JOHN CARPENTER'S OTHER HALLOWEEN

The Ghost Maker: A Halloween Tale

By John Carpenter

I live my days in silence, behind the barred in windows of this asylum, in a cell of shadows. Until this moment I have spoken to no living person of the events of that Halloween night five years ago - because I could neither ask for nor expect belief.

But today, my doctor has given me paper and a pen, as he hopes I shall be compelled to write out my tale of horror and madness - once and for all expelling the demons that hold me in their catatonic embrace. I know this horror shall never leave me.

So my purpose, Dear Reader, is to finally put before the world the events of Oct. 31, five years past, as I experienced them, that no man may follow me to this hideous darkness in which I dwell, awaiting the only mercy I shall ever know - my release - the moment of death.

It was a bitterly cold night and I welcomed the warmth of the hearth in Howard Necron's study that All Hallow's Eve five years ago. I settled myself comfortably into an armchair by the crackling fireplace and waited as Necron poured two large snifters of brandy. He then turned to me with the oddest smile...

"I suppose, William, that you wonder why I have asked you here this evening," Necron said as he poured the amber liquid.

I admitted that I had been somewhat curious, as for the last 15 years we had been bitter professional rivals. We had once been partners in science and the closest of friends as well, but a dark schism had developed over our opposing research ethics. Necron had always wanted to prove that which should have, to my mind at least, remained in the ephemeral world of mathematics and theory. Disagreement had turned to debate, which in turn had become cold enmity.

"What would you say, William, if I told you that using universally accepted scientific principles, I could create a ghost?"

"I would say, Necron, that you were as mad as a March hare." My smile of derision must have been obvious, for he turned quickly away, pausing for a moment with his back to me before he slowly crossed the study to hand me the brandy snifter.

"To science, eh, William?" As he raised his glass to mine, his gaze seemed to burn into me, as if a shrewd smokey secret passed behind his eyes. I nodded and took a sip of the brandy. It had a sharp undertaste, and as I started to mention something about it, Necron settled himself closer to me on the ottoman at my feet.

"What is Schrodinger's cat?" he asked in a whisper.

"There's no need for this. We both know what it is." I suddenly felt unfocused. Drowsy. Probably the heat from the fire, making me sleepy. "It is a... a... thought experiment used to demonstrate the paradox of observer-created reality," I answered.

Necron seemed unbearably close to me now, his face but inches from my own.

"Yes," he said, "Nothing is real until you observe it."

Necron now stood, staring down at me with triumph and ice, the fire flickering on his face, shadows squirming like mad, devouring insects. A wave of dizziness washed through me.

Necron continued: "Imagine a box. The size of a coffin. Inside it is a radioactive particle with a 50-50 chance of decaying in, say, one minute. Also in the box is a glass bottle containing cyanide gas, and a Geiger counter. And, finally, into the box, is placed - an unconscious man."

"A cat, wasn't it?" I broke in. I was having a difficult time maintaining any line of reasoning, but there was a chill to his words.

His eyes began to drift strangely above me, as I sipped once again from my drink. That metallic undertaste assaulted me again. What had he put in my brandy? Could Necron be that insane? I tried to focus on his face. His features seemed to melt in the heat of the fire.

"If the radioactive particle decays, the Geiger counter so records it, trips a hammer, smashes the glass bottle, thus allowing the cyanide gas to escape and kill the man."

Necron's words were running all together.

"You mean... the cat," I mumbled weakly.

"Or," he said, "if the particle does not decay, the Geiger counter is silent, the hammer not tripped, the man allowed to live."

The room was spinning like a child's music box. The heat from the fireplace... Necron looming above me... My eyes bobbed open, closed. "What did you put... in my drink?"

But Necron ignored my slurred question.

"Don't you see, William? I could be either a murderer or a savior, because until human eyes see inside the box, the man inside is both dead and alive at the same time - a complex, linear combination of the two. The man in the box is a ghost of all possibilities of dead and alive, condemned to live in a limbo until the box is opened and he is observed by human eyes." His voice had dropped to a sibilant rasp, eyes glowing with a fury.

The snifter of brandy suddenly fell from my fingers. As I lost consciousness Necron's face was the last thing I saw.

"I am the ghost maker," he said, grinning. Then there was nothing. Blackness. Silence.

I awoke. I was lying down. Enclosed. Trapped. I couldn't move. Listening. Trying to breath. Then suddenly I threw up my arms. Touched a solid surface above me, no more than a foot away from my face. A lid. I was buried. In a coffin. A box.

I pushed up the lid a fraction of an inch.

A sliver of morning sunlight appeared as the lid opened, illuminating the inside of the box.

I suddenly saw the thing above me. It was hovering, just a foot away. Its body prone, it was staring down at me. Fuzzy. Indistinct. Its arms reached for me and at the same time another pair of arms lay at its side.

It was a blurred composite. A living transition. A contradiction. All possibilities, dead and alive. It undulated. Gazing eyes. Dead eyes. Living eyes. Blue decaying flesh.

In the fraction of a second before it disappeared I saw the creature's shape crawling, diffracting - indefinite, exploding anew out of rippling flesh.

A leering death's head began to scream down at me, disintegrating, crumbling and decomposing, growing and rejuvenating, humanity degraded and corrupted, dead and alive, revealed in an instant.

And then it was over. The thing disappeared. Its features settled, collapsed into definition. I looked around - the glass bottle at my feet was unbroken, the cyanide gas contained. The Geiger counter at my side was silent.

My mind raced frantically. Dead plus alive. Alive minus dead. Dead plus the square root of minus alive.

And then, as I continued to push upward, the impact of Necron's experiment hit me. As my fingers lifted the underside of the lid, the thing made man stared back at me in horror, screaming a long, sustained shriek of utter annihilation. Touching the unfeeling surface of a mirror - I realized the hideous image had been a reflection.

It was I.

 









© 1988, John Carpenter and The New York Times

RECOMMENDED HALLOWEEN VIEWING: THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

Somewhere along the line, Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow became the official Halloween "story." Celebrated every October as regularly as A Christmas Carol is revisited every December, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow's association with Halloween simply just is. Funny, being that not only is the word "Halloween" never once uttered in the story, the events are also set about fifty years before Halloween ever traveled all the way from Ireland to American shores. Where it may lack in anything Halloween, it makes up for with its huge emphasis on autumn celebrations with no details spared on October foliage and (obviously period) culinary favorites to honor the season.

There have been so many print editions of the original story that it would be near impossible to collect them all. (I have this handsome edition specifically.) There have been dozens of iterations of this famous story, ranging from big budget Hollywood reimaginings to animated Disney shorts to an inspired episode on "Are You Afraid of the Dark?" Tall animated busts of the Headless Horseman can be found in Halloween stores and catalogs every year. 

Of all the different incarnations, this particular one is my favorite. This simple effort, that equates to nothing more than a slideshow featuring still art complemented by an adapted audio telling of the original text, was my first ever exposure to Washington Irving's tale, and it's stuck with me ever since having rented it repeatedly from the library when I was a lad. Confined to only a VHS for the past many years (having been out of print for most of its existence), a recent re-issue on DVD had me cautiously excited to revisit the film so many years later.

To watch it now is to be both charmed and slightly embarrassed by its simplicity. The text, as narrated by Glenn Close, is not that of Washington's original story, but a toned-down version more traditionally told to appeal to the young audience at which this presentation is aimed. While the paintings by Robert Van Nutt are eye-catching, and Close does a fine job playing multiple characters, I could see the Power Point-ish presentation turning off younger audiences used to more modern Pixar-ish animation. Still, the simplified adaptation takes no liberties, presenting the story as originally written. (Sorry, kids: there is no tree filled with heads, nor any sexy time between the Headless Horseman and his witchy subjugator. Nor is there anything nearly at the heights of absurdity as is currently going on with Fox's "Sleepy Hollow" series.)

"The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire...The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and the plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow."

If you've stuck with me for this long, you may have read my Unsung Horrors column on Lady in White, during which I muse on the importance of nostalgia as it pertains to my appreciation for Halloween. This particular video edition of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Rabbit Ears Entertainment goes a long way, as does Lady in White, in bolstering that nostalgic love. It may not feature heads flying through the air and Johnny Depp being Johnny Depp, but it does manage to be what I hope Halloween will be and how it will feel every year: perfect and pure.

NIGHT GAUNTS

REVIEW: HOLLOW CITY

 

Over a year ago, I reviewed Ransom Rigg's first novel about his misfit kids, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children. I did it for no other reason other than I found it an enjoyable read with some real emotions built upon the fond recollection of childhood love and nostalgia, so I thought I would share it with you. Strictly by happenstance, I later crossed paths with Quirk Books, the Philly-based publishing outfit responsible for bringing Miss Peregrine to the world. As luck would have it, they offered me the chance to review its highly anticipated sequel, Hollow City, and I happily accepted.

Hollow City picks up precisely where the previous story ended: Jacob, Emma, Bronwyn, and the other peculiar children are now stranded in the middle of the ocean in a few rickety rowboats, their only earthly possessions remaining a couple suitcases of clothes, a doorknob, and a book of fantastical stories. With them trapped by miles of ocean, and Miss Peregrine trapped in the small body of a broken-feathered bird, things seem entirely hopeless. Jacob's peculiar power as one who can sense the presence of a wight, or a hollow, or any manner of dangerous mystical predators, is not yet at this point fully formed, so he feels more isolated than ever: a little more than human, but not quite peculiar, he doesn't feel as if he belongs anywhere anymore.

Hollow City will see our peculiar children undertake several dangerous locations, from forests, to train stations, to the streets of London. And all during this, each of the children, who are now more in the forefront of the action unlike their previous novel, thankfully have more to offer about themselves and a bit of their histories. There's something strangely sweet about these children and how they protect each other in times of danger. There's a wistful kind of feeling to these kids that, depending on the reader, will make the reader recall their own childhood chums. Granted, said chums likely did not have the ability to shoot bees from their mouths, but that didn't make their presence or loyalty any less treasured.

And while Riggs continues to expand upon each of his characters, he also adds a few completely unexpected new ones. Books of this type taking place in an environment where nearly anything can happen can sometimes go off the rails. If there are no rules, it becomes literary anarchy. But Riggs keeps everything grounded using a nice assemblage of both emotion and humor. So when a talking dog shows up with a hat and pipe, just go with it, because this is how it goes in Peculiar Lanf.

One thing you may notice about Hollow City is that, while it's just as impressively written and realized as the previous novel, there's something about the prose that seems a bit more...I'm not sure...poetic? Melancholy? Perhaps it's simply the nature of the story that has left that kind of impression on me, but the events that guide the book along its path seem a bit more..I hate to use an overused word...dark.

The relationship between Jacob and Emma continues to intensify, but also bring with it complications. Theirs is not a typical love story, and even the normal boring folks out in the real world can hardly ever get it right. Riggs continues to effortlessly explore their budding romance; love has gotten all of us into all kinds of trouble, and so Jacob not only has to wrestle with who he is, who his grandfather was, and what his future may or may not entail, he's doing it while slowly falling in love with Emma, and letting that love guide much of his determination to press forward with this strange journey that he has begun.

Also present and accounted for is Riggs' use of antiquated photographs to tell his story. I've not done proper research into the writing of Hollow City because I'm a lazy bum, so I'm not sure if the photographs included here were written into the story they have indirectly inspired, or if they were created after the fact to continue this theme of found photography. Of course it's entirely possible that old photographs of, say, two zeppelins above a mountainous landscape, existed long before the realization of the book, but it still has me wondering, anyway. If nothing else, remember: Internet has connected us with more stories of the fantastic and incredible than any other medium; perhaps at one time, way before ISPs were ever a thing, people collected proof of the abnormal the old-fashion way: by taking a photo. Perhaps, at one time, someone really did have a photo of a boy holding up his sister by her hand...as she's suspended in the air above him upside down. Frankly, I'd rather not know the photos' origins, and it doesn't matter either way, as the story is simply too well-constructed and engaging. I suppose if you find yourself wondering for too long which came first - the photo or the story - then you're simply not being grabbed by all Hollow City is offering you.

#HALLOWEEN: RECOMMENDED VIEWING: THE BLACK CAT

Edgar Allan Poe’s nickname should be Mr. Halloween. An infamous author who made a living writing some of the most beautiful but intimidating horrific poems and short stories perhaps in history has become intimately associated with that last day of October. The content of his prose certainly lends itself to the day we’re here celebrating, but – like so many other things – we don’t really know why. Perhaps his infamous short story, “The Black Cat,” was all he needed to become permanently married to Halloween. His infamous visage has even become adopted by the Halloween decoration world; you’ll find him on greeting cards and t-shirts with terrible super-imposed costumes.

“Masters of Horror,” a good-intentioned experiment created by not-that-good-a-filmmaker Mick Garris, was a two-season anthology show produced by Showtime. Though horror fans were immensely excited at this idea behind giving our most infamous horror directors one hour to go as balls to the wall as they wanted, sadly the show resulted with more bad episodes than good ones. “The Black Cat” was brought to us by the three-man team who also gave us Re-Animator; written by Dennis Paoli, directed by Stuart Gordon, and with Jeffrey Combs having the hardest gig of them all – bringing to life one of the most influential yet still mysterious authors of all time – “The Black Cat” is probably the best episode of “Masters of Horror.” It is a beautifully directed piece of Goth that honors the original story and brings to visual life the more gruesome aspects of the story you may not have realized were present. (A recent re-reading of some Poe stuff, this time with more mature eyes, resulted in a discovery of his ability for both surprisingly graphic depictions of violence as well as his knack for black comedy.)

For those unfamiliar with the original incarnation of “The Black Cat,” it is about a man confined by authorities for something we don’t yet know, and he goes on to explain the circumstances that have led to his current condemnation. He explains that he and his wife were avid animal lovers and would periodically bring home any creature upon which they stumbled while out and about. The man admits to his captors that, over time, he began to suffer from alcoholism. One night, while in a drunken stupor, he purposely injures one of his pets – a black cat named Pluto. The man then kills the cat by hanging it from a tree.

And then the man’s house burns down, and he and his wife barely escape. Upon returning to the ruins, the man sees a very haunting indication that Pluto is still alive. Or is he?

The man in “The Black Cat” shares more than one similarity with Poe, so it was a rather inspired move to take the real Poe (upon whom he likely based his character) and implant him in his own story, taking over for “the man” and giving him a name. With this metaphysical approach, our filmmakers have fun with the merging of these two worlds, and it is very clever to see Poe stumbling through the nightmarish world he has created – both artistically and literally.

As for the performances, well, the recent big-budget film The Raven should be embarrassed that it exists in the same posthumous Poe world as Jeffrey Combs. One of the many horror actors relegated to trashy direct-to-video nonsense, Combs is staggeringly good in his performance as Poe. There is a reason that, following the airing of this episode, our three-man team began touring with an independent show entitled Nevermore: An Evening with Edgar Allan Poe (soon to become a feature film). Combs has received some of the highest accolades of his career with his one-man show/performance as the haunted writer. And it all began with “The Black Cat,” essentially a one-off television episode that soon blossomed into a one-night only live show event, which then matriculated into a cross-country tour. Here he plays Poe as a man we all assumed him to be: a talented writer with both a God complex and no confidence whatsoever; a man addicted to the bottle and madly in love with his wife; a man haunted by his own demons, which led him to his still unexplained death. Fake honker of a nose aside, he looks, sounds, and nails the part.

I love to watch this every October, as for me it nails what I think of when I think "Halloween." For me, in a sad kind of way, the most quintessential Halloween period is long behind us. Likely most realized by Washington Irving in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, the idea of Halloween seemed most appreciated and pure during the time when people had stables next to their houses, not garages, and when towns had only a hundred citizens - all of them huddled around bonfires as the children played in their simple costumes that honored mythical creatures, not television personalities; when street lights were candles, and people kept warm with fireplaces; when belief systems were still so rudimentary that actual evil seemed like a real possibility, and therefore made the importance of the holiday's origins that much more awing.

There’s not much more I can say about “The Black Cat” other than it deserves to be celebrated just like any other 90-minute horror classic. Perhaps lost in the underwhelming haze that was “Masters of Horror,” “The Black Cat” is somber and gruesome and darkly funny; the real Poe would have been more than satisfied.

#HALLOWEEN: RECOMMENDED READING: THIRTEEN HORRORS OF HALLOWEEN

Isaac Asimov is a name that carries a lot of weight in the literary world, whether you’ve read his works or not. Personally, I never have and likely never will, as frankly his history of writing “hardcore sci-fi” just doesn’t appeal to me on a general level.  For instance, I adore Ray Bradbury, but would never attempt to read his journey into the sci-fi realm, as it’s just not my thing—not to mention I probably wouldn’t even be able to follow along with either author’s prose.

So color me surprised that, like Bradbury, I one day randomly discovered a small book of Halloween short stories called Thirteen Horrors of Halloween compiled, edited by, and with a contributed story by Asimov. Naturally I gave it a shot – that H words gets me every time. What I found was a mixed bag; the stories that dipped their toes in the horror pool were fairly solid; those utilizing a safer genre (from mystery/noir to scientific espionage) were, sadly, less impressive. Though the day/night of Halloween was their constant, the stories’ tie to it were sometimes tenuous at best.

Anthologies by nature are usually a mixed bag. An anthology’s editor will attempt to compile great writers with different styles united in one common theme. Because of this, not every story will appeal to every reader. Kudos to any editor who ever broke that code, because I have yet to read an across-the-board anthological success. This collection is no different. Some of the stories are fantastic, some are average, and some, well…

Let's get with the good, first.

“The Forces of Evil” by Isaac Asimov (Foreword)

This introduction is incredibly interesting as it delves into the history of Halloween. Most Halloween compilations feel the need to do this, so some of this information will be familiar, but some of it will sound quite new—like Halloween’s connection to 500 B.C. Persia…or even the bible. And did you know that in certain parts of the world there is a second Halloween—May 1?

Imagine the possibilities…

“Unholy Hybrid” by William Bankier

A rather simple story about a farmer named Sutter Clay, renowned for his keen ability to effortlessly grow the most impressive and even visually interesting crops in his small town. His crops are proudly displayed each year at the town’s autumn celebration; his fellow townspeople have come to expect nothing less. He’s a man who prefers a life of solitude, but one rainy night, a drifter knocks at his door asking for temporary refuge from the nasty weather. Described as a “homely” woman, she proves herself immediately useful by cooking him meals and cleaning the house. Soon it’s several months later and she hasn’t gone anywhere—she’s used to having a place to stay, and he’s used to having her cook and clean. Things get complicated, however, when one night she confesses to him that she’s pregnant—with a direct and unavoidable implication that it’s his—and he’s none too happy about that. Without a clear reason why, Sutter solves the problem the only way he knows how. And that’s when that thing begins to slowly grow out of his grounds and haunt him.

“Unholy Hybrid” is great Halloween pulp. It’s rather dark and bleak, and its plot rather simplistic. It’s like a scenario any burgeoning writer concocts in their own mind as a possible story idea to pursue before waving it off and rightly assuming it’s already been done. Still, that doesn’t make it any less entertaining. And I like that, unlike most Halloween-set tales, this one actually begins months before the holiday. Entire seasons pass during Bankier’s careful yet momentary details, and it all leads up to Sutter Clay’s final terror—in the late hours of a new-born Halloween night.

“The October Game” by Ray Bradbury

Honestly, if you’re even reading this and showing an interest in Halloween-based literature, it’s likely you have read perhaps the greatest Halloween short story of all time. I’m not even sure how you could have missed it, as it appears in nearly every Halloween anthology I own. (Read it now.) It’s a story about a man who has grown completely unhappy with his life – caused by his loveless wife, Louise, and who gains no feelings of fulfillment by the love of his young daughter, Marion. Forced to host a Halloween party for friends and their children, the story opens with him staring hard at a gun in his bedroom drawer and pondering potential futures before he plasters a fake smile across his face and begins to host the night’s festivities – including a rendition of a familiar Halloween party game involving a nasty story and pieces of food you’ll never forget.

Apropos for Bradbury, “The October Game” is as nasty and mean as it is darkly humorous. Bradbury is an absolute master of his craft and easily envelops his readers with the emotions of his characters. Bradbury is a man who loved life and remained wholly optimistic about it for most of his career, but his ability to write about despair, isolation, and sadness would make you think otherwise. The antagonist of “The October Game” isn’t a monster or a sociopath; he is the embodiment of a very real fear to which most people can relate – his life is the end-result of choices he wish he hadn’t made, and which has come to feel more like a prison than anything else. And he sees only one way out. “The October Game” ends with a wicked last sentence, which by itself is innocuous and even amusing, but takes on a much different meaning after having read the events leading up to it.

“Halloween Girl” by Robert Grant

One of the several tales in the collection  that sheds the horror in lieu of something different. Timmy and Marcie became fast friends not long after Marcie and her family moved into town. The two discovered they have a lot in common – especially when it comes to horror. They love everything about the genre and have spent countless hours in libraries and movie theaters soaking up every dread-filled second. Naturally their most anticipated day of the year is Halloween and the next one is looming, but it’s also one that will prove to be incredibly unforgettable.

Grant’s tale is an extremely sweet and melancholy story. It’s about young love, death, and growing up over the course of one Halloween night. It does a fine job of keenly making the reader recall the same types of friendships from his/her own childhood and it works well because its own simplistic yet effective iteration of a shared childhood works in tandem alongside your own. The ending will bring a sad smile to your face, for sure.

“Night of the Goblin” by Talmage Powell

Told from the point-of-view of two fathers – one a caring and thoughtful man, whereas the other is anything but – two young children readying for a Halloween party will cross paths in a way that where one of them is changed for good, while the other will have no idea the part they played. And all it takes is one Karmel King.

“Night of the Goblin” is not horrific in an obvious way – there are no monsters or killers – but it does touch on themes of emotional and possibly physical abuse, and what a victim of said abuse is willing to do in order to save himself. And it uses an infamous Halloween urban legend to do it. There is a very clever re-imagining of "trick-or-treat." There is a plot within the plot, masterminded by one individual. This is the trick. But this mastermind will be utilizing the most mundane thing in his candy bag to pull it off. This is where the treat comes into play. Though not a challenging read, Powell's tale sets itself off from other Halloween tales in that focuses on something much more real and much closer to home. It's likely the story you won't think much about soon after finishing it, but will soon come back to fester somewhere in your mind.

“Pumpkin Head” by Al Sarrantonio

A little girl named Raylee, a shy introvert at a new school, is encouraged by her teacher to tell aloud a scary story during their class Halloween party. Raylee shares with her classmates the tale of Pumpkin Head, a sad and lonely boy born with a mutant head shaped like – you guessed it. It would seem Pumpkin Head could only take all the bullying of his students for so long before bringing something to the front of the classroom to show his teacher: a metal lunch back. And in that lunch box is a knife. “My lunch and dinner,” Pumpkin Head tells his teacher. “My dinner and breakfast.” Raylee’s teacher halts the story before its gruesome ending, but the kids seem to love it, anyway. One of the students smiles and invites Raylee to her Halloween party that night. It’s the last party many of them will ever attend.

“Pumpkin Head” by Al Sarrantonio has been printed in several different Halloween anthologies (just like Bradbury’s "October Game") and there’s a good reason: it’s fantastic. It is a very clever and accomplished amalgam of Halloween traditions, present both in the upfront setting, but as well as a thematic level. It’s about wearing costumes – obvious ones, not so obvious ones, and ones beyond our nightmares. It unfolds with suspenseful inevitability, but you're not quite sure for whom you're concerned. Is it Raylee, the introvert who just wants acceptance? Or is it her school mates, whose allegedly good intentions might actually instead be motive to make Halloween for little Raylee a lot more like hell?

“The Circle” by Lewis Shiner

A group of thirty-somethings continue their tradition of gathering together every year in an isolated cabin on Halloween night to share the scariest stories they could find – whether of their own creation or by a celebrated author. Among them is Lesley, somewhat pensive about attending this year’s meet after having a tryst with Rob, a former lover she had brought with her the previous. Their romantic whatever ended rather abruptly and she hadn’t heard from him since, but she attempts to forge ahead. Once the member stake their seats, one of the takes out a letter from Rob, explaining that he would not be attending that year’s get-together, but requests the enclosed short story be read aloud. After a bout of silence, Lesley agrees to read it. And things take a turn for the worse when she realizes that events in the story seem to be closely mirroring real life—VERY closely.

“The Circle” is a pretty great offering. It is a brief tale, but it packs a mean punch. Lesley is surprisingly fleshed out, given the brevity of the events, and it even manages to add a satirical bent, eager to go after what seems to be the target of literary critics. I can certainly get behind that! (Read the whole thing on the author's website.)

“Yesterday's Witch” by Gahan Wilson

A group of kids who one Halloween night tempt fate and knock on the door of Miss Marble, whom the children believe to be a witch. The yearly visitation of her house by neighborhood kids has become a Halloween tradition, but the most any kid was willing to do was knock on her door before hightailing it out of there. But this year, one particular boy has decided he's going to knock...and wait for her to answer. And who should answer the door? The elderly and harmless Miss Marble, who invites them in for treats? Or does a bonafide witch, like so many of the kids believe, answer the door?

Perhaps both...

Written less like a story and more like a childhood recollection, "Yesterday's Witch" ably captures the spirit of Halloween in a rather innocent fashion. It's certainly one of the more PG offerings in the book, but still manages to chill you, should you let it. Gahan's choice to recollect the story using a child's memory strengthens the details and even catches you off guard with its wicked ending.

The remainder of the collection offers stories either so-so or less so. “Halloween” by Isaac Asimov is a very brief mystery that takes place in a hotel on November 1. It would seem some plutonium has gone missing and the man who stole it is dead, his last words being – you guessed it – “Halloween.” There’s nothing horrific about this tale at all, and its ties to Halloween exist only to create a quick mystery before ably solving it. Even the most loyal fans of Asimov's work regard this as a curious but forgettable piece from the author's otherwise pretty expansive and impressive body of work.

“Day of the Vampire” by Edward D. Hoch is a pretty Tales from the Crypt-inspired tale of a vampire living among other citizens of a small town. It’s a decent little time-waster, and accept for taking place on October 31, it doesn’t really have anything to do with Halloween. And you know how I feel about that...

“Trick-or-Treat” by Anthony Boucher uses the traditions of Halloween as a plot device. It’s a ho-hum affair story with very basic ties to Halloween, but if you’re a fan of vintage mystery writing, you might appreciate it.

Ellery Queen is another famous figure in crime writing—both the actual name of the detective as well as a pseudonym for its author—and what we have with “The Adventure of the Dead Cat” is a mystery that needs to be solved at a costume party. It’s not one of my favorites.

Nor is “All Souls'” by Edith Wharton, an early 20th century author who, like her peers Poe, Lovecraft, and M.R. James, committed to paper some very intimidating and (now) antiquated writing. If I sound like an ignorant cretin, I guess I’ll accept that, but “All Soul’s’ ” is just dull, simply put, and its length was determined by masochists everywhere.

“Victim of the Year” by Robert F. Young is probably the most unusual. A man severely down on his luck runs afoul of a witch at the unemployment office who warns him that he has been targeted by a coven to bear a year’s worth of bad luck. You could argue the man finds redemption and even gets the girl, but still…the girl's a witch. What if you piss her off?

Thirteen Horrrors of Halloween hasn’t been in print for years, but used copies can be snagged on Amazon for literally a penny. It’s more than worth it, if only for a handful of great stories as opposed to an entire collection.

#HALLOWEEN: RECOMMENDED READING: HALLOWEEN – MAGIC, MYSTERY, & THE MACABRE

The Halloween anthology has become a large part of my yearly October traditions – whether decades old or hot off the press, I’m always eager to snap up a “new” one and give it a read. These days it’s easier than ever to slap together an anthology, upload it to CreateSpace or whatever self-publishing medium, and unleash it onto the world. Amazon is dripping with e-books available for free download offered by hopeful authors, and like anything else that becomes saturated to that extent, it becomes difficult to find the truly special collections.

And here we have Halloween: Magic, Mystery and the Macabre, edited by Paula Guran, barely a month old as I write this. The cover sports names that I certainly recognize, but most of them do not ring a bell. I did enjoy Guran’s previous collection, simply titled Halloween, for the most part, and she was kind enough to lend me a copy of her second anthology to read and present as part of my October celebration.

Eighteen stories make-up this collection, and let me just spare both you and myself the following: This time out I’ll avoid doing my usual breaking down of each story, as we’ll be here all day and no doubt there are pumpkins out there to be carved and witchy ceremonies to perfect. As I’ve mentioned before, anthologies by nature are a Rorschach test. For those of a less critical mind, I suppose it’s easier to find an anthology in which every story enthralls and entertains, but frankly, it’s tough to put out such a collection with different authors taking different directions that still manages to please everyone. That’s the beauty of the individual.

Halloween: Magic, Mystery and the Macabre is no different.

So, the standouts:

Norman Partridge is an author with whom I am well familiar, as his novel, Dark Harvest, is frankly one of my favorites. (Read all about that one here.) His contribution here, “The Mummy’s Heart,” is hands-down one of – if not the – best in the collection. A story that begins with two brothers setting out for an innocent night of trick-or-treating and encountering a local kid named Charlie Steiner, who may very well have lost a little bit of his mind and perfected his mummy costume to the extent that he ordered water scum from the River Nile and cut off his own tongue. When the boys cross paths with this mummy, the story is legitimately eerie and upsetting—and it packs a rather hurtful revelation. Partridge is great with details, insofar as making each minor thing such as the moon or darkness seem alive and contain motive. He writes his story with such a realistic approach that it honest-to-gosh feels like it happened to him. At one point he even says something to the effect of, “Google it and see for yourself,” which I fully admit to doing.

The first part of “The Mummy’s Heart” seems like nothing more than haunted childhood recollection. You nearly expect it to end once the faux ending occurs, but there’s much more to this story – so much that it goes from a pulpy monster story to something much more haunting and heartbreaking. “The Mummy’s Heart” plays around with this idea of becoming someone else on Halloween night with the aid of a mask and costume, but what it really seems to be about is being driven to insanity by the idea that one is not happy with the person they are and wishes to become someone/thing else – and will do nearly anything to make that transition happen. And that’s just for the “villain.” It also plays around with refusal to recognize reality for what it is – to be haunted by dreams much more than nightmares. It’s the reason I continue to celebrate Partridge the author as years go by. He so easily writes about human emotion and longing that frankly it doesn’t matter what kind of ghastly device he’s using to frame his story – it’s always about much more.

Laird Barron continues this theme of love lost and found with “The Black Dog,” a tale in which a young (?) couple meet on a blind date in a restaurant. They embark on witty banter and attempt fact-finding missions about each other – the usual first-date kind of stuff. But here’s the thing: Is she, in actuality, dead? Is he? Both, or neither? Under the All Hallow’s sky, these two lost souls meet and remember what it is to yearn again. Though it’s told primarily from the man’s point of view, the woman provides us enough insight that it’s clear she’s just as troubled and lonely as he is.

There’s a beautiful ambiguity draped over every inch of “The Black Dog.” As the story progresses, you nearly want to race through every sentence to unearth the revelation that will hopefully explain the very odd circumstances in which these two people have found each other. A meal at a restaurant to a night walk across a bridge to sitting together in the woods – it’s a first date many would be consider to be ideal…except for that ominous idling van, of course.  By my nature I’m attracted to things with a certain kind of sad beauty. It’s a reason why I love the works of Norman Partridge, and it’s also why I’ll certainly be checking out more work by Laird Barron, as well.

Source.

Switching things up is “For the Removal of Unwanted Guests” by A.C. Wise. A story about a man named Michael moving into his new house who must contend with the random witch who shows up on his doorstep telling him she’ll be moving in. Just like that. The witch brings with her a black cat, as well as every manner of magical skill – she knows that one of the steps in the house is made of wood taken from a shipwrecked vessel, or the answer to one of the riddles in the old crossword puzzle Michael is holding. (She’s a witch, after all.) At first Michael wants nothing more than for her to leave – he even finds a spell in the witch’s book of magic strictly dedicated to (insert the story’s title here) – but after a while, what should be an easy decision to make becomes one with which he wrestles, to the point he might even MISS her once she’s gone…

“For the Removal of Unwanted Guests” is wonderfully and addictively absurd, yet charming. It’s a quirky story that seems to become more so as the pages turn. It’s nice counter-reading to the other darker and more haunting stories. There’s nothing especially horrific about the tale, except of course for something Michael’s unwanted guest states:

“Life isn’t fair. Nobody gets to choose whether they have a normal happy one or not. If they did, do you think anyone would get sick, or have their hearts broken? Would anyone die? It doesn’t work that way.”

Still, it might just be the most horrific statement in the entire book…because it’s absolutely true.

“We, the Fortunate Bereaved” by Brian Hodge breathes life into the scarecrow legend of Halloween, which may or may not be rooted in historical lore. The scarecrow has been associated with Halloween for a long time, and Hodge’s story concocts a perfectly appropriate scenario as to why. Every year on Halloween night, in the town of Dunhaven, townspeople gather objects that symbolize the dearly departed in hopes that, if left as an offering, the spirit of their deceased loved one will fill the scarecrow and share a message with the bereaved. Many townspeople vie yearly for this chance, and among them for the first time are Bailey and her young son, Cody, who wishes to see the resurrected spirit of his father, Drew. Also hoping to see the return of a loved one is a young woman named Melanie, whose sister, Angela, went missing several years before and was never found, so was presumed dead.

I rather liked this story, as it reinforces the idea of “maybe it’s better not to know.” Cody is eager to ask his father about the afterlife and what the “rules” are, while Melanie wants to ask Angela who was responsible for her disappearance and death. The story’s themes are open to multiple interpretations, but I prefer to think that existence, as we know it, is so terrible – lacking actual humanity amongst its humans – that the dead don’t so much as choose to come back as they’re forced to.

As you can imagine, I’m really fun at parties.

These aren’t the only stories in the collection worth a read, but they were my personal favorites. Halloween: Magic, Mystery and the Macabre, as they say, has something for everyone. I’m personally drawn toward the dark and bleak, and so stories of that nature were my own highlights. But the book celebrates every kind of genre and approach – real history is intertwined with lycanthropy; real international conflicts are explored through themes of cults, insanity, and vampirism; some stories are quirky, some are anything but. My one real complaint about the anthology (and it’s one I often have with Halloween anthologies) is that while many of the stories contain Halloween elements, they’re not actually about Halloween in any way. Werewolves and vampires are fun and all, but their only ties to Halloween are that they’re spooky and monstrous, and so is Halloween, and so therefore, a connection. However, I can’t in good conscience say any of these stories are poorly written because they’re not; they’re just not entirely what the title promises.

Still, I heartily recommend Halloween: Magic, Mystery and the Macabre. The book itself is nice and weighty; its girth confirms you'll be getting a lot of bang for your buck. It's not quite as large as, say, October Dreams, but it's certainly one of the larger anthologies out there that (mostly) celebrates this time of year. Pretty jacket art, too.

Paula Guran has released a second collection of strong stories, and though not all of them will scratch that Halloween itch, most of them will, and that’s worth the price of admission alone.

Contents:

Introduction: New Boo – Paula Guran
Thirteen – Stephen Graham Jones
The Mummy's Heart – Norman Partridge
Unternehmen Werwolf – Carrie Vaughn
Lesser Fires – Steve Rasnic Tem & Melanie Tem
Long Way Home: A Pine Deep Story – Jonathan Maberry –
Black Dog – Laird Barron
The Halloween Men – Maria V. Snyder
Pumpkin Head Escapes – Lawrence C. Connolly
Whilst the Night Rejoices Profound and Still – Caitlín R. Kiernan
For the Removal of Unwanted Guests – A. C. Wise
Angelic – Jay Caselberg
Quadruple Whammy – Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
We, The Fortunate Bereaved – Brian Hodge
All Hallows in the High Hills – Brenda Cooper
Trick or Treat – Nancy Kilpatrick
From Dust – Laura Bickle
All Souls Day – Barbara Roden
And When You Called Us We Came To You – John Shirley

Buy.

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Contest!

If you've read this far, then you're in luck. I'll be giving away one copy of Dark Harvest, a novel by Norman Partridge, one of the authors featured in the above collection. 

You only have to do two things:

1. "Like" The End of Summer on Facebook.

2. E-mail endofsummerblog@gmail.com (subject line DARK HARVEST CONTEST), verify your Facebook name, and share with me one of your favorite Halloween books. It doesn't necessarily have to be about Halloween – just something you may read every year to celebrate. Most importantly: Tell me why you read it! 

That's it!

(Contest closes at 11:59 p.m. on Saturday, October 19. Winners will be contacted via e-mail.)

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RIP RAY BRADBURY

THE LAKE

Ray Bradbury

The wave shut me off from the world, from the birds in the sky, the children on the beach, my mother on the shore. There was a moment of green silence. Then the wave gave me back to the sky, the sand, the children yelling. I came out of the lake and the world was waiting for me, having hardly moved since I went away.

I ran up on the beach.

Mama swabbed me with a furry towel. "Stand there and dry," she said.

I stood there, watching the sun take away the water beads on my arms. I replaced them with goose pimples.

"My, there's a wind," said Mama. "Put on your sweater."

"Wait'll I watch my goose bumps," I said.

"Harold," said Mama.

I put the sweater on and watched the waves come up and fall down on the beach. But not clumsily. On purpose, with a green sort of elegance as those waves.

Even a drunken man could not collapse with such elegance as those waves.

It was September. In the last days when things are getting sad for no reason. The beach was so long and lonely with only about six people on it. The kids quit bouncing the ball because somehow the wind made them sad, too, whistling the way it did, and the kids sat down and felt autumn come along the endless shore.

All of the hot-dog stands were boarded up with strips of golden planking, sealing in all the mustard, onion, meat odors of the long, joyful summer. It was like nailing summer into a series of coffins.

One by one the places slammed their covers down, padlocked their doors, and the wind came and touched the sand, blowing away all of the million footprints of July and August. It got so that now, in September, there was nothing but the mark of my rubber tennis shoes and Donald and Delius Arnold's feet, down by the water curve.

Sand blew up in curtains on the sidewalks, and the merry-go-round was hidden with canvas, all of the horses frozen in mid-air on their brass poles, showing teeth, galloping on. With only the wind for music, slipping through canvas.

I stood there. Everyone else was in school. I was not. Tomorrow I would be on my way west across the United States on a train. Mom and I had come to the beach for one last brief moment.

There was something about the loneliness that made me want to get away by myself. "Mama, I want to run up the beach aways," I said.

"All right, but hurry back, and don't go near the water."

I ran. Sand spun under me and the wind lifted me. You know how it is, running, arms out so you feel veils from your fingers, caused by wind. Like wings.

Mama withdrew into the distance, sitting. Soon she was only a brown speck and I was all alone. Being alone is a newness to a twelve-year-old child. He is so used to people about. The only way he can be alone is in his mind. There are so many real people around, telling children what and how to do, that a boy has to run off down a beach, even if it's only in his head, to get by himself in his own world.

So now I was really alone.

I went down to the water and let it cool up to my stomach.

Always before, with the crowd, I hadn't dared to look, to come to this sot and search around in the water and a certain name.

But now…Water is like a magician. Sawing you in half. It feels as if you were cut in two, part of you, the lower part, sugar, melting, dissolving away. Cool water, and once in awhile a very elegantly stumbling wave that fell with a flourish of lace.

I called her name.

A dozen times I called it.

"Tally! Tally! Oh Tally!”

You really expect answers to your calling when you are young. You feel that whatever you may think can be real. And some times maybe that is not so wrong.

I thought of Tally, swimming out into the water last May, with her pigtails trailing, blond. She went laughing, and the sun was on her small twelve-year-old shoulders. I thought of the water settling quiet, of the lifeguard leaping into it, of Tally's mother screaming, and of how Tally never came out….

The lifeguard tried to persuade her to come out, but she did not. He came back with only bits of water-weed in his big-knuckled fingers, and Tally was gone. She would not sit across from me at school any longer, or chase indoor balls on the brick streets on summer nights. She had gone too far out, and the lake would not let her return.

And now in the lonely autumn when the sky was huge and the water was huge and the beach was so very long, I had come down for the last time, alone.

I called her name again and again. “Tally, oh, Tally!”

The wind blew so very softly over my ears, the way wind blows over the mouths of sea-shells to set them whispering. The water rose, embraced my chest, then my knees, up and down, one way and another, sucking under my heels.

"Tally! Come back, Tally!"

I was only twelve. But I know how much I loved her. It was that love that comes before all significance of body and morals. It was that love that is no more bad than wind and sea and sand lying side by side forever. It was made of all the warm long days together at the beach, and the humming quiet days of droning education at the school. All the long autumn days of the years past when I had carried her books home from school.

“Tally!”

I called her name for the last time. I shivered. I felt water on my face and did not know how it got there. The waves had not splashed that high.

Turning, I retreated to the sand and stood there for half an hour, hoping for one glimpse, one sign, one little bit of Tally to remember. Then, I knelt and built a sand castle, shaping it fine, building it as Tally and I had often built so many of them. But this time, I only built half of it. Then I got up.

"Tally, if you hear me, come in and build the rest."

I walked off toward that far-away speck that was Mama. The water came in, blended the sandcastle circle by circle, mashing it down little by little into the original smoothness.

Silently, I walked along the shore.

Far away, a merry-go-round jangled faintly, but it was only the wind.

The next day, I went away on the train.

A train has a poor memory; it soon puts all behind it. It forgets the cornlands of Illinois, the rivers of childhood, the bridges, the lakes, the valleys, the cottages, the hurts and the joys. It spreads them out behind and they drop back of a horizon.

I lengthened my bones, put flesh on them, changed my mind for an older one, and threw away clothes as they no longer fitted, shifted from grammar to high school, to college. And there was a young woman in Sacramento. I knew her for a time, and we were married. By the time I was twenty-two, I had almost forgotten what the East was like.

Margaret suggested that our delayed honeymoon be taken back in that direction.

Like a memory, a train works both ways. A train can bring rushing back all those things you left behind so many years before.

Lake Bluff, population 10,000, came up over the sky. Margaret looked so handsome in her fine new clothes. She watched me as I felt my old world gather me back into its living. She held my arm as the train slid into Bluff Station and our baggage was escorted out.

So many years, and the things they do to people's faces and bodies. When we walked through the town together I saw no one I recognized. There were faces with echoes in them. Echoes of hikes on ravine trails. Faces with small laughter in them from closed grammar schools and swinging on metal-linked swings and going up and down on teeter-totters. But I didn't speak. I walked and looked and filled up inside with all those memories, like leaves stacked for autumn burning.

We stayed on two weeks in all, revisiting all the places together. The days were happy. I thought I loved Margaret well. At least I thought I did.

It was on one of the last days that we walked down by the shore. It was not quite as late in the year as that day so many years before, but the rest evidences of desertion were coming upon the beach. People were thinning out, several of the hot-dog stands had been shuttered and nailed, and the wind, as always, waited there to sing for us.

I almost saw Mama sitting on the sand as she used to sit. I had that feeling again of wanting to be alone. But I could not force myself to speak of this to Margaret. I only held onto herand waited. It got late in the day. Most of the children had gone home and only a few men and women remained basking in the windy sun.

The lifeguard boat pulled up on the shore. The lifeguard stepped out of it, slowly, with something in his arms.

I froze there. I held my breath and I felt small, only twelve years old, very little, very infinitesimal and afraid. The wind howled. I could not see Margaret. I could see only the beach, the lifeguard slowly emerging from the boat with a gray sack in his hands, not very heavy, and his face almost as gray and lined.

"Stay here, Margaret," I said. I don't know why I said it.

"But, why?"

"Just stay here, that's all…"

I walked slowly down the sand to where the lifeguard stood. He looked at me.

"What is it?" I asked.

The lifeguard kept looking at me for a long time and he couldn't speak. He put the gray sack on the sand, and water whispered wet up around it and went back.

"What is it?" I insisted.

"Strange," said the lifeguard, quietly.

I waited.

"Strange," he said, softly. "Strangest thing I ever saw. She's been dead a long time."

I repeated his words.

He nodded. "Ten years, I'd say. There haven't been any children drowned here this year. There were twelve children drowned since 1933, but we found all of them before a few hours had passed. All except one, I remember. This body here, why it must be ten years in the water. It's not…pleasant."

I stared at the gray sack in his arms. "Open it," I said. I don't know why I said it. The wind was louder.

He fumbled with the sack.

"Hurry, man, open it!" I cried.

"I better not do that," he said. Then perhaps he saw the way my face must have looked. "She was such a little girl…"

He opened it only part way. That was enough.

The beach was deserted. There was only the sky and the wind and the water and the autumn coming on lonely. I looked down at her there.

I said something over and over. A name. The lifeguard looked at me. "Where did you find her?" I asked.

"Down the beach, that way, in the shallow water. It's a long, long time for her, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Oh God, yes it is.”

I thought: people grow. I have grown. But she has not changed. She is still small. She is still young. Death does not permit growth or change. She still has golden hair. She will be forever young and I will love her forever, oh God, I will love her forever.

The lifeguard tied up the sack again.

Down the beach, a few moments later, I walked by myself. I stopped, and looked down at something. This is where the lifeguard found her, I said to myself.

There, at the water's edge, lay a sand castle, only half-built. Just like Tally and I used to build them. She half and I half.

I looked at it. I knelt beside the sand castle and saw the small prints of feet coming in from the lake and going back out to the lake again and not returning.

Then…I knew.

"I'll help you finish it," I said.

I did. I built the rest of it up very slowly, then I arose and turned away and walked off, so as not to watch it crumble in the waves, as all things crumble.

I walked back up the beach to where a strange woman named Margaret was waiting for me, smiling...

Today has not been a good day. Now it's even worse.

RIP, Ray Bradbury. Thank you so much for everything you've written.

Especially "The Lake."

UNMASKED: KANE HODDER

Kane Hodder was the first actor whose career you could say I "followed," this being when I was very young and after I had gotten into the Friday the 13th series. Hodder, who played Jason in Parts 7-X, immediately became my favorite incarnation of the character. For whatever reason, his name became embedded in my brain. I began to keep an eye out for him like someone else would keep an eye out for movies starring George Clooney or Al Pacino. This continued for years, recognizing him in his brief roles in Daredevil and Monster and becoming almost giddy, wanting to poke someone next to me and ask, "Do you know who that is??" Because of my young age, and because I had barely scratched the surface of everything the entertainment world had to offer, Kane Hodder at that time had become my favorite actor. And I don't intend on demeaning him by implying I just didn't know any better or have more knowledge of film. Rather, it's that I was young enough to avoid all the baggage that I would later affiliate with the Friday the 13th series (the critical thrashings; the cynicism of the producers who saw the films only as cash cows; the studio who was embarrassed of the series and its success; that "normal" people looked upon the series as a joke) and just enjoy the films on their own merits...and because whoever this guy was that was playing Jason Voorhees scared the shit out of me. That was enough to get me to pay attention to his career.

In less-informed communities, horror movie actors develop a reputation as being sick, depraved, or completely out of their minds, due in no small part to the roles they play or the films in which they take part. And the exact opposite of this has been stated so much that it's almost become a cliche – that the people who work in the horror genre are among some of the nicest and most down-to-earth people you could ever meet. They have problems, fears, and weaknesses just like everyone else. It could be easy (and maybe simple-minded) to think that the guy who has murdered legions of teenagers in his four performances as Jason Voorhees has no fear or weakness. How wrong you would be to think that.

In Unmasked: The True Story of the World's Most Prolific Cinematic Killer, Hodder lays it all out on the table. He gets into the deepest, most painful experiences of both his life and his career. And you get the mask, the machete, the whole damn thing. The book is very much conversational in tone, thus making it an easy read, but don't take that to mean there isn't an awful lot of content. Unmasked begins with his childhood, ends at Hatchet 2, and includes everything in between. He talks about the burn that ravaged much of his body. He talks about the disappointment of being denied his role in the long-gestating Freddy vs. Jason (which featured a very Frankenstein-like performance from new Jason Ken Kirzinger). He talks about the severe beating he suffered as a child at the hands of a bully, something that remains with him to this day, and how it shaped him into the person he is. He talks about his family, friends, career, Jason Voorhees, and Victor Crowley – he leaves no stone unturned.

It's easy to "get to know" a celebrity by seeing the projects in which they star, reading about them in interviews, and observing them in on-set situations on DVD supplements. And if you're really intrigued by any specific person, there are multitudes of ways to find out even more. Sitting down to read Unmasked, I was curious as to how my view of him would change, if it even would. I'm happy to say that while the book delivered largely what I suspected I already knew about Kane Hodder, the other layers to his personal life didn't so much change my view of him as they did enhance it.

Kane Hodder, the man who has strangled you (and me) at horror conventions, is a human being. "No shit," you say. But no, I mean it. He's a living, breathing, fucking human being. He has his likes and dislikes, his moments of darkness and light, and very real fears and life-changing traumas. This becomes painfully evident when he relives the day of his horrendous burn incident, which occurred early into his career as a stunt man. In Unmasked, he explains that he had lied for years about how that incident came about, blaming it on an on-set incident while shooting a television pilot he had completely made up. In Unmasked, he confesses to his years of lying about the incident and for the first time ever lays down the real story behind what happened. Out of respect, I won't reveal the "real" story here, but I do want to share with you one specific and powerful part from Kane's painful recollection of the incident (which makes up a large bulk of the book's second act):

Though it was less than a second, it was like a giant steaming hot, wet blanket was wrapping around my entire body, pinching and pulling at my skin. The haze from the heat blurred my eyes and forced me to shut them tightly and bring a hand over my face—instinct I guess. The same reason I didn’t do the one thing you are told to do when you are on fire. Stop, drop, and roll is a good theory, and great for kids to know. But I’m sorry; your first and only instinct when you are suddenly on fire around your head is to run. Of course it’s not the correct thing to do, but it’s a reflex. Not a decision. If your body is the only thing on fire, you can have the presence of mind to stop, drop, and roll. When your head and face are on fire, everything is different. You hear your face burning. You hear your hair singeing. You are breathing in the flames. There are no words to describe how terrifying it is.

Kane's play-by-play of his burn is deeply disturbing, unsettling, and graphic. Seeing people catch fire in movies, no matter how graphic it may seem, cannot hold a candle (that's not a pun, believe me) to reading about it in explicit detail. He pulls no punches when he relays the incident, as well as his nightmarish four-month stay in what must have been the most incompetent hospital since the days of Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, and Dr. Howard. The incident left Kane with some psychological issues, which he again reveals in Unmasked for the first time. All the credit in the world goes to him, as the details he shares about his personal life will definitely give readers pause. What he admits to in this section are things most people would rather bring to their grave than ever utter aloud.

But it's not all doom and gloom. Those reading Unmasked to find out about his Jason-oriented career will not be disappointed. Myself a Friday aficionado, I thought I'd learned everything there was to know from Peter Bracke's Crystal Lake Memories, the His Name is Jason documentary, the deluxe editions of the Friday the 13th DVDs, and Fangoria Magazine. Unmasked will provide you with even more information and anecdotes you have never heard, and pictures you have never seen.

He shares a lot of stories from his non-Friday career, from on-set mishaps to celebrities he enjoyed working with, to ones he did NOT enjoy working with. Additionally, he pulls no punches in presenting himself as an over-masculine "guy." He likes to drink, curse, fight, and piss in your dressing room. But none of this ever comes across as forced. If you've ever had the pleasure of meeting him in person, and feeling his strong hands gripping your throat, you know he's the real deal bad-ass he presents himself as in his book. Lastly, he's pretty damn funny.

One anecdote in particular made me laugh, which occurred a year or so after his burn incident:

...later that night, someone asked me about how they replaced my nipples after I got burned. I didn’t know what they were talking about so I asked them to repeat the question. They said that this guy, who will remain nameless, told them how they had to reconstruct my nipples with skin from my anus. I was shocked and pissed. Where did this guy get off making up these fucking stories about me? Especially crazy ones like that. Everyone at that party thought I had ass nipples!

The book also includes "intermissions," each which detail particular fights Kane found himself in throughout his life. Some he won, some he lost; some were amusing, some were most definitely not. It's an odd choice to include these stories in Unmasked, but I can only imagine it's because he's been asked about them repeatedly over the years.

The book is co-written by Michael Aloisi, who does an admirable job of putting down Kane's words into a chronological and coherent narrative. The year-long project was obviously one driven by passion, and that is reflected in the pages. Not one sentence of Unmasked is ever superfluous or boring. Any person – prior fan of Hodder or not – will find something to like, and most assuredly find Kane's battles especially inspiring.

Lastly, Unmasked has a marvelous forward by Adam Green, director of the retro-slasher Hatchet, in which Hodder plays the killer Victor Crowley. It's a great opening to an even greater book, and while the two men are technically colleagues, what comes across more is that they are friends – and that Green grew up idolizing Kane much in the same way we all did.  

I learned an awful lot about Kane Hodder from reading Unmasked. I've learned that he is passionate, talented, kind of a dick (which he freely admits), incredibly fearless in particular aspects, and as broken and damaged by life as many of us are. But once you read the last page, you'll also feel inspired to go out there and achieve what you always feared was unachievable. Because it's not.

...one day I heard that [Friday the 13th] Part 8 was going to go into production and that they were going to cast a new Jason. Pissed could not explain how angry I was. I had become Jason, he was a part of me, and I wanted to do it again. That night I went home and called Barbara Sachs who had been a producer on Part 7 and worked at Paramount. As calmly as I could, I straight out told her that I wanted to play Jason in Part 8...she responded with a surprised tone. "Really? I had no clue you would want to play him again..." We set up a meeting for me to come in and get the particulars. During that meeting, I was hired to play Jason once again...

There was a major lesson I learned from that phone call. If you want something in life, go after it, go get it, and don’t wait for it to come to you. If I hadn’t made that call, I would not have gotten to play Jason again, and my entire life would have been different. Ever since then, I made sure to not sit around and wait, hoping I would get called back—I went out and made my future.

MISS PEREGRINE'S HOME FOR PECULIAR CHILDREN

I tend to buy books in bulk. It’s an impulse that I can’t control, which I’m fine with. In my estimation, a person can never have too many—unless of course they begin to line the walls in stacks and cover every inch of free space. I haven’t reached that stage yet, so I’m still good.

I mention this because by the time I finally picked up and read Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children after having bought it months ago, I had completely forgotten what it was about. All I remembered at the time, before I began reading, was that the book made use of strange, vintage photographs from the early party of the 20th century, which were woven through the story to add visuals of our characters where possible.

So with only that knowledge in mind, I began to read.

Admittedly, the story did not immediately grab me—at least not in the way I wanted to be grabbed. Based on the cover of the book – and the gimmick of these old photos – I wanted something creepy. I wanted a tale about unnerving, diabolical children. I wasn’t even sure I wanted a strict narrative. Because of my obsession with true crime material, I probably wanted a dossier-like account of these children and what it was that made them so peculiar (read: deadly); and with their photos would come their names, their origins, under what circumstances they had become institutionalized in Miss Peregrine’s home…and in what foul ways they had murdered their victims.

What I got instead was Peter Pan meets X-Men.

Because of this, I admit to being disappointed throughout the first act of the book, yet continuing to read, anyway. The book focused more on fantasy and adventure than horror (not that I'm not adverse to those former two, mind you, but when you're expecting horror, you want horror), and so I was tempted to tune out. I was glad I didn’t, however, as the story eventually hooked me.

Our first-person narrator is sixteen-year-old Jacob Portman. His relationship with his grandfather is paramount, and when the old man tragically dies – possibly at the claws of a monstrous creature – Jacob is shattered. As the boy sits next to his dying grandfather, the old man uses his last breath to mutter to Jacob random phrases, seemingly incoherent and without meaning.

No one believes Jacob about the animal he believes was the result of his grandfather’s demise, telling him it was most likely a wild dog, so he begins his own investigation into what may have happened—and what the old man’s last words were all about.

One thing leads to another and Jacob finds himself on a faraway island, accompanied by his father, to learn more about the time his grandfather had spent there as a boy—living in an orphanage headed by Miss Peregrine.

There Jacob meets all manner of peculiar children with an array of peculiar talents. They shoot bees from their mouths, float effortlessly above the ground as if filled with helium, give life to inanimate objects using animal hearts; one child is outright invisible. Among them is Emma, a girl with whom Jacob will grow undeniably – and uncomfortably – infatuated.

What immediately strikes you about the book is how realistically it’s written, even as the events become more and more fantastical to the point of bordering on cornball. The story honestly feels like absurdly embellished memoirs instead of a traditional novel. Specific traits and interests, and even weaknesses and flaws, are added to different characters, fleshing them out and making them feel as if they are based on real people.

The real draw to me was the budding relationship between Jacob and Emma, which effortlessly made me recall my own romances from that age—something that still fills me with both fondness and regret. Without giving much away, Jacob does his best to resist falling for Emma, though they had already shared a very complicated relationship before ever meeting each other.

My only real gripe with the book has to do with its main selling point—the photographs. While the majority of the photos do add to the story, some do not, and at times felt like they were crammed into the book by the author with their inclusion being explained by some "Family Guy"-ish “remember that time?” anecdotes. I can understand having access to such strange and fascinating photos and wanting to use them, but some could easily have been excised and not affected the story. Not to mention that the placement of the photos also throws off the formatting of the book. In some cases, there may only a single paragraph on an entire page, because a photo will take up all of the following one. It’s a minor gripe, but after a while this choice interrupts the flow of the story

The book was a quick and easy read, and I’m glad I persisted on following it to the end, even after part of me had checked out. It was equal parts amusing, saddening, and unusual.

While the book's main conflict is resolved, it is clearly set up for further adventures. From what I understand, author Ransom Riggs has not announced any kind of sequel, but in this day and age when serialized young adult lit is huge, I wouldn't be surprised if he has the next three books outlined in his mind already. 

It was recently announced that Tim Burton will be bringing Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children to the bring screen. While I wish the man would direct a movie based on one of his own original scripts again (which is when we get stuff like Edward Scissorhands and Beetlejuice), I have to admit this book is pretty much perfect for his fixation on Gothic visuals and dour characters.

Also, five bucks says Helena Bonham-Carter plays the titular role.