Eighteen tales on the lighter side of horror. Dyslexic witches, bumbling vampires, gelatinous blobs, and other creatures of the night battle with little girls in frilly dresses, twelve-year-old choir boys, grandmothers, and other unexpected monster hunters. Come explore the silliness of being afraid.
Genre: FICTION / HumorousI do okay with book sales especially when promoting. I recently took two years away from writing to pursue other things. I'm working to build up my sales again from that break.
So there we were, at the church, all dressed in our Sunday finery. The Thursday sun streamed through the stained glass, painting rainbows across the chapel. William Rutherford, the groom, fidgeted at the altar, nervous as a cat in a leaky rowboat. Old Mrs. Wilson tootled the organ, treating us to the same hymn preludes she’d played for every occasion for the last fifty years. Great-Aunt Tildie rested in her coffin in the Sunday School room. Cousin Lizzie primped in the bathroom, waiting for her grand entrance.
Aunt Marion, the mother of the bride, finally entered, bustling to her seat on the very front row. She adjusted her fussy blue hat, her fat little mouth pinched in a smile of smug satisfaction. Lyda Thompson Rutherford, mother of the groom, returned the smile with a grimace. How two feuding families had managed to arrange a wedding was beyond my twelve-year-old understanding.
I sweated in the choir loft with the other nine choir boys. We had a perfect view of the congregation from our perch on one side of the chapel.
“I wish she’d hurry up. I’m dying of heat stroke.” Frankie Tucker tugged his robe away from his neck.
Mrs. Wilson dropped the military march mid-chorus. She slammed into the opening chords of the wedding march. All ten of us boys craned our necks to see the grand entrance of Cousin Lizzie in her wedding do. The double doors crashed open.
Everyone stifled screams, except drunk Reverend Jim and blind Mrs. Wilson, at the apparition lurching into the chapel. Great-Aunt Tildie, sagging in her blue Sunday dress, shambled up the aisle. Cousin Lizzie’s white veil trailed from her sculpted white hair. The bridal bouquet wilted in her tightly clenched fists.
“She’s dead, ain’t she?” Frankie whispered.
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Italian
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Already translated.
Translated by Marzia Piras
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Portuguese
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Translation in progress.
Translated by Marcelo Mendes de Souza
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