For as long as I can remember, I have always been interested in things that go bump in the night, and wondering what was making that creaking noise in the attack, and the classic, what caused that blonde to go screaming into the night with her panties–oh, that’s not one of them is it? Well, you get my drift. I have always craved searching for the unknown, and finding that which has been lost. Searching through the imaginary lost archives of lost police cases and disappearances, and taking people on adventures through the Haunter Manor, to which neither of us come out, or the same at least. Yes, I play kickball with demons on summer vacation, and in the winter we have a good laugh over a good ol’ Stephen King Bedtime story, it is truly quite enlightening if you ask me. My parents have always accepted me, but I know they think I’m strange, but don’t they realize that every child needs a fake skull and snakeskin in their room to set the mood right? Don’t they understand that there is nothing more to life than rusty old boxes you can’t open, and walking through the forest known to be infested with hobos, waiting for inspiration to strike? Since I was but a boy, still climbing onto rocks and jumping into the ocean, where my big brother was jumping of cliffs to plummet to his imminent death, I have always loved to tell stories. I have loved to tell you why something was, when it really wasn’t, and I have always enjoyed the pleasantries that come with making up everything as you go along, with no true explanation, for isn’t that what makes good horror? Not knowing why something happened? Why someone summons the cheese demon, and why you have to chop off the poor boys wingwanger to kill it? Yes, it makes very good horror, not to mention putting that good old ching-ching-ching goes the knife’ in your story. Good horror stays with you, haunts you long after the campfires end, and that is what I like to do. Let us go on an adventure through the dark dimensions of space, and let us lurk into the basement where an invisible dog lurks guarding the secrets of a hellion messiah. I reside in a seaside home in Rhode Island, with my older brother, two little sisters, and my very dysfunctional mother and father, who I thank for being just the way they are, for if they weren’t, I wouldn’t be writing this right now. I spend most of my day writing, but when I’m not coming up with the latest scare and monster, I will be plunging to my imminent death, just like my brother all those years ago and still today, or climbing up a tree, or even going into those lonely little nooks on the beach were the dark things dance. I may be shifting through papers in the basement, uncovering my families secrets–and revealing the family recipe while I’m at it–or maybe I’m passing around a canteen in front of a flaming tire with hobos. It’s all about living the good life, yes? Well, see now you know me, so, shall I know you? Cheers!