A cursed lighthouse, a malevolent shapeshifter, and a deadly game. One
life-altering decision could seal their fate.
In Solitary Island, Australia. A malevolent shapeshifter haunts a
storm-battered lighthouse. When Dahlia confronts an ancient secret, she must
make a life-or-death sacrifice to save herself and Paranormal Jack from a
terrifying entity trapped between worlds.
Caught in a twisted game, Dahlia is forced to make an impossible
choice—one of them must die for the other to survive.
As Paranormal Jack fights to escape the lighthouse’s sinister grip, he must
explore the human fear of death and what lies beyond to uncover the horrifying
truth. Betwixt has been claiming the souls of those who enter the lighthouse
for centuries, and its curse runs deep.
As fate hangs in the balance, Dahlia must uncover the dark history of the
Island and make a desperate bid before the evil grave wind takes hold.
Grave Wind is the first book in the Haunting Dahlia series. This riveting
tale, packed with unforgettable characters, heart-pounding paranormal
investigations, and shocking twists, will leave readers spellbound. If you
were hooked by the eerie tension of Dean Koontz’s Phantoms, this electrifying
story is must-read.
About the Author
Janice Tremayne, hailing from Australia, is a celebrated author
specializing in supernatural horror. Her novel “Haunting in Hartley” achieved
finalist status in the Readers’ Favorite 2020 International Book Awards in the
category of fiction-supernatural, clinching the prestigious Distinguished
Favorite Prize for paranormal horror at the New York City Big Book Awards.
Janice’s literary prowess was further acknowledged with the silver medal at
the IPPY Awards 2021 in the Australia/New Zealand/Pacific Rim – Best
Regional Fiction category, as well as the Bronze Award in Adult Fiction at the
Wishing Shelf Independent Book Awards 2020. In 2023, she secured the Literary
Titan Gold Book Award, a testament to her excellence in writing.
Residing in Melbourne with her family, Janice intricately weaves cultural
superstitions into her narratives, drawing from her upbringing where such
beliefs were deeply embedded in daily life and customs. Her bestselling
series, “Haunting Clarisse,” has consistently soared to the top of Amazon
Kindle rankings, captivating readers with its blend of occult supernatural,
ghosts, haunted houses, and British horror.
Janice’s journey as an author began with a simple cup of coffee, sparking the
inspiration to translate her fascination with cultural superstitions into
gripping tales of horror. Her books are renowned for delivering
heart-thumping, bone-chilling, and thought-provoking paranormal experiences,
each narrative offering a fresh twist that keeps readers enthralled worldwide.
Stay updated on Janice Tremayne’s latest releases by following the author.
The Boy Upon Death: Reaper’s Last Call J. Robert Adams Publication date: April 5th 2025 Genres: Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Supernatural, Young Adult
My existence was as cold as my birth. I was born with both knowledge and will—an inevitability for my kind. Drawn to the final moments of mortal life, we came into being. Some of us became Reapers, tasked solely with ferrying souls to their afterlife. Others craved the power of souls, calling themselves gods of Death—Shinigami. They believed that devouring or absorbing souls granted them greater might, but found that power only deepened their coldness and emptiness. Those gods of Death became husks, bored of their own immortality yet too frightened to end themselves. But being a Reaper can yield the same chill. Though I know the souls would be lost without our guidance, my own existence seems bound to a perpetual winter, drawn to the final beat of each mortal life.
My existence is as cold as my birth. I was born with both knowledge and will—an inevitability for my kind. Drawn to the final moments of mortal life, we come into being. Some of us become Reapers, tasked solely with ferrying souls to their afterlife. Others crave the power of souls, calling themselves Gods of Death. They believe that devouring or absorbing souls grants them greater might, but such power only deepens their coldness and emptiness. The Veil—the great boundary between life and the afterlife—exists as the ultimate destination for souls. It does not judge or choose; it simply awaits those ready to cross. Souls unwilling to pass linger in the mortal world, their tether to the Veil slowly degrading. Once that connection is broken, they descend into madness, becoming fragmented and unstable, unable to find peace. For Reapers, our role is clear: guide the souls before they are lost. Yet even for us, there are choices. We are born as extensions of the Veil, tethered to it as both our origin and our end. At any time, a Reaper may choose to return to the Veil, to be reabsorbed into its vastness and find peace. But there is a second path—one far more dangerous and final. A Reaper may sever their tether to the Veil, abandoning their purpose and embracing free will. These fallen ones become what we call Gods of Death. Free from the Veil’s guidance, they face a choice: help lost souls or exploit them for power. Many succumb to the hunger, consuming souls to strengthen themselves. These beings often destroy themselves, transforming into husks—twisted, empty shells driven mad by their own excesses. I have not chosen to rejoin the Veil, though the option tempts me in moments of despair. And I have not severed my tether, though I sometimes wonder what lies beyond that severance. Instead, I remain a Reaper. But the cold emptiness of my existence grows heavier with each passing year. I guide souls to the Veil, knowing that my own tether will never allow me rest. The souls need us, but who guides the Reapers? Who saves us from the weight of eternity? Perhaps the answer lies in the unknown. In the countless eons of existence, I have never questioned my role—until now. The faint stirrings of doubt creep into my thoughts, like cracks forming in the ice. The time will come when I must choose: to remain a servant of the Veil, to seek peace within it, or to become something greater—or perhaps something worse. This is the story of how I began to question eternity. Of how I—a guide to the lost—found myself on a path to becoming something entirely new.
Author Bio:
J. Robert Adams has been building worlds in his imagination for as long as he can remember. What began as a childhood escape quickly grew into a lifelong passion for storytelling. By middle school, he was already scribbling down tales of heroes, haunted places, and fantastical realms—stories that refused to stay quiet.
Today, Adams continues that journey with The Boy Upon Death, a dark fantasy exploring the tension between duty and identity, power and purpose. His work blends introspective character arcs with immersive worldbuilding, often walking the line between light and shadow.
He writes not only to entertain, but to ask the quiet questions—about who we are, what we fear, and what we choose to fight for. Whether you’re here for the eerie mystery or the emotional depth, his stories aim to stay with you long after the final page.
Here Lyeth Johanna Frank (A Lifeline Fantasy Novel) Publication date: November 1st 2024 Genres: Fantasy, Supernatural
A small-scale supernatural fantasy on big, real-life values. A story of rewiring unworthiness and searching for a place to belong. Pre-order your copy today for an extraordinary, heartwarming read that is sure to unearth you. Release date, November 1, 2024.
Answers are buried beneath a grave marker. Only it happens to be her own.
Something was missing. It was easy for Lexxie to bury that niggling sense, she had all the love and protection a young woman needed. But when the man she thought to be her father spilled a fever-pitched confession—that she’d been taken from her real family as an infant—her content and isolated life ended.
STIRRING… EXTRAORDINARY… UPLIFTING…
Angry and heartbroken, Lexxie left the people she loved on a mere hint—her true father lived in Vereiteln Dorf, two villages over. Once there, she’s drawn to an unconsecrated graveyard. Since answers don’t come easy from the locals, she’s forced to make many assumptions and patch puzzling pieces together. But the more she does, the more her presence in this superstitious village becomes a threat, and the more she gives credence to a voice coming from a pit of ashes. The perils of a noose amid a 1688 witch hunt lay heavy on her shoulders.
Years earlier, in the same village, young Meginhardt succumbs to a vicious attack. Ethereal beings take him on a time-traveling journey to shake away the lad’s deeply rooted struggles of unworthiness.
But when Meginhardt learns that some woman named Lexxie is the chosen one to carry forward his father’s line of descendants, he throws away all he’s been shown. Fits of jealousy ensue—a dream shattered. It should have been him. He becomes frantic to ensure the demise of this undeserving woman. In apparitional form, he delivers Lexxie a message, face to face.
Her future lyeth in his words.
-The standalone background story to the Prologue in The Gatekeeper’s Descendants
-Book length approximately 90,000 words
-Recommended for Young Adults (14+) and up
-An edifying story involving feelings of unworthiness and a need to belong
-A small-scale fantasy representing the outskirts of heaven
More from the author:
The Gatekeeper’s Descendants, a standalone family drama involving bullying and grief
Jophiel’s Secret, a standalone adventure involving unforgiveness and grief
Anger tucked aside, she scurried up without bothering to read the inscriptions on the risers. Needing the strength of both arms, she pulled the door open wide. The haunting drawn-out creak confirmed a renewal of focus on her single priority. Find my lineage, my true father. Then new life is certain to follow.
An entrance hall revealed itself, though dark with looming shadows. Unable to avoid inhaling the displeasing odor, a mixture of lingering day-old incense and strong lye soap, her throat did a gaggle. Nothing like the sweet-pine pews inside her white-stucco church.
Attempting to step quiet-like, she still clicked her shoes against the marble floor, her feet inside all that lavish commenced to swell and pine for attention. Huh, stomping through town in modish spikes, ’tis not wise.
A figure across the room sat up on its knees and twisted a neck to inspect the visitor. Even in the darkness, the woman appeared maturely aged.
Unfolding with a painful slowness, the woman stood and rubbed her hands into her apron. With such a crippling figure, she couldn’t have had an easy go at life. Her head, a weighty slump, her neck, cranked to one side. Had she eaten in a while? So thin. And dressed in all black. Scrubbing a floor that already shone—preparing for a wedding or cleaning after the ceremony of a disposed corpse perhaps?
“State yer business,” the woman gnarled.
The plucky tone surprised. “Guten morgen, I’m, ah, here to examine the registers for births and deaths—if I may.” Politeness best protect her from being turned away. Harmon always said one achieved more with kindness than with harshness.
“Yer a stranger.” The woman’s shaking middle finger accused.
Huh. This woman the epitome of the latter.
“Madam, ’tis that I am. Please be, I intend no harm. I assure you. Just seeking. I shan’t be long.” Should be easy to check births around the time of her own, though this woman need not know that specific detail.
“Seeking? Huh, seeking ye what?”
Was it so wrong to seek? Lexxie sucked in a full breath. Her throat irritated by resins, she stifled a cough. But nay, she hadn’t come all this way to permit some grumpy old spinster to blockade her. Forget the kindness of honey, Harmon. Time for some harsh vinegar.
“Are ye cloaking history? Is that what you are saying, madam?”
The old woman shot an indication to a wooden door hidden beside the nave.
Lexxie jockeyed between pews in the direction the bony finger specified, stifling the clicks of her shoes as much as possible.
Whew. She knocked.
“We don’t lock history.” The old woman’s crusty voice echoed, having the last word.
This door, not nearly the heft nor clangor as the one fronting the church, Lexxie nudged and invited herself in. Larger than one might expect, the narrow room hosted wooden shelving loaded with books up to the ceiling sidelong. A movable ladder rested against the end wall, and an unlit kerosene lamp awaited on the single high table.
Help would be nice, some guidance as to the order of records. Lexxie glanced back where the scowling woman gave her a second glance. Then again, Lexxie could figure it out herself. After lighting the lamp, she shut the door for privacy.
A musty flavor and layers of dust from decades past awoke and scurried about. No window to allow a breeze of any sort. Once her sneezes settled, she walked the length of the room, thankful now for those daylong lessons in reading and writing with Grossmutter. ’Twas the age of enlightenment, Grossmutter would say. She kept at least one lesson ahead of Lexxie, so as to in turn share the blessing.
A thin cotton curtain covered one section of shelving beside a nailed sign—Prohibited Books. She edged closer to shelving with books of various sizes, difficult to distinguish due to caging, each row with its own locked latch. Huh, don’t lock history, say you?
She wandered to a series of consistent volumes laying heavy on their own, their leathery pasteboard covers bound with cord and red edging their pages. Numbers stitched atop.
Years, yes! Those ones were organized by years. They had to be the records she sought.
All she possessed now was her birth year. Harmon wouldn’t have lied about her age, would he?
A shiver ran through her veins. There had to be over seventy books, each covering a year, each varying in thickness.
Here it be: 1671. Energizing another dust cloud with a loud exhale, she heaved the book off the shelf and clutched it tight to her bosom. Her heartbeat thumped against the pasteboard cover. The registry for the year she was born must speak to her, reveal information she was desperate for. Vital to get on with any way of future.
She released her gripping hug, placed the heavy book on the table, and wiped dry her sweaty palms down the skirt of her new frock.
Overwhelm assaulted her. Harmon, the loving father she adored all those years. Grossmutter, the wise, gentle, and kind grandmother, her only female influencer. Was it true they be not her family? Would opening this book mean turning her back on them?
’Course, she’d already done so, hadn’t she?
If only they were cruel or unloving. Made her work like a slave. Cussed and cursed her day in and day out. This then would be so much easier. Her fingers twitched to shove the book back onto its shelf. Her legs urged her to take flight, run all the way back to Avondale, and bury this outlandish nonsense.
But nonsense, it weren’t.
The pounding in her chest begged to keep going, threatening to explode if she stopped now. She almost missed the rubbing of hinges, the only door to this library tomb opening, a male figure entering, the unwelcoming floor-polishing ogre poking her head around him to catch a glimpse.
“Searching, are we?” The man’s monotoned query struck an unexplainable chord.
Author Bio:
Not proud to admit, I’ve struggled with authority and routine since I can remember. A feisty red-headed child, I’ve barrelled my fist through windowpanes, ran away numerous times (to a bowling alley of all places), and even once, used a water pistol on my high school science teacher (right in his face, it was a dare). I actually managed to attain a master’s degree in business (though, really didn’t use it much). Instead, I preferred weekday evening classes in theology and weekend scribbling sessions of fantasy fiction. Losing a beloved teenage daughter to cancer snapped me to attention, then another (the second, a dear step-daughter) really did me in. Besides relishing the dearness of my husband and our other three children and their families, I write fantasy fiction with meaning. My mantra (which I made up of course) …because even a little heavenly imagination can loosen the chains of life. – Johanna Frank
“Frank, one of Canada’s emerging authors in spiritual fantasy, walks a fine line between general fantasy and faith-based fiction. Her work aims to innovate and transcend traditional boundaries, catering to a hungry market of curious readers who don’t want to be preached to but are open to exploring spiritual themes through fantasy.” – Sheri Hoyte, Reader Views
The third installment of Jonathan L. Ferrara’s young adult paranormal anthology series is here!This past year, Collin Winters has tried to put the events of Chateau Du Coeur behind him. He’s struggling to move on with his life. It’s a new year, in a new school, in a new city, and with a new heart beating in his chest.
Shortly after his first term at the Art Institution in London, Collin is selected by the headmaster to partake in a class field-trip to New York City where he, and four other students, will check-in to an old hotel. Amongst those students is Collin’s roommate—Aaron, who is trying to put his own past behind him. The two boys don’t always get along. One moment they’re the best of friends, the next they’re rolling around the hotel’s lobby throwing punches and nearly getting themselves expelled. The boys’ friendship only strengthens as they attempt to unearth the hotel’s dark secret. It turns out, the building isn’t quite what it seems to be. There’s something lurking in the hotel’s shadows…something watching the classmates from afar. While Collin and his friends attempt to solve the mystery of the Langham Hotel, Collin starts to remember that he might have stayed in the building once before. The past is about to catch up to Collin Winters and will surely put his sanity to the test.
Be prepared for a twisted ride through Wonderland…
I’m not sure what I expected when I accepted an ARC of this book. I got something entirely different but in a good way.
I will say the beginning was a bit slow for me. It wasn’t until I was five or six chapters in that I was truly hooked. This one may be a ghost story, but it’s not scary. It’s a story of overcoming your obstacles or darker parts of your life and finding not only acceptance of yourself but also allowing yourself to be happy.
First, I didn’t read the previous book in the series. There was enough information in this story that I didn’t feel lost. So don’t hesitate to jump right in!
And second… you’re going to love this book!
The characters were well developed and intriguing, although Charlotte had a tendency to annoy me. The glimpses we see of Ruby during Collin’s childhood honestly made her my favorite character. There was more to her than most people saw.
It’s full of romance, intrigue, and lots of riddles! Honestly, I’d consider this more of a ghost mystery.
This story will keep you guessing and there’s one heck of a plot twist! More than one actually…
But reader beware … closer to the end, be prepared to cry! Not because of a horrible ending by any means. The opposite in fact.
This book will put you through an emotional roller coaster. But it’s one heck of a ride!
* Disclaimer: I received a free copy of this book and am voluntarily leaving a review. The review above is only my opinion.
Outraged when The Post Gazette overlooks him for a promotion, 43-year-old
Sportswriter Christian Kane quits the Paper and moves to the country to
write fiction. Inspiration flows from a grave he stumbles upon in the woods.
He pens The Legend of Rachel Petersen, a fascinating story revolving around
the dead twelve-year-old girl who was laid to rest beneath the weathered
tombstone in 1863. His book climbs the Best Seller lists; then Hollywood
adapts it into a blockbuster movie. Kane becomes rich and famous; but then!
Does an enraged Rachel become more than a figment of the writer’s
imagination and rise from her grave, seeking revenge on him for slandering
her name?
Author’s Favorite Excerpts
Page 36
The wind picked up a bit and carried dry leaves off in a small whirlwind that danced around the tombstone. Then, the miniscule tornado lingered as it crisscrossed back and forth over the grave.
Page 55
The usually very shy and timid twelve-year-old girl tugged at the good doctor’s suitcoat. With tear filled eyes, she frantically begged, “Please Doctor Ferguson, make Momma better. You can’t let her die! Please wake her up! You have to!”
Page 71
Thaddeus looked up and calmly told his brother, “She’s gonna slice your throat too, I tell ya. She’s pissed because you sleep in her bed, ya know.”
The spoonful of soup he then swallowed poured out from the wide-open gash in his throat; pieces of cubed beef, peas, and carrots, trickled down his shirt.
Page 82
His eyes widened and his jaw fell open. Floating on top of the broth were the words… ‘help me’… spelled out with the alphabet macaroni! Thaddeus quickly stirred his soup and watched in awe as the words reappeared amongst the chunks of chicken, chopped celery, and diced carrots — ‘help me.’
Page 86
Thaddeus stopped talking when he noticed one of the two old hickory rocking chairs begin to rock back and forth. However, nobody could be seen sitting in it, and there was no breeze whatsoever!
Page 139
“You did not view these pictures on your computer before sending them, did you?”
“No, why? Is there a problem that’s going to delay publishing?”
“No! The exact opposite! In every one of the photos of you by the grave, about a foot away from you… There’s a freaking orb!”
(J.T. Baroni, pictured with the tombstone that inspired the story)
Living in Western Pennsylvania all my life, I’ve been an avid
Whitetail hunter since old enough to tote a rifle, which is also about as
long as I’ve had a fondness for word games and literature.
While hunting one year, I actually did stumble upon a weathered tombstone
in the middle of the woods.
While waiting patiently for that big buck to cross my path, I had plenty of
time to ponder the dead girl’s fate, which I was then driven to write.
Eerily enough, this is the premise of The Legend of Rachel Petersen, my
first novel published in 2012, which I recently revised.
A newly retired transformer repairman, I refer to Johnstown, Pennsylvania,
a small town outside of Pittsburgh, as home.
My wife Becky and I share our abode with two retrievers – Piper, and
Remmy.
The Vessels Anna M. Elias Genres: Adult, Science Fiction, Supernatural
The Vessels is a supernatural sci-fi trilogy by screenwriter Anna M. Elias. In this thrilling and emotionally captivating novel series, police detective Tallulah Davis loses everyone that was ever important to her. Ready to end her life, she is saved by a secret Vessels program in Reno, Nevada and leads a diverse group of equally broken strangers who become human Vessel hosts for spirits that return to seek forgiveness, restore love, and right wrongs from their past. By doing so, the spirits elevate humankind and earn their place in Elysium. But — not every journey goes as planned, not every spirit seeks redemption, and not every Vessel survives. Especially when the spirit of a serial killer returns and goes rogue in his quest for revenge.
In The Coin: Book 2, the Vessels brave their most life-threatening journeys yet. Tal is forced to the brink of death and a new Vessel arrives with a shocking surprise. Meanwhile, Eric’s spirit fights to come back through one of the ancient Vessel coins.
In The Return: Book 3, Eric is back and bonds into a new Vessel whose vicious desire for power and revenge equals his own. Until a new and powerful Spirit Guard arrives to help stop Eric’s rising tide of evil for good. But doing so will come at a price that pits spirits against Vessels, love against hate, and father against son in a war only one side can win.
Excerpt from “The Vessels” (Book 1) — Chapter 27, The Rogue
(Eric is the serial killer spirit that returns and goes rogue for revenge. He is the primary villain throughout the series.)
Flesh and mist swirled together until they painfully regrouped into Matheus’s sick and weakened body. He collapsed on a filthy sidewalk just off a back alley, organs sliding back into place, heart struggling to beat. Horns honked and traffic flew past while Eric waited for Matheus’s scrambled brain to fire up his parasympathetic nerves and bring things back online. Transport was as easy as breathing in a Vessel, but in an average human, especially one this feeble and infirm, it was like trying to hurl a tornado.
The nearby dumpster dribbled foul juices. Homeless people and prostitutes walked the dirty streets of gang-tagged stores, and a pawnshop’s neon sign flashed advertisements for slot machines.
Downtown Reno.
Eric recognized it from trips he’d taken in human life. He’d transported them here from San Francisco, targeting that new Vessels Program the Spirit Guard had mentioned. They must be close.
In India, where he’d entered this plane, the Program was based in an orphanage forty kilometers from the lake. Here, it must be that homeless shelter on the corner, the one with the soup kitchen entry on one side and the gated courtyard. All these Programs were alike—based in some kind of overlooked business that served others, near a lake owned by an indigenous tribe, and run by a bunch of do-gooders out to make the world a better place. The whole thing made him sick. Only the strongest, toughest, and most self-serving would survive, so why bother with anyone else?
Outside the shelter, a petite woman with wavy hair leaned against a SUV, a hybrid, of course, from the looks of it. She spoke to a thirty-something, blond man behind the wheel. The Rogue felt the tattoo around the man’s ankle, as well as his inner strength. This man was a Vessel, albeit newly marked, and he didn’t yet have the coin.
Perfect.
Author Bio:
Anna graduated from the University of Florida and began her career as Don Johnson’s assistant on the TV series, Miami Vice. She worked in production for years on feature films like Nell, 12 Monkeys, A Time to Kill, Practical Magic, and My Dog Skip before turning her hand to screenwriting. She has written many films and TV scripts, paid indie assignments, short films, and a book adaption with and for a legendary actor. “The Vessels” marks Anna’s debut novel series.
Anna’s passion for justice is integral to her writing. She loves to create entertaining and inspiring stories for stage and screen where her diverse, underdog characters defy the odds and buck the system for unexpected impact and change.
A killer hunts the humid streets of Sadie, leaving a calling card at the
scene of each crime: a black construction paper valentine. The victims, each
carefully chosen, are left the same way, broken and heartless.
Haunted by the ghosts of the dead, Rina Henley will stop at nothing for
truth and justice, but in her quest, she has brought the spotlight to her
and now plays a dangerous game of cat and mouse.
Summer Lin, Rina’s roommate, thinks of herself as the Vanishing Girl.
When things get rough, she can disappear like a ghost herself, and promises
Rina she can help her disappear, too. After all, she’s been on the
fringes for weeks now, to escape the ugliest of truths.
As the summer simmers around them and Sadie is gripped by terror and
tangled rumours, twisted love notes and secrets bring Rina and those closest
to her to the very brink of destruction.
Excerpt
Humidity sticks to Rina’s skin like melted caramel. The sun has slanted in the sky, blazing down on her with its midday intensity, encouraging sweat to roll down her neck, over her collarbone, and into the collar of her limp shirt. She ruffles the material at her waist half-heartedly. Inside is air conditioned, but she’s reluctant to go in. The house feels like a cage. She didn’t like it as a child and has even less time for it these days. The garden is the only space she can tolerate, even if that means physical discomfort.
Small stones dig into her thighs and ankles as she crosses her legs and leans over her phone. The news plays out of her speakers, and on screen, a peppy reporter gushes about a high school band winning first prize at a local competition. Rina can see her heart isn’t in it, though.
Her smile is obviously fake, breaking away between this story and the next like autumn leaves leaving their trees. The way people can turn their emotions on and off is chilling. Rina tries it herself, smiling wide and then shutting down. She wants to be just like them. Sunny, sunny, sunny, and then either a slate of impenetrable grey clouds, or a storm front. That’s power. Not money. Not words. Total control over what your face and body are doing.
“—when the body of another girl was found this morning in East Mill Park in the Greater Sadie Area,” says the reporter.
Something shifts at the edge of the garden: a glob of cold darkness, vaguely human-shaped, mostly featureless. Rina ignores it. It doesn’t help to look at it; it disappears under her attention every time.
The reporter continues. “Police have yet to release details but a person close to the victim has stepped forward and revealed their identity as twenty-three-year-old Molly Asher, a teaching assistant at Sadie University.”
Rina squints to get a better view of the crime scene over the reporter’s shoulder. The woman stands at the edge of East Mill Park, as close to the police barricade as she can get.
Around her, people crowd every inch of grass and lean against the police tape. Police urge them back to preserve the integrity of the scene.
The wind blows, throwing the reporter’s hair back over the shoulders of her smart business suit. Far behind her, a small, black blob wobbles in the thin tree branches. Rina can just barely make out the rounded curves of the top of the paper valentine. It’s black, like the one before it, neatly cut, and unadorned except for the golden letter M that will be at its centre, seen once someone secretly snaps a picture of its face and blasts it all over the internet. M for Molly.
M for a murdered girl. This is number two. The case was odd when Samantha Brown was found, a paper valentine swinging over her unseeing eyes. Now it’s turning diabolical.
A pair of detectives move beneath the valentine, one tall, blonde, and built, the other dark haired and lean. They overlook the evidence strewn on the ground. Yellow markers are placed in the dry yellow grass. Rina’s imagination tries to take a turn toward the morbid as she considers what those details are.
Inside the house, the front door opens and closes. Rina sinks in on herself, trying to be small and unobtrusive. She hates that she does this. Hates that she hopes he won’t check the backyard today. Hates that this is the place she always goes to escape.
The grey form under the lilac tree gets solid for an instant, as if puffing up. This time, it seems to say, this time I’ll be more substantial. This time, I’ll scare him away. Rina can’t help it; she looks toward it, though she knows she shouldn’t. She gets the impression of thin shoulders, thin hips, and thin hands before it disappears like fog on a lake.
“—still no evidence of forced sexual contact, leaving investigators to wonder what, exactly, is the motivation behind these killings,” the reporter still prattles on. Rina barely hears a word the woman says. She wishes the phantom would come back and really try to scare him the way they used to scare her when she was young and didn’t understand that they couldn’t hurt her.
The ghost doesn’t appear.
But he does.
The back door swings open and there he is in his blue herringbone wool peaked suit, looking immaculate despite the heat. Rina fixes the hem of her shirt around her hips as he sits down on the patio table in front of her and looks at her with eyes the exact same shade of brown as her own.
Rina silences her phone.
“You saw they found another body,” he says in greeting.
“I guess so.” She folds her phone into her palm. The screen is hot from the sun.
“Two girls were killed the same way. It’s looking like a pattern.” He acts like she hasn’t been paying attention.
“Okay.” Rina hunts for an escape route. With him blocking the way in front of her, the house behind masquerades as a sanctuary.
“He’s targeting girls just like you, Rina.”
She rolls her lips together to catch her annoyance. “He’s in the next town over.”
“There aren’t that many kilometres between us.”
He’s trying to scare her. Rina meets her father’s eyes. She doesn’t like the way they’re big, genuine, and soft. “I thought you weren’t allowed to give any details?”
“I’m not. But when my daughter is at risk, I’ll tell her what she needs to know to keep safe.” He takes her hand as he speaks and squeezes. She squeezes back because that’s what daughters are supposed to do. “Don’t go into the park by yourself or out after dark. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t wander around the city on your own.”
“So don’t live my life,” Rina says before she can stop herself.
“Not until the killer’s caught, no.” He palms her face, taking her by the chin and studies her intently. She holds her breath as he leans forward to kiss her cheek. His moustache pricks her skin. “I worry about you, Rina.”
She waits for something worse but thankfully, it doesn’t come. He stands, returning to the house.
Rina unlocks her phone again to watch the reporter for another few minutes. The story is over. Now she’s talking about a strong summer storm that might break the humidity for a day or two.
Rina sighs and faces the house. Its stone and brick exterior is modern and well-kept.
There are topiary bushes, trimmed, and expansive gardens that receive a weekly weeding. Most of the doors are French and stained glass. The whole thing is carefully cultivated to provoke awe and envy. She hates it.
Gently, she opens the door and pokes her head in. The main floor seems abandoned. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeates the house.
She closes the door quietly and tiptoes up the stairs, into her bedroom. Here, the air is icy, in direct contradiction to the storm of summer outside.
Her laptop comes alive with a whirl of its expensive fans, her printer, too, chugging and buzzing. Rina searches the internet for the article on Molly Asher and the newest screen caps of
the reporter’s initial account. Just like she thought, someone has already captured a picture of the black heart waving like a limp, ominous flag, and zoomed in on it. It looks like a homemade valentine, but where all the red is supposed to be, it’s been dipped in darkness, dark, dark, dark like the deed it represents. A calligraphy gold M shines in the centre where the killer has marked this valentine for his victim, just like Rina thought. She wonders how long he’s been studying Molly Asher; she wonders if Molly knew him. She wonders if Molly screamed, or scratched, or bit him before he wrung the life from her.
She hopes so.
Rina hits print and then uses a pair of sharp scissors to carefully cut the heart from the paper and meticulously pastes it in her little scrap book of macabre things. Some of its pages are choked in poetry, some are crowded with short stories she’s never finished. Most, though, are pictures of murdered girls and their murder sites. The very first page belongs to her mother, homage to the life that was stolen from her during a grocery store robbery that happened when Rina was just ten. All the ones that come after are victims like her, girls surprised to find themselves in dangerous situations, or tricked into their demise. Rina knows she should stop, but once you start something like this, it acts like an addiction, and is just as difficult to quit.
She clears her browser history and hides the scrapbook back beneath her mattress. She recycles the cuttings, then listens. She can hear her father on another conference call in his office down the hall. That should keep him busy for an hour, hopefully. The director for the Community and Public Affairs section of the Raker Police Department gets no rest.
Rina tiptoes to the bathroom and locks herself inside. She peels her clothes from her body and glances at herself once in the mirror. The girl staring back at her curls her nose when she looks at all her pale skin, her full body, the love handles she can’t seem to shed, the pouch of her stomach she can wiggle when she pinches it. Something anxious and displeased rears its head in her and struggles to get out.
About the Author
Kaitlin Corvus is from Ontario, Canada. The north holds the best part of
her. She writes about nobodies, monsters, and gutter glitter, loves the
stars, the deep dark sea, and a good horror mystery.
In the near future, Lieutenant Liam Price finds a woman mutilated three separate times in the aftermath of a failed experiment. To solve the case, Price must distill in the darkest elements of his robotic-driven culture, uncovering a terrifying revelation about how mankind actually dies.
About the Author
Daniel J. Burke is an author, doctor, and musician, which is an elaborate way to say he is a storyteller. At different moments in his journey, he practiced medicine in Kolkata, innovated a theory contributing to neuromuscular research in space, and was the lead guitarist in a medical school cover band “The Flu Fighters”. Daniel wrote The Cotard Delusion during his medical training. When he is not practicing
storytelling, he explores his hometown of Philadelphia.
I have the petfect story to curl up with on Halloween! Check out Ian Conner’s Ghost Witch and make sure to leave a light on!
Ghost Witch
Publication Date: June 2nd, 2022
Genre: Supernatural Horror/ Ghost Story, Native American Folklore/ Mythology
The Two Spears and Four Claws clans for generations. Now the evil has returned, once again threatening the lives of a young mother and her twin babies. It is an evil that temporarily killed and banished with fire and magic, but it can never be destroyed. It is a source of great shame for the clans. So much so, that it is never spoken about outside of the tribe.
Carlyle Allen, the wealthy new owner of Haunted Gap, is building his dream home for he and his young bride, Rebecca. Carlyle discovers a hidden room in the basement and comes across the corpse of “The Maiden”, a form the evil entity takes to seduce and trick people into doing its bidding.
A very pregnant Rebecca Allen visits Haunted Gap for the first time. Rebecca becomes exposed to poison from “The Maiden,” leading to a trip to the clinic where she meets Maggie Four Claws and Dr. Sally Manning. Realizing that Rebecca has been marked by the Ghost witch, she contacts her grandmother Opal for help and to alert the clans.
Maggie manages to convince both Rebecca Allen and Dr. Manning that she and the babies are danger, not only from the Ghost Witch, but from her husband Carlyle as well. As Dr. Manning races to get Rebecca to safety, the Ghost Witch causes an accident, allowing Carlyle to kidnap Rebecca in order to sacrifice her and the children to “The Maiden.”
Meanwhile, Maggie Four Claws, Grandma Opal, and the rest of the clans move into action to hunt down and banish the Ghost Witch. But, will they find the evil in time enough to destroy it and save Rebecca and her babies?
Ian Conner is retired and spent most of his adult life as a Marine and Army Infantry Sergeant. Now living near San Diego California with his wife Bonnie, a cellist, and their two dogs, Cookie and Isabella. Conner spends his days fostering kittens, gardening, crafting beautiful stained glass and creating worlds on the page.
Conner has authored several other novels:
Cooper’s Ridge – Science Fiction
The Long Game – Political Thriller
The Price of Partisanship – Political Thriller
Solaris – Political Thriller
Griffins Perch – Epic Fantasy
Ghost Witch – Horror
After a lifetime of destruction the thought of creating something tangible and lasting holds great appeal. He finds writing a cathartic way to redefine himself both in his eyes and the eyes of others.
Title: The Atlantean Horse: The Feathers of the Phoenix Book 1 Author: Cheryl Carpinello Publisher: Silver Quill Publishing Pages: 149 Genre: YA Paranormal/Supernatural
Blurb:
Ancient Mystery…Mystical Prophecy…Biblical Horsemen
One Epic Task
The Task: Retrieve the Five Feathers of the Phoenix to raise Atlantis so its people can return home.
The Chosen: Cousins Rosa & Jerome embark upon a perilous and personal quest to retrieve the first Feather. Rosa’s special gift, kept far in the Past, will be revealed, and Jerome will discover his.
The Opponents: The Four Deadly Horsemen of the Apocalypse will stop at nothing, not even murder, to possess the Feathers.
Join Rosa & Jerome as they risk all in their search for the First Feather!
I’m a lover of mythology, myths, legends, and tales from the ancient/medieval worlds. I enjoy exploring how these have transcended time/space to influence our world today. Myths and legends don’t fade away; they are just repackaged for a new audience.
As a high school English teacher, I continually challenged my students to find connections between today and times long gone by. Some took more digging than others, but the connections were always there. One of my favorites, Star Wars, borrows several concepts from the Legend of King Arthur. The Star Trek series goes even further back into the mythology of ancient Greece, Rome, and Egypt as well as others.
I write Arthurian Legend for young readers and teens (I never refuse to let mature readers enjoy my stories!). These stories exhibit what I consider to be cornerstones of that Legend: Courage, Honor, Loyalty, and Friendship.
My tales from Egypt and my new series Feathers of the Phoenix meld the ancient/medieval worlds with today. The Atlantean Horse (Book 1 of Feathers of the Phoenix) also brings the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse out of the Bible and into the modern world. They and my main characters are after the feathers of the Phoenix in order to bring Atlantis alive again.
