Odds and Ends
Odds and Ends
Random stuff that seemed important at the time
I don’t know about some people. I really don’t. Zombies I understand. Werewolves I understand. Killers who kill for no other reason than in their warped world, it’s fun, I understand. Houses that don’t want you to leave, I understand.
Because we make this stuff up.
But what I DON’T understand is someone who can watch the Titan tragedy unfold and see anything at all funny in it. Five people went down in a submersible, hoping to see the wreckage of the Titanic. But soon the adventure trip turned into their worst nightmare when they realized they would not make it to the surface alive. After the submersible (Titan) had been missing for four days, a remotely operated underwater vehicle (ROV) discovered a debris field containing human remains and parts of Titan, about 1,600 ft from the bow of the Titanic.
The submersible had imploded.
And one of the first things some people did was take to social media and make a joke about it.
Some things in this world are more horrible than anything I or my coleagues could write.
My name is Thomas Smith and this is Whistling Past The Graveyard; an occasional newsletter about what I’m working on, any book/other writing projects coming out in the future, and anything else that strikes my fancy. And I’m honored to have you taking this walk with me.
Something Stirs Trivia
I know last time we were all together I said we’d take a look at the odd path Something Stirs took to publication the second time around, but as I think about it, I think I’ll let a big part of that story stay unwritten. As I have said before, I have nothing against the publisher. They were a non-fiction publisher wanting to start a fiction line, and my book was the first one to be published under the new imprint.
Their heart was in the right place. They were just in over their head.
I will, however, tell you this: I knew I was in trouble when the first conference call regarding marketing went something like this:
Publisher: “Yeah, we’ve put a lot of thought into this and what we’re going to do is hire a director and make a book trailer. Then we’re going to make it go viral.”
Me: “Um, OK. How do you do that?”
Publisher: “Do what?”
Me: “You know…make it go viral.”
Publisher: (insert crickets chirping sound here).
But, and here’s the trivia portion of our game, the director of the Something Stirs book trailer was Adam Drake. And instead of making a typical book trailer with text, graphics, and a VoiceOver, he made a movie.
A 2 minute movie.
I believe that was the first book trailer of its kind, and he knocked it out of the park. You can check it out here.
Today, in addition to having his own production company, Adam is the 1st Assistant Director and Producer of the groundbreaking series The Chosen. In addition to being the first multi-season series about the life of Jesus, it was crowdfunded and surpassed Mystery Science Theater 3000 as the most successful crowdfunded TV series or film project in history.
Something Stirs Spooky Trivia
When Adam was working on the Something Stirs trailer, he called one day and wanted to know if I would mind looking over the script and the cast list before they started shooting. I said yes, and he emailed everything over.
And this is where it gets weird.
At least for me.
When I wrote the book, I knew who the characters were, their quirks, mannerisms, any physical attributes that made a difference, etc. But I didn’t know what they looked like.
Except for one.
I had a vivid picture of the daughter, Stacy, from the first scene I wrote with her in it. I could see her in my mind as plainly as I can see any of my close friends or family members.
So when I read the script, that all looked great. Then I scrolled through the cast list/bios, and almost fell out of my chair. Beside the name Stacy was the bio of a young actress, and the face that had been in my head for a year.
Stacy was staring back at me from the screen.
As we used to say in the 1970s, Man, that was a trip.
OK, one last little difference between the original publisher of Something Stirs and Cemetery Dance: The first publisher set me up with an interview with someone who reads primarily Amish romances. CD’s first interview for me was with the Bloody Good Reads podcast. For 10 bonus points, which one do you think reached more readers who might remotely want to buy the book?
News and Such
My short story, “A Little Cocktail,” will appear in a Cemetery Dance anthology to be announced in the next few weeks.
My short story collection, Other Places, will be released by Cemetery Dance Publications in the fall of 2024.
I should have the Haunted North Carolina Coast manuscript in my editor’s hands in about 2 months. It will be part of The History Press’s Haunted America series, and is scheduled to be published in Spring of 2024.
Blast From The Past
When I was a little boy, we lived on a dirt road. And about a quarter of a mile down that road was the old Simmons place. Now most towns of any size have a haunted house, haunted school, haunted hospital wing, or some other place where the normal and paranormal worlds meet. In our town, it was the old Simmons place. And it was a haven for ghosts.
As the story is told, old man Simmons went crazy one night and killed his two children. Then he hacked his wife to pieces, and ended the night by going into the attic, throwing a stout rope over one of the beams, and hanged himself. There was no note, no ramblings in a notebook, no indication of any kind that he was about to commit such horrible act.
“He looked so normal,” the folks in town said.
But the deed didn’t end there. It was just the beginning, and as the years passed, the ghosts began to make themselves known. People who dared to to actually approach the house at night swore they heard screams. Voices. Footsteps climbing what had to be the attic stairs. And a light would suddenly appear moving through the attic, linger for a minute or so, then wink out.
Just like old man Simmons.
When some of my friends were feeling particularly brave, they would come to my house and we would ride our bicycles the quarter of a mile or so to the old house (we didn’t dare walk, just in case we had to make a fast getaway). Then, with much coaxing, and more than a little “I dare you” action thrown in for good measure, somebody would run up on the porch, knock on the door, and high tail it back to their bike. Then, after staying as long as we dared, we’d ride off down that dirt road like our shoes were on fire and our butts were catching.
A few years ago, I started thinking about the old Simmons place and wondered if it was still there. So, in what I called a research trip, I started driving north toward Virginia and just before reaching the state line, I started taking the back roads that would lead me to our old home. And maybe…just maybe…to the old Simmons place.
The house was still there. The dirt road was still there. And about a quarter of a mile down the road, there it was. Or what was left of it.
The Old Simmons Place.
It was still scary. But in a different way. It was barely standing. The porch was no longer attached to the house, and the walls were sunken in like the cheeks of a toothless old man. The weeds and brambles were waist high, and there was no way I could get close enough to go in through a window. Even if I was foolhardy enough to try.
The place was a deathtrap.
But it wasn’t haunted. Not anymore.
Now that’s not to say there are no haunted houses. I know there are, because I used to live in one.
Just not this house. It was just old, and decrepit.
You see, I found out years before no family named Simmons ever lived in the house. There was no dismembered wife, no fatally shot children, and no old man hanging in the rafters. There were just tales. The kind that every old house spawns at one time or another in its life.
There was, however, a light that would come on in the night, move around the attic, then wink out. That was all true.
It was a reflection from the headlights of cars traveling down the main road into town.
There never were any real ghosts in the old Simmons place. Just the ones we manufactured in our heads. I guess it’s that way more times than we care to admit. The only ghosts we associate with some places are the ones in our heads.
I stood and watched the old house die for a few more minutes, then I got in my car and headed for home.
And I smiled.
The ghosts in my head have been pretty good to me.
Well, that’s it for this issue. But I’ll be back with more ramblings, tales of the writing life, and other ghoulish things. And as always, thanks for coming along on this trip past the graveyard. You’re good company.