Category: Dark Fantasy
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Fifty yards out, directly in the path of the Steam-Walkers, the mudflat rose. It didn’t just bulge. It stood up. A mound of black silt, dripping with eelgrass and old fishing nets, heaved itself out of the channel. It grew taller, piling mud upon mud, defying gravity. It formed a shape. A humanoid shape, fifteen…
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The monsters have moved from the ridges into the grid. In this exclusive teaser from the Echo-Mythos, a 911 dispatcher realizes the calls are coming from dead locations, and the server room is building a new kind of body.
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High on the Ontario Ridge Trail, the fog is gone, but the danger has evolved. In this exclusive teaser from The Static Hills, the Driftwood Kings command the geology itself to create acoustic traps. When a hiker hears a recording of her own future scream trapped in the sandstone, she realizes the cliff isn’t a…
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For the last year, we watched the water. But the forecast has changed. The “Santa Ana of the Sea” is blowing, the air is turning hot, and the monsters are moving inland. It’s time to leave the fog behind and enter the static. Click to see the exclusive cover art and maps for the upcoming…
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“Inside the sealed case, the Great Horned Owl was watching him. Its head was turned a full ninety degrees, and condensation was trickling down the pane… but it wasn’t on the outside. It was on the inside.”
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“I thought I was safe. I thought if I kept the stories centered on the Rock and the bay, the horror would stay within the city limits. I was naive. Last night, I took a drive north… and I realized that I haven’t finished the story. Or maybe, the story isn’t finished with me. The…
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“I’ve always been a sucker for a cliché. ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’ But anyone who lives on the Central Coast knows we don’t get thunderstorms. Not really. So when the sky over Morro Bay lit up tonight with a blinding, cold electric-cyan light, I knew it wasn’t weather. The ground was bone…
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Gus kept his eyes squeezed shut, praying that the heavy, cool weight draped across his ankles was just a piece of wet driftwood. He lay perfectly still on the sand. The shipwreck had left him battered, salt-crusted, and exhausted, but it was the sound that kept him paralyzed. It wasn’t the roar of the ocean.…
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His hands shot out, pressing against smooth, cool timber. A box. Claustrophobia washed over him, stealing his breath. He thrashed, elbows banging against the confines. A coffin. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal. Then, a presence. His hand brushed something cold and unyielding. Not wood. He recoiled, choking back a cry,…
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My bones are granite and my blood is the slow, cool magic of the earth. I have never taken a breath, but I have felt the wind of a thousand winters wear at my skin. My heart has never beaten, but it has pulsed with the deep, resonant toll of the Great Bell in the…