Manor of Frights: Excerpt from "The Study"

HorrorAddicts.net presents:

Manor of Frights

Imagine a Victorian house where every room is cursed with a frightful existence. Are monsters in the halls? Ghosts left to fester in the library? Or are the rooms themselves enchanted with malevolent energy? What was summoned long ago and what doorways were left open? Manor of Frights is a collection of tales all set in different rooms of the same house.
With authors: Judith Pancoast, Daphne Strasert, Loren Rhoads, Mark Orr, Michael Fassbender, R.L. Merrill, Sumiko Saulson, Ollie Fox, Barend Nieuwstraten III, Rosetta Yorke, Amanda Leslie, Lesley Warren, BF Vega, DW Milton, D.J. Pitsiladis, Jason Fischer, and Emerian Rich.

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An excerpt from Manor of Frights

A Study in Terror

by Jason Fischer

The Study, 1978

“Mommy!” Claire tugged at her mother’s skirt as she stared at the little wooden man who winked at her from his perch inside the cuckoo clock. “Mommy, mommy!”  

Distracted, Janet pushed her back into the study that was their bedroom for the night. 

“I love the costume!” she said to the tall man dressed as a butler for the murder mystery dinner. “It’s so… British.”  

“That it is, madam,” he said in a put-on English accent, giving a slight bow. 

“Mommy! That man is staring at me.”  Claire leaned into her mother, almost pushing her into the hallway. 

“Claire, that’s rude. Apologize!” Janet looked at the pretend butler and gave an apologetic half-smile. 

“Not that man.” Claire urgently tugged at her mother’s skirt. “Him.” With a pudgy finger, she pointed to the wall clock. It was a hand-carved timepiece made to mimic a mini-Swiss chalet with six ovals surrounding the clock face. Four of the holes had crudely painted figurines in them.  

Stenciled on the clock face above was the maker’s name, Furver Hansen. The darkened stain worn over time made the stencil read as Forever Hausen.  

Bending slightly, Janet looked at her daughter, then into the room where they were staying for the night. Besides the furniture that looked as if it had been there since the house was built nearly seventy years ago, it was empty. 

“Who?” she asked.  

“The man in the clock.” 

Letting out a deep sigh, she nudged her daughter backward slightly. 

“Please, honey, go use your coloring books.” Janet looked back at the man standing in the doorway, giving him a wide smile. “Sorry, it’s been a long day with the drive up here, and all.” 

“Perfectly understandable.” He reached out, handing her a dress wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic. “This is for your role. Mrs. Iblis will be by soon to give you the envelope with the backstory. A simple servant like me can’t be trusted with such important documents.” He gave a sly look.  

Janet took the dress and covered her chest by folding her arms, feeling suddenly self-conscious in such a tight T-shirt. 

“Thank you again for delivering this to me. Will you be at the dinner later this evening?” 

“Yes, I will.” He tapped his chest pocket. “Already have my bio and memorized my part.”  

“I guess I will see you downstairs. Thanks again.” Pushing Claire to the side, Janet closed the door. As she tried to step toward the coffee table she was using as a vanity, Claire gripped her skirt, stopping her in her tracks. 

Janet bent down to her daughter’s eye level.

“Okay. So, what’s your deal, pumpkin butt?” Having slept less than four hours, she was trying to hide her impatience. It wasn’t Claire’s fault that her absentee father blew off the one weekend he was supposed to watch her. Since the divorce last year, everything involving him had gone that way. 

It was the first time she was truly angry at him. Nights off were rare, and an all-expenses-paid night off was unheard of. Since she won the mail-in contest, Janet had counted down the days. She felt terribly selfish, resenting that she had to bring Claire along at the last minute, but it was her one night to feel young again and not like an overworked single mother. 

“That man winked at me, Mommy! I swear!” Her eyes were wide ovals as she stared at the clock.  

The clock struck the hour as if summoned. The internal mechanism made a loud clicking noise followed by the whistling hum of a long-forgotten German folksong. Claire clamped both of her hands over her ears. 

As the music filled the room, a horizontal wheel beneath the clock face turned, and hand-carved figurines spun, dropping out from the black holes cut around the clock face. Each figure looked like a member of a family from a dark fairy tale. Their tubular, wooden bodies were garishly clothed, and the expressions on their faces went from fear to anger as the shadows danced over them. The father figure was the last to come out. He towered over the others, wore lederhosen, and held an accordion. His painted mouth had large pointy teeth and was twice the size it should be. Every few seconds, the disc they stood on hitched, making the figures awkwardly project forward, looking like stop motion photography.  

The motion was hypnotic. Janet shook her head as she came out of the trance and let out a brief chuckle. 

More to herself, she whispered, “Who in the hell would make such an odd contraption?”

To read more, go to: Manor of Frights

Waiting and Waiting (and Waiting)

The following essay was submitted to The Fountain 2021 Essay Contest for the theme “My Covid Story”. Of 1,000 entries, it was included on the shortlist of essays in consideration for the winner.

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Waiting and Waiting (and Waiting)

by Daphne Strasert

I should be a mom by now.

It wasn’t a guarantee, not even a promise, but when we asked our adoption agency in 2019 how long we could expect to wait before we had our first foster placement (with the goal of adoption), they said that almost all of their families had one within a year.

Great! A year is a long time, but still shorter than the two years that we had heard for private adoptions, and not even close to the four year wait of an international adoption. A year was barely more than the nine months of a pregnancy.

We completed our home study and were approved for foster placements in March of 2020, just as officials shut down the annual Houston Rodeo to prevent a Covid super-spreader event.

The pandemic had finally reached American shores and we watched with baited breath to see what would happen. We followed the local and national guidelines. We cancelled our weekly game night with friends, set up to work from home, bought facemasks, and prepared to isolate for the ‘next few weeks’ so things could get under control.

Obviously, it went on much longer than that.

Tragedy rolled across the United States, striking major cities like our home of Houston hardest. We were fortunate, able to isolate ourselves and still maintain a sense of normalcy. Weeks of quarantine turned to months, but we were still hopeful.

Certainly, this was actually the perfect time to bring a child into our life. My husband and I were both at home. My job was flexible enough that I could handle any zoom schooling needs, and it would give us a chance to better bond as a new family before introducing the grandparents, aunts, and uncles into the situation.

Unfortunately, the situation on the foster care side of the equation was a slow-motion disaster. No one was prepared for a pandemic crisis in the Texas Department of Protective and Family Services. They certainly weren’t prepared for school and court closures, for prolonged loss of contact with families, for cancelled visitations. At first, they implemented a wait and see approach. Once the pandemic ended, they could get back to business as usual, right? Except that the pandemic didn’t end, hasn’t ended, and nothing is business as usual.

The number of children entering foster care plummeted. This wasn’t the good thing it appeared to be on the surface. Abuse and neglect didn’t stop. No, the only change was that now children were trapped at home with their abusers with no one to report their suffering. We could only read articles on the subject in horror, knowing we had done all we could, but still couldn’t do enough. Our home was open for a child that needed us, but we would be continuing to wait.

Early in the adoption process, we had warned our families that we likely wouldn’t make certain traditions and events in 2020, depending on when we were accepted as a match. We wanted to spend the early days of placement alone as a family, so we wouldn’t overwhelm our new child. Yet, as the months passed, vacations were cancelled, weddings postponed, and celebrations moved to zoom. Still no child arrived.

We knew there would be a sense of loss, not celebrating Thanksgiving or Christmas with our families. But we had thought that loss would be overshadowed by the joy of a new family member. Everything we thought we might miss on the behalf of a child, we missed regardless. There was no joy, just an empty home.

We weren’t the only ones who were stuck. Children already in the foster system found themselves frozen in the process. With courts initially shut down and then moving at a snail’s pace, kids in temporary situations found those situations becoming more and more permanent. They struggled to navigate a new situation (a pandemic) within a new situation (a foster home).

Biological parents trying desperately to get their lives back on track (through drug treatment, new housing, or finding a job), were stymied by Covid restrictions and an economy on life support. Judges gave them more time, then even more time. All the while, the children suffered in limbo, not knowing if they would go back to their parents, to a relative, or to a permanent adoptive home. Visitations were halted, then restarted, then halted again.

The calls from our agency became few and far between. There simply weren’t any children to tell us about. Normally we would have been in contact with our coordinator every week, but now we were lucky if she checked in once a month, sometimes with nothing more to offer than sympathy that we were still waiting.

“I’m sure it will pick up soon,” she said, first in September, then in October, then in November and December. We stopped believing her assurances. She doesn’t mean to mislead us. She doesn’t know what will happen anymore than we do. But it’s her job to reassure us. We have decided to measure our expectations. We do not have to be fools enough to accept false hope.

Waiting is a normal part of the adoption process. But none of this is normal. No one knows what they’re doing. Not us, not our agency, not the social workers or judges working the cases. This year has seen a sharp, hideous decline in progress for children in foster care and it will take years to unravel the back up of cases.

Lots of families in the adoption process are desperate. After years of trying for a biological child, fertility treatments, perhaps a failed private or international adoption, some couples approach foster care adoption as an absolute last resort. They’ve waited, sometimes, for years already. And now their last chance is at a standstill.

Eventually, our adoption agency became desperate too. They called a mandatory meeting of all waiting foster families and implored us to 1) accept larger family groups 2) accept teenagers and 3) accept emergency placements. Large sibling groups and older children are the most difficult children to find families for and at the moment are some of the few placements that are still moving forward through the courts. The meeting was an exercise in agony. We watched our agency struggle with families that desperately wanted children, children who desperately wanted families, and a situation that kept them apart.

All of this started a series of heart wrenching conversations. Should we accept emergency placements, something we are utterly unequipped to deal with? Should we move to a larger house, which we neither want nor can afford? Should we be trying for a biological child, something we had planned to do after adopting? The questions go around and around, never quite coming to a conclusion. The discussions almost always end in tears.

Meanwhile the foster care situation only grows more gridlocked. Some prospective families saw lockdown as the perfect time to complete the extensive adoption training now offered over zoom. Adoption agencies received an influx of applicants—so much so that our agency stopped accepting new families.

Adoption isn’t a competition (we all want these children to have a safe, loving home), but of course it is a competition (we want them in our safe, loving home). Even as the number of children coming into care has slowed to a trickle, the number of families waiting for a child has exploded. Case workers are faced with a tsunami of applications (including ours) for every child.

My experience with Covid-19 has not been tainted by the tragedy of a lost loved one. I am fortunate in that regard. Rather, it is a story of mourning what is yet to come. It’s the story of nothing. Of staying home and hoping and breaking my own heart. It is the story I tell my family and friends when they ask how “the adoption thing” is going. Nothing has happened. Nothing is happening. There is nothing to say.

This will eventually work out. In the end, my husband and I will be selected as a match and will adopt a child. That is a near certainty. Right now, there is no timeline for that. Whether it is tomorrow or five years from now, we haven’t given up that hope. We are willing to wait.

In the meantime, I worry for my child. They are somewhere out there, this child that I will one day call my own. They are probably in pain and uncertainty right now. I can’t comfort them because we are separated by time and circumstance. I know nothing about them. I can’t decorate their room or buy them clothes. I wish I could talk to them. I wish I could let them know that I already love them.

Haunts and Hellions

Harkening back to the glory days of gothic romance that had us up reading all night, HorrorAddicts.net Press Presents: 
Haunts & Hellions edited by Emerian Rich

13 stories of horror, romance, and that perfect moment when the two worlds collide. Vengeful spirits attacking the living, undead lovers revealing their true nature, and supernatural monsters seeking love, await you. Pull the blinds closed, light your candle, and cuddle up in your reading nook for some chilling—and romantic—tales.

 With stories by: Emily Blue, Lucy Blue, Kevin Ground, Rowan Hill, Naching T. Kassa, Emmy Z. Madrigal, R.L. Merrill, N.C. Northcott, Emerian Rich, Daniel R. Robichaud, Daphne Strasert, Tara Vanflower, and B.F. Vega.

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An excerpt from Haunts & Hellions

Companions

Daphne Strasert

1814

Hartwood Manor, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Thomas Anderson Knox made the brief acquaintance of death on May 13, 1814.

A British bullet tore through his leg in a Pennsylvania field and the world turned to darkness. The tents and weapons of the battle became as insubstantial as mist. The soldiers of the living were replaced by those shadowy citizens that populate the world between life and death. Thomas hovered over the precipice of oblivion, tethered to life by a thin thread of fate, for the better part of a day, until finally he returned to the agony and confusion of mortality.

But he did not return alone.

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The soldier stands in the corner of Thomas’s room, his musket held at attention. A young lad, no older than seventeen, with a thin face still marred by the blemishes of youth, he has a hole the size of a fist in his chest, allowing Thomas to see the sunrise through the window beyond.

“Lt. Knox?”

With difficulty, Thomas tears his gaze from the soldier standing sentry. A plump, middle aged woman stands in the doorway of the guest room he’s inhabited for the last few months, wringing her hands.

“Yes, Mrs. Tern?” he asks.

“Breakfast is ready, sir.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tern.”

Mrs. Tern’s gaze flickers to the corner, as if to ascertain what had held his attention so thoroughly, but, finding nothing, she curtsies and leaves the room.

Groping along the desk to retrieve his cane and heave himself to his feet, he hisses as he puts weight on his bad leg. The wound, now months old, has healed as well as it ever will, but the first few steps of the day are always painful. Still, he counts himself fortunate. Many lost their limbs. Even more died.

As he limps along the corridor of Hartwood Manor, the shadows flicker as if to follow. The halls are bright and cheerful in the morning sun, but darkness lingers under his footsteps. It always will.

The home of Dr. and Mrs. Hartwood is situated in the Pennsylvania countryside. After Thomas’s injury, he resided there along with a few other officers. He’s now the last one to linger in the Hartwood’s hospitality.

A different sort of shadow invades his sight as he passes the parlor. The door opens just a crack, the vision inside is enough to still his steps.

A young lady sits at the window. Blonde ringlets spill across her shoulders, golden against her creamy skin. A white dress accentuates her form. The morning light catches her profile—like a Greek goddess—just so, painting her across the room like a portrait of beauty.

Thomas waits for the span of a breath, for the beat of a heart, before moving on.

There are three rules in Hartwood Manor. First, do not leave the house after dark. Second, do not enter the North Wing of the house. Lastly, do not speak to the Hartwood’s daughter.

Helen. Oh, she is always Helen in his mind, though he would never dare to speak to her in so familiar a way. She is as beautiful as her namesake, a woman for whom he would wage a hundred wars.

To read more, read Haunts and Hellions at: Amazon.com

Book Review: Twisted Reveries by Meg Hafdahl

Book Review: Twisted Reveries by Meg Hafdahl

Content Warnings: violence, gore, domestic abuse

It’s always a pleasure to read anything by Meg Hafdahl. I was introduced to Hafdahl through her novels, the Willoughby Chronicles (a location that features in her short stories as well).

It’s no easy feat to write both novels and short stories. Writers usually excel at either one or the other. Hafdahl is a welcome exception. She is a compelling female voice in horror, adding a refreshing take on tired tropes.

Hafdahl presents a wide array of subjects for her stories, but returns repeatedly to several major themes. She questions the nature of morality, murder, and self-defense. She writes strong female leads who subvert traditional ideas of justice, taking revenge against those who abuse them. She also addresses mental illness, often giving it physical form and making it real for those who may not be familiar with its horrors.

Twisted Reveries is an excellent introduction to Hafdahl’s style. Each story is a perfectly packaged nugget of terror, just the right size to send a tingle down your spine, with enough punch to stick with you after the lights turn off.

BEYOND THIS POINT THIS REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS

Moira Kettlesburg

Have you ever looked at a spinster and wondered about her past… Was she happy? Had she ever known love? What happened to her?

What if the secret of her solitude is not simple, but sinister?

What begins as a story of love lost and family drama becomes horrifying when we discover Moira’s memories hide the truth from her. The truth that her lover did not leave and that her sister has protected Moira from the darkness of his real nature all these years.

Flatlands

A family road trip takes a macabre turn when the children discover a motionless woman at a rest stop, staring out at the endless prairie. While that is spooky enough, things get even worse. The prairie seems to possess the young girl, filling her mind with violence.

What I like best about “Flatlands” is that Hafdahl does not feel the need to explain the phenomenon. Leaving the cause a mystery, leaving the final fate of the children a mystery, only heightens the tension and left me thinking about this long after I finished reading.

Guts

Guts is probably the most gruesome of the Twisted Reveries collection. Panic grips a hospital when unknown creatures emerge to attack patients, eating the diseased parts of them. Kelly, a woman with Crohn’s Disease, must go to great lengths to survive with her guts intact.

Again, Hafdahl doesn’t weigh down the narrative with explanations. No rationalization is necessary and any attempt would probably have taken away from the fright of the concept. We are better left with the unknown.

Hafdahl also keeps the scope of the story small. She does not explain the implications of this phenomenon for the wider world. It keeps the narrative tight and tense and left me wanting more.

Little Sister

“Little Sister” tells the story of Jessica, a woman lost in the woods and lost in her life. As she wanders through a forest she doesn’t know, she ponders her relationship with her ‘perfect’ sister, who would never find herself in such a situation.

As a story mostly about the character’s inner conflict and memories, “Little Sister” lacks the urgency of the other members of this collection. Hafdahl does keep some tension with the threat of exposure in the elements, but the story lacks action.

HOWEVER, this remains one of my absolute favorite short stories (ever) because of the twist ending. I legitimately did not see it coming. Hafdahl builds to it so beautifully. The clues are all there, sprinkled throughout. It was a satisfying and chilling end.

Underneath

While working in an ice cream shop, Dana has her day upended when a bloodied bride storms in, looking to barricade herself from something horrific that took place at her wedding. Things only become more bizarre when Dana accompanies the bride back to the venue in search of her missing husband.

“Underneath” was a viscerally disturbing story. From the beginning—with the descriptions of Dana’s habit of picking, scratching, and mutilating her skin—Hafdahl establishes a stomach-turning narrative.

I would have liked to see this story be shorter. I felt it meandered a little when the characters arrived at the wedding venue and faced the husband.

However, Hafdahl did successfully build dread throughout with the mystery of what exactly is happening with the bloody bride, right up to the discovery of what the husband had become and the final twist reveal of Dana’s true nature.

Everly

Everly is the grieving mother of dead twin girls. She lost purpose in her life after their death, but finds it again when she discovers that the ghosts of children gather at their old preschool, continuing their lives after death.

While the idea of the dead children continuing on was sweet, and I was glad that Everly did find some peace at the end, I was dissatisfied with this story. Grief is a difficult subject, one that each person faces in their individual way. However, in her characterization of Everly, Hafdahl portrays fatness as a moral failing, a result of laziness and not caring about oneself. I felt it was a poor choice as a vehicle to show the protagonist had given up on life. Additionally, when Everly finds her purpose again, she is magically cured of the ‘slovenly’ habits that had plagued her. Adorable child ghosts aside, “Everly” was a rare let down for me.

A Flash of Orange

A woman travelling to her family home for Thanksgiving is accosted by a series of predators: first a serial killer, then a pack of ravenous wolves.

“A Flash of Orange” was a wild ride from start to finish. At no point could I really predict where things were going. It was a great story of finding surprising strength in yourself, and of really putting personal disaster into perspective.

The Pit

In “The Pit”, a girl forms a supernatural friendship with a ravenous something that lives in the lake, occasionally feeding it her enemies, until it finally consumes someone she loves.

I loved “The Pit”. From the opening line to the very last, it wove love and hate and longing and jealousy and murder together into a symphony of emotion. The pit is such a simple vehicle for all the evil that lurks in the human psyche. It is never explained—like all good horror—leaving the mystery to haunt us.

Hannah Goes Home

Explaining “Hannah Goes Home” would ruin it. There is no good way to summarize a story that grips you from the start and drags you along through sin and redemption, madness and acceptance. You simply have to read it. It is one of the finest stories I’ve ever seen. It holds on to its secrets, rationing them out in little morsels of horror. Nothing is what you expect, nothing is what it seems.

“Hannah Goes Home” deals with the hardships of escaping your past, of never really being free from them. It also addresses mental illness in a poignant way rarely seen. There is despair throughout, and yet “Hannah Goes Home” ends with a note of hope that was undeniably satisfying.

There’s Something About Birds

A woman seeking solitude finds herself plagued by birds. Birds everywhere. If you weren’t ornithophobic before this, you will be.

“There’s Something About Birds” is a trippy, mind-bending look at mental illness and escapism. It addresses the very real fear of not being adequate, of not being enough, and of being trapped in a life you don’t want. It was a harrowing and bleak look at the pressures of ordinary life.

Dust

“Dust” is a fresh take on the Zombie Apocalypse, following a girl and her father as they discover that zombies retain some of their memories and personalities.

I don’t particularly like zombie stories, but I enjoyed dust for its ending. Hafdahl’s exploration into the nature of grief and what it means to let go was moving. The ending was a devastating conclusion for a compelling character.

The Rainbow Inn

Freddie runs the Rainbow Inn, a dilapidated motel she despises. She stays because she must, but the motel and Freddie share a secret, one that the Rainbow Inn is intent on punishing her for.

“The Rainbow Inn” is the rare story where the protagonist isn’t likeable, but she isn’t supposed to be likeable. Yet Hafdahl still manages to make us feel her desperation and pain. She paints a character who forms attachments we care about, even as we don’t care for her.

Willoughby

Something lurks in the dark in Willoughby, something that no one remembers once they’re safe.

“Willoughby” doesn’t have the thematic sophistication of the other stories in Twisted Reveries, but it is an action-packed narrative. It’s fun to read and leaves your heart pounding. It serves as an excellent introduction to the wider world of the Willoughby Chronicles.

If you enjoy “Willoughby”, be sure to pick up Hafdahl’s novel Her Dark Inheritance, the first in the Willoughby Chronicles.

Dark Divinations

HorrorAddicts.net Press Presents: 

Dark Divinations edited by Naching T. Kassa

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/ilQ-BfW6BRs

It’s the height of Queen Victoria’s rule. Fog swirls in the gas-lit streets, while in the parlor, hands are linked. Pale and expectant faces gaze upon a woman, her eyes closed and shoulders slumped. The medium speaks, her tone hollow and inhuman. The séance has begun.

Can the reading of tea leaves influence the future? Can dreams keep a soldier from death in the Crimea? Can a pocket watch foretell a deadly family curse? From entrail reading and fortune-telling machines to prophetic spiders and voodoo spells, sometimes the future is better left unknown.

Choose your fate.

Choose your DARK DIVINATION.

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An excerpt from Dark Divinations

Ghost of St. John Lane

Daphne Strasert

Haverford, Pennsylvania, 1874

Eleanor Prim stood at a third-floor window of the house at St. John Lane, and watched as her guests congregated on her porch. Although the week had been clear, a sudden storm brewed. The leashed fury of the tempest hung heavy in the air.

It had been years since any person save herself and her servant, Samuel, had seen the interior of her home on St. John Lane. Eleanor recoiled at the idea of others intruding on what she considered hallowed ground, but the prospect of seeing the medium, Mr. Moses, outweighed her reticence.

In her younger years, Eleanor had prided herself on her level-headed nature. She had scoffed at mesmerism and mediums, laughed at the concept of divination and spirits. Yet, since Richard’s death…

Perhaps superstition came with age, like the silver hairs streaking her raven locks and the creases around her eyes on the rare occasion of a smile.

“Ma’am,” said Samuel from behind her.

“Yes, I’ll be right down.” Eleanor smoothed her hands down the front of her black dress and went to meet her guests. It was up to Mr. Moses to put such notions to rest, one way or the other.

Mr. Moses was accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Gladney and their friends the Brownings. That made for a seance of six, the number the medium required. After years of solitude, so many people gathered in her house made Eleanor tense, but with more witnesses, she’d be less likely to be fooled by chicanery.

Eleanor met her guests in the entrance hall as Samuel ushered them in. Mrs. Gladney and Mrs. Browning looked around as if committing every detail to memory with their greedy eyes. Eleanor had never been able to tell the two women apart. Both were as plain as wallpaper paste. Their only distinguishing features were their husbands, who were never far from their sides. Mr. Gladney was wider than he was tall, while Mr. Browning had a skeletal frame with a shiny bald head.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Prim.” Mr. Moses strode forward from between the group and offered his hand.

Eleanor declined his hand shake.

Mr. Moses was a tall, thin man with a crooked nose and a sparse collection of gray hairs dusting his head. His eyes had a sharp quality, like a falcon watching for a twitch in the grass.

“Welcome to my home,” she said.

The gas lamps warmed the parlor room as the gloom outside intensified. Thunder cracked in the distance. Eleanor’s guests gazed restlessly about them as if the walls would speak.

The guests settled around the table with Eleanor between Mrs. Browning and Mrs. Gladney. The air itself seemed to thicken with anticipation. A chill crept through Eleanor, although the room was warm.

They sat in silence as Mr. Moses closed his eyes. For a long while, nothing happened. The guests around the table looked at one another.

A loud knock sounded on the ceiling and Eleanor startled.

“Remain calm,” Mr. Moses said. “They’re with us now.”

Another knock came from the ceiling, then a series of raps ran across the wall to Eleanor’s left.

“I am listening.” Mr. Moses called to the room. “We seek to understand.” 

The table rattled. Mrs. Browning’s hand tightened around Eleanor’s and she gave a small whimper. 

Mr. Moses’ eyes snapped open and he stared at Eleanor. 

“There is death in this house. Tragic death stalks you.”

Eleanor’s breath stilled in her lungs.

“Someone is coming. Someone who wants to speak with you.”

“Richard?” Eleanor asked, voice barely audible over the continued rattling and shaking of the room.

A booming knock echoed through the room, though Eleanor couldn’t tell from which direction it came.

“You carry a grave sin on your soul,” Mr. Moses said.

A clap of thunder shook the windows and Mrs. Gladney screamed.

“My God!” cried Mrs. Browning. “There’s something trying to get in!”

Outside, the world roiled. The storm thrashed against the windows, rattling the panes with each crash of thunder. Momentary flashes of light illuminated the garden in turmoil as trees swayed against the howling winds, the wood groaning against the strain. In between was only darkness. The room rumbled and Mrs. Browning squeezed Eleanor’s hand in her bony fingers. Another flash lit the world outside in sharp contrast.

Eleanor’s heart stuttered. In the momentary light, she’d seen a figure in the window-pane doors, the perfect oval of a face in sharp relief against the glass.

She extracted her fingers from the death grip of Mrs. Browning and crossed the room to the patio.

“For God’s sake, woman, don’t go out in the storm!” Mr. Gladney grasped her elbow as she passed.

“There’s someone out there,” Eleanor said, undeterred.

She unlatched the doors and they swung back with a bang, propelled by the gale outside. The full force of the storm entered and Eleanor flung herself out against it.

Squinting against the dark, she shielded her face from the onslaught even as the rain soaked through her bones and into her soul. Where there had been a figure moments ago, only the dark and wind and rain remained.

To read more, go to: Amazon.com or order the special edition, signed copy with hand-painted tarot cards at HorrorAddicts.net