Martha Wickham is here to tell us about Eternally Beautiful Summer Nights, horror, paranormal.
Read on for details...
___________________
Horror / Paranormal
Date Published: 09-08-2025
Experience the eternal, beautiful dread of summer nights, where every shadow
holds a story and the past refuses to stay buried.
Welcome back to the
world of *Summer Scares*, where the warmth of the season does nothing to
banish the chill of the supernatural. In this pulse-pounding fourth volume,
Martha Wickham weaves five tales of dolls, deadly secrets, and the ghosts that
glitter in the darkness.
Inside, you will encounter the terror of:
Cursed
Heirlooms: A vintage collector doll named Reiny uses an old, randomly chiming
grandfather clock as her only way to communicate, and you'll find out just how
protective (and creepy) she can be in "Girl Protected," "Reiny's Clock
Terror," and "Reiny's Last Guardian."
*Glittering Ghosts: When Felicity
moves into an apartment, she finds glitter that won't go away and hears
tinkling bells—a terrifying trail left behind by the ghost of Lisa and
an important clue for a murderer on the run in "The Glitter Veil."
*The
Dollhouse Trap: Curious teens fix up an old dollhouse found in an abandoned
Victorian, only to start a haunting that communicates its terrible ending.
When Terri blames the trapped spirits for an accident, he must compromise with
the ghosts to escape their approaching wrath.
These are stories for your
eternal summer—a chilling journey where the dolls are more than just
toys, the hauntings are inescapable, and every beautiful summer night ends
with a scream.
Excerpt
Reiny’s Clock Terror
The grandfather clock chimed loudly and could be heard from Sara’s
bedroom. It was closed and she ran to it. It said nine o'clock, but it was the
middle of the afternoon. Sara Greyston wondered why it rang when it
hadn’t in over a year. Her parents heard it too. The clock was very old
and was built by her great-grandfather, George. She moved the arms to three
o'clock. There wasn’t much hope that it was going to work right. She
wasn’t sure what time it was.
She ran into her mother’s
bedroom. “Can we take it and get it fixed?”
“I
don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s only for show,” her
father said.
When she got to her room she checked the time on her cell
phone. It said ten am. Her watch was right, but she never wore it. The time on
her computer also said ten am.
“Did the power go out?” she
asked her mother.
“No,” her mother responded. “I
don’t think so."
Maybe that was it, and she shrugged. It was an old
clock and an old house, and it had been in the family for at least a century.
She had just graduated from high school and had time to do what she wanted.
All she really wanted to know was when her friends were going to the beach and
which school she should go to in the fall.
Just as she feared, the
grandfather clock randomly chimed. She sat up in bed and checked her watch. It
said one in the morning. It was so cold she got up to get hot tea and turn on
the heat. Afterwards, she lay down and checked her watch. It still said one in
the morning. In the morning, she would have to reset it. Lying there, she
suddenly heard small footsteps in the attic. Reiny hadn’t seen that doll
since Mary died, and the doll was locked with a bolt so that it couldn’t
get out. The protector doll had become a threat in high school a couple of
years ago.
Come early morning, she grabbed the keys and unlocked the
attic door. There near the door was Reiny. Her lifelike eyes were staring at
Sara. She picked her up, and the clock chimed. It was annoying, but somebody
in the family had made it. She took the doll downstairs and shut the door
behind her. She had planned to lock it up somewhere still.
She sat in the
kitchen eating her eggs. From the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she
saw the doll turn its head toward her. Her mom entered the kitchen.
“Mom,
what’s the name of the relative that built the big broken clock?”
Sara asked.
“George Greyson. He was a clock-maker and the original
owner of this house. He was great at it. I’m sure there are pictures and
tools he used to use up in the attic,” she answered sipping her
coffee.
“I’ll definitely go up there,” Sara
said. Her mom noticed how the doll sat in her green and white dress near
Sara.
“That’s Reiny,” Sara said. “I believe she
may be controlling the clock."
Martha Wickham has a knack for finding the ghosts hidden in the dust. A
lifelong student of the arcane and the artistic, Martha has an Associate's
Degree and professional writing credentials, but she honed her skills in the
thrilling shadows of screenwriting and horror. Martha lives for the secrets
that only come out "By Dawn". You can discover more of her work, including her
newest audiobooks, at your favorite retailer.
Martha Wickham is here to tell us about By Dawn, The 13th House, horror-paranormal.
Read on for details...
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Horror/paranormal
Date Published: 11-22-2025
Nine Tales. Nine Secrets. All Before Dawn.
In the shadow of Bloomstone
Manor, a dilapidated estate hauntingly known as "Lily Lane", the veil between
the living and the dead is impossibly thin. This collection of nine paranormal
mystery stories explores inheritances, dark family legacies, and spectral
demands, all bound by the Manor's enduring, dark influence.
This
Halloween, meet the three students who dare to knock on the door of "The 13th
House"—a black, unnumbered prison that holds the sinister secrets of the
past. Their trick-or-treating leads them to a terrifying collection of
artifacts: a bent spoon, a rusted key, and a doll's eye. Every artifact is a
clue left by a child who vanished, whispering pleas for help from beyond the
grave. The teens must solve the mystery and free the spirits before the
night's magic fades, or they might become the next secret the old house
keeps.
Every house has a debt. Every ghost has a tether. Uncover the
restless spirits and broken promises that demand attention and resolution.
When the clock strikes dawn, the secrets settle back into the dust and the
lilies—and it may be too late.
Excerpt
Night of the Spirits
Anthony pushed through the thick brush that had swallowed the old path. His
friends told him the house was hidden somewhere ahead, rumored to be haunted.
When he finally saw it, the place looked half-demolished, with climbing walls
that had paint curling and peeling. Yet every window was perfectly intact.
He
opened the front door. Stale, cold air rushed out, thick with dust. His
footsteps echoed through the empty living room.As he moved down the hallway,
the front door suddenly slammed. He spun around and ran back, and in that
moment, he was sure he heard a whisper: Sam.The door wouldn’t budge. He
was trapped. He tried the windows too none of them opened.
Again, the
whisper came, louder this time. Sam.
“Who’s Sam? I’m not
Sam!” he shouted.
A hiss answered him, followed by footsteps
upstairs. Heart pounding, he raced up the stairs. At the top, he stopped and
listened. The footsteps were clear, moving steadily into an empty room. He
followed them.
Moonlight spilt across the floor through a bare window.
The invisible footsteps crossed the room and came to a stop at the closet.
Inside, there was only a small box containing a single book. The spirits
wanted him to find it; maybe it would explain everything.
He lifted the
book. It was an old, battered ledger. Inside, a name was written: Samuel. He
began to read.I made a promise to the spirits trapped here. One of them is
buried downstairs. I swore I would help free them with my rituals. I study the
occult, and they own a golden statue worth a fortune. It must be used in the
ritual. If I hide it now, I can return for it later. No one alive will see me
take it.
Anthony reached deeper into the box and pulled out a loose page,
a torn sheet from another book. It carried a chant and the instructions for a
ritual to free spirits.A freezing gust swept through the room. Then a booming
voice declared:“Complete the ritual by dawn, or be trapped here
forever!”
“What am I supposed to do?” he asked the
spirit.
Once again, he heard footsteps descending the stairs and followed
them. Near the kitchen, the basement door creaked open. He cautiously stepped
down the dark basement steps and saw the cloud-like spirit hovering over a
crypt in the floor, where it looked like a ritual had been started over
someone’s grave. Candles and matches were scattered nearby.
About the Author
Martha Wickham has a knack for finding the
ghosts hidden in the dust. A lifelong student of the arcane and the artistic,
Martha has an Associate's Degree and professional writing credentials, but she
honed her skills in the thrilling shadows of screenwriting and horror. Martha
lives for the secrets that only come out "By Dawn". You can discover more of
her work, including her newest audiobooks, at your favorite retailer.
Jonathan Wright is here to tell us about Incubus, a dark fantasy, horror, action romance.
Read on for details...
_______________________
Dark Fantasy/Horror Action Romance
Date Published: December 23, 2025
Publisher: Changeling Press LLC
Life -- and love -- with a man who fights nightmares is bound to
be… different.
Smart, capable, and lethal, Sarah Fenton never needed rescuing -- until she
met Joe Horn and his horrifying nemesis, the muck-drippy-thing. Together they
defeated that nightmare, and for the first time in decades Joe could stop
running.
In the process, Sarah discovered her weakness -- Joe. The hard-as-nails woman
becomes Joe’s willing sub -- his slave girl. Joe is a perfect Dom, but
Sarah has even darker fantasies -- lurid, sensual and totally submissive.
Sometimes, they even come to life.
Now one of them is stalking her, and she feels the awful temptation of
nightmarish pleasure. The darker the fantasy, the more intense the pleasure.
Pleasure stronger than any drug. Pleasure that threatens to drown her. The
pleasure of surrender… to an Incubus.
Warning: This is a Razor’s Edge Erotica short story. Expect
limited plot and character development, and lots of heat. If you’re
looking for a lengthy plot driven erotic romance, this is not it!
Jongo infested her fantasies, dark, muscular, commanding. Sarah masturbated
three or four times a day thinking of him coming to take her, dragging her by
her hair, stumbling naked from the house, immune to his kicks and punches,
honed by years of training that would kill an ordinary man.
Not ordinary, Jongo. Not him. No. Her struggles only fed his burning hunger.
And hers. As now. As naked as she was, his huge cock throbbing and bouncing as
he walked, his grip was casual, yet inhumanly strong.
Stronger even than Joe, whom she had called Master more often than not. But
this wasn’t really about Joe…
* * *
Exhausted, struggling to keep her feet as she stumbled, Sarah gave up, then
was dragged, then followed him limply, his grip in her thick hair making her
walk head down, like a slave, cursing, then crying, then sobbing…
please, please, please.
Please, what? The demon’s strength, already huge, increased as he
stepped out of the trees onto the beach. As his foot touched the water, he
dragged her upright until she stood with her head tilted back, staring up at
him. He pushed her away, his hooded eyes nearly invisible in the shadows of
the moon. “Kneel.” He grinned as he stroked his cock with his free
hand.
Sarah stumbled and fell into knee-deep water. Rising, sputtering as water
streamed down her body, defiance failed her; words choked her. She breathed
heavily, staring at his cock.
“Recall how I took you before, so easily, wrapping you in my vines, my
seaweed, stroking your hungry body until you begged me to take you. How I made
you scream my name.”
Her legs quivered. She wanted to curse him, scream for help, for Joe
to… rescue…
Sarah had never in her life needed rescuing. Except for one time…
* * *
The wind sucked her along the dirty cement floor, into the waiting maw of that
THING, the muck-drippy-thing, as she steadied the pistol and emptied the
fourteen-round clip into its indescribable excuse for a face as the spindly
spider arms reached for her…
Then Joe was there, grabbing her by the collar and pulling her back. Stronger
than any man she had ever known. Pulling her back from the edge. Saving her.
* * *
Sarah hadn’t felt weak. Not then. Not like she felt now.
Weak. So weak. Why do I feel this way? Jongo is a monster, a creature from the
icy black depths of the harshest place on earth. Why do I feel so fucking hot?
She stroked her clit with one hand as she slowly sank to her knees in the
warm, swirling water. She spread the fingers of her other hand and teased her
nipples, shivering as she imagined being held against her will in the depths
of his lair.
“You are helpless,” Jongo told her. “Helpless.” A
ritual. A spell.
Yes. Helpless! Helpless! I am helpless! Her mouth fell open. She arched her
back, presenting her full tits.
I have to stop. I have to be strong! “No!” she gasped in a
purposely seductive parody of defiance. Wait. Purposely? Like I want this?
Jongo grinned and said nothing, continued stroking his cock. His huge, erect
cock. She couldn’t stop looking at it. At him. I love cock. I love it.Joe says I’m a cock-hungry slut. I get wet when he whispers that to me.
Helpless… His voice faded, still there, still commanding. She came with
a short, harsh cry as the orgasm claimed her.
Jongo laughed. “You have already surrendered. Do as I command! Keep
stroking yourself!”
She did. I can’t stop. I can’t disobey him. It feels so good to
obey. I want more!
“Think how my hard cock will feel in your hot, wet cunt. You will beg
for it. Beg for it, woman! Beg for my cock! For when you do, when I plunge
into you, you will be mine. My slave. Forever!”
Sarah came again, moaning this time, closing her eyes and thrusting hard,
pushing her fingers deep into her soft tits. “Yes! Jongo, fuck me! Yes!
Make me your slave! Make me your slave!”
She dropped back into the water as he fell on her, forcing her legs apart,
driving his cock into her, driving her will deep down into the chill, black
depths of his domain where it dissolved like tendrils of ink. She wrapped her
legs around him and thrust mindlessly, screaming as she came and came
and…
* * *
Sarah lay on the table on the veranda, sweating, her tits heaving, her knees
spread, hips moving rhythmically up and down in time with her frantic thrusts
as she came for the fifth time. “Ah, fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” She rammed
the dildo into her cunt one final time before slowly drawing it out. Her whole
body quivered, drenched in sweat, as she lowered her legs and stretched,
groaning.
“Well, I think you must clean off that table before you use it for
anything else.”
Sarah gasped in shock, but without shame or embarrassment.
Belle stood not three feet away, a gorgeous Jamaican woman of medium height
and surpassing curves, dressed in paint spattered clothes and carrying various
implements of artistic creation. “You missing your man Joe? He’s
only been gone a day.” Belle arched one elegant brow for emphasis.
Sarah dropped the dildo and draped one arm over her sweaty face. “You
have no idea…” Joe liked to watch her fuck herself like that.
Imagining him doing so made it hotter for her.
Belle chuckled and began setting up an easel. “So hot for your Dom, you
maybe forget we had an appointment to paint those luscious curves?”
About the Author
Jonathan Wright retired to the northeast, where he is surrounded by family and
trees in about equal numbers. In his free time he enjoys thinking up
erotically terrifying situations for his characters, who insist they
don’t like that sort of thing. When he isn’t writing about
slavering fangs in the dark he does weird-ass paintings.
He has a daughter who will admit to the relationship under duress. He puts up
with her because she makes great cookies.
We don't know why she puts up with him.
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15
Kev Harrison is here to tell us about Pyres, dark supernatural horror.
There's also a great giveaway.
____________________
As the artworks - and charred bodies - mount up,
can Angela
and Becky find out what’s happening, and how to stop it?
Pyres
by Kev Harrison
Genre: Dark Supernatural Horror
"Horror’s Kev Harrison is on fire with his latest
novel, Pyres, a blistering murder mystery with echoes of Dorian
Grey that compels with its artistry as much as its political
commentary. Set in the New Forest and conjuring ancient gods, Pyres is
darkly revelatory. Definitely make this your next read."—Lee Murray, five-time Bram Stoker
Award®-winning author of Grotesque: Monster Stories
Angela has been a spirit painter for years. Channelling the spirits as they
commit memories to canvas through her: childhood pets, favourite holiday
locations, and sprawling homesteads. But now, something has changed.
The paintings take a dark turn just as her sister, Becky,
returns from Italy. People burnt alive, their smouldering remains a vivid,
visceral stain on Angela’s canvasses. Already disturbed, her life is thrown
into turmoil when a right wing TV news presenter is found incinerated in a
facsimile of her new painting.
As the artworks - and charred bodies - mount up, can Angela
and Becky find out what’s happening, and how to stop it?
From the Independent Press Award-winning
author of Shadow of the Hidden, Pyres is a tense,
taut novel of supernatural horror.
There’s
a bite in the air that I haven’t felt since … well, since the last time I was
here. I pull the jacket round me and do the zip up halfway.
After
unlatching the gate, I walk it back, fastening it in place with its rope to a
hook on the old stone wall, then dash back to my car and park up.
The
house seems at first to be in darkness, but then I catch the orange quiver of
candlelight through the windows.
Angela
must be painting. Just my luck.
I
grab a holdall from the boot—the rest of my things can wait until the
morning—and make for the front door. I knock. Wait. And, as expected, there’s
no reply.
A
glance up at the sky tells me this pause in the rain won’t last long, so I head
around the back of the cottage, through the knee-high grass and wildflowers to
the old wooden summer house. I lift the locking bar and let myself in.
Cobwebs
stretch from corners, telling tales of a summer to forget. I swat them away,
careful not to catch any spiders in the process, then make for the curtain at
the back. Sweeping it aside, I find the painting—my sister’s first ‘with help’,
as she likes to put it—and take it down. The front door key is, as always,
nestled in the corner of the frame.
With
the summer house locked up, I traipse back to the front door and carefully
unlock it. I creep inside, leaving my bag under the coat rack, then lock the
door with as much stealth as I can manage.
Now,
all that’s left is to follow the wavering shadows from the candlelight, and the
pungent fragrance of henbane, to Angela’s studio on the other side of the
cottage. I think about using the torch on my phone, but fear the consequences
if I wakeher while she paints.
The
walls are emblazoned with canvases from the hall through to the lounge. The
styles are eclectic, so varied you could never say they prescribed to any
specific theme. Such is the way of things in her line of artistic expression.
When
I reach the glass panelled door to the studio, I pause before turning the
handle, knowing as I do that what I’m about to witness will never notjar
with me. I take a breath, hold it, and push.
The
door glides silently open and she’s there, facing me, hands frantically swiping
with the brush on the portrait canvas before her. She balances with poise on
the high artist’s stool, despite the extravagant motions of her painting,
despite the fact her eyes are rolled back, the bulging sclera pulsing,
criss-crossed with angry-looking pink veins. The shadows, swaying in the
candlelight, render the scene still more other worldly. Unsettling.
The
decades-old futon in the corner looks so inviting, especially as I have no idea
how long this could continue for. But curiosity tugs at me, even through the
fog of my exhaustion. I always want to know what she’s painting, even if I’m
not wholly convinced by the way she describes her methods.
Taking
care not to get too close, I tiptoe around the edge of the studio and come to a
stop behind her. Her brush hand continues to thrash one way and the other,
while mine are drawn, without my permission, to my mouth.
On
the canvas, there is a room. The utterly unremarkable magnolia walls and
fireplace are not what has stolen my breath. That prize goes to what’s at the
centre of the piece. A green, leather armchair, somehow, remains intact, as do
one and a half of the legs ‘sitting’ on it, if you can call it that.
At
the top of the worst affected of the two legs, the thigh is a bubbled,
overcooked mound of flesh, from which a charred femur extends. The torso is
missing, but for a blackened imprint melted into the fabric of the chair
behind. Despite this, the right leg remains covered in a fragment of a pressed,
grey trouser leg. Each foot remains encased in a perfectly preserved shoe.
I
try to breathe. Try to remember the mechanism by which my lungs have been
pulling in air for the length of my life to date. The extremities of my vision
begin to darken, my balance slipping away, when I hear Angela’s voice.
“Not
again.”
Originally from the UK, but now living in Lisbon,
Portugal, Kev Harrison is the Independent Press Award-winning author
of Shadow of the Hidden and his newest novel, Pyres,
as well as the novellas, Below and The Balance.
His short fiction has appeared in more than twenty venues and is collected
in Paths Best Left Untrodden. When not crafting creepy tales, he
can be found travelling and eating with his partner in crime, Ana, or singing
bizarre songs to his three cat overlords.
R.O. Lando is here to tell us about Campfire Tales to Chill the Bone, a collection of short stories and poems. A horror, thriller anthology.
There's also a great giveaway.
____________________
A collection of creepy stories and poems sure to leave you
shaking to the bone.
Campfire Tales to
Chill the Bone
A Collection of Short Stories and Poems
by R.O. Lando
Genre: Horror, Thriller Anthology
Pull up a log, lean into the glow of the fire, and prepare
yourself for stories that chill, unsettle, and linger long after the last page.
Campfire tales meet modern horror in this
collection of short stories and poems, each crafted to capture the thrill of a
ghost story told under the stars. From eerie encounters and haunted places to
strange whispers carried through the night, these tales explore the shadows of
imagination and fear.
Perfect for fans of Scary Stories to Tell in the
Dark, Creepshow, and late-night urban legends, this anthology
is filled with unforgettable moments:
* Chilling short stories that twist folklore and fear into
something new
* Haunting poems that capture the spirit of All Hallows’ Eve
and beyond
* A campfire framing device that makes every story feel like
it’s being told just for you
Whether you’re looking to relive the thrill of childhood
ghost stories or discover fresh nightmares to keep you turning pages, this book
is an invitation to step into the dark and listen closely.
For readers young at
heart, horror fans, and anyone who knows the best stories begin with the
crackle of a fire.
R.O. Lando is a versatile storyteller whose work spans
thriller, horror, supernatural, romance, adventure, and fantasy. With three
published novels that have received high praise from readers, Lando crafts
emotionally resonant and genre-blending narratives that linger long after the
final page. Drawing from his experience as an EMT, he brings a raw and
unflinching perspective to human struggle, resilience, and the fragility of
life. His writing is often described as cinematic and immersive, blending the
visceral tension of real-life emergencies with the imaginative depth of
fiction. Inspired by the likes of Stephen King and Guillermo del Toro, Lando
began writing at a young age but has spent the last four years honing his craft
with serious intent. With several new projects in the works, he continues to
push creative boundaries, delivering gripping stories that defy expectation and
resonate across genres.
Perry Prete is here to talk about The Infected, apocalyptic horror.
There's also a great giveaway.
______________________
The fight for survival is on
The Infected
by Perry Prete
Genre: Apocalyptic Horror
A rogue virus alters human DNA, causing a mutation which
infects most of the world’s population. Those immune to the virus must survive
any way they can, as the two groups fight for dominance. The infected
mindlessly hunt at night, humans travel and forage for food during the day.
Rumours have spread of an area free of the infected in the cold barren land
permanently frozen in Northern Canada where the infected cannot survive.
A girl, alone and scared, is rescued by one of the infected, forming a bond
that may change the course of how these two groups will live with each other.
As their unlikely friendship grows, she realizes that peace may be possible if
others can learn to accept them. Until everything changes.
Perry Prete was born in Sudbury, Ontario 1962, the middle
child of three. His father passed away in 1972, leaving only his mother and two
siblings. His mother re-married years after, and they moved to a small town
just outside Sudbury, where he completed grade school. He finished grades nine
and part of grade ten at Ecole Secondaire Franco-Jeunesse before moving to
London, Ontario, in 1976. He transferred to G.A. Wheable H.S. for the final two
and a half years. For most of his high school years in London, he worked at
McDonald's on Wellington Road. After graduating high school, Perry decided on a
television career and went to Fanshawe College for Television Broadcasting and
worked for CICI and CKNC, CTV and CBC affiliates for a short time in Sudbury.
He moved back to London and worked for a few months before returning to
Fanshawe for the Paramedic program, where he met his wife.
After graduating from Paramedicine, he worked as a
medic in St. Mary's, Stratford, London, and Windsor before relocating to
Brockville, Ontario, in 1984 to work full-time as a Paramedic. While working as
a Paramedic, he was injured in a stationary bike accident which put his arm in
a cast, giving him the time he needed to write his first novel, "All Good
Things." He wrote his second novel shortly after, "The More Things
Change."
In between novels, he briefly taught part of the
Paramedic program at St. Lawrence College in Cornwall.
Perry wrote the third novel in the series, "The
Things That Matter Most," "Highway 7," "The Mind's
Eye," and "The Infected." He has three unfinished novels and
several completed works.
Perry continues to work as a Paramedic for Leeds
Grenville Paramedic Services. With over 40 years of experience and counting,
those calls have provided ample material for his future books.
The participating authors of this anthology are here to tell us about The Fear Driver, horror in various subgenres.
Read on for details...
____________________
Horror (various subgenres)
Date Published: September 23, 2025
Bite-sized horror stories are brought to you by twenty-five authors. From
creepy crawlies to the seemingly normal pets. From hideous monsters lurking in
the dark to charismatic people showing their true colors.
Each tale is precisely 100 words and leaves a long-lasting chilling
effect. Some will make you question the security of the world around you, and
what's more terrifying than that?
Featuring drabbles by the following authors: Bernardo Villela, K.J.
Watson, David J. Vowell, Joshua Ginsberg, A.L. Smith, Petina Strohmer, Zari
Hunt, Paul Burgess, Diana Parrilla, Angel Zapata, Vanessa Bane, Marc Sorondo,
Jacek Wilkos, Arvee Fantilagan, Jodie Francis, Alex Azar, Andreas Flögel,
Jade Kalb, Andrew Buckner, Ken Whitson, Jãnis Bogužs, Andrea Tillmanns,
C.L. Hart, S.F.J. Painter, Monica Wenzel, Dragan Ivanović, and J.E. Feldman.
Excerpt
One Moonlit Night
Copyright 2025 by C. L. Hart
As fourteen-year-old Nevil Teodoro climbed down the trellis near his bedroom
window, a blood-curdling scream pierced the darkness, startling him so badly
that he nearly fell. Juan Soto, the head groundskeeper, ran up from the
gardens, his clothes covered in mud and his face pale as the moon.
“What’s goin’ on, Ese?” Nevil asked as he finished his
descent. “You look like you seen a ghost!”
“Get back in the house, Chico, and call Mama Cecilia.”
“You trippin’, Juan Solo? You want me to call una bruja vieja and
not la policia?”
“Ain’t no policia can stop a moon vampire!”
About the Author
C. L. Hart is an editor who writes or a writer who edits. She primarily pens
dark fantasy (often Lovecraftian) and sweet romance. She resides in a tiny
town on the Northeastern Colorado plains with her adult son, her cat daughter,
and her cat grandson. When not editing, writing, or rehabilitating eldritch
horrors, she enjoys coloring, crafts, and cooking things that she hopes will
be palatable to someone besides the eldritch horrors.