British Fantasy Society Award Finalists

Today the British Fantasy Society announced the 2011 Awards finalists.  And I'm pleased to say that my novel 'Demon Dance' is a finalist for Best Novel and my story 'Fool's Gold' is also finalist for Best Short Fiction.

Congratulations to all the finalists. This year had very steep competition and I'm delighted to have made the lists in these two categories.

Here's the full list:

BEST TELEVISION
A History Of Horror With Mark Gatiss – Mark Gatiss – BBC
Being Human – Toby Whithouse – BBC
Doctor Who – Steven Moffat – BBC
Sherlock – Steven Moffat – BBC
True Blood – Alan Ball – HBO

BEST FILM
Alice In Wonderland – Tim Burton – Walt Disney
Inception – Christopher Nolan – Syncopy Films
Kick-Ass – Matthew Vaughn – Lionsgate
Monsters – Gareth Edwards – Vertigo Films
Scott Pilgrim vs The World – Edgar Wright – Universal Pictures

BEST MAGAZINE/PERIODICAL
Black Static – Andy Cox – TTA
Cemetery Dance – Rich Chizmar
Murky Depths – Terry Martin – The House Of Murky Depths
Shadows And Tall Trees – Michael Kelly – Undertow Publications
Strange Horizons – Susan Marie Groppi

BEST SMALL PRESS
Atomic Fez – Ian Alexander Martin
Gray Friar Press – Gary Fry
Pendragon Press – Christopher Teague
Telos Publishing – David J Howe and Stephen James Walker
TTA Press – Andy Cox

BEST GRAPHIC NOVEL
Clint – Mark Millar – Titan
Grandville Mon Amour - Bryan Talbot - Jonathan Cape
Neonomicon – Alan Moore & Jacen Burrows – Avatar
The Mountains Of Madness – Ian Culbard – Self Made Hero
Unwritten Vols 1 & 2, The – Mike Carey & Peter Gross – Titan Books

BEST SHORT STORY
‘Beautiful Room, The’ – R B Russell – Nightjar
‘Fool’s Gold’ – Sam Stone – NewCon Press
‘Lure, The’ – Nicholas Royle – Solaris
‘Otterburn’ – Jan Edwards – Estronomicon
‘Something For Nothing’ – Joe Essid – PS Publishing

BEST NON-FICTION
Altered Visions: The Art Of Vincent Chong – Telos
Cinema Futura – Ed. Mark Morris – PS Publishing
Fantastic TV: 50 Years Of Cult Fantasy And Science Fiction – Steven Savile – Plexus
M P Shiel: The Middle Years 1897-1923 – Harold Billings – Roger Beacham
Shrieking Sixties, The – Darrel Buxton – Midnight Marquee

BEST COLLECTION
Full Dark, No Stars – Stephen King – Hodder & Stoughton
Gravedigger’s Tale: Fables of Fear, The – Simon Clark – Robert Hale
Last Exit For The Lost – Tim Lebbon – Cemetery Dance
One Monster Is Not Enough – Paul Finch – Gray Friar
Walkers In The Dark – Paul Finch – Ash Tree

BEST ANTHOLOGY
Back From The Dead: The Legacy Of The Pan Book Of Horror Stories – Johnny Mains – Noose & Gibbet
End of the Line, The – Jonathan Oliver – Solaris
Mammoth Book of Best New Horror Volume 21, The – Stephen Jones – Robinson & Constable
Never Again – Allyson Bird & Joel Lane – Gray Friar
Zombie Apocalypse! – Stephen Jones – Robinson & Constable

BEST NOVELLA
1922 – Stephen King – Hodder & Stoughton
Humpty’s Bones – Simon Clark – Telos
Ponthe Oldenguine – Andrew Hook – Atomic Fez
Sparrowhawk – Paul Finch – Pendragon
Thief Of Broken Toys, The – Tim Lebbon – ChiZine

BEST ARTIST
Ben Baldwin
Daniele Serra
Les Edwards
Paul Mudie
Vincent Chong

BEST NOVEL (AUGUST DERLETH FANTASY AWARD)
Apartment 16 – Adam Nevill – Pan McMillan
Demon Dance – Sam Stone – The House Of Murky Depths
Leaping, The – Tom Fletcher – Quercus
Pretty Little Dead Things – Gary McMahon – Angry Robot
Silent Land, The – Graham Joyce – Gollancz

All members joint or single can vote on the awards. Also if you attended FantasyCon last year or have registered to attend this year - then you and anyone also attending with you, are also eligible to vote.

Here is the voting page link British Fantasy Awards

GalaxyFest 2012

Very pleased to announce that I will be an International Author Guest of Honor at GalaxyFest 2012 in Colorado Springs, USA next February with David J Howe and Kevin J Anderson.

Media guests will be announced shortly.

Tickets are already on sale for this fantastic convention which will be in aid of Colorado Literacy Foundation as well as some sister charities yet to be announced. BUY HERE!

There will be cosplay, maskerade, panels, and lots of opportunities to get signed autographs/photos from your favourite celebrities.

David and I will be there with copies of our work and some new items in the Sam Stone Merchandise (TM) Range. So if you're in the Colorado Springs area, or want to have a brilliant weekend meeting all your fav stars or authors then come along and say hello.

Hope to see you there!

Sam x

British Fantasy Society Awards

I'm very pleased to be in the British Fantasy Awards longlist with my novel 'Demon Dance' and my Short Story 'Fool's Gold'.

Voting is still open for your favourite nominations but the list closes at midnight on 31st May. If you are a BFS member, or an attendee of FantasyCon 2010 or 2011 you are elible to vote on these awards.

Here are the choices:

BFA Longlist


Don't forget to vote for your favorite!

Sam x

Zombies Tour Comes to a Close.

The main stretch of the Zombies Tour has almost come to an end, but don't despair, there are still a few events remaining before the summer:

• Preston Waterstones, 4th June. 12-4pm
• Wigan Waterstones, 11th June 12-4pm
• Cambridge Waterstones, 23rd July 2-5pm
• Manchester Deansgate Waterstones, 30th July 2-5pm
• Claudia Con Uk, 13th August - ALL DAY
• London Date 27th August TBA

These dates will be mark the end of the ZOMBIE TOUR however the following dates will start the new VAMPIRE GENE TOUR - with the launch of my latest book in the series, Hateful Heart.

• The Asylum Steampunk Weekend, Lincoln. 9th-11th Sept - ALL WEEKEND
• LLandudno Waterstones, 17th Sept, 12-4pm
• Warrington Waterstones, 24th Sept, 12-4pm Sci-Fi/Fantasy Day.
• FantasyCon, 30th Sept - 2nd Oct, ALL WEEKEND

All Vampire Gene Series books will be available at every event as well as copies of Zombies in New York and Other Bloody Jottings.
 

For further details check out 'Appearances' on the right side of this page. 

More dates to follow shortly ...

Useful Links

If you're interested in purchasing my books but want to learn more about them first, then here is a list of links to reviews that you might find useful.

Zombies in New York and Other Bloody Jottings (Short Fiction and Poetry Collection)
Buy paperback HERE

Reviews and Quotes for this Book:
Sci-Fi Online,
Robert Harkess

"Stone's pulpy blend of sex-driven mystery/monster fiction is decidedly decadent, filled with fanged female protagonists and predominately emotional and sexual themes, which range fromthe typically monstrous to the utterly bizarre." Reviewed in Rue Morgue Magazine's April 2011 Issue

"Sam Stone without doubt is a mistress of the grisly and the glutinous. She is one of the few horror writers who makes you feel when you have finished her stories that you need to wash your hands. Twice. I believe that we can look forward to seeing Sam Stone develop into a major influence in the realm of blood and shadows and things that wake you up, wide-eyed, in the middle of the night." - Graham Masterton

Killing Kiss (Book 1 - The Vampire Gene Series) Buy Paperback HERE / Or Buy Kindle HERE

Reviews and Quotes for this book:
OneMetal 
WondrousReads
Booklove
Science42Fiction

"This book is lit for the much more discerning chick (and cock) who like to walk in the shadows. Relax with it, but preprepared for sudden jewels and little masterpieces - and the rug to be pulled from under your feet"  - Tanith Lee

Futile Flame (Book 2 - The Vampire Gene Series) Buy Paperback HERE/ or Buy Kindle HERE

Reviews and Quotes for this book:
OneMetal
Michelle Lee - Booklove on Amazon
Amazon Reviewer 'Darkside6869'
Amazon Reviewer 'Demonica'

"Recommended for fans of the Twilight Saga" - Borders, Oxford Street, London

Demon Dance (Book 3 - The Vampire Gene Series) Buy Paperback HERE

Reviews and quotes for this book:
Jan Edwards on the British Fantasy Society Forum
Michelle Brenton on Goodreads
Raven Dane on Goodreads
ReWrite  Kai Savage's Blog with Interview and Review of the series so far.

"Enticing, shocking and delightful" - Simon Clark

You can also buy the first three Vampire Gene books at a special rate for all of May 2011 - HERE

Hope this helps ...

Just thought I'd share this great quote from the review of Zombies in New York and Other Bloody Jottings in Rue Morgue Magazine. April 2011 issue.

"Stone's pulpy blend of sex-driven mystery/monster fiction is decidedly decadent, filled with fanged female protagonists and predominately emotional and sexual themes, which range from the typically monstrous to the utterly bizarre."

Need I say more?

BUY THIS BOOK HERE

May Madness from Murky Depths!

Murky Depths has gone May Mad!

The first three books in the Vampire Gene series can now be purchased at the BARGAIN Price of £20 for the 3! Saving £6.00 in total.

There's never been a better time to buy the books and it's a great time to start the series with Book 4, 'Hateful Heart' due for release in September.

The offer only lasts until the end of May so if you want to try out the books, then head over to Murky Depths and order your set now!

Go on! You know you want to ...

Manchester Deansgate

My vampire Gabriele begins his journey at the beginning of Killing Kiss at Manchester University. He also has an apartment at No 1 Deansgate, which is an extremely expensive complex that had been newly built at the time of writing the book. I never got the opportunity, or rather did quite have the chutzpah to actually ask to see inside one of those apartments, but I enjoyed specualting on how very exclusive they would be.

The whole area of Oxford Road, Deansgate and certain very dodgy areas behind the university are described in the novel. This was because I knew the place very well, having spent twelve months there doing my PGCE. I also worked in various schools around that area when I was doing supply work.

One of my colleagues on the course was threatened with a knife when she went back to her car one evening. Fortunately she managed to get away from the man. 

I described a murder in one of those back streets, behind the campus that Lilly and Gabriele are staying in at Manchester: it is a notorious place. I know myself when I've been in the area, and walked outside of school gates at lunchtime in search of food (and momentary freedom) that there are some characters you'd want to avoid and I'd never walk around there at night for certain.

Having said that, I don't want you to think that Manchester is unsafe. It's the same as any big city, there are always places you need to be wary of and this is off the beaten track and not in the centre itself.

I will be back at my home town of Manchester again this week. This time visiting Waterstones on Deansgate. And I may well be tempted to walk down the street and just glance in at No 1 and smile at the silly price tags in Harvey Nicholls.

There will be a great deal on the Vampire Gene books too! It's 3 for £20 - so there's never been a better time to catch up on the series and say hello to me at the same time.

So. See you on Saturday. 12-4pm. Waterstones, Deansgate, Manchester.

FOOL'S GOLD - Recommended for BFA BEST SHORT FICTION

Fool’s Gold

By

Sam Stone

The blood was what first alerted me to the problem. It just smelt wrong. So I dipped my finger in the congealing pool and lifted some to my lips. It tasted like milk with all the cream and goodness sucked out. It was missing something. At that point I wasn’t sure what.

            I’d been experimenting with blood for years. It was, after all, crucial to my survival. I’d realised that there were several types of blood, and each had a unique flavour. My favourite, and most rare, was later called Rhesus negative. It had a citric bite to it that appealed more to my once human taste than the sweeter ‘O’ positive – the common variety. Of course, when I was starving I didn’t really care. But once I found Rhesus, it became a luxury I occasionally indulged in.

            The dead girl’s blood, though, lacked nutrition. All the integrity had been removed. I was hungry, but I knew after one taste, that this thin, watery substance would never sustain me.

            ‘Mmmm. Interesting,’ I murmured.

            I heard a Peeler’s whistle in the distance. Someone had raised the alarm. The girl must have died screaming. Not surprising really since her guts had been ripped out. It was obvious that the throat wound was there to shut her up; I’d have done the same.

            I blended into the cold, damp fog and slipped into the shadows hanging around the nearest house as two Bobbies rounded the corner. For a moment their appearance was supernatural. The denseness of the air clung to the uniforms until one of them almost skidded in the rapidly spreading spillage and they came to a halt before the body. I shrunk back deeper into the mist: it wouldn’t be good for them to find something like me at the scene. They stared at the body for a long moment, as though paralysed, and then one of them turned his head and abruptly vomited on the floor. The other took off his tall hat and rubbed his forehead while wrinkling his nose in disgust at the odour his colleague had created.

            ‘Jeee-zuss, Hobbs,’ he said. ‘That’s a sorry mess if ever I saw one.’

            Hobbs dry heaved, his hands on his thighs.

            ‘Pull yourself together.’

            The Peeler who’d spoken placed his hat back on his head and pulled out his pocket watch. He tutted, then began tapping his foot impatiently until his weak-stomached partner pulled himself upright, his trembling hand outstretched to the wall beside him as he steadied himself.

            ‘I’m alright,’ Hobbs murmured. ‘Just took me by surprise is all …’

            ‘Well you better get over here and help me, ’cos I’m not examining her alone,’ the other replied.

            Shaking, Hobbs wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

            ‘Yes, Bennett. I’m going to help … like I said, just shock is all.’

            Bennett waited impatiently as Hobbs fiddled with his tie, tugged his black jacket down and brushed invisible marks from his uniform while trying to compose himself. He’d already lost face with his senior colleague; he didn’t want to lose anymore.

            ‘So, what d’you think?’ asked Hobbs.

            Bennett crouched down; the air billowed around him as he unwittingly mimicked my gesture as he touched a chubby finger to the blood. ‘Still warm. He’s nearby I reckon. Bet the murdering bastard is watching us even now.’

            Hobbs grew pale. Self-consciously I looked around. I hadn’t even thought of that and I wondered now if the killer had seen me kneel down and taste his victim’s blood. Careless.

            ‘Same bloke?’ Hobbs asked stepping forward with renewed curiosity, all sign of his earlier revulsion dissipated. A sickening gleam came into his eyes as he began to survey the crime scene.

            ‘I think so,’ said Bennett, his mouth set into a thin line of distaste as he studied the woman’s wounds.

            ‘D’you think the papers will print our names?’

            Bennett turned his head and glared at Hobbs for a moment. Hobbs didn’t notice as he moved closer to the body. 

Her throat was severed by two deep cuts, as though the first strike had failed to silence her. Her blood had dripped down her low cut dress and over her bosom. It drew a line down to her abdomen where a long, uneven wound ripped through the faded and soiled dress, leaving a gaping, bloody hole. I’d noticed that some of her organs had been removed. The left kidney and a large part of her uterus were missing. The killer must have taken them for some perverse reason of his own.

‘This don’t look the same as the other one we found,’ Hobbs sulked. ‘I think it’s a different killer.’

‘No,’ Bennett answered. ‘Look. It’s the knife wounds on the neck ... Bet he was disturbed on the other one, that’s why he done this one.’

Bennett turned the woman’s head. The left side of her face was slashed. The knife had cut so deep that part of her skull was visible. A clump of hair and flesh was sliced away right down to her eyebrow, where her eye stared sightlessly from its socket. A thick red jell slipped from the eye and down her cheek last a glutinous, bloody tear. 

‘Fuck!’ Bennett gasped, pulling back his hand in disgust.

Hobbs looked on dumbly as Bennett began to blow his whistle. In response several running feet could be heard from all sides of Whitechapel and soon more Peelers poured into Mitre Square.

I pulled a hood over my blonde curls and slipped away into the fog as the police surrounded the dead girl. No one noticed me, and if they had all they would have seen was a petite woman in a black cloak – nothing like the killer they were focussed on finding. But then appearances could be deceptive.

‘Extra! Extra! Read all about it! “Double Event” as two more killed in Whitechapel.’

 I paid the newsboy and tucked the paper under my arm before crossing the busy street to a small park where I sat on my favourite bench. The fog from the previous night had lifted and the late September sun was shining weakly. I placed the paper across my knees and looked around. The park was quiet. It was as though the locals were afraid to be out alone, even in broad daylight. London was in a state of panic.

I shook the paper, straightening out the wrinkles with a small, gloved hand. ‘Jack’ had struck again. This time they were calling it, ‘The Double Event’. There had been two deaths that night. Elizabeth Stride, found in Dutfield’s Yard, and apparently the woman I’d found in Mitre Square had been called Catherine Eddowes.

Jack claims two more in a double event. Four women dead so far …

The newspaper referred to them as women of ‘questionable virtue’ as though the common terms of ‘whore’ or the slightly subtler name of ‘prostitute’ was too offensive for their readers. I looked back at the street again where the newsboy was rapidly selling his stack to passers-by. Humans loved the macabre. This was the most exciting news they’d had in a long time and the virtuous had no need to fear. They could hide at night, peeping through their shuttered windows while the destitute, like Annie Chapman, Jack’s second victim, became nothing more than a ghoulish fascination. Perhaps tour guides would soon be touting for the ‘Walk of Fear’ to new world visitors and morbid locals.

Through the ages, serial killers had never been my concern, but one that could change the composition of blood, that was something else entirely. And so I had returned to the scene, shortly after the police took away Catherine Eddowes’ body, and scraped up some of the dried blood that stained the pavement.

Back in my lab I’d mixed the blood with water to create a soft paste and smeared it roughly on a slide. Under the keen lens of the microscope the blood had revealed some interesting facts. It was decomposing faster than usual because, as I’d expected, the composite had changed. The red blood cells were severely depleted. This was the most severe case of hypochromic anaemia I’d ever seen. One of the main minerals that helped the red blood cells reproduce, iron, was completely absent from Eddowes’ blood. This accounted for the thin, tasteless, watery remains. If Eddowes’ injuries hadn’t killed her then the iron deficiency would have.

‘Miss Collins.’

I looked up from the paper and found my lawyer approaching across the park.

‘Good morning, Mr Perry,’ I answered smiling.

‘Good Lord, you aren’t reading that gruesome stuff, are you?’

‘One has to keep abreast with the times. Besides it is important to be reminded that the streets of London are no fit place for a woman at night,’ I continued, giving him the ‘expected’ answer.

‘What a sensible young woman you are Miss Collins. Really one would believe at times that you held the wisdom of years in your youthful person.’

I smiled politely at his patronising tone.

‘Of course, I know that your father was a doctor of some note and I understand he did some pioneering research. I suppose that explains your interest in such things.’

‘Indeed, Mr Perry. Blood has long interested me,’ I remarked with a slight smile as I stood, leaving the newspaper on the bench.

‘May I escort you home?’ Perry said, offering his arm.

I glanced down at the paper, which was still open on the story. Inspector Frederick Abberline said, “We have many leads and several suspects that are helping us with our enquiries …”

Interesting. Now I knew Freddie was involved I just had to shadow the police investigation. It would assuage my curiosity if nothing else and I’ll confess to feeling a little nervous knowing there was a monster in town that was capable of contaminating my food source.

‘Miss Collins?’

I looked back at Perry and found him scrutinising me carefully. Obediently I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow. We walked slowly away from the park.

‘Mr Perry, have you any news on the offer I made to purchase the house in Covent Garden?’ I asked, quickly changing the subject.

‘Why yes. That is precisely why I was so pleased to see you.’

‘I don’t understand why this is of interest to you,’ Frederick Abberline said.

            He was sitting behind his desk trying hard to look professional, but I noticed the slight tremble of his tightly clasped hands as he placed them before him. Oh yes, Freddie would tell me everything I needed to know. I smiled.

            ‘Freddie, you know I’ve always been curious about your work. Do you really have suspects?’

            ‘Miss Collins … Lucy. I can’t discuss police matters with you. That would be highly inappropriate.’

            Frederick kept his face serious; it was part of his appeal. When he was angry with me he always took on the austere countenance of a bank manager and he had good cause to be annoyed. I hadn’t been near him for months.

            ‘Freddie …’ I moved closer, touched his arm.

            ‘Oh my God, Lucy,’ he cried as his composure broke.

His hands reached for me as he tried to rise from his chair to take me in his arms.

            I stayed him with one hand on his shoulder, pressing him firmly back into his seat.

            ‘No.’

            ‘When? When will you take from me again?’ he begged.

            I’d fed from Freddie several times over the years. We’d met on the streets before his promotion to Inspector. He’d mistaken me for one of the local whores until I bit him and drew his sweet nectar into my mouth for the first time. Frederick was the walking blood bank of my favourite brand. My luxury. My Rhesus donor. Though I’d made the mistake of revisiting him too often and now he was somewhat addicted to my bite; he craved it and unlike my other donors, he always remembered it. 

            ‘Soon, Freddie. But you know it can’t be too often,’ I soothed.

            ‘Tonight, please …’

            I looked into his eyes knowing if I wanted to I could take every little bit of information about the case directly from his mind. But that wouldn’t be much fun and I was starving; I hadn’t eaten in days.

            ‘All right. You help me and I will help you.’

            He pulled me to him and I let him kiss me. I didn’t remind him about Emma, his wife. That would have been too cruel, even for me.

I walked the streets of Whitechapel every night for more than a month but all remained quiet. It seemed that Jack’s frantic killings had ceased and it wasn’t long before the whores of the city fell into a false sense of security once more. Even so, many had ceased doing trade out in the open. As I searched the city, I rarely saw the frantic rutting in the back alleys and corners of quiet streets anymore. The girls were taking clients back to their tiny hovels now. The occasional drunk and the Bobby on the beat were the only midnight occupants of the mausoleum streets.

‘What are you doing out on your own, Miss?’

The Peeler was standing under a gaslight watching me quietly. He looked jaded. He was holding a small lump of rock, which he turned over and over in his fingers in a subconscious gesture to allay his boredom. The light hit the rock as it moved; it had the shine of precious metal.

‘Nice respectable lady like you shouldn’t be out here with that monster on the loose,’ he continued.

‘I’m not afraid of monsters,’ I answered quietly.

‘Here. Where you from? That’s a nice little accent you got there. French are you?’

‘Italian.’ I smiled walking towards him. I was suddenly very hungry.

‘Long ways from home then?’

‘Yes.’

He continued to play with the rock as I approached him. I reached out and held his hand briefly, taking the stone from his compliant fingers. His mouth opened and froze in an ‘O’ shape as he met my gaze. I knew the gaslight would make the green in my eyes seem like cool fire.

‘What is this?’ I asked, opening my hand to gaze down at the rock.

His paralysis broke.

‘Fool’s gold,’ he smiled. ‘There are bits of the stuff scattered all over the city.’

The rock gleamed. It was hard with shiny brass-yellow crystals peppering its surface. It looked and felt like a gold nugget.

‘It’s iron see,’ continued the Bobby. ‘Something happens to it to make it look like gold. Then a “fool” might believe it’s the real thing.’

I knew what fool’s gold was but I let him speak.  

‘… and you’re no fool are you?’ I flirted. ‘You say there have been many of these found around the city?’

‘Yes. The Chief said it’s because of the meteor shower we had a few months ago. D’you remember that Miss?’

I nodded. I remembered the night well. It was in mid May, I was out hunting when the sky lit up and tiny balls of flame flew across London. I knew instantly that a small meteor had entered the Earth’s atmosphere and was breaking up. It was quite a display, reminding me of the fireworks on Queen Victoria’s coronation day.

‘Reckon we are only just finding the remains of it now,’ he continued. ‘Keep it if you like.’

I looked at the Bobby. He wasn’t very old, maybe twenty-five. I sniffed the foggy, damp air around him. Despite the freezing, autumn weather, his body smelt warm in his big coat. I could feel the rush of blood in his veins as he noticed my scrutiny. I dropped the hood of my cloak back off my golden hair and felt the gaslight touch my scalp.

‘You’re a very pretty lady,’ he said quietly. ‘If you don’t mind me saying.’

‘I find you very appealing too.’ I was famished and the pull of his blood made tiny hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

I stepped back out of the halo of the gaslight into the shadows as my teeth began to lengthen. The Bobby followed me meekly. I slipped the nugget of fool’s gold into a pocket inside my cloak and took his hand. His body began to shudder as he felt the waves of blood lust trickle into his skin. I pulled him into a nearby alley and pressed him against the wall rubbing my body against him in a desperate gesture as I sniffed at his throat again. His blood smelt clean. One had to be so careful these days. His hands were inside my cloak and all over my body. I let him touch; it meant nothing to me as long as I fulfilled my needs. I felt his hand lifting my skirt and he spun us around so that I was now against the wall. With one hand, he reached down and unbuttoned himself, then yanked roughly at my undergarments until they fell around my ankles. He knelt then, helping me disentangle one leg from my pantaloons. He obviously used the whores on a regular basis and knew just what to do.

He lifted my legs, bracing me against the wall, and wrapped them around his waist, pushing inside me as hard and fast as he could. I let him rut for a moment, while I licked his throat. He shuddered at my touch. His sweat tasted of salt. I could feel the blood rushing beneath the skin, throbbing there. I listened to its call until I couldn’t bear it any more.  When I grew bored of having my back pounded into the hard wall, I sank my fangs deep into his straining neck. I sighed with pleasure. He went flaccid immediately and his member slipped uselessly from me. He slumped against me. I was powerfully excited and I gripped my legs hard around him as I swallowed the blood I needed until I felt the strength leave his limbs. Then I put one leg down to steady us as he weakened. His eyes fluttered closed, and his mouth smiled in pleasure, as I gently licked at his throat. My saliva closed the puncture marks and stilled the flow of blood. 

I propped him up against the wall and kneeled between his legs, buttoning him up before I left him. He’d wake with a headache and the vague memory of having been with a whore in the alley – nothing more. There wouldn’t be any marks by morning.

I pulled my cloak tight around me as I walked away and I felt the fool’s gold bounce against my leg. I took the rock from my pocket. Smelt it. Licked it. Iron: one of the flavours I liked most in blood, and, let’s be honest, after three hundred years of living on it; I am a bit of a connoisseur. I knew there had to be a link. Iron was missing from the victim’s blood and fool’s gold was being found around the city. But what did it mean?

I’d persuaded Freddie Abberline to let me see the body of the other victim, Elizabeth Stride. There had been a distinct lack of iron in her blood too, but not as much as Catherine Eddowes, which confirmed the police assumption that the killer had been disturbed while working on the first one. But I couldn’t explain to Freddie what I knew, even though I wanted to help him solve the crime. The thing was, if this person – and I suspected it wasn’t human at all – was able to drain one of the most important nutrients from blood, then its very existence was a threat to my future. I had every intention of finding him or her before the police did. There was only room for one monster in London and that was going to be me.

‘There was another one last night,’ Freddie said, as we lay naked in the large double bed of my suite at The Waldorf. ‘It was the worst I’ve yet seen.’

            ‘Mutilated?’ I asked licking his throat gently. The bite wounds in his neck healed and faded until two pale pink scars remained.

            ‘Yes,’ Freddie sighed, as he snuggled deeper into my arms, ‘and …he’d slit her throat until he’d almost cut her head clean off.’

            ‘I see.’

            On the 9^th November, ‘Jack’ had struck again. It was Saturday afternoon when I heard the news of Mary Jane Kelly’s brutal murder at Miller’s Court. Freddie told me how the girl’s abdomen was emptied of most of her vital organs.

‘The killer even took the heart this time,’ he continued.

            ‘It seems more frantic, more desperate.’

            ‘Yes. That’s what we think. I’m dreading the next one. But how much more can he possibly do to them?’

            ‘It’s interesting how you say “he”,’ I murmured. ‘Couldn’t the killer be of any gender?’

            Freddie stared at me, horrified.

            ‘No, I can’t even bear to think that. To consider a man capable of such brutality is one thing. I couldn’t even contemplate that kind of sickness in a female!’

            If only Freddie knew. A monster can appear in any guise. I was a classic example. I supposed he thought my penchant for drinking blood was a sexual perversity but I hadn’t always allowed my victims to live. Humans have such a selective grasp on reality.

That evening I went to Miller’s Court and surveyed the crime scene. A policeman had been posted outside, presumably to keep the curious away, but I waited until he left his post for a hot toddy at the nearby tavern, and slipped in unseen.

The room was tiny. Mary Kelly had lived a solitary life in a single room with little more furniture than a bed, a small sideboard and a tiny table with one chair. Near the open fire was a small pot that she used to cook her meagre meals. Kelly had been all but destitute, like most women on the streets, but she at least had a dry place to sleep.

There was a strong odour in the room. Metallic. I touched the blood-soaked mattress of the bed. The blood was in the same condition as the other victims I’d seen, thin and depleted. I bent and sniffed the bed, detecting the iron deficiency and then something glittering caught my eye. I turned to look at the fireplace. Among the ashes of the now dead fire, something gleamed. I walked to the fireplace and looked down. All that glitters is not gold … A large lump of fool’s gold, oddly shaped like a human heart, blinked in the soot as light from the street filtered in through the slightly parted curtains on the window.  I scooped it up and rubbed the ash away on the corner of my skirt. Black blood oozed over my fingers. I looked closely. So this was Mary Kelly’s heart, oxidised and transformed, half iron, half human flesh. I dropped the mutated flesh back into the ashes and knelt to light the fire. I wanted to burn this monstrosity.  

The fireplace was big and the chimney wide and sprawling. I heard the wind howling across the top and felt a breeze filter down into the room as I reached for the half open box of matches on the hearth. I lit a taper and glanced up into the chimney but could only see as far as the first bend. It had been newly swept but a tiny glittering fragment could be seen perched on the corner. And then there was another gleam of light there.

I frowned. Something moved. I heard a shifting deep inside the chimney and a fine dusting fell on my upturned face.

Then, golden eyes opened to stare down the chimney.

I fell back seconds before a knife-like iron claw swung at my face leaving a trail of rust particles in the air in its wake. The creature crawled down towards me, its imposing, impossibly stiff, wormlike body clattering down. Bits of iron pyrite broke off into the fireplace as it emerged with a mournful cry.

I backed away and in the shadow of the room I could barely make out the creature before the front part of its body reared up before me. The head almost touched the ceiling. The torso was a deformed mess. I could see human organs, partially absorbed, protruding from its body. A female uterus, the fallopian tubes ripped and jaggedly unattached were sprouting from the arm of the creature, and I realised that the monster had been digesting the organs somehow. A claw swung again. I dived to the left, rolling across the room. The arm smashed into the wall, shattering the sharp blade at the end of the appendage. The monster roared in rage and pain. Howling, it rolled and thrashed on the floor, smashing its snake-like body into the furniture. This made the being cry all the louder. I stepped back and crushed myself against the door narrowly avoiding the claw that reached for me. This time its arm smashed against the window, breaking a pane of glass while ripping the curtains from the wall. Gaslight poured in through the exposed window with a rush of cold, foggy air. The being groaned and writhed as the damp air swirled around it. Swivelling and writhing the creature tried to drag its damaged body back to the fireplace.

It all began to make sense. Fog stung the alien body like acid; corroding and rotting the metallic limbs even as I watched. Every particle of the iron-based composition was rusting away. The smog and damp of the London atmosphere was poison and, I speculated, this was just the final stages of a deterioration that had been occurring with frequent exposure: this explained the insatiable need to replenish iron and the fool’s gold deposits all over the city. On instinct, I edged to the window, twisted the catch and threw the window as wide open as I could.

A gust of wind rushed into and through the room. The monster thrashed and doubled over. A damp miasma poured in, as though drawn to the creature like a magnet. The smog settled over the head and torso, eliciting a cry so sorrowful that my heart could not help but respond to the agonised sob. The creature tried to nurse broken and decaying limbs against a collapsing body. The fool’s gold glint gradually dulled to brown rust as the metal oxidised. The pained cries ceased. Golden eyes glared in fury from a bulbous, deformed head as the carcass shrivelled.  I sank to the floor below the window and watched.

An hour or more passed. No one came despite the commotion and I reasoned that they must have been too afraid, or that the lure of the tavern was too great on a cold night. The being had shrunk dramatically and now resembled a large, half-human foetus. The stolen human vital organs fell away as it rusted. I looked into a gaze that cried out to me. The monster wanted to live. In a flash of empathy I realised that this was nothing more than an alien child, probably stranded during the recent meteor shower.

Hunger and the will to survive drove even humans to animalistic instincts. I understood that more than most. The deaths of the women were borne of desperation. ‘Jack the Ripper’ was a starving baby, who only wanted was to be fed the basic nutrients it needed in order to endure.

The creature’s eyes dimmed as its body oxidised. The damp, misty air from the chimney and window continued to blow around the body. The alien’s chest cavity crumpled inwards, a burst of red dust puffing up into the atmosphere as its final breath huffed from the open torso. The being’s slash-shaped maw gaped in a final silent cry and the fool’s gold light went out from the pitiful gaze. With a shudder, the corpse disintegrated into a pile of red-brown rust.

I looked closely at the remains. A breeze picked up outside and a rush of air came down the chimney. I glanced back up the flue. I could only surmise that the creature had sought heat and warmth where it could, even as the damp, London fog had slowly oxidized the alien flesh until it rotted away to nothing. The agony of the alien child’s death reverberated in my mind. A confusion of inarticulate screams left my body aching as I shook my head in a subconscious gesture. I wanted to wipe away all that I’d heard in those last few moments, but the memory stayed with me long into the night.

            Opening the door I let more of the London fog. On the floor the rust stirred and dispersed. Swirling like fallen leaves in the strong autumn breeze, the dust scattered, leaving no trace of the monster that had once been.

            Leaving Kelly’s house I headed into the fog. In the tavern I could see the bobby, who’d tired of guarding the crime scene, enjoying a drink in the company of several women of the night. ‘Jack’ was no more, and yet no one in this world but me would ever know who or what he had been.

            I felt no remorse.

            There really is room for only one monster in the city.

BFS LONG LIST

The British Fantasy Society Awards long list has now been posted. Members and 2010-2011 Attendees of FantasyCon are eligible to vote for books to be put through to the short list.

I'm please to announce that 'Demon Dance' has been recommended for Best Novel and my short story 'Fool's Gold' is in the running for best Short Fiction.

If you are a member, or if you attended FantasyCon last year/ or have registered for Fantasycon this year you can now make your selection by HERE.https://spreadsheets.google.com/viewform?hl=en&formkey=dEhyMFVVZ3JzTUh4S0JKM2JxYzdQY3c6MQ#gid=0

Happy voting :)

Hateful Heart Update.

 Hateful Heart, book 4 in the continuing Vampire Gene Series, concluded this week in first full draft format. I'm currently editing and it will be wending it's way over to my editor by the end of this month. All should be well for an initial launch at the Asylum Steampunk weekend in September and there will be copies for sale at FantasyCon in Brighton.

In the meantime ...

If you're desperate for that vampire fix, you can catch up with the misdeeds of my vampire Lucrezia as she appears in some of the stories in my horror collection Zombies in New York and Other Bloody Jottings which is available from all good book stores, as well as online book sites.

For signed and personalised copies please contact Telos Publishing or come and see me at one of my Waterstones events as per the appearances list on the right of this page.

If you haven't caught up with all of the books yet, you can purchase the Vampire Gene Series at Murky Depths and you can can even request signed copies! The series will also be available at all of my Waterstones appearances.

Hope to see you soon.

Sam x

New Vampire Gene Book on the Brink of Conclusion.

Hi Guys,

Hateful Heart - Book 4 of The Vampire Gene Series looks set to reach conclusion in first draft format this week. After that I have a little bit of work to do in checking and editing myself until I'm happy that it's the best it can be. The book should then be wending it's way over to my editor and hopefully will be launched at The Asylum Steampunk weekend, in September. It will also be available to buy at my Halloween weekend signings in Bolton and Wrexham (as well as all of my other titles).

I'm more than a little excited as this book (without giving any spoilers) does indeed rock things up quite a bit in the seemingly idyllic life of my immortals.

If you want to know what it's about then this will give you something of a clue: The Da Vinci Code meets Raiders of the Lost Ark via Quantum Leap.

It's got conspiracies and action on every page!

More news to follow later this week.

Sam x

Back to my Roots ... and Other exciting news!

I'm really pleased to be returning to Bolton next Saturday, 2nd April as part of my Waterstones tour promoting the new book 'Zombies in New York and Other Bloody Jottings'.

Thanks to the Bolton Evening News for their great story this evening.

To purchase copies of 'Zombies in New York' click HERE

To purchase copies of 'The Vampire Gene Series' click HERE

If you are interested in meeting me then please check out the list of appearances on the right hand side of this page.

I'll be at Waterstones, Wrexham tomorrow with actor Frazer Hines.

Added to all this, the Literature Reviews Editor of Scream Magazine just shared a link on my facebook which I hope you can see. I've made the front cover which is pretty cool!

Here's the link Scream Magazine Cover

Hope to see you soon,

Sam x

Publishing Today - Writers' Extra Duties

The climate of publishing has changed dramatically in the last few years. Regular readers of my blog will recall me remarking on this before. I have a problem with the whole loss of the 'Net Book Agreement' - which was the start of the problems and has had a huge impact on the income of writers, making it incredibly difficult these days to actually make a living from writing. I have an even bigger problem with how few large publishing houses are giving new writers a chance becuase they constantly use the same ones over and over, and not because they are the best, merely because, in most cases, they are convenient.

J.K. Rowling didn't make it over night, I believe she was rejected by some 50 agents before it fell on the right person's desk. After that a whole lot of luck came into play.

I'm constantly being asked about publishing by aspiring writers.The truth is there is no one answer. If you are serious you sit down and write a book and then wonder how you're going to get it published. Not ask the question BEFORE you've ever written anything. 

Writing a book doesn't guarantee you overnight success, and certainly not fame and fortune. Even if you're lucky enough to get an agent or publisher, (although having an agent isn't a necessity anymore) there's no guarantee anyone will want to buy it. That's why I feel that you have a duty to your words once there are in print.

I know a few other writers who object to the idea of self-promotion, and that's fine if they think they don't need to. Personally I don't see any harm in reminding people that this is what you do and this is what you are about. (I will stress here that you should NEVER post a link to your event/book on someone else's page - frankly it's rude and you're likely to just get yourself deleted). However if you care about your writing, believe in your words and you want to share them, then by all means do so in the least offensive way that you can. It's your duty to yourself, your publisher and your book to let people know about it. Otherwise who is going to care if you don't?

There's a lot of pressure on writers now to achieve more and more. I know writers who can only make a living because they write 4-5 books a year. They don't have time in between to stop and think, nor to give any thought to promoting the new books, which I think might ultimately be the problem. Obviously your publisher should be supporting you as much as their budget allows. This will vary depending on the publishers. Major houses will have a specific budget to pour into the promotion of  books. The amount will vary depending on your level. Independent presses don't have much money so they won't necessarily have a promotional budget, but should still support the promotion where they can. For example by ensuring review copies are sent out where necessary, entries into competitions, online promotion such as posting up reviews on the publishers website, letting the readers know where you'll be appearing etc.But whatever the budget it's up to you to raise extra awareness and how you do that is up to you.

What you shouldn't do sit back and expect complete strangers to believe in you if you aren't prepared to put yourself behind your works or actually go out and meet the public because you think you should remain in an ivory tower and be illusive.

When you've got JK's millions you can be 'private' all you want, but these days you're never going to achieve that so you have to be prepared to work for it.

ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year 2010

I'm really excited to learn this evening that Demon Dance - Book 3 of The Vampire Gene Series - has made finalist for ForeWord Magazine's Book of the Year Awards in the Best Horror Novel Category. This is one of the most prestiguous Independent Press awards in the USA.

Please check out the link below for further details.

BOTYA  

The Awards will be presented at ALA Annual Conference in New Orleans on 23rd-28th June 2011. The awards are judged by Librarians and Booksellers taken from the Magazine's Readership.
Demon Dance  was launched last September (2010) at FantasyCon in Nottingham following the nomination of Book 2, Futile Flame, for both ForeWord BOTYA and the British Fantasy Society Awards last September so this is a really pleasing result as being a finalist isw also a huge accolade.

I hope you'll join me in celebrating this fabulous news this week.

Sam x

Best Horror of the Year - Volume Three.

I've just had some really thrilling news that esteemed Anthology Editor Ellen Datlow has posted her list of honorable mentions due to be published in Best Horror of the Year Volume Three this year.

I'm delighted to tell you that my story 'Fool's Gold' is on the list.

'Fool's Gold' was first published by NewCon Press last year in their anthology The Bitten Word. If you haven't seen this incredible book and love vampire fiction, then I recommend you buy a copy as it includes such high caliber writers as Tanith Lee, Storm Constantine, Sarah Singleton, Jon Courtney Grimwood, Kelly Armstrong and many more.

You can read 'Fool's Gold', and many more of my short fiction and poetry, in my collection Zombies in New York and Other Bloody Jottings which recently hit the shelves when we had a hugely successful launch in LA at the end of February.

The collection is having a rather interesting time with a really positve response from reviewers so far and with the 'Zombies Tour' rapidly underway the book has already been entered its third print run.

Signed copies of the Zombies in New York... can be purchased from Telos Publishing or you can meet me personally at one of the Waterstones signings I'm doing this year (see list below).

Guest Blog from Fantasy & Magic Realism Writer - RHYS HUGHES

The Ultimate Existentialist Horror

 

I remember, when I was very small, watching a film called Night of the Demon. I didn't know until many years later that it was an adaptation of an M.R. James story, 'Casting the Runes'. The film impressed and scared me. At the climax, the demon of the title arrives to claim the body (and presumably the soul) of the man foolish enough to have been somehow responsible for conjuring the thing up. I forget the exact details of the plot. I can barely picture any of the scenes to myself. I just recall (or seem to recall) a gigantic monster looking something like a charred corpse looming high over a length of railway track at night.

Although this outcome frightened me, for I was at an impressionable age, I didn't have too much sympathy for the demon's victim. It seemed to me, even back then, that it was his own fault for meddling with the forces of darkness, for aligning himself with the Devil. I grew up as a Christian and I was a truly devout child, utterly convinced that God existed and that his power was without limit of any kind. I assumed that omnipotence meant power without a single restriction. I was blissfully ignorant of the clever arguments of philosophers such as Anselm and Leibniz, who showed there must be a logical limit even to God's power (God, for instance, can't reduce his own power; that option is denied to him). As far as I was concerned, God could snap his fingers, if he chose, and the Devil would vanish into nothingness instantly. God could make time run backwards, cancel out something that had already happened, violate logic in any way he liked. God could do anything.

Armed with my unshakeable faith, I felt only scorn for black magicians who summoned up a demon and then fell prey to it. It seemed obvious to me that one should always fight for God and against the Devil. God, after all, was invincible and always right. If you fought for God, God would look after you, even if the Devil or one of his minions ripped off your head. Work for God and you go to Heaven. Work for the Devil and you go to Hell. The equation was simple.  

I continued watching horror films throughout my childhood, and demons, vampires and werewolves, among other monsters, populated my dreams. But still I felt secure and safe under the protection of God. Even if one of those unholy abominations did get me, everything would be fine provided I didn't betray my allegiance to God. Better to be slsiced to little piece and go straight to heaven than to be a turncoat and remain whole, for human life is short but eternity is very long indeed.

I am no longer a Christian and haven't been for several decades, but I was recently filled with a feeling not dissimilar to that emotion I experienced as a child watching Night of the Demon. The object responsible was a book of short stories, John the Balladeer by Manly Wade Wellman, a collection of two-dozen tales and vignettes featuring Silver John, a sort of troubadour-hobo who aimlessly wanders the Appalachian Mountains with his silver-strung guitar, getting into all sorts of scrapes with hoodoo men, ghosts, fearsome critters, bigfoots (bigfeet?) and other supernatural or cryptozoological meanies.

The stories that detail his adventures are colourful and entertaining, but they aren't very scary. They lack tension. They lack tension because the main character, Silver John, quite rightly, is wholly devoted to the cause of good. He's God's man through and through. So evil can't touch him. All he has to do when confronted by an evil spirit is say a prayer and the evil spirit backs off. All attempts to bring him over to the Devil's side are doomed to failure, for John is no fool. He is immune to blandishments, threats and flattery. Even if a beautiful lady vampire sucks up to him, he'll always resist.

John the Balladeer is horror, but it isn't genuinely troubling horror. It's comfortable horror. The book would be troubling only to anyone who works for the Devil rather than for God, in which case it should serve as a timely reminder for that individual to come back over to God's side. After all, God is destined to win. Ultimately the Devil doesn't stand a chance. Why align yourself with the biggest loser in the universe? That's the message of this kind of horror. Work for God.

The same message is implicit in all supernatural horror, for in that kind of horror evil is a tangible force rather than simply an absence of good. And if evil is a genuine form of energy, good must also be a form of energy. If the Devil exists, God also exists. And God always rewards loyalty. Thus, although horrific on the surface, films such as The Exorcist or The Omen hammer home a reassuring message. The Devil exists and he's going to kill me in a horrible way because I refuse to submit to him? Great! I'm off for my first harp lesson beyond the Pearly Gates!

There is, of course, another kind of horror. A horror that not only doesn't make use of the supernatural but denies the supernatural. This other kind of horror may feature psychos, wife-beaters or crack addicts huddled under the glare of sodium lamps. It may be miserablist in nature, or it may be even more pessimistic and depressing than that. Some of this sort of horror might be characterised as existentialist. In other words, it is concerned with existence as it actually is (or seems to be), stripped of faith, hope and the consolations of metaphysics.

Existentialist horror is the kind of horror that is generated and propagated by atheism. Get your head ripped off by a demon and your soul will be fine (provided your allegiance is still to God), so that moment of bloody violence doesn't really matter. What are a few minutes of head ripping pain compared with the bliss of Paradise? But have your head removed by a psycho in a cosmos where God doesn't exist and you are in real trouble. You don't have a soul in such a scenario. So there's nothing better awaiting you after your head plops to the ground. You are dead. Just dead.

Because, let's face it, our main fear is the uncertainty of what happens to us after we die. That uncertainty is the horror locked away inside every instant of every hour of every day of our entire lives. That question. And there are two possible outcomes and both have their own terrors: eternal life is a daunting prospect. But eternal oblivion is worse. There's no point denying it. If we're going to be strictly honest with ourselves, endless oblivion is what we dread most. A cosmos where there is no afterlife, a purely mechanistic universe with no place for souls. The theory that our souls are purely by-products of our minds, and that our minds are merely by-products of our brains, is called epiphenomenalism. When our brain dies we have no more mind, and thus no more soul. We became nothing. Oblivion. Oblivion until the end of Time.

This is a hard prospect to swallow. The meaningless universe. Yet it takes only the appearance of a single ghost, vampire or demon to disprove it. The moment a supernatural representative of the force of evil turns up, it means there is hope again. If supernatural evil exists, then supernatural good must also exist, which means God exists, which means Heaven exists. Just one demon, however small, just one, and the afterlife is back on the agenda! So when an innocent character in a horror book or film is confronted with a genuine demon, he or she should fall to their knees and cry, “Thank you, thank you! You're my ticket to Heaven! I do have a soul after all. No eternal oblivion for me! The afterlife, here I come!”

There's a very cruel story by the French writer Villiers de L'Isle-Adam called 'Torture by Hope'. It's about a man imprisoned in a dungeon by the Spanish Inquisition. He is going to be tortured by them the following day. Then he notices that his cell door has been left unlocked. What a mistake by his jailers! Bursting with hope, he opens the door and creeps down the corridor towards the exit. He is almost free! Suddenly an inquisitor jumps out and cries, “Tricked you!” (I'm paraphrasing, please understand). It turns out that the prisoner had been allowed to escape that far, or rather that the illusion of escape was given to him as part of the torture, for to fill someone with false hope is the worst torment.

There is a television show that takes the concept of torture by hope to its ultimate limit. Frankly, it is the ultimate existentialist horror. The fact that it doesn't seem to be horrific makes it all the more horrible when one truly considers the implications of its core message. That core message is grim, soul-eroding and profoundly nihilistic.

The show in question adopts the format of the paranormal investigation. A group of characters set out to probe into hauntings. These characters include Fred, a typical alpha male; Daphne, a dumb but foxy redhead who is possibly Fred's lover; Velma, an intellectual (lesbian?) analyst; and a pair of pragmatic, hungry survivors, Shaggy and Scooby-Doo. The last character in this list lends his name to the show itself. Scooby-Doo.

Every episode of Scooby-Doo follows a highly formalised schematic. A ghost (or demon or other paranormal bugaboo) is reported in a lonely location. The investigators repair to the scene. They meet the ghost but fail to be deterred from the investigation by it. As they dig deeper into events, the workings of the atheistic clockwork slowly become apparent. There is no ghost (or demon, etc). It is merely an illusion, a man in a mask! The impostor is carted off to prison and the five heroes move on to the next case in a psychedelic van. Somewhere behind all this, in the furthest reaches of metaphor, an enormous Richard Dawkins must be rubbing his hands in glee, looming over the dénouement like the absolute antithesis of the demon in Night of the Demon.

Scooby-Doo offers false hope. A ghost, a demon. Supernatural horror! Therefore the afterlife is real! We won't cease to exist after our deaths!  We may even get to visit our loved ones who have passed on. God does exist after all! Everything really is right with the universe! There is no bleakness or despair woven into the fabric of reality. Take me into your arms, sweet Lord! Thank you, ghost! Thank you, demon! Give my regards to that sucker Satan as I preen my angel's wings…

Yes, Scooby-Doo offers that hope, the greatest hope that can ever be offered… and then snatches it away! Every single episode it does this. It is a staggeringly cruel thing to do. It is the ultimate existentialist horror. But people persist in regarding it as a comedy. And that only deepens the horror, the horror. Scooby-Dooby-Doo, where are you? Shuddering in the grip of angst, despair and abandonment, that's where!

 Copyright Rhys Hughes 08/03/11