Best-sellers by Jason Fury and Andrea D'Allasandra!

Also by d'Allasandra: Horror House, Death House, Master of Hell Mountain, The Creaking Door
A demonic clown stalks the halls of the Old Saunders House at midnight.
Suspense thriller!
Horror mixes with madness in HOUSE OF THE SCREAMING CLOWNS! An isolated mental hospital becomes the site of nightmarish torture and terror. Coming this Christmas!
A perennial best-seller!
Magical Christmas Tale!
Long-Awaited Memoirs!
At last! Jason Fury's Memoirs!
Terrifying tales from a master!
An Overnight smash hit upon publication in l993, reissued by the Author's Guild Back-in-Print series of literary classics in 2001.
Terror, Suspense, Eroticism, horror
Andrea D'Allasandra's terrifying sequel to "Death House"
Memoirs of a hedonistic body-builder
'Big' Bill Jackson is an outrageous sexual Tom Cat, who has his fun anywhere--with no holds barred!
Andrea D'Allasandra's eagerly awaited sexual thriller. Already a best-seller!
An innocent girl is lured to a remote mansion and becomes engulfed in sex, sadism, terror and murder
Murder suspense by Andrea D'Allasandra
An axe-wielding madman, a blizzard and six house guests trapped in a remote mountain chalet.
Erotic fantasy of vampires and werewolves.
A dynasty of vampires battle a family of werewolves over the centuries.
Erotic story collection that takes up where "Eric's Body" left off.
Jason Fury's classic collection of male misfits, troubled beauties and tragic hunks are all here.
Twenty-one gay tales of the eerie and the grotesque.
"Haunting and bizarre, you'll be aroused and terrified at this latest best-seller from a master!" Amazon.com
Real life suspense thriller
Published in l993, "The Rope Above, the Rope Below" stunned gay readers with its feverish, vibrant images of a serial killer as he raced through New York City's tawdry sex hangouts, butchering male strippers. Based on fact, was hailed around the world for "its powerful imagery, its evocation of a lost world of Manhattan before the plague years began. Unforgettable!" Amazon.com
Nostalgic gay romance of old Hollywood
"Brilliant and delightful study of three would-be stars of old Hollywood--their triumphs and tragedies! A must-read for anyone who loves old Hollywood and a trio of bigger-than-life wannabees!"
Gay romantic-suspense

Meet Jery, Jason, Andrea, Kandy, Big Bill , Khristian and Others!

Jery on the set HBO's LITTLE BRITAIN

Waiting on set of HBO's LITTLE BRITAIN -- a total blast!

"A Timeless Christmas Classic! Not to be missed! You'll never forget brave little Doofus!"

"Fabulous Nights of Fury! A masterpiece that starts in post-World War II America and ends with Sept. 11, 2001!"

'Queen of Terror and Suspense,' Andrea D'Allasandra, in rare photograph taken at her home in Manhattan, December 1932

Welcome to the House of Jery, Jason, Andrea, 'Big' Bill Jackson and Kandy Kristmas!


You have entered the cyber mansion of Jery Tillotson.
Perhaps you know him better as two best-selling authors: acclaimed author of gay erotica, 'Jason Fury', and 'the new mistress of Southern suspense--Andrea D'Allasandra.' As Big Bill Jackson, his stories have become world famous. And as Kandy Kristmas, his first book, DOOFUS, THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS BOY, hit bookstores in late December 2004 and quickly zoomed to best-seller status.
His latest best-seller, NIGHTS OF FURY, which he wrote as Jason Fury, was among the 25 finalists in the prestigious Foreward Magazine's annual Best Book of 2004 competition. The collection of memoirs has been hailed by numerous critics as one of the year's most memorable autobiographies. In NIGHTS OF FURY, the author evokes a lost era of America--starting in post-World War II up to the horrific events of September 11, 2001.
Book buyers also made DOOFUS, THE LITTLE CHIRSTMAS BOY, one of the most popular book titles of the holidays. Even today, the story of an abused little boy named Doofus, is selling strongly across the nation, but in particular, the South where the book takes place.
As Jason Fury, Jery has authored ten best-selling novels and story collections during the past l5 years. His first volume, ERIC'S BODY, became an overnight publishing phenomenon and rapidly went through six printings by Masquerade Books of New York. It was reissued in 2001 by the Author's Guild Back-in-Print series of literary classics and has repeated its initial success by selling thousands of copies. As 'Jason Fury', Jery has also penned other best-sellers, such as the suspense classic, THE ROPE ABOVE, THE BED BELOW, THE KISS OF KING KONG, THE SECRET OF JIMMY X, NAKED FURY, SCREAMS OF PAN, and HIS EYES WERE DARK, HE LICKED HIS LIPS. As 'Andrea d'Allasandra,' his terrifying suspense thriller, DEATH HOUSE, appeared in 2001 and was instantly hailed by readers and critics alike as "an instant classic of terror!...certain to make you lock your windows and bolt your doors!". D'Allasandra's second novel, THE MASTER OF HELL MOUNTAIN, was published by 1stBooks and also became a best-seller, primarily because of it's over-the-top sexual psychopath, Billy Mulligan,and it's hurricane paced plot.
"'THE MASTER OF HELL MOUNTAIN' was turned down by more than l20 agents and publishers," says D'Allasandra in her Manhattan apartment overlooking the East River.
"One of them said it was much too violent, sexual and pointed out that it was not politically correct. I would hope not! One of the main characters is newspaper publisher Abigal Foster who has zero sympathy for race hucksters and agitators. I based part of this novel on the notorious Cincinatti riots a year ago, but transferred it to Charlotte, North Carolina. I hope the people in Charlotte don't kill me."
HORROR HOUSE was the best-selling sequel to DEATH HOUSE and picked up the plotline with the axe-wielding Benji slaughtering the tenants in the newly renovated Old Saunders Place.
THE CREAKING DOOR and Other Tales of Madness and Horror became an instant best-seller last October and garnered rave reviews from fans on both the Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com websites. The book is selling strongest in the South, especially in North Carolina, where all the stories are set.
Andrea D'Allasandra is relieved to finally have "House of the Screaming Clowns" in bookstores because this was "probably the most grisly novel I've ever written Believe it or not, it's based on an actual incident--which makes it even more terrifying."
Jason Fury is currently at work on a number of projects. Among them is a chilling sequel to his best-selling collection of stories, THE SECRET OF JIMMY X.
"My sequel is titled, ZOMBIE FURY. I'm having lots of fun whipping up eerie tales of the bizarre. These stories show the heavy influence of Italian horror films by masters like Dario Argento, Lucio Fulci and Mario Bava.
"Readers have been asking me for more stories like those in JIMMY X. I wanted to do something new in gay eroticism. It became boring to set my stories in reality."
His upcoming novels are LAST OF THE SEVEN LOVERS, a nostalgic memoir of his years at Wrightsville Beach, back in the early 60s. Another book is tentatively entitled, THE BROTHERS DU RAE.
"This latest novel is a generational saga about three extraordinary brothers and the even more bizarre lives they live. No, it's not at all autobiographical. There was too much misery in my real family and I wouldn't want to depress the readers to the point of suicide."
You can e-mail me at:

Jery.tillotson@​gmail.com

A once-in-a-lifetime reunion of the famous Tillotson Family at my sister, Jennifer's beautiful home, Denton, NC - 10/20/2012

Mighty Mike of NYC, Me, on set of cable TV series, HOLLYWOOD EAST, 10/03/09

Taking break on HOLLYWOOD EAST cable series, 10/03/09

Me, in beret, with my fellow Dazzling Divas of Wilmywood-Dec. 23, 2011

Jery's gallery of weirdos and glittering stars!


Me and great NYC Director Tyhm Kennedy taking happy break on movie set of PIRATE CHAINS 8/10/09.

Waiting to be called on set of ONE TREE HILL

Taking a break with buddies on exhausting, never-ending filming of BOLDEN, release date 2010

At 1:30 a.m. in morning, freezing at Wilmington NC airport for filming of TV's One Tree Hill shoot--with convivial company of fellow hambones.

Fabulous gal pals, Faith and Melanie, and I taking break on big NYC sequence on lavish set of ONE TREE HILL

Me, Norman, Jessie and unknown in sex comedy, A GOOD OLD FASHIONED ORGY

9/​11 Stirs Bitter Memories!


Well, I'm glad it's over--the 50th Class Reunion at Brevard College Oct. 19, 2012.
I recognized no one and hardly knew the few surviving alumni who were there. I enjoy much meeting again, though, two of my favorite people from those long ago years: The always lovely and charming Betsy Wren--who married the equally handsome, charming Charles Smith. Charles had one of the most beautiful voices I've ever heard--he's now singing with the Gay Men's Choir in Greenville, SC.
Although I had originally planned on staying all day for the night banquet, I left right after the luncheon--that was all I could take of the "good old days."
One of my favorite buddies who I always liked was there with his wife and fifty years has turned him into a complete stranger. When I greeted him, it was shaking hands with a complete stranger.
I don't think I'll be attending anymore reunions. Let the ghosts lie buried in their graves.#

I dread to see to see the words "9/​11" because I know what that means.
Hours of televised specials, media features about that horrific day that shook the world--and I witnessed it all.
I lived in Manhattan for nearly thirty years.
On that beautiful, brisk September morning, I caught the 8:00 a.m. express subway from East 86th Street to the Wall Street area. My beautiful friend, Roberto, met me for we were going to enjoy an early breakfast and he wanted to show me "his" favorite places along the watefront.
Roberto was a gorgeous, 24-year-old Italian boy and a fireman. We met when he saw me signing my book, HIS EYES WERE DARK, HE LICKED HIS LIPS, for a long line of readers at a Barnes & Noble bookstore on Fifth Avenue. He waited until I was ready to leave that night and came up to me and asked if I thought he might enjoy my book.
"It's about one man's love for another man. Would that bother you?"
He brought a copy and wrote down my phone number. A week later he called, we met, and our bond was so intense that we were thinking of living together.
Roberto's large Italian family had already picked out the Italian girl they wanted him to marry. Everyone waited for him to pop the question. But now, he was trying to decide if he wanted to have a conventional married life in Brooklyn--of, if he wanted to live with another man.
Now, he and I grabbed a bagel with butter and some bitterly hot coffee from a sidewalk vendor and were just walking toward the Bowling Green area when we heard the first, shocking explosion. It was 9:05 a.m.
It shook everything. "Holy Christ!" gasped Roberto. "That was fucking big!"
I still remember that look of terror on his handsome, boyish face, for he somehow knew what we heard was a catastrophe in the making. People were screaming now and we raced up to where a crowd was forming and we could see that horrible, jagged hole in the first tower. Black smoke belched from it. Flames shot out. Roberto hugged me briefly and shouted: "I've gotta go! This is fucking big!" I watched his handsome, heroic figure race down toward the tower.
I never saw him again.
He was massacred that morning along with 3,000 innocent American citizens who had left their homes a few hours to go to their jobs in lower Manhattan. Within three hours, they would be incinerated and two of my favorite NYC skyscrapers would collapse and the world realized that now, America had finally been hit big time by lunatic terrorists.
In the months ahead, I passed by pathetic posters on walls where someone had put up a sign asking if anyone had seen one of the missing workers.
A year after the disaster, I passed by a church on 14th Street which had put up a large display of all the murdered firemen who had perished that ghastly September morning. I found the face of Roberto. Wearing his fireman's regalia, he smiled and I could detect that mischevous grin beginning to form. He had a hilarious sense of humor.
What would he have done if he had not died? Would he have caved in to his Italian family's demands that he marry the nice girl from the neighborhood, raise kids, go to church like all the others.
Or would he have stood up to them and demanded that he be allowed to be his true self and live his life with someone he loved? I remembered those intense nights in my small studio apartment on East 88th Street with a candle flickering, some incense burning and he lay with me. We had planned to move down South, find a small cottage in the mountains, perhaps even adopt a child. He loved children.
Roberto was my last true boyfriend. I think of him many times each day. I dream of him, laughing, joking, dancing iwth me in my apartment. Then I remember that expression of terror on his face when we heard that terrible sonic boom. He knew a catastrophe of horrific proportions was happening..
I see him running toward his death in that burning Twin Tower.
No wonder I dread each anniversary of September 11, 2001.

Coming Soon!


I Didn't Plan To Be A Cult Author


I was fourteen when my first words were published in a newspaper. I couldn't sleep the night before. And when the weekly publication, The Denton Record, finally appeared at our only drug store down the block one fall day in l957 and I saw neighbors reading it, I was one happy freak. "The Denton School Report" was the dramatic head for my weekly column that ran for three years. At first, I stuck with obediently recording the time and date of the next PTA meeting and other profound occasions. Gradually, I transformed the column into something casual, gossipy, chatty. It became popular with everyone. I had learned the first lesson of writing. I pretended I was yakking with a best friend. Paint a picture in words to entertain the reader. This became even more important after I began work at a real newspaper in Wilmington, North Carolina, in l965. I had just experienced five, tumultuous years in college. My effiminate personae repelled many while attracting others. Straight men, then and now, were the main ones I liked being with. Most were just buddies. Several became more than that. Gay men had nothing to do with me. I was "too" obvious. That didn't bother me. I wasn't interested in attracting them anyway. I was fascinated by rugged, macho men and even today, my best friends are your ordinary Joe Six Packs. I don't like intellectuals. I find them pretentious and a pain in the neck. My first real newspaper editor on the Wilmington Star-News was an egotistical monster. "Chip" was the Hollywood version of a charismatic, temperamental, handsome editor. At first, he tried to hide his sharp interest in me by yelling at me and testing me. He'd order me to go out into the rain to get him coffee. He expected me to refuse. I eagerly obeyed and always asked: "Do you want anything else?" He blushed, because he was a real Irishman and that made him even more attractive. We eventually became more than friends. The newsroom knew. You can't hide much at a newspaper. When I told this really troubled man I was leaving to take a job with the Associated Press, he became violent, emotional and vowed I would never leave his newspaper alive. He saw this as a slap-in-the-face to his reputation for keeping the cream of the crop of journalists. He vowed to ruin me if I took the Associated Press job. I made my escape and never saw Chip again. He died soon afterwards. Cause of death: an overdose of pills.
Chip was, indeed, an unforgettable man but there were to be many others in the future. The Associated Press was a good place to learn the craft of journalism but it was no place for romance, either in Charlotte, N.C., or in Fargo, North Dakota. Although I was to discover that men in this last city of forbidding terrain can be quite fabulous. I met dozens and dozens of North Dakota farmers and regular guys at the cozy little family bars that dotted main street in Fargo. All were lonely. All were desperate for companionship. I used all my experiences in that snow-frozen metropolis in many stories I was to later write while in New York City. Even today, people ask me in disbelief: "You actually lived in Fargo?" I was glad to leave the snow-drenched universe of North Dakota and accepted a job in Montgomery, Alabama as "star reporter" for the Montgomery Advertiser newspaper.
Most of the men I worked with were bigots, as were many of the those I met outside the newspaper. But--my job allowed me to interview some of the most fascinating Southern guys alive. I interviewed prisoners, politicans, preachers, actors, wrestlers, cops, troopers, mixed-up artists and writers. They gave me tons of material for my future stories. One real tragedy on the eve of my departure from Dixie: my long-time buddy, Art, a jazz pianist, was murdered and eviscerated by a group of black thugs, as he left my apartment building. His killers were later tried in court where they laughed about the killing. Since they were all not l8 years of age, they were sent to a youth detention center and released one year later. I considered them animals and wished that I could have killed them all. That gave me a bitter lesson in American justice.
By the time I moved to Manhattan in l978, I was ready to let down my hair and celebrate my freedom! My stories had become fixtures in many gay magazines and fan mail poured in. I still receive notes and letters and e-mail from my fans who discovered my work back in those halycon days of Disco. Those days wouldn't last long, though, because in l980, we began to hear about a strange "gay sickness" affecting many of the young swingers in Gotham. Quickly, it became an epidemic. Men I knew began dying. The whole landscape changed. In the meantime, I'd managed to finally get my story collection, ERIC'S BODY published and it became an overnight sensation. The collected stories were mostly those that had already appeared in leading gay magazines. More than 200 editors and agents had turned ERIC'S BODY down. Those few who said anything about it laughed in my face and said I should be ashamed of writing "porno garbage." These were the same men busy promoting and gushing over Jackie Collins lusty, graphic hetero adventures that were being pushed in mainstream bookstores. That I was doing exactly the same thing as she--with the exception that I had all males doing it--was seen as too perverted to even imagine. My second novel, THE ROPE ABOVE, THE BED BELOW, came out in late l994. I literally copied pages from my personal journal to describe the wild, feverish hedonism that obsessed Manhattan before the AIDS epidemic hit. My publisher demanded that I cut out much of my original manuscript and cram it full of sexual passages. I fought back. I did not want to write this book as another "porno" job. He took control of my book and when it appeared I was not a happy author. Whole chapters were torn out and it was so heavily edited that the book only ran l50 pages--when it was originally 350! A year later, I sued my publisher for he refused to publish three of the novels that he had brought--because he demanded that we become more than friends. We settled our problems out of court after Court TV wanted to feature my case on their program. The publisher nearly had a heart attack for he had pulled this same little game with other writers who were too frightened of his power to threaten legal action. Over the years, I've written several popular novels as Jason Fury and 'Andrea D'Allasandra.' My long-time companion, 'Big Bill Jackson asked me to help him put together his memoirs and as EIGHTH WONDER, it became an instant hit with his many fans. In Europe and Russia, his cult following is even bigger than mine, darn it. Big Bill shuns parties, the bars, book signings. He's an independent cuss. Men and women have offered him fortunes for a good time. He turns them all down.
When the terrorism attack hit Gotham on Sept. 11, 2001, I was exactly on the crime scene that horrible morning. I had planned to have breakfast with one of my fans, a young off-duty fireman. Roberto had become my boyfriend. He and some of his fire fighting buddies had read both ERIC'S BODY and THE ROPE ABOVE, THE BED BELOW and we had all become close. We had discovered many similar interests and we became very close. On this beautiful September morning, we had just brought bagels and hot bitter coffee from a sidewalk vendor near Church Street when we felt and heard a tremendous sonic boom. Everything trembled around us. I'll never forget the look of terror and shock on Roberto's face. It was as if he sensed a catastrophe was occurring nearby and as we heard the screams and sirens, we saw in horror what that first hijacked plane had done: it smashed into the Twin Towers. Roberto hugged me briefly and said quietly: "Mother of God! Something big has happened! Later."
I watched his handsome, young figure racing toward the twin towers.
I never saw him again. He would become among 3,000 innocent people incinerated that day in the massacre.
#
The horror still lingers here, although the nightmare occurred eleven years ago. I still remember those intimate hours with Roberto, in my small studio apartment. Candles flickered, incense burned. The man I really loved was there beside me in bed. At least I have those memories to last me for a lifetime. I think of Roberto when I think of 9/​11.