Skeletons on the Bookshelf

There’s a skeleton in my office. Full-size. He’s not real—those are way too expensive since they don’t make ’em anymore. Make? That’s not right. How about harvest? Hmmm . . . not sure what the proper terminology is here, but unless you happen to be a serial killer with a bone fetish it’s unlikely there’s a real skeleton in your closet. Or your office.

But I’ve got a fake one. I also have a box of faux skulls and assorted bones in the garage which only come out at Halloween. I’ve been decorating with a hybrid Day of the Dead/gothic dungeon theme for a few seasons. Last year we added a half dozen vintage horror movie posters. Fun stuff and I keep adding to the collection which thrills the wife to no end. She likes the bones, or so she tells me. Could be she likes that I do all the decorating.

My point—and I do have one—is that I like creepy things. Scary things. Bony things. Oddly enough I’m not a big fan of modern horror movies save for the odd zombie flick (Shaun rocks), but I do appreciate that elements of horror have wormed their way into just about every genre we’ve got, be it on the big screen, the little screen, or the printed (or pixilated) page. Which brings me to Portlandtown.

Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes is my entry into the world of horror by way of the supernatural western adventure (that’s a genre, right?). I didn’t set out to write a horror book, but by the end things got pretty scary. And I like that. It’s fun. Plus there are zombies. In the rain. If that sounds like a good time to you I think you’ll enjoy the tale I have to tell.

More to come.