Spring Newsletter

Hi awesome reader and welcome back to this months newsletter

Latest news

Spring has sprung...kind of. It has been a while since I've written one of these, mostly due to being so busy in my normal life that I haven't had a lot of writing news to give.

Saying that, there were still cogs turning in the background. Over winter my wonderful editor went over the second novel in the Stone Devils serious: Devils At The Gate. Now its my turn and I'm working hard on it hoping to release in the Summer.

Keep your eyes peeled!

To fill the empty hole that you are undoubtedly experiencing without having the new novel in your hands already I have decided to provide a teaser. Below is the prologue to Devils At The Gate.

I hope you enjoy.

Prologue 

Three soldiers in black combat uniforms, gas masks, and carrying MP5 submachine guns walked into the large derelict home, a modern-day mansion. The original owners having knocked down the previous building to the foundations to make way for a new-age geometric space station instead. The leader of the men, whose name tag read Sgt Wilson led the trio, gun raised using the attached torch to illuminate the dark corner of the large entrance hall;  his comrades followed suit as they walked in a triangle formation. They had been told the property was clear of all signs of life, but after the things they had seen, they weren’t taking any chances.

“Macavoy, Curry,” said Wilson quietly. “Fan out, check those two rooms.” The men did so without saying a word; one went left and the other right. Wilson held his position in the center of the foyer, keeping his eyes peeled. He watched the door ahead and the landing above. The family that had lived here must have been doing very well for themselves; fancy artwork covered the walls, small sculptures stood on plinths, and the crystal chandelier that now lay on the floor glittered like diamonds even in the dim light.  

“Clear.” 

“Clear,” said the voices of Curry and Macavoy.

“What rooms did we have there, lads?” 

“A lounge; it was in a bit of a state, though, sarge. There must have been a leak upstairs, as the ceiling has fallen in. I couldn't see what was through the hole to say which room it came from, though,” said Curry, who had gone right. 

Macavoy reported next, “Study, one of the bookshelves had fallen over, and there was an open safe behind a painting of—you’ll never guess what?” 

“I’m not in the mood for guessing games,” Wilson said sternly, but with a slight smile on his face. 

“Right you are, sarge.”  The men repositioned themselves behind him. They continued forward, and Wilson led them up the stairs that climbed the left-hand wall, each moving the beams of their torches steadily to keep as much of the space covered in light. 

When they reached the landing that went round to the right there was a door directly ahead of them and a hallway on the left.  “I’ll take the room directly ahead. You two take the corridor. There should be four rooms, two on either side.” He paused to hear the affirmative grunts then walked forward, finger resting on the trigger. 

When he reached the door, he paused and listened but heard nothing. Gently, he reached down and opened the door using the chrome doorknob; thankfully it silently glided open. Quietly, he stepped into the room, bringing his muzzle from corner to corner, quick and smooth, all clear. He saw in front of him an obtusely large super king bed, the white sheets a sculpture of their own, twisted up to resemble miniature mountain peaks on the bed. The right bedside table was knocked to the floor, a smashed lamp with bulb glass strewn across the rug; the other had an open drawer. Before going to take a look, he saw the open door on his right and swiftly stepped to it. He found the source of the leak, although no water ran from it now. The shower pipes were bent out from the wall, and the glass shower door was completely shattered. Some blood was on the grey stone tiles and on scrunched-up towels in the corner, dark and sticky, adding a metallic smell to the musty damp one which penetrated his mask. Taking a closer look at the floor beneath his feet, he saw scratch marks, but they looked old. He assumed this person had been taken whilst they used the shower. That’s what they did sometimes:  took you and used you to feed their queen.

He turned back into the room and made his way around the bed to look in the open drawer, his curiosity overcoming his professionalism. A photo frame lay on the floor; an attractive couple smiled up at him. In the drawer itself, he saw a Bible with a cock ring resting on top. He almost chuckled at the contrast, but the thought of knowing a man and his wife once lived and possibly died here stopped him. Maybe they had used the ring that morning before taking a shower. Then suddenly, the afterglow of good sex that you get when you do it with someone you love and know, really know, was ruined by a mutated teenage devil storming into the room. Maybe it was their own son or daughter. He thought of his own children; currently, they would be getting ready for another day of virtual school, his wife making them tea and toast in their flat. 

“You alright, sarge?” said Curry kindly. It made Wilson jump a little, but he recovered quickly as he turned to see the man standing in the bedroom door. “We said clear, but you must not have heard us.”

“I’m fine,” he nodded. “Clear, let's continue.” He marched to the door, scolding himself for losing focus. 

They went back downstairs and through the door that led into the kitchen. Vast grey quartz sideboards and an island countertop contrasted with dark oak finishings and more chrome handles. A large dining table was on the left-hand side, in front of large glass bifolding doors the length of the room, which opened onto an overgrown garden. 

They quickly checked the corners and utility room before Macavoy let out a whistle. 

“This is some place, eh?” 

“You’re telling me, I am definitely in the wrong line of work,” replied Curry. Wilson ignored them staring out into the overgrown garden, which backed onto a woodland sick with the fungal disease. He imagined it in its glory, with perfectly lined grass, no weeds in the flower beds, maybe a small goal post at one end, and the trees in the backdrop not covered in thick black vines that were hardened to stone. Nodules the size of footballs sprouted from the vine every six to twelve feet or so; these had matured and burst. The open sacks drooped like banana peels. He shook his head with frustration; he hated seeing the destruction of the English woodlands and greenery. What he didn’t see was that something stared back at him.

They continued on, entering another room that could only be described as a man cave. A large screen was on one wall, with plush, comfy red leather chairs and sofas spaced evenly in front of it. A projector hung from the ceiling, with an assortment of cables that must have connected to the many consoles and boxes on the wall beneath the telly. There was also a pool table and a drinks cabinet filled with half-empty bottles of pricey-looking spirits. The bookshelf that ran along the far wall was filled with encyclopaedias and other expensive but equally untouched collections, at least until it reached the adjoining wall with the garden, where the bookshelf that doubled as a secret door was ajar. 

As expected, a strong smell was permeating from it and was beginning to seep through their masks. “This is it, lads, the cellar. Remember, we’re here to get photos and samples only, not to engage where possible,” Wilson commanded.

“Weapons free, though?” asked Curry. The sergeant nodded; he may be willing to not start a fight, but no way were they going to be caught with their pants down. He held up a fist, and they all froze.

“Dogs playing cards?” 

“Huh?”

“The painting, I have to know what it is, just in case.”

“Oh yeah, close. Cows drinking milk at a bar.”

“That's just sick. Stay frosty, lads; with that kind of taste, we could find anything down here.” Quietly and slowly, the three men entered. 

They had to go in single file down the stone steps into a cool but completely pitch-black cellar. The torch beams swept around the room, crossing each other as the men attempted to get their bearings. The left-hand wall was grey concrete with shelves upon shelves of wine bottles; the other wall was filled with shelves of every spirit imaginable and even a few barrels at the far end. The cellar was so large that it had four supporting columns, and at the back of it, beyond these, was the macabre specimen the men had been sent for. 

A queen stone devil. The scientist who had requested the expedition, had advised them that it was reaching the end of its cycle. A queen would be placed in the remains of another person, usually a male victim; this was so it could feast off the organs as long as it needed to provide subsistence for its growing hair, which had turned into multiple stone-hard branches that reached out like a web. They pushed through the concrete and earth until they found roots, then would latch onto them and grow up around and through the tree to create the nightmarish deformity Wilson had seen from the kitchen. The first sign above ground was mounds of puffy soil around the base of the tree before thick grey-black vine-like hair pushed out and grew around the trunk and branches. The tree would slowly turn black and decay under its grasp, and finally, the large nodules would appear and burst out thick clouds of spores, which floated through the air to infect youths that wandered into its mist.

This queen looked to be a girl of about seventeen. She sat up in the usual position, in a chair made of rib cage atop the legs of her victim. Her head tilted back, stiff, wire-like tendrils protruded from her mouth about six inches reaching for the ceiling, but these did not have the small breathing cloud of mist spores above them like one in the early days of a cycle. Her torso was covered by an overly large t-shirt with the Rolling Stones' mouth on it, but her underwear was missing; the visible skin was grey, going black, and no warmth came off her. Her arms, legs, and pubic area were covered in a thick shell that looked to be a similar consistency to ivory but of a dark grey color. Her hair at the roots was perfect white and then proceeded to grey, then black, as it gripped roots that dangled through the broken concrete above. The claws of her hands that lay at her sides appeared to have melded into the ground, likewise with her feet that stuck out in front of her as bizarre talons. 

“Is it dead?” asked Macavoy.

“I think so; it looks like the daughter. She was an albino. I saw a photo upstairs; the body beneath might be the dad, possibly the mum,” said Curry, who was leaning over the figure. “Shall we call it in, Sarge?” 

“I’ll do it; I’ll need to go up top. You lads get some glow sticks cracked and set up the perimeter. Do not touch it, her. You know what I mean.” He would never get used to this new world. Turning, he walked back upstairs; he held in tears as the girl reminded him once again of his own family. His daughter, a redhead but of similar age, sixteen, with a beautiful smile and whose only concern should be GCSEs and young love, but no, another pandemic had to happen, and one which only infected the young. 

Once up the stairs, he clicked the button on his radio.

“Alpha team here. Do you read me? Over.”

“Bravo, reading you loud and clear. Over,” replied a voice that sounded happy to hear him.

“We’ve located the target and are ready for extraction. Over.”

“Copy that. No contact?” 

“All clear. Over.”“On our way. Over.” He sighed, letting go of his radio and stepping to the drinks cabinet, thinking he might try one of these overpriced bottles. But as he reached it, he felt an unfamiliar breeze. He gripped his gun, raised it, and turned in the direction it was coming from. He saw that the bifold doors had been slightly opened in the kitchen and racked his mind for evidence it had been like that before; he was sure it had been closed. Fully closed. He felt sweat on his forehead, his muscles tighten, and he checked the safety on his submachine gun: off. 

Slowly, he stepped into the kitchen, checking his corners. He heard some tins rattle behind the large island and cautiously stepped towards it. Once he reached it, he tried to look over the top, but it was too large. He took a deep breath in, slowly  released it, then hopped around the side of the countertop. 

A rat.

It chewed cheekily on an old cracker from an open tub. Wilson let out a sigh of relief. He turned to return to his men, as he did, he was swept off his feet and thrown across the countertop. Then his world went black. 

What I’m reading/listening to

I have recently listened to Deep as the Marrow by F. Paul Wilson. It was a good thriller involving kidnap, blackmail and the president of USA. The backdrop of these events happening as the US President tried to legalise drops was interesting, especially as the conversation of the drug epidemic and whether the war on drugs is right way continues to rage on.

Definitely worth a listen.

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Oliver