Helly my friends, today's feature author is Lori R. Lopez. The first story I read from her was published in the Masters of Horror Damned if You Don't anthology. Her story, "Backlash" was a sheer joy to read. Lori works her magic not only in the horror genre but also poetry. So imagine my delight when I came across this gem, The Macabre Mind of Lori R. Lopez Thirteen Tormentous Tales. Lori provides some insights into some of her best work and includes some fine poetry as well. Her writing style will appeal to any fan of horror for she's quite skilled crafting tales that will leave you on the edge of your seat. Or if you're like me, I tend to read my horror at night while in bed. I caught myself checking to see if a wraith or ghost roamed my apartment while I fought off the impending chills of doom.
You may purchase The Macabre Mind of Lori R. Lopez Thirteen Tormentous Tales at incredible bargain prices. At Amazon U.S. stop by here If you prefer Amazon U.K. you can visit here
For those of you who own a Nook, you may purchase the book at Barnes and Noble here
All other eBook formats, Smaswords is the place to go, here.
And now for a sneak peak at the story that introduced me to Lori R. Lopez, "Backlash" here's an excerpt. It happens to be in this great collection.
Excerpt from the story "Backlash" (first published in the MASTERS OF HORROR: DAMNED IF YOU'D DON'T anthology, along with works by fine horror authors including Nomar Knight):
A CLOAK OF FOG and pallor surrounded the patient as he stepped inside a doctor’s office. There was no reception desk, no waiting area. Just a vacant spot before a second closed door, a modest pedestal offering a glass water pitcher and stacked paper cups the sole decor. The man nervously unbuttoned his dark overcoat and removed a gray wool scarf, which he crammed into a coat pocket. The unbalanced bulge made him self-conscious so he extracted the muffler and looped it around his neck. He fidgeted by the entrance, face still in shadow, then ventured a step forward into the light.
The guy was average in height and gangly, morose features and slouched posture well-suited for his brooding attitude. Nothing about him seemed quite normal, yet he managed to appear unremarkable. Possessing a wan innocuous manner, he was scarcely more animated than a corpse. If he weren’t standing, he might almost be presumed dead.
The inner portal swung open sharply to the fellow’s surprise. He uttered a shriek, his body jolting, and fell back a stride. Again his visage was obscured, but he was definitely alive.
“Sorry to startle you. I’m Doctor Winnow. Mister Chiaroscuro is it? Please come in.”
“My first name’s Arthur. And it’s Chiaroscoro with an O,” he amended. “A lot of folks make that mistake.” The man shuffled through the doorway.
“Have a seat, Arthur.” The doctor led him to a sitting area — two padded chairs arranged in opposite directions for an intimate conversation. “I was going home when you called. It’s lucky you caught me. You said on the phone it was an emergency. That if I didn’t help you tonight, you would do something regrettable because you couldn’t control yourself. Might I ask the nature of your compulsion?” Settling on the chair next to a small table bearing a lamp and a recording device, the psychiatrist softly pressed a crimson button.
Arthur hovered timidly beside the empty seat and stared at the floor. “It’s rather personal,” he hedged, visibly squirming. “I’ve never discussed this with anyone.”
“Well, you can discuss it with me, Arthur. It won’t leave the room.”
The patient tensely appraised the counselor. She was a short woman. Tufted ash-blonde hair. Oversized circular lenses that gave her an owlish aspect. Somewhat pretty. Probably someone’s wife, he mulled. “Are you?” he abruptly questioned, as if expecting her to read his thoughts. She’s a shrink not a psychic! he reminded himself and cleared his throat. “A wife?”
“You seem agitated,” she skillfully redirected. The session, after all, was about him. “Is there something you need to tell me? You can say anything here. I won’t judge you.” She leaned toward him with a smile, elbows on her thighs, hands clasped.
“Promise?” The word was spoken as if it held tremendous import.
“I do,” she nodded. “I promise.”
“And this is confidential?”
The man slid the scarf off his neck, twisted it between his fists. “I’ve done terrible things, Doctor,” he admitted.
“Mildred. Doctor is much too stuffy.” His confessor waited for him to continue, her torso upright, braced for the unknown.
He posed awkwardly, waiting for her to react.
The doctor gently enticed, “What things have you done, Arthur?”
“I can’t tell you,” he whispered, shoulders hunched miserably.
“Why not?” she prodded.
A harsh gasp: “You’ll despise me!”
“I promised, Arthur. No judging, remember?”
“Yes. You promised.”
© Copyright Lori R. Lopez 2012. All rights reserved.
Lori R. Lopez has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.
© Copyright Nomar Knight 2012. All rights reserved.
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