Halloween Haunts 2013: Distances by Marty Young

I grew up in New Zealand and now live in Australia, one hell of a long way from the States. The horror genre “down under” is pretty active, with a well-established Australian Horror Writers Association (AHWA), fiction awards, magazines, and writers making their name on the world stage. We only have a limited number of conventions (catering more for the wider spec-fic audience than only horror, although we do now have an Oz Horror Con), and like most conventions, these are great fun. You get to catch up with friends you only see at cons and meet other writers like yourself. You get to get sozzled at the bar and talk bullshit all night long. We had the 68^th World Science Fiction convention (Worldcon) in Melbourne in 2010 and that was a blast. That was the year I stepped down as President of the AHWA, so there was a lot of merriment had.

But there’s no mistaking it’s a small scene down under.

I love being part of the HWA and (virtually) meeting and getting to know its members, but it does kind of suck reading about all the fun had at cons or Stoker weekends and seeing all of the photos. Seriously, there are so many conventions in the States, not just for writers, either; horror film conventions, classic monster conventions, slasher conventions – you name it, there’s probably a convention for it – and with big name guests. A quick Internet search revealed more than 60 US cons during 2013 catering for horror.

You can’t help but feel like you’re missing out on a whole hell of a lot of fun and opportunities.

Last year, I was fortunate enough to visit California for a week (Los Angeles mostly), and I had an amazing time. Loved it! I got to put on my tourist hat and play the tourist, seeing the sights that I only ever see on TV or in movies; The Viper Pit, Sunset Strip, the Whisky a Go Go, the Hollywood sign, Malibu, the Santa Monica Pier, Halloween town (which blew my mind!)… I also had the chance to drop into Dark Delicacies bookshop and meet Del Howison, which was fantastic. I’ve brought a lot of books from him over the years and the shop lived up to my expectations. Del himself was brilliant (I headed down the road to the Iliad Book Shop that day too, but Lisa Morton had the day off). It would have been even better if I could’ve made it to a con while I was there, or one of the events being held at Dark Delicacies, but it wasn’t to be.

My small (= miniscule) foray into this world made me think about how much I was missing out on. It would be so easy and so much fun to become immersed within the horror genre if I lived in the States. I could get to meet a whole lot of new writers I can only admire from a distance, same too with publishers and editors. At cons, there’d be movie stars to gawk at and full weekends of horror panels and workshops and diabolical fun. I could dress up as a classic monster and be a happy geek for days at a time. But I know I can’t move half way around the world, so I made a deal with myself instead. From 2014 onwards, I would make a trip to the US to attend one of these cons, and meet some of the HWA members I’ve only ever pestered via email or Facebook (“here’s that pesky Roundtable guy again,” I suspect a lot of them will now say). It’s going to be difficult selecting only one convention to attend, but that’s a fun kind of decision to have to make. Perhaps the World Horror Convention up in Portland. That sounds kind of cool. Then I could attend the Bram Stoker Awards banquet, too. And I can dream about being rich enough to be able to make it across for two conventions a year…

In the meantime, I’ll continue to pay my membership to the HWA and feel right at home, despite living on the other side of the world. I’ve found the organization to be all-inclusive like that, which is one of the things I like the most. It would be simple for a US-based organization to close itself off to those who live elsewhere, but my experience thus far shows that’s not the case. Everyone’s welcome within this genre, regardless of geographical location. Which is lucky for me.

TODAY’S GIVEAWAY: Marty is offering one free print copy of 809 Jacob Street.

Giveaway Rules: Enter for the prize by posting in the comments section. Winners will be chosen at random and notified by e-mail. You may enter once for each giveaway, and all entrants may be considered for other giveaways if they don’t win on the day they post. If you would like to comment without being entered for the giveaway, include “Not a Giveaway Entry” at the end of your post. You may also enter by e-mailing memoutreach@horror.org and putting HH CONTEST ENTRY in the header.

MARTY YOUNG is a Bram Stoker nominated and Australian Shadows award winning editor, writer, and sometimes ghost hunter. He was the founding President of the Australian Horror Writers Association from 2005-2010, and one of the creative minds behind the internationally acclaimed Midnight Echo magazine, for which he also served as Executive Editor until mid-2013. His first novel, 809 Jacob Street, was published by Black Beacon Books in October 2013. Marty’s short horror fiction has been nominated for both the Australian Shadows and Ditmar awards, reprinted in Australian Dark Fantasy and Horror (“the best of 2008”), and repeatedly included in year’s best recommended reading lists. Marty’s essays on horror literature have been published in journals and university textbooks in Australia and India, and he is also co-editor of the award winning Macabre; a Journey through Australia’s Darkest Fears, a landmark anthology showcasing the best Australian horror stories from 1836 to the present. His website is www.martyyoung.com

Read an excerpt from 809 Jacob Street by Marty Young:

In the fella’s hand was a bottle of Jameson, and Joey stared; he’d not tasted that since falling onto the street. No way could he afford such luxuries in his new life.

But he sure as heck remembered the taste. His throat felt even drier at the thought.

“What’s the rush Joe, huh?” The man stepped towards him, unscrewing the bottle and grinning like a shark. “Surely you can spare a fellow urchin five minutes, especially one who’s willing to share the good stuff with you?”

“No,” Joey said, forcing his hands deeper into his pockets for fear they would betray him. He backed away, his eyes fixed on the green bottle, on the liquid that glowed within and filled it all the way to the neck.

“What’s the rush?” the fella asked again. “Just a drink to help you on your way, huh? To grease the gears? Help get you through the night?”

And oh! Wouldn’t it be good, wouldn’t it be wonderful? Jameson! Worlds better than the harsh cheap ‘n nasty he’d been washing his liver in of late. His tongue thrilled to be reacquainted with the drink that had helped drown him the first time.

“Just one drink then? It’s goin’ to be a miserable night, y’know. Cold and wet ‘n nasty. I think there’s a storm on the way.”

Joey was horrified to find his hand reaching for the bottle, his fingers already stretching for what was being offered.

“No!” he cried, jerking his hand away. He staggered backwards a couple of steps, making sure he was out of reach.

Shadowy shapes behind the fella with the whisky began writhing like an orgy of lovers, their enticing dance mesmerizing, seductive.

“Join us, Joe,” a soft feminine voice called from the melting darkness as faces and figures began to form there, smiles and sparkling eyes staring up at him, hands offering up bottles of wine and scotch and rum. Kindred souls who knew nothing of condemnation, wanting only to offer Nirvana.

“Isn’t this what you really want, Joe?” The voice came again, but this time it was joined by another. “All you need?” they called to him, the voices soothing. “Be with us, Joe,” they serenaded as the caressing shadows multiplied and came closer, shifting along the alleyway like silk on the wind.

“No,” he mumbled, falling in love all over again. “Uh-huh, no, I-I’ve-”

“C’mon Joe,” said the shark-man, starting towards him, leading the tempting progression of shadows. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” He offered up the bottle again, which glistened like gold. “Isn’t this all you need? Aren’t we all you need?”

To submit to such a world, to forget the past and ignore the future. To never have to be who he didn’t want to be and just give in. To hell with Gremlin.

“No,” he croaked, stumbling away from the approaching madness. Giving up would take away everything, and there were some things he refused to surrender.

“But Joe, there’ll never be judgment, no repercussions for past deeds, only pleasures.”

“No responsibilities–”

“Such delights, Joe-”

“No,” he said again, louder this time. Clinging to the one razor memory that cut him every night, the one thing that defined who he was. He couldn’t give that up.

You’re all done in on choices, Joe-

Joe flinched at the sound of Gremlin’s words; they were harsher now than when the old coot had first spoken them. He squinted deep into the approaching writhing madness.

“Gremlin?”

Through the darkness, he saw his old pal; just his upper half rising from the shadows like a sea monster breaking the surface. The old man pointed his long, wrinkled finger at him. “You’re drowning Joe, and there’s no one going to throw you a life jacket.”

The sensual shadows rose up over his friend, taking him back within their fold, but not before Joey caught the last of Gremlin’s words:  “It’s time to give in.”

The wind was wild about him, tugging his coat and battering him about the face. Its iced breath stung his eyes. But it also snatched hold of the faces before him and revealed what was beneath. In that moment, the shark-man’s face morphed into something haggard and worn, carrying an expression of utter despair. The eyes that had first sparkled with danger, then with welcome and pleasure, now raged with a turbulent bloodshot mix of hate and anguish. His words had changed too.

“We’re going to sup on you Joe, ‘til the city erodes away, until these bricks and their mortar are nothing but rubble and dust.”

The voices filling the alleyway had changed too; most were howls or screams or pitiful wails, but others cried with a different intent.

“Help me!”

“Such torment! Pain!”

“Join with us –”

“Die with us –”

“Suffer like us –”

“Forever – “

“– ever –”

“– ever….”

Then the looks were gone. The voices lost their rage. So too went the expressions of chaotic suffering. The fella was once again all shark and smiles. The cacophony behind him fell back to orgasmic groans and whispered offers of pleasure. There were smiles once more within that darkness.

Joey screamed then. He covered his eyes with his hands, then realized that wouldn’t help him flee at all, so put them both to his ears. He tumbled backwards, clambered to his feet again and ran from the alley as the cloud of tormented lovers called after him.

“Joe-”

“Joe!”

“We’re coming Joe. We’re coming for you! We know where you are….”

Available from Black Beacon Books (http://www.blackbeaconbooks.blogspot.com.au/) and Amazon.

“Marty Young’s 809 Jacob Street dragged me through the gutter, and had me enthralled with every page. The story explores so thoroughly a nightmare of tortured emotions and madness that it’s hard to believe it isn’t autobiographical. The characters, especially Joey Blue, are that convincing. This is a writer cutting his own way through horror, and I can’t wait to see where his journey takes him. I, for one, will be watching from here on out, because he made me a fan with this book.”
— Joe McKinney, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Flesh Eaters and Dead City

“By effectively blurring the line between the inner and outer worlds of its characters, 809 Jacob Street gives new life to the standard haunted house story. A dark and powerful tale of small-town paranoia, communal and personal terror, and the reality of monsters.

Young has produced a refreshingly hypnotic tale that blends Monster Squad and the small-town coming-of-age themes of Stephen King to his own dark and surreal ends.”
— Robert Hood – author of Immaterial and Fragments of a Broken Land: Valarl Undead