*Looks up from sharpening her pickle forks*

Oh hiya! Didn’t hear you creep in. Yes, I’m getting ready for company.  *gives her shiny new gibbet the full Vanna White treatment*

It’s quite thrilling, so pardon me if I’m all a’flutter! Gosh, I haven’t had a guest in my dungeon since … well, let’s keep the closet door closed on that skeleton, shall we? Next week, I’m doing my very first indie author interroga–erm, interview. *tosses towel over power tools and iron shackles* Yeah, “interview”. 

With the kind of courage that borders on folly,  R. A. Evans (author of the chilling horror novel Asylum Lake) has agreed to share some of his secrets with me. And once he does, oh man, I am totally gonna blab.

Before he arrives (read: before I throw a bag over his head, sucker-punch him in the kidneys and haul him into the back of my van) I’d like to clear up some vicious rumours about him … ones I may or may not have started in the first place.

First of all, this is not him —–>

He’s got an admittedly fiendish mind,

but Mr. Evans is not in fact a ghoul.

<–He’s this guy!  Hold on …. *holds finger to headphone, listens with dissatisfied sigh* OK, I’ve been informed that this isn’t him either.

<——  He’s this guy!

But he sounds like this guy  —>

and when you get him in the dark, in front of a mirror,  and whisper his name three times backwards, I swear you can see his soul.

                <R. A. Evans’ soul, probably>

Secondly, Mr. Evans assures me he’s never killed anyone, for realizies. And while I was relieved to hear it, I don’t actually buy that, do you? Nah, you’re right: this guy’s definitiely got bones in his crawlspace.

Thirdly, Mr. Evans does not do his writing while wearing a fursuit with a dickhole. That furry thing in his attic is a blow up doll stuffed into a fur suit. He doesn’t wear it. See? Nothing to worry about. Just your regular, average … hmm … nope, on second thought, that might bear watching.

 Fourth(ly?)  It has been suggested that Mr. Evans is undead. This is completely and utterly false. He is entirely dead, and I know this, because: I’ve NEVER felt a pulse on him, I’ve NEVER seen him breathe–not once!–and if that’s not enough, just look at him. Go ahead, scroll up … notice anything? He’s fucking black & white, people. It’s almost as though he completely defies the notion of colour. I rest my case.

 Last but certainly not least, rumour has it that he’s a degenerate pervert who’s been known to haunt mortuaries and mausoleums in the quietest hours of the night, seeking to satisfy the most depraved and baleful sexual urges, and worse … things you don’t want to know about, things best not spoken of in the oh-so-polite society of the Interwebz. I started this rumour myself (just now, in fact! Wheeee!) because it sure is a fun one, isn’t it?

But the truth is: he’s a charming gentleman, devoted father of three, uxorious husband to a wife he adores,  and he only throttles hookers on the very rarest of occasions. I know, that’s a relief, right? *whew*

 I think everything is almost ready for him at my end. *adjusts the angle of the video camera* It won’t be a lengthy visit *sighs at grim stains on the cement* … visits to my dungeon rarely last long. But it sure will be a thrill. For one of us, anyway.  Heh. *selects pickle fork and tests the sharpness of prongs against fingertip, drawing a pinprick of blood*

      I sure hope that Mr. Evans is ready for me …

(author’s note: In reality, Rich Evans is not a pervert, a ghoul, a dead man, a serial killer, a nice guy or a necrophiliac. Wait! I’m sorry, I’m mistaken … he IS a pervert. Duh.) 

It’s almost spring; Finally, forest season–don’t get me started about the forest in a Canadian winter–and so begins a series of long walks through the woods at the cottage or at Short Hills Provincial Park, swatting bloodsuckers (mosquitoes, not vampires) and going off the path to investigate strange sounds or furtive movement in the boscage and undergrowth (see also: the adventures of getting back on the path after thigh-high plunges into fetid muddy ditches). I’m fearless in the forest (read: stupid) and I’ll check out anything,  adopting that wary half-crouch half-slink of a B-movie actor slated as “Victim 3, Ditz In Woods”. If I’m hiking alone, I like to run full-out in short bursts as if something or someone is in pursuit with cold intent … but as I’ve clearly stated before, I’m not normal. Sadly, nothing ever IS chasing me, except that one bloodsucker who just won’t quit (vampire, not mosquito).

There’s a lot of room for what-if in a forest. Shade and shadows hip-hop, shimmy and rock behind the trees like they’re auditioning for Dancing With the Stars. Gusting winds thrust limbs against one another, holding them overhead in submissive bondage. A dischordant click-squeal to your left, and pretty soon your imagination is flooding with possibilities. Especially if you walk at nightfall … what horror writer doesn’t do this? What self-respecting horror writer passes up the opportunity to think what the hell made that noise?? So much to see, hear and fear. (See: weirdass white fungus in picture above–alien lifeform? I vote yes!) A good forest is pregnant with what-ifs that may or may not lead to oh-shits.

I wonder if writers are oversensitive to such things, if we pick up cues and blips and snatches of sensory input that normal people overlook? Do we go looking for the unseen? Are we all prone to hypersensuality? And if so, is that a blessing or a liability?

A handy alternative to the forest, for this little writer, is the long, familiar stretch of the Welland Canal between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario; now that it’s spring, I don’t have to keep the car running to stay warm. I’ve known this area my whole life. If I was a nutcase, (“if”, heh heh) this would be my hunting ground. Hrm. Probably I should backspace over that; with my luck they’ll turn up mutilated bodies in the canal’s sullen murk and my name will get slapped on a suspect list. Hell, why pass up an opportunity to get tackled by cops? *drool, pant*

 This is my spot by the canal. It’s an ideal place to write (if by “ideal”, one means “risky” and “slightly moronic”). I type merrily away, waiting (hoping, let’s not bullshit, here) for a figure to slink past my rearview mirror, or the creeping shuffle-crunch of a carefully-placed boot on the gravel just beyond my blind spot. Anticipation of fear is nearly as sensual a ride as the fear itself. Any minute now, something eldritch and feral, something lazily letcherous, something slithering between human and other will give my poor heart a reason to buck into a hammering joyride … annnnny minute now. No?

*crickets* Pffft. Psychos and monsters: always popping out of the friggin’ barn when you least expect them, but when you really need one, where are they? Right, down at the damn carnival licking clown sweat off the seltzer nozzles. Don’t they know I’m impatient for some shuddersome company?

Until the mud clears off the backwoods jogging paths, and the dangers of the canal crank up, I suppose I shall have to satisfy my need for inspiration by hanging out here in the back yard under your window. That new lamp looks great, by the way. No, no … no need to turn it on.

I can see you just fine in the dark.

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto is an unrepentant liar, a devourer of raw cookie dough and human hearts,  a creator of falsehoods, and a creepy ratfuck. She’s only pretending not to actually stalk you, and might be planning on eating that leftover meatloaf in your fridge, though she’s heartily disappointed in your no-name condiments. AJ Aalto has booked her next haircut to coincide with yours; she’ll be the one smiling behind her Vogue Paris. When you’re ready to go, she’ll be in the parking lot. If she can take you, she will.)

After reading my last blog, my husband said (casually and quite foolishly) “You should blog about what scares the pants off a horror writer’s spouse. Give the world a picture of what it’s like to be married to a …” He bit his tongue, smiling easily. “Writer. Like you.”

 I can accommodate his wishes, sassy as they may be. It was three weeks ago, the last time I tore asunder my husband’s personal fortifications and brought him in a quivering heap to his knees. I think he’s got some grey hairs from the event. It went a little something like this …

 “Babe,” he said, zipping his laptop case and checking his iPhone messages. “I’m gonna be late tonight.”

“Oh I see …” I put down my tea. “But not late-late, though, right?”

“It’s possible.”

“Like, ABBA-punishment late?”

He groaned. “Not that. Come on, babe, gimme a break.”

I fluttered my lashes, grinning a warning.

“I’ll try to be home before you go to bed …”

“You’ll try?” I clarified, and began to hum softly.

“… but it looks like I’m going to have to rebuild the whole damn server—“

I wound up and belted out: “One of is crying, one of us is lying, in my lonely bed!”

He slumped with a long-suffering sigh and a dying moose sound, a drawn out uuuunnnnnnggggh.

 “Staring at the ceeeeeeeiling!” I raised my voice a full octave. “Wishing she was somewhere else insteeeead!”

“Woman!” he pleaded.

 “One of us is lonely, one of us is only, waiting for a caaaaallllll.”

“Whaddya want, money? Blood? A kidney?”

“Sorry for herself! Feeling stupid! Feeling small! Wishing she had never left at aaaaalllll.”

“That’s it!” He came forward in a rush. “Come here, you.”

I danced away to the opposite side of the breakfast bar, lifting my voice to the rafters, flinging my arms wide. Before I could get another word out, he crushed me face-to-chest in his bear hug.

“NEFFER LEF’ A’ AWWWWWLL!” I wailed, smothered by his abs. He’s that tall.

He tightened his hold until the fight went out of me. “All done?”

I nodded, a lie.

“ABBA-ed out?”

Again, my nose wriggled around against his rumbling diaphragm. “I’m sorry you had to experience that,” I coughed as he released his titan grip. “But you brought it on yourself.”

“Maybe if you could fall asleep without a man in your bed, it wouldn’t be an issue?”

“Maybe you should hire a man to sleep beside me when you can’t make it home in time?”

One massive dark eyebrow shot up comically. “Oh, really!”

I just grinned, and dodged from his grasp. “Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight! Won’t somebody help me chase the shadows awa—ack!!”

 And now, having had a naked, honest taste of the torture and torment my battle-ready husband is subjected to, the hourly peril he faces, the hurdles he so tirelessly vaults, shouldn’t someone knight the poor bastard already?

In this first entry to Old Words, New Light, I offer you (drum roll, please) cumberworld. 

What a fantastic old word–cumberworld–softly rounded, laden with nuances of dark burden and undertones of melancholia. Jeffrey Kacirk of Forgotten English fame tracked the word back to Robert Nare’s Glossary (of) the Works of English Authors 1859 and the definition: “That which is only a trouble, or useless burthen to the world.” Kacirk also offered the following 1593 poem by Michael Drayton entitled Shepherd’s Garland:

“A cumberworld, yet in the world am left,

A fruitless plot, with brambles overgrown,

Mislived man of my worlds joy bereft,

heartbreaking cares, the offspring of my moan.”

Cumberworld, a charming antique word which I think ought to be resuscitated and rejuvinated, painted into prose with the careful, affectionate brush strokes of those logophiles and wordsmiths who share my desire to salvage beautiful words that may be falling by the wayside. I ask you: why say “useless crapheap” when you could say “cumberworld”? *grin*

For more lovely disappearing words, please see Jeffrey Kacirk’s: http://www.forgottenenglish.com/