a dangerous path to a surprising end

A brand new FREE short story from the Eidolon Avenue universe.

A heartbroken widow. An infamous building. A darkness desperate to feed. This is Eidolon Avenue.

Young, bereaved and abandoned, the recent Knickerbocker Crash having taken more than just her savings, Mrs. Artatlan Fogoly considered herself lucky to have found a room to let. But when devout visitors refused to darken her door and an impossible stain appeared on the wall, what had felt like the beginning of something new and wonderful soon became a dangerous path to a surprising end.

The Realtor, an Eidolon Avenue Short, is the tale of how a heartbroken widow turned into Eidolon Avenue’s constant revenant. A siren call for those destined to end their wretched days in that wood, those bricks, that stone. The captive wraith who opened the door and brought the damned home to die.

And what of those wretched damned? Their stories are found in Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast as well as the upcoming Eidolon Avenue: The Second Feast.

This story is merely a glimpse of Jonathan Winn’s work, so if you enjoy this introductory story, be sure to pick up Winn’s Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast, available from Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths.

You can get it here.

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and I remember fear

Want a quick look at The Realtor: An Eidolon Avenue Short Story?

Of course you do.

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Available on Amazon today.

it is dark, it is brutal

In all honesty, I’m not big on reviews. I mean, obviously it’s nice when you get great ones – and I’ve been extremely lucky to get more than my fair share – but I’ve also gotten some not-so-nice ones. So, eh, it’s all a crapshoot, right? Best to not take it too seriously or let it define you or what you can do.

I just keep on writing.

But sometimes, only sometimes, does a review come in that makes me sit up and pay attention. That makes me break my standard “don’t read reviews” policy and actually sit down and – gulp – read the review. And sometimes, only sometimes, do I get an opinion of my work from someone who is becoming one of the preeminent voices when it comes to reviewing horror.

And that’s what happened recently. That it happened for Martuk…the Holy, the first book that started this whole writer journey for me way back in 2012 makes it just that much more special.

Intrigued? Here’s a snippet:

I love this world, I love this writer. It is dark, it is brutal … I found it all too easy to be whisked away by the sands of this world. Martuk is a must-read.

You can read the rest right over here.

And the book? Why, here you go! 

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The Tall Priest – excerpt

A quick excerpt from the opening chapter of The Tall Priest:

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“a beautifully rendered bloodletting”

Just learned, belatedly, that earlier this month The Tall Priest was chosen as a Favorite Read of the Year for 2017.

Simply stunned to be included in the same breath as some pretty incredible writers.

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super-short tales of terror

I’ve knitted a shroud.

Or perhaps sewn is the right word.

Dollar store linen and bone-white thread beginning at my purple feet, past my arthritic knees and swollen stomach, onto my weeping breasts and blackened throat.

My knuckles knitting my sins into seclusion and shadow

where,

once the smell becomes toxic,

I will be found.

***

See? You don’t need a ton of words to tell a good, creepy, screwed up story. Fifty-five words – maybe even less – is sometimes all it takes.

Perhaps I should publish a collection. 🤔

 

endless and forever and constant

Ah, stumbled upon this the other day.  A chat with the titular Martuk . One of my favorite interviews. It ran a few years ago when I was releasing Martuk the Holy: Proseuche, the sequel to Martuk the Holy.

Always loved this one.

***

He glanced around the cafe. Noticed the group of German tourists scanning their maps, a jumble of shopping bags at their feet. The mother chatting on her cell phone, her eyes fixed on the baby sleeping in the stroller. He watched the waitress, an older woman with thick hips and thin arms, as she leaned on the counter. And the young couple tucked away in the corner, their fingers clutching stout porcelain. “I’ve watched the world change,” he said. “Civilations rise and fall. Whole worlds end. Yet it still remains the same. Always the same.”

For a moment, I’d forgotten who he was, this Martuk. Had forgotten about his birth in the sun-blasted Zagros mountains one thousand years before Christ. Had forgotten the centuries he’d seen. The bloody chaos he’d caused and the agony he’d endured. Reminded myself that this was a man who’d had a long life, a long immortality, even before something as unremarkable as a cup of coffee even existed.

I gave him a moment. “If I may, why the second book?” I said. “Why Proseuche? Was it something as simple as the story continuing?”

“Nothing’s that simple.” He finished his espresso in one final swallow, his finger raised to order a second. A small nod from me, and a second finger lifted to indicate two. “Writing doesn’t excorcise the ghosts. It emboldens them.”

“So why write?”

A moment of silence followed by a brief shrug. “Who am I without my ghosts? In this world that changes yet remains the same, they are one of my few constants. Their anger, their rage. Their fear and regret and sorrow. These things, I know them. They are familiar. Even here, even now, they walk with me.

“They are amaranthine. A word I now love, by the way,” he said with a grin. “Endless and forever and constant.”

***

Not only will this push the envelope, it will guild that envelope in gold, hone it to a razors edge and use it in a beautiful & brutal ceremony. It so heavy and beautiful and I loved every moment of it, Martuk is going to strike nerves.”

– Zakk @ The Eyes of Madness

 

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