Prizm Books is a line of Young Adult fiction, focused on providing great mainstream or LGBT stories in all genres, from science fiction to historical to contemporary. Our mission is to encourage and publish young adult books that focus on the story. Todays young readers crave stories they can relate to, stories about their lives. Prizm Books is committed to producing great, positive books that young adults will love, and will want more of!
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Author Extras: The Shroud Eaters by Alyx Shaw
The Shroud Eaters by Alyx Shaw
In this day of modern health and sanitation, few consider vampires more than a charming myth, a sexy little fantasy for when we are home and safe, and the street lamps and house lights keep away the night. But what happens when the lights fail, and old horrors rise from the grave to show they are no myth?
Deirdre has been a vampire since the 1600s, has seen a lot of history and knows quite a bit about her own species as well. She knows that there are many more types of vampires than the ones seen in movies and on TV. The modern version of the vampire is not an accurate one, and she also knows that being a vampire herself doesn't keep her safe from her own kind. A whisper in a graveyard, a shuffling footstep outside the door, the low, steady droning moan of the mindless undead are all warnings. For centuries she has managed to stay safe, but when she chances to meet a vampire of her own century, she is unaware that a monster is on his trail.
The town of Cumberland is my hometown where I grew up, and while it may not be full of vampires, it is certainly full of ghosts and history, and the tales told by the characters within the book are the tales as I heard them growing up, and the cemeteries visited are still there, as are the lake and the houses. The lake is an eerie place, and at night on perfectly still and silent evenings it will crash as if there is a great storm. Just outside the town proper, where once stood one of the largest Chinatowns in North America, there are now silent fields, the houses sunk into the boggy ground.
Of the three houses I lived in when I was growing up in Cumberland, not one was ghost free. The house on Penrith Avenue gave me relentless nightmares about men in stovepipe hats dragging my mother to the clay basement. On Dunsmuir Avenue, I was often too terrified to go to the bathroom at night, as the house was frequently alive (unalive?) with spectral cats. To this day I can clearly see then, utterly silent, dodging under furnishings and vanishing. But the most frightening house was on Sutton Road. Stephen King could not have created a better haunted house. It was small, built around the 1920s, and the backyard, I kid you not, was a swamp. Three feet from my back door was marsh water and skunk cabbage, and, oh yeah, mint. If mint tea was your thing, you could harvest forty pounds of organic in about 20 minutes. But at night it was dead silent and dark and you could not help but remember the last inhabitant of that cute little house died there, alone. And you cant help but believe in ghosts when something from under your bed pulls your blankets off in the middle of the night.
I dont care if skeptics dont believe in ghosts. I dont believe in skeptics. Ghosts? Oh yeah. Big time.