Chad Hunter's H4 digital experience magazine

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The official Heart, Humor & Horror Digital Experience

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Fall 2014 - A look inside 4

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Also inside Welcome - 3 Editorial - 3 Hatching plans - 4 Excerpt: Black Parakeets -7 “He did the mash” - 14

Hatching Plans - A boy, a city and a parakeet

Who’s who in The Monster Man - 16

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Excerpt: The Monster Man - 18 Innerpeace - 23 Writers’ Top Ten - 24 The Writing Process - 24

Inner pieece - Find out what’s in store for The Innerwife

Gods and Monsters - Get an in-depth look at The Monster Man - King of Fools

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WELCOME

Hi and welcome to H4 - the Chad Hunter - Humor, Heart and Horror digital experience. First and foremost, I want to thank you for all of your support. Writers write, it’s almost like we have little choice but to create, type and start all over. But it is a true blessing to have an audience, to have people who read and enjoy the work. Regardless of the subject – the relationship tips of the Innerwife, the laughter of Black Parakeets or the terror of The Monster Man – it is the emotions, the commonalities in-between the written words the bind us all. So, once again, with absolute sincerity - thank you for connecting!

Sincerely, Chad Hunter

Writing - Too Short for Sports Actually I just sucked when it came to sports. But it was way before my lack of skills in school sports that I became a writer – even unbeknownst to me.

I was about five years old. It wasn’t catching ball or running that excited me. I wrote, penciled, edited and inked my first graphic novel. Actually, it was a piece of paper with a crayon stick figure with symbols for words for dialogue.

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It was straight up junk. But I can still remember the rush of creating something; the taste of breath on the other side of production. The first thing I had written was terrible crap but it was my first step.

In school, I was nowhere near a jock. I had no skills and I was always too short for sports anyway. I worked pretty hard at academics. But writing always came easy.

So to all you writers out there, it was not that you were too short for sports that led you to the word. You were already there.

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Hatching plans Black Parakeets Only Hatch in December was a success at several book events including the Hammond author Fair and the Lake County Public Library Author Fair.

The book’s description - If you’re not black and male, don’t read this book. But… …Do you have family? Or have you ever fallen in love? And then fallen on your face? If you and I are just color and gender, we have nothing in common. You shouldn’t buy this book. But have you ever feared, hoped, laughed until your ribs hurt and cried yourself sick?

Have you run the one major race: the human one and found yourself thinking “This is one crazy situation…” Do you love a good story? The kind that someone tells at a party and has you laughing out loud? Do you enjoy a modern tall-tale that makes you hold someone special a little bit closer? Then guess what? We have a lot in common, you and I. This book is for you. You may even feel it’s about you. You’ll find that no matter who you are and where you come from, you and I are not as different as we would think. And that being said, since I love a good story, so do you.”

Run a 5K and feel the pounding of every step, worried that you’re more tired than you hoped you’d be! Go on a blind date where the food is really the better part of your evening!

Laugh at elementary school moments, jump at the echo of possibly undead footsteps in the church next door, and cry when the news of a sudden death pulls your heart from your chest. Black Parakeets Only Hatch in December: A Black Man’s Exploration of Life, Love and Northwest Indiana is a collection of anecdotes and vignettes of life growing up in the urban city of East Chicago, Indiana. Nestled between the big city presence of Chicago and the gritty, misrepresented aura of Gary, East Chicago is a brew for a common life experienced uncommonly.

What is a Black Parakeet? LOL, I get that question a lot! A Black Parakeet is a representation of not only me but of someone growing up, maturing, going through and coming out on the other side – wiser, better and probably full of some head-shaking stories.

Where did the title come from? Ah, the other question I get. My father-in-law (before I married his daughter!) heard me on the phone with her and said I sounded like a parakeet (I was nervous and talking a thousand words a minute!) And I’m black and my birthday is in December. I was doing laundry one day and the book title came to me.

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TRIVIA – The book was originally titled “They Think my Name is Jack.”

What was it like to write about growing up in the Region? A blast. I got to relive a lot of great places and amazing people as I put memories to paper. I feel that the Region (Northwest Indiana – from Whiting to Gary and Merrillville) gets a bad rap unnecessarily. It’s easy for the news to focus on the crime, the gangs, the struggling economics but the good, solid people make the Region this unbelievable blast furnace which produces the kind of strong and good people like those I’ve been blessed to know.

When did you find time to write such a detailed book? Being an insomniac has its benefits.

What has been the biggest surprise now that Black Parakeets is done? There have been a couple. First, the fact that no one has come to me angrily asking “Is that me?” Still waiting for that. Second and more importantly, is the book’s ability to connect with people all over the board. That’s the whole point of the book – human connectedness.

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EXCERPT - Black Parakeets Only Hatch in December “A title we held with distinction” and “Ghosts and Rats” I always got that question thrown my way like I was the official rep of the city. That’s one of the two ways you could tell someone wasn’t from around the way. They were bewildered by the concept that my town had the legendary big Windy City in its name but was not in Illinois. The other tell-tale sign that someone was not a local was the obliviousness to the difference between the Harbor and East Chicago.

Same city but different places, sharing the

same zip code didn’t mean a thing.

East Chicago was the overall city’s name but to us Harbor kids it was also the dissimilar place over the bridge. It looked different, felt different and, much like Oz, was where the palaces where.

City Hall, the big restaurants and the biggest high school were in East Chicago. The Harbor had Guthrie, the skeleton of Main Street and the hospital.

The harbor was for function. East Chicago was for exhibit.

Weekdays as a Harbor Rat (a title we held with distinction) usually meant being in-doors and doing homework. Growing up in the 80’s we saw the spreading fears of kidnapping children shadow over playing until the streetlights snapped on. Of course, growing up across from a park made a lot of afternoons fun and on many occasions gave my mouth a taste of playground sand.

Sand crystals crunched between baby teeth.

Columbus Drive, Indianapolis Boulevard and Chicago Avenue were the big streets. Every other road begged to reach their regal status but never did. None of us spoke with reverence about Alder or Cardinal, Huish or Evergreen. They were kiddie streets yearning to stand next to their older and bigger siblings.

Columbus Drive was a good street to learn how to drive and a better street to learn how to cross.

It was the joining link between the Harbor and East Chicago. It was the link between us and the cops’ kids and the politicians’ alleged homes. Growing up, we rarely saw the politicians living in our neighborhoods.

Columbus had the Walgreens for us Rats and the ever-changing video store that became a check-cashing place and a tax joint. The drive’s main jewel was the Zel’s on the corner of Euclid.

Amazing roast beef sandwiches made any East Chicogoan’s mouth water.

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Chicago Avenue was a strange strip. You never really walked down its short sidewalks near the water tower or the numerous auto spots. It wasn’t a street where you really grew up on or lived.

It was a local business throat and we saw it when our parents drove for new tires or headed for other towns. The avenue was the smallest of the three and the least appreciated.

Indianapolis Boulevard was the big brother street. It didn’t run from point A to point B like most avenues. It lie (or lay) on my city with a immense regality that dared any to cross it, master it or deny what it was: the main valve to my town.

The street actually ran from Chicago, through East Chicago, Hammond, Munster, Highland, Schererville and so on. It was a spine, miles of cement, street stripes and stop lights. I had friends that lived on the behemoth rather than in neighborhoods. Businesses perched themselves on its edges; Garibaldi’s served comida all day and all night. Our only KFC successfully battled any little food shop that popped up next to it and the bigger McDonald’s shined golden arches at the outskirts of town.

Then there was Cline Avenue. It was the mother of all roads. For those of us who called Northwest Indiana home, Cline was the big league driving. The high-speed street allowed us to say we had driven the expressway while still quaking in the presence of 80/94 and Chicago’s monstrous arteries. The avenue even had its own phantom, the Lady of Cline. Chicago had its Resurrection Mary and every city with bathroom mirrors had Bloody Mary.

But the Lady was ours.

Every one of us knew the story but the details always changed. She was a woman in white, a ghostly traveler, who appeared every Halloween. At night, she would wait for a lover that never came. Instead she settled for some wayward traveler heading into the Harbor’s embrace. There was even talk that she would simply appear in your backseat, staring into the rearview mirror with dead eyes and an accompanying wolf or white dog.

In the junior high school next to Cline’s ramp, there were stories by the older kids of a teacher

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who died after her first day. Rumors ran that she shook chains and danced in apparition’s sheets in her old class, a room that supposedly was locked and never used.

That was my city, full of ghosts and Rats.

Franklin Elementary was a cocoon where we grew in hurried rushes, elongating class periods and seemingly nonexistent recesses. The school was an aging castle of red bricks, my older siblings had all three held court there in their youth. The only school for us Harbor Rats was Franklin unless you were a deep Harbor Rat. If you ran evening games near Elm Street and tried to chase the moon on Main Street, your school was most likely Field.

Kindergarten was the beginning of my bookish years. Depending on who you ask, I either never had those years or I never outgrew them. Mrs. Brown was an aged white woman who seemed to get older right before our eyes. Her class was never enjoyable and it was even worse on snow days. When white flakes fell from the sky, my mom placed me in a snow suit that required her, several NASA engineers and sixteen power tools to get into.

Somehow always a bit late, I would run from the car to the building in my all-purpose-environmental-Hazmat-snowsuit. However, with my brother’s scarf usually adorning my neck, I would find that even my Down-feathered-hobbling would allow the scarf to snag a Franklin El doorknob. I almost hung myself several times each winter with my horizontal bungee jump.

Next to Franklin was the little library with its brown-brick rectangle of a body and white roof top trim. Its parking lot was either always full or desert empty. It was there in the East Chicago Public Library where we would walk from our grade school and sit for our annual Halloween reading. They told us tales of spooks, specters and those haunting from the other world. They filled the Harbor with ghosts. The librarians would even dress up and wait for us. As we walked through the darkened aisles of books, some witch or warlock, mummy or monster would leap out and reach for us. At some peak of a story’s tale, some librarian in costume would jump out of nowhere. They screamed and so did we in response.

At our age, in the oily shadows, such moments bled raw terror. It was there that I fell in love with the holiday and its terrorizing trappings. It was also there that I fell in love with reading. That act alone, running my astigmatic eyes over pages and pages, cut me differently from the other kids.

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Somewhere it was decreed that minorities weren’t interested in education. Somewhere, minorities proved this to be true.

Our mom was a GRITS (Girl Raised in The South) longer than I knew what a grit was. I always thought it was a form of soupy rice. But I learned it was much more. She taught us about courtesy and faith, manners and beliefs. While the other kids would say “I ain’t” and “ain’t gonna’,” we were raised to speak as our education had taught us. We used g’s on our verbs and worked hard on pronunciation. Even with my early years’ stuttering, I still spoke the King’s English.

However, proper diction, in the ‘hood, was a guilty sentence-a sentence of “talkin’ white.”

“Talkin’ white” was a precursor to “actin’ white” and that led to “sell-out,” “Oreo” and every other statement that said you were ashamed of who you “really” were.

It meant you wanted to be something else.

In reality, all we wanted to be were just kids. Happy ones and, in making our mom proud, well-educated, well-mannered well-spoken ones.

By third grade my family dynamic had changed.

The divorce was almost final and we were preparing to move. That was a dark time.

Franklin was already becoming a memory soon to be replaced by Washington Elementary. It was a new school and new things for a 4th grader are viewed as clawing hands and hissing faces.

I even had to leave my adolescent crushes behind: “KD” with her caramel skin and thin face was quite the angel…well, a fallen one. She was my kindergarten bully and left a scar on my wrist where she dug her nails. But I thought she was cute.

There was also Sonia who was my intellectual equal if not better. I was drawn to that plus she had a little cleft in her chin. I moved and left to an advanced academics class. Even worse, I left Franklin and its students. But even better, I left Mrs. Yuks and her gossip. Rumors of my family’s woes hung fat from her thin lips and even more skeletal body. The witch cackled secrets about us even as I lined up on the last day.

Perhaps the move was for the best.

We moved across town, jumping from Butternut Street to a little house on Hemlock. That house was a Godsend as it was the best mom could find. Better yet, it was the best we could afford. I first saw the house on an October night with fall winds whipping and howling around the car.

My family (minus my father of course) was painting the front of this new place.

Its windows seemed bigger, much larger than the glass on our old house. But this one was shrouded, not helped at all by the fall night and the whirlwind leaves. The side of the house begged for some type of lighting but did not receive it. A dark side led to an even darker backyard. Old country laundry lines ran like spider webs. October’s dying trees gushed sap and steel posts leaned in decrepit cemented blocks.

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Inside, the house was full of new rooms, dark rooms. The basement was unfinished and ended with a coal room and little doors in the walls. I was nine and all those horror movies were tumblers in my mind unlocking hyperactive imaginings. However, the new house did have more shadows than I’d ever seen. Each one promised terror but never delivered. Yet that’s the worst (or best) exercise of horror: anticipation.

This place had become home.

For three years, we had the same teacher at Washington El. In the Advanced Academics (the “AA” class) we studied and read more than other children our age. Those years were formative.

However, not all forms are good ones.

It seemed each of us was just a bit…off. Maybe the price for being “gifted” or maybe just products of our environment. Every day, in the morning and afternoon, we were regular kids. We played and marked the light on Euclid and 142nd as end-zones or safety marks for games of tag.

We talked about the previous day’s episode of Transformers and Thurdercats, My Little Pony and Jem and the Holograms. We also wondered what went on in the GATX warehouse that rose up where 142nd ended.

But when the bell chimed, we went to class. The AA kids separated from the others and went to the room that was different. We sat with 5th and 6th graders, we read SRAs for higher learning and we watched movies like “Gandhi” and debated socio-economics.

Somewhere in all that educational atom-smashing, girls were chased and boys were allowed to pursue. We waited for Fall and jumped in leaves that gathered on the school’s lawn. Dead foliage crunched under our bodies, safety patrols yelled at our mess. Washington Park was across the street, kitty-corner and it told us that the year’s days were fleeting as we could see walkers in the park. They went from short sleeves to long sleeves, from jackets to coats.

Time seemed to crawl and run at the same time. I guess we did the same.

Once we had outgrown the crumbling gray and yellow striped parking lot of Washington Elementary, it was on to Block Junior High.

As I grew and moved through the city’s educational ladder, it always seemed a balanced blend of colors.

There were black kids- I knew this because I was one of them. There were Page 10

Hispanic kids; they instructed me early on their culture, their differences and our similarities. There were even white kids, descendants of the older Polish generation that carved East Chicago from steel mills and industry.

Although at times, it seemed as if the city had been carved from out of them.

It was the adults who saw we were different, the black, the white and the brown. We saw each other as just other kids, other students, other likers of Optimus Prime and Trapper-Keepers, New Edition and “We Are the World.”

More often than not, in my town, you weren’t a color first, you were from East Chicago before anything else. It wasn’t Utopia, we had our issues but first and foremost, to me, we were all Region Rats. Every kid was a little black, a little brown and a little white. He or she had feasted on fried chicken from someone’s mama, tacos from someone’s tia and perogies from some one’s babcia.

In the shadow of Washington High School, I would grab a ride over to Block. It was the reunion of so many from Franklin that I thought I knew. We had all grown up a bit and grown apart a lot.

It was the way of things.

As a Block Charger, my portly pubescent body and Lot-like acne did little to make me “one of the crowd.” I believe it was there that my love for reading was hammered, forged and sharpened.

Books didn’t poke, pick or persecute.

The East Chicago kids, those that lived on the other side of the two lane bridge that every driver made four, went to Westside junior high. It seemed newer, better, brighter than Block. Our junior high seemed dark, bleak and covered in dying yellow and decaying green. It felt like they had more. Had better. They had bigger and newer schools. They had the shops and stores of the boulevard.

They had city hall and were closer to the mall. We had the track that separated us from Franklin’s lawns and the eerie back lot that, at night, covered over in ebony and showed you nothing.

The rear of the school led right up to Cline Avenue.

Right up to the Lady in White.

Through my two years, Block would exhibit the best of teachers hand-in-hand with showing me the worst. Mr. Smithson was the best History teacher ever. A self-proclaimed “Big Swede,” he wrapped the world’s past inside his southern twang and made it new. It was as if Founding Fathers fought for the first time and Great depressions were falling now rather than ninety years ago.

Mrs. Sulpher was our reading teacher and Mrs Kenna taught us speech. Mr. Gorgos punched Algebra into us even when our brains refused. He was nice in one-on-one. In class though, he was by the book, no-joke and even had a little Captain Kirk hair poof. Occasionally, he’d screw up my Page 11

name and call me “Todd” or “Chet.”

The worst was our gym teacher, Coach Mantle. He was a short man who snarled not only with every word but with every step. He felt a responsibility to break us. To make us submissive through laps around the track. He barked at us to line up and one day, while I strained to run laps, he bawled me out. Why? Because he could. He and I locked horns. That was as lippy as I had ever gotten.

I talked back to a teacher and it brought mom out to the school.

For a young male, your mother coming out to school was the last thing you wanted. If you were in the wrong, you were going to die. You were going to perish during a violent beating. The last thing you’d see would be rollers (or curlers), some half-buttoned winter coat and your mother’s snarling face. If it was a Big Momma, you would die on the spot, right there in front of your classmates. Probably death from a house shoe.

If you were in the right, you wanted to die. Your mother coming out to fight your battles gave you days and days of ridicule. Every boy had it happen, he was the prey. Every boy saw it happen, he was the predator. The roles switched but we all took turns being the wolf or the lamb.

Mom came out to the school and, suited up with armour and mace, went to war with the vice-principal and Coach Mantle. Mantle was a bully to we the husky and heavy-set. But to Mom, he was a tin tyrant and that day tin did rust.

Mom had her war in the school office. I was defended and I was vindicated.

But it was nice waiting for my exoneration. While the appointment on the battlefield with Mom and the school approached, I had missed gym for several days after my conflict. I found Heaven in Block. No poking, no picking and no persecution.

Then the situation was resolved. And I went back to physical educational Hell. But Coach Mantle never bothered me again.

After we Harbor Rats wore our green and gold robes, we prepared for East Chicago Central High School. Washington High and its competition Roosevelt had long been closed, condemned and demolished.

This would be the forced integration of both the East Chicago kids and us Harbor Rats. Thus we repeated the cycle one last time, going from kings and queens to serfs and servants. We had heard the term “freshman” but never knew exactly what it entailed.

Both Harbor Rat and EC kid shook at the thought.

Sometime later, I like to think Chicago had adopted me a little. I’ve spent enough time combing Page 12

its catacomb streets and maze-like alleys. I’ve even found myself comfortably cruising the Presidential highways, the Kennedy and the Eisenhower.

I’ve thrown myself into the neighboring giant’s arteries.

But even still, whether I live in Indiana, Illinois or on the moon, I’ll know where to get the best roast beef sandwich in town. I’ll run tag to the streetlight on Euclid and 142nd. I’ll greet with “mucho gusto” and dance polka.

And there will always be the Lady of Cline, all ghost and all Rat.

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“He did the mash…”

This Fall, I’m proud to announce the release of The Monster Man – King of Fools. The book’s description - Damian Malachi is a best-selling horror writer. He is also a loving husband and dedicated father. However, Malachi holds a dark secret. Twenty years ago, as a young boy, he disappeared for two days. His parents and police searched for the lost child only to have him reappear at the front door of his home with unexplainable scars, a slight amount of growth and a sense of tragedy behind his eyes.

What no one knows is that in the forty-eight hour absence, Damian experienced five years in the colorless world of Sanctuary, a place much like our own world except the monsters that we have seen in black-and-white movies and books are real. More than that, the monsters in Sanctuary had won. Mankind was extinct.

In Sanctuary, Malachi discovered a dark prophecy - One of the five green shards of a crystal, the Walestone, enabled him to tap into the stone’s other five recipients - the lumbering Frankenstein’s Monster, the savage Werewolf, the feral Fish-Man, the enigmatic Mummy and the tyrannical Dracula. Trained by the poetic and repentant Igor and the now-vampiric Dr. Van Helsing, Malachi became the Monster Man - a chimera of all the monsters and their greatest threat. After a brief war, Damian returned home and grew up knowing that the old movies and books were not fiction but warnings. And now, two decades later, in Malachi’s own world, the war with horror has begun again. Three boys have gone missing in the exact same fashion as Damian did when he was a child. Additionally, creatures have found their way into Malachi’s home, threatening his wife and son. Now, Damian must go back to the world that stole him away once and never left him the same.

What is the Monster Man? The Monster Man is the alter ego of writer/family man/adventurer Damian Malachi.

Malachi’s reluctant war against Dracula and his forces are the main driving theme behind the books, comics, etc. The Monster Man – King of Fools (MM – KoF) opens up a new world full of classic characters.

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What compelled you to write it? The image, the look had been with me for years. He was originally supposed to be an opponent for Jonathan Portray, the Parannihilator. Since Portray hunted monsters, this chimera of their skills seemed like a great idea. And it never went away. But it didn’t fit with Jonathan.

Years later, my son was saying he couldn’t sleep and that there was a monster in his room. So I thought what if it really was something and then daddy was something also. So hand-in-hand with my love of classic monsters, the Monster Man was born.

What was your favorite part of writing The Monster Man? Revisiting old “friends” – Dracula, Frankenstein’s Monster, etc. MM – KoF is like a time machine.

There was a lot that I learned about the people behind the classic movies, original novels, etc. The education was great.

Who is your favorite monster? You know, my favorite monster as I was growing up was Universal Studios’ classic creature The Gill-Man from The Creature from the Black Lagoon, Revenge of the Creature and the Creature Walks among Us. There was something about his (or it, still not sure) alien detached approach that always intrigued me. The Gill-Man had no maker to explain his ways, he couldn’t speak, and there was no one to explain his inner dialogue. As a writer, even as a shorty, that popped my head off. But I can’t leave out Dracula who is amazingly and truly immortal and timeless. He can be portrayed as just a bloodthirsty predator or as an extension of pure evil itself. I like ‘em both!

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“Sanctuary, Sanctuary!!!”

With such a giant, larger than life cast, even the best monster-hunter could use a guide to who’s who in The Monster Man - King of Fools

Damian Malachi / The Monster Man - Husband, father - Monster. With the combined powers of Dracula and the monsters, he is the last line of defense against the darkness.

Dracula - The leader of the monsters and Lord of the Vampires. Dracula led the horrors against mankind...and won.

The Mummy - Ressurected pharoah and Lord of the Dusted. When archaeolgists were unable to stop the king, he raised pyramids all over the world. Aided Dracula in defeating humanity.

Frankenstein’s Monster - Ruler of the Bolted.

After failing to die in the Arctic with his creator, the Monster returned with an unquenchable thirst for revenge. Dracula sought his power out quickly.

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The Fish-Man - The inhuman ambhibious leader of the Icyths. A living myth that was unknown until prodding scientist provoked its wrath. With the Fish-Man’s armies, the Five were able to destroy many coastal cities without warning.

Dare to visit Sanctuary? Click below for more!

The Werewolf - Heads the global pack of curse Lupos. When the Gypsy and her clan were unable to end a man’s curse, he turned his revenge into a storm of claw and fang - killing untold numbers and cursing even more to his fate.

The Tarantula - After the Great War between man and monster, this gargatuan arachnid crawled out of a bottomless chasm in the American Southwest and devoured anything and everything in its sight.

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EXCERPT - The Monster Man - King of Fools “Where are we?”

“Wait here. Igor and I will circle around and find out what’s following us. Stay here, Damian. You’ll...be fine.” With that, the Doctor and the Hunchback were gone.

Malachi stood in the dark clearing. Blackness was around him in thickness so great he could not see past the trees.

The woods moved. The shadows came alive. Ten year old Damian Malachi stood surrounded. These were the creatures from his parents’ television. These were the things from his toy collection and posters up on walls. These were monsters and unlike those on his dresser and toy chest; these were real.

“D-d-doctor?” There was nothing that came back. No answer back from the Dutchman.

“Igor?” Equal silence returned his call. But there were sounds - just not those of wouldbe saviors.

There was a growling growing to his left. Damian turned and saw two wolf-like creatures crouched over and moving with massive limbs and claws. They were taking their time approaching; moonlight set fires in their amber lupine eyes.

There was a hissing sound to his right. Malachi turned to see two pale, red-eyed things, a man and a woman. They bared clenched teeth at the boy and he saw long fangs shine with wetness. They reached out to him with sharp fingers. The two were floating towards him and his throat. Damian felt something hit him. Yet it was not the night’s denizens surrounding him. It was something else. Something altogether different. This blow was not from his right or left but from inside.

In a far off pyramid, a sarcophagus slid open.

A king was waking.

Malachi fell to his knees. The blow was like a massive fist, a giant punch from within his body. Instead of one strike, it repeated. Again and again like a drum - his heart was crashing against his ribs. His lungs were swelling and pushing out all the air around him.

Under a full moon, a forest exploded.

A feral force of primal power howled to life.

Damian’s skin tingled and then burned with an unknown crawling like a thousand bites pulling on his flesh.

In an isolated castle, lightning crackled and struck a tower.

A scientist’s nightmare was coming to life.

He looked down through the pain. His eyes felt as if they were pushing out from his skull Page 18

and with the fading light in his vision, he saw the necklace on his chest change. The chained item he gained crashing through some jewel in the sky, the small metal and green crystalline talisman he could not get rid of - opened. Light danced inside of it and exploded. Damian tried to cover his eyes but his body would not respond.

In an exotic swamp, water bubbled and erupted in a geyser.

An ancient beast returned from fossilized dreams.

Then it was over. Malachi felt no more discomfort. He rose up from the ground and saw the werewolves and the vampires do something he could not imagine - they took a step back.

The boy was gone. He looked down with new eyes and a vision that was layered in multiple phases of perception. His ears gave him every sound of Sanctuary’s night. His hands were now large and paw-like. Fur covered his body save for where it was shrouded in the wrappings of old bandage and a tight black body-suit. The necklace was gone and a gold batlike emblem protruded from his chest.

With his new clawed hands, Damian felt his face. He had a large head with pointed ears, a mane of fine fur and a snout. His nose elongated to a point and consisted of two skeletal slits.

Malachi’s eyes set back in his face - and they burned with green power - like that of the necklace.

“---what?” And the voice was not Damian’s pre-pubescent pitch. It was deeper, doubled and had an echo to it that rumbled.

The werewolves leapt at him and instinct kicked in. The boy-turned-monster spun out of their attack. He was a blur in movement. With massive claws, he reached and caught the creatures in mid-leap and hurled them against nearby trees. They howled out as the trees broke in their impact. The two lupine creatures did not return. One other one looked at what used to be a boy and then scampered off.

The vampires hissed and billowed up towards Malachi-not-Malachi in a furious row of smoke and flap of bat wings. Damian himself spun into a pillar of dark mist and hurtled into the approaching night-children. The meeting was explosive and the wolf-bat-bone creature Damian had become solidified in victory. He returned to form in spinning motion and threw both vampires into the far off distance of the woody shadows.

The entity that had taken the place of Damian’s body fell to its knees. It panted, it breathed and it exhaled slowly. With the last breath, the massive form returned to that of the ten year old boy.

“Doctor,” came a familiar voice from the side, “It is HIM!” Damian wiped sweat from Page 19

his brow. His body ached as he turned to see Igor standing next to Van Helsing. The doctor’s burning eyes were wide open. His mouth slightly agape.

“My God...” whispered the Dutchman, “It is him.”

Malachi looked at his mentors. He suddenly frowned.

“You left me here!”

Damian leapt and he was gone again. When he landed, the massive beast he had become had returned. This time, it held both the doctor and the hunchback by the throat and several feet off the ground.

“D-Damian...lis---listen to me---!” The words struggled out as Van Helsing’s throat was being crushed by the young boy in his newfound form. There was fury in his amber eyes. His jaws whined with the squeezing of fangs and maw together.

Igor was doing his best to pull the doctor loose but to no avail. “Master Damian!” the hunchback pleaded. “No! No! Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord!”

“YOU LEFT ME,” the monster formerly known as Damian Malachi growled. His claws were digging into the doctor. Sooner than later, Van Helsing would die again.

“You---you---leave me---no choice----Sorry, D--D--Dam---” With his apology still fresh in the air, the Dutchman flicked a sharp nail across one of his fingers and smacked the lupine face of Malachi’s transformed body.

Damian dropped Abraham Van Helsing. It was more from shock than from the slap.

Malachi flicked Igor off to the side.

“You slapped me?” The creature rumbled, “You almost got me killed and now you-slapme?”

Mighty paws slammed into the ground as Malachi stormed his way over to the undead doctor.

“There was no other way, Damian,” Van Helsing huffed, holding his throat. “For our kind and anyone with our traits, the blood is the life...it is also...the past.” Abraham held up his hand and showed Damian the slit where he had cut himself. His palm oozed blood - the same crimson liquid that ran down the snout of Malachi and into his mouth. The slap was a delivery.

The blood - information.

“Learn, Damian,” Van Helsing whispered as the monster before him blinked and staggered. It fell to its knees.

“Ungh....” Malachi groaned, holding his head, closing his eyes. “What did---you---what did you do to me? What’s happening?”

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Van Helsing sighed. He approached the struggling Malachi, slowly. But he still approached. He placed a hand on the massive back trembling.

“You’re learning.”

Elsewhere, in another castle, this time, perched high atop a mountain range, cobwebs and shadows filled a throne room.

In the darkness, a coffin - ornate and crested with royal seal - lay amongst three others.

It slid open and a clawed hand burst forth.

A massive ring adorned the ring finger, it had the letter “D” upon it.

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“Writing Dracula is a challenge. The character has a ton of history to draw from. I wanted to come from the angle of a powerful soldier, a warrior general who, at some point, had to call on something bigger than himself. Maybe for power.

Maybe to protect his people. And, in his mind, whatever he was hoping for never happened. He never got the miracle or help he felt he deserved.

So he went from Divine might to absolute evil. It’s like, next to God, evil listens to your cries for help the most - To seduce. To corrupt.

He’s the tyrant who sees only his vision as the vision for the world.

For me, Dracula is this warlord/politician/extension of evil. But he’s restless. When all you know how to do is how to conquerer, what do you do when you’ve won absolutely?”

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Innerpeace - Fans ask - “Where’s the Innerwife and what did you do with her?”

A little over a year ago, we ended Real Talk with the Innerwife, one of the premier internet radio talk shows on relationships. It was not an easy decision but it was time for change...and change is here!

Coming in 2014/2015, the Innerwife will begin ground-breaking workshops, both live and virtual!

The first of our workshops will focus on wedding planning, its stress points, solid talking points and a couple’s boiling point!

Stay tuned and thank you to all the Innerwife fans for reminding us of the positive impact we’ve had!

Good life, good love!

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Top Ten – Leaves, the pen and the monster With Fall around the corner, one can’t help but think about Autumn, Halloween – and with the Monster Man – King of Fools due for release, I can’t help but think of monsters. Here are ten quotes from the greats to inspire, enlighten and frighten!

1. I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house. Nathaniel Hawthorne 2. We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master - Ernest Hemingway 3. You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. - Ray Bradbury 4. “Denn die Todten reiten Schnell. (For the dead travel fast.)” - Bram Stoker, Dracula 5. All writing comes by the grace of God. - Ralph Waldo Emerson 6. “First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys.” - Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes 7. If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear! - Mary Shelley 8. “Suddenly the day was gone, night came out from under each tree and spread.”

- Ray Bradbury, The Halloween Tree 9. “Blood!...Blood!... That's a good thing! A ghost who bleeds is less dangerous!” - Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera 10. Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places. - H. P. Lovecraft

Write Here - Help with the Process How do you write? Writers all work differently but there are some common tips that could help us all. Here’s a few recommendations for putting word to paper (or keyboard, smartphone, etc.)

• Coffee – A must, especially for late-night writers. Sometimes you need the sweet, swift kick of caffeine to pout those keys. Also never write hungry. I like snacks (healthy ones and not-sohealthy) near me as I write.

• Quiet (or music) – some writers have to have pin-drop silence for the words to flow. Others fall back on music as the background. I’ve found either smooth jazz, EDM or the clattering of a coffee house helps me flow.

• Find your beach – A family member once told me that – you gotta’ find your beach. When you find that place that reinvigorates you, capture it. That’s the place (or vibe) that you need to include in your writing process. The place that soothes you and puts you in the zone – coffee shop, library - Remember it, reproduce it.

• Muses – Major part of the process. When writing Monster Man – King of Fools, I had classic horror monster action figures right next to me. Have music, books, pictures, whatever nearby to keep your creative flames stoked.

• Write – Oh yeah…do that too!

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Thank you for reading! For more information, please go to www.hunterchad.com My personal thanks to the following for their help with this newsletter – Kmartinez – Launch Team Jhollywood – Design and concept Awallace – Interview and additional content Stay tuned for more H4 and what’s new in humor, heart and horror!

Chad Hunter

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