With only ten days till Halloween, our Horror Anthology DARK VISIONS made number one on Amazon’s New Releases!
Thirty four twisted tales by twenty seven authors, three by me 🙂
Only 99 cents for Kindle download. CLICK HERE to get your copy today!
With only ten days till Halloween, our Horror Anthology DARK VISIONS made number one on Amazon’s New Releases!
Thirty four twisted tales by twenty seven authors, three by me 🙂
Only 99 cents for Kindle download. CLICK HERE to get your copy today!
With just twenty-five days to go before Halloween, I am pleased to announce the release of our second annual Horror Anthology, Dark Visions!
It will be available on Amazon on October 15. And I have a proposition for you.
We are looking for ARC’s (advanced-copy-readers) who would be willing to read a free download of the book and post an honest review on Amazon for the release date.
Such a deal! You’d be crazy to refuse.
I mean, like, really crazy.
As you may recall, last year I teamed up with author/editor Dam Alatorre and a group of very talented writers to bring you The Box Under The Bed.
This year, we have an even bigger and better anthology, full of spine tingling tales to haunt your dreams and nightmares.
If you are a horror loving loving lunatic like me, and would like to read this, please CONTACT ME through this blog.
I will need your email, but don’t worry, no one will see it except me. And I am sworn to secrecy. By Vito.
I will then send you a link for your FREE download.
Are you up for the challenge?
In case you’re wondering what you’ll get — here is a list of our stories. (Yes, three by me. Not one, three.)
Prologue: Now Comes Death, part one
Epilogue: Now Comes Death, part two
After you are finished reading, we ask that you post an honest review on Amazon on October 15. That’s it! Simple 🙂
But hurry! This promo is available for a limited time only!
Let me hear from you before the door of opportunity permanently closes…
He came to me as an infant. Washed like driftwood in the sea’s tide, from which his own grandfather, King Balor, had thrown him. O, it was a vile act! An attempt to drown the poor boy! The old king had his reasons. Years before, a Druid had prophesied: “Any grandson of Balor will cause the death of him.”
Such a warning was not to be taken lightly. Druids were the seers, the soothsayers of all things known and unknown. Yet Balor’s solution was foolish! The most foolish thing I had ever heard in my life. Imagine preventing a pregnancy by holding your daughter hostage in a tower, thus keeping her from all male contact. Even one with the brains of a sheep should know such a plan would never work!
But I get ahead of myself.
My name is Tailtiu. I served the land, the grain and the harvest. It was I who made all of Erin’s Isle green, bringing rain and wind, making the fields fertile.
It was I who ripened the wheat, sprouted the potatoes, made the apples fall and the berries go plump. I had ample work — enough tasks of my own, just to keep the land in good order so people would not starve. The last thing I needed was a baby at my breast to complicate my life.
And yet it was.
King Balor was a giant, a mighty sorcerer who was able to cast many spells and kill with his evil third eye.
Few things frightened him, but when he heard the Druid’s prophecy he was taken aback. The Druids were never wrong. And for this reason, Balor decided; it must be arranged that his grandson would simply never be born.
Balor had but one daughter, a beautiful lass by the name of Ethlin. So lovely was she that every lad for miles around offered his fortune for her hand in marriage. Yet Balor refused them all.
“Given the slightest opportunity, that girl shall get herself with child and birth an evil whelp,” he said. “One that would as soon take a dagger to me as blink an eye. O no! I shall prevent it at all costs! The fair Ethlin will be locked in a tower, where none of the male persuasion will ever get to her. There she shall live, forever barren. In doing this, I shall retain my own power and wealth.”
And so it was.
The girl Ethlin was locked in the Mor Tor, a crystal structure that one could neither climb nor descend into. Its walls were thick as a citadel, made of pure diamond, the hardest glass, which could not be broken with pick nor hammer. It had but one key for entrance which Balor kept only to himself, hidden in the darkest depths of his castle dungeon, its location known to him alone.
There, in the tower, Ethlin lived out her days in solitude, attended only by the twelve midwives who served her. Balor had commanded that there be no talk of men, and his daughter should forget they ever existed.
She had no sunlight, no fresh air, no diversions, no pleasure. Only the steady work of needlepoint, such to make her eyes bleary and her fingers numb. ‘Tis a wonder the lass did not go mad with boredom! A life such as that was no life at all.
“When am I to be free?” she would ask, to which her midwives would be silent, for they feared the wrath of Balor.
Far out in the glen, in the land of dusk and faerie, where time and space cross and all things are possible, there is an Otherworld. In that Otherworld dwell the The Tuatha Dé Danann – the Tribe of the goddess Danu. And in that tribe there was a lad. Brave and handsome he was, and young and strong, with a will of his own and much admiring of Ethlin. His name was Cian.
“How difficult could it be,” Cian asked me, “to climb that tower, to enter into it, to rescue the lass from her condemnation?”
“Not difficult at all,” I answered.
It was a mere sleight of the body. Balor, in his anger and scheming, had deeply underestimated the likes of me, the likes of Cian, the likes of the entire Tuatha Dé Danann. We are, you see, present in one place, and then we simply are not. This is the nature of our Otherworld. I gave Cian a potion of magic herbs with a drop of dragon’s tears; as he drank it I uttered these words:
“Eye of thistle, heart of drake
Through this charm a lover make
A path to his desired space
Full of lust and full of grace
With this potion may you prove
Dedication and true love!”
In an instant Cian had taken to the sky; in another instant he had entered through the walls of the crystal tower.
The very sight of him set Ethlin’s heart a-flutter, for the girl was young and ripe. She had never known the touch of a man. And such a man Cian was! Strapping and stunning, with chiseled cheekbones, dazzling eyes and locks of hair that put Samson to shame. His manners were impeccable, and chivalry graced every bone in his body. The Mor Tor quickly became their love nest. Within weeks Ethlin was with child.
Balor, for his part, had no concern for his daughter. Foolish man! He never visited, left all dealings to her midwives. But now! The surprise that awaited him would be one most displeasing.
Nine months later the child was born. We named him ‘Lugh’ for Light. No other name could suit such a child, for he was radiant as the sun itself. As the offspring of the two most gorgeous beings in Eire, he was bound to be beautiful – but the baby Lugh far exceeded mere beauty.
When Balor got word of the birth he was furious.
In the dead of night, Balor slunk into the tower, whittling his dull key to the door and ascending the crystal staircase. He kidnapped the baby and whisked him away to the edge of the sea.
Balor stood on a monstrous cliff, overlooking the waves that crashed below like a liquid glacier. Without so much as a thought, he tossed the child in, hoping the ocean would crush him to a watery grave.
It was Manannan mac Lir, the god of the sea, who found the baby. The infant was near death, bobbing and thrashing in the cresting waves, his lungs waterlogged and breath scarce. Manannan mac Lir knew immediately this was a very special child. He cradled the baby in his sturdy sea arms, wrapped him in a cloth of clean cambric, then brought him to me.
“You, Tailtiu, are a goddess of the earth. If anyone can suckle this child and give him renewed life, it shall be you.”
He was right of course. And even though Ethlin was his natural mother, it was not safe that she keep him, for Balor would surely track her down and attempt to kill the child again. I bid Ethlin and Cian flee the isle. They were young and could produce many more for their family. Lugh would be mine.
And so I raised him. He became my foster son, the Celtic god of the Sun, a radiant and celestial being. Prince Lugh was much loved and much revered, known for his kindness and benevolence.
He was, in fact, so loved that the Tuatha Dé Danann eventually chose him as their king. As such he was obliged to fight great battles. It was in the Battle of Mag Tuired that the Druid’s prophecy once again came into question.
Lugh was required to fight Balor.
The two met on a battlefield of mud and weaponry, a wasteland of gouged bodies, severed limbs and rotting blood. Balor had managed to kill many a soldier with his tricks and spells and evil eye, but now his grandson confronted him.
Lugh hurled a great spear, all the while shouting, “Forgive me, Grandfather, for what must be done!”
The spear then hit Balor, smack in his third eye. Balor fell to the ground, flailing like a fish on a hook. Yet the spells of Balor were still viable, and he managed to kill more of the Tuatha Dé Danann with his magic.
Having no choice, Lugh then pulled his sword and in one swift stroke, beheaded his own grandfather. The Druid’s prophecy was complete.
It was victory for the Tuatha Dé Danann. Through this, Lugh was given sacred powers. He become the god of skill and craft, of honor, truth and law. He was granted eternal radiance and eternal youth.
As for myself, by this time I was growing old, my twilight years upon me. My endless duties had left me strained. I had cared for the boy. I had cared for the earth. As the years passed, the land became wild and ornery. Sometimes it would not even produce a potato for me, thus leaving the people in famine. Yet I did my best. Finally, in my feebleness, I could no longer serve the greenery, the plants and grain I loved so well.
My health fell ill and I began to wither back into the land from which all living things come. I, like a crone of autumn, faded into that golden haze that marks the end of the long summer. Upon the first day of August I breathed my last.
To mark my death, my foster son called for a great celebration. He saw this fitting, as he wanted to pay homage to me and all I had meant to him. There would be no funeral dirges, no veils of mourning, no maudlin processions. Instead, there was sumptuous feasting, a bounty from the harvest, dancing and song, all forms of revelry and games.
From far away in the spirit world I watched. And I was most pleased. So pleased, in fact, that I wished this feasting and revelry could occur every year, on the first day of August, as a holy day, not only for myself but for the land, the harvest, and the people.
My wish was granted.
Because the festivities had been orchestrated by Lugh, it was only proper that this holy day ever after be called “Lughnasadh.”
I boarded the ship at Southampton, on England’s southern coast, a city they called Gateway to the World. It was appropriately named. New worlds would indeed open to those that dared sail on the Titanic’s maiden voyage.
Southampton was seafaring town of busy docks, commerce and fishermen who, given half the chance may have recognized me for what I was. Yet I went ably and quietly about my business, our custom being to operate in stealth. My disguise was well put together, a simple blue dress, lace up boots and one bag of luggage that contained only my combs, mirrors, candles and an ancient grimoire. For all the crew and passengers knew, I could have been any normal woman, a widow perhaps, traveling alone with a full purse and a certain destination.
My nature necessitated a room in first class, where I could have daily baths in the salt water swimming pool. The engineers had designed it to provide diversion for wealthy passengers with plenty of leisure time. Little did they know it was my mainstay of survival. Without it I could never have attempted my feat.
I socialized moderately, took dinner with new acquaintances, but left my comments to such mundane topics as the weather and other non-committal matters. This was my strategy, to avoid drawing attention to myself. Until of course, the very last.
The captain, one Edward John Smith of the Royal Naval Reserve, was a stately man, well-seasoned and of good capabilities.
When I inquired of the ship’s dimensions, her tonnage and resistance, Captain Smith looked at me funny. He must have thought it strange, a woman interested in such things. Still it was important I establish this knowledge. Else all my plans could go afoul.
We traveled for four days, stopping at Cherbourg Harbor in France and Queenstown in Ireland where more passengers boarded. They were a grand sight; well-heeled women in dresses of silk and gabardine, with enormous steamer trunks that held entire wardrobes. Scruffy emigrants in fisher caps and babuskas, with only hobo sacks of clothes. Excitedly they took their bunks in steerage. No matter that the class was third, for this was an ocean voyage. Poor innocents, all of them! They had no idea of their fate. Yet they sought new lands and opportunity. Those were things I could well provide.
On the night it happened the ship rounded the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. The moon was new, providing no extra light to the blackened sky. I had planned it as such, the first new moon after the spring equinox, when my powers of sorcery were at their ripest.
Just before midnight I slid from my bed. I combed my hair carefully, leaving it loose over my shoulders, but untangled. I took one large hand-held mirror with trimmed decorations of pearl and abalone. I also took three candles and my book of spells. Naked and in bare feet I tiptoed across the deserted deck. Facing starboard, I lit the candles, then dangled my mirror toward the rushing ocean below me. I recited these words:
“Raise me an iceberg, unbreakable and dense,
Black as this night, an invisible fence!
Raise me an iceberg, impenetrable and true
Black as this night, unseen by the crew.
Raise me an iceberg, grown from the sea
Black as this night, to set them all free!”
I then shattered the mirror and flung it overboard, crystalline shards drifting in the wind and falling like glittering stars to the churning water.
It was done.
Black icebergs are a rare phenomenon that neither the captain nor crew were familiar with. When my mountain arose from the water none could see it at first.
By the time the watchful lookout man spotted the iceberg, it was too late. The great Titanic hit the dense rock, damaging her hull. The sea began to seep in. Soon all five of the ship’s watertight compartments were flooded. This meant certain disaster.
Or did it?
I was elated. As the water rose I could contain myself no longer. Rushing below deck, I shifted to my mermaid’s body. I swam through the hallways, through the ever-rising tide of the elegant and soon to be flooded rooms.
The passengers, already in a state of shock, saw me and turned a whiter shade of pale. They were helpless. I tried to talk to them, to reassure them that all would be well. But they were so frenzied, in such throes of panic, they could not hear my words. One shipmate grabbed a pistol and attempted to shoot me, bludgeoning a bloody hole through my tail. However, the sea’s salt water, now slowly immersing every floor, quickly healed me. As a Rusalka, I was immortal.
I finally perched myself upon the rail of the deck, curling my tail beneath me. In amusement I watched. Crew and passengers scurried about, securing lifeboats. There would never be enough. The captain, in his foolishness of believing the Titanic was unsinkable, had only equipped her with half of what was necessary. This was all the better!
“Women and children first,” called the first mate. I smiled. Yes, they would save the women and children first, as was human protocol.
From flooding corridors and slippery decks the men ran. Handsome, swarthy sailors, savvy men of business, emigrants in rags. All unsuspecting. All clueless.
Finally the ship cracked in two, her bow submerged, her back end rising upright like a serpent in the water. The remaining passengers slid to their death.
I balanced on my tail, stretched my arms before me and called out in my voice, loud as any canon: “Undines! Rusalki! Sirenas! Come forth!” I then dove off the rails.
Down, down I plunged into the ocean’s depths. There, rising on the crests of waves, my Mer-sisters emerged.
“Make your choices ladies,” I shouted. “This cargo is ripe for the picking!” It was a welcome gift. We had heretofore been sadly lacking in male companionship.
I grabbed a young sailor, his skin gone translucent blue, his eyes open in the cold stare of the dead. I pulled him to my breast, kissed him boldly on the mouth. His eyes then flickered in a strange and frightened recognition. He was the one who had attempted to shoot me with a pistol. Blood rushed to his cheeks.
“I should not forgive you,” I chided. Yet he was handsome and able, and in that instant I determined to make him mine.
My Mer-sisters followed suit, awakening the sea’s dead with kisses of life. One by one, the drowned became conscious, still in shock, but alive.
“Take heart, gentleman,” I said. “Although you will never return to your earthly homes, you will now have refuge in our sea, in the abode of the Rusalki. As time passes you will come to love us and the ocean shall provide you with grand adventure.”
The men were new in their surroundings, but, being sailors, most had immense love of the water. At the very least they were grateful for their renewed life. I was confident they would be happy. And if not? Well — I had more mirrors and candles and more spells to cast, didn’t I? Not the least of which might bring love.
My mission was complete.
** HISTORICAL NOTE: On this day, April 15, 1912, the real RMS Titanic, headed on her maiden voyage to New York City, sank off the coast of Newfoundland. She had hit a “black” iceberg which caused irreparable damage to her hull.
The massive ship was 882 feet long with a breadth of 92 feet. Her total height, measured from keel to bridge, was 104 feet. She weighed 46,328 tons. Among her more novel features, available only to first-class passengers, was a 7 ft. deep saltwater swimming pool, a gymnasium, a squash court, and a Turkish bath.
Because of her gargantuan size, the Titanic was considered virtually unsinkable.
Whether out of carelessness or limited storage capacity, the ship only held enough lifeboats to carry about half the passengers. These were quickly depleted.
On the night the Titanic sank, conditions were calm, clear, dark and cold. The black sky held a new moon, the ocean lit only by the stars. The “invisible” iceberg, a rare phenomenon, seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Approximately 1500 passengers lost their lives. Due to the “women and children first” rule, most of the deceased were men.
His birth came about by trickery and subterfuge, although the boy knew it not.
A birth by accident, a birth of inconsequence. Or so all the world would think. It was an arrangement of my Uncle Merlin and the plan was thus: That I, the Duchess Igraine of Tintagel should lie in the adulterous bed of King Uther Pendragon, so that I be the vessel to bear a son. His name would be Arthur.
O now, you must understand. The part about adultery scarcely vexed me; my marriage to the Duke of Tintagel was an arranged and loveless one. The bed of Uther Pendragon was not my first straying and would not be my last. I was fully compliant in my dalliance. Yet for the sake of my honor, Merlin thought it best that the bards which would tell this story say I had been bewitched. The official version? Uther Pendragon appeared to me in the form of my husband the Duke. Therefore when I laid with him I was judged innocent in all wrongdoing.
O that was rich! One cannot bewitch a witch! My Uncle Merlin knew this better than anyone.
Heretofore my husband, the Duke of Tintagel had been of stout health. Now suddenly he took ill and died promptly. As a widow with child I had no choice but to wed Uther Pedragon. I then became Queen Igraine of castle Camelot.
The birth was easy. But what I could not abide, what I could not forgive, was that the baby was wrenched from my arms the very moment he uttered breath! I barely had the chance to hold him before Merlin spirited him away, insisting I was not fit to raise him, and that his future tasks were not to be influenced by the likes of me.
Without conversation nor consultation, it was decided Arthur be raised by a local lord, one Sir Ector.
“Now Igraine,” Merlin bid me, once the deed was done. “You need not worry for your son. His every want shall be provided for, as my Lord Ector leads a life of prosperity and gain. Arthur shall have an older brother named Kai and a mother of great gentleness, the Lady Ector. He shall be fed, clothed and schooled properly. It is essential he live among common men.”
Foolish wizard! Could Merlin not see that a woman’s greatest loss was that of her own child? His was a silly scheme, for I knew my son Arthur was like no other boy! He needed no guidance from the common man, for his true nature would allow him to encompass all. His bloodline was mine; that of Avalon. His schooling should thus involve the magick of Avalon.
I vowed revenge upon my Uncle Merlin. He’d pay for his injustice! My visits to Avalon would ensure this. I studied under tutelage of the Lady of the Lake, imploring the water and rocks to bring me power.
Fourteen years passed, and they were fourteen years of war and devastation. The Saxon armies invaded our territory time and time again. My husband Uther, weary of the constant battle, finally took ill and passed away, leaving his kingdom up for grabs among rogue warlords and enemies.
As king’s consort I managed best as I could. The men bickered among themselves, calling privy council after privy council to determine who should be the next king. Arthur should have been immediately declared so. But because of Merlin’s harebrained scheme, he had been raised as a ward, away from his true home. If he were to return to Camelot now and claim the throne, none would believe him.
The people of Britain at that time were a superstitious lot. They believed in marvels and miracles, great quests of honor and the divine right of princes. It was for this reason that I devised a scheme which would place my son upon the throne without doubt or question.
The Bishop of Canterbury, influenced by my Uncle Merlin, deemed a joust should be held to determine the new king. It would take place on New Year’s Day, 443, the year of Our Lord.
This, in and of itself, was a most outrageous and foolish notion! Jousting was a putrid and violent sport; it brought no good to anyone. Within it, perfectly capable and healthy men were maimed and wounded, leaving them disabled and unfit for battles against our true enemies! Jousts were held so that jeering and bloodthirsty crowds could name what they thought ‘a hero’. He that could withstand a horse’s back and the jab of a lance.
“But Arthur will surely win the joust,” Merlin insisted. “It is a most excellent plan!”
“Arthur is a boy of fifteen!” I spat. “I’ll not see him crippled in a joust. It is a most preposterous plan!”
I objected vehemently. Yet as a woman, my word held no weight. Instead I used my own sorcery to produce a most ingenious scheme, one that no one would question.
The people of Camelot were obsessed with weaponry and feats of strength. I reasoned that there must be some deed which could measure one’s power, yet bear no damage to another. A deed which would test a man’s ability over nature, over fear, over all elements. A test which would show, beyond any doubt, that the man able to perform it would indeed be the new king.
I retreated to my crystal cave for a period of deep meditation.
There, among the rocks and water, I called upon my ancestors to guide me. I consulted the goddess Cerridwen, the Morrigan, Viviane and the tribe of eternal Wise Women. Finally, the idea came to me. I told no one of my plan.
Outside the field where the great joust was to be held, I created a boulder. Upon that boulder I placed an anvil of pure iron. (All this time I relied upon my own witchery, for no mortal woman could have lifted such a boulder, nor the anvil.) I then fashioned a great silver sword, its blade sharp enough to slice the head of a boar, its handle heavy as the anvil itself. Within the anvil I inscribed the following directions:
“Whosoever can pull this sword from its stone shall be the undoubted, indisputable, indubitable King of Britain, deemed to rule for his lifetime and never questioned of his authority.”
New Years Day dawned, the morning of the joust. Spectators gathered. They stared with gaping mouths at the sword in the stone.
“Can it be?” they muttered among themselves. “The new king will be decided by pulling a sword from a stone? Such a simple task?”
“Simple task indeed!” I retorted hotly. “Go on then! Try your hand at it and see. Whoso among you dares to attempt this feat?”
One by one the men tried. There were knights and lords, men of great status as well as serfs and peasants who stood in line and attempted to lift the sword. Each effort was for naught.
Finally, Sir Ector rode up with his son Kai and Arthur in tow.
“Will you attempt the task, my Lord?” I said coyly to Ector, for – goddess help me – I could not resist a good prank.
Eagerly the man placed his grip upon the sword’s handle. Twist and tug as he might, the sword would not budge. Sweat burst from his brow until finally he gave up. “It will not move!” he yelped exasperatedly. “The thing is stuck like an oak to the soil.”
“Mayhap your son Kai shall attempt it,” I said, barely hiding my smirk.
Kai groped and toiled. The stubborn blade would not budge. He too broke a sweat before declaring, “It is an impossible task! One hundred men could not lift it!”
“And what of young Arthur?” I asked.
“If I and Kai could not lift it, all the more impossible it will be for Arthur,” said Sir Ector. “For I am a knighted lord; I have seen battle. My ward Arthur, abandoned at birth, has lead only the life of a farm hand. He knows nothing of weaponry.”
“Oh doesn’t he?” I chided. I could hold my anger no longer.
“For your information,” quothe I, “he was NOT abandoned at birth! Ever did you think he was taken from his mother’s arms, through no will nor decision of her own? Ever did you think he was intended for greater purposes, such that you, Sir Ector, could not possibly know?”
Ector looked at me dumbfounded, for it was unseemly for a widowed queen to speak so boldly. I cared not what they thought! I then took Arthur by the hand and helped him down from his horse. “You will try it,” I commanded.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed, then popped in recognition as he faced me. “Is it you?” he asked softly. “You are my… Mother?”
None had known of my secret visits to Ector’s farm. None had known, save Arthur and myself, that in the still of the night I had come to him. Together we’d board a small boat and I’d take him to Avalon, so that he could learn of his true bloodline and power.
Perhaps before that moment, Arthur had thought those visits were mere dreams and imagination. Now he was to learn: imagination can lead to the making of a king.
“Of course it is me,” I said calmly. “Your Uncle Merlin had other plans for you, but it was I who knew your noble calling and prepared you for it. Now! Do not hesitate to do your duty!”
Within seconds Arthur had lifted the sword from the stone.
For the doubters among them, Arthur replaced the sword several times. Each time the anvil sealed around it like an iron prison. Many others made attempts at lifting it, each to no avail. Yet Arthur lifted it several times with ease. Finally the crowd conceded; it was Arthur who was meant to rule as King of Britain.
Merlin cowered in a corner, hidden by the crowd. I went to him.
“Do not worry, Uncle,” I said. “While I do not forgive you, I will not torture you. I ask now that you return to Avalon for schooling. You see, your magic has always been imperfect. You have silly ideas. If Arthur is ever to rule as a worthy king, he must not be influenced by your dualistic nature. Therefore I banish you from Camelot.”
He had no choice but to leave.
From that day forward, per my request, all jousting was banned in the kingdom.
As for my son, he became the once and future king, ushering in an era of great peace and prosperity. He ruled with wisdom, kindness and grace, wedding his Queen Guinevere, and appointing twelve worthy knights to his round table.
It looks like Friday the 13th brought us luck after all!
Hard to believe, I know — but I am proud to say that our horror anthology The Box Under The Bed outranked Stephen King on the Amazon bestsellers list! Who’d have expected it?
I thought I heard someone applaud,
In my distracted state of mind I could not be quite sure…
If you are seeking supernatural thrills, bloodthirsty revenge, mystical ghosts and a plethora of eerie events, please take a look. CLICK HERE to get a copy. (And if you are so inclined, please write a short review! )
Today, October 11th is your chance to get a FREE copy of our horror anthology The Box Under The Bed on Freebooksy!
For all fans of the macabre and supernatural, this anthology is a must have! Featuring works by me and 20 other award winning and best selling authors.
Readers are saying:
Don’t miss out!
To get your free copy of The Box Under The Bed CLICK HERE!
Otherwise BEWARE! For you, dear reader shall be crushed in the abyss, sadly left behind forever.