#NGHW News: Interview with Contestant : JC Martínez

•March 31, 2017 • Leave a Comment


What do you love about horror?

The gut-wrenching goosebump it gives you, that spreads all over your body through your spine.

What was the first horror movie/story/book/show that you fell in love with?

It’s a tie between 1988’s film Daffy Duck’s Quackbusters and 1993’s videogame Zombies Ate My Neighbours.

Can you describe the sort of horror stories you write?

Is “no” an acceptable answer? I never follow a single line of thought when it comes to writing horror. I am fond of the supernatural, and very much like a good thriller, but I could not give a specific label as to the sort of stories that I write.
Do you listen to music while you write? If so, what?

I usually prefer to write in silence, so I just listen to the beats of my heart.
Do you have any hobbies besides writing?

Reading books, watching films and TV shows…

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5 The Woods – Return to the House (1985) by LV Gaudet

•March 28, 2017 • Leave a Comment

The Woods


The Woods:

1 – The Woods – The Dare (1985)

2 – Thirty Years Later – The Old Bennet House is for Sale (2015)

3 – The Woods – Jesse Hears a Noise (1985)

4 – The House – First Entry in 30 Years (2015)


The boys burst into the house, hurriedly kicking off their boots at the back door before going any further.  Everything looks exactly like it did when they went out to play.

It’s 1985 and the furniture and décor are a clash of pieces mostly from the sixties and seventies, some bought new, some second hand, and some are hand-me-downs.  Nothing has been upgraded in the past ten years, a testament of thoughtful care and financial mediocrity.  The worn couch and dented coffee table, victims of having two rambunctious growing boys in the house, are overdue to be replaced.  A comic book lays discarded on the floor, open as if it is trying to fly away, The Thing is caught forever in an epic battle against a green monster that looks like a rough tree bark wall with many arms surrounding The Thing with flailing punching fists.  The television, an ancient tube set, sits dark and quiet on its stand.  A pair of discarded boy’s socks are tossed carelessly on the floor, and the latest edition of TV Guide sits on the coffee table.

“Mom!” Jesse looks around.

The house is dead silent except for their own breathing.


Kevin stands there, looking around.

The house is exactly as they left it before they went outside to play.  How long has that been?  An hour?

But not quite.

Everything seems a little muted.  Off.

And more dusty than he remembers.

Jesse runs into the kitchen.  After a pause of a few heartbeats, Kevin follows.

“Mom?” Jesse pauses just inside the doorway, looking expectantly for their mother.

The teakettle still sits on the stovetop, two tea towels hang from the oven door handle where they were hung to dry after washing dishes in the sink, and the table is set for dinner with places for four.

Flour and sugar bags sit on the countertop next to a mixing bowl with a wooden spoon and measuring cup, pulled out in preparation of baking a cake.

Their mother is not there.

They run through the house calling, “Mom! Mom! Mom!”  They end their search back in the living room, out of breath.

“She’s not here.”

“Where could she be?”

“Next door, maybe?”

“Let’s go see.”

They pull their boots back on and rush out the door into the backyard, trained not to use the front door because that would somehow make more cleaning work for their mother, and around the side of the house to the front.

They stop, staring around wide-eyed, and turn to stare at each other, their faces full of fear and confusion.

They are standing in the woods next to that old stump.

“What the hell?”

“Don’t cuss,” Jesse says automatically.  There is hell to pay if their mom ever hears them use bad language.  Hell is one of many forbidden words.

Kevin turns to him, appalled.

“Seriously?  You’re worried about me cussing? We are back in the woods! How?  This is impossible!”

He stops.


“What?” Jesse is sulking now.

“The grass.”

“What about it?”

“Wasn’t there grass in the yard?”

“Yeah, so?  There’s always been grass in the yard.”

Kevin narrows his eyes, wondering if Jesse is just being dumb or is messing with him.

“It’s early spring.  Look around.  There’s still snow everywhere.”

“Yeah, so?” Jesse isn’t getting it.

Kevin’s shoulders sag with the futility of it.  Do I even bother? He sighs.

“Jesse, do you remember what the yard looked like? Just now, when we went back to the house.”

“Yeah, your bike was laying on the grass. I almost tripped on it.”

“Where was the snow?”

They both just stare at each other.

L.V. Gaudet is the author of Where the Bodies Are and The McAllister Farm
where the bodies are


What kind of dark secret pushes a man to commit the unimaginable, even as he is sickened by his own actions? Find out in Where the Bodies Are.



The McAllister Farm-cover 1

Take a step back in time to learn the secret behind the bodies in Where the Bodies Are:  The McAllister Farm reveals the secrets behind the man who created the killer.




HuntingMichaelUnderwood - final - media copy

The McAllister series continues with book 3:  Hunting Michael Underwood

Detective Michael Underwood is missing and Jim McNelly does not believe they caught the real killer.  The characters of the first two book compete in search of the killer, each determined to stop him for their own reasons.






Also available:  Garden Grove.

  • A human skull
  • Sabotage
  • Poisoned work crew
  • Altered blue prints

Someone wants to stop the development




Link to purchase these books by L.V. Gaudet

Link to reviews of Where the Bodies Are on Angie’s Diary

Follow L. V. Gaudet:

Facebook author page






LV Gaudet, author

What it feels like to have sleep paralysis

•March 24, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I am Lioness

If you have ever woken up in the middle of the night and not been able to move your body or talk, you’ve probably had sleep paralysis. News Flash: It totally sucks..

Sleep Paralysis is a phenomenon in which an individual, when either falling asleep or waking up, briefly experiences an inability to move, speak, or react (Wikipedia). Think of it as your mind is awake, but your body has fallen asleep. This phenomenon can often include a feeling of anxiety and hallucinations. I’m going to tell you how it all happened for me and how to help yourself if you have it.

My sleep paralysis started when I was about 14 years old. I was having a strange dream and when I realized I was dreaming, I looked up and saw the ceiling of my room in a tiny hole above me. I reached up and pulled myself up…

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A Cure for Wellness reviewed by Alex Dyer ★★★

•March 24, 2017 • Leave a Comment

The Multiplex Perspective


Three-time Pirates of the Caribbean directorGore VerbinskibringsusA Cure for Wellness,which while clinically stylistic and pleasing to the eye, doesn’tmanage to juggletheoverlyambitiousamount ofgenrecross-overs.

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Review: A Cure for Wellness

•March 10, 2017 • Leave a Comment


acureforwellnessA Cure for Wellness should be a film for me; surreal, Gothic imagery, sinister mystery, beautiful camerawork and plenty of 18 rated material. But… something didn’t quite work for me.

A career-driven businessman involved with the stock market, upon receiving a promotion, must travel to Switzerland and track down his old CEO so a merger could be signed for. But the letter left at the company written by his boss appears to be insane ramblings about a “Cure” for a sickness everyone has, at a clinic in Switzerland.

Gore Verbinski in recent years has only been known for directing the Pirates of the Caribbean movies (the original trilogy at least) and it is easy to forget that he in fact directed the very competent American remake of Japanese horror The Ring. So when his name is stamped on this 18 rated, Gothic surrealist horror/thriller, you might not want to be so…

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Review: We Are the Flesh (2016)

•February 24, 2017 • Leave a Comment

A Bunch of Frames

“Something like love doesn’t exist. Only demonstrations of love.”

In a vaguely post-apocalyptic Mexico, two siblings stumble upon an older, grimy gentleman (a fantastic Noe Hernandez) who offers them food and shelter on the condition that they give in to his sensual proclivities.

As with Swiss Army Man, We Are the Flesh is an exploration of bodily desire and instinct when removed from the confines of polite society. Unlike Swiss Army Man, which seems primarily concerned with the link between self-denial and unhappiness, We Are the Flesh seems concerned with the contradictions inherent to applying a system of morality upon the feral, animalistic soul of humanity.

As such, We Are the Flesh intends to shock. It features incest, possibly un-simulated sex, necrophilia, cannibalism, the exchange of fluids – all enacted with a sensual glee, intended to disorient the viewer by presenting these supposed horrors as desirable outcomes. Hernandez’s un-named man is…

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Blood (short story) by L.V. Gaudet

•February 10, 2017 • 1 Comment

Blood cover.jpg

I will be reading this story at the 2nd annual St Valentine’s Horrorcon in Winnipeg, Manitoba.


A man sits on a stool before a blank canvas stretched taught on a wooden frame and propped on a well-used easel.  He faces the canvas in the shadowy room, frowning, his face hidden beneath the hood of his black robe.  The dancing light of the candles casts deeper shadows and makes the tattered strips of the dark shrouded figure’s ancient robes seem almost to move of their own, though they stay motionless.  He might have been mistaken for a monk if not for the rotting nature of his robe.  The room itself is a stone walled chamber within an old castle.

He dips a finger into the blood pooled in a small wooden bowl.  It is a casual gesture, dabbing at it like paint in a paint cup.  Careful not to drip the crimson wetness from his fingertip, he brings it to the canvas.  Gently and with great care, he spreads the blood across the canvas, rubbing it to blend it into a thousand shades like an artist working with charcoal.  He dips his finger again and again, each time carefully smearing the blood across the canvas, creating a brightly splashed roughed in picture.  The blood turns to shades of sepia and dull red as it dries into the canvas.

The odor of the blood fills his nostrils.  It is a little sharp, kind of salty.  If he tasted it, he knows it would taste salty, red, and a little bit like smelted iron.  It smells good, fresh.  It has to be fresh or the magic would have faded away.

The bowl sits on a small carved wooden table before him and close to the easel.  It is the kind of bowl that looks like it had been carved by a deliberate hand, the inside sanded smooth until it has a warm sheen.  The outside is carved with an intricate pattern that covers the entire surface.  The blood in the bowl was taken from a vein, the de-oxygenation giving it a staler red-brown look.

It shares the table with two similar bowls, one holding brighter red blood taken from an artery, the oxygenation making the blood look fresher.  The third bowl holds blood with a darker ashier look, mixed with other mediums, and has an odor that resembles brimstone and ashes.  Next to the bowls lays an assortment of artists’ tools; soft and stiff bristled brushes of various sizes and hair types, as well as pallet knives and other items.

Wiping his finger on an age-yellowed cloth, he picks up a paintbrush, dips it in the ashy bowl, and starts painting in more details.

As he works, the picture is drawn forth from the canvas, the image growing more defined.  He changes blood paints and brushes as he works, bringing the scene to surreal life.

He does not know who’s blood it is, nor even if it is human, animal, or something else.  Where the blood comes from does not matter.  It is the magic, the life that once throbbed through the veins of something living, that trace which remains of the soul that filled the body; that is what matters.  He is certain the donor had to be alive when it was taken.

The canvas he paints always changes.  The picture could be anyone, anywhere, anytime.  People, plants, and animals are all the subjects of his portraits, everything that lives.  Sometimes he paints a large canvas, an entire field of battle.  Sometimes it is smaller, a group of marauders falling upon a caravan, or an attack in the dark dirty recesses of a city’s worst neighborhood.  Sometimes it is tiny, the sweet breath of an infant drifting through tiny pouty lips.

The canvas he works today with such care is the rocky crags of a mountain.  Beneath his brushes, the peak rises up to a snow covered cap that seems impossibly distant.  The rough crags of the mountain appear impassible.  A well used trail that feels more treacherous than it looks winds across the lower rounded bottom of the nearest mountain.  Rocks jut out like grotesque growths and twisted trees cling where they can, their roots embedded in the rock and soil.  Wildflowers flutter in the breeze, seeming as if you could actually see the movement if you look hard enough.  Rough dry mountain grass and thorny weeds claim a partial victory to the rough ground among the boulders.

He works methodically, adding the little details, deepening shadows, and building on the intensity of the scene.

As he paints, the scene changes beneath his fluid brush strokes and the canvas vibrates with a dull rumble as of a thousand distant hooves stampeding.  This is no stampede, however; at least not one of living creatures rushing across the ground in a frenzy of fear.

A few pebbles clatter across the rocky terrain, kicking up tiny puffs of dust as they go.

The group travelling low on the side of the mountain pauses.  They look around with startled eyes.  Their clothes speak of an age when most people live in scattered villages and farms, their clothes a mix of woven cloth and animal hides.  It is a time before modern conveniences, where homes are made of rough wood planks hacked out of trees with axes and mud, with mud and grass roofs.  Tools are often carved from wood and metal crudely hammered by hand into shape with an iron smith’s hammer.

They feel the faint vibration of the ground, their ears barely picking up the distant rumble.  A child stares curiously at a small rock that rolls and clatters past.

With a deliberate and practiced hand, he paints the mountainside, coloring bright red trails down the rock face.

The rumbling grows louder, the ground shaking with increasing fury.  The pebbles and rocks already lightly clattering down the mountainside are chased by larger rocks, and then followed by boulders and clouds of billowing un-breathable dust.

The group is made of related families forced to relocate from their village by the corrupt lord of the land.  They begin to scramble in a frightened panic as the very ground they stand on seems intent on throwing them off.  They clutch at children, dropping their meager belongings, things they kept which were only those that are essential for survival.  It was all they could carry.

They begin to run, growing confused with fear, running for their lives as the rumbling intensifies and the mountain throws more large rocks at them.

One woman trips and falls, her infant clutched protectively in her arms, scraping her arm and leg on the sharp rocks when she lands.  A little stunned, she lays there breathing hard, staring at her husband who had stopped and is hurriedly picking through their paltry belongings, discarding anything they cannot eat.  He needs to lighten his heavy load so that he can move faster off the mountain.

With a delicate gesture, the man at the easel gently dabs a spot of red upon the head of the man.

Looking almost bewildered, the man stares at his fallen wife, pleading with his eyes for her to hurry to her feet and run.

A boulder flies by them as if hurled from the mountain by a giant invisible hand, flying past between the two with unstoppable momentum.  After it passes by, the man’s headless body stands there, wavering slightly, his head now a small red smear being painted down the mountain by the rolling boulder which had taken it, his heart still beating with the echo of the signal that came from the brain just a few heartbeats ago.

So intent are the terrified people on fleeing the rockslide, that most of them do not even notice the dark and terrible winged creature that swoops down silently from the sky, its tattered cloak flapping like the rotting sheet wrapped about a corpse.  The creature seems somehow indistinct, as though only a shadow of it touches this world.

The man’s wife watches in horror, a scream tearing from her throat as the monster swoops down and grabs her husband’s headless shoulder with the long fingers of one taloned hand.

She can see through it like looking through a deep shadow.  Tattered robes hang from it as if they are forever rotting from its long thin frame.  Wings as rotten as the shredded remains of its cloak hang in the air behind it.

Her eyes move to the long fingered bony hand clutching her husband’s shoulder.  A sick feeling fills her.  She is trapped staring at the long talons meant to render flesh from bone in a single slash.

It turns its faceless head towards her as it reaches down with the other hand into the new orifice that used to be his neck.  She feels blood red eyes that are not there searing into her as if staring into her very soul.  A chill washes through her.   It tears away the shadowy shade of her husband writhing and fighting to remain sheltered inside the dying body.  The creature’s invisible blood red eyes remain motionless and locked on her as it steals her husband’s soul.

With incredible speed it lifts off, swooping away into the sky with its still struggling cargo.  The shade of her husband tries to scream as he fights the powerful monster spiriting him away, but cannot.  He is but a shadow, without form or body.

On the ground below, his body still stands there, wavering slightly, then slumps slowly to the ground, its heartbeat stuttering to a stop.  Seconds have passed.

The man at the easel continues to paint his canvas of rock and lives.  Very few will survive this landslide.

The mountain shakes violently.  Those who missed being crushed by the falling rocks find themselves gasping and choking on air that has been replaced by thick cloying dust that blocks out the weakening sun, unable to breathe, suffocating.

More of the shadowy creatures swoop down from the sky again and again, stealing souls from the broken bodies as their life ebbs away.  Always, they move swiftly and silently, with deadly precision.

When the violent shaking of the ground stops at last, the rumbling fading away into the past and the dust beginning to clear on the soft breath of the breeze, the aftermath becomes apparent.

An ugly gash scrapes down the mountainside, a trail of broken debris showing the path the rockslide had taken.  Among the violently broken trees and raw wound of the mountainside, red smears of blood mar the scene, a gruesome testimony to the death and destruction, matching exactly the red smears of blood he lovingly painted on his canvas.

A child wails.

A woman’s hand pokes feebly from the ground, waving weakly, smeared with blood and dust.  Then it stills.

The man at the easel lets his hand fall away from the canvas to rest at his side, the brush held weakly in his fingers.

He had a name once.  It has been so long since he has heard the name uttered that he can no longer remember it.  Most call him by another name.  Death.

His dark cloaked shoulders shake, the rotting fabric shreds moving as though its tattered remains are made of delicate gauze.  He weeps for the newly collected souls.


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