puller, and we took turns–”

“Now, now,” W. chided, “Miss Tuppenceworth doesn’t have time to stroll down memory lane.”

H.P. smiled. “Oh, and once, W. played the part of Juliet in our espionage school production of—”

“Come with me, Bondcraft!” W. led the spy into his office and then locked the door behind them. H.P. headed straight to the liquor cabinet, where he made himself a tequila sunrise. Swizzled, not agitated.

“Drinking on the job!” W. scolded. “And tuxedos, always tuxedos. Why? Explain yourself!”

“Why?” Bondcraft smirked. “Why not?”

“You’re a spy! You’re supposed to blend in with the common rabble.”

“Or so one would think!” H.P. drained his glass. “But because I’m usually a little drunk and stand out so, no enemy would ever suspect that I am in fact a secret agent. They’d be expecting someone sober and utterly nondescript.”

“I say! I never thought of it that way. Ingenious!” W. sat down behind his enormous mahogany desk, which was littered with stacks of papers and several anatomically correct primitive fetish dolls.

“So what’s new in the Ministry of Arcane Defense?” the spy asked.

“Some good news from our research base on Antarctica.” W. flashed a merry grin. “We’ve found and captured a shoggoth! All very hush-hush, of course – top secret! We’re still trying to figure out what to do with the blasted thing... It’s so big and squishy. It eats quite a lot ... it can change its shape ... perhaps the awful thing has some potential as a biological weapon.”

“You could always drop it on an enemy camp,” Bondcraft said, “and let it eat everybody.”

“Not a bad idea, but afterward, recapturing it would be a problem. Right now it’s very sluggish, since it’s down at that research base. The thing can’t move very fast in that frigid climate. If we let it loose in a warmer spot, we might never be able to pen it up again. We’re trying to figure out how to control the beast ... perhaps even communicate with it. Maybe we’ll find some more – the research chaps say Antarctica used to be crawling with them, back when it was less chilly down there. Anyway, let me tell you about your assignment.”

Bondcraft smiled. “Is there an international casino involved? And a sexy double-agent?”

“Silly boy,” W. said. “There’s always an international casino involved. Master-criminals cluster around those casinos like flies around a dead street urchin. And yes, naturally here’s a sexy double-agent. Vadda Fookenhottie.”

Bondcraft smirked. “Such language!”

W. rolled his eyes. “That’s her name: Vadda Fookenhottie. We have no pictures of her on file, but it wouldn’t matter anyway because she is a master of disguise. Or should I say mistress of disguise...? Anyway, in addition to Miss Fookenhottie, you will be dealing with – not one, not two, not four, but three arch-villains.”

H.P. allowed himself a small gasp. “Not ... the 3D Cult? Dagon’s Deadly Disciples...?”


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To find out what happens next in any of those stories, read BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM. Available on Kindle or as a trade paperback.

A link to the e-book on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...

A link to the book's page here on GoodReads:
...Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

I've always wanted to write a set of story collections addressing my three great loves: zombie stories, Lovecraftian stories, and seriously weird, dark horror tales. And here are those collections, released by Wildside Press:

HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLS: http://www.amazon.com/Hideous-Faces-Beautiful-Skulls-McLaughlin/dp/1479401889/

GoodReads page: Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls

BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM: http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Witch-House-Arkham-McLaughlin/dp/143444208X/

GoodReads page: Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

BEACH BLANKET ZOMBIE: http://www.amazon.com/Beach-Blanket-Zombie-Humanoid-Horrors/dp/1434440990/

GoodReads page: Beach Blanket Zombie: Weird Tales of the Undead and Other Humanoid Horrors

I also did the covers (I worked as a professional graphic designer for many years). Each book has a staring abomination on the cover: a one-eyed zombie, a two-eyed witch-creature, and a three-eyed cosmic beast. Each monster has a different source of celestial fire: sunlight, moonlight, and lightning. You'll also find plenty of additional monsters inside all of the books, too....

I'm having a Facebook conversation with a friend about Robert W. Chambers (1865 - 1933) and it reminded me of another conversation I had with a business associate about a month ago. He asked, "You've been writing for a long time and haven't had a bestseller yet. Where's the return on investment? Maybe you should try writing stuff that's more commercial."

I responded by telling him about Robert W. Chambers, author of THE KING IN YELLOW. In his time, Chambers wrote loads of non-horror, including some best-selling books -- I believe they were about lads and shop-girls and their romances. Things like that. Mainstream stuff. And he also wrote THE KING IN YELLOW, his weirdest book, which went on to be a major influence on HP Lovecraft and the inspiration for the NECRONOMICON. His mainstream books are pretty much forgotten today, but his weirdest book lives on.

That's the thing about writing ... a person never knows how they'll be remembered in the future. Chambers is not remembered for his best-selling books -- he's remembered for THE KING IN YELLOW. I'm not interested in trying to write bestsellers-on-demand -- I just want to write the best books that I can, my way. The late Karl Edward Wagner, who put stories of mine in his last two volumes of YEAR'S BEST HORROR STORIES, once told me: Just keep writing the weird stuff you like to write -- eventually the world will catch up with you.

I decided long ago to follow his advice. When it comes to my writing, I'm not overly concerned about money, per se: The money I make through my writing is fine with me. I also make good money in my day job. Long story short: My bills are paid. :-) If I had to write in a more mainstream way to make more money, I wouldn't enjoy writing -- in which case, what would be the point of doing it? And what if I *did* somehow manage to churn out some uninspired, formulaic bestsellers? I'm sure they'd all be forgotten within a few years, just like Chambers' bestsellers are now all forgotten.

There are a lot of people in the world who will tell you: Here's the RIGHT way to write a horror, fantasy or sci-fi story or book -- follow these rules and publishers will snatch you right up! That might work for some people, and it's probably helpful for beginning writers, but I've never had any need for that. Why would I want to follow somebody else's rules for writing stories? If that means I'm not published as much as other people -- so be it. I've been *me* my whole life and I'm not about to change any time soon. :-) There will never be a Mark McLaughlin School of Writing because I don't want to turn Joe B. Writer into me. I want Joe B. Writer to be the greatest Joe B. Writer he can be, with a style all his own.

If I DO ever write a bestseller, I'll be delighted and grateful. But if it turns out that only a limited number of people ever like my work, I'll still be delighted and grateful for the support and appreciation offered by those people. So, I'll just keep doing what I'm doing, just as Karl Edward Wagner suggested. What's the return on investment, you ask? I appreciate it when people buy and read my books, and when I get a nice letter or email about my work, or see reviews posted online, that great feedback makes all the effort worthwhile. :-)



Here are my latest story collections from Wildside Press, in case you're interested in checking out my weird works....

HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLS: http://www.amazon.com/Hideous-Faces-Beautiful-Skulls-McLaughlin/dp/1479401889/

GoodReads page: Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls

BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM: http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Witch-House-Arkham-McLaughlin/dp/143444208X/

GoodReads page: Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

BEACH BLANKET ZOMBIE: http://www.amazon.com/Beach-Blanket-Zombie-Humanoid-Horrors/dp/1434440990/

GoodReads page: Beach Blanket Zombie: Weird Tales of the Undead and Other Humanoid Horrors

Below you will find three chilling excerpts from my latest story collection, HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLS, which is available on Amazon as a trade paperback or Kindle download. Here's the Kindle link:
http://www.amazon.com/Hideous-Faces-B...

GOODREADS:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...


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1. An excerpt from the horror story, "Drool Tool: The Meltdown Mix"....

What? You’ve never been to the Black Box?

It’s delicious, my dear. Black walls, black carpeting and a black marble dance floor. I’d be there tonight if it weren’t for – Well, they’re going to be closed for a week or so.

This club is interesting enough, but the music? Absolutely dreadful. They don’t even play the Psychonauts.

You’ve never heard of them? Do you live in a cave? On a farm? I have all their CDs: Monkey Boy, Slurp It Up, Robot with a Whip... Surely you’ve heard their latest single, Drool Tool?

You have some lipstick on your teeth. Right there. You’re quite pretty. You shouldn’t bleach your hair, though. You should dye it black, like mine. Then we could pass for sisters.

Yes, I know I’m a bit older than you. Your older sister. Older but wiser.

The lead singer for the Psychonauts is Tarot Mandrago – an absolute god. I met him a few months ago. I’m an account executive at Raw Hits magazine and–

Hmm? Didn’t hear you.

Oh, that just means I sell ad space. The magazine threw a huge party and that’s where I met Tarot, with his long black hair and big black eyes. He rambled on and on about Haitian music, aborigine music, even dream music. I had no idea anyone in a dance band could be so erudite. Unfortunately he was standing to my left and I’m practically deaf in that ear. The other one’s a bit weak, too. If the party got too loud I couldn’t catch everything he said.

Soon Tarot’s backup singers came to whisk him away and I was whisked right along. We all piled into a stretch limo. We drove for the longest time before we pulled up in front of a gorgeous mansion with stone gryphons on each side of the door. And inside–!

The walls were draped with blood-red velvet curtains. There was sound equipment everywhere. Some sleepy young things were lounging about on huge pillows in the main hall. An absolute Adonis wearing nothing but a leather mask was leading a monkey on a leash.

Tarot explained that the mansion belonged to an elderly millionairess who desperately needed a hobby. He pointed to a metal booth hanging by gold chains about twenty feet above the floor. The old girl was in there, watching. The masked Adonis whistled and a rope ladder shot down from the booth. He and his monkey shimmied right up.

The Psychonauts began to rehearse, so I went over to the pillow people. They were smoking the most obnoxious substance: ground-up African beetles mixed with dried seaweed. I sat with them, smoking and talking to a strange young thing from Cat’s Ass, Illinois. I asked her what was on the agenda and she gave me an odd little smile....


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2. An excerpt from the horror story, "It Isn't What You Gnaw, It's Who You Gnaw" -- a tale of artists and zombies.... 

Wilma Website: Yeah, I was a Deathquaker. I suppose I still am, but I really can’t call myself one, since Dandy Voorhees isn’t around anymore.

The Deathquakers without Dandy? Unthinkable! That would be like the Youthquakers from the Sixties without Andy Warhol. Everybody knows that Dandy modeled his every movement, every utterance, every moment of his existence after Andy Warhol. Andy was an artist and a genius, and so was Dandy. But Dandy gave everything a dark twist – a Goth sensibility – so he could take it one step beyond and call it his own.

Andy had a hangout called The Factory, with everything spray-painted silver. Dandy had The Funeral Parlor, with everything draped in black velvet. Andy had his paintings of Campbell Soup cans and his Brillo box sculptures. Dandy did the same thing with formaldehyde bottles and clove cigarette packs. Andy looked like a pathetic corpse – and Dandy...?

Like I said. He had to take everything one step beyond.

---

Koko Fantastic: I was Dandy’s first friend in his town without pity, make no mistake! I was actually at the bus station when he arrived. But I wasn’t there to see Dandy. I didn’t even know who he was. No one did.

No, I was arguing with my boyfriend at the time, whose name I will not even allow to cross my lips, because he was leaving town and he still owed me at least three or four thousand dollars. I was just yelling and yelling at him, telling him I was going to hunt him down like a dog, when out of the corner of my eye I saw this scrawny little white-haired man-child with sunglasses and skin three shades whiter than an onion. He was wearing some kind of tattered black-velvet suit that was falling apart at the seams.

I looked at that little piece of ghost-meat and said, “Freak, what’s your story?”

He just pointed behind me and said, “Gee! That guy’s getting away.”

I turned around and sure enough, the bus was pulling away from the curb. I just sank to the ground and started crying, and damned if that skinny-assed albino shrimp didn’t sit himself down next to me and start crying, too.

“Oh, now don’t you start,” I said. “You’re so skinny, you’ll leak out all your water and turn to dust. Why are you crying anyway? You don’t know me. ”

“I can’t help it,” he said in that soft ghost-voice of this. “Gee, you’re just so beautiful I can’t stand to see you so sad. What’s your name?”

I told him my name. My real name, that is. He shook his head. “That’s all wrong for you. Your name should be Koko Fantastic. A beautiful lady should have a beautiful name.”

Well now, of course I know I’m beautiful. But sadly, most folks don’t appreciate that fact. They think a woman over three-hundred pounds has just gotta be – shall we say, less than pleasing to the eye. I thought little ghosty-boy was really sweet ... and very observant ... so I told him he could stay at my place for a few weeks. I took that name he gave me, and it turned my life around. His stay turned from weeks into years, but that was no problem, because by then, he was a force to be reckoned with, and I was high and mighty among his Chosen Ones – the Deathquakers....


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3. Finally, here's an excerpt from "Agatha Says" -- a tale of the ageless evil that lurks in a retirement home....

Dear Irene,

Merry (belated) Christmas, and thank you, thank you, thank you for the new gloves! Sorry I haven’t written for so long, but so much has been going on.

Bart got out of the hospital just in time to make the Christmas party. Did I mention that the nurse who hit him had to go to the hospital, too? For stitches in her hand and her scalp. Carl opened her head up with that cane. No charges were pressed against him. What are they going to do – send a 78-year-old man to prison? Needless to say, the nurse is not returning to Fern Hill.

For the party, the music teacher from Sloane High School brought down some kids to sing carols in the rec room. While they were singing I looked around and realized that Agatha wasn’t there, so I snuck back to her room to fetch her.

When I got to her door I forgot to knock. I simply walked right in and there she was, stark naked and wearing that cat mask. She was standing in the middle of the room, mumbling some made-up song and moving her hands around, like she was conducting an orchestra or something. She’d drawn all kinds of funny little pictures on the floor in chalk, too. Of course she had to be drunk – her and that rum. What else could it be? I was about to say something – what, I don’t know! – when I saw there were no eyeholes in the mask. She didn’t even know I was there, so I backed out and shut the door. I’m sure she’d die of embarrassment if she knew I saw her carrying on like that.

I’ll tell you this: for a woman in her late sixties, Agatha has some body on her. None of the chicken skin you see around here. She must have had it lifted. You know that fat they suck out of liposuction patients? I wonder why they can’t pump it into skinny people. Bernice’s bony old butt sure could use some extra padding. Yours, too – those snapshots you sent have me worried. You’re still the prettiest gal I know, but you could stand to pack on a few pounds. Joseph looks like he’s picking up weight again (he must be eating off your plate too!). I wish they could take some of Joseph’s spare tire and give it to you.

Agatha never did come to the party. I told everyone she was sick. After the students left there was a problem – Celeste slapped the supervisor on duty for telling her not to eat so many cookies. Agatha had given Celeste a whole box of cookies that morning, which was a little irresponsible, since Celeste is on a restricted diet (cancer everywhere, the poor dear). After that slap, the supervisor simply stood there, utterly shocked. Then his nose started bleeding. Celeste just shuffled off with her cookies.

Then – I don’t know what got into us! – we were all laughing and laughing while the supervisor stuffed tissues up his nose. He must have quit since that was the last we saw of him.

A few days later, Agatha announced that negotiations were final. Fern Hill was now Stone Manor. After that, everything started to change, just like Agatha said.

New carpeting, a big-screen TV in the rec room – this week Bernice and I are having our room completely redone. And it’s not costing us extra! I hope there isn’t a catch. Still, Agatha hasn’t made us sign anything, and she is rich. Didn’t Elvis used to give away Cadillacs to complete strangers?

Agatha also brought down that nutritionist of hers. He’s going to be working here full-time, fixing our meals. Some health expert – he’s as white as a fish-belly. There’s something wrong with his eyes, too. They look like blue glass marbles. Agatha swears by him, but I have my doubts.

For one thing, he’s always asking us for urine samples and little clips of our hair. He says he’s checking us for vitamin deficiencies. I just hope he washes his hands before he starts dinner.....


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You can also find out more about the story collection HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLS at:
FACEBOOK
http://www.facebook.com/HideousFacesB...


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Below you will find more excerpts from my latest collection of horror stories, HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLS, which is available on Amazon as a trade paperback or Kindle download. Here's the Kindle link:

http://www.amazon.com/Hideous-Faces-B...

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1. An excerpt from the surreal horror story, "Her Horrible Apartment"...

I looked down in utter shock: I was naked, caked with dirt, and my toenails needed trimming. Everyone in the room turned toward me and laughed. Except her: she simply sighed.

Suddenly, fat, moist-looking iridescent bugs began to scurry around the room. They had way too many legs and bulging compound eyes. They seemed to be talking to each other in a shrill little buggy language. As I watched them, I realized that a form of nausea very close to car-sickness was building inside of me.

One of the exterminators, a tall man with red hair and a redder face, handed me a rake. "Make yourself useful, ya bum," he said.

I looked around and saw that all the other men were chasing the bugs, slicing them to bits by passing the rake-teeth over them. I sliced up a few of the slower bugs, and hated doing it. Sure, the slimy freaks were utterly loathsome, but they were still living beings. My nausea became so intense that finally, I had to crouch in a corner and breathe deeply to keep from vomiting.

"Don't do that," said the red-haired man, pulling me to my feet. "Are you crazy, letting your butt drag so close to the floor? One of those bugs could have crawled up there, and then..." He made a face – a disgusted yet smirkingly knowing face – and returned to the task of bug-raking. More and more of the creatures were crawling about. Soon they were joined by frogs, scorpions and lizards, all multi-colored, all dewy with slime. Thin rivulets of steaming ichor flowed across the floor as more of the little horrors were sliced up. A hot, farty smell filled the air.

My skinny hostess took my hand. "Let's go," she said. "We don't want to get in their way."

As we were heading out the door, I looked back for a second, just in time to see an iguana force its way down the red-haired man's throat. The look in his eyes was – well, I suppose it was one of pleasure. There are so many different kinds of pleasure, and oddly enough, some of them aren't all that pleasant.

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2. An excerpt from the Lovecraftian horror story, "The Slimy Ones"....

Suddenly there was a loud rattling, crunching sound – it seemed to come from the back porch. Michael couldn't help but think, that side of his house faced the river. "I've got to get off the line, George. Something's going on outside."

"Like what?"

"It's probably just a dog or something – but I've really got to check it out."

"Oh ... okay." Was there actual concern in George's voice? "Well, call back as soon as you find out what it is, okay?"

"Will do, George." He hung up and looked around for something to use as a weapon. He wanted to call the police, but he was always calling them for information on his various investigations, and they never seemed to take him seriously. They sure weren't going to break their butts to rush and help him.

In his odds-and-ends drawer he found his dad's big old fishing knife. He grabbed it and moved down the hall toward the porch, listening. Somebody was moving around on the back porch – the screen door had been locked, so whoever it was must have broken through it.

Usually, the back porch light was always on, since there were several large, shady trees lining that side of the house, and it was always dark back there. But now, no light shone through the curtains of the window looking out onto the porch. But he could see a larger shadow that seemed to shift uneasily through the darkness. The rest of the view was obscured by a thick, swirling fog.

"Who's out there?" Michael called out.

The shadow moved directly in front of the darkened window. It was shaped roughly like a huge person with some sort of shaggy mane around the head. A surge of bile rose up in his throat. His stomach always acted up whenever he was worried. Or nervous. Or scared out of his mind.

"You should not ..." A thick voice, full of phlegm, murmured. At least, Michael supposed it was phlegm.

"What shouldn't I do?" Michael called out, moving a little closer. There was a hammer on the table by the couch. He'd been fixing a bookshelf in that room earlier that day. He didn't want to get too close to the window, but the hammer would make a good weapon, if needed.

"No more talk. Why are you saying these things? You are one of us." The voice had an odd, halting accent to it – either that, or the speaker just wasn't used to speaking. "You are a Thragg. Forever."

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3. Finally, here's an excerpt from "Diagnosis and Treatment of Ocular Parasitism and Associated Mental Disorders" -- a weird tale of medical horror....

“There is no need to fear,” Dr. Seldag said. “I’ve read about this problem in Professor Puthmoor’s text. Puthmoor is the last word in parasitism of the eye.”

Pretty Mrs. Thetron nibbled nervously at a corner of her delicate lace hankerchief. “Then there is hope?”

“Of course. Your father will be fine.” The physician patted the bald head of the emaciated man seated on the examining table. “As I see it, old Beric must have been napping under a thromba tree. Lich-crows favor thromba trees for their nests. Lich-crows are simply acrawl with the most vile organisms. The worst of these is the eyeworm. A little nap ... an upturned face, directly beneath an infested nest ... a slight breeze ... Most unfortunate. But do not worry, Mrs. Thetron. There is no need to alarm yourself. With the Puthmoor text to guide me, we’ll have these eyeworms licked in no time.”

In a shadowed corner of the room sat a silent woman, visible only to Dr. Seldag. Her black hair hung down over her face in a solid curtain. Only her mouth and chin could be seen. Her lips moved, but no sound came forth. Her long, twisted fingernails wove manic patterns in the air. The doctor chose to ignore her.

Old Beric gasped. “Am I dead? Get these squiggly-wigglies out of my head. I must be dead ‘cause I’ve got worms in me. Am I dead?”

Mrs. Thetron helped Beric down from the table and wrapped her thin arms around him. “Can we take my father to the Professor?”

“Oh, no, no, no. Professor Puthmoor was killed in his Lundyn laboratory during the Great Meteor Rain.” Dr. Seldag said. “In fact, the Museum of Abnatural Wonders on Yath Street has a few of the Lundyn meteorites on display. The largest found was the size of a baby’s fist ... But what does size matter? Eyeworms are small and just look at all the trouble they cause.”

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You can find out more about the story collection HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLS at:

FACEBOOK:
http://www.facebook.com/HideousFacesB...

GOODREADS:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...

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When I was growing up and my family visited my grandmother, who lived in the city, she would give me money for buying books at a bookstore a few blocks down from her building. I bought a lot of wonderful old books, including horror anthologies with classic stories by H.P. Lovecraft, August Derleth, Donald Wandrei and others.

Also, on other occasions, my parents would leave me at a library when they went shopping (looking back, not very responsible parenting), and when they did, I would always read short horror stories at that library, since I never had time to read anything longer.

Short tales of horror were a big part of my boring rural childhood -- they allowed me to escape into exciting realms of the imagination. That's probably why I've written so many hundreds of short horror stories over the years for various magazines, anthologies, and of course, my own story collections.

If I had to say which of my stories was my favorite ... well, that would be like asking a parent with many kids to name their best child. But I suppose I could name my favorite story in each of my three most recent collections.

Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls

In HIDEOUS FACES, BEAUTIFUL SKULLS, my favorite story is "Adroitly Wrapped," which had previously been reprinted in YEAR'S BEST HORROR XXII. It's my favorite because I enjoyed writing about Athena Moth, the shape-shifting witch in the story.


Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

In BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM, my favorite story is "When We Was Flab," a Lovecraftian tale of a pop group called The Vittles. It's my favorite because I enjoyed writing about the tale's villain, Hekuuna, who brings the band closer together than ever before -- in a truly unexpected way.


Beach Blanket Zombie: Weird Tales of the Undead and Other Humanoid Horrors

In BEACH BLANKET ZOMBIE, my favorite story is a science-fiction horror story called "Tell Your Secrets to the Slime," about a planet inhabited by a shapeless horror that can bring about a bizarre change in other life-forms. It's my favorite because that vile change, hideous though it may seem, proves beneficial to one of the more unsavory characters.

Of course, my favorite horror story *of all time* would have to be H.P. Lovecraft's "The Dunwich Horror," since it was in one of those early anthologies I read as a child, and it creeped me out in the best possible way. When I read it today, I do realize it's dated and a bit clunky in its dispersal of exposition, but who cares?! It's still a wonderfully weird tale, and Wilbur Whateley is a marvelous monster-man. Hey, ya gotta love a creature with rudimentary eyes deepset in its hips! The works of H.P. Lovecraft have provided me with so many hours of quality entertainment, and I will always be in awe of his feverishly bizarre imagination.

Lovecraftian horror at its most insidious!

Do you dare read a story so horrifying, it will freeze-dry your soul, grind it into granules, and then sprinkle those granules on a pizza topped with roadkill nuggets and clotted shoggoth ichor? If so, read this ghastly tale of the grotesque from Mark McLaughlin, the doom-shrouded author of Best Little Witch-House in Arkham.



UNSPEAKABLE!
by Mark McLaughlin (previously appeared in LOVECRAFT'S DISCIPLES No. 12, U.K.)


There are those who believe that true horror can only transpire in the most grotesque and doom-laden of surroundings. They would have you think that the gibbering, uncouth abnormalities that haunt the madness-spawned extremes of existence can only be seen, touched, and perhaps – God help us! – even smelled only when one has strayed beyond the blessed light into the pestilent, Stygian depths of unhallowed darkness and soul-searing doom.

To those who would make such statements, I would have only this to say, were they to ask me if I believed in their far-flung, delirious claims:

No.

For it was in the well-lit, lurid, tawdry glare of the Turtledale Mall, at about 2:15 p.m. on a busy Saturday afternoon, that I saw a hideous, mind-blasting waking nightmare of such putrescent unspeakableness, I actually was not able to speak about it. And the frustrating thing is, none of the other shoppers saw that squamous abomination which had torn my psyche to weensy bits with its glistening horrendousness, for it was crouched upon a steel girder high overhead. The mall's designers had apparently been influenced by that whole 'warm industrial' look, which uses a lot of bright colors, but also features exposed ductwork and painted beams and whatnot. It's kind of a kitschy take on a post-modern theme and I think the designers were really just trying to cut corners by not installing fake ceilings, but hey, what do I know? I'm no architect.

I'd just happened to look up when that mildew-ridden, diabolical presence had chosen to peek out from behind a girder, high overhead. I don't know why I was looking up – maybe I was just stretching some stiff neck muscles, I can't remember – but suddenly: BAM! I saw the creature, it saw me, we looked at each other, and that monumental moment of bloatsome blasphemy numbed my brain with fear-packed frighteningness, so that all I could do was continue to look up and utter "Gugg!" repeatedly.

I was really trying to exclaim, "Gosh, that otherworldly entity is certainly cause for worry, especially in such a crowded mall, with children and sweet old grannies and other pleasant family members shopping, blissfully unaware of that which lurks above!" But alas, I was only able to force a croak of "Gugg!" out from between my terror-paralyzed lips.

I wanted to point out that indescribable indecency that hid overhead to the other shoppers, so I kept trying to point upward with both hands, crying out, "Gugg! Gugg!" – but woe is me, the mall's sound system was playing a kicky pop song, and all the other shoppers simply thought I was dancing, since I happened to be pointing repeatedly upward and shouting "Gugg!" in time to the music.

Some of them must have thought we were all on some kind of reality TV show, because pretty soon, other shoppers put down their bags and began pointing upward repeatedly and crying out, "Gugg! Gugg!" in time to the kicky pop tune.

Then a TV crew from Channel 5 Action News showed up, and reporter Olga Wong told the viewers at home all about a new dance craze that was sweeping its way through the Turtledale Mall, and I was really upset that she wouldn't look up, no matter how much pointing I did or how many times I cried out "Gugg!"

But then, I shouldn't be too hard on her. It's not like she was a mindreader, though if she had indeed been able to read my mind, surely the cerebellum-freezing frenzy festering in my cranium would have caused a similar situation in her own hitherto-not-fear-encumbered gray matter.

Pretty soon the thing that squatted amidst the rafters – no doubt irritated by the sundry off-key shouts of "Gugg!" echoing through that doomed dominion of discounts – tore a little hole in the space/time continuum and shambled through, sealing the extra-dimensional opening behind him or her or it.

I suddenly realized I was late for a dentist's appointment, so I fled from that malevolent mall of morbidity, never to return that afternoon.

But I did come back the next day because I still needed to buy dental floss, and only then did the ultimate in mind-shredding unpleasantness seize my soul in its scaly, feces-flecked talons of extradimensional calamity.

Now ... now you shall know the nature of the nightmare experience which deflated the delicate souffle of mortal awareness that was once my brain. For you see, I searched that mall of madness for more than forty-five minutes, but – terror of terrors, horror of horrors! – I could not find the nice waxed-string type I really like. So I had to get that weird flat-tape kind that sometimes cuts my gums!


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For more Lovecraftian weirdness, check out BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM ... available as a trade paperback or a Kindle download:

http://www.amazon.com/Best-Little-Wit...


Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

Mark McLaughlin

Goodreads page: The Abominations Of Nephren-Ka & Three More Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos

The Abominations Of Nephren-Ka & Three More Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos
Kindle link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B015KCOYPE/

From the author of BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM and the co-authors of CASINO CARCOSA come a quartet of Lovecraftian horror stories - THE ABOMINATIONS OF NEPHREN-KA & Three More Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos by Mark McLaughlin and Michael Sheehan, Jr. Three of the stories are set in today's world and one takes place in ancient Egypt.

The modern stories feature forbidden secrets and eldritch beings from icy ocean depths and the ruthless abyss of space. The title tale, a prequel to H.P. Lovecraft's "The Haunter Of The Dark", tells of Nyarlathotep and is set in a distant time when the Shining Trapezohedron was known as the Eye of Yuggoth and evil Nephren-Ka, the Black Pharaoh, ruled the unspeakable City of Night. Discover new realms of madness in THE ABOMINATIONS OF NEPHREN-KA.

THE HORROR IN THE WATER TOWER & Five More Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos by Mark McLaughlin & Michael Sheehan, Jr. FREE on Kindle Unlimited: www.amazon.com/dp/B01DIHNRRE/

GoodReads page: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...

In THE HORROR IN THE WATER TOWER, McLaughlin and Sheehan present a half-dozen tales of eldritch horror, crawling with grotesque nightmare creatures. The collection features two follow-ups to H.P. Lovecraft's classic tale, "The Dreams In The Witch House," which explore the fate and supernatural legacy of Keziah Mason. In the collection's title story, you will discover an exotic monstrosity found in an ancient Peruvian temple and now dwelling, hidden in plain sight, in modern-day Innsmouth. You will also learn the secrets of the insect-god Ghattambah, a ravenous abomination that dwells beyond time and space. Mark McLaughlin is the author of MAGIC CANNOT DIE and BEST LITTLE WITCH-HOUSE IN ARKHAM, and Michael Sheehan, Jr. has co-authored THE ABOMINATIONS OF NEPHREN-KA, SHOGGOTH APOCALYPSE, THE BLASPHEMY IN THE CANOPIC JAR, THE RELIC IN THE EGYPTIAN GALLERY, and THE CREATURE IN THE WAXWORKS with McLaughlin.