 Ginger Nuts of Horror is proud to bring a excerpt from The Bedwetter, the latest book from Lee Allen Howard. After completing his Master of Arts in Writing Popular Fiction, he later enrolled in the Borderlands Writers Boot Camp in Baltimore, which helped to jump start his career. His article about self-editing, “Your Very First Editor” was published in Many Genres, One Craft: Lessons in Writing Popular Fiction, which “brings together award-winning authors, bestselling novelists, and hot new writers from all these genres to offer an amazing novel writing workshop in a book.” In June 2011 he spoke at Seton Hill University’s Writing Popular Fiction In Your Write Mind alumni retreat on the topic, “Alternative Methods of Idea and Story Generation.” He also presented “Psychic Development for Writers” at the 2012 retreat, and presented “Self-editing for Publication” in June 2013. He also plans to speak at the 2019 retreat on “Mastering Narrative Modes.” Check out his Amazon author page and follow him on Facebook author page and Twitter. His latest project is a dark psychological thriller called THE BEDWETTER. published in MAy this year , and is finishing up work on novel #6, DEAD CEMETERY, a gay romance/horror story. THE BEDWETTER BY LEE ALLEN HOWARDI turn on my TV and fire up the PS4, then go downstairs and throw some pizza rolls in the toaster oven because Becky didn’t make dinner tonight. She usually does. She’s no gourmet chef, but she’s a decent cook, and I don’t mind eating her food. (^: I holler up the stairs, “Becky?” She don’t answer. Maybe she’s pooping, LOLz. Bathroom door ain’t closed, though, when I look up the stairs. I crack open a beer. When the toaster oven dings, I scoop those bad babies onto a plate, grab a paper towel, and then carry them upstairs to my room. Worst thing about pizza rolls and Hot Pockets is, if you cook them till they’re done, they’re hot as frigging lava. Becky comes out of her room and passes mine on her way to the bathroom. She closes and locks the door. I start Call of Duty, and it’s still loading when she comes back out of the bathroom and knocks on my door. It ain’t closed, so she pushes it open. She’s got her arms crossed over her tits like she does when she’s uptight about something. “What’s up?” I say. “I found your tee-shirt between the washer and dryer, so I washed it and brought it up this morning.” “Cool, thanks.” She’s all fidgety and won’t look me in the eye, so something’s up. Eating pizza rolls on a piss-stinking mattress ain’t the most appetizing experience. But I eat them anyway. I say, “What’s Aiden doing? Ain’t seen him yet.” “He’s playing with his cars you got him,” she says. “When I brought your shirt in, I couldn’t help but see your bed was stripped. And why.” “Yeah. So?” “So? It makes me… concerned.” She tosses her head, not to get her hair out of her face—it’s tied back as usual—but because she’s gearing up to make some point or say something unpopular. “Hey, I couldn’t help it. I didn’t wake up. I washed my sheets. What are you so concerned about?” Her lips get tight when I raise my voice. I don’t much care. It’s not like I pissed HER bed. I toss the controller on the wet spot, then mute the TV. “Well?” “Look, Russell, you know what it led to last time.” “Yeah, and I was living at home then. You remember what that was like for me. I ain’t wet since I moved in with you.” “Not that I know of.” She gets that snooty high and mighty look. I want to shove the remote up her goddamn nose. “That was years ago, Becky. I’ve changed. I’m better now.” “How do I know that? All I know is what you did.” “But I didn’t do it to you, did I? I never done nothin to you.” I hurl the remote into the closet. It hits the back wall, and the batteries pop out. “Calm down, Russell,” she says, pressing the air with her hands like she does when I get worked up. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” She always says that too, but it’s just to talk me down because I make her nervous. But why shouldn’t I be pissed? How come I can never express myself when I’m mad? “I gotta get my sheets.” I push past her, out the door, and go downstairs. In the kitchen I unlock the basement door and stomp down the rickety steps. The cellar smells musty. Like I said, it’s an old townhouse, with stone walls and a concrete floor all cracked. Damn cold on my sockfeet. My sheets and bed pad and blanket are wadded up on top of the dryer. Becky does that if I forget to empty it when my stuff is done. I scoop them up and then head back upstairs. Becky’s still standing there, hugging herself. “Here. I’ll help you.” I turn around and get in her face. “I don’t need your help, Becky. I can do it myself. I been doing it since I was seven years old, remember?” “All right. I’m sorry. I just… never mind.” She walks out the door but comes right back in. “No, I’m not going to let this go,” she says, fists on her hips. “This isn’t just about wetting the bed. It’s about that, that… disgusting rug you made. Cat skins. God, Russell, that’s so sick. I had no idea you still had it. Thank goodness Aiden didn’t see it.” “And what if he did?” I say. “You think I would have told him what it was made out of? Jesus, Becky, gimme some credit.” “I don’t care. I don’t want that thing in my house. Get rid of it.” “I live here as well as you do. It’s not like you own the place. I pay rent too.” She huffs. “Sometimes.” “Oh, fuck off, why don’t you? I’m workin. I been workin. Just because I don’t got a good job like you don’t mean I ain’t pitchin in.” “Look. I think it’s time you moved out on your own, Russell.” I blink at her, shaking my head. “What?” “You heard me. Aiden’s four years old. He needs his own room. He can’t sleep in my room forever, especially with Mike spending nights here.” “It ain’t my fault you can’t screw with Aiden in the room.” “Russell!” she hisses. “What!” “Keep your voice down,” she says, shoving the door closed. “It’s not about me and Mike. Aiden’s getting too big for his toddler bed. You know that. He’s growing like a weed, and even a twin bed won’t fit in that room. Where’s he supposed to sleep?” I lay a folded hand towel on the wet spot, make the bed on top of it, and then stretch out on it. She stands there, waiting for me to say something. She pisses me off. Ignoring her is the best I can do. “Don’t go quiet on me, Russell. I’m trying to have a conversation about something important. Do you understand why I think it’s best that you move out?” I snatch up the controller and press start. The game begins, but I can’t hear it because I muted the TV, and I can’t unmute it because I flung the remote in the closet. Becky steps closer. “If you got something to say, then say it. Stewing about it won’t do any good. You know what it leads to.” “Who are you, my fuckin mother?” She grabs her head with both hands, spins toward the door, then turns back, curling her fingers into claws and showing her teeth. “You’re a dick, Russell. You either move your pissy mattress to the basement or out of the house, take your pick!” She rushes out, and I can tell she wants to slam my door, but she don’t. I do. And yell, “I hope your car’s fixed, because I’m driving mine tomorrow. Bitch.” I put the remote back together, then pick up the controller, but my hands are shaking, and I don’t feel like playing no more. Don’t feel like finishing my pizza rolls. What I really need is a smoke. I fish in my jacket pocket for my Camels only to find my last cigarette is broke in two. FUCK! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK! I crush the pack and throw it on the floor. I dress, grab my coat and gentleman’s hat, then descend the stairs by threes and fly out the door into snow like freaking cottonballs. THE BEDWETTER BY LEE ALLEN HOWARD Armed with electric hair trimmers and a military fighting knife, Russell accepts his dark commission. Russell Pisarek is twenty-six years old and still wets the bed. He grew up different from other young men because his vicious mother punished him for wetting by shaving his head. When he confided this to his girlfriend Tina, she betrayed him, advertising his problem to all their high school classmates, who turned on him mercilessly. He took out his frustration by skinning neighborhood cats. Now Russell fantasizes about finding just the right woman—so he can shave her bald. He struggles to overcome his dark tendencies, but when his sister discovers he’s wetting again, she kicks him out of her house. During this time of stress, the mythical Piss Fairy appears in his dreams, and Russell is driven to satisfy his twisted desires with his innocent coworker Uma, who also needs a new roommate. When his plans go awry, the Piss Fairy commissions him for a much darker task that graduates him from shaving to scalping—and worse. “Lee Allen Howard’s The Bedwetter is an inventive psychological horror novel with a voice that’s as stylish as it is dark.” —Dustin LaValley, author of The Deceived “Lee Allen Howard is an imaginative writer with slick, vivid prose and high-octane pacing. He writes like no one else, and I mean this in a very good way.” —Trent Zelazny, author of Too Late to Call Texas   Comments are closed.
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