A Charity Anthology for an Amazing Cause
Tis the season for giving, and I’m proud to be a part of an absolutely amazing charity anthology. DIABOLICA AMERICANA is the perfect stocker stuffer for the horror fan in your life. Better yet, all proceeds go to a charity called ‘A Place Called Home’, which gives children and teens a chance to have meaningful lives away from the influence of gangland culture in Los Angeles. By purchasing this book, you will be making a real difference to the lives of so many bright, young hopefuls.
Talk about an all star lineup. You’ll find spine chilling tales from Richard Chizmar, Gabino Iglesias, Cynthia Pelayo, Jonathan Janz, Chris Sorensen, Laurel Hightower, Jofn F.D. Taff, yours truly and so many more.
Need more incentive? I have a very different tale (for me) called DAUGHTER. Here’s a little bit to get your horror motor humming…
By Hunter Shea
Dennis Gordon dipped the paddles into the black waters of the Long Island Sound, careful to make as little noise as possible. His kayak sliced through a ribbon reflection of the moon. The island loomed ahead, shadowy trees waving in the breeze.
His phone vibrated.
Carefully setting the paddle across his lap, Dennis checked the message.
Honey, I know where you are. Please come home. This has to stop. Not just for your sake. For our sake. I love you. I can’t lose you, too.
He tucked the phone back into his pocket and had to course correct. The current, even in just that blink of an eye, seemed to want to push him to shore. It was as if it was in league with his wife and the lingering remnants of his rationality.
“I love you, too,” Dennis whispered into the night. “But we both know I can’t stop.”
There were times, especially during the light of day, when he thought she was right. Enough was enough. This was bordering on insanity. No, not bordering. It had long crossed over. He just had to look at the bits of dirt under his nails that he could never fully remove to remind him of his madness.
“It’s not madness.”
He’d been talking to himself a lot lately during his forays to the island.
“Not just to myself.”
He was right. And that should have given him pause.
“Keep paddling. Slow and steady, Denny. Slow and steady.”
He remembered how physically exhausting the trip was in the beginning. He was by no means a young man anymore. His forties had given way to fifty and there were a lot of muscles he no longer used. The burn in his shoulders just from kayaking threatened to cut his nights short.
Now, six months later, he was in the best shape of his life. Even better than his high school baseball days.
“I wonder if I can still throw a curveball?”
Water sluicing off the end of his paddle was his only reply.
He paused for a moment, checking for any lights on the island that shouldn’t be there. A seagull croaked overhead as it headed to the island.
The gulls loved it there. They knew what was hidden just beneath the surface. If there was a chance something would come up, they would be the first to reap the gruesome rewards.
All was quiet, as it was most nights. Dennis paddled on until the tip of his kayak dug into the soft sand on the island’s south shore. He slipped out and pulled his kayak under a pile of branches and leaves he’d tied together as camouflage months ago. Under that carefully constructed pile lay his shovel. He grabbed it with split, calloused hands and walked through the brambles.
Want to read more? Click the cover image below to grab your copy and give to a stellar charity.