Demonic children. A man on the verge of insanity. A woman’s obsession that brings her back from the dead…night after night.
FRACTURED is a collection of dark-fiction where the reader comes face to face with psychological terror and the horror of the supernatural.
In Sleep, Frank Merton has a problem: what to do with his dead wife. She has this nasty habit of coming back to life…
The Hunted introduces us to Scott Baxter, intrepid hunter, tracking quarry that is all-too-human. Yet he himself becomes the target of a creature beyond imagination…
Insatiable has Jack Wheeler, back in his childhood home after a family tragedy, trying to make sense of the strange occurrences happening all around him, until he comes to the frightening realization that sometimes you really shouldn’t go home…
…and many more.
Targeted Age Group:: 16-55
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I was inspired to write this book based on a series of dream-sequences I had on successive evenings. They consisted of individual scenes that simply coalesced into the book. It took some doing to join these scenes but it was very fulfilling.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
My characters have always been a mix of different people and personalities I meet from day to day. While it's never really intentional I almost always seem to inject a little bit of my own personality as well.
Book Sample
SLEEP
The cool night air ruffled Frank Merton’s torn shirt sleeve as he dropped to one knee to place the body of his wife, Evelyn, in the freshly dug grave. She was small, slight. One bone-white hand flopped lazily, smearing blood across his chest.
“Damn,” he muttered, shifting his weight to the other knee. Her head lolled on her neck; her tongue, black and swollen, slipped from between her lips and made a wet smacking sound on his arm.
He dropped her in, grabbed the shovel lying next to the grave and started pulling in dirt. She seemed to stare up at him, her head tilted at an unnatural angle; as if she were pondering the universe, or the meaning of life.
Flecks of dirt covered her lips and cheeks, like ash from a fire long spent.
He’d taken her to the field behind their house. It was after midnight; the moon was high and bright. After almost ten minutes of pulling in dirt she was covered up to her face.
He set the shovel down beside the shallow grave, dropped to one knee, and stared into his wife’s eyes.
“Stay dead this time,” he muttered, dragging the last of the dirt into the grave.
He turned to walk back toward the house, dragging the shovel behind, the tip cutting a thin track through the packed dirt. He stopped at the edge of the clearing and turned.
He stared at the ground for almost fifteen minutes, then turned and walked through the small copse of trees and into his backyard.
# # #
Frank was awakened by a loud hammering on his back door. He rolled over on his side; the alarm clock on his nightstand said 3:15am. The hammering grew louder.
He lay his head back down on the pillow and sighed.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed he shuffled to the far wall and flicked on the light switch.
His room (their room, he had to remind himself) faced the backyard; he just had to open the rear window and stick his head outside to see his dead wife standing on the back deck, one bloody arm banging against the back door.
She’s getting quicker, he thought, pulling his head back in and closing the window. He moved to his
their
closet.
The shotgun he’d used earlier in the day leaned against the far wall; several cartridges, spent and useless, cluttered the floor beneath it. This had been his weapon of choice.
The baseball bat lay beneath it, the rounded tip cracked and splintered; that was 2pm, when he’d crushed his wife’s skull.
He looked around the closet; he was running out of options.
The hammering had slowed a bit, but it was still steady.
“There’s just one thing left to do,” he said to himself.
He left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen and the front door; stepping outside he rounded the house and made a bee-line for the wood shed. His dead wife never noticed him.
He rooted around in the dark for a moment.
“Ah, there you are,” he remarked.
He hefted the axe to his shoulder, the sharpened blade glinting in the moonlight.
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