…her head snapped up and her eyes flew open. Where am I, she had time to think before something large and very non-human encircled her throat. The scream that had been building there was immediately cut off. Her arms flailed wildly as she tried to get away. Its grip was so strong, so unstoppable. In an attempt to get free, she dug her nails in to the thing- for it certainly was a thing- and met nothing. It was as if its body absorbed her very fingers. There was no pain, no numbness, no feeling, her fingers simply ceased to exist. Her mind was overwhelmed with the need to understand what was happening and she felt it beginning to slip with its lack of ability to do so.

She yanked her hand back only to discover she no longer had her fingers. Again, there was no pain, no blood, they were simply gone. Embracing the gravity of her situation, Jill at last found her voice. Screaming over and over in to the quiet sunny afternoon, she was ruthlessly torn from the sanctity of her steaming hot tub and thrown to the grass just beyond the perimeter of her patio. She had time to look back and watch her attacker as it approached.

What her eyes took in, her mind could not accept. It stood about six and a half feet tall, but it had no legs to speak of. Instead, the lower portion of its body consisted of bright purple vascular fibers, nine of them, each about five feet long. Tube like tentacles of every color and length ringed its middle like a kind of disgusting wet grass skirt. Jill’s eyes traveled upward towards what had to be its face, but resembled no face she’d ever seen. No horror movie she could recall could come close to the monstrosity moving towards her now.

The remaining foot and a half of it was a deep rust brown color, flecked throughout with bright gold, and vaguely shaped like a large horn. Some twenty dark openings, each about an inch in diameter, flexed and glistened in the bright sun. Small and disgusting bright purple tongues jerked moistly and eagerly in each. God, please no, please, this can’t be it, Jill thought. But she knew that it was. Four long arms and two shorter ones extended from the very top of it and they reached out for her now. Like the rest of the monster’s body, these, too were brilliantly colored, though they pulsed with fleshy bits just beneath the clear membrane covering them..

All she could absorb were the damn colors. How wrong that such beauty could exist with such horror. As it at last made contact, Jill had one final thought. Where was everyone? It was New Year’s Day, everyone should be home. College bowl games and hangovers, right? Screaming at the top of her lungs should have brought, at the very least, her next door neighbors. They had to be home, she’d gone to their house for the party last night, so she knew they weren’t out of town. In fact, she realized, it had been completely silent from the time she had stepped outside. What was going on?

And then it descended upon her with such zest, such hunger, with such whole and absolute sick eagerness, she no longer had any thoughts at all.

Chapter 1

New Year's Day brought the lingering scent of cheap men's cologne and an intense hangover.

Jill lay in bed, her eyes screwed shut to the midday sunlight that was streaming through her bedroom windows. She took a few deep breaths, attempting to recall the previous night's festivities, but the loud hammering in her head interfered. She rubbed her brow and groaned. What the hell did I do this time?

It was a New Year's Eve party at her neighbor's house. It was supposed to be "nothing more than an informal get-together to toast in the New Year," they had told her. "Stop by and have a glass or two of champagne. Meet other people. Maybe some karaoke," they said. But by ten o'clock it was loud and boisterous, champagne long abandoned with shots of tequila becoming the celebratory drink of choice.

She winced when she got up out of bed and staggered to the bathroom, refraining from turning on the vanity lights. Where the hell was the Tylenol? With bleary eyes, she rifled through the medicine cabinet and located the bottle, grimacing when she attempted to open the cap. Damn these child-proof tops!

Jill downed a couple of pain relievers with a handful of tap water. Cautiously, she eyed herself in the mirror. Memories of last night were sporadic and incomplete. Snippets included Beatle songs and Bush bashing. Jill remembered getting it on with some guy - Mike or Marco or something like that. He was a jockey. No, that's not right. He's too tall to be a jockey. Jockey agent? Yeah, something like that. Whatever. She mildly shrugged and glanced back at the rumpled mass of sheets on her bed. A slight smile played on her lips. Whatever, she thought again.

The throbbing in her head drowned out any more thoughts about last night. A good soak in the hot tub would offer a respite while the Tylenol did its work.

She grabbed her robe and walked across her bedroom to the patio door; an adjacent access to a hot tub is an absolute necessity. Peering through the door's window, she was surprised to see the hot tub cover was off, until she vaguely remembered some wildly primal behavior with Mike. Marco. Whatever.

It wasn't as cold as Jill anticipated when she stepped outside - a brisk 50-something North Texas winter day. She decided that she could, however, do without the bright North Texas winter sunshine at this moment.

Mercifully, the hot tub was still at a steamy 101°. Jill stripped off her robe and carefully climbed into the hot tub and turned on the jets. She sat back, resting her head against a head rest and thought, The year can only improve ...

The First Line in Horror

The terror, which would not end for another twenty-eight years - if it ever did end - began, so far as I know or can tell, with a boat made from a sheet of newspaper floating down a gutter swollen with rain.

Pretty good opening line for a book, huh? Well, I can't take any credit. It's the opening line in Stephen King's It - the one and only horror book in our bookcase. I'm fairly certain that my husband absconded with our neighbor's book about 22 years ago - a fair trade-off in his mind given the fact that the they broke his Montgomery Ward lawnmower.

Anyway, I told Michon that I knew little about writing horror and that some research would be required for me before I write the words, Chapter 1. As it turns out, reading the first paragraph of It is about the extent of my research. However, on the inside book jacket, there is a line that looks as though it should be featured prominently throughout a horror story ...

Or so they thought. Then.

Preface

It began over a few glasses of wine.

I was spending a lively evening with close friends when the topic of conversation turned to my horse racing blog, Post Parade. The blog originally began as an exercise to stretch my creative writing muscles all the while learning something about the sport. Eventually, the blog evolved into a series of essays with their own unique style and humor - sort of like horse racing fluff. I was beginning to feel a little stifled and asked my friends for their thoughts.

And that's when my best friend, Michon, blurted out in a somewhat tipsy voice, "You should write a book!"

I looked at her as if she had grown another head. "A book?" I gasped. Apparently, this discussion called for another glass of wine.

The conversation spiraled into book possibilities and plot lines and words of encouragement. After consuming another glass or two, it didn't sound like such a bad idea. But it wasn't an endeavor that I was willing to do by myself.

"Michon," I prompted, "why don't we write a book together?" It was a great idea, at least in my mind. "We'd both be contributors to a story. We could post it on a blog site, enabling us to add our own spin. A free-flowing tandem story; see where it goes. And 'collaboration discussions' could be also posted as entries. It'd be like a story of writing a story, or something to that effect."

Clearly, Michon knew that I had consumed too much wine.

"And what are we going to write about?" she asked.

"I'd like to write a book that features horse racing, and remain a little true to my humor genre," I answered.

Michon responded, "I don't know anything about horse racing. I really like horror."

"That's okay. We can write horror. I've had plenty of days at that racetrack that were an absolute horror."

So now two friends are about to embark on an odyssey that involves humor, horror, and horse racing. And probably plenty of wine along the way.