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Horror / Suspense
Date Published: 08-03-2026
Everyone has an angel name and is being prepared to ‘ascend’ when the time is right. Their angelic identities will play a significant role in aiding humanity when the world ends.
As the weeks pass, Maylin becomes accustomed to the peculiar confrontational therapy. The black curtains and bars on the windows no longer trouble her. The lack of privacy, mystifying theology, and strange rules become commonplace. She sees Margo less frequently since the children are kept in the basement.
The death of another patient awakens Maylin to dark secrets within the walls, and soon the horrifying truth about Nakir and Heaven’s Hope is revealed. Maylin must confront her insecurities, rediscover her individuality, and use her wits and resources if she hopes to save Margo and the other children.
Inspired by a true crime case, this slow-burn thriller roars to a pulse-pounding climax, reminding the reader to think independently, ask questions, and be careful who you trust.
About the Author
J. Todd Kingrea is the author of "With A Blighted Touch" and The Deiparian Saga ("The Witchfinder," "The Crimson Fathers," and "Bane of the Witch"). He has also authored two non-fiction books, two short stories, and role-playing game scenarios. When not writing, he enjoys collecting and watching movies, reading, and prowling through dusty old bookstores. He and his wife live in Galax, Virginia.
You can find him online at www.jtoddkingrea.com, on Facebook, X, and Instagram. Stay in touch at jtoddkingrea@yahoo.com.
Horror / Suspense
Date Published: 08-03-2026
Everyone has an angel name and is being prepared to ‘ascend’ when the time is right. Their angelic identities will play a significant role in aiding humanity when the world ends.
As the weeks pass, Maylin becomes accustomed to the peculiar confrontational therapy. The black curtains and bars on the windows no longer trouble her. The lack of privacy, mystifying theology, and strange rules become commonplace. She sees Margo less frequently since the children are kept in the basement.
The death of another patient awakens Maylin to dark secrets within the walls, and soon the horrifying truth about Nakir and Heaven’s Hope is revealed. Maylin must confront her insecurities, rediscover her individuality, and use her wits and resources if she hopes to save Margo and the other children.
Inspired by a true crime case, this slow-burn thriller roars to a pulse-pounding climax, reminding the reader to think independently, ask questions, and be careful who you trust.
Maylin stared at Nakir in disbelief. “I…I can’t do
this.”
“Administer Uriel’s punishment. Now,” he replied.
Maylin looked at the man’s back as he knelt before the fireplace like a monk at an ancient altar. Then she looked back at Seraph Nakir. “No. N-no way…”
Nakir tilted his head, his dreadlocks falling to one side. He scowled at her. “The injury was against you,” he said. “So, it is only right that you be the one to dispense his punishment.”
She shook her head, eyes still wide, and thrust the poker toward Nakir.
He refused it. “You must, my daughter. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. His bruises for your bruises. Go ahead. Begin.”
“No, no—this isn’t right. It’s not—”
“Carry out the punishment!” Seraph Nakir bellowed, stepping forward to tower over her.
About the Author
J. Todd Kingrea is the author of "With A Blighted Touch" and The Deiparian Saga ("The Witchfinder," "The Crimson Fathers," and "Bane of the Witch"). He has also authored two non-fiction books, two short stories, and role-playing game scenarios. When not writing, he enjoys collecting and watching movies, reading, and prowling through dusty old bookstores. He and his wife live in Galax, Virginia.
You can find him online at www.jtoddkingrea.com, on Facebook, X, and Instagram. Stay in touch at jtoddkingrea@yahoo.com.
Horror / Paranormal
Date Published: 09-08-2025
Experience the eternal, beautiful dread of summer nights, where every shadow holds a story and the past refuses to stay buried.
The grandfather clock chimed loudly and could be heard from Sara’s
bedroom. It was closed and she ran to it. It said nine o'clock, but it was the
middle of the afternoon. Sara Greyston wondered why it rang when it
hadn’t in over a year. Her parents heard it too. The clock was very old
and was built by her great-grandfather, George. She moved the arms to three
o'clock. There wasn’t much hope that it was going to work right. She
wasn’t sure what time it was.
She ran into her mother’s
bedroom. “Can we take it and get it fixed?”
“I
don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s only for show,” her
father said.
When she got to her room she checked the time on her cell
phone. It said ten am. Her watch was right, but she never wore it. The time on
her computer also said ten am.
“Did the power go out?” she
asked her mother.
“No,” her mother responded. “I
don’t think so."
Maybe that was it, and she shrugged. It was an old
clock and an old house, and it had been in the family for at least a century.
She had just graduated from high school and had time to do what she wanted.
All she really wanted to know was when her friends were going to the beach and
which school she should go to in the fall.
Just as she feared, the
grandfather clock randomly chimed. She sat up in bed and checked her watch. It
said one in the morning. It was so cold she got up to get hot tea and turn on
the heat. Afterwards, she lay down and checked her watch. It still said one in
the morning. In the morning, she would have to reset it. Lying there, she
suddenly heard small footsteps in the attic. Reiny hadn’t seen that doll
since Mary died, and the doll was locked with a bolt so that it couldn’t
get out. The protector doll had become a threat in high school a couple of
years ago.
Come early morning, she grabbed the keys and unlocked the
attic door. There near the door was Reiny. Her lifelike eyes were staring at
Sara. She picked her up, and the clock chimed. It was annoying, but somebody
in the family had made it. She took the doll downstairs and shut the door
behind her. She had planned to lock it up somewhere still.
She sat in the
kitchen eating her eggs. From the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she
saw the doll turn its head toward her. Her mom entered the kitchen.
“Mom,
what’s the name of the relative that built the big broken clock?”
Sara asked.
“George Greyson. He was a clock-maker and the original
owner of this house. He was great at it. I’m sure there are pictures and
tools he used to use up in the attic,” she answered sipping her
coffee.
“I’ll definitely go up there,” Sara
said. Her mom noticed how the doll sat in her green and white dress near
Sara.
“That’s Reiny,” Sara said. “I believe she
may be controlling the clock."
About the Author
Martha Wickham has a knack for finding the ghosts hidden in the dust. A lifelong student of the arcane and the artistic, Martha has an Associate's Degree and professional writing credentials, but she honed her skills in the thrilling shadows of screenwriting and horror. Martha lives for the secrets that only come out "By Dawn". You can discover more of her work, including her newest audiobooks, at your favorite retailer.
Horror/paranormal
Date Published: 11-22-2025
Nine Tales. Nine Secrets. All Before Dawn.
Anthony pushed through the thick brush that had swallowed the old path. His friends told him the house was hidden somewhere ahead, rumored to be haunted. When he finally saw it, the place looked half-demolished, with climbing walls that had paint curling and peeling. Yet every window was perfectly intact.
He
opened the front door. Stale, cold air rushed out, thick with dust. His
footsteps echoed through the empty living room.As he moved down the hallway,
the front door suddenly slammed. He spun around and ran back, and in that
moment, he was sure he heard a whisper: Sam.The door wouldn’t budge. He
was trapped. He tried the windows too none of them opened.
Again, the
whisper came, louder this time. Sam.
“Who’s Sam? I’m not Sam!” he shouted.
A hiss answered him, followed by footsteps
upstairs. Heart pounding, he raced up the stairs. At the top, he stopped and
listened. The footsteps were clear, moving steadily into an empty room. He
followed them.
Moonlight spilt across the floor through a bare window.
The invisible footsteps crossed the room and came to a stop at the closet.
Inside, there was only a small box containing a single book. The spirits
wanted him to find it; maybe it would explain everything.
He lifted the
book. It was an old, battered ledger. Inside, a name was written: Samuel. He
began to read.I made a promise to the spirits trapped here. One of them is
buried downstairs. I swore I would help free them with my rituals. I study the
occult, and they own a golden statue worth a fortune. It must be used in the
ritual. If I hide it now, I can return for it later. No one alive will see me
take it.
Anthony reached deeper into the box and pulled out a loose page,
a torn sheet from another book. It carried a chant and the instructions for a
ritual to free spirits.A freezing gust swept through the room. Then a booming
voice declared:“Complete the ritual by dawn, or be trapped here
forever!”
“What am I supposed to do?” he asked the
spirit.
Once again, he heard footsteps descending the stairs and followed
them. Near the kitchen, the basement door creaked open. He cautiously stepped
down the dark basement steps and saw the cloud-like spirit hovering over a
crypt in the floor, where it looked like a ritual had been started over
someone’s grave. Candles and matches were scattered nearby.
Horror / Collection
Date Published: 07-22-2025
Publisher: Anuci Press
Evil lurks in the darkness, clawing its way towards unsuspecting victims . . .
A woman living with fibromyalgia finds an artifact that unleashes a reality she never thought possible . . . at a steep price.
Hold your breath as you immerse yourself in five harrowing stories written by bestselling author, Mallory McCartney. Fans of her gripping Black Dawn series will be kept on the edge of their seat by this horror collection inspired by real life events!
The Exchange
Abnormal pain perception.
I tied my running shoes, my fingers swollen, the ends still
tingling from waking with them completely numb.
I can only manage my symptoms. There is no cure. No cure.
No. Cure. Slowly, I stood, my hips cracking loudly, the stiffness in
my body feeling like I had been ripped apart in the night, haphazardly being
thrown back together.
I can sleep for ten hours each night, but I feel like I
haven’t slept at all.
Dragging my gaze up, I look at my reflection. My skin is
translucent, the spattering of freckles over my nose just accentuating the
black circles under my eyes. My auburn hair frames my gaunt face, my T-shirt
and shorts breathable. This is my battle armor. This is another morning
fighting to do one of the most overwhelming tasks now in my life.
Physical exercise.
I frown, and say to my reflection, “Don’t let the fucking
fibromyalgia win.”
Fibromyalgia, the disease everyone is convinced is all in
your head, but has made me feel completely dead inside. If anyone took the time
to learn, they would know it stems from your nervous system, creating a
complete neurochemical imbalance, and pain signals are sent down to
devour you from the inside out. It’s debilitating. It’s real.
And has left me completely isolated within my life.
I took my rage and left my apartment, stepping into the
complete silence of the hallway, to make my way to the elevator and downstairs
before anyone else in the building was awake.
The predawn sky glowed. I watched the edge of the horizon
start to bleed into soft pinks, oranges, and purples that promised a brilliant
sunrise. In late August in Sarnia, Ontario, if you wanted to look for beach
glass, it was best to rise with the sun. Come midmorning, the beach was usually
speckled with families on vacation, locals enjoying the summer, or tourists.
Quite frankly, I wanted to avoid them all.
I walked down the street that connected to the public beach
parking lot while adjusting my backpack straps and listening to the tempo of my
footfalls on the sidewalk. Left, right, left, right. The
comfortably cool breeze teased ideas of autumn, but I knew we were in for
another couple months of plus thirty with high humidity days. Thankfully, at
six A.M. it was twenty degrees and the perfect temperature. I pulled back my
auburn hair and allowed myself a moment, sighing into the quiet. All while I
repeated my daily mantra in my head:
You are here, today, in this moment.
A year ago, I couldn’t walk more than ten minutes. Being
diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome, and then later with fibromyalgia at
twenty-seven, I often thought it was like being dragged into the undertow with
no immediate way back to the surface while simultaneously being set on fire.
Going through months of denial, losing my friends who didn’t have the space to
understand invisible chronic illnesses, having to stop working at my
career . . . I literally had a funeral for my past life—it was
ripped away so suddenly, so irrevocably harsh. I think drowning while on fire
was a pretty accurate description of the sensations rampaging through my body
and within my life.
After finding a sliver of peace knowing there was no way
back to that life, to that version of Kinsley Matthews, I
started to climb the mountain. I had to find a way to coexist with the monster
that had decided to live with me. I had no choice other than to fight.
For me, the first step to climbing that mountain came in the
form of walking. It was methodical—the steadiness of it—and searching for beach
glass had at first been a challenge. I searched for those beautiful pieces of
glass as if they were a lifeline when my body screamed that I couldn’t do the
walk, that I had to give up, or else I would collapse or throw up. Next came
the pain, the sweeping kiss of it, the overwhelming consumption until I felt
delirious. It sunk its claws so firmly in me that the rest of the day would
pass in flickers. But each morning, I went a little farther, a little longer. I
relished the sweat and each gritting step because they meant I was alive, that
I was fighting. This tyrant of a disease wouldn’t take everything.
Three hundred sixty-five days later, I welcomed the
challenge rather than how I used to dread it. The flare reaction of my body
slowly started to ebb too, like I was chiseling out a form of myself,
cold-pressed and molded from my experiences, but still me.
Today, I crossed the empty parking lot that led to the
beach, popping my earbuds in. They connected to my phone, and I pressed shuffle
on my playlist.
Brad Arnold’s voice from 3 Doors Down flooded my senses. As
soon as my runners hit the sand and my calves ignited, I fell into a well of
blissful routine. This was predictable. Cathartic. This walk was my choice, in
my control, when most things about my body were not anymore. My pain rippled,
wanting to cascade down on me, but I roared back at it internally. Like hell
was it going to take this from me. The endlessness of the sky brushed Lake
Huron, the still turquoise waters resembling a mirror. The beach was empty, and
I made my way to the shore, eager to find the smooth edges of the green, white,
and blue beach glass hidden within the pale golden sands.
Mallory McCartney currently lives in Sarnia, Ontario with her husband, their dachshunds Link, and Leonard and their sphynx cats Luna, Legolas, Ivy and Lily. When she isn’t working on her next novel or reading, she can be found day dreaming about fantasy worlds or bingeing her favorite horror movies.
