The resurrected Interview from The Crypt is honoured to bring you Gary Val Tenuta, author and book cover designer.
First of all I would just like to say welcome
to The Crypt and thank you for stopping by today.
My pleasure. I think. I’ve never been inside a
crypt before. Aren’t there any lights in here?
Why don’t you introduce yourself to my
Creatures of the Night and tell us a little about yourself.
Hello creatures. My name is Gary Val Tenuta and
I’m a wordoholic. I’m also a songwriter, an artist and a book cover designer. My illustrations and articles dealing with the UFO phenomenon and other
subjects related to the paranormal and esoteric lore have been published in Fate Magazine in the U.S., Beyond Magazine in the U.K., and other
periodicals. I live in a cozy condo in the
Great Pacific N.W. of the U.S., near Seattle with my big black cat, Bear, and a
grumpy gremlin who guards an ancient ivy-covered fountain on my patio.
When did you first begin to write? Was there a
specific moment or did something happen to make you think ‘I could be a
writer’?
I wrote my first short story, a sci-fi tale
called The Beam From Saucer-X when I
was about 12 years old. It was really good. I know it was, because my Mom told
me so. Then, when I was about 14, I discovered Edgar Allan Poe. I think that
was the real turning point for me. His stories and poems were like nothing I’d
ever read before. I didn’t even know anything like that existed. I couldn’t get
enough of it. I wanted to write just like him. A couple years later, I
discovered H. P. Lovecraft whose tales were even darker and stranger than those
of Poe. I was hooked.
What are you currently working on? Would you
mind giving the readers a quick synopsis in 100 words or less?
I’m working on a novel called Channel.
A young man has a blog called The
N.O.S.E. Knows. The acronym stands for News Of Strange Events. He covers
weird news stories and gets the grist for some of his commentary from New Age
websites. One of those sites features messages from trance-channelers who claim
to be channelling messages from a group of highly evolved beings called The
Galactic Federation of Light. He’s pretty much a skeptic when it comes to that
sort of thing but he finds it amusing. Soon, he learns that two members of that
site have mysteriously died from unknown causes. He also discovers the
enigmatic old hippie woman who lives in his apartment complex may have intimate
knowledge about the unexplained deaths. His obsession with getting to the
bottom of the mystery leads him to discover something that should only happen
in science fiction movies. He also discovers that, if he’s not careful, he just
might end up being the next victim.
Where do you draw your inspiration for your
stories, characters and settings?
Could be from anywhere and often when I least
expect it. The inspiration for my current novel, Ash: Return Of The Beast, came one afternoon as I was browsing the
shelves in a second-hand bookstore. I came across a
biography of the infamous occultist, Aleister Crowley (1875-1947). Due to my
life-long fascination with all things paranormal, I was at least somewhat
familiar with Crowley. I knew he identified with the number 666 and referred to
himself as “The Beast”. I knew he was revered as a master of ritual magic or
what some call the Dark Arts. I knew his picture appeared on the cover of the
Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper album and I knew that several musicians of the hard rock
variety were into him. I knew he’d been branded by the British press as ‘The
Wickedest Man In The World’ and I knew the Italian dictator, Benito Mussolini,
had kicked him out of Italy. I even had a copy of a strange little book
entitled, Liber Al Vel Legis (The
Book Of The Law), that was allegedly dictated to Crowley by a nonhuman entity
near the Great Pyramid in 1904.
What I didn’t know was that Crowley was cremated in England and that the urn containing his ashes was sent to a man named Karl Germer in New Jersey. Germer buried the urn under a large oak tree on his property. Sometime later, he decided to move to California and he wanted to take the urn with him. But, when he went to dig it up, he found it was no longer there. How it disappeared and where it ended up has remained a mystery to this day. When I read that, the light bulb went off in my head. I thought, “Man, if that isn’t a set-up for a good paranormal mystery, I don’t know what is.” Three years later, I had it finished and out on Kindle. The paperback edition is in the proofing stages and will be available before the end of this month.
What I didn’t know was that Crowley was cremated in England and that the urn containing his ashes was sent to a man named Karl Germer in New Jersey. Germer buried the urn under a large oak tree on his property. Sometime later, he decided to move to California and he wanted to take the urn with him. But, when he went to dig it up, he found it was no longer there. How it disappeared and where it ended up has remained a mystery to this day. When I read that, the light bulb went off in my head. I thought, “Man, if that isn’t a set-up for a good paranormal mystery, I don’t know what is.” Three years later, I had it finished and out on Kindle. The paperback edition is in the proofing stages and will be available before the end of this month.
Is there one particular genre you prefer
writing in and is there a genre you would never attempt and if so why?
All of my writing tends toward the paranormal
and often includes elements drawn from esoteric subject matter, ancient
mysteries, fringe science, those sort of things. It’s what I know, so it’s what
I write.
As much I would probably enjoy writing erotica,
I don’t think I would try it. I’ve read very little erotica but enough to know
that if it isn’t done really well then it just comes off as kind of… um…
schlocky. Is that a word? I’m too busy trying to hone the craft in my own
genre. Although I will admit I thought about switching the ‘a’ and the ‘r’ in
‘Gray’ and writing a parody called Fifty
Shades of Gary.
If you weren’t a writer/ couldn’t write anymore
what would you do?
I’d be doing the other thing that I do now,
designing book covers.
If you could become a member of the opposite
sex for 24 hours what would be the first thing you would do?
Buy a pair of designer shoes?
Which fantasy creature/being do you like the most?
I’ve always been partial to the werewolf.
If you could be your favourite fantasy figure
what would be the first thing you would do?
If I was the werewolf? I’d lobby Congress to
ban silver bullets.
What scares you the most?
The thought of being buried alive.
Favourite film?
Just one? Oh, man, that’s too hard. I have so
many favorites. Romancing The Stone, The Thirteenth Floor, Dark City and Close
Encounters of the Third Kind are way up at the top of the list.
Worst film you have ever seen?
Oh, that’s too easy. The Mission.
Favourite book?
Easy again. Dan Brown’s Angels & Demons.
When you go shopping what is the one thing that
you always HAVE to buy?
A book.
Going back to favourite film write an erotic
scene featuring the main characters in 100 words or less.
Now, what’d I just say about that?
And finally, just for a light hearted end to
the interview.
What words would you want etched on your
tombstone ?
Wait! I was only sleeping!
Thank you for joining me today and I would like
to wish you all the best in future endeavours.
It was my pleasure. Thanks very much for
inviting me.
BUY LINKS (or click on the cover image)
NOW ALSO AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK
ASH: Return of the Beast
is a modern-day supernatural crime thriller, a tale of revenge steeped in the occult.
The story is a work of fiction inspired by a little known factoid about the
death of Aleister Crowley (1875-1947), the notorious occultist the British
press once labeled as "The Wickedest Man In The World". Crowley’s
body was cremated but the unexplained 1947 disappearance of the urn containing
his ashes has remained a mystery… until now.
This diabolical tale
propels the reader through a series of curiously interconnected events spanning
the years from 1947 (and the death of Aleister Crowley) to the 1990s and the
coming-of-age (and eventual stardom) of a "death-metal" rocker with
the unlikely name of Rodney Duckworth.
The time-line shifts to
the present day where Brian Kane, a gruff and gritty street-worn Seattle Police
Detective, reluctantly teams up with the mysterious Rowena Ravenwood, an
attractive and rather unconventional female FBI agent assigned to a most
unusual investigative unit. Their task is to figure out why good, healthy,
God-fearing preachers in their fair city are suddenly dropping dead... one at a
time... nine days apart.
What is the meaning of
the strange symbols branded onto the bodies of these hapless victims? Are they
all part of some bizarre cult? No eyewitnesses. No fingerprints. Is it really
murder? Where’s the evidence? And what is the disturbing secret that Detective
Kane is holding so close to his chest?
The investigation
catapults Kane and Ravenwood headlong into life-threatening situations as they
wind their way through the strange, dark labyrinth of the world of the occult
and find themselves battling for their lives against the powerful forces of
ritual magick.
A bloody carnage of
unimaginable horror is about to be unleashed upon the world. The survival of
the entire human race hangs in the balance and the clues to help solve the case
are in desperately short supply. Worse yet, so is the amount of time left to
stop the mysterious killer's reign of terror before all Hell breaks loose. And
– according to Special Agent Ravenwood – that’s not just a figure of speech.
REVIEWS:
"Wow...Dan Brown
fans watch out! It's gripping, tantalizing... I was hooked by the end of the
first chapter and literally unwilling to put it down!" - Nikki, book
blogger at Close Encounters With The Night Kind
"A riveting occult
crime thriller. I couldn't put it down." - Rai Aren, author of Secret Of
The Sands
"A
close-the-drapes-and-hang-onto-your-seat-read. Highly recommend it." -
Meredith Wright Hutchins, attorney, Olympia, WA
"An ending you will
never see coming! Highly recommended!" - Lila L. Pinord, author of In
Time, Min's Monster, and Skye Dancer
"Filled with
magick... at times drawing one into the evil." - Ellen In Atlanta,
amazon.com reviewer
"Plenty of
atmosphere and a compelling narrative. A worthwhile roller-coaster ride."
- Bob Freeman, author of The Descendant
"What a great story
– fast paced and exciting, right to the end." - Roxanne Bland, Of
Werewolves And Other Strangers
"Excellent read!
Exciting, really moves right along & a wee touch of romance. You wont be
sorry!" - Sue M., Stanwood, WA
"A tingly,
spine-chilling little entry that belongs in any true horror aficionado's
collection." - Wendy Potocki, author of The White Lady Murders
"A page turner... dragging you into a world where few authors
have successfully gone... to the Gates of Hell and back! The thrill ride alone
is worth the purchase." - Valerie Bowen, author of the Mind of a Madman
series
http://bookblogs.ning.com/group/supernatural-occult-fiction/forum/topics/wanna-see-something-really-creepy-part-2-of-the-audio-visual
http://bookblogs.ning.com/group/supernatural-occult-fiction/forum/topics/wanna-see-something-really-creepy-part-2-of-the-audio-visual
Excerpt from Chapter-17 of Ash: Return Of The Beast
Having set each of the
previously used candles aglow, Cowl placed the four virgin candles on the
remaining points of the Lucifer Seal. He left number six alone for the moment
and lit numbers seven, eight and nine without ceremony. Then he returned to the
sixth candle, Lalartu. He raised it above his head, giving honor to the Old
Ones, then set it back in place. He lit it, bowed his head and recited the
evocation to conjure the demon, Lalartu, into service.
“Harok uzni hadahs.
Harok uzni hadahs. Harok uzni hadahs! Lalartu, sixth Offspring of the Old Ones!
Blood demon! Dweller amongst the undead! Come! Thou who dost slay mothers at
the moment of birth! Come! Carry me to the sixth of nine and light the path for
my return! Then we shall be as One! Harok uzni hadahs!”
The sixth candle began
shaking, vibrating furiously. The flame flared beyond its natural capacity
filling the room with a blinding light. Cowl's body went limp as the intense
brilliance subsided.
At that moment, Cowl's
virtual double--enshrouded in a hooded robe--materialized in the restroom at
the concert hall where Pastor St. Martin was in the process of unzipping his
pleated black trousers.
Deep in thought about
the protest he was about to lead against the Death-Metal band, Mega
Therion--that abomination and corruptor of innocent youth--the preacher was
about to relieve his straining bladder when his attention was suddenly drawn to
an unexpected reflection in the mirror before him. He froze, staring at the
dark hooded figure standing not five feet behind him. A crackling sound came
from above. St. Martin looked up. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling were
flickering like strobe lights. A moment later the room went dark.
St. Martin panicked.
He spun around, his piss spattering onto the green tiled floor. One fluorescent
tube in the corner flickered and came on, barely illuminating the darkness with
a dim, bluish glow. “Jesus!” he said, fumbling awkwardly at his zipper.
“Not exactly,” the
Hooded Figure replied from the shadows. The haunting voice came from deep
within the folds of the large drooping hood. “But you would do well to pray.”
The Hooded Figure then took one step forward from the shadows into the gloomy
half-light.
The preacher jerked
back with a sharp gasp. He searched for a face somewhere in the dark void of
the hood but he could only catch a tiny glint of light reflecting off the
whites of the eyes. What is this? He
believed in demons but… No… this must be some kind of a joke. A sick joke.
The Hooded Figure took
another step forward, then stopped.
The preacher sucked in
another gasp and shuffled backward until he was pressed up against the hard,
cold porcelain urinal.
The Hooded Figure
lolled its head to one side, then the other, casually studying the pathetic
excuse for a man who was shaking like a timid mouse trapped in a corner.
The mouse swallowed
hard, his eyes darting this way and that, wanting to run but unable to move.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The Hooded Figure
advanced another step but stopped as its foot made a splat in the puddle on the
floor. It looked down and shook its head. “Tsk-tsk. What have you done? You're
a very bad little boy.”
“I--I'm--”
“Now who's going to
clean that up?”
“I… I don't--”
“You don't know? Then
I shall tell you.” The Hooded Figure's fatherly tone was gentle but firm. “You.
You're going to clean this up.”
“Wh--what?” The
preacher's lower lip was quivering.
“You're going to do
exactly as I say. Now get down on the floor.”
“Don't hurt me.
Please!”
The Hooded Figure
raised an arm as if to strike the man. “The floor, goddamit! Now!”
St. Martin dropped to
his knees, trembling. Without looking up, he muttered, nearly sobbing. “Why are
you doing this? What do you want?”
“Not on your knees,
you fucking imbecile. Down! On your stomach!”
St. Martin slowly
lowered himself face down into the stench of his own urine.
The Hooded Figure
nodded approvingly. “Very good. Now squirm around like the worm you are until
you've sopped up every last drop of your filthy mess.”
The preacher's will to
resist was overpowered by a force beyond his comprehension. Whimpering like a
helpless child, he found himself squirming and writhing around in his own
liquid waste until his clothes were soaked.
“Get up.”
St. Martin struggled
to his feet, his legs quivering, his hands and face glistening wet, his clothes
damp and wrinkled. He stunk of piss. The unpleasant odor wafted up into his
nostrils. A chunk of vomit lodged in his throat. He gagged it down. It came up
again. He swallowed. It burned his throat. His eyes welled up.
The Hooded Figure
nodded. “That's much better, yes.”
“I--I don't understand.” The preacher's voice
was wavering and weak. “What do you want
from me?”
“Silence would be
good.”
Silence? Somehow a moment of
clarity had found its way into St. Martin's state of confusion and fear,
offering a glimmer of hope. There must be
other people in the building! He summoned what little will power he had
left and acted on his flash of inspiration. “Let me go or I'll yell for help. I
swear to God, I will.”
“Well, that would just
ruin everything. But, if you insist, then by all means, please. Be my guest.”
The preacher was
surprised by the response but wasn't about to waste another moment. He opened
his mouth to yell but nothing came out. He tried again, every muscle in his throat
straining, arteries bulging, his face contorting into hideous shapes. Again and
again and still nothing. Finally, breathless, confused, shaking with fear, he
sank to his knees and wept, pleading to God for this nightmare to end.
The Hooded Figure looked
down at its victim and spoke in a measured, sympathetic tone. “I know. But it's
almost over. Now get up and come toward me.”
The preacher's mouth
moved as he tried to speak. Toward you?
Again, no sound, but he could hear his own words clearly inside his own head.
“You heard me,” the
Hooded Figure said. “Come here.”
The preacher then
realized his thoughts were somehow being perceived by the hooded creature. The
realization frightened him to the point of near madness. He was no longer alone
in the sanctuary of his own mind. That frail barrier had been breached. The
intruder was inside.
St. Martin's head
dropped to his chest and he obeyed the command. He prayed as he moved against
his own will toward the hooded figure. Our
Father…
The Hooded Figure
recited the prayer along with the preacher. “…who art in Heaven…”
The preacher struggled
to hear his own inner voice over that of the monster. …deliver us from evil… But with those words he realized the
futility of the effort. He left the prayer floating in limbo.
“What's the matter?”
the Hooded Figure said. Forget the words?”
St. Martin's head
lifted slowly as if it had become a tremendous weight. His eyes were empty.
“Too bad.” The Hooded
Figure's voice was contemplative, almost compassionate. “It's a nice prayer,
actually.” Then his tone switched abruptly. “But, no matter. We've got a couple
more things to get done here. So let's get on with it, shall we? Come closer.”
St. Martin moved
another step closer and waited--for what, he could not fathom. He didn't even
try. He was an empty, distorted reflection of the once dynamic man who had, for
years, passionately served the very God that had now, for some inscrutable
reason, abandoned him to the will of this monster.
“Now,” the Hooded Figure said, “I'm going to heal
you.”
Heal--?
“C'mon. You know. The
laying on of hands?” It raised an arm and extended a hand out of the dark
sleeve toward the preacher's face. “Close your eyes. This might hurt a little.”
St. Martin's eyes
suddenly clamped shut in spite of his straining to keep them open and the
creature began to chant.
“Kah-hahdin azahn.
Dinjah Dinjasa. Kah-hahdin azahn. Dinjah Dinjasa!”
The very sound of the
strange words caused St. Martin to recoil in horror. God in heaven! Help me!
The Hooded Figure
carried on, oblivious to the preacher's torment. “Hear me, O Lucifer! Son of
the morning! Approve this invocation with the seal of my Master!” The Hooded
Figure pressed its hand against the preacher's forehead and pushed hard. “Thy
will be done! Aum. Ha!”
St. Martin's eyes flew
open, bulging from their sockets. A searing pain ripped through his skull and
burned like a hot poker under his rippling skin. He knew his screams, his
desperate wailing cries for help, were heard by no one but himself, inside his
own head. Paralyzed by the will of the monster, he was helpless to do anything
but endure the torture. How many times during his ministry had he told people
they were destined for Hell and now Hell had come to him.
The hooded figure
withdrew its hand and stepped back.
St. Martin collapsed
to the floor, a quivering heap of a shattered soul. Crowley's rendition of the
Lucifer Seal was now seared into the flesh of his forehead.
The Hooded Figure
nodded approvingly and knelt beside the preacher. “I told you it might hurt a
little.” The tone was mockingly sympathetic. “Now just relax. I'm going to
prepare you for something special.”
The preacher's eyes
pleaded for mercy.
“I know, I know. But
we're just getting to the good part. You'll like this. Trust me.” The Hooded
Figure slowly unbuttoned the preacher's shirt, spread it open, rolled the
undershirt up to the man's chin and gazed upon the smooth canvas of naked
flesh. “Ahhhh, yes. Very, very nice.”
The preacher struggled
against the psychic straightjacket this monster had strapped around him. It was
no use. His inability to move of his own will was pushing him ever further
toward the edge of madness. He tried again to catch a glimpse of his
tormentor's face but looking into the darkness of the cavernous hood was like
staring into the proverbial valley of the shadow of death. I will fear no evil…
“Ah, yes,” the Hooded
Figure said. “The ol' twenty-third Psalm. Very good. How's it workin' for ya?
You know, my dear mother used to read that to me at night, just after making me
recite something about 'if I should die before I wake'. I slept real good with
that going through my mind. Do you make your kids say that one? I bet you do. I
bet you fucking make your kids say that one.”
A pitiful noise
gurgled up from St. Martin's throat.
“Yeah, that's what I figured.”
The restroom door
suddenly rattled.
The preacher's eyes
lit up. Someone was trying to open it. I
knew there had to be someone else here! Help! Please!
The door rattled
again.
Once more the preacher's
silent pleas echoed inside his own head. Help!
Please, help me!
The rattling stopped.
“Damn it!” came a frustrated voice from beyond the door. The curse was followed
by the barely audible sound of fading footsteps. The preacher's last glimmer of
hope was walking away.
“Oh, come on. You
didn't really think I'd let just anybody walk in here, did you? This is our time, just you and me. Now, be a
good little boy and close your eyes. No peeking.”
Once again, St.
Martin's eyelids fluttered uncontrollably as they struggled to resist the power
that was drawing them closed. Dear God,
this isn't happening! Tears squeezed out from behind his clamped eyelids. Don't let… Oh, Jesus… What is that?
The Hooded Figure was
pressing its finger against the preacher's bare chest and slowly, skillfully,
it was tracing out the sigil of the sixth demon.
The scream that tried
to escape from St. Martin's lungs would have shattered the walls. The
blistering sensation beneath his skin followed along the winding path of the
Hooded Figure's finger like a slow burning fuse. The welts began to rise up on
his flesh in the shape of the unholy sign.
“Lalartu!” the Hooded
Figure bellowed. “Sixth Offspring of the Old Ones! Blood demon! Dweller amongst
the undead! Thou who dost slay mothers at the moment of birth! This is your
sign! I give you this soul!”
St. Martin's eyes flew
open. His nerves were on fire, his body buckled and twitched as if he were
being electrocuted. He saw his wife waving goodbye as he left the house that
morning--He heard his children playing and laughing--He saw the dog he
accidentally hit with the car ten years ago--He saw his mother packing his
lunch for his first day at school--The wrist watch his father gave him for his
sixteenth birthday--The Bible he kept by the bed with all the important
passages underlined... A moment later he was motionless, delirious and
defeated, begging God to let him die.
The Hooded Figure rose
up and looked down at the preacher. “'I form the light and create darkness. I
make peace and create evil. I, the Lord, do all these things.' Isaiah
forty-five, verse seven.”
St. Martin barely
heard the words through the pounding of his own pulse throbbing inside his
ears.
“Do you know the phrase, coup de grace? The stroke of grace? Well, that my dear St. Martin,
is the holy gift you're about to receive.”
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