When we first took on this project it was originally planned as Graveside Tales first book.  Little did we know what my partner Anthony Kendall and I were getting ourselves into.  After reading through 400 submissions and approximately one year later The Beast Within is available at Graveside Books as well as other fine book stores

All interviews are conducted by The Beast Within editor Matt Hults.

Enjoy and thanks for your continued support!

~Dale L. Murphy

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Greetings, Gravesiders!

The time is at hand. The Beast Within out now, and to remind you all what a awesome anthology this is, I’ll be posting interviews with the authors as well as excerpts from their stories. Don’t miss’em, people! This is good stuff!!! And to make it last, I’ll be posting one interview a day (in no particular order), leading us right up to the release date and beyond. Each interview will have it’s own topic, so feel free to reply and let the authors know what you think of their stories—OR continued the interview yourself by asking questions!

Now let’s start things off with INTERVIEW 1!

The following interview is with Michael J. Hultquist, screenwriter, editor, and author of Colugo Men in The Beast Within.

Hi, Michael. 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-Michael Hultquist like?

A: I describe myself as a screenwriter, author, business owner, and total chili head. I’m a repped screenwriter with a certificate from UCLA. I’ve had one movie produced, VICTIM, and another one with a much larger budget in the works for 2009. Fingers crossed!

As an author, I’ve published a bit of short fiction in the last year, including stories in Graveside Tales’ FRIED! And THE BEAST WITHIN anthologies. I’m also awaiting publication of my novel, OFF TRACK, from Lilley Press (http://www.lilleypress.com) in November of this year.

As a business owner, I operate Quist Interactive, Inc. (http://www.quist.net) where I develop web sites and multimedia for various clients of all sizes.

And as a crazy chili head, I run Jalapeno Madness (http://www.jalapenomadness.com) and Chili Pepper Madness (http://www.chilipeppermadness.com) where I go on and on and ON about hot peppers. It’s a fun hobby.

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

A: The hardest part for me is choosing the strongest ideas and losing interest in stories that I’ve started. I get so many ideas from everywhere. It’s impossible to tell them all. So rather than jumping into a story, I like to outline first. I can structure out several ideas and leave them sit in my story folder a while, then revisit them later. If, after a time, I still feel the initial excitement I felt when I got the idea, and if the outline feels strong, I’ll dig in.

My stories have become much stronger this way, and I’ve seen an increase in acceptances as well.

You are the co-editor of Graveside’s up-coming Halloween anthology Harvest Hill. Based on what you saw with submissions to that book, what advice would you give someone who’s new to submitting writing to an anthology?

A: We received a lot of great stories for the anthology. The biggest problem I found was the use of passive voice and some weak writing in general. Sentences need to grip the readers by the throat and throttle them into submission. Avoid “seemed to” and “began to” and other weak constructions. Activate as much as possible. There are cases where passive voice is called for, but as a general rule, verbs are the better choice.

I learned a lot about my own writing in working on this anthology.

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

A: I used to be an aggressive driver. I’m sure I pissed off a lot of people in the world, but several years ago I was nearly the victim of road rage. I cut off the wrong person and found myself chased through miles of I-88, zipping in and out of traffic, trying to shake the crazy bastard that wouldn’t let up. The guy was a pit bull and my ass was a lamb chop. My wife sat next to me, frozen, and I remember asking her if we still had the crowbar in the trunk because I felt it would probably come to that.

Luckily I found a sharp exit and cut out before the maniac could follow, but I did learn a lesson. I’m not quite so aggressive anymore on the road.

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

A: I don’t get writer’s block. Outlining helps tremendously. I know some writers hate outlines, but if I know where I’m going, I have far more freedom to craft at the scene level, so creativity flourishes. At least for me. It’s more difficult with short fiction. This is why I love themed anthologies. They’re giving you an idea to work with. I’ve tried some fun tricks, though. Try these —

Choose two words at random from the dictionary to form the title of your story. I wrote and sold a story called “Flying Fish Rhapsody” this way. Weird combination of words. “Flying Fish” is apparently one word in my dictionary.

Take the first line of any story you admire and use it as your first line. Continue on. When the story is done, either change or drop the first line. I wrote “Boken” this way and it was accepted to “Our Shadows Speak, Vol 2″.

Still, just because a person doesn’t get writer’s block doesn’t mean everything they churn out is gold. You still need a strong internal editor.

Tell us more about your screenplay work.

A: I consider myself a screenwriter first. I love screenplays. I love the structure and the process. I am a collaborative writer and I believe that has helped me gain representation, because I love working on teams. VICTIM went through several drafts with notes from the producers before finally being filmed. I’ve written or co-written 4 other scripts for the same people in the same way. One of them is slated for production in early 2009, as long as everything goes according to plan, but things can easily change with the film industry. Still, it feels very positive and I’m quite hopeful it will happen, just as VICTIM happened.

VICTIM is still seeking a distribution channel, but these are the guys that made THE COOLER, CHAOS, RUNNING SCARED, and more, so I’m sure they’ll find the best deal for the movie. They spent a lot of money to make it, so they are motivated.

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

A: I loved the concept and wanted to submit right away. I knew straight off that I didn’t want to sub a werewolf story. I figured there would be too much competition. I realize were-dogs aren’t so far off from wolves, but as I researched ideas, I came across some old Asian legends involving were-dogs, or Colugo Men, and knew immediately I’d landed on an idea. It all grew from there.

I also had a previous notion about how one might subdue a were-creature in order to witness the transformation first-hand. Combine it all, and you’ve got my story.

Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story Colugo Men?

A: Colugo Men is a revenge tale about a retired surgeon who loses his grandson, the only person left in his loveless life, to a were-dog attack. This surgeon concocts a meticulous plan of revenge, but must also convince the local sheriff that it truly was a were-dog that killed his grandson and not some wild animal. So he plots, and yes, his surgical skills do become key to the story.

Thanks, Michael!

And now, here’s an excerpt of Colugo Men from The Beast Within:

COLUGO MEN, BY MICHAEL J. HULTQUIST

My name is Earnest Price, and I am 86 years old. I am dying of cancer that started in my lungs and has spread to my brain and spinal cord. I have been bedridden for the past 6 months, and I foresee no chance of recovering even enough to walk to the bathroom and piss in a toilet. I’ll be dead in a week, and my jailers can toss me into the crematorium, but I’d like to plead my case one last time.

I am not a heartless murderer. In my life, I was a soldier. Absolutely, I’ve killed men, all in times of war, all in proud service to my country. I was a hunter. I’ve killed beasts that could rip your head off with one swipe. I was a doctor. I’ve healed far more men than I’ve killed, more than you can count. Healing and killing were the only things I was ever good at, the only things that made me feel whole inside. Holding someone else’s life in my hands, the control, the Godlike choice?yes, I found it intoxicating. But I am not guilty of the murder of Chu Muunokhoi, and I will stand by that statement until my dying day, which won’t be long now.

Chu Muunokhoi was not a man. Yes, I killed Chu Muunokhoi, and Chu Muunokhoi died in the cellar in 1980, but Chu Muunokhoi was not a man. Chu Muunokhoi was a Colugo Man. You’d probably better know that term as cynocephalus, or weredog.

Scoff if you will. I’d seen one before, long ago in my youth, while hunting in east Timor. The natives had killed one with a silver-tipped spear. They’d already set the creature’s body ablaze by the time I arrived, but its blood-soaked head sat atop the spear for all to see, impaled by the silvery blade. Its gore-matted fur shone brightly in the light of the full moon, as did its fearsome, flesh-ripping teeth. The locals were terrified of it, but to me it was nothing more than a larger, menacing dog. I would have written their fears off as foolish superstition, but when I woke the next morning, there was no dog head on the spear. In its place was the head of a man.

In the years that followed, I came to forget about the Colugo Man, even to convince myself that what I had seen was not real. How could it be real? I lost touch with those thoughts, until years later, when Chu Muunokhoi killed my grandson.

This was not long after my son, Edward, died in that car wreck. I loved Edward, but he was a stupid drunk, and being both stupid and a drunk will inevitably catch up with you. He wrapped himself around a tree going 90 after one of his all-night benders and got what he deserved. I realize this sounds cold and unsympathetic. The prosecutors hammered me for it, and it’s probably part of the reason I’ve been stuck in here the last 20-some-odd years, but it doesn’t matter now. I didn’t respect my son, and my son didn’t respect me. But since he was dead, that meant I was charged with the care of my grandson, David. It was David who changed my life.

David’s mother left him and Edward when David was a baby, and after Edward died, I contacted her to let her know David would need her, but she wanted nothing to do with him. I can’t imagine a woman giving birth to a child and having no connection with it, feeling no remorse for the abandonment. But that was the case, and I had no choice but to take David in.

I flew down for the funeral, paid for the service and the cremation. David insisted on picking out the urn, a bronze piece with deep black etchings. He gripped it to his chest for weeks afterward and morbidly kept it in his room. I often caught him staring at it with blank, tortured eyes, and I felt for him. David was a curious child. He showed a great aptitude for science, but I saw in him a certain sense of wanderlust and strength uncharacteristic of a boy his age. I saw myself in him. When David came into my home, with his wispy brown hair and his darting eyes, his probing nature, his powerful genetic resemblance reminding me of my own father, I found something in myself I’d lost. At the age of 60, I found purpose in someone other than myself.

Before long, I was thankful for David. I came to love him like I could never love my own son. With David, a connection grew between us I hadn’t anticipated. So when Chu Muunokhoi murdered him, I had no choice but to seek retribution.
I had moved David to the country by then, to a small community north of Harvest Hill, Tennessee. I was a retired surgeon living in Nashville when David entered my life, and the city wasn’t the ideal place to raise a boy his age. A ten-year-old needs open space and green fields, not the concrete confines of the city.

My sister, Constance, owned a small cottage on a twelve-acre lot a ways off the main highway, which by city terms wasn’t a highway at all but an occasionally traveled road with infrequent streetlights. The southern edge of the property butted up against a vast stretch of woods that spread outward in a pie-shape all the way to the county line. She left it to me in her will four years earlier, and I never had the heart to sell it. I considered it good fortune for David. He took to the place quickly. I enrolled him in the Harvest Hill middle school, and over the next six months, we began to heal from our mutual loss.

Our favorite activity was roaming the woods, the great, vast woods, bountiful with opportunity for exploration. We found sloping hills and fallen trees and lively fishing ponds. We found birds and bats and coyote tracks. David’s face lit up with each new discovery, and those smiles magnified my hopes for our future.
But Constance never told me about what lay beyond the woods. Today I understand. Too late for David, of course. Harvest Hill has a history with odd goings on, too much to tell. But now I know. There were several weredogs roaming the town from 1969 through 1980. You’d never believe it, but they’re more common than you’d think. They’re smart animals. Think about it. You’d have to be smart to co-exist with humanity and still be considered a folktale. The Chinese had their “Dog Jung” or “Colugo Men.” The Europeans called them “Cynocephali.” The American Indians called them “Shungmanitu Wa Chah.”
They stick to themselves mostly, feeding in the woods like other animals. Most people mistake them for coyotes on the rare occasions they encounter one. The night I encountered one in David’s bedroom, it was clearly no coyote.

That morning, David spent a long time in the woods. It was Saturday, Halloween. He’d risen early, before 4 am, and slipped out the back door. I figured he had himself a secret out there, a special fort to build, a hole to dig, or a trail to explore. I heard him go but said nothing. I could tell he was working extra hard to keep quiet, so I let him believe he’d done a good job. I’ve had secrets myself, and I thought the woods were safe enough for him to make a solo excursion.

But he stayed out too long, and I grew concerned. Still, I waited. At 6 am, with the sun just coming up through the trees, he returned. I confronted him to ask what he’d been doing out so early in the morning. He looked visibly shaken.

“Are you all right?” I asked him.
“I’m okay,” he replied, but I could tell it was a lie.
“Were you exploring?”
“Yes,” he said. “I found the perfect place.”
“For what?”
“To bury my Dad.”

It was time to say goodbye, he said, but his lips quivered and his eyes darted toward the open window, toward the woods.
“Something was watching me out there,” he said.
“What?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t see anything, but I could tell it was there.”

Here I made my critical error. I should have trusted him. As a hunter, I should have recognized the signs. I should have understood David might have the same intuition I had about such things, about being stalked by a predator. But no ?
“Probably a raccoon,” I told him. “They tend to roam in the darkness.”
David nodded. I drew him to me, and we hugged each other, not knowing it would be for the last time.

That evening, I took David into town for trick-or-treating. I hoped it would take his mind off his father. He created his own costume from objects in my closet: an old stethoscope, a tattered surgical smock, some bandages from a leftover first aid kit. He was a young doctor. I beamed. We marched door to door amidst the groups of other children, David collecting a small bounty of candy in his pillowcase while I waited by the curb, watching him with a smile.

Back home, David went to his room with his candy. I stood on the porch before the measureless woods. Yes, the moon was fat and full, so huge you could almost reach up and poke it with your finger. David ate Halloween candy and eventually fell asleep while I drank a snifter of 20-year-old cognac. I thought of Edward, and of my sister. I thought of my wife who died so long ago. I thought of all the people in my life that had passed on. Such morbid thoughts for an old man’s head, at the precise moment the Colugo Man murdered and devoured David in his bed.