"The Last Flag" by Wren Cavanagh

EXCERPT and GIVEAWAY

The Last Flag
(Race the Dead Book 1)

by Wren Cavanagh

The Last Flag by Wren Cavanagh is currently on tour with Silver Dagger Book Tours. The tour stops here today for an excerpt and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

Description

What would you do to pay the bills; to survive, or to just get rich, would you compete against other teams in a quarantined town filthy with zombies wanting to bite out your throat?

Emma and Lewis sign up for the race, they need the money to save his life. But they won't just be racing the dead, the surprise blizzard, or the other contestants.

Because anger and vengeance know no bounds and, like everyone in the blighted town, they become pawns in a game of retribution.

The contestants become nothing more than live entertainment to viewers who watch and judge their every move in the town of Prideful as they race each other to arrive alive to a final flag. The team that makes it will get airlifted out alive and go back home richer for it. The others walk back to a pittance and, if they are not careful, they won't get out at all.

Excerpt

The helicopters lifted off from their respective locations at the town’s cardinal points. For the landings, the pilots made a show of finding a good spot, good editing would do the rest. It would create the impression of action and urgency where there wasn’t much of it; for ‘safety’ the pilots hovered close to ground and let the members of the four teams jump out of the open doors. All a show—a few ladders and some thick blankets thrown over the barbed wire would have worked as well. Or cutting a hole in the fence. But cutting through it would have caused legal issues, worse, the noises might eventually draw out some of the town’s current inhabitants. And everyone wanted intact fences between them and the turned.

The players now had two days to reach as many flags as possible. They would be told how many flags the other teams had, for added pressure. If they went past two days the cash pot would drop hourly by hundreds of thousands of dollars. A million today not being what it used to be, the contestant had better be hauling ass.

The video streams from the aerial drones, the helicopters, and the cameramen showed that most of the teams had gotten quickly organized once they hit the ground, and trotted off without a hitch. With one exception: The voice of the senior editor came in through Tom’s headset.

“Tom, first fuck up.”

“Great, who is it?”

“Joe from Striker,” replied the man as he zoomed in on the feed for the team.

Tom nodded, he looked at the fallen man on his tablet and opened his microphone. His voice came in over the video feed. “It looks like we have a player down. A player in danger! And that can put his team mates in danger. Joe Rosling from team Striker is on the ground and not getting up! Team striker has hit the ground and is already behind. Joe Rosling! Joe, looks like you got hurt there.”

Joe, the Army vet, tall and wiry, with wild shoulder length brown hair tied back in a pony tail and biker mustache, sat grimacing on the ground. He looked embarrassed and his lips formed a tight white line on a face from which pain had already drained all color.

“Just a sprain. I’ll be okay.” He gasped through clenched teeth and killed any credibility his reply might have had. Joe tried to get up and held his hand out to Lew for support. With the other man’s help he

struggled to his feet, but when he tried to put weight on the hurt foot he gave a sharp cry and fell back on his ass.

The awkward silence and frustration was palpable as the camera feed streamed on and minutes passed. Ross Boulez, the team’s assigned cameraman, panned in on the reaction of the team members.

Embarrassment, anger and impatience were the predominant emotions.

“Think you can keep going, Joe?” Tom asked. “Your team is waiting on you. Do you need to be extracted?”

The man shook his head. “I'm good.” With a pained, tight lipped expression and Lew’ help, he managed to get back up and started walking. Emma and Lew clapped and patted him on the back, but they looked doubtful. The team left at a slow trot that soon turned into a slow walk, and then to a funeral procession pace march as Joe limped along and kept up as best he could.

[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book

“… I find this book very enjoyable and a breath of fresh - if gory - air. Imagine if they threw zombies into Survivor and you’ll get a rough idea of the reality show within The Last Flag by Wren Cavanagh.” ~ dragonet711

“This was a short book worth a read. First of all, the pacing was great and kept me reading. I also really liked the character development and the overall plot. It had enough of a twist to the story to make it stand out from your usual zombie story. Another thing I really enjoyed was the transitions from perspectives that made it lots of fun.” ~ Chelsea O.

“I liked the humor in this book, and the action and I especially liked that Cavanagh manages to make a trite subject like zombies interesting again.” ~ MB

“I enjoy the humour and never quite know what is coming next of this author ... she is going from strength to strength and manages to create brilliant visuals in my mind. This is like a breath of fresh air in an otherwise tedious ‘real’ world.” ~ Aku – The Dragon Slayer

“I enjoyed the book. It has its ups and downs, but was enjoyable all the way. I'm not a zombie fan, as the genre is same old thing over and over, but this little twist in the zombie genre is a realistic version of what I could see happening. Hunger Games meet The Walking Dead is my take on the story.” ~ Tia H

About the Author

Wren Cavanagh, that would be me. Also writes under the pen name Junior Sokolov.

An artist and writer from great North West.

I am grateful that I have this opportunity to share my work and imagination with you. Growing up, my head was always stuck in a book or a comic book (before they got fancy and got the moniker “graphic novels”).

More often than not, those books were filled with monsters, werewolves and vampires.

Then the likes of Godzilla showed up, along with their brethren, born from the very justified fear of the atomic bomb and its consequences.

And that is what I love. Escaping into worlds of monsters and heroes, and sometimes they are one and the same! Letting my imagination run along and bring into the narrative what I see around me every day.

I hope that you will enjoy my stories. Find in them a temporary and enjoyable escape of your own.

Giveaway

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win a $10 Amazon gift card or one of two audiobooks or ebooks of The Last Flag by Wren Cavanagh.

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"Grey Skies" by William Becker

INTERVIEW and GIVEAWAY

Grey Skies

by William Becker

Grey Skies by William Becker is currently on tour with Silver Dagger Book Tours. The tour stops here today for my interview with the author, an excerpt, and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

Description

Roman Toguri finds himself burying the body of a nun in Boone, North Carolina. As the skies darken and it begins to storm, he is forced to shove the corpse into his trunk and take it home for the night, unaware of the torment that playing God will bestow upon him.

Enter Hell with two bonus short stories: “The White Shade”, an ultra-violent look into the mind of a mass shooter, and “The Black Box”, a psychedelic dive into weird horror.

Book Video

Excerpt

When I came close enough, I grabbed one of the wooden planks and hoisted myself into the next room. Gazing around, this room immediately seemed fairly ‘cozy.’ The entire room was constructed from the worn wooden planks that were around the edge of the hole. Several feet across from the entrance to the tunnel was a lamp whose shade had turned an ancient shade of brown, filling the room with the orange light that I had seen from the underground, signalling that I had returned to civilization, or at least somewhere with working electricity.

Perhaps the most important feature of the room was a red velvet couch right next to the map, on which sat my familiar friend, the homeless man. A blank, soulless expression covered his face, his eyes unblinking in his focus, or lack thereof.

This was the first time I had seen him in clear lighting, and the black spots on his face resembled a growth or a scab, seeming to extend and pile up over the top of his skin like mold. It was truly disgusting.

I slowly moved to a wooden door near the couch, waiting for him to stop me, but he stared off in the distance, as if he was watching something behind me. I took another step towards the door when my foot planted down on top of something with a gentle crunch, and seemed to stick to the sole of my shoe as I bent down to examine in; hundreds of black specks scurried away from my feet. Each of these specks hurried past me in a large pack, then crawled underneath the couch where the man was sitting, disappearing from sight. My body locked up and I was forced to cringe when I realized that these specks were baby spiders, and I had just stepped on a large sac.

“Don’t step on those,” the man muttered, his voice sounding hazy and distant, as if the two of us were miles apart.

“What?” I asked, unsure if I had heard him correctly.

“Don’t stomp the eggs,” he replied. His eyes were still locked on something behind me. I glared back, half expecting something to be standing there.

“Why not?”

“Because I like them, and they like the cold.”

I watched several of the baby spiders move through the holes in his clothes, crawling into them and creating tiny bulges beneath the fabric. I shuddered, and then his head began to turn. It was a painfully slow motion that seemed to last decades, until finally, his eyes rested on me.

“I’m finally free, you know.”

There was a ticking noise, as if the second hand on a clock was moving, then the orange glow of the lamp was replaced with darkness. The light had been turned off. I wasn’t sure how the man had turned it off, or if the light had simply given out, but despite this, more light leaked into the room from the cracks in the wooden door leading outside, giving a dimmed view of the man on the couch. I glanced back to the floor to see that dozens of the eggs had appeared all across the ground. Had I not seem them earlier? They were a milky white color and about the size of baseballs. A handful of the eggs seemed to wriggle every few seconds, as if they were about to hatch. The light reflected off of them, giving them a shiny appearance in the light.

I looked around, shrugged, then decided it was time to leave. I tiptoed to the door in a state of horrified confusion, leaving the man and his eggs behind.

[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book

“A super-surrealistic novel for people that like their macabre up close and personal, and their meaning very hard to decipher.” ~ Gordon A. Long

“I could not read it in one sitting only because I had to read it early enough during the day so that I could sleep at night. Yeah, I'm not afraid to admit that I was freaked the hell out. This author is 18yrs old and delivered a psychological, twisted horror. I want to see what else he has up his sleeve and yet I don't. I believe fans who are looking for something new in horror will love this book.” ~ ILoveMyAudibleKindle

“Becker pens a good horror story in Grey Skies. I found that I did like the majority of the story, but a few parts were a bit confusing, and a bit slow to make sense, but in the end, I enjoyed the story. Yes, it was creepy and scary, and intriguing to see how the story would play out. I would definitely read more by this author, and I am curiously intrigued (and yet a bit fearful) of his imagination. I look forward to reading more by this author.” ~ Amy's Bookshelf Reviews

“I was pleasantly surprised by this book! The writing is vivid and detailed, and I felt that I was immediately inside the main character's head as he goes through a personal hell.” ~ Aina

“Grey Skies is really good. It's not easy to creep me out but the little parts dealing with spiders got to me.” ~ Kaili Taghon (Entertainingly Nerdy)

Interview with the Author

Author William Becker stops by today to talk about his new book, Grey Skies.

How did you come up with name of this book?

As you get through the book, water, rain, and drowning are pretty important things. Simply enough, Grey Skies is representative of bad weather, and Roman’s experience, especially as the reader dives into the darker parts of his past, can be equated to “feeling under the weather”.

If your book had a candle, what scent would it be?

Wet dirt in the middle of spring.

Do you see writing as a career?

I’m here now, aren’t I?

Do you read yourself and, if so, what is your favorite genre?

I’ll read almost anything besides fantasy. Fantasy itself isn’t bad, but it’s slowly becoming the most tired genre. Every book has started to feel the same to me. A lot of reading online has led me to believe that it’ll be a pseudo-medieval world where a collection of misfits gets together to fight evil that is re-emerging after being dormant for centuries. Prophecy stories are awful, so is dragon-riding, so are epic stories about a bloodline battling for control. It’s just an exhausting genre. No disrespect to whoever writes the stuff, I’m sure there are some very, very talented people out there writing fantasy that would knock my socks off.

Besides that, horror and bizarro fiction can always be pretty fun. I prefer my books to be on the condensed side and not meander around for a few hundred pages. The perfect book is between 150-400 pages. Maybe it’s just my attention span, but books like Under the Dome by Stephen King are just exhaustingly long and don’t really take me anywhere new. In that same breath, Carrie is a good example of a perfect novel, as is something like Piercing by Ryu Murakami. Despite my love for horror, I’ll read anything that’s good.

Thanks for stopping by today, William. Enjoy the rest of your tour!

About the Author

William Becker is an 18-year-old horror author with a mind for weirder sides of the universe. With an emphasis on complex and layered storylines that tug harshly on the reader to search for deeper meanings in the vein of Silent Hill and David Lynch, Becker is a force to be reckoned with in the horror world. His works are constantly unfathomable, throwing terror into places never before seen, while also providing compelling storylines that transcend the predictable jumpscares of the popular modern horror.

His first novel, Weeping of the Caverns, was written when he was 14. After eight months of writing, editing, and revising, the story arrived soon after his 15th birthday. During the writing sessions for his debut novel, he also wrote an ultra-controversial short story known as “The White Shade” that focused on the horrors of a shooting. Living in a modern climate, it was impossible for “The White Shade” to see the light of day. Following a psychedelic stint that consisted of bingeing David Lynch movies, weird art, and considering the depth of the allegory of the cave wall, he returned to writing with a second story, “The Black Box”, and soon after, his second novel, Grey Skies.

Giveaway

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win a $20 Amazon gift card or one of three Grey Skies posters.

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"Shantallow" by Cara Martin

EXCERPT and GIVEAWAY

Shantallow

by Cara Martin

This book blitz and giveaway for Shantallow by Cara Martin is hosted by Xpresso Book Tours.

Description

Tanvi isn’t the girl of Misha’s dreams; she’s the girl from his nightmares. She has appeared in his chilling dreams before he even meets her; when he DOES meet her, he falls for her.

Their relationship turns stormy, bordering on abusive, and takes a dramatic turn when they are held captive by a group hoping to extract money from Tanvi’s wealthy family.

But there is something more sinister at work, and the kidnappers and their victims find themselves struggling for survival as a supernatural force from Misha’s nightmares makes itself known in the real world.

Excerpt

Keion came in his cab when I texted him, like an indie 911. He shook his head at me as I dove into the front seat next to him. “I’ve never seen you in this sorry ass state,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” I told him.

“Yeah, you do.”

“Yeah, I do,” I admitted. I’d walked too far out on the ice and realized it could crack under my feet. “But not now, okay? I need to get home.”

Keion nodded as we pulled away from the curb. “I can see that, all right.”

I leaned my head back against the headrest and shut my eyes; I’d downed too many shots to keep them open. Sleep curved its velvety black wings eagerly around me. I didn’t fight it.

In some other place, Tanvi stared at me with eyes like a starless night sky. “Shantallow,” she said, her cheeks slick with blood and her lips not moving. “Run.” My shirt was torn at the elbow. It flapped as I ran, my ribs twitching underneath my skin, clawing me from the inside.

“We should have reached a road by now,” Tanvi said. Misery bent her voice, like a branch drooping under the weight of too much snow. “How can there be no road?”

I jolted myself free from sleep. Keion’s eyes were on the road ahead. “Shantallow,” he hissed. “We shall all be changed.” Sharp fingernails scraped violently against the passenger side of the car. Keion grinned maniacally, his teeth broken and gray. Only he wasn’t Keion anymore. My father was at the wheel. Soil spilled from his mouth. Chunks of his skull were missing, the glare from a passing car illuminating the clumps of raw, uneven flesh left in their place.

“Hey, hey!” a voice called. “Wake up, Misha.” A car horn blared. It sliced through my fear, hurling me back to the world. My head knocked back against the headrest, Keion’s right hand closed firmly around my arm. “Whoa. You were having a night terror or something. I couldn’t wake you up. You damn scared me.” He promptly released his hold, his right hand joining his left on the wheel.

“I’m okay,” I said unconvincingly. “Must’ve been all the beer.”

We were back in Balsam, a couple of blocks from my house. Keion sighed through his teeth, his concerned eyes worse than any lecture. Thirty seconds later we veered onto my street. About six houses down from mine a guy with his hood up sat on a neighbor’s steps, hunched against the wind. He cocked his head in my direction as I exited the car, like we knew each other.

Keion called after me, “Be good, Misha. Call me if you want to talk.”

I was as shaky as hell, freezing on the inside. The dream had been so real that I easily might have thrown myself from the car to escape it. One of my hands flew instinctively up in the air to wave off Keion, my feet pausing until the cab was gone and then padding me over to the neighbor’s front yard like they had their own ideas about what was supposed to happen next.

“Thought that was you,” the guy said from the stoop. He tugged his hoodie down, revealing a familiar face.

Praise for the Book

“Martin’s writing is very descriptive and I found myself reading some of the passages more than once because they were so beautiful. Even the spooky sections of the book … and there are a lot … are riveting because of the way they are written. The story flows beautifully.” ~ Kinzie Things

About the Author

Cara Martin is the author of several acclaimed novels for young people published under the name C. K. Kelly Martin. A graduate of the Film Studies program at York University, Cara has lived in the Greater Toronto Area and Dublin, Ireland. Within the space of 3500 miles she’s worked a collection of quirky jobs at multiple pubs and video stores, an electricity company, a division of the Irish post office, a London toyshop, and an advertising analytics company. She’s also been an image editor for a dot-com startup that didn’t survive the 90s, and a credit note clerk for Canada's largest national distributor of General Merchandise. Cara currently resides in Ottawa, Ontario with her husband and is still afraid of the Child Catcher from the film adaptation of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Giveaway

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win a $25 Amazon gift card and a signed copy of Shantallow by Cara Martin.

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"The Gordon Place" by Isaac Thorne

EXCERPT and GIVEAWAY

The Gordon Place

by Isaac Thorne

The Gordon Place by Isaac Thorne is currently on tour with Reading Addiction Book Tours. The tour stops here today for an excerpt and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

Description

Lost Hollow constable Graham Gordon just walked into his abandoned childhood home for the first time in twenty years. Local teenagers have been spreading rumors about disembodied screams coming from inside. Now, thanks to a rickety set of cellar stairs and the hateful spirit of his dead father, he might never escape.

Meanwhile, Channel 6 News feature reporter Afia Afton - whose father is the victim of a local decades-old hate crime - is meeting with town administrator Patsy Blankenship. Her mission is to develop a ghost story feature for a special to air on the station’s Halloween broadcast. When Patsy tells her about the screams at the Gordon place, the past and the present are set on a collision course with potentially catastrophic results.

Can Graham come to terms with his father’s past and redeem his own future? Can the murder mystery that has haunted Afia for most of her life finally be solved?

It’s a fight for the future and the past when spirit and flesh wage war at the Gordon place.

Book Video

Excerpt

Chapter One

The only net gain for Graham, if it could be considered such, that had come out of the election so far was that he had been able to use the position to convince the town to turn his old homestead over to him for a song and a promise he’d clean up the blight. That had been another lark. In the same town board meeting that had seen him sworn in as constable there had appeared on the agenda a plan to demolish the old place as a means of curbing the juvenile delinquency it seemed to entice. The rumors being spread by the kids in town had reached the board’s ears, and they had come to the same conclusion he had: the place was turning into an attraction for vagrants and ne’er-do-wells. Therefore, tear it down.

When the time came for public input on the matter, he’d suddenly found himself standing—without having previously planned to do so—and arguing that the place had sentimental value for him and that he’d like a shot at restoring it. He might even turn it into some kind of tourist spot, an idea he’d come to by way of town administrator Patsy Blankenship, she whom he’d hung up on moments ago. She had already renovated one old local homestead into a bed and breakfast that hosted the occasional guest or local event. The board had balked at his idea at first, but after he’d promised to either clean up the blight or hand the old Gordon place back to the town for demolition within a year, they’d relented. Now he owned the home: a shelter for rats, snakes, vagrants, and bored teenagers. He had no idea where to begin.

Graham pushed the thoughts away. This was no time to go second-guessing his life choices and cost himself what little nerve he had summoned to search for trespassers. He sidled up the hall. The back of his shirt created a loud scraping sound against the faded and peeling fleur-de-lis wallpaper covering the entry hall, a remnant of his mother’s New Orleans roots. He left his own narrow trail of Wolverine sole prints in the dust on the floor, carefully avoiding stepping on the ones left by the previous visitor. The physical memories of life in the house came flooding back to him. The sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor. The sound of his father’s footsteps. Even the scrape of the wallpaper against the fabric of his shirt bubbled up memories of him dashing all over the house, running his hands and fingers over the walls as he did, just as any normal wild young boy might do.

The tiny hook and eye latch that had been meant to secure the cellar door was already undone when he got there. Graham didn’t know whether his father had initially installed that latch, but he’d always thought it a silly and unnecessary addition. The door to the cellar was no more than three uneven slats of painted pine carelessly supported along their backs by two horizontal two-by-fours. Large gaps between each slat rendered useless any attempt to keep the cooler air of the cellar out of the entry hall by just shutting the door. Besides, it had always managed to swing shut and stay closed on its own—even unlatched—which was one more reason the cellar had made for such an excellent hiding place.

A small wooden cabinet knob was mounted a couple of inches below the hook. Graham grabbed it and pulled. The door swung open easily on its spring hinges and without much complaint about the new tension; surprising after so many years of disuse. The ray from his Maglite spilled into the opening and revealed three splintery and slowly disintegrating steps, approximately one-quarter of the familiar set of plank stairs leading from the mouth of the door before vanishing into the damp darkness below. Graham felt for the light switch just inside the cellar door and flipped it on, but it produced nothing. He’d had service activated so he could begin work on the place. Maybe the power company hadn’t gotten around to it yet. That would certainly explain the state of the security light out front.

“Hello?” he shouted into the depths of darkness. “Lost Hollow Constable! Is anyone down there?”

There was no answer.

Graham stepped through the door. He’d covered only one tread before the sound of the creaking staircase started to get to him. There he paused, not allowing the door to swing shut behind him and not liking the soft and spongy feel of the tread on which he stood. It had much more give in it than he remembered from his youth.

From this position, the narrow beam of his Maglite enabled him to see the end of the staircase, but nothing beyond. The final step looked black and almost completely rotted away. The one above it didn’t appear to be in much better shape. If he went forward, he risked breaking those steps, which would make climbing out of the cellar much more difficult. If he didn’t go on, and someone was trapped down here, he might lose his job in disgrace. Worse, a real law enforcement officer, like a county sheriff’s deputy, might end up investigating the “screams” and finding a dead body he’d missed out of fear, in which case he could at the very least be accused of neglecting his duties as an officer of the peace.

Maglite secured in his left hand, Graham pawed at his right hip, immediately taking comfort in the shape of the county issue radio clipped to his belt. He ran his fingers along the top of the device until they closed around the volume knob, which he turned to the right. A thin click and a spurt of white noise erupted through the tomb-like silence of the old house. It vanished just as quickly, leaving in its wake the distinct hum of radio silence. Even so, it was reassuring that he had not only remembered to carry his direct connection to the Hollow County Sheriff’s Department inside with him but it also appeared to be in proper working order.

“Let’s hear it for technology. Thank God.”

From somewhere inside his head, he thought, the darkness replied: GOD AIN’T GOT NOTHING TO DO WITH IT.

The next thing he felt was the bone-crunching shock of something blunt and heavy striking the back of his head. He heard what sounded like the shattering of thick glass. He was able to stay upright just long enough to feel what might have been a trickle of blood oozing from his scalp to the nape of his neck. A pair of unseen hands at his back thrust him into the darkness of the cellar, launching him down the full length of the rickety staircase. He fell forward, plummeting face first into the densely compacted earth beneath the house. The bridge of his nose exploded in a bright starburst of pain. His upper teeth crashed down on his lower lip, ripping open the pliable flesh. He felt an immediate swelling there. A thin stream of hot blood ran tear-like down his chin from the wound. Dimly, he heard the crack of splintered wood as his shins came down last, disintegrating the deteriorated lower steps in a fireworks show of wood rot and ancient dust.

His radio went flying when he hit. He heard it shatter in a hiss of static somewhere off to his right. The base of his Maglite struck the ground at the same time. It flew from his hand and bounced off the earth once, twice, and rolled some distance over the ground before coming to rest against the farthest cinder block wall of the cellar. The lamp behind the flashlight’s lens flickered madly, creating a nauseating strobe effect, a stop-motion version of Graham’s shadow on the wall beside him as he at first struggled to regain his feet and then gave up, collapsing flat to the earth.

The lamp finally steadied itself at a low burn, illuminating almost nothing about the cellar but the corner in which it had landed. It had come to rest too far from the limit of Graham’s reach. He stretched his left arm out for it anyway, hopeful that the darkness had merely created some sort of illusion of depth. His fingers clawed at the dirt for a second or two before they ultimately surrendered and lay still.

Graham Gordon lay broken and exhausted on the black earth at the bottom of the cellar stairs. In the fading last rays of his dying Maglite, he saw an eye: a disembodied, full white orb broken by jagged lightning-shaped lines of red capillaries. The iris in the center of the eyeball was a murky dark brown color, unshining and nearly black. Its pupil was but a pinprick in the beam from the flashlight.

It stared at him from just beyond the edge of the darkness, unblinking.

“Dad?”

The world went dark.

[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book

“The Gordon Place is a well-told tale of ghostly vengeance. It's got a menacing B-movie vibe, yet addresses deeper issues of child abuse and racism and author Isaac Thorne shows that true horror doesn't come from beyond the grave, but the dark recesses of the human heart.” ~ Rob Errera for IndieReader

“Isaac Thorne builds up the suspense gradually, writing in a way that draws the reader into the web. The descriptive nature of the story has you feeling you are really there, hearing every creak and echo of the past.” ~ Anne-Marie Reynolds for Readers' Favorite

“Thorne eases into the story as if spinning a ghostly yarn, it is as comforting as sliding into a warm bloodbath and just as soothing and nerve-jangling.” ~ Drew Rowsome for My Gay Toronto Magazine

“Thorne has some serious writing chops and every time I jumped back into The Gordon Place, I was easily whisked away to Lost Hollow.” ~ Steve Stred for Kendall Reviews

“There are no heroes in Lost Hollow, just ordinary people dealing with extraordinary situations and it makes for a dark and wonderful ride.” ~ Yeti for TN Horror News

About the Author

Isaac Thorne is a nice man who has, over the course of his life, developed a modest ability to spin a good yarn. Really. He promises. Just don’t push him down a flight of stairs.

Isaac reviews films for TNHorror.com and TheHorrorcist.com. He is the host of Thorne’s Theater of Terror and Classic Cuts on 24/7/365 horror-themed SCRM Radio at scrmradio.com.

Giveaway

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win a signed paperback copy of The Gordon Place by Isaac Thorne.

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