Poetry Project: Release the Cannibals

Hello Boys and Ghouls,

I have to admit that I'm impressed. 400 followers? You guys rock! And since I'm feeling especially creepy tonight, I'm going to let you all in on a little secret. My poetry collection, HYSTERIA, is done! That's right folks. I've drained its blood, let it soak in the moonlight, and locked it up in the asylum. All it needs is a few more rounds of shock therapy and then Momma is going to send her little psych project out into the world.

As always, I want to thank everyone for their support because without my readers... well, I'd just be a sick person with no one to scare. So my treat for you tonight is a poem from HYSTERIA called "Marketplace."
Hope you're hungry, because I know Janey is.

Stay Scared,
Stephanie M. Wytovich

Marketplace

I walked through the

Grocery store

Eyes glued to

Stainless steel hooks

That waved at me

In the butcher store

Window

While I picked out

The freshest of meats

I knew little Janey

Liked the thick ones

Rare, with

Lots of fat

She said the extra tire

Around their waists

Gave them more flavor,

Added a little something

To the juice

When she tongued

It off her chin

So I brought her

Home a big one,

Chopped it up,

Sautéed it with

Green onions,

And let it soak in

Its own blood while it

Salted itself

And stewed in the pan

The smell of it

Brought her running,

Brought her

Scrambling down

The stairs,

Her stomach

Growling like the

Beast that baked

In the oven

Mommy! Mommy!

What’s for dinner?

She asked

I scooped her out a

Helping of thigh

And served it warm

On her plate

Why it’s Old man Donnell sweetie,

I know you’ve had

Your eyes on him

For quite a while

A Game of Thrones: Blood of my Blood to Daenerys

The first novel that was assigned in my Contemporary SF and Fantasy course was A Game of Thrones: Songs of Fire and Ice. I was really excited that this book was on our reading list, not only because it’s been on my to-read shelf for far too long, but because I’ve heard wonderful reviews about it from writers, as well as readers, and my curiosity was definitely peaked. I’m happy to say that my expectations were more than met and that I think this novel has and will play a pivotal point in my career as an author. George R.R. Martin, all I can say is well done (and that’s because I’m speechless).

I write horror (and I love it), but I respect the HELL out of Fantasy and when I’m not reading about ghosts and demons, I’m reading about magic and faraway lands. Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z. Brite may have been the book that turned me on to the horror genre, but J.K. Rowling and Harry Potter made me a writer. I think it takes a wonderfully talented individual to build a world that makes me want to believe it’s real and out there and Martin did that. I want to go to Winterfell. I want to ride with the Dothraki, party with the Imp, and hold Valyrian steel in my hands. I want to sleep next to a dragon egg, walk across the wall, and play with a direwolf. But more than anything, I want to read the second book. Soon.  

There are so many aspects of this novel that I would love to go into detail with such as world building, micro- tension, multiple point-of-views, etc., but one character stole my interest. Not young Bran, nor Arya (although I did love her spunky kiss-my-ass attitude), or Sansa (I hope someone spikes her), nor Tyrion (my second favorite), but none other than Daenerys. When I landed on her chapter, I felt as if I had to take my time with it. Like a lover, she demanded my attention and I refused to focus on anything else but her.

To me, Daenerys was an especially fascinating character study because she is what I want my character to be. Daenerys may have had the blood of the dragon in her, but in the beginning of the novel, she was a quiet, timid girl that I had no respect for her. She let her brother Viserys abuse her and belittle her. She took his words as daggers and let him sell her off to the Dothraki without so much as a fight. And why? So he could rule as the rightful heir, not her. But the day she married Khal Drogo and became his Khaleesi, I watched her carefully as she grew into a Queen…and start acting like one.  The quiet girl that feared her brother’s wrath, that couldn’t stand up for herself, that cried the first time she was taken was gone. In her place was a woman who accepted the seed of the Dothraki, ate the heart of a stallion to keep her son strong, and used her voice to stand up to Viserys. She sent men to their death, saved women from rape, and danced in the dark with Maegi. She fell in love, mourned for the dead, and gave birth to dragons. Daenerys is strong female character that fought and earned every ounce of my respect, and blood of my blood, sun of my stars, moon of my life… she deserves it.

So how does this reflect upon my character? Well, anyone that has read my manuscript, including myself (countless times) can and will tell you that my main character is very unlikeable. At first, I thought this was a huge problem (and I’m not saying it isn’t), but Daenerys was as well and she grew into a strong female of worth. She showed her weakness and embraced it with her head hung down in shame, but she grew into a warrior and growing is the main transgression that has a character as to make. Martin proved that you can create a character that is unlikeable in the beginning, only to have you lay down your sword for them in the end. It’s a difficult dance but he’s proved to me that it can be done and I’ve made countless notes and flagged paragraphs upon paragraphs on how he did it. I’m not saying that it will work, but I have some pretty good ideas on how to shape Rhea’s character growth.  All I needed was a dose of fantasy, the howl of a direwolf, and the screams of the Dothraki to get me going.

Plus, a little dragon’s breath never hurt anyone….much.

Part 1: Hunting Ghosts in West Virginia

I recently investigated the West Virginia Penitentiary in Moundsville, WV with the paranormal team, Louisiana Spirits. Built in the style reminiscent of a gothic fortress, complete with turrets and battlements, we stood in front of the stone castle that claimed a recorded 998 deaths. Nicknamed “The North Side of Hell,” this Moundsville prison was listed as one of the top ten most violent correctional facilities in the country.

But this is not a history lesson. If you’re curious about learning more about the prison’s blood-soaked background, I’d highly recommend a tour of the facility. However, we are here to talk about ghosts. Stocked with equipment such as Thermal Cameras, a K-2 meter, a digital EMF meter, and an Olympus digital voice recorder, we roamed the prison grounds with our eyes and ears open for signs of the dead.

We started our investigation with a tour of the penitentiary so that we could learn its history and its tragedies.  Our guide equipped us with names, locations, types of deaths, and short cuts…all which aided in our investigation later on. We arrived around 11:30 p.m. and stayed until 5:30 a.m., using each moment to study, learn, and understand the ways of the prison and its inhabitants…and I assure you, there are many of them.

We spent a great amount of time in the original cafeteria, which leads into the hallway where sightings of the infamous Shadow Man have been caught on tape. Aside from a few noises here and there, I was upset that I didn’t feel or record anything of concrete value there despite the stories of the rooms immense activity. I even sat in the hallway waiting for the Shadow Man for 20 minutes only to be left alone in the dark with nothing but a wandering mind to instill fear. For what it’s worth though, the kitchen area was a completely different story.

While I personally didn’t hang around there long enough to attempt to get a recording, the atmosphere was enough to convince me that I wasn’t alone. The air was thick with tension, and my chest tightened the moment I walked into the room. I immediately became claustrophobic and the temperature rose, forcing me to take off my sweatshirt. I felt threatened, smelt smoke, and refused to be left alone, and once our guide started telling us the history of the room, my suspicions were confirmed.

The kitchen area is said to be a violent, malevolent room. People have said that they’ve smelt sulfur upon entering it, and that scent is common when spirits are trying to manifest themselves. EVP recordings have picked up the words “legion,” “devil,” “demon,” and “666,” and when asked if there was a demonic spirit in the room, the K-2 meter shot up and fluctuated between 7 and 10. Our guide said that he had done several sittings in the room, and that he actually witnessed facial manipulations with the people he was with via a spiritual attachment upon members in the group. I’m all for walking with the darkness, but when the darkness turns evil, I tend to leave.

The more I walked the grounds and heard the stories, the more fascinated I became with the prison. The amount of violence that took place there, not only between the inmates, but at the hands of the doctors and wardens literally shocked me. You hear about torture in books and watch it in movies, but let me assure you that its completely different when you’re standing in front of an electric chair or looking at the tools used for the “Kicking’ Jenny” or the “Shoe Fly.” These men were beaten, raped, starved, and executed…some twice because they wouldn’t die. The spirits that walk those halls are angry and trapped. Their souls left to wander the same cell blocks were they were tortured to the brink of insanity and left to die.

But what happened when insanity didn’t kill them? When it merely clung to them like a wet blanket, clouding their minds with hallucinations and nightmares?

Why they entered the Psych Ward of course.

Those that know my writing and my fascinations in the horror genre will tell you that I’m obsessed with the insane. The idea of psychological horror intrigued me enough to work on both a novel and a poetry collection voicing the rants and ravings of mistreated patients and the doctors that abused their power with them. When I found out that there was not only an infirmary, but a psychiatric ward as well, my heart all but jumped with joy. I finally had the opportunity to see the rooms and the equipment that I was writing about… and lucky for me, I even got to meet some of the patients. But that's a story for another night. Until next time...

   

Stay Scared, 

Stephanie M. Wytovich

Picture 1: Courtesy of DarkWhite Arts Photographer, Melanie Stone

Picture 2, 3, and 4: Courtesy of Crystal Vines, Investigator with Louisiana Spirits

All Aboard the Train to Hell

All Aboard the Train to Hell

By Stephanie M. Wytovich

When Rhonda asked me to be a contributor to the blog train, I was all but too eager to say yes. Niteblade Horror and FantasyMagazine has been one of my guilty pleasures for a long time now, and it’s an honor to help celebrate their five year anniversary.

Last year I was lucky enough to be picked up by magazine for my poem “The Cheater,” and that publication marked a very special time in my career as a poetess. I constructed the poem during a rather dark time in my life and when I saw how well received it was amongst my readers, I felt encouraged to continue probing the blackness that swirled around in my head. You know the term “rose-colored glasses?” Well, I like to tell people that I look through the same lenses…it’s just that mine are spattered with blood.

You see, I’ve always been fascinated by insanity, but I’ve grown tired of all the serial killer books where the plot starts to fade after the fourth kill.  So I asked myself, if I were to write a book about psychosis, how would I do it differently?  The answer of course, thanks to Niteblade, was to introduce a variety of characters with different neurosis to keep my audience guessing. Hence my latest project, Hysteria.

Hysteria is a collection of dark poetry that explores the demons within us all. Here you’ll met Con Artists, Stalkers, Murderers, Psych Ward Patients, and Nurses.  You’ll hear stories of obsessions, fetishes, and oddities. Learn what it means to be watched. To be hunted. To be damned.

Sparked by an idea and encouraged by my readers, I owe the inspiration to my collection to a single poem, “The Cheater,” and to Niteblade for having faith in me as a poet. I encourage all of you to help me in congratulating them on five years of success in the publication industry, and to pick up a copy of their magazine next time you need something to read. Just know what you’re getting into, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.

In the mean time, check out “The Cheater,” and do me a favor.

Stay away from the chainsaws, ok?  

The Cheater

By Stephanie M. Wytovich

You want my bloody kiss
Stop denying it
Accept the crimson red
Smear it all over your face
Lean into it
Suck on my lip
And savor the bitterness
Of your lover’s death

You see,
I loved her gently
Moved inside her easy
Made love to her
With a chainsaw
And watched the life
Leave her eyes
Don’t worry though,
She suffered.

First Published by Niteblade Horror and Fantasy Magazine in 2011

Previous Circle of Hell- Marge Simon

Next stop in the underworld: Alexandra Seidel

Poetry Project: A is for Addict

Hey Everyone,

So in the midst of finishing up my poetry collection, Hysteria, I came across this piece on my hard-drive and figured I'd share. Hysteria is a compilation of pieces about obsessions, fetishes, abnormalities, and fantasies. It's about the place in the back of your head that you go to when life gets hard, and you need to hide. It's where diseases of the mind spread, and pain likes to grow. Hysteria doesn't judge, but it also doesn't sugar coat the monsters that live within each of us. 

Enjoy the tragedy. 

Stay Scared,

Stephanie M. Wytovich 

Addict

The 500 mg white pill

Subsides the inflammation

Dousing the flames in my lungs

While charred edges break off

Stabbing me in the side

While I gasp for air

And fight to breathe

The 60 mg blue capsule

Hides the blackness in my eyes

Masking the depression

And covering up the pain in my chest

It wipes away memories of failed suicides

And erases the cut marks on my inner thighs

Twice a day,

When I wake up,

When I go to bed,

And sometimes if I feel hungry for

The razor against my throat,

I’ll pop another one to make the demons go away

Hand in hand

My pills allow me live

To see another sunset

And close my eyes

Without a fear of dying in my sleep

But it is the larger white pill

75 mg

That prevents me from

Choking on my own vomit

And suffocating myself

Because my insides can’t digest food

My bed has essentially became a casket

That I lay in every night,

Hoping that my liver doesn't explode

My lungs hold out another day,

And that my stomach will do its job

So that my heart can keep beating,

So that I can keep breathing,

So that I can wake up another day

To take my pills, and move on

Book Review: The Wicked by James Newman

The Wicked by James Newman is a new take on an old-fashioned tale regarding small town histories and haunts. Written in a style reminiscent of 80s horror, Newman introduces his readers to the Little family, Kate, David, and their daughter, Becca, and their move from New York City to Morganville, North Carolina in an attempt to leave behind tragedy, and start anew. But what seems like a quaint and quiet cul-de-sac is actually buzzing with negative energy as the ashes from the Heller House fire still roam the streets and memories of the residents.  Sixty died that night. Thirty-seven of them were children, and it wasn’t an accident.

New to town, the Little’s know no one short of Kate’s brother Joel and his partner Michael, but David forms a friendship early on with their neighbor, ex-marine George Heatherly, who ends up being both his backbone and his partner later on in the story. It doesn’t take the Little’s long before they realize something’s off about Morganville. With the death count ever rising, and the occupants turning to strange and violent behavior, it becomes obvious that something is very wrong, but like most of us, the thought of an ancient evil being resurrected is far from our minds.

What I personally enjoyed about Newman’s style is the realistic tension that he built up on the page. Newman is a skilled crafter of micro tension and the Little family responds to events as real people, not as characters. Their pain and terror became mine, and because of that, I found myself turning the page with an immediacy that I haven’t found in a novel in quite some time.  The same goes for his ability to create paranoia. While I knew I was reading horror and therefore somewhat bound by the conventions of the genre, there were definite moments when I wondered if Moloch was something that that the people made up in a fit of mass hysteria in order to deal with the tragedies that had befallen them. Their sleep deprivation, use of alcohol, and depression could easily have formed together to set blame on an imaginary entity, but the moment that long, white, filth ridden beard started to crawl out of the pages, I knew I wasn’t dealing with anything psychological. I was dealing with nothing short of the damned.

But what was most horrifying about Newman’s tale was how he spun Moloch into becoming much more than a demon, a mere devourer of souls. Moloch became a false prophet for the weak and impressionable, the tired and the sick. He befriended ten-year-old Billy Dawson as he mourned over the ashes of his deceased friends, became a long lost lover to Michael as he cried in his tub, and reached out to Kate in moments when her faith wasn’t strong enough to carry her through. Evil will always try to corrupt good, whether you’re a priest of good stranding, the town hero, or a family man with access to a gun.  

Overall, I’d give The Wicked four out of five skulls, and not just because Moloch got inside my head while I was reading it. It was a compelling story that transcended the decade’s clichés, and it will give horror lovers the healthy dose of sex, blood, and terror they crave while getting delightfully lost inside Newman’s dark imagination. From the stinging corpses of burned children, to a Mother’s breakdown, I can promise you that hell will leak through the pages, and that you’ll never look at Santa Claus the same way again. A beard will never be just a beard, and when you smell something burning, I deeply urge you to hold on to your soul because you never know when evil is lurking around, desperately searching for its next victim.

If you're interested in learning more about the author, the story, or the house that published them, click here to visit Shock Totem's website. And a big thank you to them for recommending me a truly disturbing read! Anyone who knows me will tell you that in order to get my heart, you have to creep me out first.

Pleasant nightmares folks!

Poetry Project: 350 Apple Martinis

Hello Boys and Ghouls,

As promised, with every 50 followers I get on Twitter, you guys get access to a free poem! Yesterday, my 350th (can you believe it?) follower was EXST @dharmaburn29 and a big thank you goes out to him for supporting me! I hope you enjoy the inevitable nightmares that are soon to come your way ;)

"Apple Martini" is an experimental piece I've been working on for some time, and it's very different from the style that I normally write in, so tell me what you think. I'm curious to see your reactions. I like to play with themes of tragic beauty in my work, and I hope you enjoy my character's charming addiction.

 

Stay Scared,

Stephanie M. Wytovich

Apple Martini

Black cocktail dress with thin straps finely etched up the back, contorting in a spidery web of attraction while it climbs over the skin, constructing an outline in the flesh while emerging over the crease of the bar stool.

She’s magazine perfection, a vogue cover model sitting at the end of the bar while her ordinary smile meets a seductive attitude with red glossed lips shimmering under the dull light. A candy cane porn star with the school teacher mask, allowing her to be herself, while being two people at once.

Oh she’ll stare into the green, drinking  away the day; licking the droplets off the spiral glass while rolling the olive over her  tongue, closing her eyes to the preying stares around her as she French kisses the flavor sliding down her throat.

She swirls the poison, watching it funnel down as she loses her brown eyes in the maelstrom of liquor; sour yet sweet, fulfilling yet satisfyingly dangerous as the fluid takes its toll on the body. Her throat screams a silent plea, begging for her to quit; to stop drowning it with the green concoction that she favors above all else, but blacked out on the table in front of her, she can’t hear her body’s warning, and with her left hand grabbing the crystal stem of the glass, she begs the bartender for more when she’s already cut off.