Thank you for coming to chat with us today. Why do you think Keith Pyeatt chose you to represent him?
What the hell are you talking about? Pyeatt, the bastard, killed me off in the prologue, and you think he'd choose me to represent him? He wouldn't and he didn't. No, I'm here on my own. I didn't exactly come off well in the novel, and, in case you haven't heard, I have an axe or two to grind.
Tell us a little about yourself?
I was saddled with an ungrateful family, a mouse of a wife, a screw up for a son, and I spent my life stuck in a frozen hellhole of a one-horse town where everybody likes to know everybody else's business. Everyone in the town fucking hated me, but that's okay with me. I have more power dead than I ever dreamed of having when alive. I can get even now.
Where do you live? What is it about that area that drew you there?
I don't live anywhere now--not the way you mean--but when I was alive, I lived in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. I wasn't drawn there. That's where I was born, and I never could scrape together enough money to leave. It's a pretty enough place. There's lots of open space, so it's easy to get away from people, go off into the woods and be yourself, but winters are too damn cold and snowy. And long.
I finally found a way out, thanks to my camp, a little hunting shack I built up on Haldis Notch. It's not much to look at, barely standing in fact, but I had the blind luck to build it on a spot where there's not much separating life from afterlife. One thing led to another, and I found a way over to the afterlife that gives me some authority here. It wasn't an easy trip, let me tell you. Took balls of steel, but I did it. And now that I'm dead, I've finally got some say over the living.
What do you wish people would know about you?
That I can kill your soul. I mean it. In life, everyone and their damn brother thought I wasn't worth the trouble to piss on, but here in the afterlife, you better know that I'm the one with power. I'll lock your spirit up tight so you can't reach that light everyone's so eager to get to. Then I'll sit back and watch you fade to nothing. You think dying on Earth sucks? That's just moving on. But you die here, and it's the real end. You're a memory.
Will we be seeing more of you or are you stepping out of the lime light?
Oh, you'll see more of me. The trouble is--and by that I mean your trouble, because it's no trouble for me--you might not know it. You think Lester Lapaige chose to sit in his general store's freezer until he turned to a popsicle? You think Stella, that busybody with diarrhea mouth, wanted to hang herself from her oak tree? You think Gretchen fell off her porch? No, that was me. Me every time. Why do you think Jenna has her panties in such a twist trying to fight me? I'll tell you why. Because I can strike from anywhere, threaten her beloved family from inside anyone's body. I made her own husband a threat. That went over particularly well, don't you think?
What is your perfect evening?
Back on Earth, I'd lock myself in my office with enough beer and smokes for the night and read my magazines, or "porn" as the wife called them. In the summer, I liked going up to my camp, but I did the same stuff there as I did in my office.
Now I'd say the perfect evening is pushing Jenna's buttons. I always hated the little tease. She messed with my son's head while her mother tried to give my wife ideas about leaving me. Now taunting Jenna isn't only good revenge, it benefits me to have her hate me. She already knows I'm the one responsible for trapping the spirits of her parents and friends. I made sure of that. She's clairvoyant and thinks she can use that to save everyone and stop me somehow. What she doesn't know is that the more she hates me, the more she helps me. It's really quite an evening's entertainment to watch her scrambling around trying to figure me out. Wish I could have had this much fun when I was alive.
Is there anything you wish the author, Keith Pyeatt, had kept his mouth shut about?
I'd like to stuff Pyeatt's mouth with cow shit until he chokes. First of all, it's no one's business but my own how I keep my wife in line. What goes on inside my home should stay in my home. Carla has the personality of a milk cow, but she's sturdy enough. She always healed. And another thing: I never raped that girl, Linda Neal. That was consensual, and it wasn't my problem that she was underage. She wanted it, believe me.
So you don't feel you were portrayed fairly in the novel?
*glares* Are you even listening to me?
Do you believe in ghosts?
What the fuck do you think? Read the novel, and if you can't figure it out then, you might as well go drown yourself in urine. You're too stupid to live.
Why should the readers be interested in your story?
Let's just say that it'd be in their best interest to know what to expect when they cross over. Life is short. Piss me off, and the afterlife will be even shorter.