GtPGKogPYT4p61R1biicqBXsUzo" /> Google+ W.I.P. it real good: William Blackwell shares his next project + giveaway | I Smell Sheep

Monday, February 19, 2018

W.I.P. it real good: William Blackwell shares his next project + giveaway

Deadly Parasomnias, William Blackwell’s work in progress

For over a month, I’ve been researching and writing blog posts on lucid dreaming and sleep disorders. I’ve covered nightmares, night terrors, sleep paralysis, sleep talking, sleep walking, even sexsomnia, a condition in which a person actually has sex in their sleep and wakes up with absolutely no recollection of it.

I‘ve uncovered some fascinating, factual and terrifying stuff.

Take, for example, the case of a Vancouver man who, after passing out at a party, was charged with sexual assault. He was later acquitted after the defense proved that he was a sexsomniac and therefore not responsible for his actions.

Then there’s the infamous case of the Toronto man Kenneth Parks who was charged with murder after police discovered his mother-in-law bludgeoned and stabbed to death in her home. There was no question Parks had committed the murder. But was he cognizant and therefore responsible for his actions? The defense was able to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Parks was sleep walking at the time. The result. Acquittal. Not guilty, by reason of sleep walking.

These true stories are shocking in their own right.

But perhaps what intrigued me the most was sleep paralysis, a condition that occurs during that transitional stage between waking and falling asleep whereby a person becomes completely immobilized. During these episodes, people may hear, feel, or see things that are absolutely terrifying and panic-inducing. They might be awake and aware of their surroundings, but otherwise completely frozen, leaving many to wonder if they’re actually dying, or even traveling out of their bodies.

Some have reported soaring through visually stunning colors and passing through a time warp and into another dimension. Many see the infamous Hat Man, a darkly cloaked shadow man with a wide-brimmed hat. Widely documented, some believe he is a powerful evil force who actually exists in another dimension.

Enter Noah Jansen, the troubled lead protagonist in Deadly Parasomnias, the working title for my new work in progress. Noah is plagued by a terrifying sleep paralysis that often invokes horrific images of the feared Hat Man. To his horror, he learns he also suffers from night terrors, sleep walking, sleep talking and even the dangerous and little-known condition called sexsomnia.

One morning he wakes up in his pickup truck in the middle of a grassy meadow with no idea of how he got there and no memory of the night before. It isn’t long before he learns two sexual assault charges have been filed against him and one of his enemies has been found brutally murdered. As the noose tightens around him, his life begins to unravel. He’s thrust into a battle to prove his innocence, preserve his precarious relationship with girlfriend, and confront the shadow man he believes is responsible for all the carnage—the elusive, mysterious and potentially evil Hat Man.

While everyone around him becomes convinced he’s losing his mind, Noah believes the Hat Man is not only real, but actually exists in a dangerous and deadly other dimension—one the Hat Man affectionately calls “the dead zone.”

Deadly Parasomnias will be released sometime this summer or early fall. And I’m really thrilled with its possibilities. 

Here’s a tantalizing teaser for your reading pleasure:
The muffled scream echoing eerily from the hallway leading to Noah’s bedroom wasn’t enough to stir Barbara Jansen from her couch-potato, channel-surfing position. With one hand, she reached into the glass bowl cradled on her lap and shoveled a mouthful of potato chips into her mouth, unaware of a few chips that spilled down her gray sweatshirt, one lodging in the crotch of her sweat pants, a few others spilling onto the couch. She grabbed the remote, adjusted her bulk, and turned up the volume. The crotch-trapped chip crunched into powder. Oblivious, she flicked the channel quickly six or seven times and finally stopped at Bride of the Monster, a 1955 B-grade cult horror film. She leaned back and grinned, exposing crooked, decaying and nicotine-stained teeth.

“Mooommmmy… heeeeeelp me!”

I expect Deadly Parasomnias to be a fact-based, “fun-filled” thriller. While you wait with baited breath, feel free to subscribe to news updates and receive a FREE copy of horror novel Resurrection Point, a gritty and macabre tale of resurrection and death.

Here’s the link:

Thanks for stopping by. I’ll see you in the tenth dimension. Don’t worry. It’ll be a riot.

Freaky Franky
by William Blackwell
December 3, 2017
Genre: Horror
Publisher: Telemachus Press
ISBN: ISBN-10: 1945330945
ISBN-13: 978-1945330940
ASIN: B077X41V9J
Number of pages: 326
Word Count: 66323
Cover Artist: Johnny Breeze
Santa Muerte followers discover the horrifying consequences of worshipping with evil intentions.

When an enigmatic town doctor saves the life of Anisa Worthington’s dying son, she abandons Christianity in favor of devotion to the cult of Santa Muerte or Saint Death. Some believe the mysterious skeleton saint will protect your loved ones; help in matters of the heart; provide abundant happiness, health, wealth and justice. But others, including the Catholic Church, call it blasphemous, evil and satanic.

Anisa introduces Saint Death to troubled Catholic friend Helen Randon and strange things begin happening. One of Helen’s enemies is brutally murdered and residents of Montague, a peaceful little town in Prince Edward Island, begin plotting to rid the Bible belt of apostates.

Anisa suspects Helen is perverting the good tenets of Santa Muerte but, before she can act, a terrible nightmare propels her to the Dominican Republic in search of Freaky Franky, her long-lost and unstable brother, who mysteriously disappeared without a trace twenty years ago.

To her horror, Anisa learns Freaky Franky is also worshiping Santa Muerte with evil intentions. As a fanatical and hell-bent lynch mob tightens the noose, mysterious murders begin occurring all around Anisa. Unsure about who’s an enemy and who’s an ally, she’s thrust into a violent battle to save her life as well as the lives of her unpredictable friends and brother.

I’m sick of being poor. Estella Mendoza peered out the misshapen window of her ramshackle home on the outskirts of the small city of Nacozari in Sonora, Mexico. All she saw was a barren and scorched landscape, the sun setting in the distant, bleak horizon. Her stomach was knotted by more than just hunger pangs. A sense of frustration and hopelessness was giving birth to desperation. A fly buzzed around her head and landed on her cheek, which was leathered, lined, and pock-marked by the cruelty of Mother Nature. Time had not been kind to her.

She smacked her face hard, squashing the pesky fly and smearing its blood and guts across her face and hand.

“Got you, you son of a bitch,” she said in Spanish, wiping her palm on the knee of her dirt-stained, torn jeans. She ignored the fly remains on her cheek, moving away from the screenless and paneless window and rummaging through dusty cupboards for a morsel of food. Nothing. A grease-stained, dented fridge door hung open, a small bowl of rice the only thing resembling nourishment on the otherwise empty shelves. Flies circled the rice, at times dive-bombing in for a small stale snack. Bending down, she reached inside, waved the flies away, and picked up the small bowl. Looking around the cluttered kitchen counter, she found a dirty spoon, wiped it on her tattered white t-shirt and, sidestepping debris littering the dirt floor, walked over to a green plastic lawn chair, weathered by the elements and cracking in various spots.

As she sat down, a brittle leg snapped, catapulting her headfirst into a wooden wall. The rice bowl flew out of her hands, shattering against the wall and showering her head with rice and shards of glazed earthenware. She hit the ground ass-first and groaned. “You son of a bitch.” Dazed, she rubbed a small goose egg beginning to sprout on her forehead. Realizing she still clutched the spoon, she flushed and flung it against the door. With a metallic clang, it bounced off the door and skipped along the floor, stopping a few inches from her outstretched feet. Her face tightened and she reached for it, with the intention of throwing it clear out the window.

A knock on the door stopped the arc of her arm. “Who is it?”

From the other side, she heard a female voice say in Spanish, “It’s me. Are you busy?”

Estella recognized the voice. Alejandra Rivera, her friend for over twenty years. Alejandra lived a few blocks away and in Estella’s view, she had everything. A middle-class home, a wonderful working husband, and a ten-year-old devoted and well-behaved son. Where Estella had famine, poverty, and despair, Alexandra had an abundant food supply, an income stream, love, and hope. Poison tentacles of jealousy and resentment coursed through Estella’s dazed mind. “What do you want?”

“I brought you refried beans. And rice.”

Estella got to her feet. “Come in.”

The door opened and Alexandra entered. “What happened?” she asked, concern furrowing her brow as she examined Estella and the accident scene.

Estella pointed to the shattered remains of the plastic chair leg. “It broke and sent me flying.”

“I’m sorry,” Alexandra said, putting the white bowl of beans and rice on a cluttered kitchen table and rushing to her friend’s aid. She escorted Estella to a nearby wooden chair, which looked slightly less dangerous than the offending plastic one, and sat her down. The chair creaked and groaned, but held.

Alexandra produced a plastic spoon from a blue apron attached to her white dress and handed it to Estella. “Eat. It’ll do you good.”

Estella peeled the plastic wrap from the spoon, tossed it on the floor apathetically, and stabbed the spoon into the food. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she waited a moment for her head to clear before digging in. She quickly shoveled three spoonfuls into her mouth and swallowed them, hardly chewing.

Alexandra looked at the bump on Estella’s head and searched her friend’s eyes concernedly. “Are you okay?”

Between mouthfuls, Estella said, “Yeah, just a little bump.”

“Well, be careful.”

As Estella ate, Alexandra approached the kitchen counter and began cleaning up, throwing food wrappings into a nearby wastebasket and neatly piling dirty dishes next to the sink. It wasn’t the first time she’d helped her starving friend by bringing her food and cleaning her humble abode.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Alexandra spun around and looked at Estella cheerily. “It’s not a problem. And look at you, you’re in no shape to do it right now.” She resumed cleaning, turning her back to Estella.

A blind rage—a dark and hateful energy—seethed through Estella’s veins. My chance. Now’s my chance. Before she even realized what she was doing, she leapt from the chair with a vitality and vigor she never knew she possessed, grabbed a hatchet, and rushed toward Alexandra. As Estella swung the hatchet, Alexandra turned around. Her jaw dropped in shock and horror as she looked at Estella with fear-filled brown eyes.

The hatchet sliced into Alexandra’s throat, blood spraying Estella’s face and body. Two more swings and she’d chopped Alexandra’s head clean off. The decapitated head dropped to the floor, rolled into the front door, and stopped. Almost as if she were pursuing her head, Alexandra’s headless body convulsed and, spewing blood like a lawn sprinkler, staggered to the door. She crashed into it and slumped to the ground, outstretched hands frantically reaching for her head for a second or two before growing still.

Estella put the hatchet on the kitchen counter and wiped her bloody face with a soiled dishrag. She sat down at the kitchen table and continued eating. She glanced at the lifeless head and body of her one-time friend. “By the way, thanks for the food.”

Two hours later, when night had blanketed the day, Estella clutched Alexandra’s head in both hands. She danced around a small skeleton statue, sprinkling blood on and around the shrine. Satisfied with her efforts, she put the head next to the statue, lit a candle, and placed it next to the skeleton. She knelt down and began praying for abundance. In the suffused candlelight, the skeleton saint’s hollow eye sockets glittered and glowed. Its grin seemed to mock her efforts and she realized there was more work to be done.

In the month that followed, Estella beheaded two ten-year-old boys, one of them her grandson, and sacrificed their blood to the skeleton saint. At the end of that month, she was convinced she had finally won the favor of her Goddess. On that day the police raided her home and discovered the bodies of all three victims buried beneath her dirt floor. She was sentenced to life imprisonment, showed no remorse for the killings, and authorities labelled her a serial killer. 

About the Author:
William Blackwell studied journalism at Calgary’s Mount Royal University and English literature at Vancouver’s University of British Columbia. He worked as a print journalist for many years before becoming an author. He has written over seventeen novels, mainly in the horror genre. Currently living on an acreage in Prince Edward Island, Blackwell loves to travel and write dark fiction.

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