You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Armand Mastroianni’ tag.

by Betty Dravis

Many of our readers grew up with TV series like Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone, Tales of the Crypt and Dark Shadows, not to mention Alfred Hitchcock’s horrific heart-attack scary movies which are masterpieces of the craft.  I love all those shows, as well as the horror/thriller movies directed by our top-featured guest today, acclaimed Hollywood Producer/Director Armand Mastroianni.

In the 1940s, I recall the thrill of being in the front room with my parents and siblings as we listened to a very popular radio series Inner Sanctum. The program’s familiar and famed audio trademark was the eerie creaking door which opened and closed the broadcasts. Himan Brown, the originator, got the idea from a door in the basement that “squeaked like hell.” The door sound was actually made by a rusty desk chair. The program did originally intend to use a door, but on its first use, the door did not creak. Undaunted, Brown grabbed a nearby chair, sat in it and turned, causing a hair-raising squeak. The chair was used from then on as the sound prop.

Looking back on those shows, I can vouch that that creaky door made the hairs on my neck rise and stand at attention; it was just as effective as the immensely expensive high-tech sound effects of this new millennium. I had already started to write a few little things by then and I like to think those shows all contributed to my desire to one day write some horror of my own.

I recently teamed up with the noted “Queen of Terror,” author Barbara Watkins, to produce an anthology of six horror stories titled Six-Pack of Blood. Due to the success of our first Six-Pack, we are now working on Six-Pack of Fear which will be released in a few weeks. Six-Pack of Blood had the honor of Armand Mastroianni writing the foreword; it also won Best Paranormal/Horror award from Producer/Director Dimi Nakov of Zodiac Entertainment and placed No. 2 in Germany Occult, No. 1 in U.S. Horror and No. 34 in UK Horror, thus qualifying it for international best-seller. Barbara and I thank all who helped along the way.

Don’t forget, Six-Pack of Blood is still FREE through tomorrow, Monday. If you already have a copy, please get one for a friend and please pass the word that it’s FREE. We are pushing it like crazy because we were at No. Six in Amazon Horror/Occult this morning and have our eyes set on being No. One. Are you with us? 🙂

Barbara Watkins’s most prominent links:

http://facebook.com/barbienell.watkins

http://www.barbarawatkins.net

Betty Dravis’s most prominent links:

https://www.facebook.com/betty.dravis

http://www.bettydravis.com

Now it’s Halloween and the perfect time to share some “ghost stories” (paranormal is the preferred “lump” word of today) from friends in the film and literary industries. Don’t scream too loudly, but do enjoy!

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The Case of the Dirty Window

by Movie Director Armand Mastroianni

Producer/Director Armand Mastroianni

We were shooting a night scene (of course) for my latest film Dark Desire and it involved a man sneaking around the property of a mansion, looking to gain access with deadly intentions. I had the art department clean all the windows and doors with glass cleaner so that I could get a clean shot of the stalker approaching the house through the windows.

We shot most of the approach successfully until we reached the study which had two large French doors with glass panes as its exterior entry. The art crew kept cleaning one of the panes with little success. There was a stain on the glass that looked like the outline of an old woman hunched and holding a cane; at least that’s what the outline of the stain appeared to look like after staring at it.

No matter what they did with Windex and other cleansers the stain seemed to be embedded in the glass. I framed it out of the shot and the shoot went off successfully, but it wasn’t until a week later when we spoke with the owner of the house and thanked her for the use of this location that she mentioned how much she enjoyed our company…

She was feeling quite lonely because her ninety-two-year-old mother had died several weeks before. She lived there with her daughter and died in that room we were shooting with the stain in the glass.

One other thing: the owner mentioned her mother had arthritis and used to walk with a cane.

DARK DESIRE  (formerly titled A Dark Plan) – Mastroianni’s latest film coming soon
https://www.facebook.com/ADarkPlan

A sneak peek at the pre-poster for DARK DESIRE, coming soon.

A small portion of the many feature films and TV films directed by the acclaimed movie director Armand Mastroianni.

For more about award-winning movie director Armand Mastroianni’s latest movie DARK DESIRE, check and LIKE this Facebook page:

https://www.facebook.com/ADarkPlan?ref=ts&fref=ts

For more about Armand and all his movies, check here:

armand.mastroianni@facebook.com

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0557857/

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Seattle, Haunted

by Author Emily Hill

Author Emily Hill

Midnight on Seattle’s Greenwood Avenue and I wrapped my coat even more tightly around me as the wind howled.  Not a soul in sight. The cabbie had just dropped me off at the entrance to my neighborhood and zoomed off–the taillights of his cab became glowing red eyes, taunting me.  My fingertips hurt from the cold.

I realized, for the first time, that the land in the Greenwood District does go downhill into what–a hundred years ago–could have been, as the cabbie said, a cemetery.

I rued uttering the words, “Drop me off here,” as I walked east.  My high heels clipped against the sidewalk.  The sound bounced between the houses, revealing my whereabouts.  The smell of musk hit my nostrils–turned earth.

A wave of arctic wind whipped around me, tangling my hair.  My eyes were tearing, and blurring my vision.  As I blinked toward the distant street lamp I saw the most curious thing: an orb of light moved across my vision.

My first reaction, “Fog?”

I heard a skittering noise behind me, like a rat scratching its way up a retaining wall, a frantic noise.  It was that sound that drove me forward, toward the orb.

I squinted as the vision took the shape of a woman.  A milky white “presence” dressed in a turn-of-the-century gown, she was proceeding across my path.  I hid in a neighbor’s shrubbery, fascinated.  She never noticed me; she just stared straight ahead as she moved.  What had been a “fog” was now a full apparition, unaffected by the cold.  The spirit of a woman who had lived in this same neighborhood–my neighborhood–going about her business, just as I was going about mine.

Only she was on The Other Side of the Great Divide.

SPECIAL NOTE: Emily Hill is an author of ghost stories, and a publishing coach for A.V. Harrison Publishing.  Her story, Seattle, Haunted, is a true story based on an experience she had while living in Seattle’s Greenwood District.  She has since moved from Seattle, and now lives in Edmonds, Washington…a safe distance from that city’s cemetery.  http://www.emilyhillwriter.com/ghost_hunters_page.html

The Ghost Chaser’s Daughter in Paperback (Full Collection) and e-book (five New stories)

http://www.amazon.com/Ghost-Chasers-Daughter-Emily-Hill/dp/147915931X/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1348085180&sr=1-2&keywords=the+ghost+chaser%27s+daughter

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839 Agnes Street: A True Haunting

by Barbara Watkins

Author Barbara Watkins

Forty-five years ago, in 1967, I experienced my first encounter with the paranormal. My family and I (Mom, Dad and older brother and sister) settled into our new home at 839 Agnes Street. I was so excited to finally have my own room and a huge backyard to play in.

But my feelings of excitement soon turned into fear.

I slipped into my Winnie the Pooh pajamas, kissed my mother and father goodnight and crawled into bed. I closed my eyes when I felt the presence of someone, or some thing, take a seat on the foot of my bed. When I opened my eyes, I saw an indentation in the mattress as if someone had just sat down, but no one was sitting there. Frozen with fright, I pulled the blanket over my head and screamed for my mother.

My mother tried to assure me that it had only been a bad dream, but I knew better. Exhausted, she kissed me goodnight and tucked me back into bed. I curled up into a ball at the head of my bed and watched and waited for it to happen again. Although the strange occurrence did not happen again that night, it did many times after. Many nights I would get up and sleep in the corner of my closet because I did not feel safe in my own bed.

A few months after we moved in, my father was killed in an accident at work. Almost immediately, on a nightly basis, lights in the house began to go on and off by themselves. We saw dark shadows lurking about the house and often awoke to our names being whispered in our ears. Closed doors would mysteriously open and slam shut. Various items disappeared only to reappear somewhere else. I awoke one night to see a hooded figure dressed all in black standing over my bed starring down at me.

My mother tried desperately to make some kind of logic out of what was happening, but could not. We were frightened to stay but could not afford to move…

The house has since been demolished, but the ghostly events that we all encountered there will forever be imprinted in our minds.

Above are all of Barbara Watkins’s books. Congratulations to this author for the success of HOLLOWING SCREAMS which will soon be in pre-production for a film by up-and-coming, award-winning film producer Dimi Nakov of Zodiac Entertainment in New Zealand.

For more about this author’s literary works, visit:

http://www.barbarawatkins.net

http://facebook.com/barbienell.watkins

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Why the Ghosts in ‘White Heaven Women’ are Blue – A True Story

by Jessie B. Tyson

Author Jessie B. Tyson

We were two teenagers, miles from civilization. The last bus had left long before schedule.  Home was eight miles away. There were no street lights. We couldn’t see the road to walk…but walk we must. A white car pulled up beside us and a cold ominous feeling ran through me, as if I’d been thrust into a freezer or a new ice-age. The driver offered us a ride home. As we arrived at Barbara’s village, I exited the car to see her safely across the now-busy main street.

A firm voice said, “Do NOT get back in that car!”

I turned to see who’d spoken. No one was there… Tired, I ignored the warning and climbed in. The car slowed, turning deeper into the countryside.

“You’ve turned the wrong way.”

“No, I haven’t,” said the driver with a distasteful snigger.

I felt frightened.

The voice spoke again. “Stay calm. Do not panic and do exactly as I tell you!”

The car halted in an unlit lane with no buildings nearby. The driver groped at my firm young body. I cried and beseeched God to help me, not wanting to lose my virginity through an assault.

“God will not help you, girl!” laughed my vile attacker.

Suddenly, a brilliant burst of blue light lit the lane. I noticed a female hovering three feet from the ground, her arms outstretched toward me. She was glowing blue! Electricity seemed to burn through my veins. I felt fortified with the strength of an army. The voice dictated what I must do. “Turn in your seat, pound his face with your feet, exit the car, break the car aerial off, pretend it’s a knife, push it against his gut and say, ‘Touch me again and I’ll stick this knife right through you!’”

All the while, the glowing blue female hovered, arms outstretched toward me. I did everything the voice told me. Speechless, the man returned to his car and drove away.

Trembling, I headed toward my village as the brilliant blue light guided my way.

The voice returned. “He’s coming back.  Quick, jump into the meadow, crouch down and hide.”

Strangely, I felt no pain as long thorny spikes ripped at my clothes and face as I dived through the bushes headfirst as if into a swimming pool.

The man yelled, “Come on, girl. I will not hurt you. I’ll take you home.”

“Hush.  Stay quiet ‘til he’s gone, then amble toward the main street. You know the way. You played here as a child.” I wondered how the voice knew this.

I scurried alongside the hedgerow ‘til I reached a solitary house and pounded on the door, “Help, I’ve been attacked.  Please call the police.”

An elderly man let me inside. My attacker drove away.

The voice whispered into my ear, “Bye, my dear. You’re safe now.”

I turned, hoping to see my unearthly adviser and saw no one. I glanced down the lane…but the lady in the blue light had vanished!

To view video of Jessie B. Tyson reciting this story, go to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGnp9nX7HyU&feature=plcp

This author’s Facebook link:

https://www.facebook.com/jessie.b.tyson?ref=ts&fref=ts

For Free promo copy of White Heaven Women visit Jessie’s Amazon link on October 29th and October 30th:

http://www.amazon.com/White-Heaven-Women-ebook/dp/B008SDDGV6/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1350794260&sr=1-1&keywords=white+heaven+women

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Children Playing
by Christy Bradshaw, M.Ed.

My family moved into a 1960’s-built home. A man that was wheelchair bound and his wife built this home. She passed away from brain aneurysm rupture, and then later he passed of cancer. We lived in this home for eight years.

There were paranormal occurrences in this home over the time that we lived there. About six months after we moved in, I had a brain aneurysm rupture (stroke). I suffered through all of the recovery from that and then one afternoon I saw our elderly neighbor outside so I walked over to speak with her. She told me the story about the previous owners. I thought that was extremely interesting, of course: the brain aneurysms that we two women had shared in that home.

Not long after this conversation with the neighbor, the lights in the house began to come on and go off by themselves at times. Once again, I stopped to think… hmmm…but again I passed it off in my mind as I was imagining things. You see, always the children and I would see these things and the children were very young. I never had a credible witness or anyone that could confirm things that were happening. A couple of years passed with occurrences of the children’s toys playing by themselves with no batteries in them. The lights flashing really often, and then it finally happened…

My daughter was around four years old. I had put her down for a nap and closed her door so I would not wake her. Doing dishes with the baby monitor on I thought that I heard something through the monitor. I stopped for a second to listen. Then boldly I heard children laughing through the monitor. It sounded as though they were playing. I dropped the dish in the sink and listened some more. Of course I was thinking that I really didn’t hear what I thought that I heard.

Quietly I stood at the sink, waiting to hear the sounds once more–and then all of a sudden the laughing began again, so loud that I grabbed the monitor and turned it off quickly. The laughing of these children playing did not sound harmful in any way. It was just really loud and very creepy knowing that the sounds were coming from my baby’s room. I slowly walked to her bedroom door…

I stood at the door with my hand on the door knob, listening for a second or two, but hearing nothing. I was afraid of what I would see when I opened the door. Finally, I used the courage that I could muster and opened the door:

There she was, quietly sleeping, the room was still and I was relieved. That was the very day, that I stopped using baby monitors in that home. From that point forward she took her naps on the sofa in the living room.

For more about Christy Bradshaw, visit her at:

thebradshawchronicles@facebook.com

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm5087798/resume

http://www.christybradshaw.webs.com

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A Ghost Named Kermit

by John Zunski

Author John Zunski

Some say our little town is haunted. I can say that the little ol’ bar that sits on the main drag has things that go bump in the night. I’ve heard them… I’ve felt them… I may have even seen something…

The weirdness started the week my wife and I took possession of the multi-dimensional watering hole. After closing one night, I was going about my business when I was overcome with a heaviness, like distant eyes pressing down upon my shoulders. I stopped what I was doing and turned around. Surprised faces stared at me. My heart stopped. It took me a second to realize it was my own reflection in dozens of mirrors. I took a deep breath and shared a nervous laugh with the room before burying myself in work. The feeling persisted. Every time I turned around, my freaked-out face returned my stare.

“It’s like the old-timers were watching me. Checking out the new guy,” I told my wife.

And that was it–for a while. Then my wife complained that five or ten dollars would be missing from her till. She would walk away before returning and recounting only to find it all there.

“Big deal,” I can hear you say. I agree, but it happens to me all the time. We decided it was Kermit, our name for the ghost. Kermit was also a customer who had passed away a few months after we bought the bar.

One night, years later, I had closed the bar. I thought everyone had stumbled out the door when in the casino, a Keno machine printed a ticket, footsteps marched across the floor and the Men’s Room door slammed shut. I didn’t think too much of it, reasoning that I had somehow missed a lingering soul.

Minutes passed… No one came out… I investigated…

The Men’s Room door was open and I was alone.

“Okay, John, they climbed out the bathroom window,” you say.

I would agree, if there were windows.

That incident has repeated itself over the years; twice with me and thrice with other bartenders. I don’t tell new bartenders about Kermit. When they report the weirdness, I share my experiences, including the one that leaves me with gooseflesh with each retelling:

It was a late summer morning… The sun was shining… I was opening the side door and securing it when legs walked past me into the bar. I stood up, turned around and said, “Excuse me, can I help you?”

I was answered by a compressor kicking on. Nobody was there…

This past May, a bartender asked: “Why didn’t you tell me about the ghost?”

“What did you see?” I asked.

“I was closed and I heard a Keno machine print. I looked up. A man in a long beard was staring at me and then he faded away.”

Did I mention Kermit had a long beard?

“What do you see in this picture? I see our ghosts helping Tammy and me celebrate the installation of the palm tree at my Sportsman’s bar. The picture was taken the first night the palm tree was lit. The person taking the picture was smoking a cigarette, so the wispy stuff is smoke–or could it be ghosts? The pic is what the pic is… I show it to people in the bar when conversations about ghosts come up. There are a few things in the ‘Rorschach test’ in the picture that relate to the town.” – John Zunski

For more information about Zunski and his literary works, visit him at:

www.johnzunski.wordpress.com

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by Betty Dravis

As you might know, we Dames take turns posting first chapters (and/or excerpts) from our books from time to time. Dame Maggie Bishop reminded me that it’s my turn to share something from my latest e-book Six-Pack of Blood. I’m honored to be joined by the talented, award-winning author Barbara Watkins as co-author of this book. I love her writing…

This book just hit the market when it ranked No. 1 for a very short period of time on U.S. Amazon Kindle/horror; No. 5 in Germany/occult, and if I recall correctly No. 53 in the UK/horror. Since then it has done even better: Last week it was No. 5 in U.S./horror; No. 2 in Germany/occult; No. 34 in the UK/horror. We are humbled and pleased.

We’re also delighted that our book has been awarded the coveted Best Paranormal/Horror by award-winning filmmaker Dimi Nakov of Zodiac Entertainment and the foreword was written by the acclaimed movie director/producer Armand Mastroianni (TV’s Dark Shadows and Friday the Thirteenth; movies Pandemic, The Celestine Prophecy and many, many more). Thanks, gentlemen, for your faith in us.

Now, without further fanfare, let me share an excerpt and an illustration from “The Collector,” the first story in our Six-Pack of Blood; it happens to be one of mine. I hope you are enticed by this offering that gives a peek into the “other side” of my funky (at times whimsical; at times malevolent) mind. 🙂

As a young boy, The Collector had an innocent collection of items he’d crafted from Popsicle sticks. His current collection was far from innocent…

He had always been an odd child, but developed into a likable adult…a bit weird, but sexy and mysterious, as most Italian men are. His favorite food was Italian. His drink, California Red… His cigarette, Marlboro… His most revered singer was Luciano Pavarotti.

And he definitely favored large-busted women with red hair.

The Collector was a tit man!

~~~

His wife, Bianca, was small and dark with boobs as lumpy as cottage cheese, but he’d married her for her practical homemaking skills, her meekness and for child-bearing. (“Must marry Italian–keep those fine Sicilian lines going, y’know,” his father had insisted.) The Collector’s wife was simply a figurehead to give him a show of respectability, giving him children…

Yeah, Bianca’s Italian all right–from her frigid crotch to her crooked nose. And the kids are nothing but pawns–boys to cater to the Mob, girls to wed into The Family, The Collector mused bitterly.

Forty years later, he was still longing for “the love-of-his-life,” the beautiful, auburn-haired, Irish lass he’d been forced to give up to please the Mob. “Ah-hhh…” The Collector sighed as he thought of his lost Katie.

Then: But who the hell needed love? Everything he needed could be bought.

~~~

The Collector–legal name, Frank Joseph Fitelli–was generally in a good mood when he had a collection to make, but not that night. It was Friday and he was trying his usual method of priming himself by gorging on his favorite things, but it wasn’t working.

After rutting with his latest whore–dyed red hair, he’d noted contemptuously–he had paid her off and kicked her out. Then he sat at his desk in the custom-designed library of his luxurious Scarsdale mansion, nursing a crystal goblet of vintage rose flown in from his Uncle Sal’s California vineyard.

“O Sole Mio…” Pavarotti’s lush tenor burst forth with grandeur from the large speakers of a built-in CD system. The talented Italian’s voice brought back memories of The Collector’s mother who had always played Mario Lanza records–the volume sky-high–as she bustled about the kitchen of his childhood Jersey home.

A wry smile curved the man’s lips as he inhaled deeply of the harsh, calming tobacco of a “real man’s” cigarette. He’d switched from Camels to Marlboros years ago when Tom Selleck was The Marlboro Man, and fantasized they were the same macho breed of man.

Beneath the huge skylight that dominated the dome of his library, the man was locked in an inner struggle. There were no phones, no computers and no windows in this private room, but glancing up at the sky-light, The Collector saw that it was completely covered with snow––the worst blizzard of the year. Could he make it to Miami?

His thoughts about the weather were not idle thoughts; they figured heavily in his plans. He had a collection to make and it was different this time. The dastardly deed had to be done that night, and he planned to use his private plane. There could be no witnesses!

Procrastinating, his cold, cruel, brown eyes absently trailed gray wisps of cigarette smoke as they curled up to the skylight. He fancied this room to be a gigantic snow-dome–like the small ones he passionately collected–and he was the lone figure inside. In this room, surrounded by all his favorite things, nothing could touch him, he told himself.

The walls that flanked the man’s desk were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves–over twenty feet high–that contained books on every subject…impressive, but mostly unread. Behind the desk was a portrait painted in the stately parlor of his childhood home; it depicted him, at age twelve, with his mother and father. He gently ran a diamond-adorned, pudgy finger along his mother’s portrait, muttering, “I’m sorry, Madre mia,” then glanced at the surrounding smaller photographs. Most were of his father with other infamous Mafia chieftains–“Lucky” Luciano, Al “Scarface” Capone, Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel–and several showed The Collector with his Godfather, Joseph “Fruitcake” Borelli.

The fourth wall, the one facing his desk, was dominated by an elegant green marble fireplace, and also held his priceless collection of snow-domes.

Setting aside the wine goblet, the man crossed to the cherished display, flicked on the custom lighting, captured his favorite dome with a well-manicured, shaky hand, and carried it to his desk. Placing the precious object reverently in the center of the blotter, he rocked it gently and watched the snow drift down to caress the pleasant scene: a lovely, red-haired mother and a dark, dashing father with four smiling children, two dark, robust boys and two dainty, copper-haired girls. The father was reading an article from the Wall Street Journal to the sons, while the mother was reading a fairytale to the attentive daughters.

That could’ve been me and Katie with our big, happy brood, he mused darkly.

The Collector played with the dome for several minutes, swiveling in his chair to watch the small family in the sanctity of their home, their private, pristine world. Then he leaned back to peer across the room at the lights reflecting off the rest of his collection. The chair tilted backward, squeaking noisily–infringing on the stirring music–as it took the full bulk of the man’s enormous weight.

The Collector prided himself on this beautiful collection, but jealously guarded his other one–the ghastly, secret one–hidden behind the others at the back of the intricately designed revolving shelves. Rising slowly, he crossed the room, replaced the family dome, then pushed a button to release his “real” collection–the one he was paid to collect.

As he lifted the first gory snow-dome, he heard loud pounding coming from the hallway.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

End of excerpt! Barbara and I hope you enjoyed it well enough to want to finish it and read the other five creepy stories in our collection. Here is the Amazon order link:

http://tinyurl.com/7ew24ql

And here is the link to my Amazon Central page where all my books are listed, along with a bio, book trailers, and more…

http://tinyurl.com/7ezca

Thanks for your time and happy reading.

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