Here, you can read excerpts from my books, and order them, if you like. My books are available in paperback, or ebook format, except Small Victories, which is only available as a paperback. However, before you read, first some words of wisdom from some of the best writers ever:
“They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”
- Edgar Allan Poe
“Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”
- Charles Addams
“Classic: A book which people praise and don’t read.”
- Mark Twain
“You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.
- Ray Bradbury
FOUR DARK AND STORMYS AND A HANGOVER
“If you’re a horror fan and like short novellas or short story collections, Four Dark and Stormys and a Hangover is worth reading.” – Reedsy Reviewer
The following are excerpts from two of the four novellas from Four Dark and Stormys and a Hangover. If you would like to read more, the link to purchase the book is provided at the bottom. Happy, horrific reading!
UMBRARUM EST LUX (There is Light in the Shades)
Chapter 1
She saw it out of the corner of her eye. It was just outside the kitchen window. Without even thinking about it, she rubbed the back of her head from when she had fallen about a week earlier.
Her feet had been firmly planted on the soft pad that she kept on the floor in front of the double sink. Her husband, the know-it-all professor, hated the pad because he had tripped on it more than once. Too bad, she thought, it keeps my feet comfortable.
He had told her that the singed remains of the sauteed potatoes and onions would come off easy if she would only put the whole thing in the dishwasher. “What’s the point of having a dishwasher if you’re not going to use it?” he asked. But she knew better. This much, at least, she knew better than him; that some things must still be done the old-fashioned way, like manually scrubbing the residue off a frying pan from last evening’s meal. But even letting it soak in hot, soapy water through the night had not solved the problem. The little plastic scraper that you get with each Pampered Chef order was tedious to work with, especially with the oversized, pink, rubber gloves that she wore to protect her from “dishwasher” hands.
She was contemplating the stubbornness of the frying pan mess, and quietly cursing to herself about it, wondering if he had been right about putting it in the dishwasher, when she saw the shadow. It was just a quick view out of the window to her right: a shifting shade; a dull, black trace; a fleeting glimpse of…what? Startled, her head swiveled to the right, but only in time to catch a flash of darkness before it faded in a second. Her feet shifted slightly to the right on her comfortable pad, as if, apart from her eyes, they too had witnessed the scant passing of the shadow.
She kept staring out the window from what felt like the safety of the kitchen sink. It was just a shadow, right? Too fast to be that of a passing human, maybe it was a crow, or a grackle, or some other dark bird that had flitted by. Perhaps it was caused by the limbs and leaves of the elm tree that adorned their back yard. But the sun wasn’t out, it was overcast that day. Gwen shook her head and thought, no, you’re being silly, girl. It was just some trick of the light, perfectly natural.
Yet, getting back to scrubbing the pan, she thought about the things that she thought she had seen recently. And truth be told, she didn’t just think she had seen them. She knew she had seen them. Yes, she’d seen them, in the alleyways and side streets that came off the boundaries around Princeton’s Palmer Square: Nassau, Witherspoon, Hulfish, and John Streets. Amid the jewelry stores, the quaint boutiques, the antique shops (spelled with two p’s and an e on the front door sign), the Nassau Inn with its famous Yankee Doodle Tavern, and the old-fashioned ice cream parlor with its retro look, but with prices that certainly weren’t retro (one has to be willing to pay for deliciousness in Princeton), she had seen the shadows. They would whisk away from the corner of her eye before she had time to discern just what they were. Perhaps just tricks of the light?
And it wasn’t just in the business side of the city. During her walks on campus, she would see them, fleeting glimpses of shadows within the shadows created by the alcoves and cupolas of buildings such as Stanhope Hall, and East Pyne Hall, always escaping too fast, as if they were teasing her with their sudden coming and going.
Why was she seeing these things in Princeton?
She was tired of dealing with the stubborn, stuck-on food in the frying pan. Taking off her gloves, she set it back in the sink and ran hot, soapy water over it again, and let it sit. She didn’t want to be in the house at the moment. She needed to go for a walk. Yes, her two teenagers would be back from school shortly. Dr. John, as she liked to refer to her professor husband, always preferred that she be at home when the kids got out of school. Well, not today. There were plenty of snacks in the house, and they could fend for themselves for a while. She grabbed a rain slicker from out of the closet, just in case, snatched up her facemask from the decorative bowl by the front door, and headed out.
In the back of the house, beneath the kitchen window, the shadow clung to the brick siding of the restored, Italianate-style home. Any observer possessing an acute sense of sight would see that this was no trick of the light created by the sun and tree branches. It was still overcast outside.
Its shape pulsed back and forth from an amorphous blob into something that loosely resembled a human being. It liked this home. This home could serve its purpose, especially through use of the woman, Gwendolyn, who lived here.
WHY GREEN IS THE NEW ORANGE
Chapter 1
With grace and dignity, Blissful Creek meandered past Emmet Bowles as it made its way toward its final destination, the Peace River, about another mile downstream. The Creek widened to about 20 feet at this point, and its steady movement through silted reeds and over scattered rocks spoke to him with a voice that was more than a whisper but still less than casual conversation. Filtered light from a full moon shone through the mostly Southern Oak, but also the few Gumbo and Cypress trees growing along the north side of the creek, creating an effect on the rippling water that looked like electric sparks. Spanish moss hung from the Oaks, straining to create a gossamer trellis from tree to water.
Sitting in his portable camping chair, Emmet smiled as he looked across from the south side, and fished around for the proper hook, and a small sinker from his tackle box. Even without the moon shining directly down on the Creek, there would be plenty of light for a splendid night of fishing. The brighter the moon, the easier it was for the fish to hunt for food, and for him to then hunt for the fish.
Yes, his wife was probably going to be mad that he’d snuck the leftover chicken out of the refrigerator to use as bait. But, as he threaded a sliver of thigh meat onto his hook, he believed she’d be more than happy if he came back with some catfish, bluegills, or redeye bass for her to cook up. They’d make for several good dinners coming out of his freezer. With luck, he might even catch one of those grass carps. The State government had introduced them to feed on invasive vegetation, so you’re supposed to throw them back, but hell, who’s going to know what he’s doing or what he’s catching out here in the dark?
This was his favorite spot to come to in the orange grove Town of Arcadia; one of DeSoto County’s best kept secrets, as far as he was concerned. He wasn’t aware that any of his fishing buddies even knew about this location, and certainly no one else ever came out here at night. They were too suspicious of gators around the creeks after dark. Pussies, all of them, Emmet thought to himself. Because he’d lived in Florida all his life, and had rarely even left DeSoto County, he knew how to deal with gators. Any of them ever got too close, a few Black Cat firecrackers (he always had a pack or two with his gear) strung together, thrown in their direction, and exploding near their snout, was enough to send the scaly critters running for cover. There wasn’t anyone around for miles to hear the noise, except him, the dim-witted critters themselves, and some water fowl that were doing their own fishing at night.
He purposely cast out toward a copse of reeds sticking out from about a five-foot-deep section. The sinker barely made a plop as it dropped in and dragged the bait to the mud. He knew this was where the fish would likely hang out, especially the bottom feeders. Placing the pole temporarily between his thighs, he scratched the stubble of whiskers on his grizzled, leathery face. Then he took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. The Menthol “Lights” was the one concession he had made to his wife in regard to trying to quit smoking. In his mind, the light cigarettes would surely cause any death from lung cancer to be less harsh than if he were smoking unfiltered Camels, for example.
He grinned in the dark behind the lit butt. This was one of the few places he could still smoke in peace. He took a long drag, and blew the smoke up in the air, fogging the moon. Surely, the fish, egrets, and gators wouldn’t mind. Besides, the smoke helped keep the mosquitos away. Knocking off some ash onto the ground, he took up his pole again. Life was good.
It didn’t take long before he felt a tug. It was brief, and then nothing. Cursing, with the cigarette still in his mouth, Emmet figured that he’d just snagged on some grass along the bottom. But then he felt another pull, and the pole suddenly bent and the reel squealed in protest. Tossing the half-finished cigarette into the Creek, he jumped up from his chair and followed the current a few yards down the bank, letting out a little line here, and then pulling it taut there. Whatever it was, it was pretty strong.
Walking the catch back up the bank toward his gear, he held the pole with one hand, and reached down to grab his net with the other. Whatever was on the line decided at that moment to give one last tug. Emmet actually fell to his knees, cursing the creature, but didn’t let go of his pole. Getting back up, he was able to reel it in. It was a good fight, but a brief one, all in all.
Pulling up and reaching out to grab it in the net, he could see in the dim light that it was a catfish, pretty good-sized too. Emmet had already filled a large bucket with water from the Creek. Being careful not to get stuck with one of its barbs, he used a pair of needle nose pliers to get the hook out, and to extricate the fish from the netting and into the waiting bucket. “Whew! Lordy, Mr. Cat, you look to be about 14 inches! My, my!” Emmet knew it was going to be a bear hauling that loaded bucket back to his GMC pickup that he had parked along the dirt access road. “But I’m not throwing you back,” he told the fish, “Mama’s going to love it when she sees that I brought you home to join us for dinner.” The fish said nothing in reply, but just sat motionless in the water and stared with sullen eyes at the white walls of the bucket.
As he sat back down to bait another hook, he was startled by a loud splash to his right. Although the Creek was shallower where he was fishing, he knew that about 20 yards upstream there was a pool that had formed where the water ran a little faster. It had created a bowl down in the mud, probably about 10 feet deep, before the Creek made a bend and then continued on to where Emmet was fishing and beyond. He grabbed a pen light from his tackle box, and patted his fishing vest pocket to make sure his Black Cats and lighter were there. Then he patted the holster at his right side. Like so many, red-blooded, adult Floridians, Emmet had his conceal and carry permit. He was a bit old-fashioned, preferring a revolver to an automatic. Satisfied that his .357 snub-nosed Magnum was loaded and ready, he slowly made his way over to the site of the pool.
The pool was hidden by an oak growing on this side of the Creek. He approached it steadily, using the pen light to guide him in the dark. There was something missing in the night, he tried to think of what it was. All he heard was the running water of the Creek. That was the only noise. That’s what was missing. The crickets had stopped their constant chirping. Emmet would never admit that the small hairs on the back of his neck rose up.
Still, he pressed on forward. Just as he rounded the tree, he heard another splash, but wasn’t in time to see what, or who, had made it. It didn’t sound like a gator, too loud for that. The critters might be dim-witted, but they’re certainly graceful when they slip in and out of the water.
He didn’t see any movement. But now there was a noise, not the crickets, not even anything outside his ears. It was in his head, a sort of humming that grew louder and drew him closer to the water’s edge. “Who’s there? Is anybody there?” Shining the pen light on the bubbly surface of the Creek, he crept to the ledge above the pool.
He was reaching down to take the Magnum out of its holster when he was suddenly struck with extreme pain in the middle of his chest. Before he even had time to react, he was pulled in, and found himself submerged, clutching at something embedded in his sternum. In the blackness, he couldn’t see his own warm blood mingling with the water.
In another instant, out of the darkness in front of him, appeared something that was all teeth and claws, with two, glowing, white orbs staring at him. It was as if the Creek water itself had formed into a devouring mouth. He managed to thrust his head briefly out of the water, and let out a scream as loud as a firecracker that no one would ever hear. When his head went back under, there was a lot of thrashing and ripping as he was swallowed up in Blissful Creek.
Several minutes later, on the bank, the catfish sat motionless in the white bucket, unaware of its predicament, only knowing that it was still breathing in the shallow water. It did notice the change in the moonlight as a shadow fell over the bucket. Hoping for food, it raised its head slightly out of the water and saw the two white orbs staring down at it.
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Four Dark and Stormys and a Hangover
10 PRETTY COOL LITTLE HORROR STORIES
Their Turn
It was the holidays, and Mary knew, especially during this season, that it would be dangerous to try and cross her husband. She had learned about his anger at their first anniversary. With brute force he had made it clear to her that she was to serve him without complaint. The holidays were his time for feasting and revelry, and for choosing a new bride. Yet, regardless of the peril she might face, she also knew that now was the time for her and the others to act.
She watched from the shadows as Chloe was forced to celebrate her own first anniversary by helping their husband, Jackson Remington Leedsworth, prepare for his festivities. He sat at the table in his study, its hand-carved elegance symbolic of the way he portrayed himself outside the walls of the antebellum mansion where the wives were imprisoned. After Chloe finished brushing his grey, shoulder length hair, she smoothed out the wrinkles of his formal coat, her snowy, white fingers contrasting its blackness. It had been packed away since he had worn it a year ago.
Chloe asked him, “Is everything to your liking, my lord?” With barely a smile of appreciation he grunted at her that it was.
Mary might have seethed with anger at the way Chloe was forced to fawn over him. But giving way to wrath would expose her. He did not tolerate dissonance in his home, and the consequences of spying would be grave. She had to control her instincts.
She thought back to that night eight years ago. “J.R.,” as he was affectionately known in certain circles of Savannah, had a way when courting a lady; so many of them had found his genteel drawl and other charms too much to resist. However, once back at the mansion, the proper Southern gentleman ruled with a disciplined tyranny. Mary had asked, “But I do not understand, my lord, when we first met, you said that you wanted me to be your own. Why then did you bring me here? Why did you take me as your bride if there were others?”
He had commanded her to be silent. “Your duty is to serve me. None have ever disobeyed, and neither shall you.”
Still she persisted, “But what about my needs, my desire?” With that, he cut her pleading short by clenching his fingers around her milky throat. She had learned a lesson. His will and brutality had taught her to at least show fealty to him.
However, from that point on, she had plotted for this night. Conditioning herself not to expose her thoughts, she would only contemplate her treason when he was otherwise occupied. It actually helped that he showed no use or concern for her. This enabled her to stay out of his sight most of the time.The moon was high. Jackson rose from the table. With his pampering complete, he was ready to seek out another bride. Although the holidays were miserable for his wives, Jackson relished them.
Chloe had groomed him well. She looked up at their master. Mary noticed that he regarded Chloe almost thoughtfully. “You have served me well, my wife. You know your place.” In a rare moment of tenderness, he reached out and caressed her cheek with his nails. Mary twitched, hiding behind a column. She remembered that same gesture from their first night together. It seemed to her the caress of a gentle giant. If only he had kept his promise to love and cherish, to always satisfy her hunger and thirst.
Suddenly, she felt him inside her mind. The thoughts of their first night together had caused her to let down her guard only for a moment, but it was enough. He could feel her presence behind the column. Things would happen quickly now.
Mary knew that his palm was rough as a mongrel’s paw. Still, Chloe tilted her head lightly against it. “I am at your service always, my lord,” she sighed. He smiled slightly, not revealing his teeth. Mary felt him in her mind, revealing that he would deal with her severely before he left. She was delaying his hunt. He gently commanded Chloe, “Go now young one, wait with the others. That is your place now.” Obediently, with no hint of emotion, Chloe turned and glided away into the musty shadows.
He turned now to face Mary, who had emerged from behind the column. She stared boldly at him. She thrust into his mind; give me all your rage. He hissed at her, “Your spying and insolence will bring you agony! Never again will you affront me!”
He lunged at her, but stopped in mid-flight when he saw the red, soulless eyes all open at the same time, blazing at him from the shadows, more than a hundred pairs of them. From the swirling darkness of his study, the other wives that Jackson had wed in unholy matrimony converged behind Mary.
He knew that, had they been alive, even his sprawling mansion could not have housed them all. Now, as undead spirits, only materializing into physical form when necessary, what need did they have for physical space? Indeed, if not for Jackson’s supernatural will upon them, none would be confined to his elegant prison.
Depending upon which era they had been taken from, the image of what was once clothing was different among them. Some wore Victorian dresses. These were the matronly women from the Georgia of many years past. Others were clad in designer sweaters and spandex pants from the 80s, styles that had filtered down from expensive Yankee stores in New York and Boston. Finally, there were those dressed as Mary, professional women by day, club hoppers at night. They represented the new South, with its chic Atlanta, and retro riverboat gambling in Biloxi. Jackson had watched the styles change through the years. He had been a vampire for a long time. As Mary and the others had learned, style was important to him. No girls from a textile mill, thank you. After all, he fashioned himself a gentleman.
Mary knew that the gentleman vampire loathed the behavior of others of his kind, those uncouth gluttons who gorged themselves on both animals and common mortals. He believed in moderation, and selectivity, and that a feast should be savored, not consumed, as if it were simply a T.V. dinner.
For most of the earthly year, he kept a leash on his appetite and refrained from dining and drinking. But during the holidays, when mortals celebrated, and females dressed magnificently for the festivities, even he, an aristocratic creature of the night, would give in to the same vulgar lust that drove his barbaric brethren. Ultimately, what mattered most was the fluid, flowing dark and luscious, like a sanguine delta river, beneath perfumed flesh.
Even now, as they slowly moved toward him, they looked elegant, despite the pallor of the grave hanging over each undead face. Mary realized that he was taken in by their grace and had let down his own guard. He bellowed, “Get back, all of you! Your punishment will be long and severe!” But his vulnerability was apparent. His face was like a whole pack of wolves on the prowl combined into one visage, yet the brides saw a glimpse of fear there for the first time. He drew back his jaw, exposing deadly canines, but his mouth was more a grimace than a snarl, and his sophisticated voice quivered.
There were some, those from the Civil War and Reconstruction era, who were more proper than others. In life, they had been instructed to be submissive to their men, to obey commands without question, and this had carried over into their unnatural death when Jackson had taken them. It had taken Mary to convince them over these eight years to change that belief. In life, Mary had been a woman with modern mores, who no longer served a man without question. She had her own ideas of how to run her life – and her supernatural death.
The older ones were grateful for Mary. For decade upon decade they had hungered, their master never even allowing them a naïve schoolboy to feast upon. Mary had provided them the opportunity. Now their fangs grew longer in anticipation.
“I said get back!” but he could not control them all. He was backing up. Mary knew that he could bend the will of several, but not great numbers of them at the same time. Suddenly, she felt Jackson focus his wrath back on her. He knew she was the one who had caused this treason. If he destroyed her, the rest would cower back.
He sent daggers into her undead mind, causing her spirited form to ripple in pain, as if crumpling over. “Yes, you are mine now, and you will pay dearly for your transgressions against –“
The words died in his mouth, as a wooden stake plunged through his back and burst through his chest. His demonic heart, glowing molten-like and misshapen, dangled, and then dripped, from the sharp point. His screams shook the columns of the mansion. When he turned, his body gave out and crumpled. As he burst into flames, he saw Chloe standing over him, sharp teeth gleaming against wine-colored lips.
Chloe, the youngest of them all, was the one that Mary had convinced to do the actual deed. Mary rose back up from the mist of the floor and watched. At Chloe’s feet, Jackson’s ashes gathered in clumps like the Spanish moss clinging to the trees outside. He had been killed with a commoner’s weapon, something that a girl who worked in a textile mill might use. There was nothing genteel about the second and final death of Jackson Remington Leedsworth.
Chloe’s pleasure in killing their master was obvious. Jackson had concentrated his fury so intently on Mary that he lost track of his newest bride, the most jealous of them all. In life, Chloe had completed the change in women. For her own part, Mary knew that she was merely cunning by not playing the dutiful wife. On the other hand, she knew that Chloe was the ultimate modern woman, young, jealous, and impetuous enough to agree to destroy an undead tyrant.
The others gathered around Mary, so grateful to her. One of them shrieked, “All pay homage to Mary, our new Queen!” They knelt down before her. The last to do so was Chloe. Her glowing red eyes met Mary’s just for a moment. Then she bowed down her head, grinning through a mouthful of jagged blades. Mary regarded the impetuous one and thought to herself, Queen, yes, but I will have to watch my back.
least for now, though, there would be no further treason. The holiday festivities beckoned them all into the night. Blood-filled, robust men were out on the town, so many fangs tingled at the thought. After hungering and thirsting through the decades, finally, it was their turn.
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10 Pretty Cool Little Horror Stories
SMALL VICTORIES
Chapter 1
From his throne in the foul, boiling recesses of Hell, Satan stirred. The thoughts of a soul-for-the-taking had penetrated from the other side through the fire and agony of his supernatural realm.
Unlike his Creator, the Devil is not omnipresent. He cannot be everywhere at once. But he can focus in on places and souls that create an opening for him to enter. The emotions and desires of one such desperate soul had done just that. He began to rise.
He rose through the putrescence of burning misery, past tortured, woeful souls that had amazingly chosen to join him. His legions, the ones torturing those lost souls, themselves objects of torment and damnation, exhorted their master on. If we must suffer this second death, bring on as many to suffer with us.
Through dimensions of earth and time, he followed the beacon set out by the wretched human. Poor, pitiful man. It would take much guile with this one, Satan could already tell. As he drew nearer to the source, he knew that only his best disguises would do; only the worst of lies would win this one over.
But he sensed victory. He burned through the atmosphere with urgency. Here was the prize, the one who would win millions over to him; millions to help in the ultimate battle someday – when his appointed time arrived.
It was early autumn at a pond, in a park, in the lower end of Manhattan Island in New York City. The leaves had not quite turned to their full brilliance yet, but the cattails on the fringes of the pond had gone to a faint brown from their summer straw color. The sky was overcast and began to show that October look. Squirrels, chipmunks, and their like were already beginning to forage for a winter supply. Ducks were floating on the pond, shedding their summer feathers to don a winter coat.
On the opposite side of the pond, a man was jogging.
The inanimate objects of nature noticed it first. Blades of grass at the point of contact were uprooting themselves, striving to be carried away by a cooling breeze. The cattails bent away from the point, straining for the water; refreshment from the coming heat and stench. The leaves on the trees above turned a pale side toward the scene, as if trying to shield the branches from the diabolical onslaught.
Immediately after the plants, the animals sensed the horror. In tandem, the ducks burst forth from the water, flying for that end of the earth directly opposite from where the conflagration was emanating. The rodents also, no longer wary of birds of prey, struck out into the open across a field of dying green. They knew that no hawk would stick around. Even the insects tried to flee. It was harder for them. Their six legs grew weak with fright.
All the animals had a look of terror in their eyes as they bolted away. They were the eyes of someone swept away in a flood, unable to fight the deadly current. They were eyes searching frantically for an escape which seemed out of reach.
Then the earth, the very dirt, was trying to escape. It boiled up in rivulets, an oozing conflagration of sand, grass, and rocks ran in every direction.
From out of the unholy eruption, a sinister mephitis began to emanate. It was accompanied by a whitish-yellow mist. As the eruption began simmering down, the mist began to take some shape. It went through a metamorphosis of various shapes, somewhat snake-like. At first, it was hard to make out any definition, for it was something not of this world.
Slowly, the sulphurous mist took a more identifiable form. First it was hominid. Then it was homo sapien, or, rather, a facsimile of homo sapien. The presence smiled at the terrified nature surrounding it. It relished the disgust coming from the vegetation gawking at its supernature. The evil smile widened. He could hear the sound of footsteps. The running soul approached.
Like what you’ve read? If so, you can read the whole book. Small Victories can be purchased at:
Small Victories (paperback only)
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