Starting in the month of October my blog will be inviting authors to come and comment about their works.  I will feature one author a month. While my blog is primarily centered toward horror and scifi, I'll consider all genres. This is a chance for me to build my blog as well as help my fellow authors build their readership.  If you are interested email me at beschafer@gmail.com and tag folkblog in the subject line. leave name and contact info.

Hallway

Through  the hallways of my mind she came crawling.  In a voice not her own, she called my name. Like some demonic succubus, she stole my soul. All because I lied, yes I lied.  The stench of sin upon my hand, I cheated the foul bitch who never loved. Dark and empty was my heart. A truer lust I had found. Her jealousy rained down upon me and my anger and hate devoured the moment. In my hands I held her heart, in my soul I hated her. Darkness had overshadowed me as I lay her cold body upon the floor.  Now with my new love next to me, she haunts my mind. The cold callus bitch, plays with in my head. All because I cheated, all because I lied. Through the hallways of my mind she taunts me.  Taunts me for my sin, the cheat, the death, the lie.  Cold callus bitch.

Blood is the very giver of life that pulses through our bodies. Without it we are dead. For we are but mortal souls. Like a river it gives us energy and moves us forward. In horror novels and movies, blood is used to shock the life out of us. Slashes and splatters of the goopy red stuff, shock and frighten us with chills and shivers. Blood the essence of life. With out blood there is no death, there is no life. Maybe Alice Cooper said it best with ONLY WOMEN BLEED. For if a woman did not bleed, man would not have life. So as the blood pulses through your veins think of all that I have said. And on a cold fall eve, you may turn the pages of Obtuse and read about blood and life. Maybe you will fear what lurks Hickory Ridge!

The new novel Obtuse coming soon!

Folklore and Gothic Tales

First of all, I liked to welcome everyone to my first official post on my new blog, Folklore and Gothic tales. As a lover of horror and sci-fi I welcome all lovers of these genre to come join me. You are more than welcome to post anything sci-fi or horror related. I welcome your comments here at any time. More over this site is mainly dedicated to any ancient folklore, urban legend or campfire story.

Now picture yourself around a hot campfire, red embers glowing in the darkest of wood, forest or even in the wasteland of the darkest barren desert.  You are huddled around the fire and your guide or camp counselor begins to spin a tale to scare the living daylight out of you.

Why does he do this? Number one the human mind loves a good scare.  In addition, most travelers or campers are unfamiliar with the terrain about them.  And simply for safety, the campfire story was spawned to keep campers in their tents so they would not walk off some steep cliff or into some pool of quicksand or even worst be eaten by a wild animal or some primal beast.

So tonight I am going to delve into a particular area of the campfire story.  Using the elements as the main character.

In researching information for much of my writing, I discovered that Symbolism is often used by an author of any genre to create a mood or nuance around his story. Atmospheric symbolism has been a popular tool since the beginning of the spoken word.  Ancient folklore was simply a mouth to mouth telling of a story that traveled from tribe to tribe. Ancient society feared and respected the elements and Mother Nature. Handed down, by the druids, celts, Vikings or Native American tribes, folklore is the foundation for most all written word in past 300 years.  It is especially prevalent in horror and science fiction.  Dickens was a master of using the elements to create a mood or even to instill a since of fear.  Fog has been big, the Greeks used it in their mythology, Bram Stoker used it prevantly in Dracula. Fog is often used in movies, horror or detective stories.  Sometimes to set a mood or sometimes the fog itself becomes the protagonist.

So tonight we are going to envelope ourselves in the thickest blanket of fog.

Stephen King did it with the MIST: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0884328/, John Carpenter with the fog www.imdb.com/title/tt0080749 1980, and the 2005 remake.  But did they get their ideas from folklore and urban legend. Most likely the answer is yes.

Now take yourself back to that warm summer campfire as I give you my take on an old summer camp story. Picture me as your guide or camp counselor.  I'm moving about the fire, the warm fire upon your face, the cool night air at your back and the prickles rise crawl up your neck as I circle the fire behind you and tell you the tale that I have Titled .

The Four Headed Mist. Enjoy.

The One Headed Mist: By B.E. Schafer

As legend goes around the small Midwest town of Stonebridge there is a local fishing ground created by the damming of two rivers. It is known locally as Gibbons’ Lake. The lake was created in the forties when damn building became a big governmental task. It created many jobs during the depression. By the fifties when family vacations, and camping trips became popular Gibbons’ Lake was a popular Midwest stop.

A popular fishing hole, Gibbons’ covered almost fifty acres of flooded farm land and backwoods.  A large wooden footbridge spanned across a narrow part of the lake. Many a visitor would use the bridge to get from onside of the lake to the other where the rangers station happened to be.

One:  Janice Grobin was a college senior at Stonebridge University in the summer of Sixty Nine.  The hippy movement was in full swing as well as the war in Nam.  She gone out with several of her friends to spend the weekend camping at Gibbons’.

After a night of heavy drink and smoking a lot of dope, Janice stumbled into her tent and passed out. 

Dawn was more than three hours away. Under cover of darkness, a sheet of thin white fog blanketed the campsite, bringing with it a cool damp air.  A raccoon with water drops glistening on its fur like diamonds scampered through the campsite in search of a crumb. Behind it the ripples of lake tide sloshed against the bank as the Ohio river rolled nearby.

A dark shadow moved through the quiet campsite as the embers from the fire died away. Hippies strung out on whatever there poison of choice happened to be, laid in lusty heaps in sleeping bags and blankets.

When the warms rays of the morning sun began to burn away the fog and the hippies stirred from their drug induced slumber Janice was know where to be found.  Her white, lifeless naked body was found with a slit in her throat, lying in the middle of the wooden bridge that crossed the narrow part of the lake.  No one was ever charged in the murder.

Some years later, another group of College students went camping at Gibbons’ Lake.  In the early morning before dawn, there were a couple of them decided to cross the lake by the bridge. A sheet of thin white fog drifted over the lake, enveloping the bridge as it often did.  As the students neared the center of the bridge, they saw the face of Janice Grobin floating in the misty fog in front of them.  She opened her mouth and red crimson blood flowed from it.  The group of college kids turned around in fear and returned to their campsite.

The next morning they decided to return to the bridge to check things out.  To their startling eyes they discovered that five planks were missing from the bridge.

So in my story the Fog or mist, which shrouds the ghost of Janice Grobin actually does a good thing.  This is a tale that has been told in many forms.  Have any of you heard similar tales. Please do share.

B.E. Schafer