Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts

Saturday, January 10, 2026

Eternally Beautiful Summer Nights - Horror - Paranormal #Horror #Paranormal

Martha Wickham is here to tell us about Eternally Beautiful Summer Nights, horror, paranormal.

Read on for details...

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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."

 

 

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.

Contact Link

Purchase Links


RABT Book Tours & PR


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Tuesday, January 6, 2026

By Dawn - The 13th House - Horror - Paranormal #Horror #Paranormal

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.

Contact Link

Purchase Links


RABT Book Tours & PR



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Saturday, December 27, 2025

Incubus - Dark Fantasy - Horror - Action Romance #Romance #DarkFantasy #Horror #Action

Jonathan Wright is here to tell us about Incubus, a dark fantasy, horror, action romance.

Read on for details...

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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!


Excerpt
Copyright ©2025 Jonathan Wright

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



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Monday, December 15, 2025

Pyres - Dark Supernatural Horror - and a Giveaway #DarkSupernaturalHorror #Horror #Giveaway

Kev Harrison is here to tell us about Pyres, dark supernatural horror.

There's also a great giveaway.

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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 HiddenPyres is a tense, taut novel of supernatural horror.

 

Amazon US * Amazon UK * Books2Read * Bookbub * Goodreads


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 wake her 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 not jar 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.

 

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Sunday, November 30, 2025

Campfire Tales to Chill the Bone - A Collection of Short Stories and Poems - Horror - Thriller Anthology - and a Giveaway #Anthology #Horror #Thriller #HorrorThrillerAnthology #Giveaway

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 DarkCreepshow, 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.

 

Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads





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.

 

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Friday, October 17, 2025

The Infected - Apocalyptic Horror - and a Giveaway #Horror #ApocalypticHorror #Giveaway

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.

 

Amazon * Audible * Bookbub * Goodreads





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.

 

Website * Amazon * Goodreads


Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway! 


The Infected





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Saturday, September 27, 2025

The Fear Driver - Horror - Various Subgenres #Horror #VariousSubgenres

The participating authors of this anthology are here to tell us about The Fear Driver, horror in various subgenres.

Read on for details...

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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.





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