Hideous
by Devon McCormack
Publication date: June 19th 2014
Genres: Paranormal, Young Adult
Synopsis:Eight years ago, Luke Retter witnessed the brutal murder of his mother and sister at the hands of his demon-possessed father. He survived but lost a hand and an eye. The demon also burned its emblem into his skin, marking him as a cursed. Those who bear this mark are at risk of becoming possessed themselves, so they are monitored and enslaved by the state-run UCIS. Working as a slave is hard, but Luke prefers it to the possibility of being controlled by a demon.
One night, Luke wakes to find his worst nightmare coming true. His father’s demon has returned. In a panic, he runs to the only person who might be able to help: Zack, a cursed who ran away from the state and created an underground community to protect other fugitive curseds. Zack helps him suppress the demon. But the city’s become a time bomb, and Luke’s demon itches to escape.
With the UCIS closing in on Zack’s underground operation and Luke’s demon crafting its own, nefarious plot, Luke realizes that he must take a stand.
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Excerpt 1
“GIVE THAT to me, you fucking idiot,” Wahrmer said.
He dropped to his knees and snatched the scrub brush from me. White, foamy suds hopped from the bristles as he pressed down so hard I could hear the plastic scratching against the tile.
“You hear that? That means you’re doing it right.”
He tossed me a raised eyebrow, as if expecting me to signal comprehension of his condescending instruction.
I gave a nod, which was more than he deserved for what he could have conveyed with a simple request. But since I’d arrived at St. Augustine weeks earlier to start my new job, I’d learned that Wahrmer was anything but subtle. He was an asshole. The first thing he’d said to me was, “This is fucked. What kind of useless cursed are you gonna be? And we have to pay you same as the others?”
They didn’t pay me the same. They paid me a lot less. Being a laborer with one hand is about as useful as being a sperm donor with one nut.
Regardless of my rate, Wahrmer was a fucking ass for making such a fuss, especially in front of the other staff. But people like Wahrmer didn’t consider my kind to be people. We weren’t just lower than people. We were a threat to them. We were a disease that should have been extinct but had to be tolerated. So he could go on being as much of an asshole as he wanted, and I just had to take it.
I was a cursed.
When I was eight, my dad was possessed by a demon. Demons were a disease. The darkness, as we sometimes called them. That’s how they came—in billows of black smoke. They were ethereal creatures who hunted for hosts so they could unleash their terror on helpless victims. Pain fed them. Misery brought them delight. They possessed people’s minds, took over their bodies, and forced them to commit heinous atrocities against others.
Like my dad did to my family.
Those who fell under the control of a demon were called infected. Sometimes, when an infected attacked someone, the demon left behind a mark—a spider web patch of purple and blue veins. It could show up on any part of the body. Be any size. Mine was on my shoulder.
Those who had this mark were called “cursed.” The United Cursed and Infected Security (UCIS), the organization responsible for handling cursed and infected regulations, said the mark was like a dog pissing on a tree. Marking its territory. Only dogs mark shit to keep other dogs away. Demons marked humans to signal to other demons that the marked were ideal candidates for infection. These marks also acted as an easy gateway for other demons to enter through, essentially priming us for infection. This made us incredibly appealing targets for demons and incredibly dangerous to the rest of the population.
To decrease our chances of becoming infected, we were forced to register and handed over to the state to work as slaves. That’s not what the UCIS said they were doing. It sounded far more noble when it came from one of their spokespersons. They were just keeping an eye on us. For our own good. For society’s good. By monitoring us, our odds of becoming infected significantly decreased. Demons liked to choose easy hosts they could inflict the most damage upon, but because we were monitored, despite our vulnerability, we became less desirable targets for them—presumably because they knew that the moment they infected us, we’d be reported and dealt with. That’s right. Bad as I had it as a cursed, at least I got to live. All discovered infecteds were put to death.
This approach was how the Assembly, a government-appointed committee in charge of minimizing the demon threat, had ridded the US of the surge of the nineties, when my dad was infected. Since their regulations and the imposed segregation, there had been far fewer infections. This was used to justify continued oppression of my kind.
I’d been working in schools since I’d been booted from the system to ensure I didn’t pollute the rest of society. I wasn’t sure how we offered less of a threat cleaning the schools than we would have if we were sitting in the classes with the other guys, but I always figured it had more to do with controlling us than weeding us from the rest of the population.
Wahrmer handed me the scrub brush, eyeing the sewn-up end of my long-sleeved shirt. I’d learned to sew for just that purpose. I couldn’t sew much else to save my life, but I could, fairly easily, sew the end of a sleeve. No one wanted to see that stump. No one wanted to know how disfigured my body was. Not even me.
As Wahrmer eyed it, I wondered if he was feeling bad for me or just pissed that I wasn’t able to be a better worker because of my handicap. Regardless, I didn’t like him hovering around my work, assessing it, scrutinizing it. I was a good worker. I’d been doing it long enough and employed by enough different people to know that. No good could come from this kind of scrutiny. Even if I was doing everything right, it was easy to find fault—to question a moment spent too long on one spot, to notice a tiny speck that was somehow missed, to judge a sigh that seemed to be disapproval for the work itself. He just needed to get the fuck out of here before he pissed me off. Last thing I needed was a write-up.
I continued scrubbing, acting as if he wasn’t there. It was the only way to get through these sorts of inspections.
Wahrmer prided himself in ensuring that his staff was fully prepped to tend to all the prissy boys who were carted off to this prestigious Catholic academy, St. Augustine. I wasn’t sure if Wahrmer’s salary depended upon performance, or if he just enjoyed being the head of the bottom tier of the school… and of humanity. I assumed it was the latter. After all, when you were as low in the pecking order as a guy like Wahrmer, it must’ve been nice to know there was still someone even lower.
He hunched over me, his thick, chubby arms looking sleek in the oversized navy custodian polo he’d tucked in, accentuating his bloated, taut belly.
Just keep scrubbing.
Eventually, he abandoned my post. Probably went to check on some other staff member, who he’d likely harass as much—if not more—than he had me.
My arm was starting to get sore. Not because the work was particularly difficult, but because when I was being inspected by Wahrmer, I had to work twenty times harder than any normal person. There was a tendency for employers to think that handicapped guys like me were incapable of performing as well as the others. Hence, the pay dock. I had to prove them wrong.
My sore arm was a good excuse for a rest. I hopped up and headed to the faucet. Setting the scrub brush on the counter, I ran my arm through warm water. The heat soothed the burn beneath my flesh.
My eye fixed on the running water to prevent an accidental glance in the mirror before me. I didn’t want to see it. I never wanted to see it. For the most part, any notice of my reflection was an accident. An occupational hazard.
It wasn’t just about seeing the flesh-colored patch that covered my gnarly eye. Or the sewn-up sleeve. I didn’t want to look at them, of course. They were disgusting reminders of how misshapen and undesirable I was. But the missing eye and hand evoked something far worse than extreme dissatisfaction with my hideous appearance. They evoked cruel, horrifying memories. Memories of what my dad had done.
I could never really avoid that reflection. Even as my eye looked elsewhere, my thoughts dwelt on the moments when I had to look at my reflection… or when I inadvertently caught a glimpse of myself. That dark wave of hair, glistening with silver strands. The lonely brown eye, resting in a gray half-moon that suggested how tired and worn I always felt. Pronounced brown scars where the other eye had been. White flesh that I could only compare to a familiar shade I saw when I had the opportunity to beat out some stress. A cross wrapped in a purple ribbon, the regulation tattoo, etched along my jugular to broadcast my cursed status to the world.
Those images, vividly frozen in my memory, stirred the unsettled darkness, nudging my eye toward the glass. They called to me, bidding me to pay it a visit.
As I became increasingly aware of my ignored reflection, I shut off the water. I walked over to my cart—a bulky assortment of bottles, rags, scrub brushes. There had to be enough cleaning supplies to last most households a few years. I slid a dry rag out of a plastic bin on the bottom shelf, wedged between a few rolls of paper towels and toilet paper. Passing back across the bathroom, I slid my hand under the automatic dryers.
My flesh became waves and ripples. I stared at the spectacle, letting it soothe my thoughts. It was a habit I’d gotten into. I’d never had automatic dryers at any of the other schools I’d worked at, so it was a bit of a novelty. I had to keep my one eye on the door to make sure Wahrmer didn’t burst in and catch my moment of paradise. The rag was my cover. If he did come in, I would just act like I was scrubbing the dryer down, and it would seem as if I’d set it off by mistake. Over my many years of working under similar dictators, I’d picked up a few tricks to cover my slacking.
I slid the sore part of my forearm under the heat. It was like wrapping it in a warm washcloth. Rearing my head back, I sighed.
It was a silly thing, but as I felt that rush across my flesh, as I became enchanted by the movement of my skin, for just a moment, I transported from where I was to a quieter place.
Excerpt 2
THREE TIERS of concrete stairs, enclosed between brick walls, were carved into the hillside. The brick walls lay flush with the ground, which stretched either way into a mess of dark blobs—bushes and shrubs, haphazardly arranged in a landscaper’s nightmare. Streetlamps at the platforms before each tier flooded the steps with incandescent light.It’d been a week since my run-in with those assholes and the charming deviant, Zack. My muscles had pretty much recovered, though I still had to take it fairly easy during my nightly exercise ritual.I’d just finished my routine and was creeping up the stairs at the back of the school, my shadow creeping with me, its head occasionally doubling in size as it separately cast on the brick wall.An object caught my attention. A hand, reaching out of the bushes, dangling over the brick wall.I slowed down, approaching cautiously. As I came to the shrubbery, thick, dirty-blond hair came into view.Must’ve been one of the guys from the school.Is he dead?A soft groan assured me he wasn’t, but what had happened to him?“Hey, man,” I said. I grabbed his shoulder and flipped him over to see his face. “You o—”The glazed look in his eyes assured me he was fine. Just a fucking drunk. His face was covered in dirt and bits of bark—some of which floated in the drool that oozed off his chin onto the wall.Beer bottles littered the base of the shrubs at his feet.“I’m gonna have to clean that, you dick,” I muttered.I glanced around.Should I help him?But I didn’t have a responsibility to take care of some privileged asshole.Dropping him back on his face, I continued up the stairs to the platform that led up to the next set. I checked around to make sure the coast was clear.A yellow, circular glow hit a hill on the other side of the school.Henry’s flashlight.My gaze flashed back down the stairs, to the limp hand over the wall.I need to help him, I thought. But it’s not my job to help him.Did he really deserve to get expelled for being a drunk ass?He’s not even gonna be grateful, I thought, trying to talk myself out of it.I continued up the stairs.He’s a privileged brat. He deserves whatever he gets.Try as I did to convince myself not to help, another thought kept wedging between the others: What if that was me?And it had been me, and I was fortunate enough to have had Zack’s help.The orb of light on the hill grew smaller and smaller. Henry was going to be coming around any second now.Rolling my eye, I dashed back down the stairs, snuck along the wall, grabbed the blond’s arm, and threw it over my shoulder.“Hey, what the—”“Quiet or expelled,” I whispered, and as I stared into his eyes, I saw a moment of sobriety. He bit on his bottom lip.I scanned the nearby shrubs. He’d chosen the shittiest spot to hide. Anyone could see us. I checked around for a better hiding place, just till Henry was through with his beat.I spotted a fairly decent place a few steps up and dragged the drunk’s unwilling legs up the stairs. He tried to help, his eyes searching for a place to step, but his inebriated state always preventing him from being able to get his foot in the right place.A glistening circle of light turned the corner of the school.Fuck.We were still a few feet from a good spot. This was gonna have to do.I tossed the blond in the nearby shrubbery.“Ow,” he whispered.I crawled in beside him and pushed against his butt.“Go deeper.”“Where are we?” he whined.“Go!”He wiggled across the ground, squirming but making little progress. He probably thought he was doing a great job following my instructions.The pitter-patter of footsteps grew close.I hit the guy’s legs repeatedly. “Stop, stop.” My voice was so low that I wasn’t sure even he could hear it.He went limp. I couldn’t be sure if he’d heard me or passed out.I curled into a ball, nuzzling my head against my arm, with just enough of my face up so I could keep an eye on the slits in the bushes that revealed the stairs.A rush of light crept through the leaves around us.I held my breath.I’m gonna lose my job.The footsteps grew louder and louder.A dark shadow passed through the orange glow of the streetlight, right beside the shrubs we were in.Henry’s shadow fell over my face, obscuring any light that might have caught me.He’s going to make noise, I thought as I imagined all the idiotic drunken things the guy could do to blow our cover. He’s going to make noise.Henry continued down the stairs. The sound of his feet against the concrete grew fainter and fainter.I inwardly sighed, fearing that even letting such a subtle noise from my lips would stir his interest.My efforts were subverted by a loud heaving sound.Shit. We were this close, you fucking dick.I considered making a break for it, but as the clicking came back around, I knew I was too late.The silhouette returned, black, ominous. It wasn’t that Henry was particularly intimidating. It was just the idea that he could get me fired and potentially get Wahrmer to have me arrested that scared the shit out of me.The flashlight pierced through the leaves, illuminating the blond’s face, gaunt, shivering.Oh no, I thought. He’s gonna vomit again. Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.He quaked from his chest to his lips, his hand cupped over his mouth.My hand trembled against the grainy bark beneath my fingertips.He heaved again, making a whimpering sound. I wasn’t sure how long he was going to be able to hold it.My muscles were tense, vibrating. I wanted to shake my head to stress that this was not the time, but even that subtle movement could get Henry’s attention.The flashlight passed along, but Henry’s shadow stayed perfectly still right next to my feet.Please stay quiet. Just stay fucking quiet.The silhouette finally moved along.The footsteps faded once again.Thank God, I mouthed.Grabbing the blond forcefully by his uniform collar, I pulled him so that we were face to face. He was practically in my lap. “Do you have any fucking idea how close that was?” I stressed, chastising him far less than he deserved.He heaved again, this time showering chunks and a waterfall of what smelled like beer.I’m an idiot, I thought, mentally scolding myself for having positioned him perfectly for the horrible mess that now soaked my pants.
Excerpt 3
IT HOVERED over me like a storm cloud, dark and billowing.
I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to look away. Something about its presence was disarming, soothing. And yet, I knew exactly what it was… and I knew that everything in me should have been afraid.
Move!
No primal impulse would drive my limbs or body to action. If I’d had the will to move, I doubted I would have.
“Oh, Luke,” the cloud said from an unknown mouth. Was it just in my head? Or were the words audible? I didn’t know. Didn’t care. I just lay there, waiting for the thing to unleash whatever terror it had for me… like a field mouse waiting for an owl to tear it from the earth.
The cloud descended, wrapping me in a haze.
It settled on my shoulder, where my mark was, and the haze vanished.
We are one, I heard distinctly. This time, I was certain it was only in my head.
We were one. I could feel his weakness. His vulnerability. I could feel that whatever energy it had taken him to come inside me had forced him into the least threatening of states. Now was my chance. And it might be my only one.
I felt my senses returning to me. My fingers shook. My ass nuzzled against the mattress. I knew what I had to do.
I leapt to my feet. Blood rushed to my head so quickly I stumbled to the floor.
“Fuck!”
It’s useless, the voice cried in me. I have you.
“No!” I shouted. I scanned around, hoping no one had heard me.
Oh, we had such good times together, didn’t we? You remember how I peeled at your flesh? You remember how I sawed through your sister’s leg? Remember her shrill? Remember how I made your mother watch?
My chest clenched.
No.
The memories the demon conjured up crowded my thoughts. I tried to shake them from my skull.
Don’t you want to remember your mother’s scream? Don’t you want to remember how her voice strained and cracked as she cried out? How you watched her desperate, pleading face?
As I jumped into my clothes, the demon led my thoughts through painful, seemingly endless corridors—paths to those dark days.
My forehead swelled with throbbing, pulsating pain.
“LUKE?”
I’d run through the freezing rain, desperately making my way to the only person I could think who would help me… would be able to help me.
I lay on Zack’s doorstep, rain washing over my clothes, sweeping across my face.
After knocking with all the strength I had left, praying that he was there, I’d collapsed onto the concrete.
“You’re soaking.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, helped me to my feet, and pulled me in.
I trembled. It was largely a reaction to the fever that attacked my immune system like a heinous flu. But some of it must’ve been from how terrified I was about telling him what had happened.
Tears filled my eye.
I can’t, I thought. But he’s the only one I can turn to… the only one who might understand. Anyone else will kill me.
However, what assurance did I have that he wouldn’t do the same? Curseds were just as scared of infected as anyone else. Unfortunately, this was my only option.
Zack laid me on his mattress. The heat of the fever that burnt at my flesh was tapered by the chill of the rain.
“Luke, what is it?” Zack asked, his eyes desperate, eager to help. I wondered if they’d be so encouraging once he knew.
He can’t help you, the demon said. No one can.
But I had to say it, get it out. I couldn’t do this by myself.
“It’s in me,” I whispered. “It came for me. It’s—”
Zack stared at me in horror, in the way I was used to everyone staring at me—the way most people other than Zack stared at me. And as distraught as I was about the horrible fate that awaited me, it was even worse knowing that now I was even a monster to him.
“I’m gonna get help,” he said.
I snatched his wrist. “Please don’t leave me. They’re gonna kill me.”
He knelt beside me and stroked his thumb across my cheek, as he had just days earlier.
Those dark eyes brought me a moment of ease, a moment where I felt safe.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispered.
His words calmed me.
You’re mine!
It wasn’t as powerful as it was before, so I was confident it was going to take it some time to acquire the sort of strength that would be necessary to overpower me.
But eventually, it would.
Zack left, and my mind trailed back to the darkness.
“Do you need me to pack your lunch?” Mom had asked.
She stood in her pink flower-patterned pajamas, looking like a thirteen-year-old girl who’d been dressed for bed. Flat morning hair fell to her shoulders. It was a mess now, but I knew she would run upstairs and do it before Kasey, my older sister, got up to get ready for school. That was a part of her routine I’d noticed when I’d had a cold a few days in November, when I’d had to miss some school. By the time Kasey was ready to go, Mom would have her hair done and be dressed for the day. She didn’t need to be. She just wanted to be.
“I can do it,” I insisted, abandoning my Froot Loops and scurrying for the pantry.
I hadn’t even made my own breakfast, but I must’ve been eager to show her how capable I was of handling such adult responsibilities as making my own lunch. It seemed like it had to be an adult task because Kasey did it all by herself. And surely if she could do it, so could I.
I hopped up, trying to touch the peanut butter jar. The Peter Pan character on the jar gazed down at me, a big, cocky grin spread across his face, as if he was mocking my failed attempts.
Come on, I thought as the tip of my finger touched the jar.
“Are you sure?” Mom’s voice came from behind me. She snatched the jar off the shelf.
I spun around and grabbed it out of her hands.
“Oh, I see how it is,” she said. “Can’t even say please?”
“Please,” I drew out, as if saying it longer would make up for my negligence.
Mom set the jar on the table and slipped into a chair beside it.
Oh no.
I didn’t like that she was going to be sitting right there, scrutinizing my work. I knew I would be able to make the sandwich, but it was going to be accompanied with some rather graphic trials and errors along the way. I doubted Mom was going to delight in witnessing some of the mistakes I was sure to make.
She didn’t criticize my dripping mess, though. Even when I left a trail of peanut butter that ran from the table to the pantry, she didn’t say a thing.
“Well, well,” she said with a smile, carrying a wet towel to me to wipe my hands and face. I guessed I’d gotten some around my mouth when I’d shoved a few fingers of peanut butter inside. “I wonder how that got there,” she said with those knowing eyes… those eyes that were like a divine presence, reminding me that she was there even when I didn’t even know it.
She kissed my cheek and said good-bye at the door, letting me head out to the bus stop on my own. She never admitted it, but I knew that, since it was in the Cordells’ driveway, directly across from ours, she’d sit in the living room and spy on me, just to make sure nothing happened. I don’t know what she thought would happen—the neighbors would come over and molest me, or what—but I knew by how concerned she usually was that she wasn’t going to just let me go off on my own. But she let me believe that she would.
The bus picked me up, and the day wore on like any other. Erin Tiggler had gotten me into trouble during recess by saying I hit her during tag, which was a lie, but I still had to forfeit fifteen minutes of recess the following day. That seemed like a tragedy, as did all the homework Miss Hardy had loaded us up with—homework that at the time seemed so difficult, insurmountable. Funny, looking back at how trivial it really was.
The bus dropped me off, and I headed down our driveway.
Dad’s car was there!
It was a new navy blue compact he’d gotten after he’d started his new job. Mom hadn’t been supportive at first. Every time he kept showing her the pictures online, she’d tense up the way she did when I’d streak water across the carpet after a shower.
I hurried to the door and entered the house.
Boards covered the windows in the front room. A coil of barbed wire spilled out of the bathroom. Red was splattered across the stairwell.
Was something wrong?
“Mom? Dad?” I screamed out.
I had to find Dad. I just knew he would figure it out. He figured everything out.
A noise came from the kitchen. Screams. It sounded like Mom.
Was she okay? I chased her screams.
She lay stretched across the kitchen floor, her wrists bound in barbed wire, red-soaked fingers caressing the tiles behind her.
Vines of mascara and blood streaked down her cheeks.
And there he was. But it wasn’t him. Couldn’t have been him.
Dad had Mom by her shirt collar, a knife to her throat.
His eyes looked up from her trembling body, a grin sweeping across his face.
“Luke!” Mom’s voice was muffled. Barbed wire was tied around her head, stretching across either side of her open mouth.
Blood rushed from her jaw to the floor.
I turned and raced for the door.
But soon, I was floating in the air. Dad had his arms around me. He had pulled me back into the kitchen.
Creak.
My mind returned to the present as Zack stepped in with an older man in his forties, maybe early fifties. He had a cracked forehead and jet-black bangs that draped around his jawline. He carried what looked like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.
“Hey, Luke,” he said. He knelt beside the mattress and set the bag beside him. His nose was nearly as big and awkward as his forehead, like someone had jammed a shot glass into his face.
Zack stood beside him, folding his arms, the concern in his eyes frightening me.
“I’m Darren.”
By now, I couldn’t move. My muscles were stiff, and the heat was so intense I thought my skin was going to melt.
Darren lifted his hands and positioned them over my chest.
A sharp pain ripped at my ribcage. Rearing my head back, I screamed out.
Fucking bastard! the voice in me cried.
“Gag him!” Darren instructed.
Zack dropped to the floor, grabbed a shirt, and stuffed it in my mouth.
The pain was so severe, like it was splitting my chest in half. I continued crying out, muffled by the shirt.
Darren kept his eyes closed, his hands over my chest. He muttered to himself.
He pulled his hands back, opening his eyes. Wiping his face, he took a deep breath.
“We’re gonna need to tie him up. This one’s big.”
I looked to Zack. What was this guy going to do to me?
“Luke, he’s trying to help,” Zack assured me.
Darren unzipped the doctor’s bag and pulled out some rope.
Zack tied one elbow and wrapped the rope under the mattress, looped it up, and tied it to my other elbow. Darren did the same with my feet.
They can’t save you! No one can save you!
Darren knelt just as he had before, his hands over my chest, his eyes closed. He muttered again.
The pain returned, stinging, digging, tearing.
I closed my eye tight, biting into the shirt, hoping it would bring me some relief. But the pain just continued, intensifying, forcing even more sweat down my face. Clumps of my soaked hair fell against my forehead. I tugged and pulled at the rope, trying to do anything that might distract me from the throbbing pain that rippled through me.
You’re gonna die, you fuck!
The pain made it difficult for me to determine how much time had passed, but it felt like Darren continued this practice for hours.
Eventually, he surrendered.
The pain diminished.
They’ll never get rid of me, faggot! Never, you fucking shit.
Darren pulled a gold-chained necklace from his bag. A cross was fastened to it. He clasped his hands around it and whispered to himself.
He did this for some time. The demon continued spewing out insults.
As Darren finished his meditation with the necklace, he leaned over me and wrapped the chain around my neck.
My flesh felt like it was exploding, peeling away from my muscles. The sharp pain I’d felt in my chest covered my body.I blacked out.AUTHOR BIO
(No author photo)Devon McCormack spends most of his time hiding in his lair, adventuring in paranormal worlds with his island of misfit characters. A good ole Southern boy, McCormack grew up in the Georgian suburbs with his two younger brothers and an older sister. At a very young age, he spun tales the old fashioned way, lying to anyone and everyone he encountered. He claimed he was an orphan. He claimed to be a king from another planet. He claimed to have supernatural powers. He has since harnessed this penchant for tall tales by crafting whole worlds where he can live out whatever fantasy he chooses.
A gay man himself, McCormack focuses on gay male characters, adding to the immense body of literature that chooses to represent and advocate gay men's presence in media. His body of work ranges from erotica to young adult, so readers should check the synopses of his books before purchasing so that they know what they're getting into.
Author links:
What’s the story of Hideous?
I always say it’s the story of a boy and his demon. Luke Retter lives in a world where demons are a known and constant threat. When Luke was eight, his demon-possessed severed off one of his hands and gouged out one of his eyes. It also marked him with its emblem. People who bear an emblem of a demon are called curseds.Curseds are more likely to be possessed themselves later in life, so they are monitored and essentially enslaved by the state. Many years after his attack, Luke works as a janitor at an all-boys academy, where he has to watch all the other kids live out their normal lives. He’s jealous. He wishes he could just make friends and go to school dances, but he can’t and he knows he never will. Then the demon that possessed his father finds him, and things just get even worse…
- When did you decide you wanted to write YA books?
I didn’t really ever make a decision to write Young Adult novels. I knew when the idea for Hideous came to me that it was going to end up being most appropriate for a Young Adult audience, but I just write stories as they come to me. I try not to write for genres, but I think that it’s natural for people to gravitate to genres they like. For instance, I’ve noticed that I primarily write paranormal stories, which makes sense, considering those were the types of stories that I grew up loving. I think a part of what interests me about that age range is that there’s so much emotion during that time. And not just emotion, but very strong emotion coupled with very rigid ideas about the world. As I grew up, I discovered that the world wasn’t what I was led to believe, so my expectations changed, and I never have the sort of dramatic breakdowns that I had in high school. But back then, when I was still believing so many of the distortions of reality, I had very strong reactions to not getting what I wanted.
Hands down, I’d have to say S.E. Hinton. She was the first book I read that was technically Young Adult adult. It was Rumble Fish. I think most people read The Outsiders first, but we didn’t get to that until the following year. Tex was my favorite book, though. He was so cool. He was so interesting. I wanted to be him. My most recent Young Adult adult author favorite would have to be Scott Westerfeld.
- Who are your favorite YA authors?
I adore his The Midnighters series. It’s about these kids who have powers during this special hour where time stops for everyone but them. The stories are so well written and fun. When I first read those books, I stood up and paced my room because I was so excited. They were thrilling. They were riveting. I recommend those books to anyone and everyone. I can’t think of a book that has elicited as much excitement from me as that.
- Why do you think some critics look down on books that are labeled Young Adult?
Because they need something to look down on, and books that are perceived as juvenile are easy victims. That’s the short answer, but the truth is, anything labeled genre fiction is looked down by literature snobs. That’s the way it’s always been. I remember having a creative writing teacher who told the class that we couldn’t write about vampires, monsters, ghosts, or other such “nonsense” in our stories for the class. He said that wasn’t considered “literary.” So in a moment, he cast Shakespeare, Dickens, Stoker, Melville, and Shelley into the wastebasket—surely without even realizing it. I dropped the class the next day. I ended up taking my creative writing course with someone far more suited for the job.
It’s a big topic, though, and it’s never going to end. The Romance genre has it the worst, I think. To some, it’s seen as the lowest sort of fiction imaginable. Of course, if Jane Austen was alive today, God knows that’s what her work would be classified. There are plenty of great romance novels. But people need something to look down on. Even Romance authors look down at Erotica authors. It just goes on and on and on. I think what everyone is really bothered about is formulaic writing. That’s the real enemy. We’re bothered when we notice that no one is innovating—no one is taking art to another level. And yet, while we look down on it, there are parts of the formula we crave, which is why it even exists. In other countries, there isn’t this stigma against the formula. There’s a reverence for it.
Is that too long of an answer? Sorry. The best answer is that it doesn’t really matter. Stigmas against YA books won’t keep them from selling, and it won’t keep people from enjoying them.
- What’s Hideous about?
When the main character, Luke, was a kid, his father was possessed by a demon that severed off one of his hands, gouged out one of his eyes, and murdered his mother and sister. Years later, his father’s demon returns to possess him. That’s the short version. The long version is that it’s about insecurity, apathy, and fear.
- What inspired you to write it?
I’m a big fan of the Brothers Grimm fairy tale, “The Handless Maiden.” In the story, a demon pressures a father into cutting off his daughter’s hands. She ends up on her own, struggling to survive, when she meets her Prince Charming. The prince carries her off for their happily-ever-after, but it’s not that easy. The demon still wants to make her miserable, and tries to meddle with her life some more. It’s a beautiful story, but I think because of the main character’s disfigurement, it’s not likely to ever get made into a Disney movie.
Outside of the main character’s missing hands, what fascinates me about “The Handless Maiden” (and fairy tales in general) is that they assume that demons are just a part of everyday life. Not always present, but like illness, just something that crops up from time to time. I was really interested in creating a world where this was the norm, where people knew of a very real and present demon threat. I also liked the idea of having a character with a very clear disfigurement. So many of our heroes are too perfect. They have great bodies. They have great personalities. Even their faults come in handy at just the right times. I think that there is this prevalent belief that a hero has to be physically intact in order to truly be a hero. Granted, there are plenty of cases where it isn’t this way. But if you look around at mainstream stories, so many of the heroes depicted have either great or average bodies (this is especially true of movies).
Those were the main things I was interested in taking from “The Handless Maiden,” and from there, the story just took on a life of its own.
- Where did you get the idea for the book?
“The Handless Maiden” has always been one of my favorite of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. I wanted to find a way to write a modernized version of it. A major component to the fairy tale is this idea that demons are a common and known threat to the world. I liked the idea of bringing that to a contemporary setting. How would society react? What kind of precautions would we have to take? I modeled society’s reaction based on actual reactions to various epidemics (polio, HIV, syphilis). Demons are viewed as a disease, and those who are possessed are even referred to as “infected.”
The main character, Luke, struggles with this world, because he is what is referred to as a “cursed.” Those who are cursed are more likely to become possessed than most, so they are enslaved by the state so they can be monitored. There are a lot of stigmas around being cursed, and Luke also has the physical deformity that not only looks visually unappealing, but reminds people of the very thing they wish they could forget—that the world is plagued with demons.
- What’s your writing process like?
It changes with every book. Each has its own way it wants to be written, and that can be a challenge, but I’m up for it. There are some patterns that I’ve noticed, though. I always outline. Sometimes, the outline is minimal. It can range from ten bullet points to a hundred, but I need that to get me from point A to point B. Sometimes, I write the ending first, and sometimes, I can tell I need to save it for last. The biggest part of my process is just the act of sitting down and forcing myself to come up with the words. That’s where the magic is, and it’s the hardest part. I have to sit down at the keyboard and force myself to jot down those mental images, to take note of the world that I’m in, the character I’m creating.
One of the most difficult parts for me is just the act of finishing projects that I start. That means a lot to me. I don’t tend to let myself abandon projects. There was a time where I would, but I find that it’s better to just push through and get to the end whether or not I want to. It’s part of self-discipline. It’s one thing to sit down and write. It’s another thing to sit down and complete a writing project. I work very hard to maintain the habit of finishing those projects that I start.
- What age range would you say this book is for?
Definitely Upper YA. Because the main character is possessed by a demon, the book contains some graphic violence and explicit language. I would say sixteen and up, but it’s hard to pin down what kind of content people are ready for at different points in their lives. Anyone who reads it should just know that it deals with a very dark subject matter, and I don’t gloss over details or fade to black before violence. This book is for mature readers.
- What do you want readers to take away from this book?
There are two major threads that I see as the most important ones. The first is that body image is a terrible way of defining your self worth. I know, it seems like a trivial message, and it’s something that is stated over and over again, but the reason we keep saying it is because it’s true. How you look has nothing to do with how good of a person you are…or how worthy of a person you are. The main character, Luke, having grown up with his handicap, is wildly insecure about his physical appearance, and he constantly feels inadequate and unworthy. He ends up meeting a character, Zack, who sees him for the amazing person that he really is.
The other major thread is about rising up and fighting for what is right. In the beginning of the story, we see a very apathetic Luke. He’s been a slave of the state for years. He’s done what he’s told. He doesn’t fight. He just tries to survive. There are those like him who protest, but there are major consequences for that, so he just plays by the rules. But the rules have never helped him any. They’re just there to keep him in line. When he meets Zack, a cursed who’s run away from the state and helps others do the same, he starts to realize that he doesn’t have to be confined to the life he’s been told he must live. Although, it takes a demon possessing him before he really wakes up to see how ridiculous this all is.
- What was the publication process like for Hideous?
I submitted it to Harmony Ink Press. They publish YA titles with gay main characters, and I really thought my little book would be a good fit for their list. After I submitted, I waited and waited and waited. Well, I didn’t just wait. I managed to write another book in the process and submit it to another publisher. It’s called The Pining of Kevin Harding, and that title will be released in October of 2014. So I finished that book, and then I woke up one morning and saw in my inbox, “Contract Offer: Hideous.” I read through the contract a few times and decided that I wanted to go with them.
The following day, my inbox was flooded with emails from Harmony Ink Press. There was all this paperwork I had to fill out: tax forms, blurb forms, marketing forms. I also got a warm welcome from several departments within the company. I’ll be honest, I was fairly intimidated by the whole process. But after that first day, everything calmed down quite a bit, and I really only heard from them when I had a new set of edits to take care of or they needed approval for the cover art.
- Do you plan on publishing anymore YA novels?
I just signed another YA book with Harmony Ink Press. It’s called When Ryan Came Back, and it’s set for release in October of 2014. It’s more of a mystery/ghost story. Steven finds out that his friend Ryan committed suicide, but one day, he finds Ryan sitting in his room. Ryan says he didn’t kill himself, and he believes his death had something to do with a story he was working on for the school paper. He asks Steven to help him find out how he died, and the story progresses from there. I’m very excited about its release. It’s definitely different from the tone of Hideous, but there’s a lot more to it.
Guest Post: Devon McCormack
When I was little, my aunt bought me a hardback copy of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. They aren’t the cute, clean ones we see in Disney movies. They’re dark…twisted…sometimes even a little perverse. I remember being very surprised to read the sadistic punishment that Cinderella and her new hubby had in mind for the evil stepmother. Then there were other stories that I hadn’t seen watered-down versions of in movies and TV shows. “The Little Brother and Sister” was one of my favorites. In this story, a brother and sister escape their abusive stepmother, who is also a witch. The brother ends up being turned into a faun by a magical spring, and a man hunting him turns out to be a prince. The prince meets the sister, they marry, and they all live happily ever after, right? Wrong. The sister marries the prince and has a baby, but the stepmother murders her and has her other, disfigured daughter pose as the queen.
As a kid, that blew my mind. It was insane and unlike the sorts of fairy tales I’d previously been exposed to. But another story fascinated me even more. It was called “The Handless Maiden.” In this story, a demon talks a miller into cutting off his daughter’s hands. She ends up alone and wandering through the wilderness, where she runs into her Prince Charming. Again, this is not a happily ever after moment. Rather, after she gives birth to their child, her husband goes off to war. Meanwhile, the demon intercepts letters between the husband and his mother, trying to convince the mother to kill the queen and the baby. Ah! They end up having to flee the castle, and the king has to set out into the wilderness to find them. Of all the fairy tales, this one fascinated me the most, because it was one of the few that represented a physically flawed princess.
About a year ago, I decided I wanted to do a modernized retelling of “The Handless Maiden.” I liked the idea of a physically imperfect character—one that had to survive despite their handicap. I created the character of Luke in Hideous, who only has one eye and one hand, injuries he sustained when his father was possessed by a demon. I also wanted demons to exist in this story the way they exist in fairy tales. In “The Handless Maiden,” demons aren’t discussed as some bizarre anomaly, but rather something that is a known and common threat in the world. In Hideous, demons are a rampant problem in the world. They’re almost viewed as an epidemic. Those who are possessed are even referred to as “infected.”
Hideous tells the story of a sixteen-year-old boy trying to survive this sort of world. Not only does he have his physical handicap, but he also was scarred with a mark from his demon. Those who bear this mark are referred to as “cursed,” and they are more likely to be possessed than most. However, monitoring curseds discourages demons from possessing them, so the government enslaves curseds and forces them to work in low paying jobs. Luke has worked for the state since he was eight, and now he works at an all-boys high school, where he has to watch all the other kids enjoying life, going about as if there isn’t this global demonic threat. Luke just wants to blend in. He plays by the rules, because he doesn’t want to end up in jail, which is where noncompliant curseds are likely to end up. His desperate attempt to follow the rules falls apart when the demon that possessed his father returns to possess him...
This is the story behind my new young adult novel, available through Harmony Ink Press. If you get a chance, head over to Amazon or my publisher’s site and pick up your copy today.
Thanks for having me on the blog today!
I get insecure from time to time.
I run to the mirror. Is that a zit? Just a spot? Am I imagining it? Did I gain five pounds overnight? Is that scientifically possible?
I think most people, with the possible exception of some with DSM-V classifiable issues, feel hideous from time to time. We're bombarded with media images that present what mainstream culture has defined as beautiful. I'm so appreciative of all the movements against this, especially websites like PS Disasters, which shows how awry pictures can turn out when photo editors try to craft these perfect, unnatural bodies. It's really a shame, because we take a beautiful model, and even that model, being as close to that mainstream ideal as a human can get, can't reach these ridiculous standards.
Books can do this in their own way. So often we see literary representations of perfect bodies. Certainly, it must play on people's minds. To make it even worse, these beautifully described characters will beat up on themselves about how they look. How’s that supposed to make those of us who don't have those ideal qualities feel? In my upcoming young adult novel, Hideous, I wanted my character to have something that inherently made him imperfect, or at least, not adhering to those images that we so often see around us, so often see represented in books. He's missing an eye and a hand, so there's immediately this thing about him that makes him less-than all those ideal representations.
Imperfect is something that we all have to deal with. Everyone has to deal with it because no one can be those perfect images. They’re distortions. They’re fabrications. They’re lies. And yet, we're all conned by media (books and movies) into believing that this perfection is attainable and our responsibility to adhere to.I'm not saying everyone buys into it, but I think that's the game corporations are playing. They want you to buy into the lie that you must achieve that perfect body, because the only way to get even close to it is to buy their products! Obviously, that’s not how it should be. With Hideous, I hope that people will see this representation of someone struggling with body image issues, someone who doesn't fit that norm, and see the value in him and understand that it isn't those aspects that make us good or great people. It's much deeper qualities. I know. That's a clichĆ© message, but like the greatest messages, we can never get enough of them. Because they're true, and we need to be reminded that they're true...if only to help us overcome those forces that try to convince us otherwise.Why YA Needs more LGBT Heroes
I'd like to start off with a big thanks for having me on the blog today to promote the release of my first Young Adult novel, Hideous. I jokingly pitch it as "a sweet little book about a boy and his demon." The more accurate version is: a twisted tale of a boy whose demon-possessed father severed off one of his hands and gouged out one of his eyes. Years later, the demon returns to possess him.
My protagonist, Luke, is a young, gay man. He bears the mark of the demon that possessed his father. Those who bear a demon's mark are forced to work for the state so they can be monitored, as they're more likely than most to become possessed themselves. Luke works at an all-boys high school, where he has to watch all the other boys getting to go on dates and to school dances. Being gay, this is what much of high school felt like for me. I was an outsider. I could watch all the other guys go on dates and to the dances with their girlfriends, but how did I fit into that system? At the time, I harbored a lot of self-hate and anger about the attraction I felt for guys, and it didn't feel fair that I didn't get to walk along the easy path that everyone else seemed to have carved out for them. If I felt attracted to a guy, I didn't get eager and excited. I got worried and fearful. What had I done wrong? Was this a punishment from God? Surely, it had to have been. Otherwise, there wouldn't have been such severe stigmas around it.
It was more than just what I felt around my peers, though. The absence of gay representations in media seemed to indicate that, not only was it abnormal to be gay, but it was something that people didn't want to look at. I gradually came to believe that being gay meant that I didn't matter to the rest of the world and that somehow being out about my sexuality would mean I was agreeing to be shunned and ignored--which was something I desperately feared. I kept my secret through high school. In fact, I didn't even start acting on my attraction to guys until I was twenty. This certainly isn't as long as it is for some people, but it was a long time to bottle up emotions and denial, and it took a toll on me emotionally. Fortunately, I discovered some great people who supported me as I started accepting who I really am, and for that, I'm so appreciative.
Looking back, I realize it didn't help that there were no gay role models I could look to--nothing to help me with coming to terms with my sexuality as a teenager. I'm glad to say that isn't the case today. Teenagers have more access to gay heroes and gay representations than ever before, and it's a great step in the right direction, because it's a smoke signal--an indication that "Hey, you're not alone, and we can get through this together." When I wrote Hideous, I wanted to create a story about a young, gay man who felt the sort of lonely isolation that so many of us push through in our formative years. I wanted to be able to reach out to someone who experienced something similar to let them know we're all going to get through this together. And fortunately, gay heroes in YA stories just keep coming. Publishing companies are becoming more and more accepting of gay characters, and I think we're going to see a big shift in the next few years. Of course, it’s not just gay men who aren’t being represented. The entire spectrum of the LGBT community isn’t getting the attention that it deserves, and this needs to change.The Giveaway
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