The Arkham Detective is back! I just recently published the second in a series of novellas about a hard boiled police detective in Arkham Massachusetts that is in charge of the Mythos Division. A department that is mandated, by his superiors, to investigate things that go bump in the night . . . Lovecraftian things! The series is a fun read and it was fun, for me, to write, except for the threats of force that have been put upon me.
It all began a while back when I published the novel, “The Cry of Cthulhu.” In that fright filled tome lurked the hideous little creatures I christened, “the Pilot Demons,” nasty pint-sized legless beings that crawled on their hands with razor sharp claws and fangs. They were minor, albeit memorable characters that haunted a handful of pages in my book.
Fast forward to the creation of the novelette, “Cthulhu’s Minions,” wherein I crafted a story chiefly about these diminutive life forms. I thought they deserved their own starring roles because they were so creepy and needed more space to vent their revolting existence. That was when the epiphany happened. I needed a protagonist to interact/combat and stop them before they conducted one of the Cthulhu Mythos Old Ones to the back allies and streets of Arkham, likewise the entire planet. Thus my detective, the Arkham Detective was born. To make matters even more enjoyable and exciting I decided to place the story somewhere in the 1930’s. A spot in time where H. P. Lovecraft and Dashiell Hammett could have possibly collaborated. Henceforth the narrative began, through the eyes of my detective, of course.
A problem occurred though. It became unmanageable. I couldn’t get my fedora and trench coat attired shamus to stop talking. His ego is so supersized that he wanted his own series. Looking down the barrel of his 1911, .45 caliber colt automatic I was forced create another tale about the Arkham Detective.
Just released, due to coercion, is “The Innsmouth Look.” The Great Depression is in full swing and his tightwad chief of police makes him take the rattletrap motor coach to Innsmouth in hopes of tracking down a murderer and kidnapper of a small child. Upon arriving, he tries to blend in so he can locate the “perp” and soon discovers that the “fish face” population of the town are conspiring to release the Old Ones to wreak havoc on our world.
The Arkham Detective, who I have also nicknamed, “the detective with no name,” is a hard ass and demands that he exist in nothing less than a four-part series. So I am currently writing, under duress, the third installment in the life and times of the Arkham Detective.
It is getting late and he keeps forcing me to write. Haven’t had food or drink in days. I am so tired. He keeps pointing that gun at me. Help!!!
It all began a while back when I published the novel, “The Cry of Cthulhu.” In that fright filled tome lurked the hideous little creatures I christened, “the Pilot Demons,” nasty pint-sized legless beings that crawled on their hands with razor sharp claws and fangs. They were minor, albeit memorable characters that haunted a handful of pages in my book.
Fast forward to the creation of the novelette, “Cthulhu’s Minions,” wherein I crafted a story chiefly about these diminutive life forms. I thought they deserved their own starring roles because they were so creepy and needed more space to vent their revolting existence. That was when the epiphany happened. I needed a protagonist to interact/combat and stop them before they conducted one of the Cthulhu Mythos Old Ones to the back allies and streets of Arkham, likewise the entire planet. Thus my detective, the Arkham Detective was born. To make matters even more enjoyable and exciting I decided to place the story somewhere in the 1930’s. A spot in time where H. P. Lovecraft and Dashiell Hammett could have possibly collaborated. Henceforth the narrative began, through the eyes of my detective, of course.
A problem occurred though. It became unmanageable. I couldn’t get my fedora and trench coat attired shamus to stop talking. His ego is so supersized that he wanted his own series. Looking down the barrel of his 1911, .45 caliber colt automatic I was forced create another tale about the Arkham Detective.
Just released, due to coercion, is “The Innsmouth Look.” The Great Depression is in full swing and his tightwad chief of police makes him take the rattletrap motor coach to Innsmouth in hopes of tracking down a murderer and kidnapper of a small child. Upon arriving, he tries to blend in so he can locate the “perp” and soon discovers that the “fish face” population of the town are conspiring to release the Old Ones to wreak havoc on our world.
The Arkham Detective, who I have also nicknamed, “the detective with no name,” is a hard ass and demands that he exist in nothing less than a four-part series. So I am currently writing, under duress, the third installment in the life and times of the Arkham Detective.
It is getting late and he keeps forcing me to write. Haven’t had food or drink in days. I am so tired. He keeps pointing that gun at me. Help!!!
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