Exclusive Cover Reveal + Excerpt: Indie Horror Say Uncle

Exclusive Cover Reveal + Excerpt: Indie Horror Say Uncle
Introducing Endless Mode: A New Games & Anime Site from Paste

Texas-based independent horror publisher Ghoulish Books prides itself on putting out exciting, edgy, and downright frightening fiction from a wide variety of new and original voices. This April, Ghoulish will release the latest novel from Saint’s Blood author Ryan C. Bradley, a coming-of-age cosmic horror story called Say Uncle.

Described as Uncle Buck meets Hellraiser, the story follows Braeden, a teenager whose summer vacation is turned upside down when his very weird, uncomfortably misogynist uncle separates from his wife and comes to stay with his family. And while we can all relate to having a slightly bizarre relative in our extended family tree, Braeden’s Uncle Pauly is particularly strange, if the book full of strange symbols he’s brought along with him is anything to go by. 

Here’s how the publisher describes the story. 

HE’S CRUDE. HE’S CRASS. HE’S FAMILY. AND HE’LL TEAR YOUR SOUL APART.

It’s 2005 and 15-year-old Braden O’Riley is hoping for the best summer of his life. Instead, he finds himself sleeping on an air mattress next to his brother. In the wake of a marriage separation, their vulgar, misogynist uncle has moved in, bringing along a mysterious book full of strange occult symbols. What could this book mean? Who, exactly, is this man sleeping in Braden’s bedroom? And what other devastating secrets could he be hiding?

Say Uncle won’t be released until April 29 but we’ve got a first look at its creepy—-dare we say ghoulish—cover right now, and a sneak peek at the story’s first chapter. 


Say Uncle cover

Cover artist: Luke Spooner

 

Chapter 1

AWAY MESSAGE

BrayDay327: Not just HAGS. Going to have the best one ever.

The year I turned five, I argued with another boy about whose brother was the worst. He had twin older brothers, one who hit and one who teased. Eventually we agreed that it was my brother, Sam. He did both. He throttled me so often that my parents moved his seat across the dinner table so he couldn’t reach my neck while we were eating. Whenever I said something he thought was wrong, he punched my arm—driving his knuckle between the bicep and the bone. I had to wear long sleeves to cover the bruises. He honed in on everything he perceived as a mistake, down to writing songs about how much I liked chocolate ice cream. 

My mother heard about my conversation, through the magical mother grapevine. When I got home, she took me upstairs to talk.

She told me, in no uncertain terms, that what I had done was wrong. I needed to look out for my family. The things I said about Sam would stay in other people’s minds forever. A reputation couldn’t be repaired.

Yet I write this now. By telling you this story, I’m breaking that cone of silence, and it’s going to hurt the people I love. I’m spitting in the face of my family.

***

The year I turned fifteen, we took the Metro North into the city to see my Uncle Pauly and Aunt Linda in their Upper East Side apartment, above Wolf Pho Vietnamese Fusion. The five floors stretching above shared a lobby with the restaurant, so we had to pass the host booth to get to the staircase. My family—me, Sam, our sister Leslie, and our parents—climbed up.

Uncle Pauly and Aunt Linda’s door opened into their kitchen, covered with my cousins’ drawings of their favorite fireworks from the Fourth of July and a blue hand turkey that had somehow survived since Thanksgiving. The table separated Uncle Pauly and Aunt Linda. A beach scented candle burned low between them.

Aunt Linda popped out of her chair and hugged me, smushing my face into her chest. I wished that I was taller for a lot of reasons, but especially so I could avoid the uncomfortable feelings that came with having my face squished in my aunt’s boobs. At least she moved on to Sam quickly.

For a second, Uncle Pauly sat like he’d just gotten out of timeout and if he kept his posture nice and straight then whatever he’d done would be really forgiven. He was an ex-tight end, and family lore held he would’ve made it to the NFL if his knee hadn’t blown out his sophomore year of college. His hugs used to rattle me, but I’d graduated to a handshake and a slap on the back.

They put me through the regular battery of questions. How was school? Good. What was my favorite subject? Gym. Did I have a girlfriend? No. But any cute girls you might be talking to?

When I blushed, Aunt Linda said, “Pauly, stop.” Usually, she’d squawk it, but there was something gentler there this time.

“All right, go see the kids,” Uncle Pauly said.

Sam was seventeen, so he stayed with the adults, but me and Leslie went to the living room. She and Pauly’s older kid Maria were both ten. Maria and her younger brother Paul Jr. were plopped down on the couch in front of the TV watching a show about pickup artists. “We need to show you upstairs,” Maria told me and my sister.

“Upstairs?” I asked. Their apartment was a rectangle. The door opened into the kitchen, which fed into Maria’s bedroom, which fed into the living room. It shared a wall with the study, which fed into Paul Jr.’s room parallel to Maria’s, which fed into Uncle Pauly’s and Aunt Linda’s room, parallel to the kitchen. There were no stairs.

“Mom and Dad bought the apartment upstairs,” Maria said.

“Really?”

“Yes. Ms. Harriet slit her wrists in the tub. Mom and Dad asked the building owner to rent her place at the funeral,” she said, a little too cheerfully. 

“Daddy says that’s how hard it is to find an apartment in the city,” Paul Jr. said.

“Let’s go,” Leslie said.

The kids marched past the kitchen table. “Mom, we’re going upstairs to Daddy’s room,” Maria said.

The adults barely looked up.

“Make sure the kids don’t get into anything they’re not supposed to, Braden,” Uncle Pauly shouted after us.

***

The layout of the upstairs apartment followed the intestinal shape of the downstairs with each room feeding into the next, but there were no carpets, no paintings, no pictures, no life. The hardwood floors warped upward. A queen-sized bed pressed against the wall in the second room. Shadows gathered in the corners in defiance of the overhead lights. A draft shuddered through the apartment.

“Echo!” Paul Jr. yelled, even though there really wasn’t one.

“Do you want to see the room where Ms. Harriet died?” Maria asked.

“No,” I said, but Paul Jr. had me by the wrist and Leslie was pushing me from behind.

“It took them weeks to clean up the blood,” Maria said, as she opened the bathroom door.

“They had to use special cleaners,” Paul Jr. said.

Whoever scrubbed it did a good job. From what I could tell, it was a regular New York City bathroom with a white tub, a toilet, and a sink cramped together, leaving a tiny square for a small person to stand. The mirror hung across from the toilet so you would have to look yourself in the eye while you shat.

“Do you think there’s a ghost?” Leslie asked.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” I said.

“Mommy says there is,” Paul Jr. said.

“I’ve seen her eyes looking back at me in the mirror,” Maria said, matter-of-factly.

“What do they look like?” Leslie asked.

“Stop,” I said. “You’re going to give yourselves nightmares.” Of course they ignored me. They didn’t listen and I’d be the one to get in trouble. 

“Her eyes are brown,” Maria said. “Mine are blue, but when I look in the mirror I see her eyes instead of mine.”

“I’ve seen it too,” Paul Jr. said.

They dragged me into the kitchen.

“This would be perfect for hide and go seek,” Leslie said.

“Braden’s it!” Paul Jr. and Maria yelled at once.

“Close your eyes and count to one hundred,” Leslie said.

“Oh, and no one is allowed to go on the right side of the apartment. Everyone has to hide on this side,” Paul Jr. said. “That’s Daddy’s rule.”

“This isn’t a good idea,” I said, but the three of them were already scurrying away. There was no furniture, so I didn’t know where they thought they would hide, but I closed my eyes and pretended to count.

I didn’t want to step another foot into the place. But I didn’t want them to see me balk, either. They were going to have to live here. “Ready or not, here I come!”

There wasn’t any sign of them, and I felt someone watching me. I spun in a slow circle. No one was there. Goosebumps popped up on the back of my neck. The temperature in the upstairs apartment seemed to plummet.

I wanted to find the kids quickly, but instead I walked slowly, checking on my sides and behind me as I progressed. The paint peeling off the baseboards and the archways without doors didn’t leave space for the kids to hide, yet I couldn’t see them.

I creeped under the first archway. Someone giggled behind a closet door. I snuck over and grabbed the knob. One of them was inside.

I twisted and pulled. Even knowing what was coming, I fell on my back, a cry choking in my throat, when Paul Jr. jumped out yelling.

He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

“Braden, do you want to see something cool?”

Before I could say no, he was guiding me into the closet. It had a separate exit on the other side of the apartment. “I know we’re not supposed to go onto this side, but look at this,” he said, and opened the door.

A mossy smell assaulted my nostrils. The temperature dropped a degree, maybe two. He guided me into the room by the hand.

I could’ve stopped him—I was bigger, older—but I was too stunned. We emerged in a dark room. The only light carried through the closet and lit the small section we were standing in, before being devoured by the shadows. I reached back for the wall, hoping against hope that the light switch would be on this side.

“Don’t turn on the lights,” Paul Jr. said. He disappeared into the darkness. There was no way I would’ve followed him.

I touched something with a texture like the exoskeleton of a cockroach. I jerked my hand away and swallowed a gag. 

“Paul?’ I said, whispering.

If I didn’t bring him back, Uncle Pauly would kill me.

“Paul,” I said, louder. I grabbed at the frame of the closet door, needing to touch something real. Whatever this was, it wasn’t Narnia.

“Look at this, Braden.” My cousin emerged from the shadows with a knife.

Something moved in the darkness. It sounded like a vine being dragged out of a bush. I pressed my back against the wall. Fear froze me.

When I unstuck myself, I said, “Let’s take it back to the other room, with the light.” I put my hands up to smack the knife away, just in case.

“Okay.” He led me back into the closet.

“What was in there, Paul?”

He held up the knife. The blade extended straight for four of those inches like a standard paring knife before curving back into a triangular point at the tip.

“Check out the handle.” It was bone white. I had to squint to make it out in the relative darkness, but once I saw it, the shapes were unmistakable. The handle was cobbled together from shrunken skulls.

“I’ve got to put it back.”

Before I could grab him, he was gone. Something shook me from behind. I spun, and I threw a small body into the wall.

My sister screamed.

I had my fists up, ready to fight. I was shaking. Leslie glared from the floor.

“Is he in there again?” Maria asked from outside. “Dad is going to be so mad.”

Paul Jr. pushed past me, knife nowhere to be seen. “No. I was only in the closet.”

“What the hell, Braden,” Leslie said, climbing off the floor.

“Don’t sneak up on me.”

Maria imitated my ready pose and Leslie chortled. At least if Leslie was laughing I wouldn’t get into trouble.

The apartment door opened and I jumped again.

Maria mimicked my pose, legs wide, fists up. This time Leslie and Paul Jr. did, too.

“Pizza’s here,” Uncle Pauly said.

Say Uncle will be released on April 29, but you can pre-order it now. (Publisher’s note: All paperback pre-orders before April 11th will be signed & personalized by the author.)


Lacy Baugher Milas is the Books Editor at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter and Bluesky at @LacyMB

 
Start the discussion...