Monday Music Rewind: “You’re All I Need” Mötley Crüe

Cool little post about one of my favorite Crue songs.

Duck Duck Gray Duck

"You're All I Need" Mötley Crüe

“You’re All I Need” is a Mötley Crüe song written by Nikki Sixx and Tommy Lee, released on the albumGirls, Girls, Girls.

The song was praised byJon Bon Jovias “the best ballad Mötley Crüe have ever written”. When informed of this Nikki Sixx laughed because of the gruesome meaning behind the song.

The song is about a girlfriend that Nikki Sixx had who he believed cheated on him with Jack Wagner, an actor on General Hospital, who had a song out called “All I Need”. Nikki switched the purpose of it and wrote his version and gave it to his girlfriend. Sixx wrote the song with no intention of recording it, but the rest of the band praised the song and it was recorded for the Girls, Girls, Girls album. In Nikki’s book The Heroin Diaries, there is a journal entry from the time…

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TRICK OR TREAT: HALLOWEEN WORM (Original short story)

Halloween is just around the corner. One of the things I like to do is find creepy little short stories to swallow down between watching horror flicks and catching up on great horror books like John Everson’s THE PUMPKIN MAN or Bryan Smith’s ALL HALLOW’S DEAD

I was looking through my collections by various writers and picked four stories that I wanted to pass along to you. Each one will sneak under your flesh in their own loving, squirming way. From an author who goes somewhere he never should have, to a boy and his parent’s special house guest, to a reporter who finds out the truth about the Dalton Doll Company, and then to some kids who want to lose the weirdo their parents are making them bring trick or treating.

I love these stories so much.

Feel free to comment on these ones or make you own suggestions.

Recommended reading:


“Best New Horror” by Joe Hill  (From 20th Century Ghosts)

“The Man Upstairs” by Ray Bradbury (From The October Country)

“The Harbinger” by Todd Keisling  (From Ugly Little Things Vol. One)

“The House on Cottage Lane” by Ronald Malfi  (Available for 99 cents from Amazon)


I also figured I’d share one of my own Halloween stories with you. A couple years ago, I put out my collection, SLUSH.  “Halloween Worm” is one of the last stories that made its way in. I’m glad it did. This is a fun little number. I hope you like it.


“Halloween Worm” was originally published in my short story collection, SLUSH. Copyright © Glenn Rolfe 2014



Art by Tracy Hawkins

“Halloween Worm”

    “Eat shit, Keith!” I picked up my little sister’s Barney pillowcase and scavenged as much candy as I could see in the darkened dirt lot beneath my feet. Franky had insisted on not cutting through the field, but I knew it would get us back to my house in time to catch AMC’s annual showing of Halloween. The field skirted Paul’s Pick-A-Part, a sort of vehicular organ donor center two roads over from mine. Franky had warned me about it being too close to Holt Street and its number one bad boy, Keith Dennis, but I let my love for Michael Myers override the undercurrent of dread that flowed at the dumb ox’s name, and now, here we all are.

Keith Dennis was a bully in the purest sense. Ugly as a dog gone mad from rabies. His face, with its too wide nose, fat lips that clung like leeches to his mouth, and a bad acne scar that flared on his left cheek like some horrible explosion in the cosmos, looked pure mean. The guy had a natural born instinct to single out kids half his size, throw some dumb insults about how their friends are their butt-buddies, and a rotten gift that allowed him to take and break the amazing glow sword that you busted your butt making from pure ingenuity (something guys like Keith Dennis couldn’t spell, let alone appreciate) just because he’s an asshole.

“What’d you say to me you little shit?” Keith said. He held the broken handle of my sword, dropped his own bag of candy, and stepped forward.

My guts turned, my voice of reason whimpered I told you so, but as my eyes landed upon the now non-glowing plastic blade lying in the dirt behind this jerk, the part of my genetic make-up that got me in trouble with guys like Keith Dennis did the unthinkable. Next to one of the bite-sized Snickers bars that had escaped my candy sack, there was a smooth, oval rock the size of my fist. Before I had time to consider the consequences, I snatched the mini-boulder, jumped to my feet, and cracked Keith across the temple with it. He stumbled backward, dropped the handle of my broken sword, and held his head. A thin trickle of dark liquid seeped through his fingers.

I looked over at Franky whose eyes were as big and bright as the full moon over our heads, and said, “Run!”

The blood gushing from Keith’s head as he pulled his giant mitt away from the wound birthed an outright sense of oh shit-panic, and spurred my need to escape. The fluorescent light I’d carefully placed inside the plastic blade of my sword crunched beneath my sneakers. I grabbed Franky by his ten dollar Dracula cape, and made for the dull lights of Holt Street.

“Dan, Dan, shouldn’t we tell somebody to…I don’t know help him?” Franky’s voice never sounded so whiny.

We hit the pavement, our sneakers slapping as we moved toward the first house, Mrs. Bean’s. “Just shut up, Franky,” I said. “You want me to get in trouble?”

“No, but–”

Headlights cut the darkness as blue lights swirled to life.

    Oh shit, oh shit!

“Is that Dan Trask and Franky Taylor?”

Officer Gilchrist. Grade A hard ass, and all around fuck-hole.

He stepped out of the car, lights still whirling through the night, and walked our way as we stopped and tried to catch our breath.

“Where you boys coming from, tonight?”

    Think, think, think…

“They were with me. I fell back there by the lot, and they were running to get help.”

It was Keith, but he didn’t look…right.

“Ain’t that right, guys?” he said. Keith stepped up to my side, and placed one of his bear like arms around my shoulders.

Franky would have looked pale as the undead even without the make-up.

“Ah, yeah, we thought he was…hurt,” I managed. I felt Keith’s thick fingers press into my arm.

“Wanna tell me what you boys were doing down by Paul Meacham’s scrapyard?”

“Just kid’s stuff. Throwing rocks at the old beaters,” Keith said. “One bounced right back and hit me in the head. I got a little queasy when I saw the blood, but I’m okay.”

“I could bring you boys in tonight for throwin’ rocks down there,” Officer Gilchrist said.

He could, but he wouldn’t.

“I know Officer, but we didn’t break anything. Honest. We just wanna finish trick-or-      treating and get home for some scary movies. Please don’t tell my dad,” I said. I knew I sounded like a little wussy boy, but Keith’s story was better than mine. Besides, there was shame in being driven home in a cop car, but dealing with Keith Dennis, well, that was just a matter of manning up and taking what you got coming.

“All right, but if I catch you boys back down here tonight, you’re all going in.”

“Yes sir,” Keith and I said in unison. I could see a grin, a just you wait grin, dance onto his ugly face.

The big lug kept me muckled to his side as we watched Officer Gilchrist drive away.

“Hey Franky,” Keith said.

Poor Franky looked over with eyes that begged not to be hurt. “Yeah?”

“Get the fuck outta here. Me and your boyfriend got some man-to-man business to deal with.”

Franky’s eyes met mine, and I nodded. He didn’t deserve the beatdown, I did. The empathy in his pleading eyes was good enough for me.

Keith and I stood like best buds, butt-buddies as he would say. I watched Franky skulk down the sidewalk, his small shadow bouncing along after him beneath the streetlamps. The lump in my throat threatened to choke me.

Before I had a chance to try and talk my way out of the maximum pain sentence Keith Dennis loved to dole out to his victims, his McGregor’s swept my feet from under me as he yanked the hood of my sweatshirt backward. I slammed onto the sidewalk, the wind from my lungs released faster than a rocket pass from Peyton Manning.

“I got something special for you, Trask,” he said. He dropped one fat knee atop my chest and fished around in his Halloween sack. He pulled out an orange prescription bottle. He uncapped it and wiggled something into his hand.

My eyes landed on the thing that squirmed between his fingers. A worm.

“This was in my Candy Apple from Mr. Danson’s house. You know that crazy old fuck on Emerson Road? He denies it, but my Uncle Jerry told me that fucker’s a sex offender, a child rapist. I ain’t scared of no pederast, so I knocked on his door last year. He gave me a candy apple. The sick bastard grinned like he wanted to suck my stump right then and there.”

I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, and I never prayed so hard to see Officer Gilchrist in my whole life.

“I took that candy apple, opened it as I was walking down his shitty cat infested porch steps, and ate it on my way to the next house. I never looked back, but I could feel his creepy boy-fucking eyes on the back of my head.”

Keith looked like he was in the middle of a dream. I could see his eyes glisten in the street lights as he looked at the trees behind us.

“You see this fucking hole in my cheek?” he said. A more natural hatred fixed his eyes.

I did see the mark on his face. The one I thought was a bad acne scar.

“My ma took me to the emergency room that night.” He paused, a tear slipped from the corner of his right eye. He sucked in two quick breaths through his wide nose, trying to hide a hitch. “I could feel something tearing at the inside of my mouth all night. I was trying to enjoy Terror Train, but this, this thing, kept chewing at me. I thought it was some kind of bad canker. I tried to lie down and go to sleep, and I dozed right off with the screams coming from the TV. I opened my eyes an hour later, reached for my face and felt the blood…and then the hole. I didn’t bother looking at it. I just ran to my ma’s room and pulled her outta bed. She got us down to the ER where they got me right in.” He stopped, and stared at the thing between his fingers. It wiggled hello.

“This is what the Doc pulled outta my mouth that night, except, it wasn’t moving. He told me it was dead. I asked him if I could have it. I was gonna torture it, dead or not. But after they patched up my face, and I got home, it began to move. I wanted to crush it, spill its guts, but I had a thought. I was gonna get that fucking pervert. I knew it was him.”

Captivated by his story, I couldn’t remember my own fear. His cheek was still discolored, but you couldn’t tell it had ever had a hole in it.

He grabbed me by the front of my sweatshirt with his free hand. My fear returned in spades.

   Oh God, don’t let him make me eat that thing…

“Stop acting like a queer,” he said. He dropped the worm back into the little orange pill bottle and capped it. “That old man’s getting his payback, and you’re gonna help me.”

“What? Why me?”

He let go of my sweatshirt and stood back up. “Cuz I ain’t got anybody else. I got no real friends. And you owe me for hitting me with that goddam rock.”

He had me there.

“So, we doing this now?” I said.

“Fucking right we are.”

We set out. Neither of us said another word until we reached Emerson Road.

Mr. Danson’s house and its cat littered porch, sat in complete darkness. By way of bad omen, the street lamp next to his pervert shack went out.

We both looked up.

“Fuck it,” Keith said. “Come on. He’s getting his little friend back whether he wants it or not.”

I followed. Our candy sacks had been left behind. Keith carried the little prescription bottle with the odd cheek-eating worm in his hand as he led the way around the abandoned house next to Danson’s and into the old man’s backyard.

The night seemed dead: no cars, no children, and no wind. The hairs stiffened on the back of my neck. I wondered if Mr. Danson was waiting for us.

“Hold this,” Keith said. He handed me the bottle with the awful Halloween worm.

I tried to protest, but he grunted and glared at me. I took the little orange bottle with the white label.

“I’m going to walk around front and knock on his door.”

“What?” I said, louder than I meant to.

“Shhh. He’s gonna open up just like last year, and I’m gonna slam his ass to the ground. Once I rough him up a little, I’m gonna let you in the back. Then we’ll give him what’s his.”

It was a shit plan–a damn, shitty plan–but he was up and off before I could say so. I listened, hearing his footsteps around the house, crunching leaves the old man hadn’t cared to rake from under the tree hanging over the corner of his house like some sort of giant spider. After a few seconds, I heard Keith knock.

This is stupid. This is really, really stupid. I should just drop this creepy thing and go home.

“You son of bitch,” I heard Mr. Danson’s high-pitch voice yell.

There was a scuffle. I could hear feet shuffling, a door banging, and various grunts and curse words from both of them. And then, the door slammed shut.

Who won?

 Run. The good voice of reason screamed at me.

Instead, I waited. This silence wasn’t golden, but it was more like pure hell on a stick, dripping red with the blood of innocence gone wrong. Still, I, we waited… just me and the evil Halloween worm. What a pair!

The latch on the back door rattled and intruded on my thoughts. My body hair reached for the radio airwaves above. I held my breath.

The back door swung open.

“C’mon, man,” Keith said. He was breathing heavy.

A small burst of fireworks set off over my elated fears. A small victory.

“I knocked that geriatric pervert out with his own cane,” he said as I slipped into the dark hallway behind him. “He managed to whack me in the same spot you did, but all it did was piss me off. I jumped him, pinned him to the ground, and threw a couple solid punches into his old man face. Once I beat the fight out of him, I took his cane and whacked him good over the head with it.”

  Jesus, I thought. Lucky if he didn’t kill him. I prayed that the guy–pervert or not–was still alive. Sure enough, there he lay sprawled out on a matted, forest green rug. He had a giant red mark on his forehead. Two of his dozen cats–one white, one black–sat mewling by his head as if to stir him to awake.

The living room of his home smelled like cat piss and shit, mixed with cigarettes and hamburger grease. At least six other cats strutted around and licked themselves, indifferent to the two newcomers standing in the room. The little brown couch against the wall opposite the front door was torn to shit. Stuffing spilled out of it like the guts of Braveheart. I looked around and saw a wooden baseball bat leaning against a metal rack between the door and small TV stand. Atop the metal rack was a fish tank. It was filled with dirt instead of water. Ant farm? More likely a worm farm. An evil cheek-eating worm farm.

“Okay, give me the worm,” Keith said.


“All right you fucking pederast bastard, time to take your medicine,” he said. Keith popped off the white cap, squeezed the old man’s cheek, and opened his toothless mouth. Mr. Danson looked like a dying fish. Keith jiggled the orange bottle directly over the open 0.

I watched the worm drop in and disappear. Mr. Danson jerked and gagged. Keith clamped his hands over the old man’s maw.

“What are you doing?” I said. Mr. Danson’s eyes shot open. He squirmed and writhed behind Keith’s hand, gagging all the while.

“Shut up, Trask,” Keith barked. He turned back to Mr. Danson. “How do you like it you fucking perv?”

Mr. Danson’s eyes were wild. He brought his right hand up to Keith’s face. I couldn’t do anything but watch as the old man drove his thumb through Keith’s left eye.

Keith’s scream devoured the silence. He flailed at Mr. Danson. Keith’s arms looked like one of those crazy daisy lawn toys that shook every which way.

Mr. Danson’s thumb jabbed over and over into Keith’s ruined eye. The sick man’s gaze sparkled with madness. He was delirious with a wicked joy. I should stop this. I should kick him in the head, or smash him in the face with something…I stumbled backward plopping down on the gut spewing couch, playing witness to this horror. Keith, reaching for his eye, fell off the crazy old man.

Mr. Danson stood. My eyes caught the tenting in the front of his sweatpants. Keith rolled back and forth on the carpet and held both hands over the latest damage inflicted by this strange man.

“You boys should have stayed home tonight,” Mr. Danson said. “Hold still, you cry baby faggot,” he said. He placed his boot on Keith’s ankle and leaned forward. “I said, hold still, faggot!”

“Arrrgggh!” Keith’s pain cut deep into my heart.

Mr. Danson moved up to Keith’s head, stepping on various parts of the bully on the floor along the way. He turned his devil eyes to me. “This the kind of company you keep, boy?”

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe.

He stood over Keith, and looked down upon him with disgust. “I should pull out your dirty little thingy and give it a good tug. Would you like that? Huh?” he said, pushing the toe of his boot down on Keith’s hand-covered eye. There was blood all over Keith’s face and hands. “Yeah, I bet you would.” Mr. Danson’s leer returned to me. “How about you? You a faggot, boy? You want a little sweet tug from an old pro?”

“You sick son of a bitch,” I cried out.

His smile dropped, but my balls on the other hand flew north for the winter, never to be seen again.

“Well,” he said. He took a step back, and looked down at Keith. “Looks like I got another date tonight, boy. Sorry. Say hello to heaven for me.” With that Mr. Danson raised one booted foot and crashed it down like a flash of lightening, striking once, twice, three times before he dropped to his knees, and hunched over Keith’s broken face. Keith wasn’t moving. Mr. Danson bent down to Keith’s lips. I thought he was going to kiss him. Instead, Mr. Danson spat the worm directly into the Keith’s bloody mouth.

His head turned to me, like a wolf spotting fresh prey.

I gasped, and scrambled to my feet. Mr. Danson didn’t bother to get up, he just came crawling on all fours.

Out of pure reflex I stepped forward like this was kickball, and caught him square in the face.

He sat up and cried out.

Instinct screamed at me to keep on him, not to let up.

Before I had time to act, Mr. Danson sprung at me. His fingers climbed into my mouth like a creepy-crawly in the night, and yanked in opposite directions. My lips felt like they could split at any second; his calloused fingers tasted as bad as the bottom of our garbage can smelled. The rank image of squirming maggots and slimy leftovers shuddered through me. I screamed and pushed back against my perverted attacker with all of my strength.

“Oooh, a fighter, heh?”

The bastard stood. I continued to drive us backwards. His fingers slid from my mouth and journeyed down my chest to my waist.

We hit something on the floor and tumbled down together. I heard a loud, thick crack. Mr. Danson groaned and fell silent. I landed atop of him. I could feel the hard stick in his pants go limp beneath my ass. Then the dirt began to fall.

“…ohh…huh?” he moaned.

The dirt–more like a damp soil–piled up on my shoulders, my thighs, and my forearms. The earthly smell was welcomed compared to the rest of the piss-soaked house.


At first, I wasn’t sure what the hell he was talking about. I figured he’d hit his head too hard and was having some kind of dizzy vision. Then I remembered the cracked glass, the dirt, the ant farm…the worm farm.

I bolted upright and swiped at the dark clumps of soil attached to me. I saw the creatures hidden within the dirt begin to squiggle just before I felt the first bite. I jerked my forearm and barked out a sharp cry. I swatted the filth and its hungry inhabitant from my skin. A flap of flesh where the thing had bitten me drooled blood and a snot-like residue. Another pinch sunk into my thigh, followed by another and another. Behind me, Mr. Danson began yelping. I turned and saw more of the worms dig into his wrinkled flesh. One was burrowing into the side of his neck, while another turned up toward his eye. Even as one sank its strangely-fanged maw into my shoulder, my gaze locked on Mr. Danson’s right eye and one of his “babies” with the evil intentions.

The splultch sound of the worm latching its fangs into his eyeball was followed by Mr. Danson’s high-pitched shriek.

Eye for an eye.

I shot up to my feet and swatted at every inch of my body I could reach. In my mind’s eye, I saw millions of the tiny beasts trying to devour me. I managed to clear the one from my shoulder, and the ones that were still on my arms and thighs. I tap-danced away from the rug at my feet and the thirty to forty gross, pale worms writhing around on the floor. Mr. Danson flailed and flopped like a giant fish pulled from the sea.

Keith was silent. His body still.

“No, Keith.”

Two of the pale worms were trying to bite through Keith’s jeans. I knelt down and whacked them from his pant leg. His chest did not rise or fall.

“Keith?” I took his head in my hands and slapped him hard across the face. “Keith!”

I jumped at the dirty, yellowed fingernails that dug into the side of my neck. I shrugged him off.

“You did this! You did this!” Mr. Danson’s closed and tattered eye leaked the odd mix of blood and slime down his cheek. His clawed hands reached out for me. I stood, and spotted the baseball bat by the door.

“You won’t…you…you…”

I stepped over Keith and gripped the bat.

Mr. Danson gave out one last ear-piercing squawk before I planted the bat down upon the center of his forehead. He dropped to the floor and lay across Keith’s legs. The worms went to work on his exposed flesh.

I stood still, the bat gripped in my hands and held out toward the perverted worm meal like a ninja warrior from one of the games Franky always liked to play on his Xbox. I looked at Keith. I was pretty sure he was dead.

After a moment’s hesitation, I bolted out the door, the murder weapon (I was certain that my strike had killed the old man) in hand, and ran out into the cold, dark night. Halfway home, I tossed the bat into a thicket of woods near the end of my street. My lungs, my gums, my throat, all burned. Still, I ran. I pumped and pumped my legs, and propelled my body onward, away.

I stumbled into my backyard. The site of our back porch and my dad’s trusty grill welcomed me. I dropped to my knees and flopped down on my butt. Keith Dennis may have been a jerk, but he deserved a better end than the one he got. Mr. Danson, however, earned every last nibble that he had coming from his Halloween worms.

I spat down at the yellowed grass between my legs. Try as I might, I could not rid my mouth of the taste left behind from the nasty pervert’s grimy fingers. I brought my knees up, and reached around and locked my fingers together. I stared toward the woods down the street. Would Officer Gilchrist know I had been there, too? When he found Mr. Danson and Keith Dennis, would he know that a third person had been involved? Would he find the bat?

I felt the urge to seek out the weapon and toss it into the Kennebec River. My gaze dropped to the wet wound on my forearm where one of the worms had bit me. How much could one worm eat? How much of Mr. Danson could thirty or forty of them eat? Would there be anything left?

    Would they finish Keith, as well?

My face refused to show it, but inside, I smiled when I thought about the conviction of the school bully. It may have killed him, but like a great warrior, Keith Dennis got his revenge.





  • “Brutal, tension-fueled and captivating…Blood and Rain is the best werewolf novel I’ve read since Jeff Strand’s Wolf Hunt.” — Horror After Dark
  • Blood and Rain is a monumental piece of horror fiction.”-Horror Underground
  • “It’s Silver Bullet on speed!…a mix of early Stephen King and Bentley Little…” – Aaron J. French, author of The Dream Beings
  • .Wow! Easily one of the best werewolf books I’ve ever read.”- Hunter Shea, author  of The Montauk Monster

Need a great werewolf book to read for October?
Check out my novel, BLOOD AND RAIN on sale now through Halloween for just 99 cents! At Amazon, Barnes and Noble and all eBook retailers.

Click below to purchase!




The light of a full moon reveals many secrets.

Gilson Creek, Maine. A safe, rural community. Summer is here. School is out and the warm waters of Emerson Lake await. But one man’s terrible secret will unleash a nightmare straight off the silver screen.

Under the full moon, a night of terror and death re-awakens horrors long sleeping. Sheriff Joe Fischer, a man fighting for the safety of his daughter, his sanity and his community, must confront the sins of his past. Can Sheriff Fischer set Gilson Creek free from the beast hiding in its shadows, or will a small town die under a curse it can’t even comprehend?

One night can—and will—change everything.



ROCK and SHOCK 2016: I’ll be there…for one day only



Thanks to the fine folks in the New England Horror Writers  I was able to secure a sliver of a table for  the Rock and Shock Convention, this Saturday, October 15th!  This is a super cool Con in Worcester, Massachusetts.  Lots of cool actors, musicians, artists, and writers will be in attendance and I’m happy to be among them.

patrick-1Adam-CesaredownloadGlenn Rolfe author photojack-ketchum_bw

I know my buds, Patrick Lacey and Adam Cesare, will be there, the New England Horror Writers, Bracken MacLeod, and also Mr. Jack Ketchum!  So, I’m pretty psyched.

Some of the big names doing signings and such: Rock and Shock Guests

And there will be Metal up Your Ass!!!!  BANDS


I will have copies of my Samhain Publishing novels BLOOD and RAIN and WHERE NIGHTMARES BEGIN available for $10 a pop, plus $5 copies of my short story collection SLUSH and a few copies of my newest novella, CHASING GHOSTS (also just $5).

Come say hello and grab a book!

The convention is held at the DCU Center, located at 50 Foster Street, Worcester MA.  Concerts will take place at the Worcester Palladium, one block away at 261 Main Street, Worcester MA.

Tickets: Tickets are available at the DCU Center and Palladium box offices,, and FYE stores.

Hours: The convention is open 5pm-10pm on Friday, 11am-9pm on Saturday and 11am-5pm on Sunday.  The celebrity area closes one hour earlier each day, and the concerts run later than the convention.

Hope to see you guys out there.

For more info go HERE



There’s A Bad Moon Rising – Glenn Rolfe’s Blood and Rain Terrifies!

October Flashback! Talking Blood and Rain with an endorsement from my friend, fellow author, Hunter Shea!

Hunter Shea

I had the distinct pleasure of getting an early crack at my Samhain brother’s werewolf novel, Blood and Rain. Like a hungry wolf on the prowl under a full moon, I devoured it. Glenn Rolfe has created a real popcorn creature feature with a badass of a werewolf. It’s the perfect read for the Halloween season.

Today, I’m happy to turn the controls over to that mohawked dude in Main, Glenn Rolfe. Take it away…

“An unoriginal original? Oh, hell…let’s just keep it real.”

When I started writing Blood and Rain, I’d seen plenty of werewolf movies, but had read only two novels. Stephen King’s Cycle of the Werewolf and Ray Garton’s Ravenous (both excellent pieces). When I decided that the story I was toying with on my computer was going to be my first attempt at a novel, a werewolf novel, I purposely stayed away from any and…

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(Interview) Talking Horror with the New Kid in Town, Patrick Lacey.


I came across Patrick Lacey in 2015. He was one of the new authors signing with Samhain Publishing.  I reached out and invited him to the Samhain Author Secret Club I’d started on Facebook.  He seemed cool. I read his novella, A Debt to be Paid, and found that he was also talented. I suddenly realized that I’d seen his name before. Looking through my bookshelf, I found that we’d published alongside one another in an anthology called, PAVOR NOCTURNUS: Dark fiction Anthology Vol. II.  He had a great story in there called, “Pen Pals”.

We  all know Samhain collapsed shortly after firing Don D’Auria. Lucky for us newer guys at the company, Sinister Grin Press was there to catch our fall.  Shortly after announcing that my latest (Chasing Ghosts) would be published by SGP, Lacey announced that they had also picked up his novel, DREAM WOODS.


The book was originally signed by Samhain, but after they announced their intentions to close, they allowed a number of authors to retrieve the rights to the unpublished books.

Between the release of his Samhain novella, and Dream Woods, Lacey also put out an amazing collection of short stories (which you should go buy right now) titled, SLEEP PARALYSIS.

I’ve only known the guy for about a year, but it already feels much longer than that. So, let’s bring him in and poke at his brain. Let’s enter Lacey’s Dream Woods….



Glenn Rolfe: The first thing I noticed about this book was how much it felt like a lost Bentley Little book…hell, it could have been called, The Amusement Park. I know you’re a big Little fan. We’ve both mentioned how great we think his novel, The Store, is.  Do you feel like his fingerprints are on Dream Woods?

PATRICK LACEY: Oh man, there’s no denying it. For me, Little is one of the all-time masters and one of the few horror authors that consistently scares me. Some of his imagery is so odd, bizarre, so out there, that it gets under your skin in a way you can barely describe. I mean, this is a guy who wrote a short story about a farmer falling in love with a potato and managed to make me lose sleep. He’s a freaking genius. So I channeled my inner Little in some of the scenes within Dream Woods. I, too, like to take every day scenarios and make them seem just a bit off before ramping up the weirdness factor.  There’s a certain vending machine scene that I think/hope would make Mr. Little proud.

GR: There’s some punk rock going on within the characters. I know you play, did you have a band, and how much of what Vince and Audra are going through personally have you felt yourself. 

PL: For sure. I grew up north of Boston and there was a decent music scene in my little town. Lots of punk and hardcore and metal. I spent almost every weekend in high school going to shows and eventually playing at them with my own bands. As far as Vince versus Audra, I actually don’t fall into either category. Vince is an aging punk rocker who’s taken to adulthood completely, whereas Audra is pushing it off as much as possible. I’m still as immature as I was back in high school. I just hide it well. I also don’t think one has to become a slave to the system just because they have a full time job and turn thirty. Rock and roll knows no age.

GR: This story takes place at an amusement park, but within that, you get to play in a hotel setting, too.  I love hotel stories. Hotels seem to be among the most perfect playgrounds for horror writers. Did you find that to be true?

PL: There’s this book. I think it’s called The Shining? Kidding. Yes, hotels are breeding grounds for horror stories. Whenever I stay at one, I like to wander the halls at an hour that would make me seem quite creepy. I think about all people who have stayed there over the years and start to get the heebie jeebies. Plus, I always seem to wind up at a vending machine. Sensing a theme here.

GR: I loved that you really made sure to make each of the main characters decipherable from one another. Each faces their own personal demons or struggles. Did you spend a lot of time crafting each of them, or was it one of those things that just developed naturally during the writing process?

PL: Glad you found them decipherable! I’m not a big plotter but I do have an idea of my characters’ main issues when I start a book. That said, they often end up steering me in different directions. For instance, I didn’t know one of the Carter boys was going to be diabetic until I started typing away on his first chapter. His condition actually became a big part of the book and I started to run off with the idea of a theme park knowing your true fears.

GR: Dream Woods was originally supposed to be a Samhain Publishing title. How exciting was it to hook up with Sinister Grin Press?

PL: I was a huge fan of Sinister Grin before working with them and they were always on my list of dream (pun intended) publishers that I wanted to work with. They are great to work with and saved the day when something came up just prior to this book’s publication. I’m talking a real eleventh hour scenario. And I’ll be working with them again in the near future.*

GR: You got to attend your first Scares That Care this past summer. What were some of the highlights and takeaways for you? And you can skip Saturday night (if you want).

GR: Of course, I’ll skip over Saturday night. I mean, what kind of guy would I be if I mentioned the ten or so pitchers of beer that we split, or the countless karaoke videos I took of you, or one of us sleeping on a sidewalk. Anyway, it was the…best…con…ever. I got to meet so many awesome readers and writers and despite the debauchery, every single vendor and attendee is constantly aware of how amazing the charity is. My main takeaway, though, would be how delicious the hotel bar’s chicken wings were. #priorities

GR: Oh, the memories…all that beer…   Back to the interview. Which authors would you say have been a huge influence on you? Any that are under the radar?

PL: In addition to Bentley Little (did I already mention him?), there’s Richard Laymon, Jack Ketchum, Stewart O’Nan, Graham Joyce, Elmore Leonard, Brian Keene, Richard Matheson, John Skipp, Sarah Langan, and Joe Lansdale for my formative years. For newer (relatively speaking, considering some of these folks have been at it for over a decade) peeps that are influencing me as we speak, you’ve got Paul Tremblay, Adam Cesare, Laird Barron, Kristopher Rufty, Jonathan Janz, Mercedes M. Yardley, Orrin Grey, Michael Weihunt, Aaron Dries…the list could go on forever. Also, this guy named Glenn something or other.

GR:  I know that guy! I also know you’re a scary movie guy. Do films play into your writing? If so, which ones and what aspects in particular do you feel find their way into your work?

PL: Maybe? I’ve had a plethora of people call my writing “cinematic” but I’m not good at self-analyzing my stuff. My favorite types of horror movies are those that bend reality. Think A Nightmare on Elm Street, Jacob’s Ladder, The Beyond, In the Mouth of Madness, etc. I definitely think they’re present in a lot of my work. I have a novel sitting with a publisher right now that’s my love letter to this type of story.

GR:  I loved Jacob’s Ladder. Very trippy!   Okay,  let’s do some rapid fire:

Best horror movie to watch: See above.  A Nightmare on Elm Street. Seen it more than any other film ever. It’s the first movie I remember watching and it never, under any circumstances, gets old.


Favorite fancy beer: Belgian Strong Dark ale brewed with cinnamon, on oak chips with figs.

Favorite crappy beer: Gotta go with PBR. I mean it won a blue ribbon. Did you know that?

Favorite book to read in October: Dark Harvest by Norman Partridge is one of my favorite seasonal reads. It’s like Halloween Hunger Games. I wish I was reading it right this moment.


Would you rather (Death Edition) …be hit by a bus or punched out of a helicopter: I hate to take the obvious route but I’d rather be attacked by two transformers that moonlight as a bus and helicopter, respectively. First, I’m riding the bus when it morphs into its robot counterpart, therefore crushing me within its robot bones. As I’m hurled out onto the street, with my last few dying breaths, I see a helicopter transform into its robot counterpart and guess what? Its fists? You guessed it. Both propellers. One punch and I’m all guts and gore strewn about. But like I said: obvious.


GR: Obvious?  Yep. What’s next for you? Books to read, book releases, conventions, podcasts?  Feel free to mention anything you want.

PL: Let’s see. I’m reading an ARC of Where the Dead Go to Die by Aaron Dries and Mark Allen Gunnells (to be released by Crystal Lake Publishing) and it’s great so far. For my next release, Sinister Grin will be putting out my second novel Darkness in Lynnwood. It’s a small town horror novel about a teenage cult and is the most personal book I’ve written yet. It may or may not have driven me to the brink of insanity several times during the writing process. That should be released early to mid-2017. Then for conventions, I’ll be at Rock and Shock this October 14th, 15th, and 16th, hawking my books alongside my pals Adam Cesare and Bracken McLeod. And you bet your ass I’ll be back at Scares That Care next year. In fact, I think I have a table with that Glenn guy I mentioned earlier.

GR:  Oh yeah…that’s going to be fun.  Anyways, thanks for stopping by, jerk. 

PL: It was my pleasure, bastard.



Follow Patrick’s Blog tour for DREAM WOODS below:


Follow along the tour with these hashtags: #DreamWoods #ScreamWoods #PeskyBear

Dream Woods, Synopsis

  • Print Length: 135 pages
  • Publisher: Sinister Press
  • Publication Date: October 1, 2016

Follow your screams…

When Vince Carter takes a shortcut to work he notices a billboard that nearly sends him into an oncoming van.

The ad is for Dream Woods, New England’s answer to Disney World. It closed decades ago, but now that it’s back in business, Vince is eager to take his whole family, hoping the magic he remembers will save his failing marriage.

His wife, Audra, isn’t so sure. She’s heard the rumors of why the place closed. Murder. Sacrifice. Torture. But those are just urban legends. Surely there’s nothing evil about a family tourist attraction.

The Carters are about to discover that the park’s employees aren’t concerned with their guests’ enjoyment. They’re interested in something else. Something much more sinister.

Welcome to Scream Woods!

Patrick Lacey, Biography

Patrick Lacey was born and raised in a haunted house. He spends his nights and weekends writing about things that make the general public uncomfortable. He lives in Massachusetts with his Pomeranian, his mustached cat, and his muse, who is likely trying to kill him. Find him on Facebook, follow him on Twitter (@patlacey), or visit hiswebsite.

Praise for Patrick Lacey

“This collection has it all, showing the world that Lacey can write and do it well. From frightening, eerie, soul-stamping to funny and gross, this book has it all. The man’s imagination is incredible. A must read!!!!” – David Bernstein, author ofA Mixed Bag of Blood

“It’s a rare and joyful thing for me to read a book and realize I’m in the hands of an author who can go absolutely anywhere, who works without a formula and without a net. Such is the case with this stellar debut collection.” – Russell Coy, Amazon Review

“This fast-paced novella has terror on every page and will keep you searching the shadows in your home far more often than needed.” – Russell James, author of Q Island, on A Debt to Be Paid

Purchase Links




(Review) DREAM WOODS by Patrick Lacey


DREAM WOODS (Sinister Grin Press) is the latest release from horror newcomer, Patrick Lacey.

This book revolves around the Massachusetts theme park, Dream Woods. The park was the highlight of so many kids in its heyday. After a number of horrible incidents, the place which earned the new moniker, “Scream Woods”, is shut down. The park is left to rot and disappear.

Years later, when Vince Carter drives by and sees the park has re-opened, he romanticizes the best week of his childhood and imagines a family trip to Dream Woods could be just what he and his wife need to bring them closer. Vince, his wife, Audra, and their twin pre-teens set out for a week that nobody wants any part of but Vince.

Audra dreams of a time before the boys when Vince and her were just a couple of punk rockers against the world. The boys, Tim, a diabetic who is the center of the family’s attention due to his disease, and Andrew, who is understandably jealous about being the constant second fiddle, add another layer of emotion and drama to the story.

The Carter’s are in for a heck of a vacation.

Lacey sets this wonderfully crazy story up with the flare of one Bentley Little. Constantly intriguing and engaging, keeping reality tipped off kilter at all times, resulting in a near-permanent unsettling state for the reader, this author knows how to pull your strings. I mentioned Little–at times,  it feels like this could have easily been titled, The Amusement Park. While the execution isn’t quite at the level of Mr. Little, it does show that Patrick Lacey means business.


Lacey creates a cast of very real, well-rounded characters, and moves the story at a wonderful pace that makes it hard to put DREAM WOODS down. The violence is fantastically crafted and the story itself is a lot of creepy fun. “The Director” makes for a wonderful antagonist, unfortunately, he is overshadowed by the Dream Woods mascot, Sebastian (the bear on the cover– a creepy creation in his own right).

On the nitpicky side of things, I would love to have seen Lacey swing his horror hammer even more wildly in this one. He set up a lot of great scenarios, but never quite delivered the knock-out blow I was expecting. It felt, at times, like he was holding back. It’s not easy to kill our characters, but I think it often gives horror stories (especially), a more realistic feel to them. While not everyone makes it out alive here (actually, quite a few people die), I didn’t like Lacey’s choice at the end. It felt like someone got to be bad person through most of the book and then was given a free pass. I don’t want to give it away, so whether that makes sense to you or not, it is what it is.

Overall, I believe DREAM WOODS is a fantastic piece from an author with an immensely bright future, and judging from Lacey’s two previous releases (A DEBT TO BE PAID and the excellent collection, SLEEP PARALYSIS), this is just the tip of the iceberg.  Lacey is set to open up the throttle and run us all down. And I’ll be in the middle of the road eagerly waiting.

I give DREAM WOODS 4 stars!


Follow along the tour with these hashtags: #DreamWoods #ScreamWoods #PeskyBear

Dream Woods, Synopsis

  • Print Length: 135 pages
  • Publisher: Sinister Press
  • Publication Date: October 1, 2016

Follow your screams…

When Vince Carter takes a shortcut to work he notices a billboard that nearly sends him into an oncoming van.

The ad is for Dream Woods, New England’s answer to Disney World. It closed decades ago, but now that it’s back in business, Vince is eager to take his whole family, hoping the magic he remembers will save his failing marriage.

His wife, Audra, isn’t so sure. She’s heard the rumors of why the place closed. Murder. Sacrifice. Torture. But those are just urban legends. Surely there’s nothing evil about a family tourist attraction.

The Carters are about to discover that the park’s employees aren’t concerned with their guests’ enjoyment. They’re interested in something else. Something much more sinister.

Welcome to Scream Woods!

Patrick Lacey, Biography

Patrick Lacey was born and raised in a haunted house. He spends his nights and weekends writing about things that make the general public uncomfortable. He lives in Massachusetts with his Pomeranian, his mustached cat, and his muse, who is likely trying to kill him. Find him on Facebook, follow him on Twitter (@patlacey), or visit his website.

Praise for Patrick Lacey

“This collection has it all, showing the world that Lacey can write and do it well. From frightening, eerie, soul-stamping to funny and gross, this book has it all. The man’s imagination is incredible. A must read!!!!” – David Bernstein, author of A Mixed Bag of Blood

“It’s a rare and joyful thing for me to read a book and realize I’m in the hands of an author who can go absolutely anywhere, who works without a formula and without a net. Such is the case with this stellar debut collection.” – Russell Coy, Amazon Review

“This fast-paced novella has terror on every page and will keep you searching the shadows in your home far more often than needed.” – Russell James, author of Q Island, on A Debt to Be Paid

Purchase Links



Want to Feature?

If you’d like to feature Patrick Lacey on your blog or site, or review Dream Woods, please give Erin Al-Mehairi, marketing and publicity at Sinister Grin Press, a shout out at