Rick Moore - Author

The following interview is with Rick Moore, author of The Night John Fell in The Beast Within.

Hi, Rick. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-Rick Moore like?

A: Most of my days are pretty weird. For example, the other day a woman said to me ‘My roommate had a baby and put it in her locker and in the night I hear it crying,’.  I have conversations daily with a guy who thinks he’s the President of Mexico and another who’s receiving communications from satellites. All this takes place at my work, a psychiatric hospital, where I’m employed as a mental health specialist. It’s like living in a David Lynch movie. Fortunately, I love Lynch, and where some staff get burnt out working with these type of patients, I always enjoy being around them. There are down sides of course, it’s potentially a very dangerous environment. Some patients are hitters, and just attack with no warning. Others engage in acts of self-harm, not just attention seeking behaviors but serious self mutilation, and that’s just about the worst thing of all.

Outside of work I lead a fairly ordinary life. I take a lot of bicycle rides with my girlfriend, cook, spend time with friends and family. Read a lot, write, collect a lot of rejection slips and the occasional acceptance. My Mum, brother and myself moved to the US from England in the 90s, and have remained here ever since.

As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?

A: The biggest challenge is coming up with something that doesn’t feel like it’s already been done. I try to find ways to avoid taking the story in a direction that’s obvious.

What initiated your interest in the horror genre?

A: I guess it goes back to my Mum and Dad splitting up and getting divorced when I was around the age of six. Looking back, I guess the impact was so jarring that the TV shows and movies other kids were into no longer held much interest for me. The world was suddenly a much darker place and I got my first taste of real unhappiness. The average six year old still believes in Santa Claus, but what I believed was that bad things happened to good people and that was what I had this need within myself to experience. Maybe so I could understand, even if it was just in a horror movie, how people dealt with devastating events. Not that I knew any of this at the time, obviously. But if there was a Hammer or Universal or other old horror movie on TV, I’d beg my Dad, who raised me, to let me stay up late and watch it. This was usually a Friday or Saturday night, and my dad was fairly easy going, so I always got to watch those movies when they were on. What I realized pretty fast was that these creatures and monsters were a thousand times cooler than some fat guy in a red suit with a big white beard. What I couldn’t understand was why other kids didn’t share my excitement about horror movies. Well there was one, my best friend growing up, who got it the same way I did, whose parents also let him watch whatever he wanted, or didn’t monitor him that much during the summer holidays. I think the point of no return was around the time King exploded worldwide, and the birth of home video, when we got our hands on pirated copies of movies like An American Werewolf In London and The Thing and Scanners. After you’ve seen movies like that as a child and you’ve read books by King and James Herbert and Guy N. Smith, there’s really no way of going back to what your peers are reading and watching, what in fact you’re probably supposed to be exposed to at that age.

Any personal experiences where you might’ve felt like a character in a horror novel?

A: At my job. Daily. Which is to say, it’s not unusual to have somebody screaming obscenities an inch from my face for an entirely ridiculous reason, to be around somebody who’s genuinely convinced they’re under attack from unseen demonic forces, or have to try to counsel somebody in such a rage they’re punching holes in the wall.

Is there a specific aspect of the genre that is particularly appealing to you?

A: In broad terms, because they were such an important part of growing up, I love the old Hammer movies and the TV shows Hammer House of Horror and Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected. Also the Amicus portmanteaus from the 70s. And I’m always a sucker for a rollicking good zombie story.

In more specific terms, I’d say what appeals to me most is horror mixed with dark humor. Not so much horror-comedy, though when it’s done right I’m a fan of that also, but more material that creates a sense of unease while at the same time being humorous. Personal favorites would include black comedies like Theater of Blood, particularly the scene where Vincent Price force feeds a gluttonous Robert Morley his beloved pet poodles, or the humor in the films of David Lynch.  Another favorite would be Kubrick’s adaptation of the Burgess novella A Clockwork Orange, which is one of the most disturbing and funniest films I’ve ever seen. Masters of this type of dark humor would include Joe Lansdale, Bentley Little, Chuck Palaniuk, Frank Henenlotter and Takashi Miike.

Writer’s block strikes sooner or later; are there any home remedies or writing exercises you use to stave off the dreaded curse?

A: What I try to do is avoid the temptation to edit and instead keep the words moving. They won’t keep moving if you stop to analyze every paragraph and sentence immediately after writing it. My advice is to leave the editing (the major editing) for later and focus on getting the story written.

Where can we see more of your work?

A: The first few stories I had published were in Dark Animus, Chimeraworld 3, Embark to Madness and Theater of Decay.

Anthologies that came out this year include History Is Dead, The Undead: Flesh Feast, Bound for Evil, Horror Library Volume 3 and of course The Beast Within,

Next year (thus far) I’ll have stories in Cthulhu Unbound, Where Have All the Good Zombies Gone? and  Harvest Hill (also from Graveside Tales).

More information about these anthologies and ordering info can be found at http://www.myspace.com/zombieinfection, where you can also watch clips from some of my favorite movies, including the aforementioned force-feeding scene from Theater of Blood.

When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creatures in your story?

A: I was in the Circle K, looking to grab something for breakfast when I saw the sunflower seeds they had for sale, you know the flavored kind made by Spitz. I guess that’s where the association with birds came from, and by the time I was in my car and driving to work, I started wondering what would happen if you worked alone in the store at night and somebody came in who started behaving like a bird, pecking at a pack of those seeds. And what if it didn’t end there? What if this guy physically started to resemble a bird, grew a beak and had small black eyes when he removed his sunglasses? That first image got stuck in my head and refused to leave until I wrote about it.

Thanks, Rick!

And now, here’s an excerpt of The Night John Fell from The Beast Within:

THE NIGHT JOHN FELL,
BY RICK MOORE

As was his habit, John arrived at the Arco at 10:15 pm, fifteen minutes early for the start of his shift. He parked in his usual spot, the far bay on the left in front of the store, then got out and locked his car. There was only one car at the pumps, a late 90s Taurus. Karl stood out front, opening a fresh pack of Pall Mall Lights. By the time John reached him Karl had thrown the wrapper in the trash and had a cigarette in his mouth.

“Hey, John,” Karl said, flicking his Bic.
“Hey, Karl.”
Karl exhaled smoke. “Fresh coffee’s made.”
“Great. I’m gonna need it.”

The job of making coffee for the night shift was officially John’s, but not long after he started coming in early, Karl and Martin showed their appreciation by including the duty as one of their own.

“Anything I need to know?” John asked.
“Nope,” Karl said. “Business as usual.”

Business as usual. That was what John liked to hear. Not its meaning (though it was good to know the other man’s shift had gone smoothly). No, what John liked was the sense of familiarity that came from hearing those three words. Karl had worked at the Arco nine years (5 more than John). At 51, he was 2 years John’s junior. It was impossible to say just how many times John had asked, “Anything I need to know?” and Karl had replied, “Nope. Business as usual.” Hundreds probably. Sometimes there was something John needed to know, something the manager had asked to be communicated, and sometimes there were enough customers to warrant Karl’s presence behind the counter inside, but most nights there was a lull at this time of night, and Karl could be relied upon to be standing out front, waiting for John to arrive before he lit the smoke that would see him through his journey home.

John thought, with any luck we’ll still be saying the same thing when both of us are just about ready for retirement.
Some people might find the whole thing incredibly depressing. Not John. He needed things to stay as mundane and routine as possible, because most of his adult life had been just the opposite?each day a spiral of insanity that started when he woke up and took his first drink, and didn’t end until the booze overtook his body and left him unconscious on the floor. Then it would start all over again the next day.

But he’d beaten it.
Meetings three times a week. The twelve steps to sobriety. Medication for his bipolar disorder.

And above all, this job.
Knowing he was trusted and considered reliable, that was what kept him sober.

Walking into the store, he nodded to Martin, who was at the counter ringing up gas for the driver of the Taurus. Making a beeline for the coffee, John grabbed a paper cup from the tall stack beside the pots, added two squirts of French Vanilla creamer from the dispenser, and filled it to the brim with coffee.

Sipping his drink, John approached the counter. Martin raised the flip-up pass-through, and the two of them traded places. Through the window, John saw Karl driving away in his red Chevy Blazer, a plume of cigarette smoke escaping from the slightly lowered driver-side window.
John and Martin exchanged some small talk, mostly concerning the new stock that had arrived during the day, then Martin went to the back of the store to get his jacket and three 40s of Olde English 800. The kid drank too much?almost nightly it seemed?but John never mentioned it, knowing full well that drinkers were deaf to advice from others until they were ready to start listening.

When the transaction was completed and the bottles bagged, Martin said goodnight and headed for the door. John followed, intending to lock the door after him. The store policy was for the overnight to keep the doors locked until 5am, handling the customers’ needs through the service window. This could be a pain sometimes, especially when people sent him running all over the store for a dozen different things, but this wasn’t exactly the best of neighborhoods, and John would rather end his shift with aching legs than finish early thanks to a bullet in the face.

Approaching the door, Martin reached out to push it open. Somebody beat him to it and pulled the door open from outside.
“Sorry partner,” Martin said, holding out a hand. “Store’s locking up; go to the window and anything you want my buddy here can go get for you.”
For a moment John didn’t recognize the man?not with sunglasses and a hat on?then he realized it was Greg, one of his regular customers.
“It’s all right, Martin,” John said. “I know him. He’s fine.”
“You sure?” Martin asked.
John nodded and moved aside, allowing Greg to enter the store.
“Been coming to this store long as I been working here. If I can’t trust him, I can’t trust nobody.”
“Your call,” Martin said. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” John said and locked the door after he was gone.
John returned to his spot behind the counter. Greg was at the back of the middle aisle, studying the snack items on the shelves.
“In a little early tonight, huh, Greg?” John called. “You on your way to work?”
John knew the other man’s work schedule as well as he knew his own. Greg worked nights at the state mental hospital. John glanced towards the forecourt and realized Greg’s blue Jetta wasn’t out there.
“Say, Greg, what happened to your car?”
Greg didn’t reply. He went on studying the snacks.

Alarm bells rang in John’s mind. Greg was usually friendly and talkative, but tonight he was acting as though he didn’t even know John existed. And what was with the sunglasses at night? Unless working in a place full of nut jobs had finally gotten to him (and though Greg joked the patients were driving him nuts, he never struck John as the type to ever need a rubber room), Greg’s odd behavior could only mean one thing: he was high on something.

Great, John thought. And I had to go and let him inside the store. Goddamn it Greg.
John looked outside to try to signal Martin, but he was already pulling off the forecourt and onto the road. Looking back at Greg, John saw that he’d finally made a selection. He stood holding a packet of Spitz sunflower seeds, turning the packet in front of his face, seemingly fascinated by it.

John decided to remain silent from here on out. Greg could either pay for the packet of Spitz, or walk right out with them if that was what he chose to do. John just wanted him out of the store. He knew from personal experience that the best way to avoid conflict with somebody who was drunk or high was to let them remain in their own little world and stay out of their way.

But when Greg ripped open the packet of Spitz and sunflower seeds exploded into the air, John disregarded all the advice he’d just given himself and came rushing around the counter.
“Goddamn it Greg!” John yelled, running along the aisle towards him. “Get out of here right now. You hear me? Get out and don’t come back.”

If Greg did hear him, he showed no sign of it. Instead he studied the Spitz that remained in the packet. John halted a foot or so away from him, just in time to get a close up view of the strangest thing he’d ever seen somebody do. Greg’s head darted forwards, his nose aimed directly at the opening he’d made in the packet. He inhaled and snapped back his head, both nostrils clogged with sunflower seeds. Greg snorted, trying to suck back the Spitz blocking his nose. From his mouth came a high-pitched squawk: an impersonation of a crow that was eerily accurate. Then his head jerked forward a second time, his nose again dipping into the packet of seeds.

“Get out!” John yelled, striking the packet with the back of his hand. His fingers brushed against Greg’s sunglasses, knocking them off his head. The packet of Spitz fell to the floor, the sunglasses clattering on the tile beside it.
“I don’t know what you’re on, Greg, but?”
Greg’s head snapped up.
And that was when John got his first look at Greg’s eyes. He’d seen the strange effects drugs could have on a person’s body, but he’d never heard of a drug that could do something like this. Greg’s eyes were completely black.

“Jesus, Greg,” John said. “What the hell did you take?”
Greg opened his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His mouth twisted to one side, then the other. “B-B-B-squawk B-B squawk B-B-Bird!”

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