Monday, June 4, 2012

STOKER Excerpt


The moon was red. It snuck out from behind the curtains like a drunkard’s face, bloated with the promise of dawn. Young Stoker got up from his bed and wandered over to the window, his feet cold on the damp floorboards. He couldn’t see anything because it was dark outside and he didn’t have eyes like mine, eyes that could pierce the blackest of licorice. So he listened.
Can you hear it?
The sounds of the city bled through the walls -- stray horses, slurred songs, women with rough voices, constables on the beat and beating people and eating beats, as the situation required. I can hear it, even though I wasn’t there then, even though I’m not there now. You believe me, don’t you? Yes, you do. Because you can hear it, too. You can hear the noises through your paper or screen, white page or backlight. And you can’t escape them. Just as I can’t escape from this little room with its thin bed and thin walls because they’ll find me if I do. Just as they’ll find you.
But I digress.
Stoker opened the window with his clumsy five-year-old’s hands and leaned out. Wind stirred his hair and mussed the blankets he’d left tangled on the floor. Across the street, a row of tall, thin buildings made of black brick rose like tombstones below the red moon. Stoker could barely see lines of windows reflected in the night. No candles burning in Mr. Tiller’s flat. None in the O’Connell house, either. The widow Kateman had a candle burning in her window, but she was a strange one, prone to flights of convention-breaking fancy. Next to the widow’s flat, on the left, was a wide window. It started above the...
On second thought, I probably shouldn’t give too much of a description. The place still stands, you know. It’s in one of those huge, ugly nineteenth century buildings that they haven’t torn down around central Dublin.
Start in the middle of the city, dead center. Bring a flashlight, and something warm.
After you finish a cold pasta at Pirelli’s, cross the street, turn left and go down the first alley you see. Keep walking. If you see an old woman with yellow hair, tell her you’re sorry about her mother, bite a coin and press it into her palm. Don’t shrink away when her hand touches you. Pass a flight of stairs that isn’t there, two steps right, another right, and stop. Look up. More. Does your neck hurt yet? Then keep looking. More, more, more...
There. A huge, ugly nineteenth century building, just like I told you. You should really learn to believe me. The clockmaker’s shop was in there, a tiny flat that’d been converted into a family business. Sorry, I won’t tell you what room number. I’ve already said too much. I do, after all, want you to live long enough to help me.

STOKER Day One and Two are available for sale on Amazon.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Release Day

Day One and Day Two.  Print editions will be made available after I escape from this underground tunnel system.

Reviews, comments, observations and threats of decapitation can be sent to dracula.himself [at] yahoo.com.

Stay thirsty,
Dracula


Stoker is Coming

You'll be able to start the adventure on Amazon in less than twelve hours, helping me discover the evil of Stoker's past as he battles a faceless man, an incurable illness, a godlike cult, an iron lake, the Tongue of the Lie and a lying clergyman.  I shall have a few links up here at that time so you can make all the necessary purchases.  The prices are cheap; I do not wish to burden you in our fight.  And excerpts from books 1 and 2 have already been posted around the blog.  Don't be late.  I know you won't.

Like Stoker, you're only human.

Stay thirsty,
Dracula.