Showing posts with label Stuart R. West.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stuart R. West.. Show all posts

Friday, December 20, 2019

Christmas Caroler Massacre

Okay, now that I have your attention via my unashamedly titled post, I'm in a quandary...
Not too long ago, my daughter moved into her first house. I'd asked her if she'd had any trick or treaters during Halloween.

"No, I don't think they come down my street," she answered.

As a parent, that didn't set too well with me, just add that to my worry-list, but that's not for now. I said, "Wait until you get your first Christmas carolers."

Ah, I remember mine, lo, forty-one years ago, and how awful it was.

I shouldn't have answered the door. I really shouldn't have. But I did. Before me stood  a fully dressed, Dickensian group of carolers. I recognized the head singer, all teethy smiles and glazed eyes, the God-Squadder who lived caddy-corner from me, the guy who wouldn't quit pushing The Word to me.

Absolutely, inevitably quicksand-stuck, I wanted to slowly close the door, tell them they'd made a big mistake. However...even though I'm a bit of a curmudgeon and a hermit, I still have a heart.

They proceeded to sing. It was the longest Christmas song in history. My forced rictus grin stretched, ached, began to tremor, my upper lip twitching and forcing my tell. I felt like the Joker while constipated, not a lot to smile about, but you kinda have to muscle through it. 

Finally, the song finished. I wondered what I should do. Should I tip them? Give 'em a ten-spot, tell them to call an Uber and get the hell outta here? Invite them in (never a serious option)? Offer them cookies? I had no cookies. But I had cigarettes and chips and beer and NyQuil, the important ingredients to a young and dumb bachelor's lifestyle.

While I was pondering the proper response, they launched into yet ANOTHER song.
 I felt like a turtle on his back, legs slowly flailing, a car hurtling down the highway toward me. 

At long last, they completed their epic three-hour (at least it felt like it) performance. All smiles on their end. My face twitched, unused smiling muscles taxed, craziness taking over.

I hollered, "YAYYYY! Thank you, thank you very much. Happy holidays."

After shutting the door, I nearly passed out.

I like Christmas. I'm not a Scrooge. I just kinda have invasion of privacy issues. Especially when people want to sing at me. One of the roughest work-outs I've ever been through. It's truly weird.

Happy holidays, everyone, no matter what you celebrate. But, please, don't sing on my doorstep!

While I'm talking about cold, wintery work-outs, why not--during the holidays--check into the Dandy Drop Inn. I understand there's a huge winter-storm brewing and if you're caught out in the midwest, the Dandy Drop is a fine, fine place to warm your toes. Maybe lose your head, too, but not every place is perfect. Make a reservation with Dread and Breakfast, the perfect winter holiday thriller.
 

Friday, September 20, 2019

Throwdown at the Honker Inn Part #2 (or Return to Hellbillyville)

So, last week I detailed the first part of my epic confrontation with a crazed, psychotic woman and her giant cowboy protector in an Oklahoman hotel. (Here's a handy link in case you forgot...go on, I'll wait. Ready?) 

Now the truth can finally be told! 

I had barely escaped Long Tall Tex and rode the elevator down to the lobby...


The doors swoosh open and Daisy is happily helping a customer.

I said, "I hope you saw or heard what just happened!"

"Yeah," said Daisy (and the customer agreed), "That guy was holding the elevator open so I couldn't get up there!"

Okay. It's one flight. 19 year old Daisy could have taken the stairs. I'd been doing it all day.

Looking like a man tossed into a pit of feral cats, I waited until Daisy finished with the other late-night customer. He smiled at me. I attempted a smile back. My heart wasn't in it.

"Daisy, you need to call the cops, " I said once she'd finally finished her Customer Service.

She tried to pacify me with Millenial logic.  "I took care of the problem earlier. That couple next door to you went out and left their boys behind."

"For tacos," I clarified.

"When they came back, I think she was drunk and--"

"I know she's drunk!"

Ignoring me, Daisy continued. "I think they had a lover's spat. She's upset. I hate to call the police over one little mistake."

"One little mistake? She attacked me! The crazy beeyotch tried to kill me!"

"What? She attacked you?" Daisy posed a very concerned face, one I'd get used to, which ultimately meant nothing.

"You had to have heard it!"

"Oh... I'm gonna have to make an incident report. I really don't want to call the police. But I have to with an incident report. I've never had to do an incident report before."

I'm thinking, Yeah, in your long three week tour of duty.

"I guess I'll have to call the cops."

Finally! By this time, I'm sick of it all. "Daisy, just change our room. I want to get some sleep. Safely."

Daisy grimaces. "I can't give you a new room. We're booked to capacity."

Well, I know that's not the truth. Every hotel always keeps a few rooms open. Just in case. I think this situation merited a big, honkin' huge "Just In Case."

"Daisy, you didn't do your job. Otherwise I wouldn't have been attacked! There's a psycho killer next to us. Look again!"

Daisy looked. She said, "Oh. Wait a minute. Yeah, I found something, I can put you in room 107."

"Fine," I said. "But it's gonna take me a while to rouse my wife and pack."

I went back upstairs. America's Sweetheart has her door open, clearly eavesdropping. For the first time all night, her room is deathly silent. Quietly, I shook my poor wife awake and kept my voice low, doing my best to fill her in.

When we go back downstairs, TA-DAAAAA! Ms. Congeniality is in the hizzy. Chatting amiably over the counter with Daisy, laughing. Miraculously wearing a calm face.

She sneered at me and said in her manly-man's voice, "What, are you leaving?" A missing toothed smile crossed her lantern jaw.

I smiled back, said, "No, we're changing rooms."

She bulked up her square shoulders, came at me, fists bunched. "You think this is funny?"

Good God. Friggin' terminator.

"No," I say, "there's nothing funny about assault."

Her new best pal, Daisy, pipes in with, "Don't engage him! Don't engage him!" 

Like I'm the wild animal.

Shocker, the badger backs off, trying to make a good impression, and commences buddying up with Daisy. Half-asleep, my wife's barely hanging onto the counter.

I turned to the delightful dominatrix, and said, "You know, all I wanted was sleep. We were just going to change rooms. But now you're down here trying to rewrite things."

"Don't engage him, don't engage him, don't engage him," chants Daisy, the most fickle hotel clerk in the universe.

"Whatever. Call the damn cops," I said, as I guided my wife over to the sofa. A cooking show was playing on the overhead TV. It wasn't about tacos.

Daisy finally phones the cops, but to my dismay, my nemesis is over there, dictating the "facts." Making sure everything is correct, at least in her meth-skewed world-view. Then Daisy, while describing us as an "elderly couple," mentions our designated new room number (twice!), along with my wife's name and phone number, right in front of Ms. Sunshine.

I quit listening. There wasn't any point.

The call is in. The Incredible Hulk stomps outside to await 5-0, ready to get the first word in. The law arrived and talked to her first. A lot. Finally, a friendly cop grilled me. Never asked me my name or to see my I.D. He did look at my wife kinda funny, though, because she was sitting upright but with her head hanging, eyes shut. I explained about her minor operation and pain pills, told him she slept through the incident.

He asked me if I kicked the door in. I said, "No. I'm wearing tennis shoes. I'm not a cop, nor am I that strong. I did kick the door once in a childish fit of sleep-deprived anger and told her I was calling you guys, but I didn't kick the stupid door in."

It was explained to me that since the cops didn't witness the Battle Royale, if I brought charges of assault, basically it'd be my story against her lies. And she had a "witness" in Long John Cowboy (mysteriously never questioned, nor seen again, obviously still jaw deep in tacos).
Last thing I wanted was to go to court ("Judge Judy?") with my arch enemy, especially out-of-state. I had no intention on spending money and wasting any more thought or time on The Creature From the Crack Lagoon. She'd end up in prison eventually without my help.

I told the cop, "Forget it then. I'm done. She has kids. Those poor, poor kids. I just want sleep. Unless she's gonna keep pursuing this crap about my kicking down her door."

He nodded, walked off. A police pow-wow was held in front of the traitorous Daisy. One officer went outside to consult with his charge.

Ten minutes later, Hurricane Helga stormed through the lobby, redder than a fire hydrant, ready to blow a blood vessel. For the first time, her bluster had vanished and she didn't say a word or even look at me.

I imagine the chat with the cops went something like this, "You should go in there and thank your new best friend 'cause he just saved your ass. Otherwise, I'm'a giving you a breathalyzer (which you'll fail), a drunk and disorderly, physical assault, child endangerment, you want me to go on?"

Officer Friendly comes over, says, "Folks, you're fine. Let me know if I can do anything to help you."

Meanwhile, my once BFF, then ex-BFF, now BFFF again, Daisy, says, "Okay, I can check you guys into room #107." Like, the Pillbillies hadn't heard the room number enough.

"No thanks," I said, "I don't feel safe with my special friend in the same hotel. We're outta here." Officer Friendly gave us an empathetic nod.

So Daisy checked us out. Under the name "Alabama Ball." (Good Gawd, people, never, EVER stay at this hotel. But, oh what fun I'll have if we end up getting "Alabama's" credit card info!).

I thought about asking Daisy who she thought looked more like someone named "Alabama Ball:" us or my combat opponent? It would've been a waste of breath.

Daisy won't even comp us for the night. She says she can't. Whatever. What's one more little lie between pals?

It's after three in the morning and we hunt down another hotel. But the doors are locked. A friendly-looking woman opens the doors. I took a deep breath, prepared to tell our tragic story. My wife wisely interceded, said, "Do you have a room?"

"Oh," she said, "I can't really check you in until I'm done doing the weekly audit. I'm sorry. It may be another hour or so." Then she looks at us again. "Okay, give me your information, I'll check you in later."

"Thank you!"

She said, "You guys looked so tired and you've clearly been through something. I had to do it."

From the worst of humanity to the best. We needed that.

I still never got to sleep, pumped up on disbelief and adrenaline, constantly reliving the psychotic encounter in my mind's cinema.

Remember, folks, it could happen to YOU! 

Speaking of true tales of horror, check out my new tale of non-fiction, Corporate Wolf. You'll believe a werewolf can plan objectives and delegate tasks!

Friday, September 13, 2019

Throwdown at the Honker Inn!

Not too long ago, I (barely) lived through a true-life Jerry Springer episode.
We were staying at an Oklahoma Honker Inn (name has been changed to protect...the guilty, I suppose). Saturday, midnight rolled around and I'd almost moved on to sleep. Except the air conditioner died. *Thunk* Hsssss...

Well, that sucked, but seemed fairly tenable if I could just kick off a blanket, get comfy, become one with the bed, think of...random thoughts...and weird visions (what's that guy with three eyes doing?)...and...and...

Bang! Slam! Crack! Crack! Booooooommmm! Tromp, tromp, tromp! "Woo-HOOOO!" "Woo-HOOOOO!"

Suddenly I was in the middle of a battleground.

Crap. I burritoed my head within the pillow and hoped for the best. But even through the pillow, I still heard...

"Woo-HOOOOOO! Here we go! HERRRRRE we go!"

Incredibly loud slamming of doors and shouts went on for over an hour. My wife stirred when I flipped the light on beside her to get to the phone (but mercifully--a weird way to put it--she'd had minor surgery and was conked out on pain pills).

Hey! The phone's not working! Great!

Cursing, red-eyed, already sleep-deprived, I put on my clothes (buttons mismatched), and stumbled out into the hallway. Yep, a whole lotta noise coming from the people next door.

I went down to the lobby and no one was there. Just a sign that said "Be back in 5 to 10 minutes." Finally, a young woman rounds the corner, asks if she can help me.

"Yeah, my phone's not working, otherwise I wouldn't be down here. There's all kinds of noise going on next to me. Doors slamming, loud partying, shouting--"

"I know," she says with a smile, eager to please, "there were some boys down in the exercise room making noise. I had another complaint already. I talked to them."

"But...that's on the other side of the hotel. I don't think it's them. I'm at the opposite end."

"Oh, they're probably just running back and forth. Boys will be boys." Smile.

I said, "It's 1:30 in the morning. Shouldn't these boys will be boys be boys in bed?"

"Oh, don't worry. I'll get to the bottom of this," she says, less than confident.

We ride up on the elevator together. Scared of her own shadow, she admits, "I've only been here three weeks. I really hate this."

Sympathetic, I agree. "I know, I would, too. I really appreciate it. And, I mean, I believe in fun like the next guy, but it's 1:30 in the morning!"

"I know, right?" she says. "And you're old, too. Um, I mean--"

"Good night."

All is apparently well and done. Daisy (we'll call her "Daisy") has done her due diligence. I begin to drift off. I'm floating, finally, eyelids heavy, body lifting, three-eyed fish with hats covered in stars swim past me...and...and...

BLAMMO! BASH! CRASH! "Yee-HAAHHHHH!" SLAMMMMMMM! CRACKETY-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK! "Wooooo-HOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!"

I nearly fall out of bed. The savage party people are back with a vengeance. Purposefully slamming every door repeatedly as hard as they can. Shock-waves vibrated through the walls.

I'd had enough. The phone had failed. The air conditioner had failed. Sleep had failed. Daisy failed. At 2:20, I throw my clothes on again, go next door, pound on the door.
A clearly wasted, glassy-eyed, fake-blond woman in a too small t-shirt answers the door.  Cigarette in hand (non-smoking room), beer in the other. Two small kids hovered behind her.

I said, "Could you PLEASE stop slamming doors?" (Okay, okay, I mighta shouted it a bit).

Waiting for a nice, civil reply, I stood there expectantly. Instead, she slurred, "Get the f**k outta here." Then slammed the door in my face. The final indignation.

That lit my fuse. I gave the door (an ineffective--nothing like the movies) kick, and yelled, "That did it! I'm calling the cops,"I stomped down the hall. ("So THERE".) 

Behind me, her door flew open.

She screamed, "Hey! Hey! You wanna go, bitch? Let's go! C'mon! Kick down my door, bitch? I'ma' gonna kill you, bitch!"

I'm thinking, Okay, this just got bad.

Flump, flump, flump!

She ran after me, grabbed the back of my shirt, hit me in the back, then the shoulder blade, shrieking the entire time. "Let's go! Call the cops on me? Yeah, right! You kicked down my door! You wanna go? C'mon, bitch! I'll kick your ass! I'll..."

"Jesus! I didn't kick down your door!"

I kept plugging straight ahead, crazy thoughts running through my mind (I bet her kids are proud of her.) She's pulling at me, slamming into me rassler style. Then she races around in front of me and drops into a crouch. Her claws go up, middle fingers flipping me off, incredibly sharp, scary fingernails scratching the air. (Honestly, since that day, I've tried to emulate that move and don't know how she did it; clearly practice makes perfect).

I'm suddenly trapped in one of the ever-increasing and disturbing news stories you read about where crazy people kill someone over the stupidest reasons.

"I'm gonna rip you a new one, pussy! C'mon, let's go!"

"I'm not gonna fight you," I said and kept walking. I mean, A) I don't fight women; B) Frankly, I don't fight men, I'm 58; C) I particularly don't fight crazed, hammered idiots; and D) I don't want to die, especially in such a stupid situation.

I continued to try and pass to safety. She lashed out, scratched my hand with her claw, dashed back in, slashed my arm. Doing my best to dodge her attack, I plundered on, but it was akin to being tossed into a rose bush (a vile, amped-up, sociopathic, rose bush).

Out of nowhere, a seven foot-tall cowboy with an even taller cowboy hat, wearing an immaculately pressed long-sleeve cowboy shirt, gets in my face.

The hell? Where'd HE come from? Surely, I'm hallucinating. Giant cowboys don't just show up in the middle of brawls...wait...  Now, I'm REALLY gonna die.
Clearly, he was there to defend his woman's (term used loosely) honor, trying to put a muzzle on his dog so he could hoe-down on my face. With about three feet of height on Meth-thusela, he picked her up easily and threw her back down the hallway. Many times.


"Go! Go back to the room. Go eat tacos," he shouted. 

Tacos? What the hell?

To me, he said, "What're you doin'? What's your problem?"

"Look, I'm not gonna fight you, either," I said as I tried to bypass the hellbilly duo. 

(Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...)

Meanwhile, Long, Tall Tex continues to lasso his hellcat and toss her back down the hallway. Undeterred, she lunged at me again. Wash, rinse, repeat. Through Tex's intervention, I finally managed to make it to the elevator, but I just know I'm gonna get a country stomping.

Finally, I made it inside the elevator. Tex wedged his back against the doors, keeping them from shutting. Sweet, sweet momma comes running up again, dives. Tex grabs her.

He shouts one last time, "Go back to the room! Now! I'll take care of him! Go! Go eat tacos! Git!"

At long last, she goes to eat tacos (fear not, dear reader, as she'll return to the narrative; oh, yes, yes she will). Tex is still holding up the elevator, now buzzing like a swarm of locusts.

He presses four strong, cattle-rustlin' fingers into my chest, says, "Talk to me. Just let's chat."

I'm hammering buttons to no avail. I'm freaked out. I manage, "She attacked me."


Matter of factly, Tex says, "Look, we didn't slam no doors. It wasn't us. We been gone for an hour. We went out to get tacos. We didn't slam no doors."

In response, I punch buttons. The elevator's going "BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....." I'm so way beyond slamming doors. And, oddly, I want tacos.

"Get it? It wasn't us," Cowboy continued. "We didn't slam no doors. We went out to get tacos."

I couldn't think clearly. I wondered why a family would get tacos at 2:00 in the morning. The guy wasn't letting me leave the elevator, wouldn't let the doors close. Finally, to get him outta my face (actually, I'm 6'2" and I'm looking up), I told him, "Look, just let me go, I'll change rooms."

And that sounded like a hella good idea. I needed sleep. Appeased, Tex finally backed off, releasing the elevator doors. I ride down to the lobby...

Wait! This showdown is SO big and SO momentuous and SO surreal (and SO damn long), that it'll have to be continued...until next week!

In the meantime, here...read a book...

Friday, April 27, 2018

The Wurmbrand-Stuppach Curse by Catherine Cavendish



(Hey, I'm pleased as punch to welcome back one of my favorite gothic horror authors, Catherine Cavendish. Cat always brings the spooky with her well-researched trips into gothic history and this is no exception. Also, her new book, Waking the Ancients, has just been released. It's a sequel to her stellar book, Wrath of the Ancients, and I can't wait to dig into it. So onward!)

I have set a large part of Waking the Ancients in Vienna, Austria where many ghosts and restless spirits walk among the verdant parks and lavish palaces. But Austrian ghosts do not confine themselves to their nation’s imperial capital. They can be found in towns, cities, villages and the depths of the countryside all over this beautiful land.

Some forty nine miles south of Vienna, in a remote spot not far from the Lower Austrian town of Warth, stands one of the most beautiful castles in Austria – Steyersberg. It lies on top of a tall hill and, with its 100 rooms, is an imposing sight.

It has been owned by the same family – the Wurmbrand-Stuppachs – for centuries, but this noble family have been haunted by their past evil deeds and a curse which has followed them down the generations.
The family itself is steeped in legend. It is said the origin of the Wurmbrand (literally ‘fireworm’) part of the name came from an early Countess Stuppach whose husband, the Count, disappeared during the Crusades. The knights were becoming impatient with her, urging her to remarry and bear an heir to secure the succession. She stalled them but when a lindworm (a serpent/dragon hybrid) appeared in the area and began killing indiscriminately, she relented and agreed to marry any man who could kill it. The farmer who did so won her hand and the wedding celebrations lasted a full week.

In common with many castles, this one has a dungeon which has seen much torture and cruelty. During successive wars against Turkish and Hungarian forces –among others – prisoners were held there in appalling conditions, often dying as a consequence, or being murdered. At least one prisoner issued a curse that no male family member would die a natural death until the family name died out.

This certainly seems to have held true as none did die a natural death and the name has indeed died out, certainly as far as ownership of the castle is concerned. With the death of Count Degenhard von Wurmbrand in 1965, the castle passed to his daughter Leonora and is now in the hands of her son, Dr Paul Miller.
Count Degenhard himself had some strange experiences growing up in the castle. As a child of six, he woke one night to see three crows in his bedroom. His younger brother, Ernst, was asleep and their nurse saw nothing. The memory of the strange encounter stuck with him until, many years later, he met an alleged American psychic in Hollywood who asked him who the black entity was that surrounded him. He recommended exorcism and a Buddhist monk tried to perform the ceremony a total of three times. He knew nothing of the Count’s history but described three ragged men who were the ghosts of three who had been sorely wronged by two of the Count’s ancestors. They had been falsely accused of treason, and had been tortured and killed in the castle in 1710 when the castle was indeed in joint ownership.

Count Degenard Wurmbrand was a peace loving man but, on hearing this, revealed that it could explain why he sometimes had an almost overwhelming desire to kill. He then realized something else. The phenomena surrounding the three crows had occurred in the room that just happened to be directly above the dungeon. He immediately ordered that the dungeon be sealed so that to this day no one can access it unless they want to demolish a sturdy wall.
Count Degenhard lived in the USA for a number of years but when he returned, in 1961, he learned that a séance had taken place there in his absence and that a number of the participants had been quite scared. A male clairvoyant had conducted proceedings and all present had heard heavy footsteps. His brother, Count Ernst, was resident in the castle and he claimed these then followed him to his room. Terrified, he asked the medium for advice and the man, with no knowledge of the goings on in the boys’ bedroom all those years earlier went directly to that room, saying he wanted to sleep there. He emerged next morning none the worse for his experience but it was curious he chose that particular room when he could have had any of fifty or so alternatives.

It is possible the curse has now expired, although there are some who say that the three angry prisoners still carry their resentment and thirst for revenge. It is to be hoped that, if that is so, no one lets them out of their walled up dungeon for, if they do - as we know from Dr. Emeryk Quintillus’s example - the consequences could be disastrous.

Waking the Ancients

Legacy In Death
Egypt, 1908
University student Lizzie Charters accompanies her mentor, Dr. Emeryk Quintillus, on the archeological dig to uncover Cleopatra’s tomb. Her presence is required for a ceremony conducted by the renowned professor to resurrect Cleopatra’s spirit—inside Lizzie’s body. Quintillus’s success is short-lived, as the Queen of the Nile dies soon after inhabiting her host, leaving Lizzie’s soul adrift . . .
Vienna, 2018
Paula Bancroft’s husband just leased Villa Dürnstein, an estate once owned by Dr. Quintillus. Within the mansion are several paintings and numerous volumes dedicated to Cleopatra. But the archeologist’s interest in the Egyptian empress deviated from scholarly into supernatural, infusing the very foundations of his home with his dark fanaticism. And as inexplicable manifestations rattle Paula’s senses, threatening her very sanity, she uncovers the link between the villa, Quintillus, and a woman named Lizzie Charters.
And a ritual of dark magic that will consume her soul . . .
You can find Waking the Ancients here:
About the Author:
Following a varied career in sales, advertising and career guidance, Catherine Cavendish is now the full-time author of a number of paranormal, ghostly and Gothic horror novels, novellas and short stories. Cat’s novels include the Nemesis of the Gods trilogy - Wrath of the Ancients, Waking the Ancients and Damned by the Ancients, plus The Devil’s Serenade, The Pendle Curse and Saving Grace Devine. Novellas include Linden Manor and Dark Avenging Angel. She lives with her long-suffering husband, and a black cat who has never forgotten that her species used to be worshipped in ancient Egypt. She sees no reason why that practice should not continue. Cat and her family divide their time between Liverpool and a 260-year-old haunted apartment in North Wales.

You can connect with Cat here: