THE LIBERATOR is on sale again.
A priest tracks down his kidnapped sister and finds her trapped in a nest of evil.
Van Helsing meets The Punisher in The Liberator, a hard-boiled noir/ horror short story from Paul D. Brazill creator of Roman Dalton – Werewolf PI.
Here’s the skinny on the episode:
‘HAPPY HALLOWEEN from What Are You Afraid Of? Podcast New episode now available. HALLOWEEN NIGHT.T
T. Fox Dunham, Phil Thomas & PD Cacek bring you this special & extra episode of What Are You Afraid Of? Horror & Paranormal Podcast to celebrate Halloween 2016. It was recorded onsite at Uncanny Comics in the King of Prussia Mall, Philadelphia during their Malloween event. They handed out true ghost stories & candy then recorded the episode, joined by horror author PD Cacek who will be a regular part of the show.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN from WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF PODCAST? New Halloween Special available for download.
The show opens with an encore of Halloween Night by #indiemusic star Monk Turner. They discussed all things Halloween and paranormal, shared a few baking tips and even interviewed a traveling magician, Doug Stafford, who was on his way to a gig in Atlantic City. Katie Montana Jordan, the show’s occult scholar, returned to talk about some of the darker traditions of Halloween, and PD Cacek shared two ghost stories from New Hope PA, narrated by the British folksinger, David Walton.
“I’m a ghost magnet.” Horror Author PD Cacek
Noir author Paul D. Brazill of Europe gave the show a dark tale of murder and captivity below an English pub, narrated by T. Fox Dunham. And Monk Turner closed the show with a song called ‘It’s a Wicked Life’ (The Hades Song.)
“The thing lived in the furnace.” PD Cacek
The hosts wish you a happy Halloween and hope you’ll enjoy the spooky night with their show. They will be on PARA-X RADIO at a special time on Oct 31st at 8PM and then have an episode for you every week, exploring the darkness on Saturdays at 6PM and from all major podcast services. Fox will be in Richmond on Saturday, November 5th for a special night of noir readers then in Philly for a unique and secretive night of metal bands. Phil’s new horror movie is soon to be released.’
There it is again.
I told you. No, shh. Listen . . .
Did you hear? Listen. No ….
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
There! You must have heard that!
See, I told you but you didn’t believe me, did you? She’s down there.
Of course I’m sure it’s her.
What do you mean?
It stands to reason doesn’t it? When was the last time you saw her, eh?
See, what I reckon is … Shhh! Toby’s coming back. Neck that and let’s get a couple more pints in while he’s here.
How’s the match, Toby? Aye… Aye. Well there’s still time ,eh? Game of two halves and all that.
Yeah a couple more pints of Nelson please Toby … Ta.
Many in the other room? Oh, aye, him. Well he’s attached to the place like it’s an umbilical cord, eh? Tight as a gnats twat, though, eh?
Good CD this. Love a bit of Simple Minds, me. Could you turn it up a bit before you go back, Toby. Ta.
Aye, pain in the arse having to go outside for a cig but what can we do eh? The law’s the law.
Oh, ey Toby. Keith here was asking after your Lisa. Said he hasn’t seen her for a bit. I said a bit of what? Ha, ha …
Ey, ey, ey!
Ey, only joking mate. Sorry! No offence. Just making conversation, like.
She still in Jockland then?
Aye, well as long as she’s alight then. Yeah. Yeah.
Aye, we’ll give you a shout if anyone comes in.
Shh. . . Wait . . .
See. Told you. It’s her, Keith.
Think about it. She was always hanging around here in them jeans so tight you could read her lips. You could see Toby’s face when anyone tried chatting her up.
Aye, only natural. But you know, the little green – eyed idol and that …
What? But she hasn’t been in for …
… Yeah, I know. I know he said she’s off with her aunt in Scotland but it’s not what I heard. I heard she was banging that Gypsy bloke that was sniffing around her and .. .
Yeah, I know. Only sixteen, but old enough to bleed old enough to breed, eh?
Now you must have heard that?
See, that Gypsy bloke, you remember him, all gold, tattoos and hairy arms? Aye. Pentagon medallion dangling round his neck.
That’s the lad….
Shhh … Ahh, Don’t You Forget About Me… this is the stuff… Simple Minds biggest hit, you know? Broke them in the US of A …
Yeah, well Toby was ever so protective, eh? That lad must have been forty if he was a day…
May to December relationships, eh? Call it what you want Keith, I doubt Toby was too impressed. They reckon he covered Lisa’s neck with some nasty love bites … Yeah, she was smitten and that. Walking around like she was hypnotised. Spaced out, like…
Nah, doubt she touches the wacky backy, all fitness and health and safety, her.
Anyway, I reckon that he’s got her down there like that Fritz bloke in Austria. Remember him? Had his young un locked up in the basement for donkeys years?
Probably banging her himself. Can’t say I blame him, mind you …ey, ey, no need for you to get all touchy as well … only a bit of a …
What? Go where? The filth? Grass him up?
Not on your nelly, Keith. I’m many things but I am not a grass. Anyway, I think they’re still looking for me for that B&E at the gas works. Nah, you see, I’ve got a …
Hold on … Wait for the next song to start. . .
Ahh, Promised You A Miracle. Love this one. Classic.
Naw, my plan is to get down there after he closes up the pub and see if she’s there, just to be certain, like …. yeah, I’m sure she is … and then phone the press…
You know, The Mirror, The Sun, News Of The Screws and that … and get them down here when we set her free. I reckon we could make a fortune selling the story. Telly. Book deal. Films. The lot, Keith. The lot.
What? The lock? Do you know who you’re talking, to Keith?
Piece of piss. Easy peasey, Japenesey. We get in through those double cellar doors at the back of the pub. The ones that the brewery use to deliver the booze.
He’s only got a daft padlock on there, I can pick that in no time, you know that.
Yeah, we’ll do it tomorrow might after he closes up.
* * *
You tosser. I can’t …
Of course we need a friggin torch. I left me night vision goggles at home … nah, that was a joke, Keith. Honestly some people …
Well, at least we’ve got that full moon dangling there. Should give us a bit of light …
A what? A gibbons moon? If you like, Keith, if you like…
Right, now slowly, slowly .. shh, don’t wannna frighten .. . Jeesus, you reek. How many slices of that garlic bread did you tuck into?
Nah, can’t stand the stuff. Don’t like foriegn food, do I?
Right here we go. Steady on the ladders. Soon as we see her we phone Col at The Gazette.
What was that?
Ehh? Sounded like a bird flapping around?
… yeah … maybe a scream … sure of … Yeah, I can see it.
Hold on, it’s landed in the corner… who the …?
Nahh, it’s her. It’s Lisa… well of course it’s her.
Alright, Lisa love, only me and Keith … eh up!
Lisa, love, don’t you think you should get some clobber on? Eh, Lisa? Bit nippy down here for …
Ey, you’re eyes don’t half look red … What the fu… Lisa, no offence, normally I’d love a snog but …
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Ey, Keith, where the fuck are you scarpering to? Get your neck back here …
Aw jeez, Lisa! No … please!
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
(THUMP! first appeared at Thrillers, Killers N Chillers)
Family man Shepherd Butler is mourning the death of his son when he decides to take in a homeless man who has also suffered a violent tragedy. Things then quickly spiral violently out of control.
Richard Godwin’s The Pure And The Hated starts as an atmospheric tale of loss, then twists into a graphic cross between Cape Fear and Grande Guignol horror.
PDB: Can you pitch THE DEATH OF THREE COLOURS in 25 words or less?
A dark and surreal tale of organised crime, betrayal, the nature of evil and one man’s obsession with the Mexican folk saint, Santa Muerte.
PDB: Which music, books, films or television shows do you wish you had written?
Barry Adamson’s Moss Side Story, They Live!, and Twin Peaks.
PDB: Which books do you think would make great films or TV series?
Well, I am thinking of writing a screenplay for TDo3C, but I’d love to see a version of The Dice Man on the screen. Or The illuminatus Trilogy.
PDB: Who are the great Italian novelists?
Well, Umberto Eco’s the big one, of course. D’Annuzio is a controversial one, part of the Decadent movement and the works I have read show a mad artistic genius there. The kind that doesn’t seem to exist today. There’s also the current of “Giallo” literature, one I need to learn more about…
PDB: Is blogging killing journalism?
Maybe it should.
PDB: What’s on the cards?
Chaos and misfortune, knowing my luck.
Who the hell are you?
PDB: Paul D, Brazill. I was born in England and live in Poland. I’m the author of Cold London Blues, The Last Laugh, Guns Of Brixton, and Kill Me Quick! And some other stuff. I have short stories all over the shop, including in 3 editions of The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime. I’ve had stories translated into Italian, German, Polish, Slovene and Finnish. I’m working on two novellas. One is set in England and Poland and the other is set in New York, London and Madrid. My blog is pauldbrazill.com
1. In the modern age of the jobbing writer, is there such a thing as an average writing day for you?
PDB: No. I read and write when I have time and when I feel like it. Like most other things in life. Consistency is the city hobgoblin of little minds. Or is that Jim Kerr?
2. How often do you feel a seething envy whenever one of your writer friends posts about their latest publishing success?
3. Should prolific writers be tied to a chair for a few days, before being allowed to post constant updates on social media sites relating to their literary prowess?
PDB: No. Unless you’ve got an agent and a big publisher behind you ‘Shill What Thou Wilt Shall Be The Whole Of The Law.’
4. How long does it take you to complete a short story from start to finish in the age of the internet and Facebook?
PDB: I’ve never timed it. I suppose about 24 hours – off and on- and then piddling about for an hour or so at a time while I’m watching Dog- Bounty Hunter..
5. Can controlled substance abuse really aid the writing process?
PDB: It seems unlikely. I don’t even drink when I read let alone when I’m writing. Horses for courses, I suppose but not for me.
6. What are your thoughts on setting word targets each day? Are they constructive, or is it something only an insufferable pedant would claim essential?
PDB: If you’re a professional writer, it seems eminently sensible but not for a dilettante like what I am. I suppose it should be an achievable word count, if you are going to do it and it probably varies from person to person.
7. Would you like to be a reviled and unpopular obscurantist if it meant having worldwide success in the literary world, or are you a true artist who would never dilute the substance of their art?
PDB: I’m lucky in that I have a job so I can write what entertains me. And that entertains other people, too. Which is nice. If I was offered a ton of dosh to write something? Of course but I’m far too slap dash to end up with an offer like that, I think. I see myself as an entertainer rather than an artist: More Lionel than Roland, More Des than Flannery.
8. More importantly, how often are you involved in an online argument among other genre writers bemoaning the state of the writing community?
PDB: Never. I pay almost no attention to ‘the stuff’ this days.
9. What are the most common gripes that authors make on social media sites which drive you bonkers?
PDB: Nothing. See above.
10. How long does it take for you to decide if the story is a work of genius or utter drivel?
PDB: I immediately know that it’s quite good and that opinion rarely changes.
11. Are beta readers a good idea, or are they the equivalent of your Uncle Bertie’s friends from the local library reading group?
PDB: It seems sensible. I hardly ever do it, mind you. It’s great working with good, honest editors, which I have done and do with Caffeine Nights, All Due Respect and Number Thirteen Press.
12. What is the most difficult form of fiction to write, a short story, a novella or a novel?
PDB: I still haven’t written a novel so it must be that.
13. Have you ever considered writing under a pseudonym to kick-start a lengthy career as a writer of erotica?
PDB: If I could do it easily, I’d have no problem with writing erotica. I wouldn’t use a pseudonym though.
14. What has been the longest writing project you’ve embarked on? Was there any point at which you thought of abandoning the story so you could get absolutely sh**faced?
PDB: Guns Of Brixton and Cold London Blues took the longest, I imagine, since they are the longest. It’s finished when it’s finished for me. I don’t get stressed about not finishing things. Story of my life …
15. Have you ever lain awake at night and wondered why you write? Have you ever considered if other people lie awake at night also wondering why you write?
16. Do you conduct research for everything which you write? Have you ever broken into a top secret facility to add authenticity in the name of research, or is Wikipedia your ultimate guide to authenticity?
PDB: I spy for the FBI. And do as little research as I can get away with. The world is a mouse click away. Or I can make something up. I’m not a journalist.
17. What piece of research might show up on your internet history and give your family cause to worry about your stability?
PDB: Carnaby Street tailors in the 1970s.
18. What life experience has been the most advantageous in terms of writing a story?
PDB: Meeting interesting /funny/ mental people. Ripping off their lives and anecdotes.
19. Should authors give advice to aspiring authors , or should they leave them to do things their own way? What was the worst bit of advice you ever heard ?
PDB: Never give or listen to advice. It usually goes tits up.
20. What are some of the most popular misconceptions about writers from the perspective of the public?
PDB: That writers are rich or even make money from writing.
21. What was the worst rejection from a publisher you’ve ever had?
PDB: Never had one, I’m shocked to say. I’ve had a 2 or 3 short stories turned down but the rejections were usually very polite and I just rewrote the yarns.
22. Have you ever thought of launching a secret hate campaign against a publisher who simply misjudged your literary genius?
24. And finally, which would you choose, a commercial contract with stipulations about what you’re allowed to write, or a career in the Small Press with no restrictions on what you are allowed to write?
PDB: I’m happy doing what I do. I’m an indie/ cottage industry guy. Never say never, though. If I ever write something that might end up in ASDA or Walmart then maybe I’d give it a shot.
This interview first took place on Frank Duffy‘s Facebook page.
Anita watches the dowdy girl shuffle through the group of smartly dressed young men, carrying a big green bag and dragging her club foot behind her.
The girl struggles onto the bar stool, making sure that her lank, brown hair hangs down to cover her scars. She vainly tries to attract the attention of the barman, who is flirting with a beautiful waitress. And then the dowdy girl ties back her hair to reveal the scars that lattice her face and the barman rushes towards her with disgust and fear in his eyes.
Anita feels a shiver rip through her as the dowdy girl smiles. She turns and sees the red faced and red haired man in the expensive suit tumble out of the toilet toward a group of Heehaws. She listens as they talk about cars and houses and making a killing in The City. She hears them laugh about the Ukrainian whore they’d used like a toy, like a blow up doll. They say they’d covered her with mayonnaise and pushed her out of the ginger one’s limousine, leaving her naked in the street.
Anita listens to them talk and bray. She hears them draw straws to find out who is going to try and pork the pig in the corner. The cripple that looks like Frankenstein’s daughter.
Anita watches. She listens. But does nothing. She supposes that’s what ghosts do. That the dead bear witness.
A white flash.
Anita is outside the ginger one’s car. The car park is deserted except for the limousine. She can’t remember getting there. She never can. It’s like a dream. Except Anita knows that this is real. She doesn’t sleep anymore. She is always awake. Always.
She sees the dowdy girl in the back seat of the car. On her knees between the ginger man’s legs.
She hears him abuse her, threaten her.
And then she sees the knife in the girl’s hand and hears the ginger man scream. The snow starts to fall like confetti and the dowdy girl giggles like a child.
It’s spring. There’s blossom on the trees. It reminds Anita of Japan. Singing in the karaoke bar with the Japanese rock star. The nights that never ended.
The dowdy girl is outside a bookshop. Anita sees her tie back her hair, pick up her bag and walk in.
A white flash.
Inside the shop. The clink of wine glasses. Chatter. Laughter.
The dowdy girl is talking to a suntanned, handsome man. A writer. He is telling stories, anecdotes. Laughing at himself. The audience- mostly women- laugh too. The dowdy girl asks a question. The writer laughs. They all laugh.
A white flash.
A hotel room. The writer is drunk. He sits on the bed with his shoes in his hands. The dowdy girl is next to him. He says: I really don’t mind the scars. She grins. He lays back. Closes his eyes. She takes the knife from her bag.
Anita feels cold.
A suburban house. Suburban street. People are having barbecues on their lawn. Sunbathing. The man and woman drive away in the big black car. They shout: be good. The teenage boy and girl, twins, smile at their parents and then turn and glare at the babysitter. The dowdy girl.
A white flash.
The twins are laughing at the dowdy girl. Making ugly faces. Mimicking her limp.
They go upstairs. Screeching with laughter. The dowdy girl takes a CD from her bag. Puts it on.
She takes a revolver from her coat as the song plays.
Robert Gordon. ‘The Endless Sleep.’
Anita feels frozen. And she wonders if the dowdy girl knows that she is there. Watching. This girl with the limp. With the scars.
This girl. Her daughter.
The girl that she had tried to drown in the bath one drunken, drug fuelled night. The girl Anita had always blamed for men leaving. For her career ending. For her life collapsing.
The girl that took revenge on her mother in a Phoenix hotel room. Threw her over the balcony. Broke her neck . And toppled after her.
A white flash.
A bedroom. Messy. Posters on the wall. Beer cans.
The song plays down stairs.Over and over again.
The twins are cowering on the bed. Screaming. The dowdy girl is smiling. Pointing the gun.
And again, Anita bears witness.
(c) Paul D. Brazill
The Endless Sleep previously appeared at Flashes In The Dark
Jimmy Vargas’ breathless and beautevil Striptease In Noir is a lethal cocktail of crime and the occult, jazz and burlesque, rich and playful prose, vivid and lurid imagery, James Ellroy, Barry Gifford, Kenneth Anger and more!