Thursday, July 26, 2018

Latest Book Update!

I'm working on something I am pretty excited about. It's not horror, it's fantasy, animal fantasy. But not a children's book.

There are heroes and villains, history, characters you won't forget and so many surprises and plot twists, you won't believe it.

It will make you think differently about most animals that are pets and those that usually aren't!

I know it's taking long and I do apologize, but I am doing a great deal of worldbuilding.

It's fun but it's hard work too, as this is my first book after my sudden bereavement. Please hang in there, it's coming!

Wednesday, July 4, 2018



No one bothered with him. They ignored the old man. It was the tourists that fell for his story telling.

He had been coming into the Golden Crown for over thirty years. Well, it was an old London pub listed in most guide books as ‘quaint’ and historic, having been frequented by many a rascal, including one or two infamous highwaymen. In other words, it drew tourists which is what the old man wanted.

He had this thing he did; if folks bought him a drink he had this story he’d tell. On a night like so many others, he sat quietly waiting. It was early and there was a lot of time to inveigle someone with his tale. There were those who didn’t bother with them but there were enough that did.

Suddenly, the door whined opened and a young man walked in. A tourist all wide-eyed and ready to listen had entered. He hadn’t gone two steps when the old guy went into his routine:

“For the price of a pint lad, I will convey to you the most amazing story you have ever heard!”

The young man smiled and thanked him. But he begged off. He wanted to read his guide book. “I’m checking out the sights, sir. I haven’t much time left on my vacation.”
“A tourist! Where do ya hail from?”

“New York.”

“Not really! And what do you think of old London Town?”

He liked it.

“Have you seen all the great sights?”

He said he was trying to, but doubted he would get to all of them. “I only have two more days,” he confessed. “I wish I had more!”

The old man shook his head sadly. “That’s sad. You’ll miss a lot. Tell me, have you been to Kensington Gardens?”

The young man indicated he had not been.
“You don’t mean to stand there and tell me you ain’t seen the statue of Peter Pan, do you? Well, for the price of a pint I will relay to you the truth behind the statue!”

The young man nodded. "I would like to hear it!"
“Do sit! Landlord!”

The pub owner smiled. “A pint of larger for you and for the young gentleman?”

It was to be two pints.

When the young man asked about Kensington Gardens, eager to make note of what so distinguished it as not to be missed, his drinking partner told him to wait. “I’ll come to that. But there’s the tale first that will connect the whole thing up. Shall I proceed?” he asked.

“Please do!” the young man replied.

The old man smiled. “Right you are. This happened some time ago, turn of the century you see. Well, there was a midget called Eddie Bunting what worked in a freak show they used to have down in Whitechapel. Quite the character, he was, too. Always talking about things he had done and places he had been. One of the things he claimed was that he knew James M. Barrie, the writer…what wrote that dear little story known to all the world as, Peter Pan!”

The young man was enthralled.

The old man took a sip before continuing. “When Barrie first laid eyes on him he was incredulous, he kept asking him how old he was. He did this because Eddie didn’t look like a man or a midget. He looked like a boy of seven or eight—ten tops! Eddie was truly amazing. And if Barrie was impressed with that, Eddie was stunned that Barrie was a writer.

“No kidding!” He exclaimed. "I never knew one.”

“Well you know one now,” Barrie replied.

See really, Eddie was hoping that this writer bloke would write about Eddie’s life story—where he was born and how he coped with being a midget, cause folks is cruel sometimes to special people and the like.

To make a long story short, Barrie goes to see the act—in this show. It wasn’t much of a show, but it was different than some because there was a magician called Hook—no one ever knew his real full name.

Hook was a scary bloke, in fact most folks preferred to have nothing to do with him. Still, everyone has a story about them and Hook’s was sad. His life had been rougher than Eddie’s, even. He had lived in the streets since he was a kid. Begged and even faked a handicap, a hook if you will. That was how he came to get a certain famous name!

By the time Eddie joined the show, Hook had at least a dozen other midgets. He was barely breaking even when he had an idea on how to rake in more money. He decided to make the midgets look magical. In Eddie’s case, he made it look as though Eddie could fly! It was an old circus-fairground trick, you see.

As for Barrie, he was very impressed with Eddie, felt sorry for him; but Hook scared him. The more interested Barrie seemed to be with Eddie, the more Hook thought he could profit from it. When Hook showed up one day at Barrie’s house and scared the hell out of Mrs. Barrie, Barrie decided he would have nothing further to do with Eddie. He paid him something, but poor Eddie was very ill.

Barrie insisted on getting a doctor, but it was too late, Eddie was dying. Still, Barrie showed him the story he had written about him. But Eddie was sinking fast. He died not a day later, poor little chap.

There’s a funeral, a nice one, right posh it was, with horses and a fancy hearse all paid for by Barrie. But that wasn’t enough. Barrie intended to honor Eddie with the story he wrote but was warned that Hook would profit.

So Barrie goes and has it published – after changing the whole thing around. He also paid Hook off because he wanted to take all the midgets to some kind of haven he knew about in Ireland; some place the poet, Yeats used to write about, where the little people always welcome other little folks needing a home and understanding.

Hook goes along with it because he’s lost business without Eddie and doesn’t give a monkey’s. Now one more thing; and this I know for a fact, Barrie’s greatest joy was to see a statue of Eddie put up in Kensington Gardens. Everyone thought it was Peter Pan, but it wasn’t. Barrie knew that. “A right good likeness it is of him too,” he always said.

The elderly man had at last finished the rest of his pint.

“And how do you know all this?” the young man asked.

“I knows sir, because I am Hook, a haunted man who attempts to exorcise ghosts by recounting the story of Peter Pan and Eddie, God bless ‘em!”

© Carole Gill copyright 2014

Thursday, June 28, 2018


What would you do if you came home to find your family had been slaughtered?

Rose Baines discovers the carnage. Having lived with an insane, incestuous father was bad enough. It was just as well that he killed himself, but why take his wife, son and two young daughters with him?

This discovery is so horrific, madness descends and Rose is incarcerated in two madhouses. As the novel is set in Victorian England, a madhouse is the only option.,

Thus begins Rose's story. You can be with her as it unfolds. You will question why her doctor wishes to send her to Blackstone House to be a governess. You see he is so adamant. Perhaps she's not ready. Perhaps...!


Book 1 in The Blackstone Vampires Series begins the award winning series.
All four books in the series are priced at $2.99

You can buy all four novels as a boxed set for $3.99


"92 Horror authors you need to read right now'

Carole Gill -- the Blackstone Vampires series

~Charlotte Books EXAMINER
"In the attempt to find the just measure of horror and terror, I came upon the writing of Carole Gill whose work revealed a whole new dimension to me. The figure of the gothic child was there. Stoker's horror was there. Along with the romance! At the heart of her writing one stumbles upon a genuine search for that darkness we lost with the loss of Stoker." 
~Dr. Margarita Georgieva ~ Gothic Readings in The Dark

Best Horror, Best Villain (Eco) The House on Blackstone Moor
~eFestival of Words 2014

"Worth its Weight in Blood"
Indie Reader

"Top 10 Books 2013"
~All Things Fantasy 

"I for one found this gloriously gothic, refreshingly brutal, honestly horrific and a great read." 

~Taliesin Meets the Vampires

Friday, June 22, 2018


I don't really think it can. I think evil is worse when a smile is its cover. This is so, in my opinion, because real rotteness, honest to goodness (?) horrifying evil, is impossible to hide. It is detectable in so many ways. When it slips into a disguise it fails.

This is one-to-one evil I'm talking about. Personal and in the room with you. The stuff of horror films and books!

I've encountered evil along the way and shrugged it off, but sometimes, it's so potent, so in your face, it can't be ignored. If that ever happens and you're a writer or artist--observe it! Analyze it for future reference. Let its horrific image stay with you so you can use it creatively. Whatever you do, know evil for what it is, because when you do, you take its power.

All writers do is observe, we have a great big world in which to learn so much! And everything learned, becomes a library from which we can draw resources!

Monday, June 18, 2018


I think that's what the basis of Stephen King's genius was, turning horror on its head. Showing us the familiar can be fraught with nightmares!

Salem's Lot: No need to go to Translyvania for a good bloody dose of vampires. No! They come to a town that looks familiar, a town you kind of 'know.'

You start to wonder about that. About some monstrous being arriving on the proverbial doorstep. Your mind spins off into all sorts of directions as you think monsters can be anywhere! They can be on the train you take late at night. Perhaps in the last car. When will they come forward?

Creep comes to mind. A young woman finds herself locked in London's Underground Tube Station late at night. There are some horrific goings on there and the worst nightmare she can imagine.

I do remember an earlier film than Creep though. Death Line or Raw Meat (US). The gist of this grisly horror flick was there were cannibals existing on London's Underground.

Frankly this film was more horrifying (I thought) than Creep. A very interesting film if you haven't seen it.

The idea of something being out there, something dangerous, lethal--horrific is horrifying. And when it can be in your town or city it is terrifying.

Vampires next door? Zombies waiting to get you as you walk your dog. Maybe they're hiding in the back of the car. That's right check the rear view mirror now!

Creatures like Pinhead might be lurking in the washroom at work. And let me tell you if you ever pulled a night shift in a hospital or hotel it's damned scary and if you are a horror fan your imagination might cause you to think of some horrible things!

pinhead photo: pinhead pinhead3.jpg
Is there something under the bed in an empty hosptial room, waiting for you? Are you sure those are security guards and not zombies?

I think the fear of something lying in wait for us within our own environment is the most terrifying nightmare I can imagine.

But, hey! That's silly, right? You never would think twice about opening a closet or turning the lamp off and going to sleep. You didn't really hear anything outside your door. It's the house settling.
That's right, just go to sleep.  
HAPPY DREAMS!         

Monday, June 11, 2018

New Writers, Some Good Advice!

I was inspired to do this post. Please read the source of the inspiration: ORGANIZATION AND THE 500 CLUB

It's the best advice I've seen in a long time for new writers. Each step in the journey to getting your work out there is a challenge. Just writing for yourself, no matter how good you are isn't going to get your name out there.

What the post suggests, is to write 500 words of first draft quality--in other words 500 words that are nearly good enough to submit. Not 500 words that aren't up to that.

I am finally, after two years of zero, getting 1k-2k words daily that go into my work in progress. When I first tried to get back on my feet following my husband's death, which was about a year and a half later, I found I not only couldn't write, I found whatever I did, I had to nap after 20 minutes on my laptop. I was exhausted.

Being new to writing, is also difficult. A person builds up to it. The more you work at it, the more proficient you will be and the more likely to achieve your goals. Forget about rejection, that comes later, but!!! there is acceptance too!

Go for it, writers! Try the 500 words, get into the habit and don't deviate. You'll get there!
Best of luck!

Monday, June 4, 2018

Horror, Murder And Madness, Prophyrias Lover

I think we can find horror in the least likely of places. There is great darkness in Robert Browning’s Porphyria’s Lover. It is a tale of madness and murder; a tale offering so many interpretations it will obsess you!

One important note: porphyria is a disease but it was not identified as such when the poem was written.

Robert Browning wrote one particular poem that I find to be haunting! It is not only a work of dark beauty, it is also a puzzlement, you turn it one way in your search to unlock its awful secrets and just when you think you’ve solved it, you discover another explanation for its meaning, all of them valid.

Some background:

Porphyria’s Lover is a poem that was first published as "Porphyria" in the January 1836 issue of Monthly Repository. A possible inspiration for the poem is John Wilson's "Extracts from Gosschen's Diary", which is based on a lurid account of a murder published in Blackwood's Magazine in 1818. Browning's friend and fellow poet Bryan Procter acknowledged basing his 1820 "Marcian Colonna" on it, but added a new detail; after the murder, the killer sits up all night with his victim.

You will see that in this poem as well! Excited? Well, here we go:

Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning:

The rain set early in tonight,

The sullen wind was soon awake,

It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight

She shut the cold out and the storm,

And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

And, last, she sat down by my side

And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me — she

Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,

To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me forever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,

Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain

A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:

So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes

Happy and proud; at last I knew

Porphyria worshiped me: surprise

Made my heart swell, and still it grew

While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound

Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;

I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee,

I warily opened her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:

The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled,

And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyra’s love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!

I don’t know about you but I find the poem dark and deeply disturbing.

The themes I see are madness and murder, the death by strangulation of a beautiful young girl by her deranged lover.

The gist:

There is a storm raging and Porphyria comes into the room where there isn’t even a fire.

Her lover has been sitting there, what in the cold? And if so why?

She sits down next to him and speaks to him although he doesn’t answer her, I see her as then trying to play up to him a bit by putting his arm about her waist.

She bares her shoulder; she then snuggles up to him so that his cheek is on her hair.

He knows she is his and just at that moment he strangles her, carefully assuring the reader that she felt no pain and that she smiled.

R for rationalization, I say!

He goes on to tell us she never cried out! Hard to I think when one is being strangled.

He further tells us she felt no pain but then qualifies it. "I am quite sure she felt no pain."

I imagine him possibly also thinking: “At least I hope she had no pain...”

He’s killed her, she’s dead so what does he do?

He opens her blue eyes and is pleased ‘they don’t look ‘strained.’ He then spreads her hair about her neck and gives her a ‘burning kiss’ (?!)


He then goes on to tell us he props her head up and lets it rest on his shoulder.

And if this isn’t weird enough he lets us know that he sits with her corpse.

But it’s all okay apparently because ‘...God has not said a word!’

Please read:

I warily oped her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:

The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled,

And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria's love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,

And yet God has not said a word!

I mean I like to think of myself being as religious as the next person but what does Porphyria’s lover think, does he really believe God would have made his displeasure known by telling him?

It may be of some interest to know that in Browning’s My Last Duchess a woman is also killed by the man who loves her.

Pardon my glibness but I wonder what Elizabeth Barrett Browning thought of these works.

I do agree that there are many valid interpretations; I however feel that Browning was writing about a madman who rationalized the murder of his lover.

He does this powerfully having us witness all of it through the murderer’s eyes. I find that very moving indeed to see what Porphyria’s lover saw, from his own point of view.

I also then see a deliberate choice by Browning to call the poem, Porhyria'sLOVER as it is her lover who extinguished her life, motivated by his own mad reasoning.

So in essence, Bronwning, I think, has us witness the murder of a beautiful young girl who might have only chosen to love the wrong man. A man who after killing her is still so drawn to her, so obsessed by her that he sits with her corpse by his side, unable or unwilling to let her go!

One wonders just when he does let her go.

I do not see an end to this poem either, but a terrible continuation because somehow in my writer’s imagination I see him sitting there still, in a cold, darkened room for there is no longer a fire—chilled but happy to be near his long-dead Porphyria.

But along with this I hear the sound of a battering ram. I hear too the wood splitting apart as the door is being broken down and the terrible secret of Porphyria’s Lover is about to be revealed!

 (the end)!