Publication date: June 19th 2014
Genres: Paranormal, Young Adult
~ What's It About? ~
Eight
years ago, Luke Retter witnessed the brutal murder of his mother and
sister at the hands of his demon-possessed father. He survived but lost
a hand and an eye. The demon also burned its emblem into his skin,
marking him as a cursed. Those who bear this mark are at risk of
becoming possessed themselves, so they are monitored and enslaved by the
state-run UCIS. Working as a slave is hard, but Luke prefers it to the
possibility of being controlled by a demon.
One night, Luke wakes to find his worst nightmare coming true. His father’s demon has returned. In a panic, he runs to the only person who might be able to help: Zack, a cursed who ran away from the state and created an underground community to protect other fugitive curseds. Zack helps him suppress the demon. But the city’s become a time bomb, and Luke’s demon itches to escape.
With the UCIS closing in on Zack’s underground operation and Luke’s demon crafting its own, nefarious plot, Luke realizes that he must take a stand.
One night, Luke wakes to find his worst nightmare coming true. His father’s demon has returned. In a panic, he runs to the only person who might be able to help: Zack, a cursed who ran away from the state and created an underground community to protect other fugitive curseds. Zack helps him suppress the demon. But the city’s become a time bomb, and Luke’s demon itches to escape.
With the UCIS closing in on Zack’s underground operation and Luke’s demon crafting its own, nefarious plot, Luke realizes that he must take a stand.
~ Guest Post ~
Devon McCormack
When I was little, my aunt bought me a hardback copy of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. They aren’t the cute, clean ones we see in Disney movies. They’re dark…twisted…sometimes even a little perverse. I remember being very surprised to read the sadistic punishment that Cinderella and her new hubby had in mind for the evil stepmother. Then there were other stories that I hadn’t seen watered-down versions of in movies and TV shows. “The Little Brother and Sister” was one of my favorites. In this story, a brother and sister escape their abusive stepmother, who is also a witch. The brother ends up being turned into a faun by a magical spring, and a man hunting him turns out to be a prince. The prince meets the sister, they marry, and they all live happily ever after, right? Wrong. The sister marries the prince and has a baby, but the stepmother murders her and has her other, disfigured daughter pose as the queen.
As a kid, that blew my mind. It was insane and unlike the sorts of fairy tales I’d previously been exposed to. But another story fascinated me even more. It was called “The Handless Maiden.” In this story, a demon talks a miller into cutting off his daughter’s hands. She ends up alone and wandering through the wilderness, where she runs into her Prince Charming. Again, this is not a happily ever after moment. Rather, after she gives birth to their child, her husband goes off to war. Meanwhile, the demon intercepts letters between the husband and his mother, trying to convince the mother to kill the queen and the baby. Ah! They end up having to flee the castle, and the king has to set out into the wilderness to find them. Of all the fairy tales, this one fascinated me the most, because it was one of the few that represented a physically flawed princess.
About a year ago, I decided I wanted to do a modernized retelling of “The Handless Maiden.” I liked the idea of a physically imperfect character—one that had to survive despite their handicap. I created the character of Luke in Hideous, who only has one eye and one hand, injuries he sustained when his father was possessed by a demon. I also wanted demons to exist in this story the way they exist in fairy tales. In “The Handless Maiden,” demons aren’t discussed as some bizarre anomaly, but rather something that is a known and common threat in the world. In Hideous, demons are a rampant problem in the world. They’re almost viewed as an epidemic. Those who are possessed are even referred to as “infected.”
Hideous tells the story of a sixteen-year-old boy trying to survive this sort of world. Not only does he have his physical handicap, but he also was scarred with a mark from his demon. Those who bear this mark are referred to as “cursed,” and they are more likely to be possessed than most. However, monitoring curseds discourages demons from possessing them, so the government enslaves curseds and forces them to work in low paying jobs. Luke has worked for the state since he was eight, and now he works at an all-boys high school, where he has to watch all the other kids enjoying life, going about as if there isn’t this global demonic threat. Luke just wants to blend in. He plays by the rules, because he doesn’t want to end up in jail, which is where noncompliant curseds are likely to end up. His desperate attempt to follow the rules falls apart when the demon that possessed his father returns to possess him...
This is the story behind my new young adult novel, available through Harmony Ink Press. If you get a chance, head over to Amazon or my publisher’s site and pick up your copy today.
Thanks for having me on the blog today!
As a kid, that blew my mind. It was insane and unlike the sorts of fairy tales I’d previously been exposed to. But another story fascinated me even more. It was called “The Handless Maiden.” In this story, a demon talks a miller into cutting off his daughter’s hands. She ends up alone and wandering through the wilderness, where she runs into her Prince Charming. Again, this is not a happily ever after moment. Rather, after she gives birth to their child, her husband goes off to war. Meanwhile, the demon intercepts letters between the husband and his mother, trying to convince the mother to kill the queen and the baby. Ah! They end up having to flee the castle, and the king has to set out into the wilderness to find them. Of all the fairy tales, this one fascinated me the most, because it was one of the few that represented a physically flawed princess.
About a year ago, I decided I wanted to do a modernized retelling of “The Handless Maiden.” I liked the idea of a physically imperfect character—one that had to survive despite their handicap. I created the character of Luke in Hideous, who only has one eye and one hand, injuries he sustained when his father was possessed by a demon. I also wanted demons to exist in this story the way they exist in fairy tales. In “The Handless Maiden,” demons aren’t discussed as some bizarre anomaly, but rather something that is a known and common threat in the world. In Hideous, demons are a rampant problem in the world. They’re almost viewed as an epidemic. Those who are possessed are even referred to as “infected.”
Hideous tells the story of a sixteen-year-old boy trying to survive this sort of world. Not only does he have his physical handicap, but he also was scarred with a mark from his demon. Those who bear this mark are referred to as “cursed,” and they are more likely to be possessed than most. However, monitoring curseds discourages demons from possessing them, so the government enslaves curseds and forces them to work in low paying jobs. Luke has worked for the state since he was eight, and now he works at an all-boys high school, where he has to watch all the other kids enjoying life, going about as if there isn’t this global demonic threat. Luke just wants to blend in. He plays by the rules, because he doesn’t want to end up in jail, which is where noncompliant curseds are likely to end up. His desperate attempt to follow the rules falls apart when the demon that possessed his father returns to possess him...
This is the story behind my new young adult novel, available through Harmony Ink Press. If you get a chance, head over to Amazon or my publisher’s site and pick up your copy today.
Thanks for having me on the blog today!
~ Excerpt ~
IT HOVERED over me like a storm cloud, dark and billowing.
I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to look away. Something about its presence was disarming, soothing. And yet, I knew exactly what it was… and I knew that everything in me should have been afraid.
Move!
No primal impulse would drive my limbs or body to action. If I’d had the will to move, I doubted I would have.
“Oh, Luke,” the cloud said from an unknown mouth. Was it just in my head? Or were the words audible? I didn’t know. Didn’t care. I just lay there, waiting for the thing to unleash whatever terror it had for me… like a field mouse waiting for an owl to tear it from the earth.
The cloud descended, wrapping me in a haze.
It settled on my shoulder, where my mark was, and the haze vanished.
We are one, I heard distinctly. This time, I was certain it was only in my head.
We were one. I could feel his weakness. His vulnerability. I could feel that whatever energy it had taken him to come inside me had forced him into the least threatening of states. Now was my chance. And it might be my only one.
I felt my senses returning to me. My fingers shook. My ass nuzzled against the mattress. I knew what I had to do.
I leapt to my feet. Blood rushed to my head so quickly I stumbled to the floor.
“Fuck!”
It’s useless, the voice cried in me. I have you.
“No!” I shouted. I scanned around, hoping no one had heard me.
Oh, we had such good times together, didn’t we? You remember how I peeled at your flesh? You remember how I sawed through your sister’s leg? Remember her shrill? Remember how I made your mother watch?
My chest clenched.
No.
The memories the demon conjured up crowded my thoughts. I tried to shake them from my skull.
Don’t you want to remember your mother’s scream? Don’t you want to remember how her voice strained and cracked as she cried out? How you watched her desperate, pleading face?
As I jumped into my clothes, the demon led my thoughts through painful, seemingly endless corridors—paths to those dark days.
My forehead swelled with throbbing, pulsating pain.
“LUKE?”
I’d run through the freezing rain, desperately making my way to the only person I could think who would help me… would be able to help me.
I lay on Zack’s doorstep, rain washing over my clothes, sweeping across my face.
After knocking with all the strength I had left, praying that he was there, I’d collapsed onto the concrete.
“You’re soaking.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, helped me to my feet, and pulled me in.
I trembled. It was largely a reaction to the fever that attacked my immune system like a heinous flu. But some of it must’ve been from how terrified I was about telling him what had happened.
Tears filled my eye.
I can’t, I thought. But he’s the only one I can turn to… the only one who might understand. Anyone else will kill me.
However, what assurance did I have that he wouldn’t do the same? Curseds were just as scared of infecteds as anyone else. Unfortunately, this was my only option.
Zack laid me on his mattress. The heat of the fever that burnt at my flesh was tapered by the chill of the rain.
“Luke, what is it?” Zack asked, his eyes desperate, eager to help. I wondered if they’d be so encouraging once he knew.
He can’t help you, the demon said. No one can.
But I had to say it, get it out. I couldn’t do this by myself.
“It’s in me,” I whispered. “It came for me. It’s—”
Zack stared at me in horror, in the way I was used to everyone staring at me—the way most people other than Zack stared at me. And as distraught as I was about the horrible fate that awaited me, it was even worse knowing that now I was even a monster to him.
“I’m gonna get help,” he said.
I snatched his wrist. “Please don’t leave me. They’re gonna kill me.”
He knelt beside me and stroked his thumb across my cheek, as he had just days earlier.
Those dark eyes brought me a moment of ease, a moment where I felt safe.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispered.
His words calmed me.
You’re mine!
It wasn’t as powerful as it was before, so I was confident it was going to take it some time to acquire the sort of strength that would be necessary to overpower me.
But eventually, it would.
Zack left, and my mind trailed back to the darkness.
“Do you need me to pack your lunch?” Mom had asked.
She stood in her pink flower-patterned pajamas, looking like a thirteen-year-old girl who’d been dressed for bed. Flat morning hair fell to her shoulders. It was a mess now, but I knew she would run upstairs and do it before Kasey, my older sister, got up to get ready for school. That was a part of her routine I’d noticed when I’d had a cold a few days in November, when I’d had to miss some school. By the time Kasey was ready to go, Mom would have her hair done and be dressed for the day. She didn’t need to be. She just wanted to be.
“I can do it,” I insisted, abandoning my Froot Loops and scurrying for the pantry.
I hadn’t even made my own breakfast, but I must’ve been eager to show her how capable I was of handling such adult responsibilities as making my own lunch. It seemed like it had to be an adult task because Kasey did it all by herself. And surely if she could do it, so could I.
I hopped up, trying to touch the peanut butter jar. The Peter Pan character on the jar gazed down at me, a big, cocky grin spread across his face, as if he was mocking my failed attempts.
Come on, I thought as the tip of my finger touched the jar.
“Are you sure?” Mom’s voice came from behind me. She snatched the jar off the shelf.
I spun around and grabbed it out of her hands.
“Oh, I see how it is,” she said. “Can’t even say please?”
“Please,” I drew out, as if saying it longer would make up for my negligence.
Mom set the jar on the table and slipped into a chair beside it.
Oh no.
I didn’t like that she was going to be sitting right there, scrutinizing my work. I knew I would be able to make the sandwich, but it was going to be accompanied with some rather graphic trials and errors along the way. I doubted Mom was going to delight in witnessing some of the mistakes I was sure to make.
She didn’t criticize my dripping mess, though. Even when I left a trail of peanut butter that ran from the table to the pantry, she didn’t say a thing.
“Well, well,” she said with a smile, carrying a wet towel to me to wipe my hands and face. I guessed I’d gotten some around my mouth when I’d shoved a few fingers of peanut butter inside. “I wonder how that got there,” she said with those knowing eyes… those eyes that were like a divine presence, reminding me that she was there even when I didn’t even know it.
She kissed my cheek and said good-bye at the door, letting me head out to the bus stop on my own. She never admitted it, but I knew that, since it was in the Cordells’ driveway, directly across from ours, she’d sit in the living room and spy on me, just to make sure nothing happened. I don’t know what she thought would happen—the neighbors would come over and molest me, or what—but I knew by how concerned she usually was that she wasn’t going to just let me go off on my own. But she let me believe that she would.
The bus picked me up, and the day wore on like any other. Erin Tiggler had gotten me into trouble during recess by saying I hit her during tag, which was a lie, but I still had to forfeit fifteen minutes of recess the following day. That seemed like a tragedy, as did all the homework Miss Hardy had loaded us up with—homework that at the time seemed so difficult, insurmountable. Funny, looking back at how trivial it really was.
The bus dropped me off, and I headed down our driveway.
Dad’s car was there!
It was a new navy blue compact he’d gotten after he’d started his new job. Mom hadn’t been supportive at first. Every time he kept showing her the pictures online, she’d tense up the way she did when I’d streak water across the carpet after a shower.
I hurried to the door and entered the house.
Boards covered the windows in the front room. A coil of barbed wire spilled out of the bathroom. Red was splattered across the stairwell.
Was something wrong?
“Mom? Dad?” I screamed out.
I had to find Dad. I just knew he would figure it out. He figured everything out.
A noise came from the kitchen. Screams. It sounded like Mom.
Was she okay? I chased her screams.
She lay stretched across the kitchen floor, her wrists bound in barbed wire, red-soaked fingers caressing the tiles behind her.
Vines of mascara and blood streaked down her cheeks.
And there he was. But it wasn’t him. Couldn’t have been him.
Dad had Mom by her shirt collar, a knife to her throat.
His eyes looked up from her trembling body, a grin sweeping across his face.
“Luke!” Mom’s voice was muffled. Barbed wire was tied around her head, stretching across either side of her open mouth.
Blood rushed from her jaw to the floor.
I turned and raced for the door.
But soon, I was floating in the air. Dad had his arms around me. He had pulled me back into the kitchen.
Creak.
My mind returned to the present as Zack stepped in with an older man in his forties, maybe early fifties. He had a cracked forehead and jet-black bangs that draped around his jawline. He carried what looked like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.
“Hey, Luke,” he said. He knelt beside the mattress and set the bag beside him. His nose was nearly as big and awkward as his forehead, like someone had jammed a shot glass into his face.
Zack stood beside him, folding his arms, the concern in his eyes frightening me.
“I’m Darren.”
By now, I couldn’t move. My muscles were stiff, and the heat was so intense I thought my skin was going to melt.
Darren lifted his hands and positioned them over my chest.
A sharp pain ripped at my ribcage. Rearing my head back, I screamed out.
Fucking bastard! the voice in me cried.
“Gag him!” Darren instructed.
Zack dropped to the floor, grabbed a shirt, and stuffed it in my mouth.
The pain was so severe, like it was splitting my chest in half. I continued crying out, muffled by the shirt.
Darren kept his eyes closed, his hands over my chest. He muttered to himself.
He pulled his hands back, opening his eyes. Wiping his face, he took a deep breath.
“We’re gonna need to tie him up. This one’s big.”
I looked to Zack. What was this guy going to do to me?
“Luke, he’s trying to help,” Zack assured me.
Darren unzipped the doctor’s bag and pulled out some rope.
Zack tied one elbow and wrapped the rope under the mattress, looped it up, and tied it to my other elbow. Darren did the same with my feet.
They can’t save you! No one can save you!
Darren knelt just as he had before, his hands over my chest, his eyes closed. He muttered again.
The pain returned, stinging, digging, tearing.
I closed my eye tight, biting into the shirt, hoping it would bring me some relief. But the pain just continued, intensifying, forcing even more sweat down my face. Clumps of my soaked hair fell against my forehead. I tugged and pulled at the rope, trying to do anything that might distract me from the throbbing pain that rippled through me.
You’re gonna die, you fuck!
The pain made it difficult for me to determine how much time had passed, but it felt like Darren continued this practice for hours.
Eventually, he surrendered.
The pain diminished.
They’ll never get rid of me, faggot! Never, you fucking shit.
Darren pulled a gold-chained necklace from his bag. A cross was fastened to it. He clasped his hands around it and whispered to himself.
He did this for some time. The demon continued spewing out insults.
As Darren finished his meditation with the necklace, he leaned over me and wrapped the chain around my neck.
My flesh felt like it was exploding, peeling away from my muscles. The sharp pain I’d felt in my chest covered my body.
I blacked out.
I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to look away. Something about its presence was disarming, soothing. And yet, I knew exactly what it was… and I knew that everything in me should have been afraid.
Move!
No primal impulse would drive my limbs or body to action. If I’d had the will to move, I doubted I would have.
“Oh, Luke,” the cloud said from an unknown mouth. Was it just in my head? Or were the words audible? I didn’t know. Didn’t care. I just lay there, waiting for the thing to unleash whatever terror it had for me… like a field mouse waiting for an owl to tear it from the earth.
The cloud descended, wrapping me in a haze.
It settled on my shoulder, where my mark was, and the haze vanished.
We are one, I heard distinctly. This time, I was certain it was only in my head.
We were one. I could feel his weakness. His vulnerability. I could feel that whatever energy it had taken him to come inside me had forced him into the least threatening of states. Now was my chance. And it might be my only one.
I felt my senses returning to me. My fingers shook. My ass nuzzled against the mattress. I knew what I had to do.
I leapt to my feet. Blood rushed to my head so quickly I stumbled to the floor.
“Fuck!”
It’s useless, the voice cried in me. I have you.
“No!” I shouted. I scanned around, hoping no one had heard me.
Oh, we had such good times together, didn’t we? You remember how I peeled at your flesh? You remember how I sawed through your sister’s leg? Remember her shrill? Remember how I made your mother watch?
My chest clenched.
No.
The memories the demon conjured up crowded my thoughts. I tried to shake them from my skull.
Don’t you want to remember your mother’s scream? Don’t you want to remember how her voice strained and cracked as she cried out? How you watched her desperate, pleading face?
As I jumped into my clothes, the demon led my thoughts through painful, seemingly endless corridors—paths to those dark days.
My forehead swelled with throbbing, pulsating pain.
“LUKE?”
I’d run through the freezing rain, desperately making my way to the only person I could think who would help me… would be able to help me.
I lay on Zack’s doorstep, rain washing over my clothes, sweeping across my face.
After knocking with all the strength I had left, praying that he was there, I’d collapsed onto the concrete.
“You’re soaking.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, helped me to my feet, and pulled me in.
I trembled. It was largely a reaction to the fever that attacked my immune system like a heinous flu. But some of it must’ve been from how terrified I was about telling him what had happened.
Tears filled my eye.
I can’t, I thought. But he’s the only one I can turn to… the only one who might understand. Anyone else will kill me.
However, what assurance did I have that he wouldn’t do the same? Curseds were just as scared of infecteds as anyone else. Unfortunately, this was my only option.
Zack laid me on his mattress. The heat of the fever that burnt at my flesh was tapered by the chill of the rain.
“Luke, what is it?” Zack asked, his eyes desperate, eager to help. I wondered if they’d be so encouraging once he knew.
He can’t help you, the demon said. No one can.
But I had to say it, get it out. I couldn’t do this by myself.
“It’s in me,” I whispered. “It came for me. It’s—”
Zack stared at me in horror, in the way I was used to everyone staring at me—the way most people other than Zack stared at me. And as distraught as I was about the horrible fate that awaited me, it was even worse knowing that now I was even a monster to him.
“I’m gonna get help,” he said.
I snatched his wrist. “Please don’t leave me. They’re gonna kill me.”
He knelt beside me and stroked his thumb across my cheek, as he had just days earlier.
Those dark eyes brought me a moment of ease, a moment where I felt safe.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispered.
His words calmed me.
You’re mine!
It wasn’t as powerful as it was before, so I was confident it was going to take it some time to acquire the sort of strength that would be necessary to overpower me.
But eventually, it would.
Zack left, and my mind trailed back to the darkness.
“Do you need me to pack your lunch?” Mom had asked.
She stood in her pink flower-patterned pajamas, looking like a thirteen-year-old girl who’d been dressed for bed. Flat morning hair fell to her shoulders. It was a mess now, but I knew she would run upstairs and do it before Kasey, my older sister, got up to get ready for school. That was a part of her routine I’d noticed when I’d had a cold a few days in November, when I’d had to miss some school. By the time Kasey was ready to go, Mom would have her hair done and be dressed for the day. She didn’t need to be. She just wanted to be.
“I can do it,” I insisted, abandoning my Froot Loops and scurrying for the pantry.
I hadn’t even made my own breakfast, but I must’ve been eager to show her how capable I was of handling such adult responsibilities as making my own lunch. It seemed like it had to be an adult task because Kasey did it all by herself. And surely if she could do it, so could I.
I hopped up, trying to touch the peanut butter jar. The Peter Pan character on the jar gazed down at me, a big, cocky grin spread across his face, as if he was mocking my failed attempts.
Come on, I thought as the tip of my finger touched the jar.
“Are you sure?” Mom’s voice came from behind me. She snatched the jar off the shelf.
I spun around and grabbed it out of her hands.
“Oh, I see how it is,” she said. “Can’t even say please?”
“Please,” I drew out, as if saying it longer would make up for my negligence.
Mom set the jar on the table and slipped into a chair beside it.
Oh no.
I didn’t like that she was going to be sitting right there, scrutinizing my work. I knew I would be able to make the sandwich, but it was going to be accompanied with some rather graphic trials and errors along the way. I doubted Mom was going to delight in witnessing some of the mistakes I was sure to make.
She didn’t criticize my dripping mess, though. Even when I left a trail of peanut butter that ran from the table to the pantry, she didn’t say a thing.
“Well, well,” she said with a smile, carrying a wet towel to me to wipe my hands and face. I guessed I’d gotten some around my mouth when I’d shoved a few fingers of peanut butter inside. “I wonder how that got there,” she said with those knowing eyes… those eyes that were like a divine presence, reminding me that she was there even when I didn’t even know it.
She kissed my cheek and said good-bye at the door, letting me head out to the bus stop on my own. She never admitted it, but I knew that, since it was in the Cordells’ driveway, directly across from ours, she’d sit in the living room and spy on me, just to make sure nothing happened. I don’t know what she thought would happen—the neighbors would come over and molest me, or what—but I knew by how concerned she usually was that she wasn’t going to just let me go off on my own. But she let me believe that she would.
The bus picked me up, and the day wore on like any other. Erin Tiggler had gotten me into trouble during recess by saying I hit her during tag, which was a lie, but I still had to forfeit fifteen minutes of recess the following day. That seemed like a tragedy, as did all the homework Miss Hardy had loaded us up with—homework that at the time seemed so difficult, insurmountable. Funny, looking back at how trivial it really was.
The bus dropped me off, and I headed down our driveway.
Dad’s car was there!
It was a new navy blue compact he’d gotten after he’d started his new job. Mom hadn’t been supportive at first. Every time he kept showing her the pictures online, she’d tense up the way she did when I’d streak water across the carpet after a shower.
I hurried to the door and entered the house.
Boards covered the windows in the front room. A coil of barbed wire spilled out of the bathroom. Red was splattered across the stairwell.
Was something wrong?
“Mom? Dad?” I screamed out.
I had to find Dad. I just knew he would figure it out. He figured everything out.
A noise came from the kitchen. Screams. It sounded like Mom.
Was she okay? I chased her screams.
She lay stretched across the kitchen floor, her wrists bound in barbed wire, red-soaked fingers caressing the tiles behind her.
Vines of mascara and blood streaked down her cheeks.
And there he was. But it wasn’t him. Couldn’t have been him.
Dad had Mom by her shirt collar, a knife to her throat.
His eyes looked up from her trembling body, a grin sweeping across his face.
“Luke!” Mom’s voice was muffled. Barbed wire was tied around her head, stretching across either side of her open mouth.
Blood rushed from her jaw to the floor.
I turned and raced for the door.
But soon, I was floating in the air. Dad had his arms around me. He had pulled me back into the kitchen.
Creak.
My mind returned to the present as Zack stepped in with an older man in his forties, maybe early fifties. He had a cracked forehead and jet-black bangs that draped around his jawline. He carried what looked like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.
“Hey, Luke,” he said. He knelt beside the mattress and set the bag beside him. His nose was nearly as big and awkward as his forehead, like someone had jammed a shot glass into his face.
Zack stood beside him, folding his arms, the concern in his eyes frightening me.
“I’m Darren.”
By now, I couldn’t move. My muscles were stiff, and the heat was so intense I thought my skin was going to melt.
Darren lifted his hands and positioned them over my chest.
A sharp pain ripped at my ribcage. Rearing my head back, I screamed out.
Fucking bastard! the voice in me cried.
“Gag him!” Darren instructed.
Zack dropped to the floor, grabbed a shirt, and stuffed it in my mouth.
The pain was so severe, like it was splitting my chest in half. I continued crying out, muffled by the shirt.
Darren kept his eyes closed, his hands over my chest. He muttered to himself.
He pulled his hands back, opening his eyes. Wiping his face, he took a deep breath.
“We’re gonna need to tie him up. This one’s big.”
I looked to Zack. What was this guy going to do to me?
“Luke, he’s trying to help,” Zack assured me.
Darren unzipped the doctor’s bag and pulled out some rope.
Zack tied one elbow and wrapped the rope under the mattress, looped it up, and tied it to my other elbow. Darren did the same with my feet.
They can’t save you! No one can save you!
Darren knelt just as he had before, his hands over my chest, his eyes closed. He muttered again.
The pain returned, stinging, digging, tearing.
I closed my eye tight, biting into the shirt, hoping it would bring me some relief. But the pain just continued, intensifying, forcing even more sweat down my face. Clumps of my soaked hair fell against my forehead. I tugged and pulled at the rope, trying to do anything that might distract me from the throbbing pain that rippled through me.
You’re gonna die, you fuck!
The pain made it difficult for me to determine how much time had passed, but it felt like Darren continued this practice for hours.
Eventually, he surrendered.
The pain diminished.
They’ll never get rid of me, faggot! Never, you fucking shit.
Darren pulled a gold-chained necklace from his bag. A cross was fastened to it. He clasped his hands around it and whispered to himself.
He did this for some time. The demon continued spewing out insults.
As Darren finished his meditation with the necklace, he leaned over me and wrapped the chain around my neck.
My flesh felt like it was exploding, peeling away from my muscles. The sharp pain I’d felt in my chest covered my body.
I blacked out.
~ Interview ~
Devon McCormack
What’s Hideous about?
When the main character, Luke, was a kid, his father was possessed by a demon that severed off one of his hands, gouged out one of his eyes, and murdered his mother and sister. Years later, his father’s demon returns to possess him. That’s the short version. The long version is that it’s about insecurity, apathy, and fear.
What inspired you to write it?
I’m a big fan of the Brothers Grimm fairy tale, “The Handless Maiden.” In the story, a demon pressures a father into cutting off his daughter’s hands. She ends up on her own, struggling to survive, when she meets her Prince Charming. The prince carries her off for their happily-ever-after, but it’s not that easy. The demon still wants to make her miserable, and tries to meddle with her life some more. It’s a beautiful story, but I think because of the main character’s disfigurement, it’s not likely to ever get made into a Disney movie.
Outside of the main character’s missing hands, what fascinates me about “The Handless Maiden” (and fairy tales in general) is that they assume that demons are just a part of everyday life. Not always present, but like illness, just something that crops up from time to time. I was really interested in creating a world where this was the norm, where people knew of a very real and present demon threat. I also liked the idea of having a character with a very clear disfigurement. So many of our heroes are too perfect. They have great bodies. They have great personalities. Even their faults come in handy at just the right times. I think that there is this prevalent belief that a hero has to be physically intact in order to truly be a hero. Granted, there are plenty of cases where it isn’t this way. But if you look around at mainstream stories, so many of the heroes depicted have either great or average bodies (this is especially true of movies).
Those were the main things I was interested in taking from “The Handless Maiden,” and from there, the story just took on a life of its own.
Why do you think some critics look down on books that are labeled Young Adult?
Because they need something to look down on, and books that are perceived as juvenile are easy victims. That’s the short answer, but the truth is, anything labeled genre fiction is looked down by literature snobs. That’s the way it’s always been. I remember having a creative writing teacher who told the class that we couldn’t write about vampires, monsters, ghosts, or other such “nonsense” in our stories for the class. He said that wasn’t considered “literary.” So in a moment, he cast Shakespeare, Dickens, Stoker, Melville, and Shelley into the wastebasket—surely without even realizing it. I dropped the class the next day. I ended up taking my creative writing course with someone far more suited for the job.
It’s a big topic, though, and it’s never going to end. The Romance genre has it the worst, I think. To some, it’s seen as the lowest sort of fiction imaginable. Of course, if Jane Austen was alive today, God knows that’s what her work would be classified. There are plenty of great romance novels. But people need something to look down on. Even Romance authors look down at Erotica authors. It just goes on and on and on. I think what everyone is really bothered about is formulaic writing. That’s the real enemy. We’re bothered when we notice that no one is innovating—no one is taking art to another level. And yet, while we look down on it, there are parts of the formula we crave, which is why it even exists. In other countries, there isn’t this stigma against the formula. There’s a reverence for it.
Is that too long of an answer? Sorry. The best answer is that it doesn’t really matter. Stigmas against YA books won’t keep them from selling, and it won’t keep people from enjoying them.
What’s your writing process like?
It changes with every book. Each has its own way it wants to be written, and that can be a challenge, but I’m up for it. There are some patterns that I’ve noticed, though. I always outline. Sometimes, the outline is minimal. It can range from ten bullet points to a hundred, but I need that to get me from point A to point B. Sometimes, I write the ending first, and sometimes, I can tell I need to save it for last. The biggest part of my process is just the act of sitting down and forcing myself to come up with the words. That’s where the magic is, and it’s the hardest part. I have to sit down at the keyboard and force myself to jot down those mental images, to take note of the world that I’m in, the character I’m creating.
One of the most difficult parts for me is just the act of finishing projects that I start. That means a lot to me. I don’t tend to let myself abandon projects. There was a time where I would, but I find that it’s better to just push through and get to the end whether or not I want to. It’s part of self-discipline. It’s one thing to sit down and write. It’s another thing to sit down and complete a writing project. I work very hard to maintain the habit of finishing those projects that I start.
Do you have any other upcoming projects?
I have two novels being released in October of 2014. One is The Pining of Kevin Harding, a New Adult novel being released by Wilde City Press. The other is When Ryan Came Back, a YA novel being published by Harmony Ink Press. So I hope those who enjoy Hideous will make sure to check those out, too.
When the main character, Luke, was a kid, his father was possessed by a demon that severed off one of his hands, gouged out one of his eyes, and murdered his mother and sister. Years later, his father’s demon returns to possess him. That’s the short version. The long version is that it’s about insecurity, apathy, and fear.
What inspired you to write it?
I’m a big fan of the Brothers Grimm fairy tale, “The Handless Maiden.” In the story, a demon pressures a father into cutting off his daughter’s hands. She ends up on her own, struggling to survive, when she meets her Prince Charming. The prince carries her off for their happily-ever-after, but it’s not that easy. The demon still wants to make her miserable, and tries to meddle with her life some more. It’s a beautiful story, but I think because of the main character’s disfigurement, it’s not likely to ever get made into a Disney movie.
Outside of the main character’s missing hands, what fascinates me about “The Handless Maiden” (and fairy tales in general) is that they assume that demons are just a part of everyday life. Not always present, but like illness, just something that crops up from time to time. I was really interested in creating a world where this was the norm, where people knew of a very real and present demon threat. I also liked the idea of having a character with a very clear disfigurement. So many of our heroes are too perfect. They have great bodies. They have great personalities. Even their faults come in handy at just the right times. I think that there is this prevalent belief that a hero has to be physically intact in order to truly be a hero. Granted, there are plenty of cases where it isn’t this way. But if you look around at mainstream stories, so many of the heroes depicted have either great or average bodies (this is especially true of movies).
Those were the main things I was interested in taking from “The Handless Maiden,” and from there, the story just took on a life of its own.
Why do you think some critics look down on books that are labeled Young Adult?
Because they need something to look down on, and books that are perceived as juvenile are easy victims. That’s the short answer, but the truth is, anything labeled genre fiction is looked down by literature snobs. That’s the way it’s always been. I remember having a creative writing teacher who told the class that we couldn’t write about vampires, monsters, ghosts, or other such “nonsense” in our stories for the class. He said that wasn’t considered “literary.” So in a moment, he cast Shakespeare, Dickens, Stoker, Melville, and Shelley into the wastebasket—surely without even realizing it. I dropped the class the next day. I ended up taking my creative writing course with someone far more suited for the job.
It’s a big topic, though, and it’s never going to end. The Romance genre has it the worst, I think. To some, it’s seen as the lowest sort of fiction imaginable. Of course, if Jane Austen was alive today, God knows that’s what her work would be classified. There are plenty of great romance novels. But people need something to look down on. Even Romance authors look down at Erotica authors. It just goes on and on and on. I think what everyone is really bothered about is formulaic writing. That’s the real enemy. We’re bothered when we notice that no one is innovating—no one is taking art to another level. And yet, while we look down on it, there are parts of the formula we crave, which is why it even exists. In other countries, there isn’t this stigma against the formula. There’s a reverence for it.
Is that too long of an answer? Sorry. The best answer is that it doesn’t really matter. Stigmas against YA books won’t keep them from selling, and it won’t keep people from enjoying them.
What’s your writing process like?
It changes with every book. Each has its own way it wants to be written, and that can be a challenge, but I’m up for it. There are some patterns that I’ve noticed, though. I always outline. Sometimes, the outline is minimal. It can range from ten bullet points to a hundred, but I need that to get me from point A to point B. Sometimes, I write the ending first, and sometimes, I can tell I need to save it for last. The biggest part of my process is just the act of sitting down and forcing myself to come up with the words. That’s where the magic is, and it’s the hardest part. I have to sit down at the keyboard and force myself to jot down those mental images, to take note of the world that I’m in, the character I’m creating.
One of the most difficult parts for me is just the act of finishing projects that I start. That means a lot to me. I don’t tend to let myself abandon projects. There was a time where I would, but I find that it’s better to just push through and get to the end whether or not I want to. It’s part of self-discipline. It’s one thing to sit down and write. It’s another thing to sit down and complete a writing project. I work very hard to maintain the habit of finishing those projects that I start.
Do you have any other upcoming projects?
I have two novels being released in October of 2014. One is The Pining of Kevin Harding, a New Adult novel being released by Wilde City Press. The other is When Ryan Came Back, a YA novel being published by Harmony Ink Press. So I hope those who enjoy Hideous will make sure to check those out, too.
~ Meet The Author ~
Devon
McCormack spends most of his time hiding in his lair, adventuring in
paranormal worlds with his island of misfit characters. A good
ole Southern boy, McCormack grew up in the Georgian suburbs with his two
younger brothers and an older sister. At a very young age, he spun
tales the old fashioned way, lying to anyone and everyone he
encountered. He claimed he was an orphan. He claimed to be a king from
another planet. He claimed to have supernatural powers. He has since
harnessed this penchant for tall tales by crafting whole worlds where he
can live out whatever fantasy he chooses.
A gay man himself, McCormack focuses on gay male characters, adding to the immense body of literature that chooses to represent and advocate gay men's presence in media. His body of work ranges from erotica to young adult, so readers should check the synopses of his books before purchasing so that they know what they're getting into.
A gay man himself, McCormack focuses on gay male characters, adding to the immense body of literature that chooses to represent and advocate gay men's presence in media. His body of work ranges from erotica to young adult, so readers should check the synopses of his books before purchasing so that they know what they're getting into.
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