This week: Horror Resolutions Edited by: W.D.Wilcox  
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“In old days books were written by men of letters and read by the public. Nowadays books are written by the public and read by nobody.”
“To be a successful fiction writer you have to write well, write a lot … and let 'em know you've written it!"
“Be confident in your work, but be careful not to put a book out into the world until you are sure that it is your very best work and professional in all respects (writing, editing, cover design, formatting, etc.). As with anything, you get only one chance to make a first impression, and every reader deserves a quality product.”
—Darcie Chan
I am deciding to put all my efforts into self-publishing. If you are doing the same, please contact me with any helpful advice.
-W.D.Wilcox |
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Old Business/ New Story
I've always believed my writing was good enough to get a publishing contract. But I have now realized that even though my writing is good, my business sense is terrible. I love to write but selling my work is something I can't wrap my head around.
Enter the world of self-publishing. With just a few clicks you're off and running. That's for me. I'm all in.
So I've been working on something -- a novel of sorts, and I'm going to give you the first chapter. What I'm looking for is an honest critique. Is this something I should go forward with, or not? It's called . . . .
The Bloodstone
Superstition is a stain on faith, a perversion of the religious impulse and possibly a fatal corruption of it, but there was a time when every diocese was directed to have a priest trained in the Ritual of Exorcisms.
Brother Rubio Estrada rubbed his calloused thumb over the dark green piece of jasper that was cut into the shape of a simple crucifix. Across the skin of the stone, he could see red veins twisting and running beneath it and through it as though they pulsed with blood. It was odd, but the cross felt warm to the touch like flesh.
“Your crucifix, Father? No, I couldn’t possibly accept this.” He handed the cross back to the dying priest.
“Please . . . I insist,” the priest whispered. “Do an old man a favor in his final hours.”
“You are not going to die,” the monk said, forcing a smile. “You are the Miracle Man. A bout with pneumonia will surely not end you.”
“You are a very good liar, Rubio, but a liar nonetheless. Yes, I have seen and worked many miracles," the old man said, “but . . . I do not think saving my own life will be one of them.” He attempted to clear his throat, then coughed raggedly. "Besides," he said, "what do we really leave behind, my son: things not done, not said, not finished; empty clothes, empty rooms, empty spaces in the ones who knew us?"
Rubio clutched the priest's hand. “Please, Father, do not talk so. There is always hope.”
The priest brightened. “You are right, enough talk of death. I called you here to give you my crucifix,” he said, “and also to appoint you as the Church's new Exorcist.”
“Exorcist? But I am not yet ordained.”
“A minor technicality, my son."
“But . . . ." The young monk's puzzlement and concern swelled into apprehension. "But I am not ready. There is still so much to learn.”
“I have watched you. God has placed you in my path. You are the one.”
“But Father, my Latin is weak, my faith . . . not strong enough," he said ashamed of the truth. "I need more time."
"Please, Rubio, listen carefully. There is no more time. I am dying and the Church needs you."
"No, you won't die, you can't." The look in the monk's eyes was one of panic.
Finally, the old priest tried to rise from the bed. “This,” he said, pointing to the cross, “is about life, not death." He trembled as though his burdens were too heavy for him. "Without it I am just a simple priest. But this . . . this is the source of all my power—my miracles."
"Father please, lay back. You are too weak to get up." Rubio helped lower him to the bed.
The priest fell back into his feathered pillow. His old face resembled dried mud, baked and parched, webbed with cracks. "I have never told you this before," he said weakly. “But many years ago, this crucifix was given to me by Pope Leo X himself before assigning me out here to this god-forsaken land of peasants and farmers. He told me that during the crucifixion, the blood of Christ was spilled and absorbed upon a small cluster of jasper at the foot of the cross. Later, that stone was gathered and fashioned into twelve crosses. This one is very old, and said to be one of the originals. I was humbled that the Pope would offer me such a gift, but it wasn't until later that I discovered its true meaning."
"What meaning?"
"It seems, in times of great need, the blood flows from the stone and into the person wearing it, allowing him to perform . . . well, miracles. Whether it has been my faith, or the actual blood of Christ, I do not know for sure, but what I do know is that when the miracles happen, I've noticed the cross is void of any red markings.”
"Father, that . . . that is amazing. Does anyone else know?"
"No, they would think I am a superstitious old fool, though I am sure most of them think that already."
"I don't think that. I think you are a great man."
“That is because you are still young, and able to hear the truth. This is why I have chosen you, why God has chosen you. Please hand me my Bible," he said, pointing to his nightstand.
The book was old and dog-eared, the leather cover cracked, soiled and smudged. Rubio gently handed it to him as if it were a precious gift. The old priest opened the book and pulled a folded parchment from inside. "I received this communication yesterday. You are to travel to Viscera.”
“Viscera? Why?”
“It says there is a most grievous possession there.”
“But the monastery is there. Why can’t they take care of it?”
“They have tried . . . and failed. Two priests have died already in the attempt.”
“Died? How can that be? What is the manner of this possession that it could kill Men of God.”
“It is a most delicate situation -- a secret. The man accused of possession is . . . a priest."
"That's impossible."
"No, it's all true. In fact, he is someone you may recall . . . Father Garcia.”
“Rodriquez? But he is a devout and pious man, the head of the monastery. There has to be a mistake.”
“No, no mistake. The report I have received says that after his return from his pilgrimage, he had somehow changed. The transformation was subtle at first: gluttony, blasphemy, anger, and then he attempted to rape a young woman during her confession. The Brothers had no choice but to restrain him, imprison him. But they said he had superhuman strength and spoke to them in tongues. They also reported that it took six men to overpower him and chain him. In fact, that was when the first death occurred. He literally threw a young monk against the wall, smashing-in his skull.”
“God protect us.”
"This is your first task as an Exorcist."
"Is there no other to do this?" Rubio's sense of his own uselessness galled him like an unhealed wound and he lowered his head in shame.
"Listen, my son, eventually we all have to face the things that frighten us. But the cross will guide you, help you, and no matter the amount of evil, remember, there is also great love in this world."
Father Trios released a humble sigh, and then began to slip away. His eyes darkened until they seemed to refuse light, and then he was gone, all his kindness and teachings mute as an unmarked grave.
Rubio squeezed his old friend's hand, as if he could bring him back by sheer will alone, and then giving in to grief, fell to his knees by the side of the bed and wept. For the first time in his life, the young monk felt his fear rising and his heart breaking like glass.
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DEAD LETTERS
Santeven Quokklaus 
Plugs:
I don't mind a good unhappy ending. I am sending you a story from my portfolio "Magic Word" with a not at all happy ending. It is long, though.
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Horror/Scary: February 19, 2020 Issue [#10019]
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