It's Creepy and It's Kooky, and Altogether Spooky (Penny Rader)

Happy Halloween!

Want to add a bit of a thrill or a chill or touch of suspense to your writing? Check out these links:

Foreshadowing and Suspense (Anne Marble)

Keep in mind that not all characters will react to anxiety and crises in the same way. Spend some time figuring out how characters react to suspense, anxiety, and fear. Try to avoid the usual descriptions, such as "her pulse raced..." If you're at a loss for descriptions, remember the last time something scary happened to you. What happened the last time you stepped on the breaks and your car tried to skid? Did your stomach feel like a brick? Did you shriek, or swear? Or did you steer yourself out of the skid and only respond to the stress after you were safe? Use those experiences to color your characters' reactions.

How Do I Captivate the Reader in My Scary Story? (Elizabeth Burns)

Omit excessive detail. Some of the best scary stories skillfully leave it to the reader's imagination to fill in the blanks. It is often what is hidden, or merely hinted at, that sends chills down the spine.

How to Succeed at Writing Romantic Suspense (Shannon Reynolds)

Craft a tense and suspenseful tone. Focus on more than just the scary abandoned buildings or creepy old mansions. Characters reflect tone by how they react to events as they unfold: if the characters are convincingly tense and uncertain of what's around the next corner, chances are your readers will be as well. Throw some twists and turns into your story, surprises that your readers will not see coming.

Ten Tips on Pace and Structure of a Thriller (Jordan Dane)

Hitchcock believed suspense didn’t have much to do with fear, but was more the anticipation of something about to happen.

And we’ve all heard the phrase “Write what you know.” It should be “Write what you fear…what you love…what you hate.” Writing what you fear conveys human emotion that will resonate with readers. Tapping into what makes you afraid will translate into a trigger for the reader as well. And this goes for other emotions too. Drawing on a reader’s emotions will pull them into the story.

Tips for Writing Fiction (Robert Gannon)

What is scary is very subjective, so it's best to write something that scares you.

Try writing about an actual event that scared you in your life. My first horror story I ever felt comfortable sharing (long since lost, of course), involved a string of events that I'm still convinced were caused by a ghost in my house. The genuine nature of the story to me allowed me to effectively tell it to other people. Since I thought it was real, I wrote it like it was real, and that is what scared people.


Writing Horror Literature (Justin Daniel Davis)

What scares people? And how do I tap into it?Well, a good place to start as a source of fear would be the most logical and often overlooked one: yourself. Face it...you’re rarely going to get anywhere by trying to capitalize on what you THINK scares people. Start with yourself...not only is this your most reliable source, but your writing will come across as more genuine, less artificial. What scares you? Monsters under your bed? Loss of control? Ghosts? Goblins? Chores?

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So...what scares you? Do you have any tips to share to add a touch of creepiness to stories, maybe just enough to have your reader on the edge of her seat?

Something Wicked... (Rox Delaney)

One more day.  Just one more day before All Hallows Eve, when the veil between this world and the spririt world thins, and communication between the two becomes easier.

Or at least that's what some believe.  It's up to you to decide if you do.

There have been a few scary Halloween nights for me.  When I was very young and lived in the big, bad city (before moving to the little bad small town, then to the big bad middle of nowhere and now back to that big bad city), my older neighbors often took me trick or treating.  One year, as we stood on the corner waiting for a car to drive by so we could cross the street, that car and another car collided.  I screamed.  It was nothing more than a fender bender, but the sound of the crash and my blood curdling scream brought friends and neighbors outside.  At that point, trick or treating ended for me until the next year.

When I was around six or seven years old, I dressed as a Pilgrim girl, in long gray dress, white Pilgrim hat and round collar, all made by my mother, and a blonde braided wig.  Those same neighbors as above had a grandmother who had given them a pair of real, authentic wooden shoes, which were loaned to me for the evening.  Believe me, they were not comfy, but I wore them anyway, determined to be as real as I could be.  The block behind us ended in a circle drive/dead end, thanks to U.S. 54.  As we approached one of the houses near the end, a horrible witch came around the corner.  Scared beyond sanity, I began screaming and ran for home.  When I arrived, I sobbed to my dad what had happened...and then realized that I'd lost my hat and wig during my race for safety.  I cried even harder.  When I finally stopped, my dad walked me back, finally convinced me that the witch wasn't real, and we found my hat and wig.  Once again, trick or treating was over for me until the next year.

Fast forward to small town and high school.  No more costumes.  By eighth grade, we'd even given up painting our faces and going door to door.  But what fun to steal pumpkins and toss them in the middle of Main Street!  Braver souls moved the picnic tables from the park to the streets, and burning hay bales were scattered in the street, making driving a tad difficult. The local grocery store removed all egg cartons.  After Halloween our senior year, I distinctly remember how, when the heater was turned on, my best friend's car smelled of rotten eggs for months and months.  Tricks in town got so bad that mounted police from the city were sent for a few years to try to keep things under control.  One year, after looking for an outhouse to tip over, a group of us ran across the railroad tracks at the edge of town, hoping we wouldn't get caught, and one of the guys and I fell in what's known as "Devil's Hole."  Rumor had it that the six feet deep hole was the mouth of a tunnel than ran underneath the town.  Well, maybe long, long ago it did.  All I know is that climbing out was not for sissies.

Fast forward to the present.  My five grandkids and their parents (and an aunt or two) enjoy trick or treating together---all in costume.  I'm sure the people handing out candy aren't too sure what to think of the mob at their door.  No, the parents don't ask for candy. ;)

Me?  I stay home, turn down the lights, and listen carefully for the whispers of those who have passed on to the next world.  [Have I mentioned that I've had two paranormal experiences?]  Then I turn on the TV, grab a DVD or two, and find something fun to watch.  This year I've decided on Hocus Pocus, followed by Practical Magic.  I know I'm in for a treat. ;)

When a Stranger Calls (Penny Rader)

I grew up in the country. Lots of farms around. Very few actual neighborhoods. I attended a really small school. One day a mom asked if I’d consider watching her kids every day after school for a couple hours. I didn’t want to commit to an every day thing until I’d spent time with the kids so I agreed to babysit while the parents went out.

Did I mention I lived out in the country? Well, the B’s lived even farther out in the boonies. In a tall, multi-storied house all by its lonesome. Didn’t know this until Mr. B and I pulled into their driveway.

Everything started out okay. Met the kids. They were cute. Mr. & Mrs. B headed out the door. Before too long I heard a “thwap, thwap, thwap.” I probably didn’t mention that I’ve always been something of a coward. I was never going to be one of those nightgown-clad heroines who foolishly went down into the dungeon to see what the noise was. But…since I was the babysitter I had to suck it up and check it out. I drew a deep breath and forced myself to search for the source.

Thwap. Thwap. I peered around doorways. I had a hard time hearing the noise because my heartbeat was reverberating throughout my entire body. Several rooms later I finally found the culprit – an open window and a banging window shade. Whew! Crisis averted and my heart slowing back to its normal rhythm, I closed the window and headed back downstairs.

You know how they always tell kids to not tell strangers your parents aren’t home? But they don’t really tell you what to do in that situation? What’s up with that anyway? You probably guessed what happened next. Um-hmm. The phone rang.

Me: “Hello?”
Stranger: “May I speak to Mrs. B?”
Me: “Uh…she’s busy.”
Him: “I really need to talk to her.”
Me: “She’s really busy and can’t come to the phone.”
Him: “Okay. Let me talk to Mr. B.”
Me: “He’s busy too.”
Him: sigh
Me: waiting…hoping he’d just leave a message.
Him: “This is Mrs. B’s brother. I’ll just come over.”
Me, inside my head: Aaaaack!!!
Me: “Wait! Please don't come over. I’m the babysitter. Mr. & Mrs. B aren’t here."
Him: “Just tell them I called.”

Did I mention that my imagination sometimes goes into overdrive? That call freaked me out and I was absolutely certain some raving lunatic was on his way over to murder, ravish, and pillage, but I could not show my fear in front of the kids. So, I calmly got them all into their jammies and settled in their beds. Then I planted myself in the corner of the couch, squishing myself down under a quilt until I was as small as I could make myself. To anyone watching I would appear to be watching the TV, but actually, I had one eye on the front door and one eye on the picture window.

There are lots and lots of noises in the country. Spooky noises. Tree limbs smacking windows. Wind shaking just about everything. Howling animals. It’s enough to give a 13 year old girl a heart attack.

Boy, was I relieved when Mr. & Mrs. B got home. (Though there was a moment of extreme panic when that door opened!) The next day I called and told Mrs. B that I wouldn’t be able to take the every day babysitting job. (In my head I added or any other babysitting job!) My excuse: I had too much homework. She believed me. Her kids had tons of homework, too.

Yep, I’m a wimp. And I hate babysitting. And I still don't know what you're supposed to tell people when they call and ask for the parents.

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Do you have any scary experiences you'd like to share with us?

HONEY, HONEY, WHAT WAS THAT? Becky A

Warning! Only for those with intestinal fortitude who don’t mind getting seriously creeped out!

Have you ever noticed when friends and family do you a favor, or hook you up with a great deal, that it often turns out not? Why is that? Why is it that the people who are supposed to love you the best, often get you in the worst messes? Mine was a house way back in the day when we were still renting. Not the same one that Fang appeared in though. His was better.

This was the house from hell. They could make a movie about it. It didn’t look like the house from hell. There were no signs or omens. We simply had no clue. I guess that’s what we get for trusting family.

We only had one child back then, our daughter who was around two at the time. She had her own twin bed in her own little room. The first indication that we picked a loser was when we turned the furnace on. I went to check on her that night to find the room filled with noxious fumes. I pulled her out of bed and began opening windows. We got that fixed but it was only a warm up. Let me rephrase that, the house had no insulation. We froze our you know what's off all winter, but I digress.

At night, we would often hear noises; strange, skittering sounds. Not much at first so we thought it was just from being in a new place. You know, that old line about the house “settling”. Some nights I suspect we slept through it but eventually it was bad enough that we knew something majorly weird was going on. An intermittent rustling soon joined the skittering, and paper sacks began moving during the night. If we got up to check, there was nothing obvious to the naked eye.

One night I finally reached the very brave, very disgusted, or totally stupid mark. I’ve never been sure which. I went to bed prepared with a flashlight. When the noises got going full swing, I leapt out of bed, flipped on my light and ran full tilt into the living room/kitchen area. To my horror I realized that something was crunching under my feet and that the floor was moving under my wavering beam. I turned the kitchen light on just in time to see hundreds of cockroaches running for cover. These weren’t your normal wimpy German variety. These were the King Kong of Cockroaches. They averaged two to three inches in length and were armor plated. Thus the crunching as I ran across a living carpet of moving targets. I kid you not.

I didn’t know whether to scream, puke, or pass out. Passing out would have landed me on said floor so that was definitely out. I opted for the scream. At least I think I did. I don’t actually remember the rest of that night. My mind refuses to let those memories resurface.

I do remember the next day when we confronted the landlords, our so-called friends. They denied ever having roaches in their rental. Since they lived next door to us, I found that hard to swallow. They also inferred we must have brought them with us (NOT) and refused to do anything about it. Our beloved family members just steered clear of us for awhile.

Interestingly enough, after discussing our unwanted guests several times, they decided to sell the house. Since we had killed off a dozen cans of roach killer by then, I suppose they figured the new owners wouldn’t notice until it was all over but the screaming.

If you want another moral for this disgustingly icky story, try this:
Don’t listen to your friends and family. Or, always wear shoes when you get up at night. (: O

ps: I'll be out of town Fri.-Sun. so will get back with you all later. I'm expecting to read some of your truly creepy stories when I return. Happy hunting!

ITSY BITSY SPIDER . . . by Becky A

October brings to mind the beauty of multicolored trees, the crispness of crunchy leaves under foot, plus cool shivery weather. Along with the chilly air come images of Halloween: spooks, witches and ghouls galore. I’m not impressed by ghosts, vampires or Freddy Kruger. The real scary stuff comes straight from nature itself. You know, those snakes, spiders, bats and bugs that show up in unexpected places. Like our homes.

I could tell you the story about when my hubby found a three foot snake in our closet. He was terrified of snakes. Guess who got to pick it up and haul it outside? I don’t like snakes, but I can deal with them. Or, the time the neighbors asked my spouse to remove another three footer from their house. I carried it half a block and released it into a nearby field. Snakes feel icky. That’s the only way I can describe it, but they are doable.

I’ve never been around bats much but I’m pretty sure I would freak if one landed on me. I prefer to keep my blood, thank you. Bugs are here to be squished, period. I don’t care how much good they do. But then we get to spiders, yuck!

The one time I decided to be merciful to a spider, it came into my bedroom via my laundry. It was sitting on my clothesline one day and I said, “If you will leave me alone, I will leave you alone.” The little sucker ended up under the covers with me and bit my left calf in the middle of the night. Now, I didn’t feel it bite me. I did feel it crawling up my thigh. I flipped back the covers and swatted the then unknown culprit and went back to sleep. Two days later, I knew I had a problem. I proceeded to crawl around on my hands and knees until I found the shriveled little corpse. Yup, it was a brown recluse. Stupid spider! After a round of antibiotics, much prayer, and liberal doses of garlic infused olive oil, problem solved. I then spent many days vacuuming every corner repeatedly to get rid of all his little friends that had come with. Aacckk!

That's still not my most memorable spider story. I saved it for last. If you’ve got a better one, then I want to hear it. Here goes:

Getting up in the middle of the night and stumbling into the bathroom, I kicked something with my bare little tootsies. Flipping on the light, expecting to see a stuffed toy, I nearly came unglued as I stared into the big beady eyes of the largest spider I had ever seen up close and personal. It was the green, gray and tan colors of dried grasses. The body and legs were covered in spiky hair, and its overall appearance was of a tarantula. Its size was too, about five inches across. I’m going to go out on a limb and declare it was a tarantula. What kind? The, I’m not ever going to the bathroom in the middle of the night again, kind. Needless to say, after doing a very brief heebie jeebie ick dance, I ran screaming for my spouse.

By the time he pried his eyes open and arrived at the scene of the crime, the humongous and hairy nightmare was gone. I made him do a thorough search while I watched from my elevated vantage point. I stood rigid with fear in the middle of the bed, every light blazing. When all efforts failed to locate the creepy crawler, we determined that it must have come through the space around our sink drain. A full half inch between pipe and drywall was apparently enough. Stupid spider!

My spouse, satisfied that the problem was solved, crawled back into bed and resumed snoring. I considered bashing him over the head. We may have solved how it got in, and we may have run it back out. But, if it came in once, WHAT WAS GOING TO STOP IT FROM COMING IN AGAIN??? There was no way I could sleep now. My vivid imagination provided lovely pictures of it crawling into our bed or snuggling up to my helpless babies. Not to mention taking a bite to try out its super duper deluxe fangs. So, I did what every other intelligent, capable, and hero deprived wife does. I got out the duct tape and proceeded to seal that sucker into the wall.

Do I care if it looks ugly? NO! Do I care if my beloved has to pull it all off to fix it correctly? NO! Do I care that we are still living in a rental? NO, NO, and NO! Will I think of that stupid spider every time I get up to go to the can in the middle of the night? YES, YES, and ick, YES, at least for the next 20 years or so.

Now, for the moral of the story: Be careful. Be very careful when your tootsies go bump in the night. What you thought was a stray sock or stuffed toy, may be something very large and hairy, just waiting to make your acquaintance.
(Evil laughter-hahahahahahahaha!)

PS: I’ve decided to name him, Fang. Now tell us all about your favorite “pet”.

Snakes and Snails and...Shovels!

Like many others, I'm not a spider fan.  I don't scream, I don't jump, but I just plain don't like them, but I do understand that they have a purpose.  No, that purpose isn't scary the life out of us, but as part of the chain in insect life aka they eat bugs.  I don't like them, either.

But what I really, really don't like is snakes.  I lived on a farm for 24 years, and there were several occasions when a snake got in the house.  Not little garter snakes.  Big.  Fat.  Long.  Bull snakes.  During the first memorable visit by a slithering reptile and my reaction to it, my best friend called.  I told her what was happening, and she laughed.  And laughed.  I informed her that someday in the future, I would include the story in a book.  The following is an excerpt from A Saddle Made for Two, Silhouette Romance, July 2001; my second book.

Sticking the key in the lock and turning the knob, she pulled open the door and stepped inside.  She growped in the dark to switch on the light while she yanked her hat from her head.  The hat fell to the counter, and her gaze dropped to the floor.

Her blood-curdling scream, at the sight of the snake curled on the floor, bounced off the thin camper walls.

Thoughts skittered through her mind, but none made sense.  Without taking her attention from the cold-blooded invader, Ellie acted on instinct and eased open the door of the small closet to her right.  After carefully pulling out a newly purchased, flat-bottomed shovel, intended for her horse trailer, she jabbed the edge onto the snake as close to its head as possible.  Praying the critter would stay put, she gripped the wooden handle with both hands and jumped atop the metal.  The snake flipped and writhed beneath the blade, and Ellie realized what she'd just done.  Frozen to the spot in shock and unable to move, except to brace herself with one hand against the cabinet for balance, a shudder shook her body.

Now what? she thought, when the snake slowed its wriggling.  If she got off and it came after her, she'd die of fright.  Mercy, she hated snakes!  But staying propped on the shovel for eternity wasn't an option, either.

All true, I swear.  Except the grain shovel (flat-bottomed and new) was around the corner in the entry that led outside.  It had been (thankfully) left there by my husband, who was, of course, nowhere around.  And I didn't scream.  I was standing on that shovel, the snake beneath the blade and still moving, when the phone rang and my friend called.  The rest, as they say, is history.