Shane Ryan Staley.com

This blog began to squeak last night. Four months can go by quickly. And nothing to report on this end of things. All the news I have is right here: http://www.horror-mall.com.

This new business has taken its toll on my writing, but it’s been worth it. Three months in business and it’s a leading bookseller in the genre.

There’s my excuse. A damn fine one, too. Not a simple ‘I got busy watching movies’ or ‘been building a deck out back’ or ‘my computer went to hell on me.’

But yet you keep e-mailing me, wanting to know when my next book is coming out.

What’s with you, man! Can’t you appreciate the link above, the work it took to establish a business and e-commerce download video poker gratisgiocare casino onlinekeno onlinecasino venezia onlinecasino download gratisslots machine,slots machine downloads scarica,giochi gratis slots machinemetodi per vincere alla rouletteforum casino onlinei video pokerquestionario casino on netplay free keno onlinecasino italia gratisil gioco della roulettesistemi per roulettequestionario bonus casinowww casino gratisslots on linevideo poker jack or bettercasino baccaratcraps in lineacasinos onlineroulette strategygiochi on line casinoprofessional video pokerroulette gamesgioco keno gratiscasino per pc,pc game casino,casino pccasino on line roulettecasino online mobiledownload casino gamesgioco roulette da scaricare,gioco della roulette per pc,gioco roulettegiochi di casino onlinegiochi keno in lineagioco kenoregolamento roulettecasino gioco virtualeenquete casino on netcasino on line bonuskeno inlineacasino’ onlinevirtual gamblingroulette giocacasino bonus senza depositocasino no depositdownload casinopoker five card stud game,stud poker,how to play caribbean stud pokerfree texas hold empoker strategyvideo poker strategyonline poker free site is such a competitive (niche) market? Are you trying to fucking kill me, man? Are you in my will? You own life insurance on me or something? There’s no hours in my day left to write. I have to schedule taking a crap and clipping my toenails. I lost my “Father-of-the-Year” Award this past fall for forgetting to pick up my son at school one day (give me a break, it was an early release day). And yet YOU still e-mail me and want me to write something for YOU.

Damn, man.

Damn.

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No blog posts lately. No message board appearances. I’ve been working 14-16 hours a day throughout the week. Shipping books, laying out books, answering e-mails.

What they don’t tell you early on is that success comes with a price. Even for someone like me, who’s only been successful niche-wise.

And they also don’t tell you that only the sick succeed.

What I mean by being sick is obsession, that chemical imbalance that drives a person to become fixated on being the best he or she can be, the best in the business. When passion takes a back seat to your drive and common sense.

And the price: only portions of your life. Replaced by a blur.

Your body stands beneath a beautiful summer day, playing catch with your son, perfect memories swirling around you like butterflies you’ll never catch.

Because you don’t even know they’re there.

Your body showed up. The damn thing was even getting a tan. But your mind was somewhere else. Fixated on doing more, getting better, figuring out this or just going over the checklist scroll of things that should be finished by the end of the week, month, and year.

Yesterday I snapped out of it, found out that there was indeed a world outside my minuscule office. It was like I was seeing the outdoors for the first time.

Wow, a bunny under the shed! Look at it chew on the grass!

Whoa, birds in the sky! That would be so cool to fly like that!

Has the sky always been that blue?

And where the hell are those clouds going?

I was lost and loving it.

Then a bee stung me in the arm and I said, “Fuck this” and went back inside to work more.

Our neighborhood has acquired a lovely pack of vultures this summer. They roost in a half-dead tree near daybreak each evening. Every day they soar above our quiet, country neighborhood in search of morsels. They vomit on houses and people and have turned our middle-to-upper class neighborhood slightly darker, like Adams Family-darker.

It’s the first time I’ve felt totally at home here.

I like to sit on the porch and watch their flight, my author’s mind working out plots to a book that will never be written, about how there are bodies piled high somewhere in the unexplored woods down the road from our house. Which is the reason why these vultures have chosen our neighborhood to inhabit.

There’s probably only one old dead guy rotting away in a trailer near the lake, but a horror author needs to embellish these things to make life a little more exciting.

So I like the vultures.

We’ve spent an entire year trying to get my son to ride his bicycle without training wheels. He’d simply crash once, get frustrated and decide that bikes aren’t the best means of transportation.

I finally broke him of that. I did this by taking him around the block, under that half-dead tree where the 8 vultures roost. Eight sets of curious, beady black eyes peered down at us as Dylan gave it his one and only attempt to ride his bike. Of course, he’d crash, get mad and lay on the road, not wanting to get back on and try it again. But instead of calling it a day, I’d say, “Look Dylan, the vultures are looking at you. If you don’t get back on that bike, they’re going to eat you!”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because they’ll think you’re road kill,” I answered, “They eat dead meat.”

After thinking about this for a few moments, Dylan got back on his bike. He gave it another shot, keeping a watchful eye on the vultures roosting above him. Each time he crashed, he’d nervously peer into the tree. Then he’d quickly get right back up and try it again.

Now, at summer’s end, he’s riding that bike like a BMX pro.

And the vultures are his friends, he claims.

Whoever said vultures were good for only one thing?

Shane Ryan Staley’s writings appears irregularly on this site. His recipe for these posts includes meaty chunks of real life seasoned heavily with overactive imaginings. His true accounts and tall tales and all stories in between appear free to you. He only asks that you spread the word about his writing and this website.

The work appearing on this site is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

Bad news today, folks. I’m afraid I have a disease. They call it RLS or Restless Leg Syndrome. Went for tests today, but they were never finished. Each time a doctor came in to the room, I’d accidentally kick him in the ass. It’s a weird sensation: to have little or no control of your own legs. It’s like they have a mind of their own sometimes.

From what I’ve read, a lot of people suffer from this horrible disease. But most are afflicted at night, as this syndrome keeps them awake.

My legs start twitching when I watch TV, especially during world news. They twitch whenever I pump gas into my SUV. Or whenever I wait in long lines.

Unfortunately, my case of RLS is a serious one.

Recently I’ve kicked a Jehovah’s Witness in the face.

I’ve gotten my foot stuck in the ass of a dog who shit in my front lawn.

I’ve broken toes kicking down apartment doors and the counter of a popular fast food joint.

My health is waning. Along with my RLS, I now have high blood pressure and a slight case of Turret’s Syndrome. But the funny thing is that these three afflictions only show up at the same time. Just like the other day when I kicked my neighbor in the nuts, yelling: “stupid fucking fuck, fuck off, fucker!” while the vein in my neck pulsed and my face turned bright red.

With my RLS diagnosis looming, I can’t help but think that this syndrome developed from an earlier condition I had in high school and college: RPS (Restless Penis Syndrome).

Tomorrow, I’m heading to the pharmacy and getting one of those Monday through Sunday pill cases, just like my grandparent’s had. In fact, I think I’ll get me a double decker, one with a side-mounted blood pressure tester.

I’m getting old…and restless.

Although I’m not a scientist, I may have stumbled on to something today during my free-thinking session (a.k.a. taking a dump). What if all the craze about global warming is true, but all the scientists are wrong about the cause? What if the real reason the earth is warming is global wobbling?

We all know the earth spins while revolving around the sun. So what if there is a wobbling effect going on, throwing the path of the earth’s orbit closer to the sun?

And what if it’s America’s fault?

Because we’re fat.

We’re the fattest country on the earth. In ten years, it’s projected that 70% of the population will be overweight and 50% will be obese.

Pound for pound, the United States is tipping the ball, so to speak. It’s the same thing as lining a ping pong ball with metal shavings on one side. The ball won’t rotate evenly. It will wobble.

All because you and I are fat-asses.

No wonder the terrorists are trying to kill us. And here we thought it was because they are jealous of our lifestyle or because we are hypocrites or because we fund them with arms to fight wars in our own interest and leave them high and dry and squirming in the ruins.

Nope. It’s because we’re fatties.

And the world is slowly hurtling towards the sun because of our great bulk wobbling the sphere that is our precious Mother Earth.

From Jupiter right now, Mother Earth looks like an expecting Mother Earth, ready to give birth to a new America. Mother Earth has a gut, waddles while She walks, and has a strange appetite for raw extinction with a side of hot sauce.

I say fuck it. Let’s all eat, drink, and be merry. If we do, the earth will break loose from its orbit and sail into the fiery sun. And this is a good thing!

Why?

Because then we’ll finally have killed Bin Laden!

Suck on that Al Gore.

I swear to God that the local businesses around here are full of pricks. You’d think if they’re running a small business, they’d covet their customers and treat them like gold. Because they are gold: they’re the key to their gold, at least. Or in my case as a publisher, copper. But then again, a shit-load of copper might one day be worth gold. It could happen! (If I ditched my wife and kids, moved back in with my parents and cut out such unneeded things like cable, cell phones, food, etc.) Anyway, customers are the reason why these guys aren’t in misery, working their big, fat hairy asses off for The Man at some tedious factory assembly line.

The first week of June I contracted a local contractor to screen in my existing deck. Easy job. Needed it done by the 4th of July. Told him everything I wanted; he said he’d send estimates and meet with me.

Nothing happened.

I called him back; he said he’d be by again.

Nothing.

This continued until the weekend of the 4th and I gave up.

End of story / beginning of me being sick of the local businesses.

July is now almost gone and since the 4th, I’ve been screwed or ignored by 3 other locally owned businesses, including a family-owned outfit that were supposed to fix my pontoon boat and didn’t. They charged me, but didn’t fix anything. And then there was the sole proprietor that “fixed” my golf cart. All of these people seemed to have attitudes, like they didn’t care if they ever received my business again.

Being a business man myself and actually going all out and respecting my customers each and every day, it was hard for me to believe the way these people went about their businesses. And just how in the hell did they stay in business? If I promised one of my customers a limited edition hardcover in mint condition and I deliver a ratty, dogeared paperback, then I’d expect no longer to have them as a customer. Simple as that.

As you can tell, I’ve had it with all of the local idiots disguised as businessmen.

Then today, the local septic guy came. He handed me the bill for his service and I shook my head.

“Why so much?” I asked him. “I could get this done fifty dollars cheaper by anyone else!”

He gave me a smug look and replied, “You’re full of shit!”

And I punched him. Right in the nose.

“No one tells me I’m full of shit, buddy,” I yelled. “NO ONE!”

I knew by the way he retreated to his truck, looking back with an expression of utter disbelief, that I taught him a lesson. Maybe he’d treat his customers with a little more respect next time.

I felt better about everything. I fixed myself a nice, big glass of iced tea and sat on my screen-less deck, staring at my broken golf cart and fucked-up pontoon. And as I sat there, I smirked.

I could’ve sat there and smirked all day if it weren’t for the fact that I started to wonder exactly what the septic guy meant when he said I was full of shit.

I get back this weekend from the campsite and someone left a gift in my yard. Some might call it a coincidence, but there was a Wal-Mart shopping cart parked in my drive way. Funny thing is that there is no Wal-Mart around where I live. You have to drive 15-20 minutes to get to the nearest one.

Creeper? Wal-Mart exec? Someone wanted to send me a message.

I asked my neighbor if he saw who parked it there. He just looked at me with cold, dead eyes and said nothing. Seemed like he hated me, like I had killed his dog or something. His 7 kids came out of the house, but I didn’t bother to ask them. They’re home-schooled. His wife was working. Come to think of it, I swore I saw her in a blue vest the other day with the words How May I Help You? on the back. Maybe she has a new job or something.

The visits on this site are growing daily; it isn’t strange to have more than a thousand unique readers view certain posts. If Creeper’s can read, then maybe I should start watching my back. Next I’ll have a little roll-back smiley face on my mailbox or this guy standing is my drive.

People think I’m crazy when I say this. Perhaps you will too, but I swear there’s something wrong with the people in the world. But, then again, maybe it’s because there is actually something wrong with them that they think I’m crazy. Or they—maybe even you—know that I know and they/you want me to think I’m crazy. You know?

But each time I go outside my home, maybe just to run errands or put a little gas in the vehicle, I take note of people around me. And I’ve noticed something frightening. It’s like something out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers or a zombie movie. Something odd has taken over some of the people around this area. I’m not exactly sure if this problem is native to Indiana or not, but the people have become infected.

A few years ago I noticed a few of them here and there. Vacant, glassy stares, their bodies unkempt, their hair greasy. There are people out there like that: hygientically-challenged (I know, I know…not a word, but now I’ve made it one). But this is something far more worrisome. These people I notice have cold stares and no respect for not only themselves but for the world around them.

I followed one into the gas station the other day. This scrawny guy shuffled across the pavement, entered the gas station, leaving the door slam shut in my face. He cut in front of two people in line, barked at the attendant for some smokes and a few people grunted their displeasure, but nothing was ever said. When the guy bought his goods and turned toward the exit, his stare cut through me, like he saw beyond where I was standing. His eyes were cold and dead, his mouth turned in what looked to be an eternal frown, like the muscles in his face stopped working long ago.

In Indiana, we have hillbillies. We have trailer trash. Both hillbillies and trailer trash are like any other group of people: there are good ones and bad ones. But this new crop of people I call Creepers. Because their kind is quickly creeping up on the population, and also because, frankly, they creep me out. They have no soul. Just look into their cold, dead eyes and you’ll see this right away.

There is also one other trait they all possess: mass offspring. The guy at the gas station returned to an old van. As I peered out, watching him climb in, I was met with the cold, dead stares of a stringy blonde scarecrow which probably was his wife, perhaps his daughter, could’ve been both, I guess. And I swear to God that all seven of his children craned their neck at exactly the same time to stare back at me. It was like they moved as one organism!

It’s an invasion. Not sure what the hell is the cause of these creepers, but their numbers are growing. I saw two at the grocery store today. The couple shuffled down each aisle, staring coldly at everyone around them, every inanimate and animate object, for that matter. It was like they possessed contempt for every physical thing around them. They took up the entire aisle with their shopping cart. They didn’t move for anyone. Nothing would stop them from reaching through someone to pull a product off the shelf.

Outside, in a van, their children sat in the hot sun. The windows were rolled up, the van turned off. Not one of them were moving or fighting or doing anything a normal child would do. They just stared. Sneered. Looked at me with dark eyes. And when the parents emerged from the store, they passed another creeper. And you’ll never guess what happened!

One creeper nodded to the other.

Not a single word was exchanged between the two seemingly strangers. But it was the first time I saw a creeper communicate with anything in a civilized manner. It was as if the nod was in recognition, or some telepathy going on: Hello, fellow creeper! I know who you are. One day this world will be ours.

Sons-a-bitches!

Am I the only one who notices this?

Open your eyes and check out the people next time you’re out in public. On the average day, there’s at least 76 creepers at any Wal-Mart during peak hours. Look for greasy hair, rictus frowns, creatures that have a dark aura emanating from their cold, dead eyes, possessing hatred for everything around them. Look for their van and at least a half-dozen children that possess the same features.

Their numbers are growing…creeping up on us. And we have to act before the invasion begins.

This is a new breed of monster. While you can kill a vampire with a stake through the heart or a zombie by shooting it in the head, my only guess would be to shoot a creeper in the balls (or other reproductive organ). If it’s not the key to killing this monster, at least it will kill their offspring.

And eventually stop them from creeping.

With my life solidly entrenched in the horror genre, every so often I have to step back and ponder what horror truly is. Day in and day out I read about death, insanity and monsters, all of which can make a person like me forget that real horror exists outside the imagination…outside of fiction. And I’m not talking about the horror on the news (all of which is caused by human stupidity). I’m referring more to the supernatural elements—the unexplained.

When I was a kid I had nightmares. Quite a lot of them as I recall. Ones where dark shadows crossed through my window. One particular one where I was lost in a mansion, my only guide was the flashes of lightning illuminating a spiral staircase which I climbed. Oh, and there were wolves and a man sitting in a dark corner who looked like the popular depiction of Jesus. And the wolves sprang from beneath the very arms which he held them with. There were other dreams, other monsters, even a tidal wave of blood from a tiny pin-prick in the finger of a girl I had once had a crush on. The blood washed out from a woods, rolled across the trees as I ran away after being separated from her and her sister.

That was then, in my youth.

I haven’t had a nightmare for more than 5 years. At least not one that I can recall. When I dream, I’m never the victim, but sometimes the monster. I no longer look over my shoulder when walking down a dark street at night. I’ve accepted that death is coming for me and when my time comes (whether by natural causes, disease or by the hand of violence) I’m sure I’ll look it straight in the eye and prepare for the moment to come. Perhaps surprised, but not really scared, my only real fear for those I leave behind.

I’ve grown cold, numb.

And then tonight something strange happened. My youngest son clung to me the last few hours before bed. He seemed troubled, a little jittery. After about a half hour of noticing this, I asked him what was wrong. He kept looking into the dark kitchen, wanting me to go there with him to get a drink.

A thunderstorm had moved into our area, bringing in some much needed rain, but I knew my son didn’t mind storms. When the lightning flashed, he always looked out the window. When the thunder boomed, he’d smile.

“Are you scared?” I asked him.

He nodded, confirming my suspicion.

My son just turned eight years old this month. And throughout his eight years on this planet, I’ve rarely seen him scared. Maybe once he crawled in bed with us after having a bad dream. He sleeps in the dark, without a night-lite. He runs through the woods at night when camping in the summer.

So when he showed signs of being frightened, it actually scared me a little.

“You’re not scared of the storm, are you?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, “But I can’t hear because of the thunder.”

“Hear what?” I inquired.

“Noises from a man getting into the house,” he replied. “A man with a gun.”

Now tonight as I sit and work in my office, the hairs are standing up on the back of my neck. For the first time in so many years, I catch shadowy shapes shifting out of the corner of my eye.

As I type this, the thunder and lightning have increased. And I feel like the world I have been living in so cold and numb all these years has been replaced by some other world. A world where magical, unexplained things can and do happen.

The same world my son lives in each and every day.

And this is refreshing. To feel this.

Because if you no longer feel fear, you no longer feel lots of other things as well that make living special. Often we get wrapped into the mundane every-day life, the fast-paced cold & numb world this has become and we lose focus that there is a world out there beyond the hustle and bustle, beyond the day-jobs, the night-jobs and the lives we lead through our own broken dreams.

There is a world beyond us.

As I type this, there is a man behind me with a gun. He’s standing there silently, waiting for me to finish, to turn and acknowledge him. I know he’s there…waiting.

But I’ve tucked my son into bed earlier. I kissed him on the forehead and told him how much I loved him. I checked on my wife, smiled and held her hand while she slept without her even knowing it.

And I’ve shared this story with you.

Just in case the thing standing behind me is real.