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The Spitting Post

A twisted nightmare through a demented world of macabre misfortune.

 

Vincent Carpenter's life is a wreck. He has given up his dreams. He has lost his job after an economic disaster. His ten-year marriage is crumbling. Then he awakens in a maniacal land of frighteningly vivid realism with skull trees, glowing forests, ravenous beasts, and other psychologically haunting adversity.

 

While traveling through this demented unearthly world, he has a chance encounter with a beautiful maiden dressed in green; before he can start a conversation, she disappears into the unknown. Vincent must try to find her at a fantastical place known as the Spitting Post. But first he must overcome many macabre misfortunes and face nightmares that question his sanity. Will he reach her? What will the Spitting Post reveal? Will he suffer more disappointment and tragedy? Or will he find peace at last?

 

 

Excerpt:

 

I was lost in thought when again I heard the
violin's call. It was close this time—too close. I stopped
and surveyed the land with terrified eyes, growing more
anxious with each passing note. The ambient tune
working itself into a manic frenzy. Can't they shut up?
With that racket the beast would find us, and I knew
what would happen when it did. There would be no
more violin playing for that musician, and I would
never find The Green Maiden.


I scanned the countryside for the insane violinist
and spotted him on a small hill just to my right. When I
saw his ghastly appearance, I almost wished I hadn't
found him. He was a stout man dressed in total
blackness with a red violin resting against his shoulder.
His skin was a brilliant white, as white as a bed sheet.
On his head was a black top hat, and he wore a twisted
grin on his porcelain face.

 

"What are you doing?" I yelled. "It will hear us!"

 

The man said nothing and kept playing his
maddening melody.

 

"Are you crazy?"

 

The man opened his mouth wide and without
moving his lips, he said, "Precisely."

 

Then he began to cry tears of blood, yet still he
played. The blood rolled down his face and pooled on
the grass. Then I came to a grotesque realization. He
was not playing for amusement; he was calling the
beast.