This Thanksgiving, Feed Debbie’s Hellmouth

The second revision of Debbie’s Hellmouth  is complete – new cover art! The ebook is available at Amazon, see the paperback at LULU.

Debbie’s Hellmouth is the insular urban horror story of Debbie Menon. She’s a good real estate agent at the Mikelmeier Real Estate office there is Wister Town, Wisconsin. Debbie has a house for sale and she’s got to get rid of it. Supernatural forces press upon the young lady and she fears she looses her mind. Understand, Ms. Menon is a sensitive, artistic soul. She’s not unfamiliar with magical glyphs. And she’ll resort to using one if no one helps her blessed the cursed Witch’s house.

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Curious about the mythology haunting Wister Town? Read the background stories…

Horrid Tales of Wister Town – free online reading

Bestial Cult of Hathor

Abandoned

Bloody Tannenbaum

A Codex of Malevolence – available at Smashwords and LULU

Portal Painter

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Those Seeking God Will Find God

Those seeking God will find God. The proclamation is true and rather unfulfilling. More often than not, petitioners must abandon hope and expectations. They must remain satisfied with what they are told they are unable to gain. Such had been the purpose of organized religion upon conception. These power structures had been grown to placate populations and render people docile – inert. These structures still exist and they grant control of multitudes upon a sorted and sometimes undeserved few, despite the “good” purportedly attained for all and the subjected individual.

Yet inevitably, there have been and are always those common subjects whom awake with large appetites. Indeed, some are never lulled into sleep. Those great minds make discoveries and inform the world. In this age, science slowly disinvest the authority of religion but tolerates a god of gaps. These shadows are where prosperity religions and fallacy pray upon the disenfranchised. Anyone still advertising miracles and unrequited love merely dictate their own branded and often copyrighted recourse. Their own transfixed supporters enable these chosen charlatans.

In truth, the only shadow that truly remains is death – or specifically what happens afterward. In this last instance, the ignorant are promised eternity and immortality. Here, theists are made content opposed everyone else still looking for answers. And those whom are godless and yet ask questions often find education. I bolster educating oneself. The only reason there are few exceptional students is there are so few exceptional teachers. Unfortunate for those seeking scapegoats, educators are blameless. As with the great bulk of humanity, they are possibly blinded by socially-condoned maladjustment or circumstance. Each person has only oneself. And in that and by inherent birthright, every human being is full of immense promise and possibility.

Satanism begins with the correct assumption – there is no tangible Creator. Then its practice goes a wrong direction and substitutes its own religion. It is no different than both established and modern-day cults, except in being their identical progenitor. The same is true of ancient and revived, mutant paganism (IE Wicca). As with mainstream religions, these spiritual paths are full of disarming rituals and selfish hedonism. All are distraction against reality. There is no magic. Empowerment in believing so is temporal and fleeting – held at bay with drugs and masturbation in all the incarnations of these two distractions.

The reality is that competent seekers of spirituality find nothing after death because there is nothing. It is a truth denied. Upon death, you’re done. Huge panoramas are painted before this obvious fact. To insist otherwise perpetuates the religiously-manufactured childhood delusion of Santa Claus waiting for every grown, dead child with the big present of eternity. That forever may entail a burning chunk of coal. Sadistic charlatans especially perpetuate that vague myth of Hell. In the course of losing debates, it is the last argument they make after constructing and tearing down straw men throughout narrow, one-sided arguments. Parables of fire and brimstone presages vanquishing more informed foes one ad hominem at a time.

When one dies, there is no more argument. Nothing remains because the only path for each of our minds is oblivion. And how fitting that is the last word. The purpose of life is what one ascribes. And many of the perpetually dying waste the opportunity because each awaits a whole lifetime upon a more ideal existence. Unscrupulous pretenders promise such and are paid for their fallacious conciliation.

Egyptian pharaohs and kings made the right assumption – each individual must ensure his or her own continued existence. How American that concept is! The Confederacy would have thought so – those folks beneath the historic Mason-Dixon line had conscripted Egyptian symbolism opposed to the post-Classical Grecian ornamentation of the Union. And in this Age, we know it is not the body or the soul that can be made eternal. It is memory.

Most people generate families – a husband and wife drop kids into this turbulent and expiring world. And this is a traditional means to ensure one’s continued existence. Not me, I have no children. I have nephews and nieces but am I detached. I can’t know they will remember me. I am insignificant in their worlds and my own is full of monsters and wickedness. These elements shape my passions. At some point, I’m sure they had been fostered to drive people away, but like all living things, they have grown. Knowing such, I don’t extend invitations.

Instead, I attempted to construct my eternal tomb within museums. Then learning the futility of my effort and knowing what remains of my paintings now hang in basements and lie in attics, I stopped creating images. I had never been satisfied with my visual artwork so my preparations ceased with nary a whimper. Yet alive and apparently unready to die, I still willed to impart life into my creations. Arming that compulsion, and upon anthropomorphism, such restlessness became my muse. I write. Although my Pazuzu Trilogy had been quite heinous at birth, the story is my first born. I’ve given it an excess of care and have even sprung the money for ‘special education.’ I refer to the Llumina Press Second Revision publication, but since, my story has outgrown that brace nine times over. It carries my name and I still strive to ensure this child’s immortality. This and my other offspring are my memory. Although, they need readers. Lest, they too will pass with me into nothingness.

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Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

I’m Glad This Was Free

I’m just going to say this. I’m sick of critics who have nothing more to say than “I’m glad this was free.” My terse reply are rhetorical questions. I ask “Is this going anywhere, ma’am or sir? Are we going anywhere together? Because if you’re not giving me directions, get off my fraking bus!” And I don’t want to hear people screaming “But we’re heading straight for a cliff!” Shut up, because that’s where I’m driving. I intend to take every soul to Hell. No, I don’t share the interests of Crowley of Lavey , I just want to show you the scenery. My tour guide skills are just a bit novel.

Whereas I do appreciate negative criticism – I do and it tempers my undeserved narcissism – conscientious critics must have something to tell me other than “I’m glad this was free.” That comment is simply not very helpful. In fact, it sounds full of spite. Hey, I’m not the guy that ruined you’re life. I’m something different altogether. Perhaps wholly unpleasant but I wanna be. Readers get my stories for free because they are so roughly polished. I am aware of that fact, if not blunted against being cautious and never publishing my own stuff. I’m an admitted amateur.

I’d love a higher station, but to date no one has come forward to help me and proofread my writing. I don’t have an editor, either. I’ve got no one. Those advantages seem confined to professionals who demand payment. I certainly can’t afford to pay someone. I did that with Pazuzu Book One at Llumina and we see how even that came out. Yeah – don’t read Book One. It’s the second revision of merely the first half my Pazuzu Trilogy. I’m now upon the Ninth Revision of the complete story and it reads sooo much better.

My short stories are not so polished. They are tales I myself have no expectation will make any money – even if each might find themselves as books to some contemporary Satanic bible. They’ve been my practice. Those are my sketches of evil in Southern Wisconsin and its tendrils across the United States. I hoped Lovecraft fans would enjoy them, but I’m wrong. Sorry, although I will not apologize. Whereas Kolob and Teegeeack are not my worlds, neither is much of anything that’s oozed out of New England. I love to go to sight-seeing, though, and I read Lovecraft, but he is but an attraction – a distraction. I’ve got my own house to build and I’m using what’s available to me – all that clutter I’ve collected in forty-plus years. It’s gotta go somewhere. And like anyone hanging paintings in their own home, I got a good idea where everything will hang.

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Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

Debbie’s Exasperated Hellmouth

Debbie’s Hellmouth is the book I’ve been shopping around to Old World publishers and I can’t get one interested, so f*** those guys. I just need readers, people who buy self-published stories. And if I can’t get those, then f*** you too. My stories die with me. And so goes the world. Everyone sees I write horror stories, right? Visceral horror, and that’s part of Debbie’s Hellmouth. And an expansion of my Wister Town stories.

My Wister Town forays expand my Lovecraft-inspired mythology into the real-world – Southern Wisconsin, in fact. Wister Town is a fictionalized version of my hometown. How it got that name is another story – a two-sided tale. I won’t say but I’ll toss clues. Think Lovecraft’s ghostwritten The Mound, my pseudonym and derogative nicknames for Swiss immigrants. Put them together and you’ve got a mystery. With some detective work, readers can discover who I really am and assume my thoughts. That is, of course, if people are interested. To that I reply “I’ve warned you about me.”

What have folks to worry about? Well, Debbie Menon is a real estate agent back in her hometown, Wister Town, Wisconsin. She finds herself ensnared in a Hellish mess when she attempts to sell a damned house – damned as in evil. I’ve tried appealing to young women with Debbie; an independent, artistic spirit who is slightly mad and blasphemous. I had hoped a professional publisher would help me tell the story – give me legitimacy as an author, but alas, I am still a suspicious, unknown author.

So what is this story about?

Debbie Menon has a unique pseudo-Victorian house she must sell – because her soul is held in proxy for that same disowned portal into Hell. Yet the evil nature of the place makes it un-sellable. Fortunately, Debbie’s not totally helpless – she’s been to Art school.

Locally, the place is known as the Witch’s house and stands in gossipy Wister Town. The house is named for the mysterious Betulha Dohrman, whom no one has ever seen. The old woman had vanished with an unannounced debt. That debt becomes the onus of the Mikelmeier Real Estate office. The selling agent, Debbie Menon, too, once lived near the house in this small, Swiss-themed city.

Debbie had moved away to Los Angeles so that she might utilize her Art education and find work, but that didn’t work-out. Consequently, she’s moved back. Home again, she falls in love with a city alderman, Jerry Leutenegger then quickly establishes a career selling real estate. The Witch’s house becomes the bane of her otherwise successful and happy life back in southern Wisconsin.

Debbie learns her soul is held in proxy until an owner is found. This is where the story of Debbie’s Hellmouth begins. The house – or specifically the tumorish and displaced widow’s watch atop the faux-Victorian home – wants to break loose and spread evil. Elements of that evil already pester the residents of Wister Town.  What happens now with this cursed house only worsens the situation.

The Pocketbook is currently available from my storefront on LULU – here.

Ebooks available from Amazon – here.

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Now You Know Where You’re Going

In a previous post, I stated the Pazuzu Manifestation paperback at LULU was missing its page numbers. That’s been fixed. I’ve uploaded a new manuscript but I haven’t yet approved the book for the POD’s distribution lists. I don’t use them anyway. That means you can only be certain to get the latest physical copy of the book at LULU.  I’ll get around to making the approval and yet I’ve always told readers they should avoid copies other than those ebooks at Smashwords and physical books at LULU. The copies available from Google Books are especially in horrible conditions.

Stay away from Google. If you find yourself with a copy from the Search Giant before you, well, the first pages will announce the ebook’s revision number. My Pazuzu Trilogy is currently upon it’s Ninth revision. Actually, there are two separate manuscripts – the only difference between them is a tweaked Preface. The Pazuzu Manifestation paperback at LULU comes with the latest Preface. When I fixed the page numbers, I couldn’t resist tightening a few immediate screws.

All the alternative trade paperbacks at Createspace are also updated to the Ninth revision. That copy of Pazuzu Manifestation also includes the latest Preface. The paperbacks there at Createspace are cheaper but they’re not printed the format I prefer. If you’re a reader who really doesn’t care about the fact – or a collector – then they’re for you. Enjoy!

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Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.