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Welcome to Devil’s Pawn: A Soul Proprietorship

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 3, 2012
Posted in: R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a Comment

The Devil’s Pawn

A Soul Proprietorship

 

Welcome to Hell, an unincorporated stretch of land in Southeast Michigan. With an advertised population of 666 and a playful proclivity to garner attention from its infamous name, nobody batted an eye when the self-proclaimed “Prince of Darkness” chose Hell to set up shop. But as business booms in his Soul Proprietorship, rumors begin to swirl. Who is this mysterious stranger and what is really being bought and sold behind the doors of The Devil’s Pawn?

 

The voice on the phone said, “This is an attempt to collect a debt and any information obtained will be used for that purpose.” The caller ID showed the number as unavailable, causing an already aggravated Brooke to toss the phone onto the passenger seat as she returned her attention to the rearview mirror and her mascara.

“Fucking asshole credit card companies,” she fumed, ignoring the impatient horns and shouts from the unfortunate drivers filling the lane behind her white Range Rover. Of course, the call could have just as easily been about her car loan or condo lease. Hell, maybe it was Columbia House finally tracking her down for all of those CD purchases while in college. Regardless,

Brooke’s immediate concern was her lashes.

Two green lights later, Brooke’s Range River finally sped through the intersection. The distraction of the phone call forgotten, she was oblivious to the dark sedan riding her bumper.

 

* * *

 

Michael had found the ad online. Collections Agent. No experience necessary. Some travel required. The description suited him perfectly. He had found himself on the wrong end of collections several times, had no real job experience of any sort, and was looking for any reason to put some distance between himself and the bright lights of Vegas. It all seemed too good to be true when the brief telephone interview turned into a real job offer.

Of course, things are rarely what they appear and the ex-con knew that nobody hires a recently paroled mafia hit man as a best business practice. Still, the $2,500 check to cover moving expenses was real enough, even if it was drawn under a rather unusual name—Devil’s Pawn, 666 Sulfur Street, Hell, MI. Surely somebody’s idea of a joke, he mused.

Michael had still yet to meet his new employer face to face. Beyond a name, Lucien Burns was a complete mystery. He wasn’t even completely convinced that the gentleman he spoke to on the phone during his brief interview was in charge. The entire affair felt a lot like his prior work with a certain unnamed family out in Vegas. But this was Hell, Michigan—far from the lights and glamour of the Strip. Michael was wise enough to know that his work was best handled on a need-to-know basis and not to clutter his mind with useless details.

As expected, the target guided her Range Rover into an office park. Michael followed, wondering just what this crazy bitch could have done to get herself into this kind of trouble.

 

* * *

 

“I want to be beautiful,” she whispered, eyes darting around nervously. The Pawn Shop was empty, save for the well-dressed man who had greeted her entrance. Of indeterminate age, the man exuded a raw confidence and sexuality that made Brooke both strangely at-ease and uncomfortable. He was not what she had expected.

Brooke had found the ad online. Everybody Has A Price. What’s Yours? Call 734.666.6666. The ad’s simplicity is what had initially piqued her interest. What did it even

mean? A price for what? Even the phone number seemed to be a joke. Yet for two straight days Brooke had carefully considered what harm could come from simply calling. She would block her number from the caller id, of course.

“Ms. Jennings, so nice of you to call. How may I be of service?”

Brooke hesitated, unsure how the stranger on the other end of the line could possibly know her name. “I, uh, um.”

“Please, take a moment to collect yourself. I can only imagine how nervous you must be. It takes great courage to embark on this journey,” the man’s soothing voice continued. “My name is Lucien Burns and I assume you are calling in response to the advertisement?”

Brooke’s racing mind made it difficult for her to form a cohesive thought, let alone an apt response. “Mmm hmm.”

The next several minutes passed with Lucien’s hypnotizing voice providing scant information about exactly what it was he was peddling. Yet, within moments, Brooke found herself taking down a few scribbled notes and an address for a business in of all places, Hell.

“Shall we meet at say, seven-thirty tomorrow evening, Ms. Jennings?”

Now, at precisely the agreed-upon time, Brooke stood in Lucien’s presence, baring her soul of its greatest desire—beauty. At just under two-hundred fifty pounds, beauty had always been the proverbial carrot dangled in front of her obese form. From diet programs to health club memberships, nothing had granted Brooke her soul’s deepest wish. Nothing, that is, until now.

“Ah yes, beauty,” Lucien responded with a knowing smile. His closely cropped hair was the color of cigarette ash, granting him the appearance of being both wise with age and virile in youth. Dressed in a well-tailored black suit with a starched white open-collared shirt beneath, Brooke’s attraction to the man was instantaneous.

“So elusive, beauty,” he continued, staring deeply into Brooke’s eyes. “Tell me, Ms. Jennings, at what price does beauty come?”

Brooke broke Lucien’s gaze, “Any,” she whispered, bowing her head with embarrassment.

Lucien reached forward and gently placed his delicate fingers beneath Brooke’s chin, raising her head to recast her gaze. Warmth spread throughout her body as she stared deep into his eyes.

“Let’s talk terms, Ms. Jennings.”

 

* * *

 

Michael parked two rows beyond the Range Rover and watched the white SUV from his rear view mirror. Again, the driver was busily applying makeup. Turning his attention from his target, Michael rummaged through the glove box and pulled forth a manila envelope. Written in flowing script across it’s surface was a name—Brooke Jennings. The ex-con opened the flap and emptied the envelope’s contents onto the passenger seat.

He glanced again into the mirror; no movement from the Range Rover. A single photo rested on the sedan’s leather seat. Michael recognized his target immediately and turned the photo over where the same flowing script provided his brief instructions.

 

Beauty is only skin deep.

Cut it out—along with her eyes.

L.B.

 

Again, Michael reached into the glove box. His hand emerged holding a pair of black leather gloves and a hunting knife with a six-inch serrated blade. The knife disappeared quickly up the sleeve of his jacket as he slid the gloves over his already sweating hands. Casting another glance into the rear view mirror, he emerged from his car, setting the timer on the explosives beneath the driver’s seat. Ninety seconds, he thought, walking briskly in the direction of the Range Rover.

“Excuse me, miss,” he called as he approached his target. “Ms. Jennings,” he called again, now standing at the door of the SUV. A wide smile split his lips as he gazed upon quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered. Pity, he thought, the muscles lining his jaws tiring from the forced smile. Sixty seconds.

Brooke turned her attention from her lipstick application and looked with obvious annoyance at the man standing at her window. Rolling her eyes she reached for the button and lowered the SUV’s window.

“Yes, can I help you?” Her tone clearly implied helping anyone was the last thing on her mind.

Michael leaned forward, sliding the blade free from his sleeve, as the smile fell from his face. “I’m here to collect a debt.”

The blade bit into Brooke’s throat spraying blood and slicing her vocal chords with a single twist. A torrent of blood flowed from her gaping mouth as she struggled to scream.

“Some cultures believe the eyes are the portal to the soul,” Michael stated from memorized instruction as the blade’s serrated edge tore into her porcelain skin. “Lucien was very specific,” he added, plunging the tip of the blade into the corner of her left eye. Glancing over his shoulder at the desolate parking lot, Michael noted the time and continued his task. His target’s sky-blue eyes were soon out and deposited safely into his pocket.

“Tell me, Ms. Jennings,” Michael asked, taking in his handiwork. “What is the price of beauty?”

His target responded with a final gurgle and gasp before her lifeless head fell to the steering wheel. Michael smiled and walked briskly from the parking lot, tossing his blood-soaked gloves and knife into his car as he counted the remaining seconds before detonation.

 

* * *

 

Seated safely behind the wheel of the car he had parked around the block the night before, it wasn’t until he was miles away that Michael finally relaxed. The drive back to Hell would take approximately forty-five minutes—depending on traffic. There would be no follow-up at “the office.” His task was done. At the end of this car ride he would simply climb the stairs to the apartment above The Devil’s Pawn and wait for another envelope to arrive under the door.

His stomach tightened into nervous knots at the approaching sound of police sirens. He stared through the windshield and watched the approaching red and blue flashers of law enforcement as he guided his car to the shoulder. The handful of other cars on the road did likewise. His anxiety lessened as three police cruisers sped past toward the direction of the blast.

He exhaled in relief as he guided his car into the first available lane of traffic. The bumper sticker on the car in front read ‘No rest for the wicked.’ The Collection Agent laughed. Those poor bastards didn’t know how right they are.

 

Coffin Hop Trick or Treat: A Bedlam Falls All Hallows Eve Special

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on October 23, 2011
Posted in: Contests & Promotions, R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 22 comments

October 31, 1971
Bedlam Falls, MI

The boy’s hand felt awkward and small holding the heavy wooden handle of the oversized kitchen knife; yet his delicate fingers carried a strength and dexterity far beyond his young age.  The blade easily pierced the exposed flesh, deftly carving meaty chucks that collected in moist piles at his feet. The pungent odor of his handiwork filled the otherwise tidy kitchen.

He went about his work seemingly without thought, the faintest trace of a sly smile curving his thin lips.  The last warming rays of late afternoon sun filtered through the window over the sink, stretching long shadows across the soiled countertop.  Eventually, the blade ceased its mindless dance and the boy relaxed his boney fist from the stained wooden handle — letting the knife fall into the discolored sink.

He paused to reflect upon his creation – softly tracing his fingers across the carved flesh, probing the gouges and holes which he had so deftly whittled away.

Walking from the kitchen, his hands and arms sticky and soiled, Lionel Collins made his way through the vacant house and up the stairs to his bedroom. There, he would prepare for his evening, the soothing voice inside his head providing ample instruction, and strength, to complete the tasks ahead.

Small towns are notoriously quirky, and Bedlam Falls’ quirkiness started from the moment of its founding. As Oliver Bryant Bedlam stepped from his horse-drawn carriage to survey the tree-swept fields of the as-yet unsettled acreage he had just purchased, his booted foot slid from the carriage step. His fall to the ground, although relatively short in distance, ended with a fractured skull courtesy of a rock hidden within the grassy plain. Bedlam died from his injuries two days later, and as word of the accident spread beneath headlines and over telegraph proclaiming “Bedlam Falls”, the small northern Michigan town’s name was sealed.

More than a century later, Oliver Bedlam’s grave, marked precisely at the spot where he had fallen from his carriage, remained one of the most visited sites in all of Bedlam County. Of course, the majority of visitors were of the drunken teenage variety; Falls’ Rest Cemetery had become the chosen location for late night teenage debauchery.

Deputy Frank Griggs was recently enough removed from his teenage years to still understand the lure of the secluded gardens of earth and stone. It was for this reason alone that he “patrolled” the area. Nothing was ever amiss in the cemetery, but the kids did keep him fully stocked with beer and on more than one occasion he was able to catch a brief glimpse of a nipple or two. Yeah, between the beer and the breasts, a slow drive through the cemetery was better than anything playing at the drive-in.

Tonight, however, the stone garden was eerily quiet. Griggs’ had expected to hear Rod Stewart’s Maggie May wafting from car stereos, but instead was greeted with an ominous stillness; the feeling of a calm before a great storm. The shadows played tricks with the young deputy’s nervous eyes as he drove slowly through the winding dirt road toward the massive iron gates that marked the only entrance/exit from the cemetery.

A pained wail broke the silence, echoing through the night and sending a chill through Griggs’ thick body. “Ho-ly shit,” the shaken deputy exclaimed to the empty cruiser. “What the fuck was that?”

The cruiser eased to a stop as Griggs scanned the moonlit graveyard. Nothing seemed out of place, at least not from the relative safety of the car. Frank had little time to consider his options as a second cry erupted from the darkness; this one, definitely animal in nature.

“Fucking dogs,” Frank groaned in relief. Earl Stubbs had served as cemetery caretaker for more than 30 years. It was the half-wit’s job to keep the riff-raff out, maintain the grounds, and basically keep the dead tucked safely into their beds. The job didn’t pay much, but it came with one nice perk; free rent in the small house on the northern edge of the cemetery. Earl kept to himself and did a fair job of maintaining the landscaping, but it seemed every stray dog in town somehow made it into his care. Griggs could only imagine what trouble the beasts were getting into with all of the noise.

Griggs exited the cruiser clutching his flashlight and exhaling a plume of vapor into the chilly air. The pale beam sliced through the darkness, revealing a maze of tombstones amidst a tangle of brush. “Here poochy, poochy, poochy.”

Griggs’ calls were met with more silence. He stepped carefully between the stone monuments and markers, allowing the beam from his flashlight to trace over the inscribed names and dates of the deceased.  This area of the cemetery, tucked away in the southeast corner, was relatively new, with plots used only within the last half dozen or so years. The oldest plots, dating back to the late 1800′s when Oliver Bedlam slipped from his carriage, rested neatly in the center of the vast field.

After several minutes Frank neared the edge of the cemetery’s grounds. Here, as the open field gave way to the thick Michigan woods, the young deputy finally found the source of the recent commotion. The sight made his stomach clench with knots of fear.

Sweeping the light across the lone tombstone before him, Griggs could barely discern the etched name beneath the years of weather and what appeared to be fresh blood.

Rylan Walters

1920 – 1960

Loving Husband & Father

Griggs’ had met the former sheriff on a single occasion – and once was more than enough for him to take measure of the man;  a thick-headed blow hard and not nearly the law man that the current Sheriff Buck Tanner was. Even still, Frank admitted to himself, the bastard’s grave didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.

Strewn about the area were bits of what the deputy could only assume had recently been a dog – perhaps multiple dogs.  His suspicion was quickly confirmed as he moved his light from the carnage on the ground to the blood-soaked wooden handle of a shovel sticking up from the freshly turned earth near the headstone.  Placed atop the handle, eyes bulging from their sockets, rested the head of a German Sherperd. Frank’s knees buckled as his stomach emptied onto the soiled ground before him.

Shaken, the deputy’s mind raced with a myriad of thoughts. Turning from his grisly discovery, Deputy Frank Griggs made his way back through the garden of stone to his cruiser. There, in the safety of the car, he contemplated his next move. Surely, he would call it in to the station. The Sheriff would know what to do. But Frank wanted to be the one to notify next of kin. He had shared several classes with her during high school, and although they ran in different circles, he thought the news may best be received from someone she knew.

“Maddie,” Frank said anxiously into the radio, “Get the Sheriff out to Falls’ Rest.” It took only moments to relay the gory details to dispatch. “Let him know that I want to notify next of kin,” he paused before continuing. “And Maddie, one more thing, can you get me an address on Joanna Walters…I mean Reed; Ken Reed’s wife? I’ll drive by once the sheriff arrives.”

Like what you’ve read? Dive deeper into the mystery of Asylum Lake on Kindle, Nook, and in Print now before the upcoming release of the sequel Grave Undertakings.

All visitors who leave a comment on this post will be entered into a drawing for a free autographed copy of Grave Undertakings. The lucky winner will also win a “death” in my current zombie project FLIGHT.  That’s right, a character named in your honor will receive a death befitting a contest winner. Good luck and enjoy the Coffin Hop!

Book Review: Steve Emmett’s DIAVOLINO is a hellishly delightful tale!

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on May 13, 2011
Posted in: Book Reviews. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . 2 comments

I’m a sucker for any story that involves discovering the gateway to hell. I blame Dante and his classic work INFERNO for this fascination. Needless to say, when I stumbled across DIAVOLINO my expectations were  fairly high – and Emmett’s dark tale does not disappoint.

The story follows architect Tom Lupton and his charming family as they arrive in Italy to deisgn a home for a wealthy client on the small island of Diavolino. Foreign locales offer endless opportunity for frights and Emmett’s powerful descriptions of the Italian countryside, and those who call it home, pull you deeper into his clutches as the sinister story of the island’s dark past unfolds.

Th story’s pacing is flawless and Emmett’s writing grabs the reader by the throat and doesn’t let go.  From London to Italy and eventually to the very gates of Hell, Diavolino is the perfect mix of horror, mystery, and suspense. Dan Brown fans will come for the Vatican conspiracies – Stephen King fans will stay for the chills.

Five Bloody Pitchforks for DIAVOLINO!

7 Deadly Questions with Author Steve Emmett

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on May 11, 2011
Posted in: 7 Deadly Questions. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . 3 comments

1. I recently described your debut novel Diavolino as what would happen if Dan Brown and Stephen King collaborated on a project. Talk to me about your inspiration and how you would classify Diavolino.

I call Diavolino a horror thriller. Some call it a supernatural thriller. I’m comfortable with either. It combines a big adventure with the occult, rather like Dennis Wheatley used to do in his highly successful novels such as The Devil Rides Out and To The Devil a Daughter. Wheatley comes in for a bit of stick these days but let’s not forget that he was writing in a different time. I wanted to write something like that but bring it up to date. As I was living in Italy at the time and had my own take on the xenophobic tendencies of the Berlusconi government, my everyday environment proved the inspiration for the story. Lake Trasimeno was at the center of my life for almost 25 years. Religious fundamentalism formed part of the story as it generally does when the author was forced to attend Catholic school.

2. Foreign locales provide ample opportunities to ratchet up the thrills and chills and you’ve found the ideal setting with the Italian island of Diavolino. Talk to me about how you settled on this location.

As I’ve said, I know Lake Trasimeno intimately. The whole area is steeped in history and superstition; one of my neighbors sported a red ribbon around the wing mirror of his three-wheeler truck to ward off the Evil Eye. My own house stood on the remains of a medieval convent which had tunnels leading to the village church a mile away. Why look any further with all that on my doorstep and with years of memories still fresh in my head? The existing islands in the lake I felt were not suitable as they are too well known, and one is even privately owned. So I decided to invent a fourth. All I had to do was make the readers believe in it – from what is being said I succeeded. An English friend who still lives there told me recently that he’d heard an American or Canadian tourist reading the ferry timetable and wondering why there were no trips to Diavolino.

3. You do a great job with foreshadowing in Diavolino and just when I thought I had things figured out you pulled the rug right out from under me. Was that intentional – the use of foreshadowing as a way to move the story along?

Absolutely. You have to be careful or you end up doing what’s called ‘telegraphing’ and giving too much away but for me, dropping clues and hints along the way is vital to keeping the story simmering. I believe that even commercial fiction, which is what I write, can be – should be – intellectually stimulating as well as entertaining. I get bored with stories that don’t make me think.

4. Religion plays a central role in Diavolino. Talk to me about your own religious views and how they influenced your writing?

My grandfather was a devout Catholic. He was a great man, rising from the shame of the workhouse to director of a successful linen mill in Yorkshire. He was good in the real sense of the word and dedicated all, and I mean all, his spare time to helping the sick and the poor. His generosity was taken advantage of by The Church. He served as the Mayor of the town for almost thirty years. A visit to meet the Queen at Buckingham Palace and a medal from the Pope were proud moments for him. So, although my own father was not devout, you can understand why I was sent to the primary school run by the Catholic Church.

My grandfather was a governor, of course! During those early years, as I was exposed more and more to the dogma, I had to ask myself whatever an eight year-old could possibly have done that was so bad it needed to be confessed and forgiven. And I had many a sleepless night worrying about going to Purgatory or burning eternally in Hell. I mean, horror films were classified 18 back then yet these people were actually filling our heads with far worse in the name of education.

And there was one other thing that affected me deeply. I must have been about ten, I suppose, when I changed class and got seated next to a mixed- race girl called Rita. Rita was from the children’s home run by the nuns. As we got to know each other she would tell me about the bruises on her face and neck, how the kids were regularly beaten and even locked in the cellar. I remember she would stick drawing pins into her wrists during class. By the time I left and went to grammar school, I’d pretty much made up my mind that Catholicism was not for me. When my grandfather was ill- he succumbed to Alzheimer’s- his church abandoned him. Knowing that he would show up to pray at almost any hour, the priest ended the open door policy and locked up when there was no Mass. Even in the freezing winter weather the priest would ignore the doorbell. And as for Rita, she was murdered many years later by the serial killer known as The Yorkshire Ripper.

So, like many a kid forced to swallow religious dogma, I am an atheist – yet always a lapsed Catholic, lugging that bloody great trunk of guilt and feelings of worthlessness around on my back. It’s all of this that you see in my writing.

5. Research is crucial to creating a believable story. What was the research for Diavolino like? What did you get right? What did you get wrong?

I can’t lie. I didn’t do heaps of research. I was, for the large part, writing what I knew and what I had always dreamed of writing. I really didn’t need to research the locations or characters. I did investigate mythology, history and some ancient religions. I suppose I got it mostly right as no one has yet pointed out any glaring holes.

6. What’s next for you, Steve?

More big horror adventures. I will complete the sequel to Diavolino but am taking my time as it has to be even better. The next horror I will finish is already about a third done and, again, takes us to various locations as we battle with evil. I’ve also found that I enjoy writing short stories and novellas; one is being considered now and I hope to have news soon.

7. Where can people go to learn more about your work?

My blog is a good place: http://chukkienator.blogspot.com/

And I can be followed on Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/chukkie58

About Steve

Steve Emmett is a British author and actor born in Harrogate, the genteel Yorkshire spa town where Agatha Christie hid away from the world thirty-two years earlier. He studied at the prestigious Architectural Association School of Architecture in London and built a few houses before going off the rails. He spent time in New York then returned to Yorkshire where, amongst other things, he served as an elected councillor. He then moved back to London and worked in the real estate sector. For over twenty years he ran his own agency specializing in Italian country homes and, for almost ten years, lived by Lake Trasimeno in Umbria, the setting for Diavolino. Born at the end of the 1950s, Steve grew up on Dennis Wheatley novels and Hammer Horror films, and on many occasions started to put pen to paper. Completely dissatisfied and unfulfilled with his career, Steve decided in 2009 that he wanted to write and began Diavolino. He has also recently launched an acting career with the help of Northern Spirit Creative in Leeds. He currently lives with his partner and some rather large spiders in the Yorkshire Wolds, close to the ancient City of York. Diavolino, his first novel, is published by Etopia Press and available as an e-book from Etopia Press, Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes and Noble  and other online sellers. A paperback edition will be out later in summer 2011.

 

7 Deadly Questions with author Luke Romyn

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on March 8, 2011
Posted in: 7 Deadly Questions. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 3 comments

1. On the surface, your novel THE DARK PATH has all the makings of a classic tale of good vs evil, but after sitting down with your book I realized you’ve really blurred the lines. Talk to me about good vs evil and how you let them play out in THE DARK PATH?

Nothing is ever clear cut in the real world; the villain from one perspective is quite often the hero from another, so why should a novel be any different. If the enemy is evil, able to play outside of the rules, why would the opposition try to find someone who is squeaky-clean and morally virtuous?

Vain is the perfect person to go up against the forces he has to, unbound as he is to the ridiculous beliefs which would make a lesser man falter when the time came for action. Nobody else could step into Hell itself, calmly converse with Satan, and then make off with the one object which might help him survive against the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and he does it with a certain amount of panache, endearing him to the reader.

2. I’ve always connected with the anti-hero in stories and you’ve created a great one in VAIN. I can only imagine how much fun it is to write a hero with a dark side. Did you find it difficult to reconcile this dichotomy within VAIN?

Not at all, I simply likened it to my own internal conflicts of personality, and those I assume every person has. Nobody is pure, regardless of their best efforts; in Vain this separation is merely more defined, and the clash between the opposing aspects of his nature is much more pronounced.

The initial creation of Vain was the hardest thing, delving deep into the darkness of my own nature, dredging up the most horrific nuances of what makes up me. I had to go into a very nasty place and then, much like Vain does in the novel, I needed to come out of that place, finding the brighter aspects of the story along the way and using him to deal with them in spite of his conflicting emotions.

3. With so many spiritual overtones, can you talk about how religion and spirituality have influenced your life and writing?

I was raised in a Catholic household and went to private Catholic schools, so religion was always around me, but my parents never forced it down my throat, for which I am grateful.

Religion is a wonderful thing in the right hands, but it is often misused and confused. I like the themes I have used in my book, but I can’t forget being refused entry into the Vatican for the clothes I was wearing and wondering if this is what a religion created by a man living in rags wearing sandals would have wanted. I also have trouble forgetting the convicted pedophile teaching at my school who was kept employed despite complaints from my fellow classmates.

I love God and always will, but the ones who screech loudest in His name often give me the shits.

4. From your bio I see that you’ve worked for years in the security industry. Sounds like you’ve had some wild experiences. How have you used those experiences to your advantage as a writer?

Working as I have has really drawn me through a wringer of experiences due to the diversity of places I’ve worked and things I’ve had to do. Nightclubs are an incredible place to learn about human behavior – especially aggressive behavior and how it is contested. Fear is also prevalent prior to the anger, and the fight or flight response is so hard to combat when it’s right in your face that only being there and experiencing it could give insight into what to do. Bodyguard work shows another side of things with the potential of focused, dangerous individuals as opposed to the random violence of a spontaneous brawl.

So basically what I’m saying is I’ve been in the thick of it. I’ve been involved in over a thousand fights and have seen some of the worst human behavior imaginable; from drive-by shootings to people stabbing each other over a game of pool to drug users trying to chew off other people’s noses. I’ve associated with criminals who have done some truly detestable crimes and seen beyond that to their human side. I went so deep down the rabbit hole it seemed impossible for me to come back… but somehow I did.

5. What’s the last book you read and why did you choose it?

The last book I read was Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

Despite simply loving the Harry Potter series, I find the way J.K. Rowling creates her characters and develops the story around them incredibly simple and yet awesomely effective. At the moment I’m working on a trilogy based around the same concept – hugely character-driven – and as such I like to read as much stuff like that in order to research the writing style and put my mind in the right frame in order to do what I need it to do. It’s pointless for me to read an action-driven story if I want my characters to be the main focus of a novel, and the same is true vice-versa. Even though my storyline is nothing like the Harry Potter series, while I’m writing as such I’ll continue to read her books over and over, each time picking up a tiny nuance I can use in regards to speech or something else.

In a way it saddens me that I can no longer simply immerse myself in a great book without analyzing it, but this is the only way to learn how to be a better writer. In another book I was writing I needed massive landscapes of description and so I started reading the Thomas Covenant Chronicles by Stephen Donaldson who created some phenomenal lands through his six novels about a man with leprosy. I tend to avoid Stephen King since his work is immensely imagination driven – whilst also being great writing, don’t get me wrong – but I have my own ideas flowing when I write and his are just so off the wall I don’t want to get confused.

6. As a fellow horror writer I understand the stigma that sometimes attached itself to you; some people just refuse to believe that you don’t have severed heads in your fridge! Time to reveal the softer side – what one hobby or interest would readers be most surprised by about you?

Unfortunately I’m not simply a horror writer, I’m also a reformed hired-goon, and so with such a double-whammy against me it’s hard to find a softer side, but I’ll try.

I spend a lot of time studying philosophy, trying to find my place in the universe amid the disharmony of my life. Simple things like walking with my wife at sunset bring me a certain amount of peace, although it is an uncertain peace, easily shattered, and so it is often short-lived. My meditation is usually found in the gym, training with weights. I have always said this is how I maintain my focus, but such a thing is hardly the softer side you asked about, so I’ll search deeper.

Hmm. Not sure if this is what you’re after, but it’s the best I’ve got. At one point in my life, many years ago, I reached rock-bottom. I was doing some terrible stuff and had pretty much lost the plot with my drinking and violent tendencies. I seriously wanted to change my life, but had no idea how, and so I asked God.

It wasn’t a prayer so much as a plea. Your earlier question probably made it clear about my thoughts on traditional religion, but my faith in God has always been strong. And so I begged Him for help, asking for three things: a good job, a better place to live and someone to love me. The next week I got offered a new job and my friend asked me to move in with him exactly where I wanted to live.

And I met my future wife….

7. Where can people learn more about you and your work?

My website is constantly getting updated with news about my career along with short stories, links and interviews like this. It’s http://www.lukeromyn.com . I’m also very active on the social networks with links to both my Twitter and Facebook accounts found on my website.

About Luke Romyn

Luke Romyn spent many years, fifteen in fact, working in the security industry. From doorwork in some of Australia’s roughest pubs and clubs to protecting Mickey Mouse and the Disney crew from the overzealous jaws of tenacious toddlers, Luke has worked throughout Australia and internationally in a vast array of roles. He’s done close protection for UK celebrities in Fiji and chased feral pigs and snakes out of the jungle film sets on Steven Spielberg’s and Tom Hank’s epic: The Pacific. There are few things Luke hasn’t seen.

With all this experience behind him, it would be tempting to write a set of memoirs. Instead, Luke utilized it to fuel his own expansive imagination and began writing fiction. Initially starting with short stories, Luke rapidly progressed onto novels. His first book, THE DARK PATH, is now out and swiftly became a #1 best selling Horror and was also voted in the Top Ten Horror novels of 2009. His second novel, BLACKLISTED, is almost set to go and will blow the roof off action thriller novels.

Throw Your Arms Around Me

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on December 7, 2010
Posted in: Uncategorized. Tagged: , , , , , . 1 comment

I’ve had one of those melancholy days; it happens now and then. I can’t point to any one specific reason for it, although I have my suspicions. Regardless, I did what I normally do when the blues get me – I sulked, ate some chocolate, mixed in a little work, and then finally turned to my fix-all…Pearl Jam.

For those who know me or who have enjoyed (or possibly not enjoyed) Asylum Lake, my fondness for Pearl jam is pretty evident.  Music is an important part of my life – not that I can carry a tune or play an instrument. But I know what I like when I hear it and since the early ’90s it’s been a healthy dose of Eddie Vedder and company.  I have eclectic tastes – everything from Jackson Brown to Godsmack.  Hell, I’ve even been known to mix in a little Vanilla Ice in a pinch! Don’t be a hater – you know  Mr. Van Winkle dropped the jamz back in the day.

I digress.  I hit random on my iPod a short while ago and heard some very powerful words from an amazing poet.  Like me, I hope you find what you need in them, as well.   Push to Play