Prism Book Alliance® would like to thank Eric Arvin for stopping by today.
Title: The Rascal
Author: Eric Arvin
Publisher: Wilde City
Cover Artist: Wild City Press
Genre: Gay Fiction, Horror
Lana is a faded movie star who lives alone in a big house on a hill that overlooks the sea. She has lived this way since the death of her daughter and the disappearance of her husband.
Jeff and Chloe are a couple who live in a cabin below the big house. It was Chloe’s idea to strengthen their marriage; but she see’s now that it isn’t working. Jeff has become obsessed with the cabin and the old water well. Chloe only sees strangeness around her.
One night while talking on the computer with Ethan, Jeff’s brother, a feeling of dread comes to the fore. When Ethan see’s a figure behind Chloe, he leaves his boyfriend and baby and sets out to save Jeff.
Chloe, Ethan and Lana come together to fight an evil that would destroy Jeff. Will they succeed or will all of them fall to the taste of a young cannibalistic ghost?
The fall should have killed him. That was the whole point. But he lay there, his cheek against the moist earth at the bottom of the well while something sharp and jagged jabbed angrily at his stomach from beneath him. At least it didn’t hurt. He was beyond that kind of pain.
He’d never known darkness as black as this. Yet there was moonlight somewhere above him. He just couldn’t bend his neck to see it. He was so far down the well the moon had given up its search for him. Any other person would have tried to scream. To cry and shout for help, even if in vain.
He heard dripping, water seeping through the stones of the well and soaking into the garbage around him. Into this, his eventual final resting place. He wondered how long he would have to wait for death. The horrible hours waiting. How long had he waited already?
A strange whistling could be heard faintly overhead. Night breezes on the coast were the loneliest in all the world. They bit at the ears. There were certain things—certain voices and laughter—he would have loved to hear one last time before he died, but those winds… he wanted no part of them. Those winds brought trouble on their currents. He’d felt that harsh tinge to them, that pinch, not long after he had bought the place. Or rather, not long after his wife had bought the place.
If she had only known the truth, everything could have been avoided.
His mind was clouding now. He felt a trickle of water on his face. No. Not water. Blood. Most likely his own from the fall. He imagined himself a twisted mess on the stinking well floor with all the other tossed debris from decades past. Just the latest addition to a pile of refuse, out of sight and out of mind. Don’t think about it and it doesn’t exist.
He imagined he was smiling, though he couldn’t be certain. There was no way the rascal could get him now. He had felt it trying for weeks, every hour more intrusive since the dreams began.
He hadn’t known what it was in the beginning. At first it had been but an itch. But as things went on, the power of possession grew stronger. It slid beneath his skin like he was an old shirt and it was a familiar fit. The rascal was taking control of things. What it wanted was blood and flesh. And it knew his flesh very well. Oh yes. Very well, indeed.
He, a modern man with his family, had come, shrugging off anything he was told about the old place, casting all warnings aside as superstitious hokum. He only wanted to do his penance. But then it began.
He had never tried to understand the reasons why this dark thing wanted him. All he knew was that it desired the body he walked around in, the four limbs and aging flesh. And it would have had it if he had not done something drastic to stop it.
But now where was the rascal? Did it not want this broken man on the well floor? Could it not reanimate his limbs and climb up out of the well as he had seen the damned thing reanimate his precious little—?
He could wish he had never come here to this place, but that was useless now. He could cry. He most likely already was. Again, however, what good was crying over a fate he brought on himself?
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Tour organizers will select a winner at each stop on 25 October 2015. Must be 18 years or older to enter. Void where prohibited.
About the Author
“Some of [Arvin’s] work is as direct as Hemingway with the sensitivity of O’Connor or Shields, and yet others nuanced as if Maupin wrote a letter to Penthouse.” – Thom Fitzgerald, director THE HANGING GARDEN
Eric Arvin resides in the same sleepy Indiana river town where he grew up. He graduated from Hanover College with a Bachelors in History. He has lived, for brief periods, in Italy and Australia. He has survived brain surgery and his own loud-mouthed personal demons. Eric is the author ofmWoke Up In A Strange Place, Subsurdity, Simple Men, Galley Proof, and various other sundry and not-so-sundry writings. He intends to live the rest of his days with tongue in cheek and eyes set to roam.
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I have a number of paperbacks, most of which are signed, to giveaway. Over the between now (11 Mar 2017) and 31 Mar 2017, every comment on the blog (this post and all other new posts), will be entered to win 1 of these paperbacks. There are also some misc swag items, so there will be a few packs of these to give away as well.
Thank you so much for your support over the last 4 years. Prism will be closing its doors on 1 April 2017. All content will remain available, but no new content will appear after 31 Mar 2017. As such all request forms have been turned off. Again Thank you,
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