Let’s welcome Joe back to the
Scribbler.
Always a popular guest, we are happy
he accepted our invitation to tell you about his new book. As a bonus, he’s
sharing an excerpt.
If you missed his previous post,
please go HERE.
Read on my friends.
Joe Powers is a Canadian horror writer, New Brunswick native, and long-time fan of all things scary. He's the author of Terror in High Water, Seventeen Skulls, Old Bones, and Putting Down Roots. His short stories have appeared in various anthologies and collections.
Among his many inspirations he lists Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Michael Crichton, Vincent Price, Peter Benchley and Richard Matheson. He enjoys introducing the reader to flawed, believable characters and leading them on dark journeys with an unexpected twist. He isn’t afraid to mix and match genres, fearlessly weaving horror into noir, western, or sci fi.
Joe enjoys poking around in the dark recesses of nature, off the beaten path, chasing down old legends and new stories. In his spare time, he's an avid hockey fan and dog lover, and still finds time to teach several classes at UNB's College of Extended Learning.
Joe currently lives in Maugerville with his wife and fellow author, Sheryl, and a wide array of creatures. Follow Joe at www.joepowersauthor.com.
Title: Putting Down Roots
Synopsis: Matt and Rachel Bailey have uprooted their
family and moved across the country to a quiet college town in New Brunswick.
Their new house is a beautiful old Victorian with a sprawling yard on a corner
lot in a nice suburban neighbourhood. Rachel’s got a great job at the
university, the kids are making new friends, and everything’s coming together.
There’s
just one problem.
Huddled
in the far corner of the lot, just inside the high board fence that surrounds
the yard, stands an old, massive tree. The moss-covered branches hang low to
the ground, like skeletal hands reaching for those who wander too close. The
thick, gnarled roots ripple just below the surface of the ground like probing
tentacles. Matt finds it creepy and unsettling and plans to remove it as soon
as possible. But it won’t be that easy.
Before
long, unease turns to terror as the true nature of the tree slowly begins to
unravel. This is no mere tree, but an ancient evil presence that has preyed on
unsuspecting animals and people for centuries.
And
getting rid of it won’t be as easy as he thinks.
With
the safety of his wife, two curious children, and the family dog at risk, Matt
does everything he can to protect his family from the rooted predator that
lurks mere feet away from their back door. One false move, a step too close, is
all it takes for tragedy to strike. And just how close to the house do the
roots reach? Is anywhere safe?
After
a close call that he narrowly escapes, and with the number of victims on the
rise, Matt must devise a plan to destroy the menacing evil before it destroys
everything he loves.
The
Story Behind the Story:
One day about ten
years ago I sat down and wrote a short story that I called Putting Down Roots.
It was a quick little thing, born from a “what if?” idea I had about a tree
that attacks and eats people. For the older crowd who may remember the Peanuts
comic strips, the idea was a kind of spin on the kite-eating tree that used to
torment Charlie Brown, only this one eats people instead of kites. It was a fun
little thing, but I was never quite happy with it. As time went by, I realized
that was because it simply wasn’t finished – there was a lot more story to
tell. So I dusted it off and went to work. Gradually, characters came to life,
the tension and suspense crept higher as the story took shape. It was closer to
what it was supposed to be, but still, I wasn’t satisfied. Stumped and
discouraged, I put it aside once more.
More time went
by, other projects came and went, and all the while that insidious tree haunted
me, demanding I tell its story properly. So last fall, all these years later, I
was ready to finish what I started. I relocated the story to the fictional town
of Beaverbrook, which might sound familiar to those who have read my second
novel, Seventeen Skulls. Unfortunately, my writing style and skill had changed
a great deal in the time since the first draft’s inception, so I had to
effectively rewrite the entire thing from scratch. It was a long process, but
it allowed me to get reacquainted with the story all over again and reminded me
of what made me want to tell it in the first place. I have never in my life
taken so long to finish writing something, but I’m pleased with the way it
turned out, and very glad I stuck with it to the end.
Website: Please go HERE.
You can buy your copy HERE:
Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?
Joe: I write portions of each book at various places. The concept notes can come together wherever I happen to be. My notes are a blur of frantic handwriting, nearly indecipherable until I transcribe them. Sometimes, when I’m at large and trying to work through something I’ll write in an email draft that I can later cut and paste into my document. Once I get settled and ready to begin writing in earnest, I split my time between writing on my laptop and writing freehand scenes or fragments that will be added later on. I frequently have an array of web pages open to whatever I’m researching at a given time, and notes scattered all around me. Sheryl is fond of telling me my approach to writing is odd and unorthodox, and I don’t necessarily disagree. My style is my style, it might not work for everyone but it seems to work for me.
I like to get comfy in my usual spot on the couch, dogs sprawled all around me, laptop at the ready, one of a few specific musical selections in the background, and a Rockstar energy drink close at hand. In terms of music, it varies depending on the tone of what I’m working on. I choose something familiar from a small selection of regular titles so it isn’t a distraction.
The afternoon sun had drifted across the sky, casting long, eerie shadows over the yard. He stared intently at the carnivorous tree from as close as he dared to go. It simultaneously frightened and infuriated him, and trying to come to terms with how to deal with it perplexed him. The worst thing was that for the most part, it seemed deceptively serene, albeit frightening, and certainly appeared no more like a killer than any tree could be capable of. And the fact of the matter was he had yet to actually see it do anything other than stand there and look formidable, if somewhat dilapidated. Still, there was no mistake about what had been going on since his family had moved into the house, and apparently, for much longer. He wondered how many pets had gone missing in the area. Or kids. The thought made him shiver.
The tree had to go. That much had become obvious. The trick, then, was to figure out the best way to destroy it once and for all. It occurred to him that maybe nobody had ever tried to kill it. Maybe, he reasoned, they had preferred to keep it around for its potentially useful abilities. In the early days, when it had been used as a tool of justice, that would almost certainly have been the case. In the years since, it seemed to have drifted from known entity to local legend, to all-but-forgotten folklore. Yet surely somebody, at some point, must have tried. Revenge, perhaps, for the death of a loved one. For that matter, how it had escaped the destructive swath of developers for so long remained a mystery. Maybe they’ve tried. It probably eats landscapers, too. Maybe even city planners. It made his head swim to think of just how much carnage the tree had caused over the years.
He pondered his options while he stared and studied the details of the tree and examined the angles for the best possible point of access. He was vaguely aware of Crunchy’s muffled bark, a steady, agitated roop-roop from within the house, muffled by the glass door. He had no idea what the dog wanted and tried to push it out of his head and ignore it while he plotted. He considered the possibility of an attack from one of the sides with an axe or, even better, a chainsaw. Could he do enough damage before it fought back? He shivered as he recalled the stealthy attack on Shaw and doubted that would work.
He started toward the shed, then turned back toward the house only to stop himself again in mid-stride. He paced out of nervousness and habit, he realized, with no clue where to go or what he was trying to accomplish. Is the knothole watching me? Can it see me? A disturbing thought occurred to him. Maybe that’s the eye of the beast that never sleeps, waiting for its next meal to wander too close. He paced several feet back and forth in front of the tree, his eyes locked on the hole, watching for any sign of recognition or cognizance. He realized how crazy his actions would appear to anyone who happened to see him and almost turned back, but he just couldn’t risk it. On the other hand, he reasoned, maybe it would be better if the authorities were to deal with the tree. At least that way, if someone gets eaten, it won’t be me. He gave a sharp cackle, somewhat surprised at his ability to find humour despite the circumstances. It occurred to him that he might be losing his mind, that Shaw’s death may have been the last straw that forced him over the edge.
The ground shifted violently, and the tree suddenly vanished from his line of sight. His world was spinning, and he was falling backward. He landed hard with a grunt almost before he even knew his feet had gone out from under him. So intent was he on solving the conundrum facing him that he had failed to notice the earth ripple beneath his feet, or the snaking root that had broken the surface and latched onto its target. He gave a strangled cry and struggled mightily to free himself, but unlike with that first encounter Herb Shaw had experienced, there would be no narrow escape; the root was wrapped tightly around his foot, and he was held fast in a vice-like grip. He looked around frantically for any sign of someone who might help but saw nobody, heard nothing save for the faint creak of the root tightening its grip and the rustle of something much larger slithering just under the surface. With a groaning swoosh, one of the low-hanging branches reached around and ensnared him despite his desperate resistance. He thrashed and fought like a man possessed but was surrounded and forced to fend off attacks from all sides at once. He grabbed a nearby limb with both hands and strained with all his might, to no avail. It felt like steel cables wrapped around his leg, reeling him in.
More branches had twisted themselves around his legs as he was slowly drawn toward the sinister hole in its trunk with a steady and unyielding force. Most of his attention was drawn to the knothole that lay ahead; though it was mid-afternoon, not a hint of sunlight penetrated the murky depths of the branches. The only illumination present was a faint green glow that emanated from within the knothole itself.
I’m going to die, Matt thought bleakly. I am going to be dragged screaming
into that hole, which is far too small to accommodate me. The tree doesn’t
care, it will pull me through anyway. The pain is going to be horrible, and
whatever is left of me is going to get a really good look at what makes this
thing tick.
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