by Dean Patrick
I’ve been creating some scenes for my next book, Terra’s Sabbath, scenes that dig into the underbelly of a small town. Its wicked secrets. Its constant paranoia, looking over its shoulder to wonder who and what is watching to make sure their small-town façade is kept tucked away from being peeled back, keeping the sickness from being exposed. The rot from being uncovered so it can fester and boil, fester, and boil.
I decided a few years ago it is Terra Drake’s job to not only peel back the layers but rip them off, so all the wet and nauseous garbage is splashed all over the open pages of our online world where real horror takes place every moment of ever twisted, sick day.
My God but does she do it with such vengeful glee, with such effortless and uncanny ability. And that’s what horror is all about. That’s what makes it so fun. So therapeutic. Especially for folks like me – the alcoholic in recovery, the drug addict who’s put away the pill case and tossed out the dirty needles, the loathsome potbelly face stuffer who just bought the latest 6-pack of health bars to replace the 3 lb-box of chocolate covered donuts…
Why is horror such a pleasure when the seasons turn? I find its pleasures of stalking and stabbing and screaming and killing an absolute joy all through the year. But just before September and the final moments of summer begin to fade away like a bad sweaty dream when the heat seems eternal, the winds begin to whisper a tad more sinister. Darkness begins to strengthen. Fear begins to creep around more openly. Somewhere in the distance if you listen carefully enough there are screams going on pleading for sympathy.
Sympathy for the devil that is, with Mick Jagger’s haunting voice reminding us the devil indeed was around when Pilate washed his hands of that awful, dreadful moment when the world betrayed its Lord.
Ah yes…I can hear the delightful screams of the tormented lacing in and out of the coming howling winds…