Campfire Stories 2 #OurAuthorGang

 A campfire story by Lorraine Carey

Mysterious Getaway

Crystal, Shawna, Faith, and Melynda had been counting down the days. Their long-awaited ‘girls’ getaway’ was finally upon them. It had been months of planning, and with Spring Break in full swing at Desert Ridge Elementary, all four teachers were desperate for a break. The stress of their rowdy fourth graders had worn them thin, but for Crystal, the weight of the year was heavier—just a few months ago, her grandmother had passed away, and the grief still lingered.

Shawna had taken charge of the arrangements and booked a stay at the Albuquerque KOA Journey Campground. It wasn’t far—just a half-hour drive from their homes in Rio Rancho—but in the Land of Enchantment, even short trips felt like escapes. Shawna had planned for them to stay in two separate cabins, one for herself with Crystal and Faith and Melynda in another. Together, they piled into Shawna’s SUV, music blasting, singing along to the latest pop hits.

As they hit Route 66, the landscape stretched out before them—endless desert, rugged mountains, and the promise of adventure. Soon enough, they pulled up to the campground, the rustic cabins nestled beneath the looming Sandia Mountains, their jagged peaks bathed in the fading light of the setting sun. The girls could already feel the magic of the place, the world quieting around them as the vibrant pinks and purples of the mountains intensified with dusk.

After a hearty New Mexico meal in the guest kitchen, everyone was eager to stretch their legs. They made their way toward the farthest firepit, nestled on a quiet rise that offered an even better view of the mountain range. Thermoses filled with hot coffee and tea in hand, Crystal reminded them to grab jackets as the desert air would soon turn cold. At forty, she often played the role of the motherly figure, the one with a steady presence and a knack for sensing what others needed—some even said she had a ‘sixth sense.’ Her friends didn’t ask questions; they simply trusted her.

As they approached the firepit, they saw the groundskeeper, a silent figure, tending to the flames. Four chairs were arranged around the crackling fire, waiting for them. The girls settled in, the warmth of the fire offering a sharp contrast to the encroaching chill of the night.

Shawna, ever the instigator, suggested, “Tell us a story, Crystal. You’re half Navajo, you must have some legends tucked away.”

The others eagerly agreed, their voices rising in unison, “Yes, tell us!”

Crystal hesitated, a wry smile curling on her lips. “I don’t want to scare anyone off,” she teased, taking a long sip of her coffee.

Faith, always the skeptic, chuckled. “No way you’re scaring me off after last week’s chaos in my classroom.”

Crystal’s gaze drifted to the fire, the flames dancing hypnotically as sparks swirled into the night air like ghostly whispers. The coyotes’ distant howls broke the silence, sending a shiver down Melynda’s spine. She jumped in her seat.

“Maybe they want to join us,” Faith joked.

“Nah,” Crystal’s voice was calm, but there was a strange edge to it. “They’re harmless.”

The others fell silent, waiting for Crystal to speak.

After a long pause, she began: “The Navajo speak of Skinwalkers—shape-shifters who can take the form of any animal. But they’re more than that. They can steal your soul; make you do things... unspeakable things. They can even take the voice of your loved ones to lure you into the darkness.”

Melynda leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “Have you ever encountered one?”

Crystal’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “Not me, but my grandfather did.”

The night seemed to grow colder as Crystal spoke, her words sinking deeper into the air around them.

“They can hear your thoughts,” she continued, her voice low, almost a whisper. “and they can use the voice of someone you trust to draw you in. They’re never as far as you think.”

Shawna pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders. “Do you think one’s out here? In the mountains?”

Crystal met Shawna’s gaze, her face unreadable. “What do you think? You live in New Mexico.”

“Why would they come here?” Shawna asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Some places are... easier to reach," Crystal replied, her gaze turning toward the full moon, glowing unnaturally bright above them. “They need darkness to thrive.”

The girls sat in tense silence until Shawna broke it with a question. “How do you kill one?”

Crystal’s eyes flickered with a dark understanding. “A bullet dipped in white ash. But even then... it’s never certain.”

The fire crackled, the air thick with unease. Faith nervously whistled, attempting to break the tension, but Crystal’s voice rang out sharply. “Stop! Don’t do that. It taunts the spirits.”

The group fell silent, the weight of Crystal’s words settling over them like a heavy fog. After a long moment, Crystal stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone. She picked up her thermos, her face pale.

“I’m not feeling well,” she murmured, her voice tight. “I think I ate too much at dinner. I’m going to lie down.”

The girls exchanged uncertain glances as Crystal left, her footsteps fading into the night.

Shawna, Faith, and Melynda stayed behind, the firelight flickering in the growing darkness as they each shared a story—nothing as chilling as Crystal’s. The coyotes had quieted, and the air was thick with an uneasy calm.

But when Shawna went to check on Crystal, she found the cabin empty. The bed was perfectly made, the bathroom unoccupied. Panic gripped her as she rushed back to the firepit, shouting to the others. “Crystal’s gone!”

They turned to see Melynda staring up into the sky, her face pale. “There’s something up there... a huge crow, circling.”

“Forget the crow!” Shawna shouted. “We need to find Crystal.”

The crow swooped low, almost touching the flames, before it shot back into the night sky, disappearing beyond the ridge of the Sandia Mountains.

The girls exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of Crystal’s disappearance settling over them like a shadow. Melynda’s voice trembled as she spoke. “Maybe... maybe she really did need to get away.”

“And so, you think she just turned into a crow?” Faith snapped back.

Shawna turned to look back in the direction of the crow. “Well, anything’s possible out here. Fact is, Crystal’s gone, and we still need to do something!”

Faith and Melynda stood frozen, their breaths visible in the cold desert air as the fire crackled, casting shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. Shawna clutched her jacket, her knuckles white. “We can’t just stand here. We have to look for her. What if she’s hurt? What if that old groundskeeper took her? You know how men react to her beauty.”

Faith nodded, though her eyes betrayed her fear. “I’ll go back to the main lodge and see where he went then when I come back we’ll check the trails,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “She couldn’t have gone far.”

Melynda hesitated, her gaze fixed on the ridge where the crow had vanished. “What if...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “No, never mind.”

Faith had returned looking grim as she informed the girls the man at the desk said the groundskeeper had retreated to his cabin for the night. “ I even went and banged on his door and he answered, claiming he hadn’t seen her, but if need be, he’d help search in the morning or get a search party organized. I don’t think he had anything to do with Crystal’s disappearance.”

Shawna grabbed a flashlight from her pack and handed another to Faith. “Split up. We’ll cover more ground.”

Melynda interjected, her voice firm. “No. We stay together. Crystal warned us about the darkness, remember? Let’s stick to the main path and call for her. And Faith, no whistling, please!”

The three women began their search, their flashlights casting narrow beams that sliced through the enveloping darkness. The wind whistled through the trees, carrying with it faint, eerie sounds—snatches of whispers, a rustle of movement. They called Crystal’s name, their voices echoing into the night, but no reply came.

As they reached a clearing, Faith stopped suddenly. “Do you hear that?” she whispered.

The others froze, straining their ears. Faintly, from the direction of the mountains, came a sound: a voice. Crystal’s voice.

“Help me!” it called, faint but unmistakable. “Over here!”

Shawna’s heart leapt, and she started toward the sound, but Melynda grabbed her arm. “Wait! Crystal said they could use voices. What if it’s not her? Remember what she told us about how Skinwalkers can mimic familiar voices?”

Shawna hesitated, torn between logic and instinct. “But what if it is her?” Her flashlight beam wavered; her grip unsteady. “What if she’s hurt? We can’t just leave her out there!”

Faith nodded, but her voice quivered. “Melynda’s right. Crystal wouldn’t have warned us for no reason. Let’s think this through.”

The voice called out again, more desperate this time: “Help me! Please!”

Melynda tightened her grip on Shawna’s arm. “We need to be smart. This may be a trick. She might still be in the campground. Let’s head back and check the cabins again before chasing shadows.”

Reluctantly, Shawna agreed, and the three women retraced their steps, their flashlights guiding them back to the firepit. The glow of the flames still danced in the distance, a comforting beacon in the oppressive darkness.

As they approached, they heard movement—soft, deliberate footsteps. Faith swung her flashlight toward the sound, and the beam illuminated Crystal, standing at the edge of the firelight. Her face was pale, her expression unreadable.

“Crystal!” Shawna cried, rushing toward her. But Melynda stepped in her path, holding her back.

“Wait,” Melynda said, her voice low. “Something’s not right.”

Crystal tilted her head, her dark eyes glinting in the firelight. “What’s wrong? It’s just me,” she said, her tone calm but strangely hollow.

Faith shivered, her flashlight trembling in her hand. “Where did you go? We checked the cabin, and you weren’t there.”

“I needed some air,” Crystal replied smoothly. “I told you I wasn’t feeling well.”

Melynda narrowed her eyes, her instincts screaming that something was off. “If it’s really you, tell us—what did you say about the coyotes earlier?”

Crystal’s lips curled into a faint smile. “I said they might want to join us.”

Melynda’s heart sank. “No! You said, “ They’re harmless.”

For a split second, Crystal’s expression faltered, her features twisting into something darker. Then, without warning, she turned and bolted toward the trees.

“Stop!” Shawna shouted, but Crystal—or whatever she was—was already gone, disappearing into the night.

The three women stood frozen, the weight of what they’d just witnessed sinking in.

“What do we do now?” Faith whispered, her voice barely audible.

Melynda glanced at the firepit, then back at the direction Crystal had fled. “We stick together, just like we said. Let’s get back to the cabins and wait until daylight. If Crystal’s out there, we’ll find her in the morning.”

Shawna hesitated but eventually nodded. “Okay. But we can’t leave her out there alone for too long.”

As they made their way back to the cabins, the oppressive darkness seemed to press closer, and the whispers of the wind grew louder, almost mocking. Inside, they locked the doors and windows, huddling together in one cabin for safety, but found it hard to sleep as they all questioned what just happened at the campfire, each one having their own theory.

The night passed slowly, every creak and rustle outside sent chills down their spines. At dawn, the first rays of sunlight broke over the Sandia Mountains, bathing the campground in a golden glow.

The women stepped outside, the bright light dispelling the shadows of the night. They began their search again, calling Crystal’s name as they scoured the campground and surrounding trails.

Finally, near a rocky outcrop at the base of the mountains, they found her. Crystal was sitting on a boulder, her face tilted toward the rising sun. She looked tired but unharmed.

“Crystal!” Shawna cried, rushing to her.

Crystal turned to them, her expression soft and familiar. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice heavy with emotion. “I needed to be alone. I... I felt something pulling me, and I didn’t know how to explain it.”

Melynda studied her closely, searching for any sign of the eerie presence from the night before. But this was the Crystal she knew—their friend.

Lorraine Carey

https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/

Lorraine Carey is a reading specialist and an Award-Winning Author. She was living in California until fate whisked her off to Grand Cayman. She currently lives in Florida. Her love for paranormal stories began at a young age, and is no stranger to the paranormal, having encountered unexplainable events that are woven into her stories.

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Book Sunday #OurAuthorGang

 Today's reading recommendation

Sister Witch by David W. Thompson

ON AMAZON

Moll Dyer prays she can leave her troubles behind when she immigrates to the new world, but a paranormal threat grows, and soon follows her across the ocean to Maryland.Colonial life in the Old Line state was tough on both man and woman. Hunger, disease, Indian attacks, and drought tested the resolve of the settlers daily, but troubles for the Dyers included the threat of a succubus on a mission! Will the demonic call initiated by her family prove too much to resist as she labors to rebuild her life in a distant land?The legend of Moll Dyer originated in earliest colonial Maryland. Despite 300 years of civilization, and scientific reason, Moll's name is still often heard there, especially around campfires late at night, or as a warning to misbehaving little people. Her spirit is often seen as a wisp of unnatural fog in the swampy woodlands near her homestead, with her half wolf companion at her side. This is her story.

Chapter One

My name is Mary Dyer, or Moll to my family and friends. If you are either, you are among the few. It is for my child’s sake alone that I press my quill to paper. I am not proficient in the keeping of secrets, unlike my family, and as my disgrace is the foundation of my woes, I shall confess all for the integrity of my account. My child will know I was truthful in all things, save one.

For five generations, our family called Kinsale in County Cork, Ireland home. Kinsale is a sleepy little fishing village on the River Bandon. For the years I lived there, it was a safe, quiet, familiar place. The men fished the channel, built fishing vessels, and farmed the land.

The womenfolk cared for their families, prepared meals, mended clothes, and, of course, kept the ever-present peat fires burning. Mother loved the smell of a peat fire, saying it reminded her of leaves burning in the autumn of the year. I found the scent to be sticky sweet, like rotten apples. 

I had thought all was well until one day (I am ashamed to say), I learned of our plight while eavesdropping on my parents after the bantlings were abed, and my breath caught in my chest!

“The work here is gone, Cathleen, and our savings are all but spent. There’s money to be made on the Isle of Wight, shipbuilding and working the docks. There’s nothing holding us here now.”

“Are we starting this again, Killian? This is our home! Are you not happy here?” Mother asked.

“Happy? I’m as happy as a pig in shit living on scraps! It is my duty as a man to provide for my family! I won’t be depending on any man’s charity! Every day, there’s more and more debt we cannot pay. Indeed, I’m so happy I could dance!” I heard the patter of his shoes dancing to an imaginary tune, and stifled a giggle.

“You needn’t curse, or play the fool. There is no lack of food for our table, and the peat fires keep us warm at night.” Mother said.

“That’s not enough, Cathleen! The Dyers thrived here before the Battle of Kinsale. I swore to my father I’d reclaim our family’s glory. It’s what you deserve, what our children deserve.”

“I know the story, we’ve all heard it often enough, but you, of all people? You would raise our family among them? You think anything good waits for us among the English?” Mother asked.

“To hell with the English bastards! This is about our family’s future. Building their ships is where the money is. I’ll go alone if need be to deliver this family. I should be able to return in two or three years with bags full of coin!” 

“No, Killian. My place is with you, as is your family’s,” she answered. “We will follow where you lead, husband.”

My mother’s swift submissiveness perturbed me, and I snuck back to my bed, unable to swallow the lump in my throat. Mother was right, but she lacked the pluck to argue with my father. We were happy here. Our family called this place home for time immemorial, and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving all I knew. Little of life outside of our village reached us, yet I knew Kinsale to be as fine a land as existed in all of creation. I yearned to see other places, know other lands, but as a visitor, not a permanent resident! Two to three years, my father said!

There were few in our village I called friends, but their families' history was entwined with ours for many generations. Their presence in our lives would be missed, but I dreaded being away from the land and the River Bandon.

My little brothers and sisters deserved a better life, it was true. Wealth to ensure their future happiness, a life without want. I suspected if my half-sister Anna had married a lord instead of a farrier, or if she’d settled in County Cork in lieu of Killarney, we’d not be leaving for a foreign land!

If I was ever addle-headed enough to have children, I’d never be so selfish as to force my dreams upon them! Sacrifices had to be made by all, and Da’ booked our voyage within a fortnight.

The village of Westcowes, on the Isle of Wight, appeared damp, and dirty from the windows of our small cottage. The river Medina was a swollen slothful moat. The small roads were formed of shoe-sucking mud, and brown was the predominant color of the town. Mother and I cleaned the floors twice daily, and still, we felt the constant grit of the land under our feet. We knew no one and were not allowed outside alone in the rowdy English harbor town, so we seldom felt the sun on our faces. I wanted to stretch my legs and run, experience this new place, but I was a trapped wild hare, forced to wait for the hungry trapper to come end my life. Westcowes was our home now.

Despite my father’s grand hopes, England did not prove to be our financial salvation. Every evening, he returned to our tiny cottage with the news that another job fell through. From his whispered conversations with Mother, I knew we were at the end of our meager reserves. So, my spirits soared the day he finally announced the news of finding work on the docks. It was not building ships, but it was good money just the same.

Our family was Catholic, pariahs on English soil. It was providential that our church was a short walk away. Sundays were gay outings and presented us with a rare occasion to be outside as a family. I sucked in the air on these jaunts, not that it was sweet and clean like home, but because it was free and unencumbered.

One such day, I tried to be attentive to Father O’Hearn’s sermon on the virtues of the missionary service to the New World, and how parents should encourage a renewed calling to the priesthood. The dear man was a fine Christian, I’m sure, but a speaker he was not, and I was unaware of any such callings for a sixteen-year-old girl.

My attention drifted until I felt my mother’s elbow dig into my side. I glanced about to see if there were any witnesses to my lack of devotion, and I spotted the fancy boy James Rogers. Unlike most boys his age, he dressed impeccably with never a hair out of place. I confess his dark, good looks drew my notice, but his blatant and hungry stare made my cheeks flush! Why was he even here? From what I knew of his family, they were fervent in their Church of England beliefs. Was he spying on us, on me?

I dropped my eyes to the floor and folded my hands in prayer. The seam my mother repaired flashed at me from the bodice of my dress; why didn’t I wear another? The thickness of the air left my hair in a mess of kinks, and I felt the fresh pimple rising from my forehead like a flagpole! Why couldn’t I be more like Anna? I sent a furtive glance back to his pew. James’ shirt was soaked through, and I giggled. He probably thought he was hell bound for attending church services among the Papists. My mother rewarded my frivolity with another elbow in the side and scolded me as we filed from the church.

“Daydreaming and giggling in church? That is no way for a decent woman to behave, Moll!” she whispered, pinching my ear. “What will people think of you and our family?”

I stalked away. I was the oldest now with Anna gone, but she spoke to me as if to a child. I entertained no cares about these strangers’ thoughts. My eternal judgment was not their sword to wield!

The congregation milled about and engaged in various conversations about the weather, politics, and shipbuilding. Mr. Cabot extolled the profits to be made in America, if one was brave enough, but I was not in the mood to listen, even about such grand adventures.

I wandered in ever larger circles around the church property. I stopped in front of the apothecary and stood tapping my foot, waiting for my parents to note my impatience.

“Hello Moll.” I heard from behind me. “Sleepy were you?”

“No James, I slept quite well last evening, thank you very much.”

“The moon didn’t keep you awake then?” James laughed.

“What do you - “

“I saw you last night, and you weren’t sleeping. The moon was full, and there was no mistaking you!”

My mouth dropped open like a carp’s, and I stuttered nonsense like an idiot child.

“What? The full moon…?” 

“What would your dear father say if he knew of your wandering the village in the dark of the night, with thieves and scoundrels about? I don’t believe he’d be pleased, not at all.”

“Nor do I, and I’d ask you not to be running your mouth, but do as you will.”

“Moll, you know you’ve captured my poor heart. Say you’ll be my girl, and not a word will pass my lips.” James’ smile looked like a court jester’s.

“Your girl is it? When just last week you asked Darcy Quinn about the “skinny red-headed Papish girl”? You didn’t even know my name. Now I’ve captured your heart, have I? Indeed!”   

“Ah, your laugh! So endearing, as sweet as a sparrow’s trill! Why else would I ask about you then? Surely your beauty captivated me?”

“James, many things I am unsure of, but my beauty, or lack thereof, is not one.” A sudden heat washed over my face. What game did he play with me? It was cruel of him to mock me so, but maybe…could his compliments be sincere? I thought not; years of young women whispering about my too-white skin and my red kinks of hair did little to reassure me, but could it be true? James did not hurt the eyes. If he was only Irish, my father might even be pleased for me to be courting with such a fine young man.

“Moll, but I am speaking truth!”

“Well now, my poor captivated James, perhaps you will pay our family a visit sometime then?”

 “I would like nothing better, but maybe until we get to know each other better, you might favor me with your company on one of your moonlight walks? I would act as your protector, your knight in shining armor perhaps?”

“Moll!” My mother yelled.

I knew it was wrong, and part of me tried to snatch back the words even as my flapping tongue set them free. “My walks usually end around eleven, by the old oak tree where the fishermen clean their catch. Perhaps I will see you there.” 

ON AMAZON 

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

Blue Dog Hill #OurAuthorGang

 A paranormal tale of Southern Maryland

The most famous (infamous?) paranormal tale in Southern Maryland relates to our accused witch, Moll Dyer, also known as the “Winter Witch.” However, most dark paranormal stories from the area originate over one hundred and fifty years after her fateful demise in 1697.

The war between the states in Southern Maryland is truly where brother fought brother. Add in a brutal prisoner-of-war encampment, a graveyard desecrated by a marauding army, lighthouses bearing witness to sunken ships, and the screams of passengers meeting their watery deaths, and you have ample ingredients to entice the otherworldly.

 The timeline of Blue Dog Hill is hard to nail down. Some have called it the oldest ghost story in America, dating to 1700. The story (also known as Peddler’s Rock) occurred on Rose Hill Road in the historic town of Port Tobacco, Maryland. It involves the love of a man and his dog. What could be less disturbing and more human, right?

The man was a soldier, freshly returned home after serving his country. Young and unmarried, the soldier was reunited with the dog he’d loved since childhood. The man’s name is lost to time, but we will call the man Charles and our devoted bluetick hound (better known than her master), appropriately enough, Blue.)

The long overdue reunion between man and dog went as such things often do: Blue barked violently as Charles walked up his friend’s driveway. The friend cared for Blue in Charles’s absence, but now his best buddy had forgotten him. Charles’ eyes misted over as Blue growled and circled him. She sniffed and stared as Charles held out his hand. She jumped joyfully into Charles’s arms when his scent touched her nose. He struggled to retain his balance under the weight of the large hound. After that, Blue wouldn’t let Charles out of her sight.

Charles’s friend ushered him inside and presented him with a small box.

“This is from your uncle. He brought it over for you about a month before he passed away. Said there wasn’t no sense in giving Uncle Sam a cut that he didn’t earn, and you’ve done enough for this country.”

Charles ripped off the tape and opened the box. Inside was a stack of $100 bills and legal documents. Charles got teary-eyed recalling the man who’d practically raised him.

“Can you get the crew together to meet at the tavern tonight? They all knew him, and I bet they all have stories. He touched a lot of lives, especially mine. I wish I could’ve gotten home when he passed, but tonight, we’ll have our wake in his honor.”

Alcohol flowed, and lies were told out of respect for a man they held in high regard. As the night transitioned into the wee hours of the morning, one by one, they bid Charles adieu and left for their homes. Charles guzzled the remnants of a warm beer and slid from the barstool.

“C’mon, Blue, time to go home,” he scratched the sleeping dog between her ears. They walked the lonely dirt road toward home, Charles’s military swagger now a stagger.

“Hey, stop right there!” The voice came out of the thick woods beside the trail.

“Who...?”

“Never mind who we are. Just empty your pockets, soldier boy. We want to see that wad of hundreds you’ve been flashing about.”

Charles heard the click of a gun’s hammer as two men materialized from the shadows. Burlap bags with cutout eye holes covered their faces. Charles reached into his pocket and withdrew the cash.

When the taller man reached out to snatch the money, Charles grabbed for the barrel of the man’s rifle, but alcohol threw off his balance. The thief retaliated by smashing his fist into Charles’s face. The other man joined in the fun. Blue jumped into the fray, biting the aggressors several times. When Charles fell backward, his head landed on a rock, and he was still—his neck broken.

Blue renewed her attack, and the thieves focused on her. She fought bravely to defend her friend and master but was no match for the concerted attack. The taller thief smashed the butt of his rifle across the center of her back. As she curled up at her master’s feet the following evening, the pair of rogues met at the familiar tavern. The small bar allowed eavesdropping among the patrons. The thieves listened as two of Charles’s friends discussed their concern for him.

“I’m sure Charles is fine. Probably still sleeping it off.”

“Or maybe he ignored us knocking on his door because he wasn’t up to another night of partying.”

“Tell you what, we’ll walk the trail back to his house when we leave tonight, just to make sure.”

The thieves exchanged glances when Charles’s friends spoke of legal documents and a farm deed that Charles was rumored to carry—sewn into the lining of his coat. They drained the last of their beverages and stood as one, then hurried down the same path Charles had followed the night before. They needed to hide the body—after they searched it. Untold riches might be hidden in the clothes of the dead man.

“Served him right anyway,” the tall man said. “Him and his damn war about broke us. None of our wares are worth nothin’ no more with no trade. Who’s gonna buy ’em? The other broke folks around here?”

As they turned the corner in the trail, there was a strange bluish glow where Charles had fallen. Thinking someone was there with a blue glass-domed lantern, they crept forward. But neither man nor lantern confronted them.

Blue stood with her front paws on Charles’s chest, growling defiantly, still protecting her friend, her alpha. Her blue-and-black-ticked coat emitted an eerie blue radiance in the moonlight. Her eyes burned with a yellow light as she stepped toward them. The murderers stepped backward as both of their bladders voided. The standoff continued for several minutes... or so it seemed to the men. They took another step backward, and Blue charged, saliva dripping from her grotesquely elongated teeth.

A man smoking a pipe on his porch a mile away heard the echo of their screams, and it’s said that, in the dark of a still night, they can still be heard.

Charles and the two murderers were never seen again. But many have reluctantly told the tale of wandering the dark forest trail and sighting a bluish spectral dog guarding her best friend’s resting spot, most often on a night in February when the dire deed is said to have occurred.

February is just around the corner. Care to take a walk? I think I’ll sit this one out.

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

Día del Libro Español #OurAuthorGang

 Hola, gracias por visitarnos

Hoy os recomendamos una dulce novela romántica escrita por Erika M Szabo

LEE EL LIBRO

Elana nació de una madre drogadicta sin hogar y fue dejada en las escaleras de la catedral de San Patricio. Mudándose de una casa de acogida a otra, su vida era una puerta giratoria de esperanzas y decepciones destrozadas.

Tan pronto como sintió una conexión emocional con alguien, el niño adoptivo en ella rápidamente alejaba el sentimiento. Lo último que Elana quería hacer era acercarse a alguien que probablemente nunca volvería a ver. La necesaria defensa emocional le sirvió bien a lo largo de su impredecible vida.

Hasta que conoció a Luca.

Permitiéndoles sólo un corto tiempo de felicidad, el cruel destino los apartó. Todo lo que tenía era esperanza y la mitad del colgante de corazón de palisandro que esculpió para aferrarse.

¿Se volverán a ver?

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Los pasillos de la Escuela de Medicina en NYU estaban repletos de la charla y el alboroto de cientos de estudiantes, todos ansiosos por comenzar sus vacaciones de invierno. La mayoría estaría viajando a diferentes estados o en el extranjero para visitar a familiares y seres queridos para las vacaciones. Pero no Elana. Ella tenía una tradición propia.

Ashley, al darse cuenta de la mirada no tan alegre en la cara de Elana, por lo general feliz, le tocó suavemente el brazo. — ¿Estás bien, Elana? Realmente no parece que estés en el espíritu navideño —.

Los labios de Elana se enroscaron en una sonrisa débil. — Estoy bien. Sólo cansada de estudiar para el gran examen. Te veré después de las vacaciones de Navidad, ¿de acuerdo? —. Las dos se abrazaron brevemente antes de separarse en la congestionada corriente del tráfico.

De repente, Elana oyó a Ashley gritar su nombre desde el otro lado del pasillo. — ¡Olvidé desearte Feliz Navidad! —. Elana sólo sonrió de vuelta, saludando a Ashley antes de dar la vuelta a la esquina y salir.

Abrazándose a ella misma contra el frío amargo, Elana llamó a un taxi y se dirigió a su apartamento solitario de Manhattan. El conductor zumbaba a través de racimos de tráfico, cantando al son de la radio. Su voz repicada estaba fuera de tono. No me atrevería a cantar en público si tuviese una voz como tú, pensó Elana mientras veía pequeños mechones de nieve empezar a acumularse en los coches estacionados y la acera. La vista abrió una inundación de recuerdos dolorosos: una presa rota de olores descoloridos, rostros, y palabras que se perdieron en las arenas en movimiento del tiempo.

Esta fue una temporada de vacaciones agridulce para Elana. Aunque había buenos recuerdos unidos a la Navidad, también había muchos en su pasado que ella deseaba que pudiera olvidar.

Veintidós años atrás

En esa tormentosa víspera de navidad hace veintidós años, una joven caminaba a través de los implacablemente fríos vientos del centro de la ciudad de Nueva York con un manojo de trapos apretados en el pecho. Gotas de vidrio de lágrimas congeladas se aferran a la piel expuesta de su rostro. La mujer, ligeramente aturdida y claramente angustiada, vagaba sin rumbo a través de la nieve que apuntaba a la acera vacía.

Ella no estaba segura de cuánto tiempo había estado abriéndose camino a través de la revoltosa nieve, pero sus mejillas crudas eran evidencia del tramo de tiempo y la ferocidad del viento. Para cualquiera que pasara, parecía ser sólo otra persona sin hogar: uno de los muchos intocables de la ciudad atrapada en el feroz clima, tratando de encontrar refugio. Le darían una mirada insensible y seguían en sus asuntos.

La mujer, guiada por sus pies entumecidos, caminó y caminó hasta que la luz tenue de un campanario brilló a través de la manta de sofocada de copos de nieve que caían. Poco a poco, se acercó a los escalones que conducen a la puerta y se detuvo.

—Lo siento mucho —sollozó, meciéndose ligeramente el manojo de trapos de lado a lado—. Estoy sola, y no tengo adónde ir. Estarás mejor sin mí —. Su suave llanto fue capturado en el aire como mechones de diminutas cuentas de hielo, disipando nubes de desesperación insondable. Ellas flotarían momentáneamente alrededor de su cara como una máscara delgada antes de ser tragado por las ráfagas de viento que pasan desde la calle infértil.

Poco a poco, se arrodilló y puso el paquete de trapos cuidadosamente en el paso de la catedral. Con tibias lágrimas volviéndose frías en cuanto se filtraban sobre sus mejillas temblorosas, ella volvió sus pasos por la calle y desapareció en la tormenta. Para nunca regresar.

Unos minutos más tarde, un sacerdote de la iglesia salió a los escalones delanteros. —¡Dios mío! Hace frío esta noche —, Padre Brown, un hombre alto, de mediana edad murmuró mientras tiraba su larga bufanda sobre su hombro. Metió sus manos deshuesadas en los bolsillos de su largo abrigo y tomó un momento para ver en silencio los edificios encalados con amos. Se elevaban como derivas de nieve monolíticas, filas de ventanas desnudas relucientes de hielo, como los ojos de una araña congelada.

El padre Brown se dirigía a un refugio para personas sin hogar al otro lado de la ciudad para ayudar con la preparación de la cena del día de Navidad. Al no tener familia propia, le traía más alegría estar rodeado de los necesitados que estar encerrado en la iglesia toda la noche viendo películas antiguas en el antiguo televisor en blanco y negro en su dormitorio. Aunque disfrutaba de la actuación de Jimmy Stewart en la película clásica It's a Wonderful Life, película que había visto al menos cincuenta veces hasta el momento, servir a las almas desafortunadas sería un mejor uso de su tiempo. Las sonrisas en sus rostros, tan cálido y acogedor como el pavo y puré de papas que tuvo la suerte de servir, fue más de lo que nunca podría haber pedido en este día tan sagrado. Sacando su mano de su chaqueta para revisar su reloj de pulsera, se dio cuenta de que, si quería coger el autobús al refugio, tendría que moverse.

Apurado por los escalones de la iglesia, casi tropieza. Miró hacia abajo y vio el paquete de trapos descansando en el paso inferior. Al principio pensó que era basura, el sacerdote caminó alrededor del montón de ropa cuando, de repente, oyó un gemido que emanaba del haz de trapos, silenciado por las capas. Curiosamente arrodillado para obtener una mejor mirada, casi gritó cuando los trapos comenzaron a temblar y moverse a su toque.

Fue entonces cuando se dio cuenta de que algo vivo estaba envuelto por dentro. Temiendo lo peor, rápidamente recogió el paquete y lo llevó a las paredes protectoras de la catedral. Agarrando el bulto de trapo contra su pecho, se dirigió al banco más cercano y lentamente lo puso abajo, silbando una oración. Bajo el resplandor de varias velas encendidas y asistido por la luz blanca prestada de la luna llena filtrándose a través de las vidrieras, el sacerdote rápidamente deshizo del haz de telas.

Acostado dentro del capullo de trapos sucios era un bebé recién nacido. Con sangre seca cubriendo su piel y pelo mate, sus ojos azules miraban al azar, y sus los labios secos ligeramente separados para exponer las encías púrpuras y una lengua hinchada.

—¡Dulce Madre María! —Jadeó el sacerdote, trazando reflexivamente el santo símbolo de la cruz en su cuerpo mientras corría su camino de regreso a su oficina. Una vez dentro, sus manos temblorosas agarraron el teléfono en su escritorio y marcaron 9-1-1.

—Sí, necesito que me envíen una ambulancia a la Catedral de San Patricio inmediatamente —, le rogó el sacerdote, con un sudor frío que se le derramaba en la frente. —Tengo un recién nacido moribundo aquí. Por favor, ¡dense prisa! —. Final de la llamada, corrió de nuevo al banco y sostuvo al bebé en sus brazos. Le dolió el alma mirar a la niña, arrugada y aferrándose a la vida, pero obligó a sus ojos a encontrarse con los suyos.

—No te preocupes, pequeño—, dijo, acunando a la bebé moribunda firmemente en sus brazos para mantenerla caliente. —Dios te está cuidando ahora. —

La ambulancia llegó a la iglesia no más de diez minutos más tarde, y la recién nacida fue llevada inmediatamente a un hospital local. La bebé estaba al borde de la muerte. Estaba gravemente deshidratada, y la hipotermia se había hecho sentir, haciendo que su respiración fuera superficial y el latido del corazón lento.

Incapaz de rastrear a los padres de la bebé, el hospital se puso en contacto con los servicios de niños y arregló para que la niña fuera puesta en hogares de crianza, una vez que estaba en mejor estado de salud.

Bajo el cuidado vigilante de los médicos y enfermeras, después de luchar contra una serie de infecciones y síndrome de abstinencia neonatal debido a los medicamentos a los que estuvo expuesta en el útero, se recuperó lentamente. Las enfermeras adoraban a la pequeña bebé y la sostenían en sus brazos, acurrucándola tanto como su apretada agenda lo permitía. Según las reglas del hospital, su nombre era BabyGirl, pero las enfermeras la llamaron Elana.

Fue dada de alta por el hospital un poco más de tres meses más tarde y se le asignó una trabajadora social y se le dio un nombre oficial: Elana Smith. 

http://www.authorerikamszabo.com/

Erika escribe novelas paranormales, épicas, de historia alternativa y de misterio, así como libros divertidos, educativos y bilingües para niños de 2 a 14 años sobre aceptación, amistad, familia y valores morales, como aceptar a personas con discapacidades, tratar con matones y no juzgar a otros antes de conocerlos.

W. I. D. G. E. T. S. #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by R.A. "Doc" Correa

The U. S. Army pursues the technologies “improving” Soldier-Machine Interface for Future Combat Systems. What are the consequences for humans?

May 28, 2073, South of Merida, Spain

We exist to serve.

With that imperative implanted in its mind, Mk-17D unit AA00000487 becomes “active”, or so the main control panel in the M-73A3 Heavy Assault and Command Carrier indicates. But unit AA00000487 has a secret none of the J.A.C.K.S. suspect. Unit AA00000487 is always “active” because it thinks on its own, fully aware it was once a he—a man named Michael Andrew Stevens.

It does not show on their control panel, but Michael Andrew Stevens‘ brain works without their direction, though it’s not supposed to operate outside of established parameters. His mind is only supposed to process directives from the division chain of command, or execute those of tactical significance, and should operate independently only when directive 17 is initiated.

But he does think his own thoughts; they bypass the specially developed neuropathways all W.I.D.G.E.T.S’ brain activity is supposed to follow. If the function varies from set parameters, it would be noticed.

Yet he sees, hears, smells, and feels. Mostly, he feels desperation. When will this nightmare end? When will I escape this living hell?

All of this is not possible. When Michael Andrew Stevens was first upgraded to a cyborg, his ability to think as an individual was supposedly engineered out of him. Neuropathways were constructed by implanted viruses, directing thoughts in very specific ways. Chip implants were inserted into his brain to generate only approved signals. Locations in the brain generating emotions like love, fear, and compassion were all bypassed. Only anger remains linked in, helping make the unit a more effective killing machine. With his upgrade to Mk-17D, when he became a Wholly Integrated Directable General Engagement Tactical System, all remaining humanity was supposed to have been removed from unit AA00000487. Any sign of humanity makes the unit less efficient.

Something else that isn’t possible is happening in the free part of his mind. Michael “sees” an image, the image of a young blond woman. She wears an officer’s uniform, that of a third lieutenant, a cadet. Her arms are open, she beckons for him to come to her, then she is gone. Is it a memory, or a vision? It can’t be a memory; I’ve never seen this woman before.

Unit AA00000487 moves to the parking area for its company. The unit is a Sergeant, a platoon leader. The forty other units of 1^st Platoon, Dog Company, 1^st BN, 327^th Infantry Regiment Cyborg, 82^nd ABN Div Cyborg park around it in platoon pre-assault formation.

Unit AA00000487 sees a near perfect formation, all units are in the correct location, in the proper order. The Mk-17D units are all armed and in standby mode. Power is at reaction level; the med readout shows all bio indicators in “normal” range. They are ready. It reports affirmative to the company commander.

Michael “looks” at the terrain map grid display in his mind. All Michael sees are those for which he’s responsible.

The leader’s data download begins, a massive amount of information is shoved into the neuropathways of his brain. Though the instruments in the command carrier will not register a physical reaction, he feels it. It hurts… it hurts like hell! The pain is excruciating; if he could, he’d vomit. In a millisecond, it’s over.

Now the chips in his brain parse the data, directing smaller data streams to the units of his platoon. In his mind he says, I’m sorry guys.

Unit AA00000487 reviews the platoon’s assigned tasks. Dog company is being held in reserve as part of the exploitation force. Unless there is a change in plan, when ordered 1^st platoon will move by air to a location south of Guadalajara and seize the bridges over the Rio Tajo in and around the town of Sacedón, severing the road and rail lines northwest to Madrid from Cuenca, and the north-south lines between Guadalajara and Cuenca. Once that is accomplished, the platoon will hold the thirty by forty-kilometer region around these bridges from “yard” counterattack. The platoon is to hold this area until link up with the rest of the division is complete.

Until deployment, the cyborg part of him will do everything required. It will move, it will load onto the UV-123 Locust, it will direct the other units to move and load with it. Michael now has several hours to think, to remember. How the hell did I end up like this?

Michael thinks back on what he didn’t know at the time was his last day of “freedom”.

It was June 12^th, 2042, he was just eighteen. This was his third time before “The Judge”. “The Judge” was a holographic projection of A.S.I.N.M.

During the chaos of the 2020s, people lost trust in their institutions. The police, the courts, and the governments all came under scrutiny—and fell short. The political parties went from opposing each other’s policies to open hatred and hostility. Violence, riots, and open rebellion enveloped the nations of the planet.

Then came the pandemics. Three variations of the virus linked to S.A.R.S. swept the planet. These were followed by a reappearance of the Plague, but this Plague was antibiotic resistant.

When they were fully analyzed, it was determined that the first of the virus strains was genetically modified by the Chinese military. The other two mutated from the first. And the Plague, the Plague was genetically manipulated by the Iranian Takavar.

Analysis indicated the Chinese modified virus escaped from one of their research facilities. It devastated them as much as everyone else. All indicators show the modified Plague was deliberately released by the Iranian Takavar in order to bring back the Twelfth Imam. All reports state the Takavar were unsuccessful in their attempt to fulfill prophecy.

The diseases killed millions, but the panic caused by them killed tens of millions more. Much of that panic was caused by news agencies attempting to use the pandemics to push political changes and assign blame on those they opposed. In the aftermath of the pandemics, and the propaganda campaigns that ensued, war and terrorism enveloped the planet.

The young blond woman appears in his mind again. Is she crying?

The National governments all reacted in different ways to restore order. In the United States they turned to technology, they turned to A.S.I.N.M.

A.S.I.N.M., Artificial Super Intelligent Network Manager, did such a great job of restoring economic confidence and prosperity that many local governments submitted to it to manage the police, the recovery projects, and the courts. Defendants would appear before a totally neutral bench to plead their case. No human bias, no compassion, no anger, no fear, just the cold logic of artificial super intelligence.

Continue reading in the Anthology

https://books2read.com/u/mv9Pxj

The Treasures of Grandma's Attic #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by Erika M Szabo

Sixteenth birthdays are special, but something they find in Grandma’s attic will make sure they’ll never forget this party.

It was Mia’s sixteenth birthday. Before, her birthdays were always celebrated with her parents, two brothers, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins. But after a long discussion with her parents, they hesitantly agreed to let her have a house party with only her friends and celebrate with the family the next day. She invited half of her classmates and friends from the neighborhood, and they had a blast in the small cottage in the back of the property where her grandmother lived before passing away two years before. Ever since, the cottage stood unoccupied with her grandmother’s things still intact.

Mia looked around the living room, watching as her friends danced, and nibbled on snacks she prepared with her mom and with Kati, her best friend. Everyone seemed to be having fun. The music was loud, she felt the thumping of the bass beneath her feet. It was hard to believe that just a few short years ago, she had been a tomboy whose wardrobe included only a few T-shirts and jeans. Now, here she was, an outspoken, confident teenager, blossoming into a young woman. She loved beautiful dresses, feminine shoes, and accessories, and she took special care of her long, shiny chestnut hair that she usually wore in a ponytail.

As she scanned the room, her eyes fell on the old family photos lining the walls. Her grandmother had been capturing every moment of her family's lives. Mia felt a pang of sadness as she reminded herself that her grandmother was no longer there in the house that held so many fond memories.

The party was in full swing, the music blaring through the speakers, the smell of pizza and cake in the air, and her friends laughing and dancing around the room.

Suddenly, the front door burst open, and a tall, dark-haired boy named Jake walked in uninvited. He had his usual charming, devilish grin on his face that made girls around him feel desirable and alive in a way that no other boys their age could.

“What is he doing here?” Mia rolled her eyes and looked at Kati. “He’s such a troublemaker and gets into fights all the time.”

“I know he’s unpredictable and unreliable, but he’s so damn good looking…”

“Yeah… I know you have a crush on him,” Mia laughed. “I don’t want to interrupt the party and throw him out right away. But as soon as he puts one toe over the line…”

“Okay, I admit. I have a little crush on him, but Jake is definitely not boyfriend material. He’s like a butterfly. Goes from flower to flower and never settles down. You can’t even have a normal, relaxed conversation with him. All he wants is to get into your pants while his eye is on the next girl to conquer,” Kati sighed.

“You didn’t… did you?” Mia’s eyes grew wide, and she took a sharp breath.

“Of course not! I’m not stupid,” Kati indignantly replied. “But I can look and daydream,” she giggled, winking at Mia.

Mia wasn’t immune to Jake’s charms either, but her steady boyfriend, Collin, was different. Not as charming as Jake, but she liked him a lot and loved spending time with the quiet boy who had solid plans for the future. He’s so steady and predictable, and he treats me with respect. Mia could never forgive Jake for the embarrassing incident when they were fourteen. He yanked her bikini top off in the pool and grabbed her breast. He laughed and told his friends that they were not ripe yet, not even a handful. He made me feel dirty and violated, I wished I could’ve just died, she thought, shuddering.

“Why are you so gloomy? It’s your birthday!” Kati whispered as she hugged her best friend.

“Oh, I just miss Collin.”

“Why didn’t he come? You didn’t break up with him, did you?” Kati asked, concerned.

“No! Of course not. His little sister had an emergency appendectomy in the afternoon and he’s in the hospital with her.” 

“He’s a good guy,” Kati said.

“Yes, he is,” Mia replied watching Jake as he pulled a vodka bottle from his pocket and started pouring it into the punch bowl. “Now he did it!” Mia shouted and with a few strides reached Jake and yanked the bottle out of his hand. “Out!” she yelled. “Everyone knows how much I detest alcohol, and you weren’t even invited.”

“Just a little something to get your boring party going,” Jake chuckled.

“Boring?” Mia shouted when she saw the sarcastic smirk on Jake’s face. “Get out! Now! Have fun somewhere else.”

“Okay,” Jake shrugged. “Who wants to come to my house and have a real party?” he asked, looking around.

The majority cheered and when Jake headed toward the door, they followed him. Some of her classmates, whom Mia thought were her friends, gave her a sheepish, apologetic look, and others just left without showing any remorse.

“Just go!” Mia said, fighting back tears.

“At least you found out who your real friends are,” Kati pointed at the two girls who were shaking their heads in disappointment as they watched the others leave.

“He ruined my birthday,” Mia turned to her friends, sobbing. “Thank you for staying, but I think you better go home too. Suddenly, I lost my happy mood.”

Kati gently slapped Mia’s shoulder. “What are you talking about? Are you going to let that scoundrel ruin your day?”

Mia wiped her eyes and sighed. “He did that already.”

“Come on, cheer up!” Cloe, a chubby blond girl hugged her. “I don’t feel like music or dancing either, but we can still have loads of fun. Old houses like this are usually full of treasures. Let’s look around.”

“That’s gonna be fun!” Donna, their shapely red-headed friend clapped. “I love looking at old photo albums. People back then looked so elegant. I especially love the 1930s dresses and hairdos.”

“Yes!” Kati exclaimed. “Remember?” She turned to Mia. “When we were little, we spent hours in the attic rummaging through boxes of stuff and trying on your grandma’s fancy dresses and shoes.”

“I haven’t been up there for years,” Mia gazed at the staircase that led up to the attic. “She did have a lot of old stuff up there, and my parents left everything as it was when Grandma was still alive.”  

The four friends climbed the stairs and from the small landing tiptoed into the attic. Pushing aside the cobwebs, the stale air that had collected in the rafters made them sneeze. The spacious room was dimly lit by moonlight that filtered through the slanted windows at the apex of the roof. Mia turned the lights on and gasped. Everything was as she remembered. In the center of the room was a large table littered with forgotten, dusty relics of decades past. Boxes and old suitcases filled the space by the walls, leaving only a narrow path around the table.

“Wow!” Cloe shouted, and when she heard Donna’s wheezing breath behind her, quickly turned and asked her friend, feeling concerned. “Are you okay?”

Donna, reaching into her pocket for her inhaler, managed to say after pushing the pump and inhaling the medicine, “Just my… asthma. I’ll be okay. I just need to sit down for a minute.”

Mia quickly pulled out a small ottoman from under the boxes, and Kati helped Donna to sit down. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Mia asked, worried.

“I’m fine, don’t fuss!” Donna snapped, giving Mia a quick smile, her breathing already calmer and voice clearer. “I’ll sit here for a minute. Go, find some fun stuff!”  

Continue reading the story in the Anthology

https://books2read.com/u/b5wDEA

What if you think the known world isn’t strange enough? Embark on a journey that pushes the boundaries, challenges your perception, and questions reason, logic, and established beliefs.

Campfire Stories 1 #OurAuthorGang

 A campfire story by Erika M Szabo

When A Camping Trip Goes Wrong

Paul, a successful lawyer in his mid-thirties, planned a weekend kayaking trip with his best friends, Steve and Jack. He wanted a chance for old buddies to reconnect in nature because he hated the underlying tensions between them. Lately, small arguments erupted into heated debates, hidden resentments came to light, and once solid friendships now felt fragile and uncertain.

But things didn't go as expected. The weather was comfortably warm and sunny when they left the city but unexpectedly turned. By the time they arrived at the campsite in the mountains, the heavy rain had turned the calm river into a muddy, raging force.

They were soaked to the bones when finally, the tents were up, but the flood threatened to wash the tents away because they pitched them too close to the water's edge. And it wasn't just the weather that had turned against them. The stress of the long journey to the mountains and the unexpected storm exposed underlying tensions within the group. Small arguments erupted into heated debates, hidden resentments came to light, and once solid friendships now felt fragile and uncertain.

The team huddled inside a flimsy tent while the rain hammered down and the wind howled outside. They were tired and anxious, listening to the frightening sounds of nature's wrath, debating whether they should tough it out or pack up their cars and return to the city.

However, as the sun set and the storm subsided, they regrouped around a crackling fire. The tension from earlier still lingered, but they were determined to salvage their trip and make the most of the remaining weekend together. They prepared dinner in silence, and to lift the mood, Paul proposed telling stories as they always did on high school trips.

Stomachs full and warmed by the cozy fire, the group eagerly anticipated the stories as each friend took turns sharing tales of ghosts, demons, and urban legends. As their voices lowered to a whisper and they leaned in closer, it was clear that they were all drawn into the spell of storytelling. The flickering shadows cast by the trees, the haunting calls of creatures in the distance, and the cold night air only added to the chilling atmosphere.

As the evening went on, the tales became darker and more twisted, each one trying to top the last. But no one minded – in fact, they reveled in it.

They shivered with excitement as Steve, the best storyteller among them, started his frightening story of an old mountain legend. “Long ago, a group of hunters had been savagely murdered by a mysterious Shapeshifter. Ever since every spring, campers and hunters had been mauled by this creature who was said to be living in the mountains for centuries. The legend says, the Shapeshifter showed up in different forms drawn by the campfire and takes an item from everyone. Late at night when people are settled and were asleep in their tents, the Shapeshifter drank their blood and tore them to pieces one by one. There were never any survivors.”

The fire crackled and popped, casting eerie shadows on the faces of the listeners. Their imagination triggered and imagined being trapped in nature with a mysterious, ancient monster lurking in the shadows.

Paul spoke up, trying to break through the tension that hung in the air. “Come on Steve, you just made it up. There’s no such thing as a ‘Shapeshifter’.”

Suddenly, they all jumped at the sound of rustling bushes nearby. Steve let out a nervous laugh and got up from his seat by the fire. “Relax guys, I’ll go check it out.”

He walked toward where he thought he had heard the noise coming from, while everyone else held their breath, unsure if they should follow or stay put.

After what felt like an eternity, Steve returned with a cheerful grin on his face.

“Cool it, guys,” he laughed. “It was just a raccoon.”

A wave of relief washed over them all and they laughed at their own paranoia. But deep down, the thought of the Shapeshifter lurking in the shadows still lingered.

“You just made up that legend, didn’t you?” grumbled Paul.

“Yeah, I thought it was when I first heard it!” Steve shouted. “Until last summer when I saw on the news that two hunters were killed not far from here by wild animals. They said they were attacked by mountain lions, but when I thought about this legend I heard when I was a kid…”

“Yeah, I saw that on the news too!” Jack exclaimed, shivering.

The group's fear intensified as they heard rustling sounds coming from the woods, and a creeping sense of being watched overcame them. Every conversation and movement were now tinged with paranoia and suspicion.

And then they heard it - slow footsteps approaching their campsite. The friends were frozen in terror, certain that their worst nightmares were about to come true. But instead of scattering in panic, their shared fear united them. Bravely, they stood their ground and confronted whatever or whoever lurked beyond the safety of their circle of light.

Paul's voice trembled as he shouted into the darkness, "Who's there? Show yourself!"

A calm yet authoritative voice responded from within the dense bushes, followed by a bright beam of light piercing through the blackness. "Calm down, young man," the deep, masculine voice said. "I’m a park ranger conducting routine checks on campers and warning kayakers not to venture onto the river. The heavy rain has raised the water level to dangerous heights, and the current is too strong for safe navigation."

After the ranger disappeared in the thick bushes continuing his rounds, the friends tried to brush off their fear and continue with their stories. But the unease remained as an added layer, and their anxiety was palpable.

The temperature dropped and Paul shivered and went into his tent to grab his warmer jacket. “Did you guys see my jacket?” he shouted.

“Nope,” Steve said standing up. “I better get mine too, it’s getting chilly.” Opening his tent, he stood frozen. “That’s odd,” he murmured. “My jacket is not here, either.”

Jack rushed to his tent and looked inside. “Who’s doing this?” he yelled. “My blanket is missing.”

The group exchanged uneasy glances. As much as they wanted to brush it off as just another of Steve’s scary stories, there were too many coincidences for comfort. The missing items, the ranger’s visit…

A thought crossed Paul's mind, "What if… what if the ranger is the Shapeshifter and…?"

The others were quick to dismiss this idea, but a seed of doubt had been planted. None of them could sleep now, fear keeping them awake and alert. They kept the fire going all night, jumping at every rustle in the bushes. As soon as the sun appeared on the horizon, they let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Let’s get out of here!” Paul suggested. “We can’t go kayaking, anyway.”

The others just nodded in agreement and packed up their things in silence, they felt relief. They jumped into their cars and drove on the muddy dirt road toward the highway as fast as they could.

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Book Sunday

 Today's recommendation is a supernatural fantasy

https://books2read.com/The-Potion-by-Erika-M-Szabo

A love potion made with haste out of jealousy puts Dorian into a comalike state. A rare orchid that blooms only once a year could save his life, but the precious flowers are fiercely guarded by Liam and his werewolf pack. The acolytes of the coven are forbidden to enter the forest and the young apprentices volunteer to make the journey that will test their loyalty and courage.

Will they succeed?

Prologue

Cordelia, the high priestess of the Ravenwood Coven, stood in front of the altar lighting the candles one by one. The room was dark, and the flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on the walls. Her hair was pulled into a bun, and her statuesque figure hid under her long, hooded cape. She held her arms high, reciting a prayer.

Lady of the Moon

Let my mind be attuned

I need your guidance

Lord of the Sunrise

Hear my humble cries

I need your guidance.

Cordelia flipped her long cape, turned around with three silver goblets on a tray, and stared for a long moment at the nervous-looking young women and man sitting side by side. Her stern expression sent deep shivers down their spines. She reached them with a few small steps and stood over them before handing them the goblets. “Drink!” Her booming voice filled the room.

Olivia, a slender, dark-haired young woman; Candice, the athletic-built blonde; and Dorian, a dark-haired young man, exchanged nervous glances. They took the goblets with shaky hands, lifted them to their lips and drank the ruby red liquid. Their expressions changed. They seemed to be in a deep trance.

The High Priestess watched the trio for a minute and then asked, “Do you wish to become apprentices of the Ravenwood Coven?

“Yes, I do,” came the reply from the three young acolytes in unison.

“Do you promise to follow the Coven rules and promise to practice only white magic?”

“Yes, I do,” the three answered.

“Do you promise to be loyal to the coven and its members, and promise not to compete with each other or be jealous of others?”

“Yes, I do,” Olivia and Dorian replied without hesitation, but Candice’s answer came a second later: “I’ll try.”

Cordelia drew a sharp breath. I’ll give her a chance because her grandmother is an Elder, but I’ll keep a close eye on her. She clapped her hands, and the young acolytes snapped out of the trance, looking a little dazed and confused.

“Welcome to Ravenwood Coven,” Cordelia announced. “You’re now apprentices. It will be a long road, and the next months will not be easy. You will study and practice hard before you can become witches and a warlock. Good luck to you all.”

Chapter One

When Olivia passed the entry exam and was accepted as an apprentice into the Coven, it was the best day of her life. Her father and grandmother had been preparing her since she was a little girl, despite the objection of her mother. Her parents were happy together and lived in harmony, except for occasional fights between them about the family tradition.

Her mother, Gloria, objected. “Why does she have to be a witch? I’m not, and we’re happy!”

“Because this is our family tradition, and you knew it when you married me. Remember?” Xavier, Olivia’s father, patiently replied.

“Why did you marry me? You knew I was different and never wanted anything to do with witchcraft.”

“Because the blue butterfly told me,” Xavier said.

“A what? Are you losing your mind?” Gloria asked, feeling alarmed and concerned.

“I never told you this…because I never wanted you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now.” He bowed his head and swallowed hard. He then looked into his wife’s eyes and continued, “My family is protected by guardians, and they communicate with us by making different colored butterflies appear to show us the right path. The blue butterfly they sent me the day I met you was to show me that we were soulmates.”

 “That’s so sweet! Scary, but sweet. And yes, we are soulmates, darling. But I don’t remember seeing a butterfly,” she said, staring at her husband.

“Only we can see them. They function as detectors of people’s intentions. You’re a good, honest, and loyal person. That’s why the guardians showed me the blue butterfly.”

“Aw… But still, Olivia doesn’t have to be a witch,” she protested weakly, folding her arms across her chest.

“I told you before we got married that our children will join the Coven when they turn eighteen, and you agreed,” Xavier argued.

“Yes, but…but I was hoping you’d change your mind,” his wife replied in a quieter tone of voice. “Okay, okay! It’s just… I don’t have to like it.”

“You should be proud of her, honey. She did very well on the entry exam. She’ll be a great witch.”

“I’m proud of her, and I know she wants to follow in your footsteps. It’s just, I had a different future in mind for her. She loves science, and I was hoping she might want to follow that path.”

“And she will. She can be a great scientist or researcher, and a witch, too.”

***

Candice enjoyed being popular and never really wanted to become a witch, but because her grandmother insisted, she applied for the apprenticeship. Her mother was absent most of the time, following fleeting dreams and ideas. The only steady person in Candice’s life was her grandmother.

Although Candice passed the entry test, which made her grandmother happy, she was more interested in partying than studying spells and potions. The idea of following the strict rules and studying all the time bored her, but her interest flared when she found out Dorian had joined the Coven as well.

She preferred partying with the athletic boys of the football team, but when she noticed that Olivia and Dorian were developing more than a friendship, she grew jealous of their closeness and quiet happiness. She wanted to be happy like them; she wanted him. She tried starting conversations with him, asked him to go to a party with her, and asked him to study potions and spells with her. Dorian gave her a polite excuse every time.

Feeling frustrated, Candice confided in her grandmother. “They’re spending all their free time together and started dating! How could he like her? She’s so plain and weird. Okay, she’s a caring person, but still. I’m a cheerleader and the prettiest girl in school. How could he not like me?”

“You’re the prettiest, love,” her grandmother cooed, hugging her. “He’s interested in her, so leave them be. There are other boys. Looks like the family curse follows you too like a shadow.” Her grandmother sighed.

“What curse?” Candice asked.

“We’re cursed with always wanting what we can’t have.”

“No, Grandma! I want him! I want him to go on a date with me, to return my feelings. I want to be his girlfriend, but no, he had to ask Olivia, sweet and boring Olivia. All she cares about is school and being boring. I’m popular and full of zest for life. What does she have that I don’t have?”

“Nothing, dear. She’s just a plain and boring girl, just like her grandma was. They make a good pair; Dorian is not an interesting person either. Even if he’d have asked you out instead of Olivia, you’d grow bored with him in no time.”

“No, Grandma. I want him! I’ll find a way to make him fall in love with me.”

“And, the family curse continues...” the old lady muttered under her breath, feeling sad and frustrated.

Chapter Two

Candice and Olivia were seniors in high school, and both came from a long line of witches and warlocks. They hadn’t really spoken to each other before they both became acolytes of the Ravenwood Coven. Candice was a beautiful and popular cheerleader, always wearing colorful clothes. Olivia was a shy loner, always dressed in black. Candice hung out with the cheerleaders and often humiliated Olivia publicly, or sometimes she posted degrading things about Goth people on social sites to make fun of her.

They were warned by the High Priestess not to tell anyone about the Coven. They kept it a secret, and Candice rarely talked to Olivia in school. She spoke to her only when she needed her help. One day, at lunch, Candice surprised Olivia by approaching her at the geek table. As Candice sat down, Olivia watched the brown-winged butterfly hovering over her head. She’s a bad person. Dad warned me about the brown butterfly people. I must be cautious, she thought.

Candice leaned closer to Olivia and said in a hushed tone, “I’m in trouble! I didn’t have time to practice, and we’ll have to perform a protection spell tonight. You have to help me.”

Olivia looked at her in disbelief. “You didn’t practice? Studying for school and memorizing the spell and ritual kept me up half the night.”

“We had cheerleading practice, and after that, we went to a party. I was too tired. Being a cheerleader is a commitment, and sometimes it’s not easy to keep up with the others. You always have to pretend to be chipper and happy, even when you’re not. And you always have to do everything as a group. I couldn’t just tell the girls that I needed to study a magical protection spell, now could I? Besides, we had so much fun last night. The football team joined us.” Candice smiled, and her blonde ponytail bounced as she shifted in her seat impatiently.

“I can imagine. Maybe I should have joined the cheerleading squad instead of the science lab,” Olivia said sarcastically.

“You know you wouldn’t have made it. You’re not flexible enough… and a Plain Jane like you wouldn’t be accepted, anyway.” Candice turned away, muttering.

Her mocking tone hurt Olivia’s feelings. She knew Candice didn’t care about her; she just tolerated her and used her, but she couldn’t say no. “Okay, I’ll help you.” She helped Candice memorizing the spell at recess, and the day went by quickly.

***

On the way home Olivia was thinking about her growing feelings for Dorian. She first saw him when his family moved to town to be closer to his ailing grandmother when they were in the ninth grade. She liked him and secretly hoped that one day he’d like her back. But deep down she never thought he would like a girl like her, until recently, when he joined the science club and was accepted into the Coven. He was nice to Olivia and didn’t care about how she looked. They had become best friends. He was interested in the genuine person she was.

Her heart warmed every time she saw him, and she fantasized about him a lot. One day when they were in tenth grade, she was going home from the store and saw him in his Grandma’s driveway next door. He was working on his car, leaning over the engine, under the hood. Olivia was too busy gawking at him and dropped her bag while taking the paper out of the mailbox. He had looked up, startled by the loud thud.

“Are you okay?” he’d asked, concerned.

“No, I’m fine, just dropped my bag. What are you working on?”

“Changing the oil. Mom and I came over to clean Grandma’s house.”

“Is she home from the hospital?”

“We’re going to bring her home tomorrow. She had a hip replacement.”

“Yes, my mom told me.”

“Hey, would you like to go for a cup of coffee after I finish the oil change and get cleaned up?” he’d asked.

He’d always been friendly, but Olivia hadn’t expected him to ask her out and felt the heat rising to her face. “Are you asking me to go on a date?” She didn’t really believe her ears.

He cocked his head. “It’s about time, don’t you think? Or if you don’t want to go out with me…” He left the sentence open and looked at her questioningly. 

Olivia had smiled, feeling and looking embarrassed. “Yes… I mean… Okay,” she stuttered but quickly came to her senses. “I have a few things to do, but we can go to Karen’s shop in about an hour for coffee and cake.” She didn’t want him to think she was a desperate loner who’d been fantasizing about that moment for a long time.

“She makes the best lemon poppy cupcakes with vanilla frosting.” Dorian had smiled and turned back to the car.        

Olivia had nodded and hurried inside before she could manage to make herself look foolish.

One date and bonding over cupcakes had led to more dates. They enjoyed each other’s company, and they spent as much time together as they could. They took long walks by the river, and he helped her collecting herbs in the woods. Dorian’s grandmother, a retired witch, as she often called herself, was an Elder of the Ravenwood Coven. She was happy when Dorian decided to follow her. His mother never showed interest in joining the Coven. She divorced Dorian’s dad when he was very young, and he rarely visited but once or twice a year.

Dorian knew Olivia’s father and grandmother practiced witchcraft. He asked them to help his mother after his grandmother told him it was beyond her knowledge, and the doctors were puzzled by her mysterious illness that left her weak and tired all the time. Olivia’s dad and grandma had performed cleansing and healing rituals, making Dorian’s mother healthy.

When Olivia told Dorian she wanted to be an apprentice, he was eager to know more. She told him about white magic, and he decided to apply for apprenticeship in the Coven as well. Their friendship deepened and bloomed. When he confessed his love for her, and they shared their first kiss, Olivia watched as a blue butterfly flapped its wings above them. I know he’s a good person, but could he really be my soulmate? Well, the guardians didn’t lie before… 

Continue reading or listen to the audiobook:

https://books2read.com/The-Potion-by-Erika-M-Szabo

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.