The New Horror Bundle

Print books shipped from my independent printer.

Ebooks and audiobooks are delivered by email through Bookfunnel. Check your email and then download or read listen on your favorite device.

You can read the ebooks on any ereader (Amazon, Kobo, Nook), your tablet, phone, computer, and/or in the free Bookfunnel app.

Cracked Altar

“Yes, I can still go to therapy,” John Nova said to his wife, Catherine Nova, his eyes darting left to right on an official-looking form. John put the paper down and took up his stale cup of coffee, sipping on it despite the acidity. Because if he didn’t do something with his hands, he’d probably flip the kitchen table ...

Not Okay

I hunched over the granite countertop in the kitchen, poring over the morning paper. The story held my interest in its stupidity: a pet pageant was in a civil spat with a traveling circus over ground reservations for their event. Beyond that, there was terror in the Middle East, but since when was there not? God was once again trying to wipe Florida off the map during hurricane season, and BBQ and Smoker combos were on sale at my local hardware store.
This was about the most interesting thing I’d suffer through that day.
I sipped loudly as my wife, Emma, sauntered into the kitchen. She dragged her soft fingers just above my belt line.
“Coffee’s made,” I said, pretending to be engrossed in the pet pageant story. In truth, I was more interested in the ads about travel destinations. We hadn’t vacationed in a while and I was starting to feel the itch. It was weird, that itch; a sort of longing for something new, only to find you desire the familiarity of home immediately upon leaving. I turned back to the pet story and scoffed. It’s not that I don’t like animals; I just don’t like the responsibility of feeding, raising, and loving them. Call me evil or heartless, it doesn’t matter to me.
I flipped the page, knowing full well what the other side held: unrealistic travel expectations. Too risky; flights got canceled, and the all-inclusive packages at places like Sandals were often not inclusive. Eventually, they found something to charge you for. It almost seemed like vacations and a budget didn’t go together.
The woods, perhaps? Everyone was fine with a bit of camping, even a prim and proper woman like Emma Cross.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. Tapping the edge of the mug with her freshly manicured nails, I could tell she was formulating something clever to say. I eyed her up, from her open-toed heels to her sculpted calves. I consider myself to be a lucky man, and I’m sure others think the same. She held her chin high and her shoulders back—you know, showing her decorum. But I like to make her squeal. Where’s her composure then, when her legs are shaking?
Emma lifted the coffee to her lips, looking out over the brim. I caught her gaze and batted my eyes with extreme exaggeration. She did the same and, together, we shared a brief moment where our laughter was contained, only to break out into cramping belly laughs.
I embraced my wife, slipping my hands around her waist and playfully grazing my fingertips up and over her hips. She gave a little wiggle, then rested her head on my shoulder. Her loose dark brown curls hung in my face and I caught the fleeting smell of burnt curling iron, hairspray, and lavender. She pulled away and retrieved her coffee, then proceeded to putter around the kitchen, attending to last night’s dishes―an empty bottle of Chardonnay, two glasses, and plates bearing the remains of grilled chicken and homemade pasta. I might have worked at a gas station, but I still had some pride in my cooking.
“I can get that. I don’t have to be in until tonight,” I said, leaning up against the counter.
“I’ve got it,” she said, attending to a plate. “You should be in bed. You know I hate when you’re up at this time before a night shift.”
I shrugged. “I need to call around, you know that. The nights are … well, for the night,” I said, my voice dipping out of apprehension, or shame, even.


The Risen Prince: from The Demonic Compendium

Shaw was looking for something. Something that did not want to be found. Something that could lose itself. Something harmless on the outside, yet of terrible and awesome power within.
Shaw was looking for a book.
He hated even the notion that such an object had this much of a hold on him. Since the Book had brought him back, he owed it a debt and this deal was signed and sealed in blood. The Book offered him his life in exchange for a task not yet revealed to him and if the Book could bring him back, maybe it could bring his wife back as well.
He stared east across the Valor, its mighty flow raging south until it broke against the Bone Bottom Crags many leagues away. The Valor was much like the Book; cold and absolute in the middle, yet peaceful at its borders. 
“Where are you?” Shaw mouthed. A light throb on his left forearm indicated a snide remark from the demon imprisoned within it was imminent. Shaw pulled back his sleeve to examine it.
Perhaps it is at the bottom of the river. Why not swim for it? A shrill, disembodied voice replied in his head. Shaw shifted his gaze away from the froth and rolling waves to the cracks of the shallow dock and into the river below.
“Perhaps it’s still in the Far East…that last King’s Guardsman thought so,” he spoke aloud.
He told you what you wanted to hear; we cannot rely on the word of a dying man.
“But we can rely on the word of a living demon?” Shaw questioned, somewhat taken aback by his own retort; was this demon considered alive?
He examined the three rubies embedded in his arm. Inside the center ruby, a magpie with too many eyes stared back at him.
The gems pulsed again, this time painfully.