Patterns of Chaos – New Limited Hardcover Omnibus

PATTERNS OF CHAOS, a signed limited edition hardcover collecting my novellas EXTINCTION PEAK, MANIA, SAINT SADIST, and the never-before-published SKULL FOREST is now available from Thunderstorm Books.

A brother and sister embark on a perilous journey across a wasteland overrun by dinosaurs to rob the mountain home of a corrupt California senator. But the home isn’t empty…

When the faces of their missing friends appear in an eerie painting, teenagers Nathaniel Ernest Brown and Haley descend into dark places to set things right. But the creature who took their friends is waiting…

A controversial film director plans to adapt a cursed screenplay and attracts the ire of a vengeful ghost. But she’s not the only one in Hollywood who wants him dead…

Pregnant with her father’s child, nineteen-year-old Courtney escapes her abusive home and finds shelter at the homestead of an earth-worshipping cult. But the congregants aren’t what they seem…

PATTERNS OF CHAOS collects four novellas by Lucas Mangum, including the Splatterpunk Award-nominated SAINT SADIST and the never-before published SKULL FOREST. 

You can grab it right here.

Gods of the Dark Web Turns 3

Yesterday, my nasty, cosmic horror creepypasta turned 3 years old.

Weird timing, as I finished work on the sequel last week. If you haven’t picked up this one yet, you can grab it on paperback, digital, or audio right here. I wrote this book in a month, yet it remains one of my most popular titles. Go figure. I DO have a very limited number of signed copies on hand. 17 bucks, includes shipping. If you’re interested, hit up the contact form and let me know.

As much as I like this book, it barely scratches the surface of the mythos behind the narrative. It’s something I explore a little deeper in the sequel. More on that later.

The rest of the week will be spent on the Wesley Southard collab and editing new episodes of White Trash Occultism.

Some Updates

Yesterday, I was messed up on allergy medication, and I recorded this embarrassing video. I’m slurring bad and rambling, but at least I practiced talking in front of a camera? Yeah, there’s the bright spot. You have to find those positives.

I went to see my buddy Shane McKenzie last night. He laid some very exciting news on me about a film he wrote. I can’t divulge everything, so all I’ll say is it’s about to go into production with one of my favorite character actors attached. I’m happy for him. Dude works harder than anyone I know, myself included.

I’m almost finished reading Kenzie Jennings’ RED STATION. It’s part of Death’s Head Press’ popular Splatter Western line and a ton of fun. Kenzie has a lean style and doesn’t shy away from the nasty stuff. You can grab that book here.

Writing has been slow this week due to the aforementioned side effects of allergy meds. I started to hit my stride again last night, so hopefully that trend continues today. I’d like to get a new chapter of ONE AND ONLY up on Monday. Plus, I’ll be jumping back on the Wesley Southard collaboration soon.

White Trash Occultism, the new video podcast with friends Kelby Losack and J. David Osborne has been getting some nice traction. You can watch the first episode here. Episode 2 will be up Tuesday morning.

This weekend will be spent finishing up the new chapter of ONE AND ONLY and commencing my next section on the Wesley Southard collab. Like a shark, I must keep swimming, and speaking of Wes and sharks, he’s got a new book out called CRUEL SUMMER that looks like a wild ride. You can grab it here.

That’s it for today, gang. As always, thanks for reading.

Man of a Thousand Deaths

Ricky Banderas popped up on my radar during his time with the short-lived Lucha Underground promotion where he wrestled as Mil Muertes. I was immediately taken by his intimidating presence and impressive physique. His character was a luchador riff on The Undertaker. He had casket matches, employed dark magic, and surrounded himself with death imagery.

With the recent release of PANDEMONIUM, I’ve been thinking a lot about wrestling and horror, times and places where they’ve intersected. I can think of few cooler examples than the Man of a Thousand Deaths. The above video depicts one of his resurrections. We’ve got some spooky necromancy images and a super-sexy Salina de la Renta foreshadowing of his debut in Major League Wrestling, where (as far as I know) he’s currently signed. Super-cool stuff.

Nightmare Freddie

Freddie Krueger (real name Doug Gilbert) best known for his time in Southern wrestling promotions and overseas in Japan. His most notable gimmick was as Freddie Krueger or Nightmare Freddie where he cosplayed as infamous slasher movie villain Freddy Krueger from the NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET franchise. As far as I know he is still active, despite debuting in 1986, and won a championship as recently as 2018.

With the recent release of PANDEMONIUM, I’ve been thinking a lot about wrestling and horror, times and places where they’ve intersected. Really cool to see an iconic movie character become so iconic in the business. The video above is a highlight reel of some of his matches. The song, I believe, is his entrance theme from his time working in Memphis.

One and Only, Chapter 2

One of my current books in progress is called ONE AND ONLY. It’s a horror story with a strong romantic element at its core. Think RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD 3 or FRANKENHOOKER. You can read the first chapter right here.

I’m posting the second chapter of ONE AND ONLY here. This afternoon on my Twitch channel, I will do a deep-dive into this chapter, breaking down my process sentence-by-sentence, and answering any questions you may have about the story, my currently available books, wrestling, or writing in general. Festivities start at 3 pm, central time.

After chatting with my friend J. David Osborne, I’ve been obsessing about the idea of early access to art (a common practice in video games, but very new in the world of fiction) and the growing interest in the meta-narrative behind creative content.

I’m a few chapters into this book. The goal is to post a new chapter each Monday morning and do a corresponding Twitch stream about each chapter in the afternoon. I hope you’ll join me.



“Wake up, Marybeth.”

The speaker had an unfamiliar voice. She’d heard those three words many times before. From her parents. From her sisters. Once from a guidance counselor who said that she lived in a fantasy world. This one came from none of these people.  She thought then that maybe it had come from Mason, but that didn’t sound quite right. No, this voice belonged to someone new. So, who was it then?

Come to think of it: where was she? Someplace cold. Someplace dark.

Everything hurt like hell. Her eyelids felt like someone had tied weights to them.

She heard footsteps. Someone was coming.

“Wake up, Marybeth.”

That voice again, though maybe, she thought, not so unfamiliar. It had a buttery quality. It was soft, yet forceful. She tried to replay it in her mind as she lay there in the dark, aching, cold, and stiff.

“Wake up, Marybeth.”

This time, she felt her lips move when the voice spoke. She was the speaker. She was commanding herself to wake, but she didn’t want to! The place where she’d been before was … it wasn’t anything. It was a dreamless sleep. It was … She was dead.

Except, she wasn’t.

It all came flooding back to her. The confession to Mason on the cliff. The attempt at a kiss. The hate that flashed across his face before he shoved her over the edge. The fall. So much pain.

Her eyes flitted open. She was still somewhere dark and cold but was unconfined.

Was she in a field? Expecting pain, she was afraid to move.

The footsteps drew nearer. Became louder. Two sets of them. Men with flashlights. They stood over her. The younger of the two looked fresh out of high school, with his boyish features and slender build. His badge said his name was Olsen. She couldn’t tell if he was naturally as pale as he was now, or if the sight of her had drained the blood from his face. The older cop chuckled, sounding like a weasel. His badge said his name was Brandt.

“Necrophile’s night out, eh?” he said and elbowed Olsen in the ribs.

Olsen’s upper lip curled in disgust.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Kid, you want to be a cop, you’re gonna have to learn to have a sense of humor. Grow a set.”

“You’re such an ass.”

Brandt gave another weaselly chuckle.

“An ass who you report to, remember.” Olsen gave an uneasy nod. Brandt cocked his head and gave Marybeth a once over. “Pretty little thing, though.”

“Get up, Marybeth.” Her lips didn’t move, but she heard herself clear as HD sound. “Get up and kill them.”

What? No, I…

“I wasn’t asking.”

She felt herself rise like the light end of a seesaw. The two cops gasped. Brandt even cried out. It sounded girlish. With a glance around, she realized she was in a cemetery. She’d been buried alive. Or she’d died and somehow come back.

Olsen raised his hands.

“Ma’am, it’s going to be okay.”

She felt herself grin so widely that she thought the corners of her mouth might split.

“Jesus Christ,” Brandt muttered.

“Okay?” she heard herself ask. “I’ve never been better.”

She lifted one hand, spread the fingers to make a choking claw. Brandt lifted off his feet and slid through the air.

“Damn it, Olsen!” he yelled. “Help me!”

He fell into her grasp and she squeezed. He writhed, kicked his legs, and tried to pry her fingers free.

“Fucking shoot her or something,” he said in a strangled voice.

Olsen fumbled with his firearm. She held out her other hand, palm out. Olsen lifted off his feet, too, but unlike his partner, he sailed backwards. He smacked a thick oak, back-first. His limbs flopped, and he grunted. Marybeth made a fist. He floated forward several feet, stirring as he tried to regain control. She opened her palm again, and he flew back against the oak. This time, he went limp. She lowered her hand, and he collapsed in a heap of dead weight.

Brandt had given up on worming free. He had his gun drawn, pointing it at her in a shaky grip. She took a deep breath in. Brandt tried to steady his hand, reaching over her arm, using both hands. Pointing the barrel right at her face while she kept inhaling. While the air rushing into her grew stronger. While his face came with it. He screamed and dropped the gun when the flesh ripped free. He put his hands to the glistening red mask he now wore, sobbing in agony and disbelief. She let him fall to the ground. He was still screaming when she left the cemetery.


Caroline put on a sweater two sizes too big, tucked her blonde hair under her bicycle helmet, and pedaled out of her parents’ garage. She rode the bike out of her suburban neighborhood onto Sugar Bottom Road, which was heavily wooded. When she reached an unmarked dirt path, she turned onto it. The grinding hiss of the gravel under her tires broke through the Juice WRLD on her headphones. The woods were dark and cool, serene. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed her.

Russell sat on the stoop of his trailer, clutching a tallboy of Pabst between his knees. A fire blazed inside a circle of stones. When he saw her, he nodded once and stood. She leaned her bike against an evergreen, took off her helmet, and approached him. They embraced. She put the side of her head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat. It was strong, like him. He slinked his fingers through her hair and guided her head so that she looked up at him. His eyes were like ash. His features sharp.

They kissed. Gently at first, then much harder. She could feel him growing against her and all the excitement and fear and need and guilt that came with their looming copulation. They pulled away from each other, holding only each other’s hands. He nodded toward the fire. He’d set up a blanket beside it. She smiled up at him and led him to it. They undressed. The fire felt warm on her naked skin as she pulled Russell on top of her.

When he entered her, she looked down between them, zeroed her focus on their perfect connection. How she made him glisten as he moved inside her. He began slowly. She lightly drew her nails down his back, stopping to squeeze his buttocks. He increased his rhythm and force. He smiled at the way she moaned, which she liked to see because she knew that meant she made him happy. She studied the veins that pulsed in his arms. The dark hair that hung in his eyes, swaying lightly. The fire hissed and crackled, its tongues curling around each log, making her warmer, making him warmer. As she watched the flames dance, she thought she might come this time. Something was building there. Something vibrant, tingly, and hot.

She rose her hips to meet him. He moaned his approval. Slid his hands under her butt. It didn’t last much longer after that. He finished a few seconds too soon, stopping her at the edge. She didn’t protest or ask him to help her along. She simply embraced him, holding him to her until he softened, imagining him melting into her, the two of them becoming one.


They disconnected, and everything felt cold. She wrapped herself in the blanket and scooted closer to the fire. He stepped into his pants and reentered his trailer to grab another PBR. When he returned, he brought over two camp chairs and sat in one of them. She saw he’d brought out two beers, too. He offered her one.

“No, I’m D.D. again tonight.”

He made a sound in his throat and smirked.

“What?” she asked.

“I wish you’d stay with me one of these nights.”

She moved from next to the fire and sat in the chair next to him, taking the blanket with her.

“One of these nights, I will,” she said and took his hand.

He took his hand away, downed half the first tallboy and grimaced. He picked up a rusty pole and stoked the fire. She watched him work, sparks and ash flying up all around him.

“You still love me?” she asked.

He looked over his shoulder at her, eyebrow cocked.

“Of course.”

“What about when I get old and gray?”

He set down the poker and knelt in front of her. He put his hands on her bare knees. They felt warm. She started to open for him again, but he applied enough pressure to hold her legs in place.

“I don’t love you because your young,” he said. “I love you because you’re real.”

She ran her fingers through his hair like she was petting a loyal dog.

“I don’t feel real sometimes.”

“You are though.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

She just laughed. There was so much about her that he didn’t know. She reached over and took the half-drunk Pabst. She tilted the can, spilling its contents over and between her thighs, giggling at the liquid’s chilly touch. He stared up at her, eyes widened.

“Don’t want your precious beer to go to waste now, do you?” she asked.

He relented his grip, allowing her to open for him. Then, he lowered his head.


“Did you have a nice ride?” Caroline’s mother asked.

“Sure did!” Caroline said, giggling to herself at the double entendre.

She began to cross the living room to march upstairs.

“Gonna be around for dinner?”

“No, I’m going out with the girls.”

“Why am I not surprised?” her mother said with a laugh. “Your leftovers will be in the fridge.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Caroline went upstairs to the bathroom. She got the water going hot and stepped under the spray to rinse off Russell, dirt, and smoke. As she washed herself, she thought she should probably tell him to stop coming inside her. Sure, she was on birth control, but there was no such thing as being too careful. The last thing she needed was a baby. Her parents would say she had too much going for her, but she didn’t know about all that. She did know that she was too young.

After her shower, she dressed in a form-fitting maroon sweater, mid-rise skinny jeans, and sneakers. She straightened her hair and sprayed herself with some Light Blue. When she tromped back downstairs, her mother stepped in front of her, holding a bowl of stew.

“Last call,” her mom said.

“No, thanks. Smells good though.”

She gave her mom a peck on the cheek and skipped through the front door toward her car. The blue Ford Fusion had been a gift from her parents upon her acceptance to ASU. She had no intention of going.


First, she picked up Amber who lived in a neighborhood with houses three times the size of the houses in Caroline’s neighborhood. Amber didn’t throw it in anyone’s face. She did the opposite, often seeming embarrassed by her parents’ affluence. She always made Caroline pick her up and drop her off at the park across from her development even though Caroline had seen her house more than once and everyone knew the area in which she lived. Caroline had once seen Amber punch a dude in the nose for suggesting her riches made her a spoiled brat.

Now, she was sitting on a park bench, staring down at her phone. Caroline gave the horn a light honk. Amber looked up and brightened, springing to her feet and running toward the car.

“Hey, girl,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Hey yourself. What’s up?”

Caroline put the car back in drive and pulled away from the well-lit park.

“Did you see this shit?” She shoved the phone in Caroline’s face. The headline practically screamed: GRAVE OF BELOVED GIRL DESECRATED. Before she could read the smaller printed details, Amber yanked the phone away. Caroline put her eyes back on the road. “Some pervert dug up Marybeth Carlyle’s grave.”

“Oh, God.”

“It was probably your creepy friend.”

“Mason’s not creepy,” she said.

“Babe, come on. He seems nice, but let’s be real. When we were all talking about that dumb Hereditary movie, he took some weird book out of his backpack, opened a page and said: ‘here’s Paimon right here.’”

Caroline giggled.

“That was three years ago. I’m sure he’s … matured a little.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

As they drove toward the Clemente twins place, they had to drive past the part of the woods where Russell lived. Caroline turned to look at the passage leading to his trailer but kept her thoughts to herself.

“Speaking of weird,” Amber said. “I can’t believe that Roderick kid just lives back there. What does he eat? Squirrels or something?”

“I’m sure he goes food shopping, Amber.”

“Still. What kind of guy just lives in the woods?”

The kind of guy that I like, she wanted to say, but she kept silent. Sometimes secrets mattered more than pride.

When they reached the house of the Clemente twins, Caroline gave the horn two taps.

“And now we wait,” Amber said. “Want to take bets on how much time passes before they come out?”

“No,” Caroline said.

“You’re no fun.”

The twins—Farrah and Felicity—came out wearing matching green hoodies and black leggings. They slid into the back seat. Caroline pulled away from their house.

“Are you guys seriously riding without music?” Farrah asked. Caroline and Amber looked at each other. “I don’t know how y’all do it. Put on something fun.”

Before Caroline could touch the radio, something screeched from next to Farrah as a death metal song blared from Felicity’s phone.

“Ugh, turn that shit off,” Farrah said.

“You said you wanted music,” Felicity said, laughing.

The twins fought over the phone, guttural growls from the lead singer providing an absurd soundtrack to the tussle.

“All right knock it off,” Amber said, swiping the phone and silencing the music.

“Hey,” Felicity whined.

“You don’t get this back until I know you two are gonna behave. If we’re going to buy that beer, we can’t just act like a bunch of little girls.”

“Oh, please,” Farrah said. “All you have to do is show Ted behind the counter a little skin and he’ll let you have the whole store.”

“For free,” Felicity added.

Amber looked at Caroline for backup. Caroline pulled the car back onto the wooded road.

“Well?” Amber asked.

“Well, what?”

Well, aren’t you gonna say something? Defend your best friend’s honor?”

Well, they do have a point,” Caroline said, barely containing her laughter.

Amber looked ahead and stuck out her lower lip stuck out in an expression of mock hurt.

“Fine,” she said. “Still not giving you bitches back your phone.”

“Hey, come on!” Felicity said. “Don’t be like that.”

Something shadowy slumped out into the road. Caroline kicked the brake pedal, pressing it all the way to the floor. The car lurched to a halt. Its headlights flooded the figure which had walked right out in front of them. It was a girl and Caroline recognized her.

“Marybeth,” she whispered, while her riding companions shouted over each other.

Marybeth turned away and staggered off to the woods on the other side of the road.

Before Caroline could even take a moment to evaluate what she hoped to do, she threw the car in park, unbuckled her seat belt and opened her door to get out.

“What are you doing?” Amber asked, her voice sharp with disapproval.

Caroline didn’t answer. She sprinted into the woods after Marybeth. After the girl that, as far as she knew, died over a week ago in a tragic fall off Sunset Cliffs.

Jason the Terrible

Jason the Terrible (real name, Karl Moffat) is a wrestler who cut his teeth in legendary Canadian promotion Stampede Wrestling. He’s most notable to me for his persona, which was a strange amalgamation of Jason Voorhees (the mask), Leatherface (he sometimes carried a chainsaw), and Michael Myers (the jumpsuit). As a fan of slasher movies, his existence brings me tremendous joy. I wonder what his career would’ve become were it not cut short by injuries sustained in a car crash.

With the recent release of PANDEMONIUM, I’ve been thinking a lot about wrestling and horror, times and places where they’ve intersected. I can’t think of a better instance than the career of Jason the Terrible. The song during the highlight reel I’ve linked is “He’s Back (The Man Behind the Mask),” written by shock rock icon Alice Cooper and featured in the film FRIDAY THE 13th PART VI: JASON LIVES.

One and Only, Chapter 1

I’m doing something a little different today. One of my current books in progress is called ONE AND ONLY. It’s a horror story with a strong romantic element at its core. Think RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD 3 or FRANKENHOOKER. My first book FLESH AND FIRE is about a guy who unintentionally brings his lover back from the dead. This project explores similar themes, but the main character’s actions are far more intentional (he’s an amateur necromancer) and they don’t yield the results he hopes for.

I’m posting the first chapter of ONE AND ONLY here. This afternoon on my Twitch channel, I will do a deep-dive into this chapter, breaking down my process sentence-by-sentence, and answering any questions you may have about the story, my currently available books, wrestling, or writing in general. Festivities start at 2 pm, central time.

After chatting with my friend J. David Osborne, I’ve been obsessing about the idea of early access to art (a common practice in video games, but very new in the world of fiction) and the growing interest in the meta-narrative behind creative content.

I’m a few chapters into this book. The goal is to post a new chapter each Monday and do a corresponding Twitch stream about each chapter. I hope you’ll join me.



“Nothing lasts forever, son,” Dad said and clapped me on the shoulder like he was imparting some great wisdom on a child, not a seventeen-year-old.

We were standing graveside. Marybeth’s casket had just been lowered into the earth. I could no longer see my reflection in its black surface. Everyone else was gone, even the preacher and the undertaker, even her parents and sisters. The sun felt warm on my back. It didn’t feel like the right day for a funeral. There should’ve been gray skies, some rain. This was the first funeral I’d gone to for someone who wasn’t an aging, ailing relative. Marybeth was my fucking girlfriend. Nature should have detected the storm inside me and taken its cue. She deserved something far more poetic than this. That is, if I didn’t know she’d be coming back on this very same night.

Nothing lasts forever, son, my dad’s words echoed in my mind.

“Yeah, we’ll just see about that,” I said.

I could feel him turning to gawk at me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” I said.

He kept staring at me. I could feel him trying to make sense of my words, trying to make sense of me. He never would. No one ever did. No one except for her.

I hadn’t spent the last week eating dog meat just to let her die.


“Is this seat taken?” MaryBeth asked that day at the diner.

Considering the sheer magnitude of how she would impact my life, you’d think her opening line would be something far less cliché, but what do you want? We were just kids. I looked up from my notes and steaming, black coffee and saw her standing over me. By far, the most stunning girl I’d ever seen, mainly because she was giving me attention. Girls mostly ignored me. I knew the score. Dorks like me only ever got rejected, humiliated, emasculated. Yet, here she was, all legs and golden hair and fuck-me blue eyes, asking if the seat across from me was taken.

I was at a diner called Katrina’s. I usually came here after school to study spells when I should’ve been studying trig.

When she looked down at my notes, which contained a crude sketch of the Tree of Life, I instinctively covered them.

“Why are you so afraid of letting people see who you are?”

Not what you like, who you are. I had to admit that was an even more compelling opening line and perhaps one more befitting of what we would become.

“It’s not that,” I said. “It’s just … do you really want to sit with me?”

She made a funny face then. Her lips smirked, but her eyes told a different story. I thought she was sizing me up, seeing a challenge, wanting to take it on.

“Why else would I have asked?” she said.

“I dunno.”

She laughed. I laughed a little, too.

“So, can I?”

My gaze flicked to the empty booth across from me, as if some ghost were sitting there and would be offended if I let her slide in beside it. Then, I looked back up at her. She raised her eyebrows. They were the most interesting eyebrows I’d ever seen. Meticulously plucked. Darker than her hair.

“Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”

She smiled again, less a cool smirk this time. It was warm. It made me feel warm in my chest.


On the way home from the funeral, I looked out the window of my Dad’s Ford pickup. Most of the roads around us were densely wooded, broken only by old colonial homes and ranchers. Intersections reminded us that we didn’t really live out in the country. Strip malls and Walgreen’s pharmacies, and banks and fast-food joints awaited us at nearly every traffic light. I loathed those little glimpses of the real world. Those breaks in the landscape of my dreamland.

I fantasized about driving these roads again at night after all the shops went dark. I fantasized about forbidden magic and waking the dead.

We picked up little Sheila from the Warren place. Dad made me get out of the car with him, and I groaned but did it anyway, shuffling after him like I was much older than seventeen and suffering from a near-crippling case of arthritis.

But when the door opened, and little Sheila came running out, screaming my name and bypassing Dad to throw her arms around my waist, I felt myself smiling, felt my eyes brimming with tears that wouldn’t come during the funeral. I hugged my little sister back. Dad watched us embrace and smiled, too.

Mrs. Warren came out and he handed her a check and thanked her. I helped Sheila get buckled in her car seat, then entered the passenger door.

“I pick a card!” she yelped.

I grimaced.

“No, I’m not feeling up for it,” I said.

“Please, Mason? Please?”

Dad cocked an eyebrow at me. I sighed.

“Okay,” I said and produced my worn deck of cards from my coat pocket.

She chose a Jack of Clubs and I guessed it correctly. She beamed at me and asked how I knew. I told her I was a magician, but it wasn’t magic at all, really. Just a trick I learned from watching videos on YouTube. I’d never done any real magic, but I would. I was determined to try it that night. And it would be big and beautiful and terrible, and by the time it was all said and done, Marybeth and I would be together again.


“Have you ever tried any spells?” Marybeth asked me that day at the diner.

My cheeks got hot and I looked off to the side, out the window, into the near-empty parking lot.

“Oh, so you have?” she said. “I bet it’s something good. Tell me.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

She giggled and took my hand across the table. “You can tell me.”

“I once tried astral projection.”

“And? What’s so embarrassing about that?”

“I did it so I could visit a girl I had a crush on. Like, at her house.”

She laughed, but it didn’t hurt. It didn’t seem mean.

“Tell me about her,” she said.

I told her about Caroline. A cheerleader. Way out of my league. Talked to me sometimes but only because she didn’t see me as a threat. Short, but full of huge energy. Single, but only interested in flings with guys who played on the sports teams.

“I know. So typical, right?” I said.

“If she’s hot, she’s hot. Do you still like her?”

“No. That was freshman year. It wasn’t meant to be. I made peace with that a long time ago. Besides, she’s not very smart.”

“Why not? Because she didn’t know such a nice boy like you was crushing on her?”

“No, nothing like that, but come on. Stupidity’s a big turnoff, right?”

She laughed again and it was like a classical suite played by the reincarnation of Mozart.

“Yes,” she said. “I would say that stupidity is a huge turnoff. Thankfully, you seem pretty bright.”

Her eyes twinkled like Christmas lights.

“Thankfully?” I asked.


When I got home with Dad and Sheila, I went to my room, but I could hardly sit still, let alone sleep. I took out my notes and books on magic, studying the spell I intended to cast that night. Dad knocked on the door, and I stuffed everything under my blanket, taking out my trig book and school notebook.

“Come in,” I said.

He opened the door and looked me over.

“You don’t have to study,” he said. “You’ve had a tough day.”

I fumbled for something to say.

“Want to play some video games with Sheila and me?”

“Maybe later,” I said, forcing a smile.

He sighed and looked at his shoes. When he looked at me again, he wore a grimace, like he’d just taken a pull of strong whiskey.

“You know, it’s okay to cry,” he said. “It’s not … un-manly or anything.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“If you need to … if you need anything, just let me know.”

I looked down at my trig book and all the sigils I’d drawn in the margins.

“I think I need to study,” I said. “It will help take my mind off things.”

He straightened and looked me over again. I wondered what he was looking for. Some tell I was lying? I really needed him to leave but lacked the heart to say it. He gave me a curt nod and granted my wish. I stuffed my trig book back in my backpack and took my spell book and notes from under the blanket.

I began reading again from the beginning. I could leave no margin for error.


“How do I know you didn’t use some kind of love magic on me?” Marybeth asked with a devious glint in her eyes.

We had just finished making love and were sitting on the roof outside my bedroom window. She had her head in my lap. My head was in the clouds. I was sure it was she, not I, who’d cast a spell. I’d never properly been with a girl before. In the moments it lasted, all the noise in my head—the voices who said I wasn’t good enough, the images of my mother’s wasted figure in the hospital bed in those final days, memories from times I lay in the dark and begged to leave my body and see forbidden things—fell silent. Intangible things fell into place. We moved together with the rhythm of the universe. I was sure of it.

Perhaps we’d cast spells on each other, with each stroke of my hand across parts of her flesh, each kiss, bite, scratch, and rock of our hips, we came to own each other, because it was meant to be. We were divorced parts of a whole, finally reunited.

I’d closed my eyes when I climaxed but saw so much light. When we came apart, I’d felt so cold.

On the roof, I considered her words. How do I know

I guessed she didn’t. How could she? But maybe she needed some reassurance.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” I said. “I’m not even sure I’d know how.”

She sat up and stared into my eyes.

“What if I died? Would you use necromancy to bring me back?”

“Yes,” I said, and kissed her before she could say anything else.


I tried to pry the padlocked cemetery gates apart wide enough for me to climb through. Their hinges groaned, but the gates hardly budged. I cursed and went to the wall beside it. If I got a running start, I could probably scale it. I looked around to make sure the houses on the nearby street were still dark and listened to be sure no cars were coming. I threw my backpack over the wall, backed up and ran and jumped. My arms found purchase on the top of the wall, but the momentum and my weight caused my elbows to skin on the surface. I winced but did not loosen my grip. It took tremendous effort to lift myself over the wall. I had to keep reminding myself that I was doing this for Marybeth. That she was worth it. That we’d be together again before the night was over.

I climbed over the top of the wall and jumped down, landing beside my bag. I took another look around and listened to ensure I was alone. Save for some crickets, I was the only one out here. I shouldered my backpack and went on.

I was afraid a flashlight would draw unwanted attention, so I had to rely on moonlight to guide me. All the headstones looked the same: gray buoys in a dark sea. I had to get close to each one to read the engraved names. When I found hers, I knelt in the freshly turned earth and pressed my forehead to the cool stone.

“Don’t worry, my love,” I said. “We’ll be together again soon.”


“Do you ever dream about flying?” Marybeth asked.

We were holding hands and standing on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. It was sunset, and a cool breeze raised gooseflesh on my arms. Or maybe it had been her question.

“Sure,” I said. “As a kid.”

We met each other’s gaze and I kissed her, but it was brief, and I got the impression she was somewhere else despite her corporeal form standing beside me, despite her hand in mine. She stared across the sea.

“The horizon always made me sad,” she said. “Like there’s something more, something beautiful, just out of sight.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Have I ever been?”

I imagined her releasing my hand and walking over the edge of the cliff, magenta fire rising in her wake.


I started at one in the morning, digging with my hands because it needed to be intimate. I made a circle in the dirt around the grave, yanking up clumps of grass and soil.

The panic didn’t start until I took the kerosene from my backpack. I’d stolen it from Dad’s garage. He’d miss it and probably blame me, ask if I was a pyro, setting woods on fire and that kind of shit. He had no idea. After pouring the liquid into the moat I dug, I sparked a utility lighter and lowered its flame to the combustible liquid. When the fire encircled me, my panic died. My heart thudded rapidly with anticipation.

I began to dig again. This time, I use a spade.

I worked through pain. Through exhaustion and panic. Through fire I had to reignite more than once. When I exposed the coffin, the moonlight shone in such a way that I saw my reflection in its lid. I took it as a good sign.

The lid fought hard to stay shut. I used a crowbar and pried so hard that I shed tears of exertion. When the lid finally broke open, I collapsed against the dirt, regaining my breath, one ragged inhalation after another. I made myself stand, closed my eyes, and took a slow, calm breath before looking upon her.

Marybeth, my love, was still perfectly preserved. It was still so soon after her burial.

No worms would taste her flesh.

I embraced her and lifted her out of the grave, positioned her like Christ, and I began to chant for her to wake, glancing down to her closed eyes, willing them to reopen.

Someone strong grabbed me by the back of my neck. Whoever it was, they pulled me out of the grave and flung me, over the fire, to my back. I looked up to see my father glaring down at me.

“Dad, I…”

“I don’t even want to imagine what you were doing.”

“Where’s Sheila?”

“She’s in the car.” I looked behind me. His car was idling in front of the cemetery gates. Right next to mine. His was a big, luxury SUV, mine a hooptie I’d bought for less than a grand. A grand I’d gotten with his help. “And you’re lucky she’s with me, otherwise I’d make you clean this mess up, even if it took until morning.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked, fighting back tears with every ounce of willpower that I had.

You’re going to get in your car and drive home. I’m going to follow you. Once we’re on the road, I’m telling the police I saw someone messing around up there. If you pull over or try to run from me, I’m calling them back and telling them it was you.”

“But Dad…”

“Get in the car now.”

I opened my mouth to protest. I felt hot all over. I wanted to kill him right then. Smack him over the head with the spade. Decapitate him while he was down and out.

But I’d already made a big enough mess of things.

Marybeth wasn’t coming back. She wasn’t coming back, because…

Because nothing lasts forever.

“Yes, sir,” I said, getting to my feet and following Dad out of the cemetery.


“Did you fuck him?” I asked Marybeth, the last time I saw her alive.

“No,” she said, looking down at the waves, splashing the base of the cliff.

The sun was nearly all the way down.

“Well, then maybe we can still…”

She shook her head.

“Why not? I forgive you. It was just a kiss.”

“Maybe I’m not ready to forgive myself.”

“Come on, that’s stupid.”

She met my gaze.

“So, I’m stupid now?”

“No, just … you hurt me, but I’m not mad at you, so you don’t need to be mad at yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” she said.

“Sounds like you think I’m stupid.”

“I don’t. We’re just seeing things differently and I don’t know.”

I tried to make sense of what was happening. I tried to make sense of how everything that had transpired between us previously could lead to such an unceremonious end. Things made sense when I was with her. She said things made sense when she was with me. If only I hadn’t started talking to Caroline again. Yeah, we were just friends and always would be, but it bothered Marybeth for some reason. Probably because she remembered my astral projection story. Instead of listening to her, I told her she was controlling. We had a big fight. Our only fight. We hung up on each other, and now here we were. At least she had the decency to tell me to my face.

I wanted to apologize and offer to take her home. Lick my wounds and move on. I really did. Honestly, I really did.

Instead, I tried to kiss her. She’d told me my kisses made her crazy.

Maybe they could change her mind. Work some magical spell.

She turned her face away, not giving me the chance to try.

And then I pushed her. Without so much as a second thought, I pushed her.

As she screamed on the way down, I feared I’d hear that scream for the rest of my life. The silence after her fall was even worse.

I fell to my knees at the cliff’s edge, but before any tears could fall, something shifted within me. A powerful notion inside urged me not to cry. Not to mourn. This was the best thing that could have ever happened to us.

It was an accident. Yes. I hadn’t pushed her. It was an accident. And then I’d bring her back, just like I’d told her I would do. I’d bring her back, and she’d have no choice but to give herself to me forever. She would be mine once again. For the first time in the near twenty-four hours since our fight, I felt hopeful for the future. Darkness had fallen upon the isolated cliff, but I was full of light.

Fan Service is Sometimes OK

My partner and I finished watching the second season of THE MANDALORIAN last night. I really enjoyed it, aside from some filler episodes, and it got me thinking about the idea of fan service.

Fan service is seen as a derogatory term among the more cynical among us. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes it can be detrimental. WWE frequently relies on stars of years past in order to get a ratings bump, and it often comes at the expense of newer talent. So many horror titles released these days often read exactly like something written in the 80s (a time many consider to be the genre’s boom). Both cases leave new and interesting avenues unexplored.

What’s interesting about THE MANDALORIAN is that it treats fan service and nostalgia as rewards or Easter eggs. Creators Jon Favreau and Dave Piloni do a great job of forging new ground with an already compelling narrative, giving longtime fans rewards for sticking around, but without alienating newer audiences.

This is something all writers can consider if they hope to build a readership from the ground up. I reference my book MANIA in nearly everything else I’ve done. Since writing PANDEMONIUM, I’ve started finding ways to incorporate a wrestling angle into each story. That’s fun, but I can always find more ways to reward longtime readers without compromising new storylines or saddling myself with the burden of writing unnecessary sequels.

It’s been on my mind a lot lately. Part of what I (and a good portion of my readership) enjoy about my work is my unwillingness to be pigeonholed. Interesting, but how do I work within those parameters to broaden my audience and connect with readers old and new?

I have a few ideas, but I’d love to hear from you.