Today, I'd like to welcome horror author G. R. Yeats to the Cerebral Writer. 
Thanks for stopping by!

1. Why don’t you start by telling us a little about your background?  How long have you been writing, and what inspired you to start?

Some say that you should only answer a question like this with the time from which you started writing seriously - whatever seriously means.  So, I'm going to ignore that and say I started writing when I was a teenager, about twelve or thirteen, and it was poetry and song lyrics for years and years. It was an outlet for me, my equivalent of keeping a diary by expressing my  feelings through creative analogies. I think I would be a lot worse off as human being without having that means of venting all the shit that builds up day in, day out. I wrote a few short stories in high school that were 'commented on' by teachers, but I never came back to prose until 2006 when I sat down and started work on The Eyes of the Dead.  Rather than break in gently with short stories, I decided I was going to write a novel and just went for it.

2. Your books all seem to be an interesting mesh of paranormal and gritty realism.  What kinds of research do you conduct before starting a project, and how long does it generally take?

If it's a historical project like the Vetala Cycle novels then the research comprises reading, lots of reading. Though I made a point of focusing on the diaries and reminiscences of the ordinary people caught up in the machinery of the war. I did a little research on the technicalities of the war and the strategies to get a sense of the time and place where I was setting each story but overall I wanted to evoke the atmosphere, the people and so on rather than just info-dump about things that the average soldier didn't care about. I tried to maintain that with Shapes in the Mist and Hell's Teeth.

3. Tell us about your new release, Hell’s Teeth.

Hell's Teeth closes the Vetala Cycle at the Gallipoli campaign when it came to a disastrous end in 1916. My editor said it is a very brave book as the style and structure are different to the previous two books - she said it reads like a prose poem and it is also very layered as ther protagonist, Thomas Potter, is shown to be trapped in the cycle of his own life; we see him as an ageing veteran tortured by his memories of the war as well as back when he was a young soldier on the front line and, as we pass between his past, present and future, the Vetala emerge into his life and begin to drag him into their hellish domain, the Grey and the Gravelands.

4. Who are your main literary influences?

It's been a case of stages for me - I would say that the primary influences on The Eyes of the Dead and Shapes in the Mist were Shaun Hutson, Guy N. Smith and James Herbert but with Hell's Teeth there was a definite shift, I remember noticing it and feeling it at the time and the influences now come much more from the literary end of the spectrum; Ramsey Campbell, H.P. Lovecraft, Arthur Machen and Thomas Ligotti, for example. This is not to say that the latter gentlemen have not always been  there as influences but I think it's safe to say that they are in the foreground for me now.

5. Your works all seem to have very dark overtones.  What drives your darkness (or is it really a driving light in disguise)?

My world view is a bleak one, I think it's fair to say. I wouldn't describe myself as pessimistic or cynical, I think to do so cheapens
one's own philosophical and political outlook, but other people have described me as such over the years. I remember reading an interview with Stephenie Meyer where she described her books as being full of a lot of light and I would say in that respect I'm the equal and opposite. I don't have much time for the cosy dualism of good .vs. evil because these are constructs created by humanity and when humanity dies out then so will good and evil, and not before. 

6. If you had to pick one all-time favorite horror novel, what would it be?

A tough question but I suppose if I was going to pick a novel then it would be Quentin S. Crisp's Remember You're One-Ball. It's a recent publication, granted, but it evokes for me a supernatural horror of England, the society we have here and how it functions and abuses individuals, without at any point becoming an explicitly supernatural novel. It's a great achievement.

7. Since this is The Cerebral Writer, which of your stories would you classify as the most cerebral?

Hell's Teeth - in terms of its narrative and style, it is the most elliptical and complex of the novels I have published so far, which is odd really considering it is the shortest as well.

8. Do you prefer writing short stories or novels?  For you, what are the setbacks and advantages of each?

I've enjoyed writing novels but I have a hankering to dedicate time to short stories and that's what I intend to do towards the end of this year - I have two collections planned after I finish up my novel-length commitments. I think horror works in the short form because you can focus on evoking mood and atmosphere rather than character and structure so much, in the traditional sense. My novels are all short novels so far and I like to think this is one of the reasons why they work. I think with the longer form it  becomes a case of managing that mood of unease throughout rather than building upon it in a short space of time to a single climax. With a novel, you have to work with peaks and troughs and manage expectancy in terms of how much revelation you allow to come through before bringing everything to its ultimate end.

9. Describe your writing process.  Do you visualize your stories in your mind’s eye, or do the words just flow?  On average, how long does it take you to finish a story from conception to final edit?

I'm an intuitive writer, I use little to nothing in the way of notes and planning, I start with a title and dive in and the stories more often than not shape themselves as I go. A short story can be the work of a night whilst a first draft of a novel can take one to two months, maybe three, depending.

10. What is the greatest piece of advice you might offer to the beginning horror writer?

Read widely outside and inside the genre, the latter is as important as the former.

Bonus Question: If the Undead could be summed up by a single philosophy, what do you think that would be and why?

I think the dead would have their own philosophy, their own language and culture from beyond the grave that we would have no way of knowing or truly comprehending. Why would they want to eat our brains when they know what's waiting on the other side and we don't? A single word, a breath from a dead man could stop the hearts of the living. 

Hell’s Teeth excerpt:

His was a prison of broken mirrors. 

He could remember nothing more than bits and pieces; fragments, shards, shattered glass slivers and distortion, nothing whole. Nothing was the way it should be.

It came out of the black rain. 
 
Its chassis, loose and clattering; wine-red, bubbled paint peeling from its
juddering hide, a heavy brown cancer of rust eating its way through the engine’s grille and the spokes of the pneumatic wheels. Its windows were dim with dust, streaked with grime, and they rattled violently in their frames. The vehicle was an LGOC X-Type bus, only sixty of them were ever built to prowl the streets of London yet X61 was daubed onto the side of this one. There was no enclosed cab, the Driver sat in shadow beneath a small canopy, exposed to
the elements, behind the engine, steering with deft, liver-spotted hands.  His uniform clung to his shoulders and thorax. The material was stiff, hardened with a flaking crust, patches of ancient blood. He had no head with which to see but see he did, in his own way. 

In the alcove towards the rear stood the Conductor; a Bell Punch machine hanging from cracked twin moons, the topmost buttons of his uniform. The metal of the antiquated device was dulled by age, leather-yellow fingers stroking it with a lover’s tenderness, whilst a blind egg of glistening mortuary matter wore the conductor’s cap. Pregnant sores formed a livid necklace around his throat, their discharge discolouring the unwashed china-blue collar of his shirt.

The Conductor cocked his head, catching a scent on the night air. He pulled a cord that hung above his head. A series of tinny chimes rang out inside the Bus. The dried skin on the Driver’s arms crackled as he turned left, following the Morse code instructions of his companion, depressing the accelerator. The Bus chugged, lurching forwards as the engine sped up.

pokita-pokita-pokita

From the black hole of the Driver’s neck, fresh blood ran freely, displacing scabs that had grown over the puckered edges of the stump, torn veins and arteries opening wide, disgorging a steady crimson flow, his fingers wound tight on the steering wheel. Thee Driver’s open throat gurgled wetly, excited, as the Night Bus went on its way, seeking, that it might find.

He heard the engine first and then he saw it, in the moonlight, coming for him.

pokita-pokita-pokita

The sound of its machinery was old and tired, a dying animal preparing for one last lunge, a wounded soldier, bayonet in hand, about to impale an unwatchful foe. He backed away from its approach. The one working headlight of the Night Bus burst into life, catching him in its glare. 

Run, rabbit, run, rabbit.

It bore down on him.

Run, run, run!

He turned and ran. His calf muscles clamping tight as he did, too old for this. At his heels, the Bus’s rusty thunder grew louder and louder, an oncoming storm, the end of everything.


About the Author:

G.R. Yeates is the critically-acclaimed author of the Vetala Cycle books. He has been accepted and published in small press anthologies  including Phobophobia from Dark Continents Publishing and Horror for Good from Cutting Block Press. He was born in Rochford, Essex and went on  to study English Literature and Media at university. He has lived in China where he taught English as a foreign language and he now lives in North London where he writes every day and sleeps very little.

For more information, check out his website, or visit him on Facebook, Twitter, Amazon, or Pinterest.

Sister, Sister

“Hold still!” Lana exclaimed, her hand nearly slipping and creating a streak down her sister’s eye and into her temple.

Hannah looked up, her eyelids fluttering.  “You’re going to poke my eye out!”

“Not if you hold still!”

Lana finished lining Hannah’s eye and set aside the black stick. She looked through her compacts of eye shadow and chose a complimentary combination of bronzes and browns. 

“Now, close your eyes.”

Hannah closed her eyes, trying not to squint as Lana applied generous layers of color and shaded them in.

Lana dropped the compact into her make-up bag.  “Beautiful!”

Hannah opened her eyes and looked into the mirror, examining her face closely.  “Wow . . . nice!”

Lana smiled, admiring her work.  “All that time spent in beauty school wasn’t all for naught.”  She dug into her bag, searching for her ruby lipstick.  She had to dig through the large bag for a moment, but finally her hand emerged with the perfect metallic blend of red and pink.  “Here.”

Hannah applied the lipstick and pursed her lips together.

The two looked over Lana’s work, both equally pleased.  They turned in unison as the doorbell rang.

Hanna stood.  “Showtime!”

“Have fun!”  Lana said as Hanna found her purse and hurried out with an excited wave.

* * * *

Hannah played coy most of the night, feeling unsure of herself.  It had been nearly six months since she had last dated, and Ray was a definite catch. She didn’t want to play things too quickly, afraid of passing herself off as too easy; at the same time, she didn’t want to scare this one off.  She had a way of scaring guys off.

The two had met on the sales floor where she worked.  She had convinced him to buy a new mattress set.  He had convinced her to let him take her out on a date.  He was a successful businessman, at least from what he had told her, and the Armani and Rolex adorning his body backed that up. He took her to dine on lobster and drink expensive wine—two more points for him—and his charm and good looks had her hooked on his every word.

“So, you have a sister?” he asked between bites.

She nodded.  “A twin sister.  Lana.”

He held back an amused laugh.  “Hannah and Lana?  How . . . adorable.”

Hannah shuddered.

“The bane of my existence.  My parents had no idea what a curse they had bestowed upon the two of us by insisting upon ‘twinsie’ names.”

“I think it’s cute,” he said.

“I think it’s sick.”  She finished her lobster tail, trying to show a look of disgust despite the sweet decadence melting in her mouth with every chew.  “Being a twin isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  We shared every birthday cake, every Christmas present, every punishment, regardless of who the perpetrator was.  It was like we were one person destined to live two lives, and yet forced
to share everything.”

A wide grin crept upon his face.  “Even boyfriends?”

“Everything except that.”  She finished her glass of wine and sat back as he took her cue to pour her more.  “We might live together, but there’s a place where we both draw the line.”

“You know it’s every man’s dream to have twins,” he said playfully.

“Tell me you mean that, and this date is officially over.”

He sat back.  “Can’t a guy have a little fun with clichés?”

“Not at my expense.”  She downed half her glass in one large gulp.  “It’s not funny, at least from my vantage.”

He frowned apologetically.  “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

She took another hefty gulp of wine.  “We tried giving into the cliché once.  It nearly destroyed us.”  She tried to smile, but her smile faded quickly.  “We ended up fighting over the guy, nearly killed one another.  We were never the same again.  It was . . . a
mistake.”

They both went silent for several minutes.  With empty plates and a nearly empty bottle of wine, the night seemed like it might be over almost as quickly as it had begun. Hannah took a deep breath, determined not to let the past destroy yet another moment in the present.

“Let’s talk about you,” she said.  “You never told me exactly what it was you do.”

He clapped his hands together with a sigh.  “It’s complicated.”

“Business is complicated?”

His face went tight in a sudden grimace, and then his eyes seemed to shift their focus.  “You look absolutely stunning.  Did I
tell you that?”

She shook her head and gave another coy smile.

“Really.  You look like you have your own personal hairstylist and make-up artist.”

Hannah giggled.  “What if I told you I did?”

He gave her a sideways glance.  “Really?”

She shrugged, suddenly unashamed to admit, “I do have a living mirror image, and she just happened to go to beauty school.”

He seemed to get a kick out of that, raising his glass for an impromptu toast.  “You look lovely.”

She raised her glass, happy to toast to that.

With the clink of their glasses, the two drank down their wine.
 
* * * *
 
Hannah felt uneasy at the first thought of inviting Ray back to her place, but after a few glasses of wine, her inhibitions waned. 
She hushed him as they made their way through the front door and to the dark living room, but as they fell against the sofa, they both giggled in their intoxicated forwardness.

“She’ll hear us!” Hannah said in a hushed voice.

“She’s obviously asleep in bed,” Ray whispered back, looking around.  He sat forward as he realized that Hannah lived in a studio apartment.

“What’s wrong?”

He continued to look around.  “Where’s her room?”

“Whose room?”

“Lana’s?”

Hannah looked around, taking note of the empty bed across the room.  She glanced over at the dark bathroom, then back at Ray.  “We share the bed,” she whispered.  “No funny stuff though.”

Even through the darkness, he could see that there was no one there.  “Is she out for the evening?” he asked, his voice rising to a normal tone.

“Shh!  Do you want to wake her?” Hannah asked, still whispering.

He got to his feet, unable to hide his discomfort.  “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not into it,” he said, and
then promptly left.

She tried to stop him, if only to get him to clarify the issue, but he was out the door and gone before she could find the words. 
All she could manage was a weak “Ray?” which he ignored as he disappeared down the stairwell.

She spun back around, stormed into the apartment, and flipped on the lights.  “Thanks a lot!” she growled as she found Lana in the bathroom.

Lana stood before the mirror plucking her eyebrows.  “What did I do?”

“You let him think I was a nutcase, that’s what you did!”

Lana turned away with a shrug.  “Maybe you are a nutcase.”

“Bitch!”  Lacking in judgment from her one-too-many glasses of expensive wine, she took a swing at Hannah.  Her fist connected with a surprising crash.

Hannah staggered back, clasping her broken, bleeding hand as she glared at her sister’s broken face.

Lana stared back through shattered, bloodied shards.  “Think you’ve had bad luck with men for the past six months?”

Hannah shook her head, a hint of realization hitting her.

“Another seven years might settle our score.”

Hannah continued to shake her head.  “No. . . .”

Lana nodded through the severed shards.  “Oh, yes.”

Exit . . . Stage Left

Emily took her time applying her makeup, making sure every stroke of eye shadow, every brush of mascara, and every daub of lipstick was flawless.  After all her years of acting, this was to be her most memorable performance.  She sifted through her jewelry, finding a garnet pendant and matching earrings, and matched them against the scarlet of her lips.

Yes . . . perfect.
 
She stood, her hands shaking as she wrapped around her a stole she had owned since the ‘50s.  Fur was so politically incorrect these days, and for that reason alone she had hidden it away in the back of her closet for many years. Tonight, however, that wouldn’t matter. It was her exit, and she was going to do it her way—in style.
 
Her manager, a sweet young thing with blond curls and big blue eyes named Joe, entered with a knock.  “I told the guy we’d be there at ten thirty sharp.  You ready to do this?”

She nodded, taking a deep breath.  She took one last look in her lighted mirror, admiring the flawless face in her reflection as she summoned the courage to leave this place for the last time.  “I’m going to miss working with you,” she said, wishing there were another way.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he replied as she met him at the door.

He led her outside to the car, opened her door for her, and then walked around to the driver’s side.  The engine started with an abrupt roar, then they were on the road heading for the agreed upon destination.

“I’ve never been so nervous in all my life,” she said, and with that, she lit a cigarette.

He glanced back at her though the rearview mirror.  “Are you having second thoughts?”

“No, of course not.  It’s just. . . .”  She shook her head.  “I don’t know.  This has been my life for over a half century.  I can’t imagine living any differently, especially in some obscure country that’s never heard of me.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

She nodded, looking down.  I just never thought this day would come.”

He took a deep breath and focused on the road ahead.

“I just don’t know how I’ll sustain myself,” she continued.  “I’m sure I can establish myself at some small, local theater once I’m settled in, but I’m used to much larger meals—masses in the tens of thousands at a time.  What if I starve to death out there?”

“You’ll be fine I’m sure.  Elvis had no problem adjusting, and neither did Marilyn or James.”
 
She nodded, although her face went tight with the torment of her uncertain future.

She had started her career on stage, finding the energy offered by willing admirers had somehow kept her youthful beyond her years.  When she had graduated to film, somehow her fans continued to keep her young, despite the reduced contact.  While her peers slowly applied more and more foundation to hide the fine lines, then the crow’s feet and laugh lines, and eventually the heavy wrinkles, performing had offered her a personal fountain of youth.  She didn’t know how it worked, only that she was not all that unique in her condition.

The years passed quickly, however, and soon she found herself in a position she couldn’t have foreseen: the tabloids claimed plastic surgery, but anyone who knew her knew that she was living on borrowed time.

There were people who took care of problems like hers, people who helped to contain the secrets of the elite, the secrets of those whose bodies had discovered a means of transforming adoration into eternal life.  Their services were not cheap, and successful execution of their work meant disappearing for a good century or two, until they had long been forgotten and their faces were once again fresh and far off the celebrity radar.  Still, it meant giving up wealth, love, and everything else that had defined them for previous decades.  Unfortunately, there was no other way.  A staged death was their only out.

Emily realized her eyes were tearing, and she dabbed them with a tissue before they could run mascara down her face.  No, she would go out with dignity.  There was no room for tears.

She’d had a choice between a drug overdose, a car or airplane accident, a shooting, or suicide by bridge-jumping, and she had chosen the car accident.  She had too much pride to go out by suicide or drugs, and she had always hated airplanes.  Buddy had chosen the airplane route, and by a freak accident, his death had gone from staged to very real.  No, cars were fairly safe these days, and even a light tap caused their exteriors to cave, making the damage look far worse than it really was.  As far as she was concerned, it was the only way to go.

“We’re approaching the intersection,” Joe said, glancing down at his watch.  “Right on time.  Are you ready?”

She nodded, her throat going tight.  “Let’s do this.”

She saw the paid car as it ran its red light, and immediately she felt the jolt of the impact, her teeth clenching with the crunch of metal on metal.  As planned, she burst the blood packs that had been left for her, and she lay motionless as the cameras flashed and the ambulance came to take her away.  She nearly broke character when she heard the cries of fans, wishing she could let them in on her little secret.  Still she stayed to plan.  This was how it had to be.

She opened her eyes as the ambulance sped off, just in time to see the EMT on call injecting her IV with a clear blue fluid.

“What’s that?” she asked, suddenly feeling drowsy.

 “Goodbye, my dear,” said the EMT.

She struggled to remain conscious.  “Goodbye?”

“We can’t just let psychic leeches like you run unleashed across the globe,” he said.

And with that, her world went dark.