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Terror
Nine:

 

In
her very scant spare time, she enjoys watching Japanese Anime and
reading vampire stories…along with other genres of great fiction,
as well as riding every roller coaster she encounters in both her
hometown and away at signings. An advocate for good health and
ketogenic eating, her favorite foods are bulletproof coffee,
cashew-flour crust pizza and treats made with xylitol and almond,
coconut or cashew flours.

Future
dreams include a cabin boasting a roaring fire, isolated inside a
snow-filled wood in the Yukon—the perfect writing spot—and the
completion of dozens of future novels and stories. A Rabbit Rescue
fanatic and loving bunmom, she also hopes to help rescues all over
the world save many innocent lives.

The date was December 1 st , twenty-two long, boring days before school let out for Christmas break, and
it was snowing like hell. I’d never admit it to anyone, but I was slightly creeped out by the murderous
details in the story I’d just been listening to. For some reason, watching little Lamia creep off into the
woods alone disturbed me even further. I yanked the red-and-white Beats earbuds—an early present
from my dad, who was equally proud of my Audible habit—from my ears only to find myself surrounded
by the eerie soundlessness which always seemed to accompany a heavy snowfall. I felt like all the
normal noises had been sucked away from the air around me, completely.
All I could hear as I continued toward the spot where Lamia had disappeared was the soft groan of my
boots sinking into the thick carpet of icy fluff beneath me. “Hey, Kid!” I called out, but she ran on as if
she hadn’t heard me, the snow muffling my voice as it had all other sound in our little corner of the
world. She hadn’t turned her head in response or even slowed the pace of her run a tick. When I
reached the line of trees, I hesitated. Must’ve been the dread the story I’d been listening to had
inspired, I told myself, but I was angry in the space it took my heart to pump out another beat.
“Shit, really?” I mumbled under my breath. “That kid’s not even old enough to go to school, and she ran
in there like she was the one born with the nuts… Awwww, to hell with it.” I slid the backpack from my
shoulder so that I could enter the woods as unhindered as possible and dove in. I’d never admit I did so
with my eyes closed.
As the squeak of the snow under my feet became the only sound—I’d lovingly packed my precious
earbuds into a special pocket reserved only for them—echoing softly off the damp-dark tree trunks, I
tried to brush off that tickle of fear which had begun to climb each individual vertebrae in my back like a
lizard inching along a palm frond. After all, I’d always wished to see something scary, gone in search of
ghosts on more than one occasion. Always hoped to find some kind of proof to turn all those journal
entries into truth. So many of the early settlers had written accounts of seeing or hearing things that
didn’t belong in the realm of the living. How could so many of them have been wrong? But as much as
I’d searched the woods ringing the whole of Whispering Woods Drive, and even the deserted, burnt-out
shell of the Henderson place which stood waiting for the insurance money to come through so they
could rebuild, I’d never seen a whisper of vapor, never heard so much as a whisper that couldn’t be
explained away by the logical or mundane thing which had made the sound. Of course, everyone in
Moon had seemed to stop writing about ghosts, abruptly, in 1890. Our history teacher had told us this
happened because that had been the real beginning of scientific advancement, bringing about all the
means to discover those logical explanations I mentioned previously to explain away all the strange
things they couldn’t before. The end of superstition giving way to the birth of rationale. Still, I’d always
hoped…
It was the weird smell which stopped me in my tracks. Earthy…savory…familiar. My mother burned sage
incense often in our home; it was one of her favorite scents. It had irked me for years because I’d justknown she was chasing all the ghosts away with the smoke even though several people on the internet
were of the opinion you could only use a sage smudging stick to cleanse a house. I’d seen where one
person commented on Yahoo Answers that three or four incense sticks bound together could be used in
place of one, so I’d tried to console myself with the fact my mother only burned one at a time.
Before I laid eyes on her, I heard her. It was really bizarre to hear a child chanting…like something out of
a ChildrenoftheCorn-esque horror movie.
“Air, fire, water, earth. Cleanse, dismiss, dispel.” She repeated the prayer over and over, and I must’ve
listened to it twenty times before I calmed enough to peek out from behind the large tree trunk I’d been
resting my back against. Lamia held an actual smudge stick… I’d seen enough of them on the internet
and my favorite shows to know what one looked like.
“You little bitch…” I growled under my breath. No wonder I’d never seen so much as a parlor trick
performed by a poltergeist. Between Lamia and my sage-burning mother, no self-respecting ghost
would come within a mile of Whispering Woods Drive. But what had Lamia seen or heard that would
prompt a four-year-old to ghostbust the woods surrounding her home?

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I
had the idea for Dunn years ago, when some one I knew had a friend
who got involved in a similar cult. I started writing the first
incarnation of the novel, whilst teaching English in China, but came
back and changed most of it after my son was born. The beginning and
ending have changed, thanks to the guidance from an award winning
author and playwright who has basically tutored me. My writing has
developed because of his guidance and I am now really happy with
dunn. It’s ready to go. I hope you will enjoy it.

Prologue

When does a story start? When the action starts? When a life starts changing? Or when a life is
formed? Surely a story isn’t complete without the whole picture. A background canvas on which a life is
slowly painted, building up in layers as the years add depth and character. But you won’t care about
that. You won’t care about my whole history. You’ll only want the juicy stuff – the dirt on Yvette Blake;
my reasons for joining the Saviours. So, let’s start with why I joined. Let’s start with my darling wife
Sophie – the mad witch who ruined my life.

T
The best thing about trying to get money out of people for charity is that they usually trust
you already. You must be a nice guy if you are working for such a noble cause and for peanuts
as well, they assume. Because you already have their trust half the battle is won. Sure, they
often walk past with no more than a ‘sorry man’ but pick the right ones and you’re home and
dry. Pick the guilty ones and they’ll sign up without a fight. Sophie looked like one of those, and
I saw her coming a mile away.

“Close your eyes,” she ordered, “and listen carefully to my voice. You are lost … Lost in
a wilderness of failure, scavenging small scraps of success to stay alive. You are alone.”
And suddenly, in that room full of people, knee brushing that of the scary man next to me,
a panic gripped me – because I was alone.
I was alone in a storm of a world.
I was alone and no one I knew could help me – the only hope was Yvette. And her voice
was a beacon.

“Right, who wants to go first?” I asked.
“I’ll do it,” offered Susie, squeezing past the others in pointy boots. Her eyes met mine
for a moment before the attendant blindfolded her.
“I trust you,” she said. “You can do it, Aidan.”
“Name?” snapped the attendant.
“Aidan,” I said jovially. “Aidan Dunn and this is -”
“The leader’s name is sufficient thank you, Mr Dunn. Please take your place by obstacle

one.”
I shrugged and led Susie to the first challenge – two narrow wooden planks leaning either
side of a tractor tire on the floor to form a precarious hillock.
“Okay, Susie,” I said as we reached the start. “The first thing we have got is a ramp
balanced – “
“No describing the obstacles!” snapped the attendant scribbling on her clipboard. “Minus
five points.”

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It’s
been seventeen years since Father Baez, formerly Broderick Ladro,
entered the monastery to fulfill his legacy, turning his back on all
earthly affairs. His strange visions and doubts have steadily
increased through the years and he goes on a desert retreat to make
sense of it all.

Bestselling,
and multi-award-winning British author, Ken Fry, holds a university
Master’s Degree in Literature and has traveled around the world. The
places and events are reflected in his stories and most of his talesare based on his own experiences.

He
has extensive knowledge of the Art world, which he acquired while
working as a Publisher in a major UK publishing house — a wholly
owned subsidiary of the HEARST Corp of the USA. In his thirteen years
with the company, he worked within the Fine Arts and Antiques
division of the organisation and controlled four major international
titles. 

He
is now retired and devotes his full time to writing. He lives in the
UK and shares his home with ‘Dickens’ his Shetland Sheepdog. 

Fry
has published 10 mystery suspense thrillers to date: The Lazarus
Continuum, The Chronicles of Aveline, Disjointed Tales: A Collection
of Eccentric Short Stories, The Patmos Enigma, Red Ground, The
Lazarus Succession, Suicide Seeds, The Brodsky Affair, and 2 short
stories, Check Mate, and Is That You, Jim? (Free)

The
Patmos Enigma and The Lazarus Succession are Bestsellers in Christian
Fantasy, Religious Mystery, Religious Fiction and Biblical Fiction on
Amazon UK.

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Travis
Kameron, the Alpha of the Crescent Ice Pack, suffering a similar
fate, wakes up to find his life is about to be irreparably changed by
the fierce she-wolf in the next cage. Can they put aside old
rivalries and the past and work together to not only survive andescape but to weather the storm of complications, revenge, and
betrayals waiting for them on the outside?

Rated
MA18+ for adult content.

Enforcer
and bear-shifter Bret Axel receives a call from his cousin whomanages his Portland nightclub about suspicious activity. After
obtaining the approval of his Alpha, he travels to Portland. Two
nights later, screams of a woman shatter the silence of the dock and
with the help of his cousin, they save her from being killed.

A
twisted tale of hunter and prey, two worlds collide as Bret falls for
the human and then struggles to convince her that they are meant to
be together. It’s up to him and the Crescent Ice Pack to get to the
bottom of the brutal acts of one man. Will Nikki survive the wrath of
her estranged husband or will the murky world of Edward Calhoun
destroy her and any who try to help?

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Henry
Black, former Archangel of Secret Knowledge, wants some peace of mind
after untold millennia locked up in Hell, but the guilt of inhabiting
a body that is not his own and of having left behind his brothers and
sisters still damned to solitary confinement eats him up inside.

He
thinks he can atone by doing the right thing—play the older brother
to his host body’s kin while upturning every secret buried in
Creation until he finds a way to free every single angel who fell—but
with every fact uncovered, he finds himself one step further from the
release he craves and one step closer to more chains that
bind.

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John knocked on a broom closet.
Okay, maybe it isn’t a broom closet, but it’s the same size as one.
“Come in,” Black called out.
John opened the door and they filed in. Like a joke from an old Marx Brothers
show. The tiny office didn’t have windows, and the desk inside was made of aluminum
and steel, one of those cheap things old men bought at Home Depot for their DIY
dreams. It had a laptop to one side and two piles of paper to the other. The top sheet of
each pile was covered in designs and diagrams, sketched in different colors. The pens
used were lined up, straight as a ruler, each pen a quarter of an inch apart. The whole
table spelled out “Spartan OCD,” and behind it sat Henry Black.
Albino. Certified genius. And former Archangel of Secret Knowledge.
Not a cop, even though he was currently running Detroit’s Fifth Police Precinct.
Black gestured for them to sit down. The small room had four chairs for visitors,
two in front of the desk and two lined up against the wall. All four of them were also
cheap Home Depot purchases, and the steel groaned when John plopped down. Malik
sat at the cop’s right, and Ed closed the door and hovered in front of it.
“Found anything yet?” John asked, nodding to the piles of paper.
Black smiled, the corners of his lips tucking up on one side, and he finished the
diagram he’d been working on before adding the sheet to one of his piles.
Green drawing. What did that mean? Damn, the man color codes too much.“Why don’t you tell me what you found?” he shot back, ignoring John’s
question.
John grinned and relaxed. Black brushing him off didn’t bother him, or at least it
didn’t bother him as much as it pained Malik.
“Well,” he began, “you were right this time. We found one of those corrupted
people. A woman.” His smile lost its luster, the memory of the raid weighting on the
room.
Black nodded. Damn smug bastard.
“Did you see anyone else? Any… ah, clue that might reveal an incident?” he
asked.
“Just the woman. And her babe. No one else, no signs of violence or anything.”
John stopped, hesitated. “You know, it would help a lot if you were more specific about
these ‘clues’ we’re meant to look for.”
“I do know,” Black said. Smug, smug bastard. He drummed his fingers on the
desk, playing a soft tune. His gaze slipped high for a moment, as if lost in thought, but
he didn’t look sad or sorry. We’ve just told him this damn incident of his touched a baby
and see if he cares. “Any anomaly?” he asked.
Nope. Nothing beyond the fact that we were dealing with Hell and possessed
humans, and somehow this has become our normal life.

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