Even in the Grave

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Title: Even in the Grave
Series:
Published by: Neoparadoxa
Release Date: July 1, 2022
Contributors: Marc Abbott, Meghan Arcuri, Oliver Baer, Alp Beck, Allan Burd, John P. Collins, Randee Dawn, Trevor Firetog, Caroline Flarity, Patrick Freivald, Teel James Glenn, Amy Grech, April Grey, Jonathan Lees, Gordon Linzner, Robert Masterson, Robert Ottone, Rick Poldark, Lou Rera, and Steven Van Patten
Pages: 254
ISBN13: 978-1956463033

 "In death - no! even in the grave all is not lost." -Edgar Allan Poe

Wandering souls! Restless spirits! The vengeful dead! Those who die with unfinished business haunt the living and make their presence known from the world beyond:

  • A scientist's invention opens a window onto a terrible afterlife.
  • A New York City apartment holds the secrets of the dead.
  • A grandmother sends text messages from the grave.
  • A samurai returns to his devastated home for a final showdown with his past.
  • A forgotten TV game show haunts a man with a dark secret.
  • A tapping from behind classroom walls leads to a horrible discovery.
  • The specter of a prehistoric beast returns to a modern-day ranch.
  • And the one seeing eye knows all-including what you did.

Haunted from the other side, these stories roam from modern cities to the shadowed moors to feudal Japan to the jungles of Central America, each providing a spine-chilling glimpse into the shadows not even death can restrain.

Do you dare open these pages and peer into the darkness they reveal?

Purchase direct from the publisher at the link here.

 

From "Fetch":

Alfred starts from half-sleep, heart in a panic. He's stretched awkwardly on the flagstones of his cottage hearth where he fell some hours earlier. Long, low howls carom in his head and echo in his blood, the song of dogs on the hunt. Sounds that, as Head Gamekeeper for Lord M—'s Great House, he knows well. But there is no hunt now, no dogs loosed beneath the stars. The estate's foxhound pack is long gone, buried beneath layers of lime, rotting in the earth.

With soil-stained hands he reaches for the whiskey bottle, dropping it once, and wonders at the state of himself. He's not yet thirty, yet he's shaking like a palsied geezer. Retrieving the bottle, he takes a long swallow, alcohol dribbling into his pale beard, and runs filthy fingers through his thick blond locks. Fire courses through his weary body. He spent all yesterday afternoon in the forest burying three blood-soaked shrouds, and afterward it had been all he could do to stumble home and flop on the floor.

Sleeping in the bed was out of the question.

A yowl splits the night, a voice like that of his nightmare—but real, and near. Not a foxhound. An animal with white eyes and a mangled ear. One that cannot be outside.

Aye, he's dead an' no mistake, Alfred assures himself. Did it to hi'sen. Nae my fault.

Alfred flings open his back door, revealing a walled-in garden bisected by a newly felled oak tree. The howl slices into him like an axe made of ice. His bones twist, his skin contracts. But there is no dog.

There will never be a dog here again.