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Barry Maher's Favorite Songs for Halloween and for Creating Demons #SupernaturalThriller


Favorite Songs for Halloween and for Creating Demons


I listen to music when I write. This column for example is being created with the help of—or perhaps in spite of—a piece of music that seems to be an unfortunate blend of God Save the King and The Moldavan National Anthem. But creating my supernatural thriller, The Great Dick: And The Dysfunctional Demon, a thriller that’s able to laugh at itself, (one reader called it “Horrifying and Delightful!”) required a special blend of music. 

I offer some of it as my Halloween Collection, music like: 
Dust by Fleetwood Mac 

Fleetwood Mac? Aren’t they much too pop for horror? Actually Dust was from an early incarnation of Fleetwood Mac, with no hits and lots of drug problems, not the later version of the group with lots of hits and even more drug problems. The lyrics to Dust come from a 1909 poem by Rupert Brook, who was no bundle of sunshine.

“When your swift hair is quiet in death
And through the lips corruption
Thrust to still the labor of my breath”

Midnight Mile by the Rolling Stones. 

This haunting tune about a mad day on the road “with a head full of snow,” gets me picturing Keith Richards as the guitar playing, coked-up, walking dead. Perhaps not a huge stretch.

I Put a Spell on You by Screaming Jay Hawkins. 

Writing about obsession? Here’s Screaming Jay screaming that he doesn’t care if you don’t want him. It doesn’t matter to him at all. He’s still yours. A non-returnable gift that threatens to keep on giving.

She’s Not There by the Zombies

This one doesn’t make my list for the name of the group, but for the mood the music evokes. And the lyrics do have a touch of the sinister. In this British song, a mysterious woman is causing untold suffering. Like the singer, we can only wonder about how much she lied, with no way of telling “how many people cried.” I know what you’re thinking. But the song was released in 1965, considerably before Maggie Thatcher ever became Prime Minister. 

No Bravery by James Blunt 

I thought this guy wrote love songs, but this one features shallow graves, burning houses, the odor of death and dying families. I listen to this, then write horror to cheer up. 

Tie a Yellow Ribbon by Tony Orlando. 

Not a horror classic, just a horrible song. I can’t listen to it without dreaming of tying a yellow ribbon as tightly as possible around Tony Orlando’s neck. And I understand the reasoning of a homicidal demon.

Last and in so many ways least, Black Sabbath by Black Sabbath 

Apparently, Satan, with eyes of fire, is coming after the singer, Ozzy Osbourne. That might explain the vocal. I think this one is from the Black Sabbath album Blue Skies, Sunny Days and Lollypops, or it may be from Kittens, Puppies and Other Easy Meals. To quote a key phrase, “please, God help me.”

Take a listen. The singing sounds like a weasel caught in a meat grinder. The question this little ditty raises is more theological than musical. Namely: why would a loving God allow something like this to exist? And to somehow become a hit? When I first heard it on my car radio, I thought my transmission was disintegrating, but it was only humanity’s musical taste.

Check out Barry Maher’s dark humor supernatural thriller, The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon on Amazon. Contact him and/or sign up for his newsletter at www.barrymaher.com. 





The Great Dick and the Dysfunctional Demon
Barry Maher

Genre: Supernatural Thriller
Publisher: Crystal Lake Publishing
Date of Publication: 09/2025
ISBN: 978-1968532130
ASIN: B0FKWK2K7C
Number of pages: 464
Word Count: 125,000

Tagline: A wickedly funny, dark humor. supernatural thriller, blending horror with a thrilling murder mystery.

Book Description:

It’s 1982. Steve Witowski was once a hero. Now he’s simply a failed songwriter, running from the law. Worse, he’s just killed a man—while almost accidentally saving a woman from what seemed to be the strongest, most blood-thirsty wino in California. 

He should keep moving. But the woman, Victoria, is beyond stunning. Steve stays. And Victoria becomes just a part of a mystery he can’t unravel. Even as the face of the man he just killed slowly, gradually appears on his arm. And what starts out as a gritty crime story spirals into what author David Moody called, “A chillingly funny, hot, sweaty, magic and murder infused rollercoaster.” Complete with open crypts, dark spells, sudden death, and forces more powerful and demonic than Steve understands. Where nothing is what it seems. And Steve may be the next victim.

Excerpt 

Back in the 60s . . .

 

On Wednesday October 13th, 1968, a faculty panel recommended the dismissal of Professor John Harris—in absentia, as no one at Harvard had seen or heard from him in weeks. Harris later bragged about delivering his final lecture on “one shitload and a half of LSD.” According to the recording made available to the faculty panel, this was the sum total of that lecture:

 

“Good afternoon. Wow. American Literature, hunh? Let’s see. Moby Dick today. Right?”

 “Moby Dick?” asked a confused voice. “No. What happened to The Scarlet Letter?”

 “Right. Moby Dick,” Harris continued. “Great book. None of you have read it. None of you are going to read it. Nobody ever does. What you need to understand is that as far as I’m concerned—and I’m the fucking professor—Moby Dick is the same story as The Great Gatsby, which some of you may read. I call it, ‘the half-assed struggle of the individual to put their world to rights in the face of a failure that threatens to define their life.’ I think that’s from my thesis. Though maybe it’s not pretentious enough.”

Harris laughed. “Hey! How about this? Great Gatsby/Moby Dick: same story, different era, right? So, if someone someday tries to write that story for this generation, they should call it The Great Dick. That’d be perfect, wouldn’t it? The Great Dick. Alright, that’s got to be almost fifty minutes. See you next . . . whenever. Wow.”

 

 

SUNDAY, MARCH 21, 1982
Two Women and One Corpse


“Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to lie well.”
                                                                                        —Samuel Johnson

 

CHAPTER 1

  

            Okay, let me start out by admitting that I was an asshole. I know that. The ludicrous amount of fame and acclaim and money I’ve had dumped on me since that time only makes it more glaring. The fact that we lived in a different world back in 1982 is no excuse. It was the same world. It just wasn’t the world we thought it was.

            I remember it was a Sunday night. Sundays always feel different. Looking back now and Googling a 1982 calendar, I’d guess it was Sunday, March 21st. I remember waking up and within minutes making the decision to leave. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I eased myself out of the rickety hide‑a‑bed.

            Immediately, Maria rolled over into the spot I'd just vacated, breathing loudly through her nose and mouth, not quite snoring. I hate to say it, but she looked every minute of her thirty years. Her thick dark hair clung damply to her face; her heavy arms stretched outward. The cast on her left wrist looked like a giant manacle.

The grandfather clock beside the cigar store Indian read 1:37, though a few minutes before, it had chimed four times. That made as much sense as anything else in my life. I was thirty-five years old, a Harvard grad who’d spent the previous two years faking his way through a $13,500 a year job as an territory rep for the Richmond Tobacco company. That $13,500 was the most money I’d ever made. You’re probably thinking that when you adjust for inflation and translate that $13,500 into today’s dollars, it’s a lot more impressive.

No, it’s not.

I slipped on my jersey and my jeans and gathered the rest of my things in my old gym bag. Fortunately, enough moonlight crept in around the edges of the tattered drapes to give the room a dim glow. I wondered if it would be safe to hitchhike out of there, or if Indiana had already notified the California Highway Patrol that I was wanted.

My situation was bad. But not bad enough to, say, crawl into a grave with a rotting corpse.

That would come later.



About the Author:
 
Barry Maher may be the only horror novelist who’s ever appeared in the pages of Funeral Service Insider. In his misspent youth, his articles appeared in perhaps a hundred different publications and, in order to eat, he held nearly that many different jobs. Sometimes he lived on the beach. Not in a house on the beach. On the beach. With the sand and the seagulls. 

Then he started telling his stories to audiences. More important, he started telling his stories to audiences and charging. That took him all over the country and around the world: his client list a Who’s Who of leading corporations, associations and cruise lines. You may have seen Barry on The Today Show, CNN, CBS or CNBC, or read about him in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, USA Today or in his own, Slightly Off-Kilter syndicated column.

On the downside, he’s also been incarcerated twice. Once for not making a left hand turn out of a left hand turn lane, and once for aiding and abetting a loiterer. 

He’s deeply repentant. 

Newsletter: www.barrymaher.com
 



 






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