Moonshine Madness
After I moved in about five years ago, it didn’t take me long to discover that my home was home to one of the biggest moonshine manufacturing and distribution facilities on the Island. I found old ornate bottles, copper tubing and other evidence of moonshine stills; even full bottles of the home-made hooch hidden deep in the forest.
Prohibition on PEI, a temporary wartime measure, was enacted from 1918 to 1920, but alcohol was actually illegal here from 1901 to 1948. During Prohibition, John, the now-deceased previous owner of my home, manufactured and sold moonshine—not only throughout PEI, but also transported it to the United States via the waterways.
As I got to know the neighbors, I heard many stories about John. Although everyone knew moonshine was one of his biggest tickets, and word had it he frequently indulged in drink, nobody had a bad word to say about him. “He would give you the shirt off his back,” one local said. “He was one of the kindest men I’ve ever met,” said another. “He endangered his own life pulling my father out of a ditch during a nasty snowstorm.”
Soon I got to know Bob, John’s affable son-in-law, who had married John’s daughter and lived in the old house for a number of years before the young couple could become financially independent. Bob would drop by periodically out of the blue (it’s what they do here), and entertain me with colorful stories of his past. On a hot sunny day we sat on the back porch swilling moonshine. Fascinated by Bob’s stories, I listened with rapt attention.
One day, he said, he was returning home from a moonshine delivery (John was generous enough to incorporate Bob into the family business) and was having trouble staying on the road. Entertaining clients, he had sampled more than his fair share of the fine and potent hooch. Finally, he did manage to find his driveway, but had a little trouble navigating the entry to the double-car detached garage. He crashed the truck through the wall of the garage, partially destroying it.
“I managed to get myself out of the garage, uninjured, and get up to bed,” Bob said. “But I left the damaged truck embedded in the garage.”
And waking the next morning with a hangover fit for a moonshine delivery driver, Bob was sure he would get a well-deserved tongue-lashing from John.
“But do you know, John never mentioned a word to me about it,” he said, between sips. “Not a word. He wasn’t even angry, or at least if he was he never let on.”
Bob’s demeanor grew serious as he relayed another story, one that would send a cold chill up my spine. He and John had made arrangements with another party for a moonshine delivery. They meticulously packed and transported the order to the waterfront, about three-quarters of a mile from the house, where they were to meet the moonshine buyers in a boat. Something went wrong that resulted in the two parties exchanging gunfire.
“It got a little ugly,” Bob said, his creased complexion whitening. “That’s all I can tell you.”
I was silent for a long minute, wondering: People were shooting at one another? That means someone could have gotten killed. If someone was murdered, where were they buried?
Who’s buried in the back-forty? My back-forty.
With an unsteady hand, I drained my shot of moonshine and stood up, telling myself repeatedly that discretion is the better part of valor. Did I really want to know? “What a beautiful day,” I said. “Let’s have another drink and talk about your lovely wife, Betty.”
Handing me his empty glass, Bob’s face brightened. “Such a lovely woman,” he said. “God rest her soul.”
To read more musings from a meandering mind, please visit my website. You’ll also be able to download a FREE copy of horror novel Resurrection Point. Thanks for stopping by.
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Freaky Franky
William Blackwell
Genre: Horror
Publisher: Telemachus Press
Date of Publication: December 3, 2017
ISBN: ISBN-10: 1945330945
ISBN-13: 978-1945330940
ASIN: B077X41V9J
Number of pages: 326
Word Count: 66323
Cover Artist: Johnny Breeze
Tagline: Santa Muerte followers discover the horrifying consequences of worshipping with evil intentions.
Book Description:
When an enigmatic town doctor saves the life of Anisa Worthington’s dying son, she abandons Christianity in favor of devotion to the cult of Santa Muerte or Saint Death. Some believe the mysterious skeleton saint will protect your loved ones; help in matters of the heart; provide abundant happiness, health, wealth and justice. But others, including the Catholic Church, call it blasphemous, evil and satanic.
Anisa introduces Saint Death to troubled Catholic friend Helen Randon and strange things begin happening. One of Helen’s enemies is brutally murdered and residents of Montague, a peaceful little town in Prince Edward Island, begin plotting to rid the Bible belt of apostates.
Anisa suspects Helen is perverting the good tenets of Santa Muerte but, before she can act, a terrible nightmare propels her to the Dominican Republic in search of Freaky Franky, her long-lost and unstable brother, who mysteriously disappeared without a trace twenty years ago.
To her horror, Anisa learns Freaky Franky is also worshiping Santa Muerte with evil intentions. As a fanatical and hell-bent lynch mob tightens the noose, mysterious murders begin occurring all around Anisa. Unsure about who’s an enemy and who’s an ally, she’s thrust into a violent battle to save her life as well as the lives of her unpredictable friends and brother.
PROLOGUE
I’m sick of
being poor. Estella Mendoza peered out the misshapen window of her ramshackle
home on the outskirts of the small city of Nacozari in Sonora, Mexico. All she
saw was a barren and scorched landscape, the sun setting in the distant, bleak
horizon. Her stomach was knotted by more than just hunger pangs. A sense of
frustration and hopelessness was giving birth to desperation. A fly buzzed
around her head and landed on her cheek, which was leathered, lined, and
pock-marked by the cruelty of Mother Nature. Time had not been kind to her.
She smacked her
face hard, squashing the pesky fly and smearing its blood and guts across her
face and hand.
“Got you, you son of a bitch,” she
said in Spanish, wiping her palm on the knee of her dirt-stained, torn jeans.
She ignored the fly remains on her cheek, moving away from the screenless and
paneless window and rummaging through dusty cupboards for a morsel of food.
Nothing. A grease-stained, dented fridge door hung open, a small bowl of rice
the only thing resembling nourishment on the otherwise empty shelves. Flies
circled the rice, at times dive-bombing in for a small stale snack. Bending
down, she reached inside, waved the flies away, and picked up the small bowl.
Looking around the cluttered kitchen counter, she found a dirty spoon, wiped it
on her tattered white t-shirt and, sidestepping debris littering the dirt
floor, walked over to a green plastic lawn chair, weathered by the elements and
cracking in various spots.
As she sat down, a brittle leg
snapped, catapulting her headfirst into a wooden wall. The rice bowl flew out
of her hands, shattering against the wall and showering her head with rice and
shards of glazed earthenware. She hit the ground ass-first and groaned. “You
son of a bitch.” Dazed, she rubbed a small goose egg beginning to sprout on her
forehead. Realizing she still clutched the spoon, she flushed and flung it
against the door. With a metallic clang, it bounced off the door and skipped
along the floor, stopping a few inches from her outstretched feet. Her face
tightened and she reached for it, with the intention of throwing it clear out
the window.
A knock on the door stopped the arc
of her arm. “Who is it?”
From the other side, she heard a
female voice say in Spanish, “It’s me. Are you busy?”
Estella recognized the voice.
Alejandra Rivera, her friend for over twenty years. Alejandra lived a few
blocks away and in Estella’s view, she had everything. A middle-class home, a
wonderful working husband, and a ten-year-old devoted and well-behaved son.
Where Estella had famine, poverty, and despair, Alexandra had an abundant food
supply, an income stream, love, and hope. Poison tentacles of jealousy and
resentment coursed through Estella’s dazed mind. “What do you want?”
“I brought you refried beans. And
rice.”
Estella got to her feet. “Come in.”
The door opened and Alexandra entered.
“What happened?” she asked, concern furrowing her brow as she examined Estella
and the accident scene.
Estella pointed
to the shattered remains of the plastic chair leg. “It broke and sent me
flying.”
“I’m sorry,”
Alexandra said, putting the white bowl of beans and rice on a cluttered kitchen
table and rushing to her friend’s aid. She escorted Estella to a nearby wooden
chair, which looked slightly less dangerous than the offending plastic one, and
sat her down. The chair creaked and groaned, but held.
Alexandra
produced a plastic spoon from a blue apron attached to her white dress and
handed it to Estella. “Eat. It’ll do you good.”
Estella peeled
the plastic wrap from the spoon, tossed it on the floor apathetically, and
stabbed the spoon into the food. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she
waited a moment for her head to clear before digging in. She quickly shoveled
three spoonfuls into her mouth and swallowed them, hardly chewing.
Alexandra looked
at the bump on Estella’s head and searched her friend’s eyes concernedly. “Are
you okay?”
Between
mouthfuls, Estella said, “Yeah, just a little bump.”
“Well, be
careful.”
As Estella ate,
Alexandra approached the kitchen counter and began cleaning up, throwing food
wrappings into a nearby wastebasket and neatly piling dirty dishes next to the
sink. It wasn’t the first time she’d helped her starving friend by bringing her
food and cleaning her humble abode.
“You don’t have
to do that.”
Alexandra spun
around and looked at Estella cheerily. “It’s not a problem. And look at you,
you’re in no shape to do it right now.” She resumed cleaning, turning her back
to Estella.
A blind rage—a
dark and hateful energy—seethed through Estella’s veins. My chance. Now’s my
chance. Before she even realized what she was doing, she leapt from the chair
with a vitality and vigor she never knew she possessed, grabbed a hatchet, and
rushed toward Alexandra. As Estella swung the hatchet, Alexandra turned around.
Her jaw dropped in shock and horror as she looked at Estella with fear-filled
brown eyes.
The hatchet
sliced into Alexandra’s throat, blood spraying Estella’s face and body. Two
more swings and she’d chopped Alexandra’s head clean off. The decapitated head
dropped to the floor, rolled into the front door, and stopped. Almost as if she
were pursuing her head, Alexandra’s headless body convulsed and, spewing blood
like a lawn sprinkler, staggered to the door. She crashed into it and slumped
to the ground, outstretched hands frantically reaching for her head for a
second or two before growing still.
Estella put the
hatchet on the kitchen counter and wiped her bloody face with a soiled dishrag.
She sat down at the kitchen table and continued eating. She glanced at the
lifeless head and body of her one-time friend. “By the way, thanks for the
food.”
Two hours later,
when night had blanketed the day, Estella clutched Alexandra’s head in both
hands. She danced around a small skeleton statue, sprinkling blood on and
around the shrine. Satisfied with her efforts, she put the head next to the
statue, lit a candle, and placed it next to the skeleton. She knelt down and
began praying for abundance. In the suffused candlelight, the skeleton saint’s
hollow eye sockets glittered and glowed. Its grin seemed to mock her efforts
and she realized there was more work to be done.
In the month
that followed, Estella beheaded two ten-year-old boys, one of them her
grandson, and sacrificed their blood to the skeleton saint. At the end of that
month, she was convinced she had finally won the favor of her Goddess. On that
day the police raided her home and discovered the bodies of all three victims
buried beneath her dirt floor. She was sentenced to life imprisonment, showed
no remorse for the killings, and authorities labelled her a serial killer.
Freaky Franky Amazon Reviews
Another captivating thriller from
author William Blackwell. This is a well-researched and well-crafted read.
Tension is maintained at a high level throughout the novel and threads are
expertly woven between the characters to pull them all together in the end. I
highly recommend this book if you enjoy suspense, a fair bit of graphic
violence and generally being scared to death.
N.B.
A wonderfully written book where
the reader can’t help but be drawn to the characters. Mr. Blackwell’s
descriptive writing style allows us a personal glimpse into the minds of his
characters to a point where you will feel as though they’re lifelong friends.
My only dislike is that it ended.
Tawnya Lynch
In a few words, Freaky Franky is
different to what you have seen so far. The latest novel from Blackwell is
probably one of the very best books I had my hands on of this genre. Fine
writing, and not just one of the best novels from Blackwell, but in my opinion
one of the best dark-fiction novels ever written to date. Starting up with a
charismatic and charming story-line that quickly develops into a full-blown
nightmare, taking the reader on a fascinating voyage to hell, and showing the
reader the filth of the human soul. Freaky Franky is going to anchor deep down
in the reader’s sub-conscience in a very complex way. That been said, this
novel and the story is filled with vibrant emotions, and simply outstanding
writing.
Amazon Kunde
William Blackwell studied journalism at Calgary’s Mount Royal University and English literature at Vancouver’s University of British Columbia. He worked as a print journalist for many years before becoming an author. He has written over seventeen novels, mainly in the horror genre. Currently living on an acreage in Prince Edward Island, Blackwell loves to travel and write dark fiction.
Author Website http://www.wblackwell.com/
Twitter: @wblackwell333
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1 comment:
Thanks so much for allowing me to guest post and the masterful work on the book promotion. I appreciate it immensely. Best of luck with Fangtastic Books.
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