If I had to guess, the primary difference between the creative types that manage to bungle their way through life without tripping over their own shirt collar (looking at you, self), and a normal, sane, rational human being, is that creative types never manage to learn how to properly manage expectations.

Welcome back, Lemonheads, for another week of the weird and wonderful! Here’s a querstion for you: when you think of summertime movies, what do you think of? The reflex answer feels like summer blockbusters like big, set-piece action movies, but the first summer blockbuster was Jaws. I’m of the mindset that monster movies are also a serious contender for perfect summertime movies. Think about it. Think about the setting. It’s late. Late enough the sun has gone down. Popcorn is crackling. A crisp, cold soda (or pop if you’re a midwesterner like me) is open. Everyone huddles into the living room, the television lights up the darkness with its eerie glow, and you get swept up in a creepfest that extends the excitement and adrenaline of a pool or beach day. Monster movies are the freaking best.

I am convinced whatever has started sleeping next to me is not my wife.

It is difficult to say exactly when I came to this conclusion. An irrational conclusion, I know, but something in my mind is made up. Where do our fears come from, anyway? What yawning black pit in the depths of our fragile, human souls vomits forth the monsters haunting our footsteps? Death. Enclosed spaces. Public speaking. From what fetid womb are those little dreads born?

THE PULP

I’ve already burned a lot of words being neurotic about last issue’s essay, so let’s jump into what’s new.

Spooky story week! This is an older short story that arose from examining a weird feeling of dread I had coming back from the bathroom one night, climbing into the sheets and expecting something to be there next to me.

“It Was Not My Wife.”

Here’s the link for the story and the audio.

Have you ever walked through the produce aisle only to be violently accosted by an inner monologue concerning your own mortality?

            See. You get it.

            I suppose as a horror author, an aspect of this makes sense. My primary modality of writing tends to concern life beyond death, the supernatural, necromancy and all the accompanying nonsense. A nonzero part of my brain is, in some way or another, always preoccupied with thoughts of dying. Typically, it tends to revolve around the unfortunate ways my blessed main characters will meet a tragic demise. Occasionally, there’s spillover.

If you are new here (which most of you are considering this is all of the second week I have been doing this) and wondering what you got yourself into: I’m Skylar Dates, an independent horror author who writes Midwest Gothic. What you find here will often drift a bit — plus, you’re joining on an article week, so no scary stories until next edition— but there will always been chilly, rotted-out grist mill vibes right around the corner.

The diner was a lonely lighthouse on an ocean’s shore of highway on that sweltering, rainy night. The neon and chrome, relic of a bygone era, split the darkness and downpour, calling out to wayward souls like mine. ‘Here,’ it said, ‘is safety. Here is rest. Here is a shelter from the storm.’ And like untold other fools following the siren call of that architectural will’o’the’wisp, I listened.

Consider this The Lemonade Stand Massacre: Under New Management. You’ll find a mix of short form horror and creepy sci-fi, interspersed with essays on spooky stuff, writing craft, cool books, and the underlying philosophies that explore our need to stare into the void.