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This week on The Scariest Part, my guest is Pete Mesling, whose debut collection is None So Deaf. Here’s the publisher’s description:

There are none so deaf as those who will not hear, but there are stories that scream to fill the void. The seventeen tales before you are such stories. From unplanned homicide and unexplained phenomena to undead vengeance, they all scream in an effort to get through. These are not quiet stories; Pete Mesling is not a quiet writer. So prick up your ears, turn down the lights…and listen. Ignorance may be bliss, but it also comes at a cost.

And now, let’s hear what the scariest part was for Pete Mesling:

From an early age, I was afraid of (and fascinated by) creatures from beyond (vampires, werewolves, malevolent aliens…), as well as monsters of the human variety (kidnappers, serial killers, roving lunatics…) — not to mention all the other dangers there are to be frightened by in the real world. I’ve always been more or less preoccupied with fear, and if the stories in my collection are any indication, this hasn’t changed much over the years. But I’ve also added some nuanced fears to the roster as an adult, and they color what you’ll find in None So Deaf, too.

It’s those nuanced fears, in fact, that give me the deepest chills when I read or write terrifying stories. Good fiction generally has at least two layers of meaning. There’s layer A: What’s this story about? And then there’s layer B: What’s this story really about? Layer B is where the theme of a story dwells. Take my story “Holy Is as Holy Does.” It’s the tale of a religious fanatic who incites his adherents to commit a horrible series of atrocities. It has a retributive component, and it involves the supernatural. But what really gets under my skin is that all of the brutality in it is exacted in the name of God, and that rings true to a much greater extent than we might be comfortable admitting. As a result, a ghost story about a deranged and misguided holy man who must face the repercussions of what he sets in motion becomes a story about the dark side of religion.

“Slipknot” is another good example of this sort of thing. It’s a zombie tale set in the Old West, but it also has something to say about the horrors of racism. In “Ridley Bickett’s Traveling Panoply,” a homeless man is given the opportunity to relive his childhood fondness for carnival freak shows. It turns out he’s also handed an opportunity to go back into the world and make a positive difference. It’s a story, in other words, about our insatiable need for guidance in an often dark and perplexing world, even if that guidance comes from dubious sources. That’s frightening to me. I’d rather be in absolute control of my destiny. (For a similarly themed, though very different kind of, story, see also “Day of Rage.”)

Of course, not every story has to be a thinker. There’s always room on my bookshelf for a little good clean fun, as long as it’s done with the right amount of heart. In None So Deaf you’ll find a story or two that fall into this category. But even in something like “A Pound of Flesh,” in which a cast of two commands your attention for the duration of the suspenseful plot, I like to think there’s an element of depth. Isn’t the blackness of war lurking in the corners throughout the story? I think it is. Our main character is certainly a by-product of that uniquely human phenomenon. It gives him no excuse for the things he’s done, but it does provide a context.

And of course there is “The Tree Mumblers,” which made its first appearance in the Mort Castle-edited anthology, All American Horror of the 21st Century, the First Decade: 2000 – 2010. The twist at the end is the take-away of this story, really. The magician’s reveal, if you will. Anything too thematic would have bogged it down. It’s the kind of story that needs to make its exit as quickly as it makes its entrance. Still, I want it to remind readers of the sublime wonders of childhood, and that they’re the ones who have moved on, not the wonders. Not the dreams. Not even the nightmares. Those are still watching and waiting from the fringe of every shadow and blind spot — maybe even from within the very trees whose timeless beauty we admire every day.

My hope is that None So Deaf makes for an unsettling batch of misery and bewilderment that can be enjoyed by a wide variety of horror enthusiasts. Subject matter ranges from the poignant to the extreme, from the fantastic to the gritty. So, if every story contains something that wakes you up and leaves you feeling a little more cautious, a little more filled with wonder, a little warier of the way things are — and a lot more grateful to be in your shoes instead of those of one of my fictitious victims… Well, then I’ve done my job.

And if the scariest part is what lurks beneath the surface, all the better.

Pete Mesling: Website / Facebook / Twitter / Goodreads / Podcast

None So Deaf: Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Smashwords

Pete Mesling’s silhouette can, on rare occasions, be glimpsed prowling the watery byways of Seattle, Washington. In addition to being over the moon to have secured a deal with Books of the Dead Press for his debut collection, None So Deaf, he has sold fiction to such publications as All American Horror of the 21st Century, the First Decade: 2001 – 2010; Black Ink Horror; Best New Zombie Tales, Vol. 2; Spawn of the Ripper from April Moon Books; Champagne Shivers; Doorways; two of the Potter’s Field anthologies; Side Show 2: Tales of the Big Top and the Bizarre; Night Terrors; and a handful of Library of the Living Dead anthologies. When not writing or podcasting, Mesling enjoys dreaming up new ways to scare the bejesus out of his fiancée and revels in bike rides with his daughter, whose nickname is taken from a character in a Boris Karloff film.

This week on The Scariest Part, my guest is John McNee, whose debut horror novel is PRINCE OF NIGHTMARES. Here’s the publisher’s description:

Welcome to the Ballador Country House Hotel. Nestled in the highlands of Scotland, it is unlike any other lodging. Guests can expect wonderful scenery, gourmet food, and horrifying nightmares — guaranteed. Daring travelers pay thousands to stay within the Ballador’s infamous rooms because of the vivid and frightening dreams the accommodations inspire.

Before Josephine Teversham committed suicide, she made a reservation at the hotel for her husband, Australian magnate Victor Teversham. Once he arrives at the hotel, Victor finds himself the target of malevolent forces, revealing the nightmares — and their purpose — to be more strange, personal, and deadly than anyone could have guessed.

And now, let’s hear what the scariest part was for John McNee:

I miss being scared.

There are many different kinds of fear. Horror fans know this well. It’s why we’ll happily wade through an endless sea of cheap, derivative scares to find something that genuinely chills us. What most of us want, I think, is to experience the same kind of terror we knew as children, though for most rational adults it’s close to impossible. And that’s a shame.

At 31, there are things of which I am afraid, but they are as nothing compared to the shapeless terrors that lurked beyond every darkened doorway when I was five years old.

The world seemed a different place then. How could it not? Santa Claus was real. The Tooth Fairy was real. The same went for magic, God and angels. These were facts, for the most part unquestioned. Leprechauns, mermaids and unicorns weren’t guaranteed but seemed just as possible. The world seemed like such an incredible place, so full of wondrous possibilities. I don’t long for much from my childhood, but I do miss that.

However, if God existed it only made sense that the Devil did too. And if Santa Claus could cram his fat ass down your chimney then so could any number of vampires, demons, trolls and gremlins — and on as many nights of they year as they damn well pleased.

No matter what any adult ever claimed, I knew there were a million good reasons to fear the night, each one more strange and extraordinary than the last. And as terrifying as they all were, I’d gladly take any of them over the very real monsters of the modern world — the uniformly pathetic men exerting power through violence.

There is nostalgia in terror. It takes us back to a place where anything seemed possible. The experience of joy today isn’t so different from how it was then. Same goes for sadness and anger. But nothing connects me to my childhood quite so quickly and effectively that sense of bottomless dread.

It’s one of the many reasons I enjoy horror so much, though it’s been a long time since any film, book or game gave me such a visceral fright, simply because I know the horrors on show don’t exist.

That wasn’t something I knew as a child and it’s not something I can totally let go of in adulthood, though I do occasionally forget it when I’m asleep.

In fact, these days, the only time I ever get really close to the kind of scare I miss so much is when I have a nightmare.

I love nightmares but they are all too infrequent. That’s why I know if a hotel ever promised that its guests would be guaranteed nightmares, I’d be one of the first in line for a reservation. And it’s why I can identify somewhat with Heinrich, one of the supporting characters in my novel Prince of Nightmares and frequent guest at the Ballador Country House Hotel.

By the time he’s introduced in the story, Heinrich has experienced the hotel’s famed nightmares so many times that they have ceased to frighten him. In fact, he has developed methods for manipulating them, turning the dreamscape into his own personal playground.

A sadist by profession as well as nature, his repeat visits to the hotel have become all about entertainment and personal gratification. Fear doesn’t even enter into it.

That’s until one evening after dinner when he takes a stroll through the hotel’s gardens and encounters something impossible.

At first it looks like a boulder, pushed up through the ground, but then it begins to take shape, spreading huge arms to push itself up from the earth. Its twisted, worm-like body emerges, first the tail and finally the head. It turns its face to Heinrich — its bulging eyes and smiling mouth of dagger-like teeth — and he recognizes it.

He knows he’s not dreaming. He knows what he’s seeing is real, that it’s happening now, though he knows it can’t be. He knows it’s impossible.

And then the thing speaks. It calls his name.

At that moment, Heinrich experiences pure, overwhelming terror. It’s a kind of fear he hasn’t known since childhood, but it’s back with a vengeance. And with good reason.

Because if just one grotesque abomination from the depths of nightmare can somehow claw its way into existence, it stands to reason that anything could.

John McNee: Facebook / Twitter / Goodreads

Prince of Nightmares: Amazon

John McNee is the author of numerous strange and disturbing horror stories published in various anthologies. He is also the creator of Grudgehaven and the author of Grudge Punk, a collection of short stories detailing the lives and deaths of its gruesome inhabitants. Prince of Nightmares is his first horror novel. He lives in the west of Scotland, where he is employed on a trade magazine.

This week on The Scariest Part, my guest is Mark Allan Gunnells, whose latest collection is FLOWERS IN A DUMPSTER. Here’s the publisher’s description:

Seventeen Tales to Frighten and Enlighten

The world is full of beauty and mystery. In these 17 tales, Gunnells will take you on a journey through landscapes of light and darkness, rapture and agony, hope and fear.

A post-apocalyptic landscape where it is safer to forget who you once were… An unusual support group comprised of cities dying of a common illness… A porn star that has opened himself up to demonic forces… Two men battling each other to the death who discover they have much in common… A woman whose masochistic tendencies may be her boyfriend’s ruin… A writer whose new friendship proves a danger to his marriage and his sanity.

Let Gunnells guide you through these landscapes where magnificence and decay co-exist side by side.

Come pick a bouquet from these Flowers in a Dumpster.

And now, let’s hear what the scariest part was for Mark Allan Gunnells. I think you’ll find it’s a fear many writers share:

For me, the scariest part of my short story collection Flowers in a Dumpster was the “pitch.”

I’m a writer who is used to letting my work speak for itself. I realize my writing may not appeal to everyone, but I strive to produce the best stories of which I’m capable and allow them to stand or fall on their own merit.

When Crystal Lake Publishing opened up for general submissions last year, I was very excited to submit a short story collection to them. They had quickly developed quite a stellar reputation, and I was impressed by how much they promoted their books. I was eager to work with them, and immediately starting putting together a manuscript of stories.

The catch came when I realized that the first step in the submission process was a “pitch.” They didn’t want to read any of my work initially; instead I needed to sell myself to them, convincing them that reading my work was worth their time.

I understand that this is a common practice in publishing, but I had never done a pitch before. In all my previous dealings with publishers, I’d simply submitted a completed manuscript and the publisher decided based on that. I had never had to entice a publisher, make my work sound appealing without giving them a sample of it. And quite frankly, I was terrified.

I love writing, and I believe in the stories I create, but I always feel a bit awkward talking about it. I don’t want to come off as too egotistical, and yet I also don’t want to undersell myself, and I find striking the balance between the two extremes a difficult one. I realized that with the pitch, I ran the risk of ruining my chances with Crystal Lake without them ever reading a single sentence of my fiction.

To be perfectly honest, I found the prospect of the pitch so scary that I almost didn’t even do it. I seriously considered not submitting because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to make my work sound compelling enough. My fiancé and a good friend of mine talked some sense into me, so while the fear didn’t abate, I forged ahead crafting a pitch.

The instructions for the pitch laid out all the things I needed to include. I had to compare my writing style to that of known authors while also indicating what set my style apart from anyone else’s. I had to discuss things I’d done in the past and was open to doing in the future to promote my work. Since I wanted to submit a collection, I also had to include a brief synopsis of each story I planned to include in the manuscript.

I worked on this very slowly, going back and reworking certain aspects of the pitch, and finally finished at the very last moment, just before the deadline. I sent the pitch in to Crystal Lake, not expecting to make it to the next stage in the process. Whereas I feel confident with my fiction writing, I was most decidedly unconfident about my pitch. But for better or worse, it was done, and there was nothing to do but wait.

I was beyond ecstatic when I was told that they liked my pitch, and I moved on to the next round of the submission process which was sending them 3 short stories. Finally I felt back on sure ground, letting my actual work do the talking for me. Obviously, the release of Flowers in a Dumpster is evidence that they liked what my stories had to say and accepted the collection for publication.

Ultimately this has proven to be a wonderful experience, and I’m happy that I worked through my fear and sent in the pitch. And yet I won’t lie, it scared the shit out of me.

Mark Allan Gunnells: Amazon Author Page / Blog / Pinterest

Flowers In a Dumpster: Amazon / Barnes & Noble / IndieBound

Mark Allan Gunnells loves to tell stories. He has since he was a kid, penning one-page tales that were Twilight Zone knockoffs. He likes to think he has gotten a little better since then. He has been lucky enough to work with some wonderful publishers such as Apex Publishing, Bad Moon Books, Journalstone, Evil Jester Press, Etopia, Sideshow Press, Great Old Ones Publishing, Sinister Grin Press, Crystal Lake Publishing, and Gallows Press. He loves reader feedback, and above all he loves telling stories. He lives in Greer, SC, with his fiancé Craig A. Metcalf.

This week on The Scariest Part, my guest is John Goodrich, whose latest novel is I Do Terrible Things. Here’s the publisher’s description:

Donna doesn’t know the old man with the sad face and yet there she is, beating him to death with a shovel. Is suppressed rage making her murder people in horrifying ways, or is she some sort of latent psychopath? The more people she kills, the more desperate she becomes to stop herself. Can she find the key before she commits yet another gruesome murder?

And now, let’s hear what the scariest part was for John Goodrich:

What sets you off? Really sets you off? Pushes you straight past angry into furious, even to that place when you can visualize killing someone? I bet there’s a couple of things you’re thinking about right now. We all have them. A subject, a person, something that gets under your skin and raises your blood pressure instantly. Being enraged enough to kill is a classic of the horror genre, going back to Poe’s “Cask of Amontillado” and even further. That rage can be cold and calculating, like Montresor, or it can be wild and furious, as in Poe’s lesser-known “Hop-Frog.”

Can you imagine yourself actually doing it? The rush of rage, the burning need to do something leading you to a desperate act. There’s something seductive about it, being pushed too far. It’s liberating. We spend a lot of our time ignoring the slings and arrows of injury and insult, and it builds up. So it’s not difficult to make a character taking their revenge sympathetic.

But how to make a protagonist, in I Do Terrible Things her name is Donna, sympathetic if she lacks that motivation? If the story just starts out with her beating someone with a shovel, with no clear reason? And not only does the audience not know why, she doesn’t either. It’s a great hook, but how do I make Donna someone the reader is interested in following? It’s the writer’s job to take the reader down paths they don’t expect, and I’m trusting the reader on this one. I didn’t feel the need to make Donna as instantly understandable as my protagonists have been in the past.

I also want the reader to feel the disconnect between the usual revenge tale and what Donna is doing. To make it hit home, the violence had to be realistic. Realistic violence often gets labelled as brutal, since audiences are used to network TV’s non-messy action. So the blood pumps, bones break, skin chars, and Donna has a hard time dealing with it. Because very few people can beat a man to death with a shovel and not be affected by it.

With the need for graphic violence and a lessened need to make Donna completely agreeable, I was left with the question of how far I could go with the blood. I’ve written action, but never before with the intent to make it disturbing or graphic. So I wrote what I thought was necessary, and as I did so, the violence got very dark. Not because I was escalating, but because there are so many different and horrible ways to kill people. There had been lines I told myself I would not cross, and in the course of writing, I had crossed them. As I pushed my personal comfort zone, I wondered how far I would go. Would I be writing splatter like Brian Keene? Wrath James White? Ed Lee?

It turned out that I was writing like myself. That was the scariest part. That I wrote it. Yes, I had influences, but I had intended for the book to go in that direction from the beginning. This violent book grew entirely out of me. I wrote the scene where Donna slams a guy’s face down on a hot barbecue grill. The part where she smashes a guy’s head in with a baseball bat? That was me. To see someone who wrote something disturbingly bloody and brutal, I just look in the mirror. It’s all me.

John Goodrich: Website / Facebook / Twitter

I Do Terrible Things: Thunderstorm Books

John Goodrich has written a dozen short stories in such anthologies as Cthulhu’s Dark Cults, Steampunk Cthulhu, and the Fossil Lake trilogy of anthologies. I Do Terrible Things is his second novel. He lives in Shirley Jackson’s corner of Vermont, which should be inspiration enough for anybody. His current writing technique involves smashing his head against the keyboard.