Book Review: Her Dark Inheritance Meg Hafdahl

Book Review: Her Dark Inheritance by Meg Hafdahl

Don’t be alone. Not at Night. Not in Willoughby.

Willoughby, Minnesota is an idyllic small town in Middle America. It boasts one café, one motel, and a population of five-hundred-nine. But, there are more than small town secrets hiding in the shadows of the town square. Something lurks just out of sight—and out of mind—from the residents. A bloody history of accidents, violence, and murder plagues Willoughby and threatens the town even in the present.

In July 1982, someone brutally murdered three members of the Bergman family with an ax in their Willoughby home. For decades, town suspicion has fallen on the sole survivor of the bloody massacre: Caroline, the Bergman’s teenage daughter.

But Daphne Forrest knew her mother not as Caroline Bergman, but as Jane Downs-Forrest. It wasn’t until Jane’s death that Daphne found out that her mother was the suspected murderer that newspapers had dubbed The Minnesota Borden.

Daphne visits Willoughby for the first time, looking for answers to questions about the woman she thought she knew. She may not have grown up in Willoughby, but Daphne quickly finds that she shares a connection with the town that not even the residents can fathom. Willoughby wants to show her something, something that can save the town and, maybe, Daphne herself.

Thrust into memories of unfathomable violence and fear, Daphne must face her own mistakes and find a strength that her mother never had. If she wants to get out of Willoughby alive, she must face an evil that has stalked the small town since its founding.

Her Dark Inheritance follows in a glorious tradition of American ax murderers, but it’s far from the typical tale.

Meg Hafdahl creates characters real enough to climb off the page, including a monster that stalks you long after the novel’s last sentence. The town of Willoughby itself is as real as any character. Vividly described, it’s delightful and terrifying in equal measure. It embodies an abusive relationship that traps the residents in a situation where manipulation masquerades as protection and “this is for your own good” can be just as sinister as any threat. The story raises questions that strike to the core of all of us: What does it mean to be evil? What does it mean to be weak?

Hafdahl weaves an intricate tale of betrayal, murder, and small town intrigue. Her brilliant narrative style keeps you guessing from beginning to end about the next shocking twist. Whether it’s the truth about the Bergman murders or Daphne’s ultimate fate, Hafdahl keeps you at her mercy through every page.

I haven’t read a book in one sitting in a long time, but I couldn’t put down  Her Dark Inheritance. ‘One more chapter’ led to ‘one more chapter’ and ‘one more chapter’ after that. The book is labelled for Young Adults, but is just as gripping for adults. I recommend it whole-heartedly, especially for those who like to see the darker side of the American Dream.


Kidnapped! How a Video Game Shaped “At the Hands of Madness”

How a Video Game Shaped “At the Hands of Madness

by Kevin Holton

“To think that once I could not see beyond the veil of our reality… to see those who dwell behind. My life now has purpose, for I have learned the frailty of flesh and bone… I was once a fool.”

Pious August

There’s a chance some of you are horror readers as well as gamers, and there’s a chance you already know what game I’ll be talking about. There aren’t any others like it. For those of you who’ve never played Eternal Darkness: Sanity’s Requiem, let me assure you, the title isn’t the only bizarre part of the experience, and this is one that, once you go through it, you never really leave it behind.

I was a kid, probably twelve, when I first picked this up. It stuck out to me from the shelf at a local GameStop. Not literally, mind you, but as I walked along, trailing my gaze down the row of used discs, I just… stopped. Dead in my tracks, staring at this one case, as if I’d been put on this Earth to play it. What followed fueled an ongoing obsession with abnormal psychology, and a life-long obsession with metaphysics.

Even for back then, the graphics weren’t great. The combat was predictable and simple, the enemies easy to work around, and even the final boss never posed too much of a threat. This game was never about being a game, though. This was the closest thing the early 2000’s would get to a fully immersive, augmented reality experience.

Eternal Darkness: Sanity’s Requiem is deeply rooted in the writings of H. P. Lovecraft. You play as Alex Roivas, who ventures to her ancestral home upon her grandfather is found beheaded. Shortly thereafter, you find something tucked away in his belongings: The Tome of Eternal Darkness, which is exactly as world-ending as it sounds. Through it, you relive the short, awful lives of those who read it before you, acquiring the magic they learned along the way—at the expense of your sanity.

That’s where this game thrived. Like many supernatural adventure games, you got a health bar and a magic bar. The sanity meter is what set it apart. As it began dipping, spells would backfire, causing you to explode, then you’d reappear in the previous room, unharmed. Massive enemies you have no hope of killing would overwhelm you, then disappear. Statues would turn their heads to watch you as you pass. Books would fly from the shelves, rearranging as they saw fit.

But, the developers didn’t stop at merely screwing with the character. The game also begins to screw with you. I’d examine a bathtub, and see Alex lying dead with her wrists slit. I tried to save, and the game pretended to delete my saves. The volume would spontaneously lower to nothing, or flash the Gamecube start screen, as if I’d hit reset. At one point, my character screamed, “Stop following me!” and shot the screen.

The character tried to kill me.

Not for real, of course—it’s a simple program, not Skynet—and it couldn’t even if it had artificial intelligence, but that moment! That broke the fourth wall. In the process, it broke open a barrier in my head. What could books really do? Why simply tell a tale, when I could create a whole reality, then thrust it upon this one?

That’s what I’ve strived for ever since. Writing a story, designing my characters, plot, tension, in ways that could go beyond tension and actively disturb the reader’s sense of the what the universe really is. I thrive on ambiguity and suggestion, relishing the moments where I can insert little bits that remind the reader, This story isn’t static. It can affect you.

This game impacted a number of my stories, not just my recent release, At the Hands of Madness, a novel that draws obvious influence from Lovecraft as well. Medraka, the kaiju in my novel, was inspired by Xel’lotath for sure—both are four-armed, psychic, sanity-ending beast (albeit with far different powers and origins). Another upcoming novel of mine, These Walls Don’t Talk, They Scream is rooted in the chaos of overlapping dimensions. Would I have ever had such thoughts if I’d never witnessed this game’s three gods kill each other, separately yet simultaneously, in overlapping realities? What would my life have been like, had I not, as the player, orchestrated the way they died, in a manner that proved time and space are illusions?

I’m honestly not sure. People knock video games as mindless or violent, but that one, this single game, opened up a galaxy in my head, with each new idea a glittering star, ready to burn.

Writers know their inspiration can come from many sources, but Eternal Darkness, I know, with its strange plot, subtle terrors, and unrestrained attack on the psyche—on the very definition of reality—make this a title that deserves a remake. Like the Silent Hill and Resident Evil franchises, this has a place in any horror enthusiasts’ library. Expensive to get at this point, but if you’re dedicated, you’ll find a way. It taught me how to make stories that don’t end—or begin—on the page.

So, try not to think about breathing, ignore how your tongue feels in your mouth, and go check out At the Hands of Madness.

Kevin Holton is the author of At the Hands of Madness, as well as the forthcoming titles The Nightmare King and These Walls Don’t Talk, They Scream. He also co-wrote the short film Human Report 85616, and his short work has appeared in dozens of anthologies.

He can be found at, or on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Patreon @TheHoltoning.

Press Release: Beyond Night

Bigfoot War mixed with Lovecraftian horror
on the edge of the Roman Empire from Crystal Lake Publishing (paperback & Kindle)

An Epic Fantasy tale of action, adventure, heroism, horror and sorcery…

Beyond Night is a Dark Fantasy Horror novel that pulls back the veil of nearly two thousand years of jaded history. Come trod in the bloody footprints left by monsters, soldiers and wizards and behold what lies hidden Beyond Night itself.

How could Rome lose a Legion? What could’ve happened to blot out the existence of over five thousand men not only from history but the Earth itself?

As the Legion moves north to engage the forces of Pictdom, a dark horror emerges from the bowels of the Earth. Thought to be random attacks by hulking monsters, Decurion August soon learns a dire truth, that these bloody events are directed by opposing the wizards of the Picts. While one side assembles all tribes in a confederated army to battle the Legion, the other pulls these Greyman beasts from the depths of the Earth.

August fights not only these creatures and workers of magicks, but internal passions in the Legion itself.

Can he discover a way to survive the enormous bloodletting about to take place that will only serve to satisfy the wizards of Pictdom?

Fans of David Gemmell will lap up this earthy, brutal fantasy.” – William Meikle, The Ghost Club

Proudly represented by Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths.
To find out more, go to:

Free Fiction: Serenity by Tanisha D. Jones


by Tanisha D.  Jones

He was a constant explorer and that was what brought him to the dingy alley in Chinatown. The smell of old fish and mooshoo pork wafted through the steaming grates in the ground as the late October air, whipped through his expensive Armani trench coat. Being one of the richest men in the country afforded him the luxury of his eccentricities. It also afforded him a degree of anonymity. Never a public figure, media did not hound him, as a matter of fact, not many people knew him as it were. And that’s the way he preferred it.

It was damp, dark, and hard to see, but he didn’t need to see, he knew where he was going in the bleakness of the desolate alley. He found the door, the same hidden door camouflaged to look like the dark worn bricks of the decrepit buildings that lined either side of the alley. He knocked twice, then stepped back and waited. A brick shifted, and then slid open to reveal two piercing black eyes. They peered at him briefly, then the brick moved back into place and the wall opened to reveal a small Asian man with thick glasses wearing a food stained t-shirt, old khaki pants an apron and black bedroom slippers that had seen better days. He waved him in impatiently, before slamming the door.

“Good Evening Mr. Walters. Back so soon?” The old Asian spoke in crisp clear tones, his English tinged with a slightly British accent.

“Mr. Cheng. And please call me Max.” He slipped off his coat and tossed it on a nearby table. The room was warm and decorated in bright floral prints. The furniture was old French Country and smelled of fresh coffee and potpourri. Mr. Cheng motioned for Walters to have a seat and he willingly sat on the plush floral sofa. It was as if he were back in his grandmother’s living room. Everything seemed so pleasant in the windowless room; the mock fireplace glowing orange and casting warmth through the room. Delicate dollies lined the many shelves and tables, pedestals for several dozen brick aback and chotchkeys that Mr. Cheng and his late wife had collected over the years and their extensive travels.

“Tea?” Mr. Cheng offered as he wiped his hands on the already dirty apron.

“No thank you.” Max Walters shifted impatiently. He didn’t fit in this room. He was a tall man, nearly seven feet tall, with coarse jet-black hair that was prematurely graying at the temples. His skin was smooth and tanned and he was in extrodinary physical shape. The startling blue eyes seemed the only semblance of telling his age. They were lively and seemed to dance when he spoke.

“When you called you said that you had something different” Mr. Cheng nodded and smiled, exposing perfect white teeth.

“Yes, yes. Of course.” He motioned again, this time for Max to follow him. They walked out of the room to a narrow hallway, off to the right of the hallway was a bustling restaurant kitchen. Waiters and busboys in crisp white shirts moved back and forth in elegant dance of routine. Mr. Cheng looked inside and shouted something in Cantonese, before leading Max to end of the hall. The further they walked the darker and more claustrophobic the space got. The walls seemed to close in on them, to the point that Max had to turn sideways and nearly shimmy through the narrow space, the ceiling pressing down on the top of his head. Finally, when they reached the end, a door opened and Max entered. Ducking his head as he scuttled past Mr. Cheng, he stepped into the abyss laid out before him, his feet connecting with, what he pictured in his mind to be a dilapidated, wooden staircase. He wasn’t sure, as he had never actually seen the staircase; he could only feel the wrought, exhausted railing that ran the length of the steep decline.

Mr. Cheng followed him down a narrow staircase that creaked under their weight. The darkness surrounding the staircase was ominous, and on several of his midnight treks to this god-forsaken place, Max had felt as if he’d walked right into hell. The first time he’d been led down this path, he had feared for his life, now, it was a routine that he relished. He could feel the excitement whelm in his stomach, as he imagined the various oddities Mr. Cheng and his assistant had collected. As the pale pink light at the end staircase, which began as a tiny point of light spread to expose a entry to a much larger room, he could feel his stomach twisting in nervous knots.

The room smelled of perfume and sweet smelling soaps and flowers. Mr. Cheng called to someone in perfect French, then gave Max a pat on the shoulder, before disappearing back into the darkness. Max sat on one of the many satin draped sofas and looked around. The room was decorated in black and white art deco furniture. There were fluffy white rugs on the floor and elegant paintings on the walls as several young women and men milled around, all in satin pajamas and bedroom slippers. The males all wore simple satin drawn string pajamas bottoms, and the females, the matching tops. They were all young, and beautiful, and physically marred in some way. There were several youth missing limbs, one beautiful young girl with the most delicate blonde hair and large soulful brown eyes. She was lovely and had a gentle way about her. She was affectionately called Angel, as she had large flaps that ran along the underside of her arms and connected to her waist like massive flesh wings. There were the twins, known only as Pisces One and Two, a brother and sister, both with long dark hair and somewhat Asian features, both born with their legs fused together. There were more, maybe a dozen or so, the most extreme was a boy, found the jungles of South America, who had bright red and orange scales that covered his head like fiery plumage and followed the track of his spine to his tailbone. He had bright yellow eyes and spoke in a soft whisper of a voice. They were medical anomalies, and Max found them beautiful. They greeted him with bright smiles and hugs and kisses. Reaching into his pockets, they pulled out treats of candies and little trinkets that he always carried for them.

The person Mr. Cheng had called, Max knew very well. She appeared out of nowhere, it seemed. She was tall, blond, her hair pulled away from her face in a delicate bun. She wore no make up and was the only person, other than Max, completely dressed. She wore he standard uniform of tailored, black tuxedo pants and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to expose the curve of her ample bosom.

“Mr. Walters, back so soon?” She smiled as he rose to greet her. She offered her hand and Max gave it a brief shake.


She nodded and turned on her silver stilettos and Max obediently followed her out of the room down a brightly lit hallway lined with doors. Each door had a name neatly painted in either black or pink lettering, beneath, which was a small shaded window. The walls seemed to vibrate with the sounds of sex, and he could feel himself getting hard at the thought of what was to come. He had been in many of the rooms, and knew of the pleasure that would come from these beautiful special people. They were loving and gentle, and since he had discovered Mr. Cheng and Selena, regular sexual encounters never fulfilled him. He had found it more and more exciting to come to this place, night after night. It had become his home away from home and he found that even here, his depravity was more than he could handle.

Selena paused at a metal door at the very end of the hallway. “This is her.”

There was no name painted on the door, instead of a window like the other doors, her door housed a metal slide large enough for one person to look in. He peered inside and saw a girl sitting at a vanity slowly brushing her shoulder length hair, which was a startling shade of red. Her skin was pale and her bright green eyes seemed to be too large for her face. She turned and looked at Max, a coy smile on her lips. Around her ankle was a shackle, and a heavy chain that was bolted to the wall. The room’s walls were covered in satiny pink padding. It was like looking into a diorama of a doll’s house, with a perfect porcelain doll at its center.

“She’s lovely.” Max whispered, both disgusted and intrigued. “She is not what I expected. When Mr. Cheng spoke of her, he gave me the impression –”

Selena took a key from her pocket. “She is not what she seems, but I assure you Mr. Walters, she is exactly what you requested.” She pushed the door open. Max stood on the threshold, knowing that this was the last chance. This was his last chance to be a just walk away. He could walk out of here, live a full and fulfilling life and never set foot in this place again. He could forget about Mr. Cheng’s menagerie of fantastical creatures and never give the place a second thought. But the moment Selena opened that door; he knew there was no turning back. He was immediately drawn to her. She wasn’t like the others; there was no hint of malformed limbs or even a scar on her that he could see. She was just a pretty girl in a room full of pretty things.

“What’s her name?” He heard himself asking, looking around the room.

“My name is Serenity.” She spoke in a deep, husky voice, which belied her features. Nervously, he glanced at Selena who seemed unfazed by the entire situation.

Max asked, even as he found himself stepping into the powder pink bedroom.

“As I said, she is not what she seems. Serenity is very special. It is not often one comes across one like this.” Selena cleared her throat and when Max looked at her she raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. He nodded, absently reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a large envelope stuffed with cash. Selena took it and began to back out of the door. She paused for a moment, her lineless face creased as she expressed the first hint of emotion he’d ever seen.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Mr. Walters? There are many others here you can try.” He waved her off, his eyes drawn to the girl who continued to brush her hair and sing a pleasant melody. He was transfixed by the dulcet tone of her voice. She turned to look at him, smiling coyly over her shoulder and he moved further into the room. “Very well,” Selena said with a resigned sigh. “As you wish.”

He didn’t even realize that she was gone until her heard the door closed behind him with a slam, the sound of the lock, startling him. He glanced back, just as Selena slid the metal cover over the peephole shut. He was frozen in place, staring at the room. It was a child’s room, complete with stuffed animals on the bed. She stood and came towards him, in her soft pink satin pajamas and pink fluffy slippers.

Sitting on the bed he stared into her eyes and smiled, then motioned for him to have a seat on her animal laden bed. He obliged, never taking his eyes off of her and that beautiful scarlet hair. She was a striking girl, with a playful smile. He motioned for her to sit beside him on the bed and she did, willingly. “I’m Max.” He said. She smiled brighter, shaking his hand vigorously.

“Nice to meet you, Max.” She said. She moved her ankle and winced in visible pain. The shackle was pinching her flesh and she tried to ignore it, but the pain was etched in her face. Max felt twinge of guilt as the chain rattled with every move she made. She leaned with her head on his shoulder, gently stroking his inner thigh.

“My, you have such lovely red hair. It’s very pretty.” She looked down, knowing what was coming and began to undo his pants. “You are a very pretty girl, Serenity, but I guess you hear that all the time.” She shrugged non-committal.

“I think you’re very pretty.” As she spoke, she placed her hand inside of his pants, stroking with delicate fingers until he became hard. “You have such a pretty mouth, can I kiss you?” She brushed her lips across his and in that instant, the prey became the predator. “Your mouth is soft. You taste like honey. Sweet honey.” She purred.

“Did Selena tell you to say that?” Again, she shook her head and kissed him again, gently pushing his shoulders back, until he found himself lying on the bed. The more she spoke, the more he felt as if something about this young woman, this girl barely out of her teens, was wrong. Her voice had an almost hypnotic effect on him, and his body had a mind of its own.

“Don’t be scared,” She mumbled. “I will make you feel good. That’s why you came to this place Mr. Walters-Max. To experience the forbidden, the unexpected? And that is what you will get; the pleasure will be so worth it.” The statement, he thought, was an odd one. But this girl was odd. Something in this situation seemed unnatural and rehearsed. She whispered sweetly nasty comments and stoked his hair.

“I’m not afraid of you. And you- don’t be afraid of me. It’ll be painless, I promise.” Her tone was teasing and light, but he still felt as if he should leave. In his head that little voice was screeching at him to leave. From the moment he’d laid eyes upon her he’d had the niggling feeling that something about the girl was wrong.

She brushed her thin lips against his, her tongue slipped between his teeth and he was lost in the feel of her. As she began to undress him, the warning bell in his head started to ring again. This was wrong, something about this was wrong. This room, the locked steel door, the padded walls. The chain on her ankle- this was uncomfortable and wrong. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting this waif of a girl. The way she touched him, and looked at him with something that he could only classify as want.

“Kiss me again Max.” She ran her fingers through his hair, as her mouth came closer her could smell her breath. It smelled of warm spun sugar. “Kiss me.” Her mouth covered his in a hungry, expert kiss. It was as if she were trying to devour him, pushing his mouth hard against her own. He was startled by her strength and aggression, but, inexplicably, he liked it. The surrendering of control to this delicate girl seemed to excite him even more.

As her kiss deepened, the faint taste of almond filled his mouth; almond and something sweet and sticky, something both unfamiliar but comforting and soothing. His mind clouded over, and the room became hazy, as if he’d been drugged. He could feel her moving over him, undressing him with professional ease, yet he couldn’t move. He could feel her body moving against his, and in his hazy, the image of her nude body flashed before him. He could feel her mouth warm and moist on his bare flesh. And her skin seemed to be nearly too hot to touch, but he welcomed her warmth. He found himself confused by his euphoric state, as she mounted him, taking him deep inside of her. She seemed to fit him, as if she were made for him, only him. He wanted to touch her, nuzzle her small breast, and run his hands through her flame red hair. That hair, that beautiful strawberry scented hair. He tried to reach for her and discovered that he couldn’t move. He couldn’t lift his arms. He could only lay and enjoy her surprising sexual prowess. She seemed to know how to bring him to the edge, and then back off just when he felt he was ready to explode.

“What did you do to me?” He could barely choke the words out, he tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. Her only reply was a series of moans and the rattling of the chain against the side of the bed. She looked at him, excitement lighting her emerald eyes, then rocked her hips slowly, so slowly that the thrill was agonizing. The pleasure was so intense, so deep; it was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Unable to focus or move, he closed his eyes and gave into it, reveled in it, listening as she murmured words of seduction in her deepening voice.

The soft girlish murmurs that had soothed him into relenting were getting louder as she spoke in a language he did not recognize. The murmurs became louder and louder echoing in his brain in an incoherent cacophony of voices screaming in his head. She twisted, seeming to bring him deeper into her, her body, slick with sweat, moved against him. Wherever she touched him, his skin prickled with new sensations, new bliss. She was, in a word, mind-blowing.

“What did you do-”  He opened his eyes and began screaming at the sight of her. No longer did his lovely Serenity there, above him; instead, looming over him was this horrendous thing. That was the only way to describe it; a thing with bright blue and red soft scale like feathers that covered every inch of it. Its features were avian but beakless; its mouth running the entire length of is flat saucer like face. It had human comparable appendages, from what he could see and breasts; there were breasts, covered in the same blue red scales. He screamed louder as it moved with an animalistic fervor over him, the bright green too large eyes staring at him.

Paralyzed, he continued to scream as it climaxed, spilling a gooey pinkish black substance across his groin and stomach, before digging its razor sharp nails into the flesh of his thighs. He immediately went numb; it was as if she’d doused him in novocaine. Not only could he not move, he felt nothing. Without saying a word, but laughing in a deep husky baritone, it moved its face to his; sweet cotton candy breath engulfed and nearly choked him.

“Serenity is so, so, hungry.” It said after sniffing him, then opened its mouth exposing three rows of pointed yellowed teeth. He opened his mouth to scream again, when its mouth clamped on his throat, tearing the flesh and bone away until there was nothing but a large bloody hole. Blood seemed to spray across the room in brilliant rivulets. He could feel the life leaving his body and the sense of relief filled him. This was the way it was supposed to be. He thought as the life drained from him and the creature that was Serenity fed upon him. There was no pain. He realized as the room went dim. There was no pain, only the gentle and somewhat erotic sense of being suckled at the neck. No pain, he thought, just as she’d promised.

She was worth every penny.

Tanisha Jones is a writer of Urban Theological Mythological Slightly Erotic Romance or Paranormal romance for the less creative thinker.  She was born and raised in New Orleans, where she still lives with her daughter.  When she isn’t writing, she is a true New Orleanais either cooking, reading or watching the New Orleans Saints.

Follow Tanisha at:

Tanisha D Jones, Divinely Dark Romance:

Twitter: @tanishadelill


Free Fiction: Dayfall by Tanisha D. Jones


by Tanisha D. Jones

The three suns of Eldorra were setting in the South when I rose from my slumber atop my down mattress.  The cold had crept into the loft that was my bedroom and chilled my bones.  Careful not to wake my sweet sister Lua, I dressed in my warmest jumper and fluffy woolen socks and I crept down the ladder to the main room of our little house on the edge of Mesic, our village near the harvest fields.  Tonight we prepared for harvest and acte d’elecció, when I would become a dona, a wife.  My name is Lycia Monglave, I am fourteen cycles old and I am the caçador, hunter, of our family.

Papa was in the kitchen, frying fat sausages over the fire, mulled cider was already warmed and waiting for me on the table.  The small living space of our cúpula was nice and toasting, taking the chill from my bones.   Beside his chair were the soft white leather boots Papa had cobbled for me and the delicate embroidery of my choosing night gown.  It was soft ivory with delicate lace snowflakes in the colors of Eldorran moons, pale blues, lavenders, and silver .Of all of the men in the village, Papa was the best sastre; all of his embroidery and stitching were beautiful.  He was also a very good cook, creating the most delicious meals for us.  As I came across the room, Papa looked at me with those shining bright eyes and smiled.

“Good Dayfall, Lycia.” He said in his cheerful chipper voice.  Today, Papa was Papa again.  It was hard to tell which Papa I would awake to each dayfall.  Since the beasties had taken Mama he was moody and unpredictable.  Some nights, I would awake to find him sitting near the hearth, his silver eyes filled with tears as he mooned over Mama.  Some nights, he would not even bother getting out of bed at all, ignoring Lua and little Wilkie and keeping me from going out hunting.

Other nights, he would be like this, my Papa with his smiling eyes.  On nights like this I would return from the outlands to find him with the other men of the village weaving baskets or doing the wash on the banks of the lavender spring that rushed past the village.  Nights like this were becoming more frequent as the pain of his losing Mama was becoming more bearable, not just for him but for us all.

“Good day fall, Papa.” I said and sat to drink my cider. It was warm and rich and tasted of fresh hehku berries.  As we sat in silence, the smells of sausage and cider filling our home. Outside the moons were rising and off in the distance we could hear the faint cries of the beasties, those who hadn’t returned to their warrens before the glow of the moon caught them.  I watched the pained expression on Papa’s face and realize he looked older than his years.  His silver white hair had dulled, the sheen of his skin had begun to ashen, only slightly and the sparkle in his brilliant   eyes was fading.  I watched as his handsome face tensed then relaxed.

“Papa,” I mumbled and he looked at me as if he had just realized I was sitting with him.

“I am sorry.   That was near to the village, they are already coming closer. You will not stay out long, will you Lycia? “I gave his hand a pat of reassurance. The beasties always ventured closer to the village at the times of the Soltaia. I understood his fear, I did not share it.  I could not, I would not be able to go out into the night to hunt for food and hides so that we could survive.

“I am just going to prepare the traps and I will be back before the moons are high. And I will mark them.”  I began to eat my sausages and drinking my cider before they cooled.   He gave me a tight smile and I knew what he was thinking. We lost Mama during the Soltaia harvest a full cycle ago.  The snows had come early making it difficult to see the traps that had been set in the outlands.  She had stepped on one and was waiting for help to arrive when the beasties found her.   I understood that Papa was worried, but Soltaia was the only time the mererabits transverse from the north lands to the lands beyond the lavender lake.  To have those pelts is what kept us leysi and made it possible for me to not have to go out as often as the others.

Soltaia was also the time when the suns and moons rose and set at the same time. It was the time when we lost the most villagers because the beasties would be out both night and day.  There was no day fall to protect us, the rays from the seven moons would be dulled allowing them more movement, more freedom in our fields. We lost many during the Soltaia and not just hunters. Sometime those pink skinned devils would make their way into a cúpula. Once they had gotten into the cúpula of a family who’s Dona had gone out to hunt. It had taken all of the children and the marit before she returned and killed it.

That had been the saddest harvest the village had ever seen and that was why the cúpulas now circled the square and hall had entrance doors that faced the square. The cúpulas had no windows that faced away from the village and were built close enough that the possibility of a beastie sneaking between them was impossible. We had not had another beastie in the village since this had been done.

Since Mama had been lost, I was the only hunter we had until Lua was of age, and that was many cycles from now.  So Papa would begin teaching Wilkie his duties as a future marit.  Any Dona would be lucky to have a marit like Wilkie if he was half at skilled and as beautiful as Papa was. Even though it had only been one cycle, there had been talk in the village by many of the Dona to take Papa as a marit, once he was over his sorrow over losing Mama. And since I was at the age of choosing my own marit, Papa would be alone soon with two little ones to care for.  He needed a new Dona to hunt and protect him and the wee ones.

Even with the strain of losing Mama and caring for the family on his own, Papa was still a young man of only thirty two cycles.  He still garnered giggles and whispers from the donas in the village square whenever he went out. Papa was not a tall man, but he was a lovely man, with skin the color or stardust and eyes like the western lavender moons. The most wondrous thing about Papa was his smile, blinding and bright. When he smiled at you, it was if the heavens opened just for you.  Yes, Papa was a lovely man and he world make any dona a very good marit.  Mama had been the envy of many when she and Papa had chosen each other during their first acte d’elecció.  They had been a striking duo, well matched and so in love.

I had been gifted with Papa’s lavender eyes and silken silver white hair, but I was taller than the girls my age, with Mama’s curves. I had developed strong legs and arms from many hours spent hunting in the outlands. I was also going to have my pick of the young men in the village; I had seen the looks when I went to fetch water from the well.  There were many handsome men of my age, but only one held my heart.

My beautiful Kurt. He was so delicate with soft blue eyes and pale yellow hair that shone golden in the moonlight, his skin was silken beneath my fingertips and he had the softest lips to touch mine.  He would wait for me when I returned from my hunts, sitting on the steps to my cúpula with a cup of hot mulled cider and he would rub my feet. Kurt would often come to care for the little ones in the fest nights after Mama was taken, cooking meals and preparing my bath from those first nights I would go out alone. I would come home covered in blood and filth with those paltry weaslets, Kurt was always there to help me peel the heavy furs from my shivering frame.  He had been sent from the heavens on those first nights. That’s why he was already my chosen one.

Up in the loft, I could hear Wilkie crying as he woke. A fussy boy, he never ventured from the comfort of the loft alone. Sighing, Papa rose to go fetch him and Lua for their meal of sausages, steamed milk and warm porridge.   He would take them into the small koupelna for their baths afterward, then they would go out into the village square with the other fathers and children.  They would be guarded by the soldiers who stood watch from the high towers that looked over the entire village.  Before that, I went in to clean up and prepare for the night ahead.  If I were to keep my word to Papa I had to get moving.                      `

As usually, I pulled the heavy red mererabit fur over my jumper, and plaited my silver white mane to keep it out of my eyes.  I washed my face and brushed my teeth to remove the smell of the sausages and cider before returning to the outer space of our living area.

Papa, Lua and Wilkie were at the table now. Papa was trying to feed Wilkie who sat in a beautifully carved highchair Mama had made when she was heavy with me.  It had been mine, then Lau’s now it was Wilkie’s.  The beautiful white Birchwood was delicately decorated but still fit the girls of the family well.  Wilkie, being Wilkie, had more porridge on his face than he ever actually ate.

“Come now, eat little pup.” Papa coaxed, but Wilkie preferred playing in his food to eating it.

Beside him, Lua sat with her brow furrowed and her sharp pale blue eyes focused as she concentrated on getting the heaping spoonful of porridge into her mouth instead of her lap.  At five cycles old, she had another cycle to wait before she could be trained as a caçador.   Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with sadness as I watched them. Soon, I would have a cúpula of my own with my own marit and pups. The thought made my heart hurt.

I left them to their ritual, pulling my boots on before leaving the warmth of the cúpula.  My traps had been cleaned and oiled and hung besides the front door and waited for me now. I stared up into the dull dusky sky at the seven moons as they rose over the western hills, then to the south where the suns were slowly fading but still hung in the sky like great orange balls.  One of the suns was three times the size of the largest of the moons, making their rays that much deadlier.  It had already begun; tomorrow they would remain high matching the moons, each cancelling the effects of the other.  I would make fast work of checking my traps and returning to my cúpula and the warmth of the hearth.  Thankfully, Papa had done the wash the night before; he would have no reason to leave the safety of the village square.

I looked around the square and saw that other caçadors were leaving their cúpula’s as well.  Some looked at me and waved greetings, some did not. Some had ill feelings toward me because of my love of Kurt and his for me; Kurt was mine, body and soul, and I his. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts as I tucked a blade into my boot, another into the back of my jumper beneath my heavy fur, but accessible if needed.  One thing Mama had always taught me was to be prepared for anything.

We gathered our things and filed past the sentries that guarded the only entrance and exit to the village.  During the sunlight, the sentries were replaced by a gate carved from the same moonstone as the cupulas.

Like the light of the moons, moonstone was intolerable to thee beasties.  There were no tools that they possessed that could as much as scratch the stone. It had been a perfect solution to the sunlight raids of the beasties, but that was long before I was born.

As usual, they checked out faces and names as we filed into the outlands, each moving in different directions.   Most of those in white moved south to the already snowy hills beneath the silver moons, where the foxens were plentiful.  Those in brown went east beneath the blue moons, hunters of the felcks and bison, the yellow clad went north to the shores of the lavender waters of the sea that was home to the sliver and tumtum fish.  The yellow of their cloaks blended into the high thistle weed that lines the shores.  I pulled my heavy fur lined hood over my head to travel west, through the barrens and the forests that housed the warrens of the beasties, but they were the most fertile grounds of the mererabits.  I hunted alone.

As I trekked through the crisp frozen grass setting my traps, I thought of Kurt. He had not been in the square that night, which was not unexpected.  He had gone on and on the night before about his suit for the acte d’elecció. He and Papa had worked so hard on the colors matching and the snowflake pattern that Papa had created for my gown. He was going to braid his hair to match mine and he had prepared already a special garland of pink and yellow flowers to present to me when he was chosen. Pink and yellow were my favorite colors and he said they made the silver in my eyes glow.  Kurt was a full cycle older than I and this was his second acte d’elecció. He had been chosen last cycle, by four different donas. He had not chosen any of them in return, instead he waited for me.  My soon to be marit, my beautiful delicate Kurt. Hopefully Papa would be chosen by a new dona tomorrow night as well.  He did not know that I had seen him many nights with Susi, the butcher.  She was a beautiful dona with bright red hair and she always made sure Papa had extra cuts of meat. They would steal glances at each other in the village square when they thought no eyes were upon them. She would be a great dona for my Papa and a good mother for the little ones.

I climbed my way up the ridge toward the higher ground   following the path the mererabits would follow across the harvest fields and through the woods, pausing to look down over the village. From where I stood, the cúpulas looked like a circle of perfectly sculpted balls of snow, two dozen side by side linked by tiny underground walkways.  At the back of the circle was the largest cúpula, the meeting hall that was being prepared for the choosing ceremony.  I could see the marits decorating the façade with the bright pink caleda flowers, the spicy fragrance would fill the square my dayfall tomorrow. Though pretty to look at, the flowers were also used to deter the beasties.  Something about the smell dissuaded them. Behind every few yards there were watch towers where sentries stood watch.  The soft lights from the towers would sweep the harvest plains beyond the village, watching for beasties in search of entry.  By next day fall, those sentries would be on high alert, watching and waiting.

I wandered beyond the ridge to the low country, the valley in the forest where the beasties had their warrens. As quietly as possible I began setting the traps, moving smoothly and on silent feet as I dug into the icy earth. I needed to spike the traps down so that they would not dislodge one it was sprung. The first cycle of hunting, I had lost more traps than captured mererabits because I’d failed to spike them properly.

I was lost in thought as I clipped a bright red strip of leather to mark my trap’s location, when I hear it. It was the soft pattering of footsteps. At first, I thought it to be a mererabit, but these steps were made by a solitary creature.  Mererabits were average sized creatures, larger than the foxen but much smaller than the bison and felcks.  I could carry only two at a time, which is why I set traps.  I set traps throughout the forest and world return the next night with a sleigh to bring the carcasses back to the village where they would be rendered and skinned.  The pelts and meat would be traded with the other families, as was our way. We traded with the farmers for fruits and vegs, the other hunters for meat and fish, the weavers, the lumberers. It was our way and it has worked from hundreds of cycles.

The creature making those noises was much, much larger.  I pulled my hood back so that I could better hear, the lining of the fur muting the footfalls on the frozen ground.   Three or four tree lengths away, I saw it moving slowly, but coming closer.  It was taller than any man I had ever seen, it was lean and moved as a predator does, its noise high in the air as it sniffed.  It wore dark, heavy furs, protecting its delicate pink skin from the low hanging moon, its dark piercing eyes locking with mine and I froze.

My heart thudded against my ribs, loud enough for me to hear. I wondered if he could hear it as well. It must have, because it moved closer, and took a step back right onto the trap I had just set.  I covered my mouth with my hand as pain cut through me like a knife and down I went, hitting the frozen ground with a bones rattling thud. The snap of the closing trap was tiny but the beasties have acute hearing and he was moving toward me, lopping with long easy strides between the trees coming closer.

It was over me in a split second, its hooded face hidden as it stood blocking out the moon.  Slowly, it pushed the heavy hood off back, but not completely off of its head so that I could see his face. Not many villagers had ever really seen one in person, not many that had lived to tell about it.  There were sightings of shadows and the sounds of them whispering as they moved on the outskirts of the village. Those soft hushed clicks and whistled they used when hunting. We heard the howls when one was caught out in the light of the moon, unprotected.

I reached for the blade I had tucked into the back of my jumper with shaky hands as it knelt beside me. It wore a heavy leather hooded cloak over a dark pants heavy boots. His hands had been covered in thick black gloves that protected them from the rays of the moon that burned and blistered their skin. The face of the beastie was worse than I imagined. It was a male, I assumed but his features was harder than any male in my village. Not soft and delicate like my beautiful Kurt or Papa. It had a strong jaw, with sickening white teeth that were even and gave it’s already horrid face a more sinister look.  Its eyes were of a black that I had never witnessed and its skin wasn’t pink at all, it was more the color of a tanned animal hide.

“Well,” it said in a voice much too deep and harsh to be a man’s. “Look like you’ve been caught in your own trap.  Just like the last one. What am I to do with you little one?”

I swung my blade at some area beneath the hood and he easily avoided it, laughing a deep throaty sound that seemed to rumble from deep down in his belly.  He gripped my wrist and pulled the blade from my fingers and stared at it in amusement.  The blade fit into his hand as if it were a splinter, tiny and lost in his massive fist. He tossed it aside and stared at me for a long time, his eyes narrowing as he stared at me.

“You are a pretty little one aren’t you?” He ran his large thick fingers over my hair, holding it up to the light and I struggled to free myself from him. He only held me tighter, his thin lips tightening in frustration or excitement, I was not sure which.

“This mane will fetch a pretty price; you will feed me for a quarter cycle.” He said. “I suppose you never thought your night would end like this, did you, pretty little Mesic? Silent?  No screams? No pleas for mercy? Let us see the rest of you then.” He said and I felt the knots in my stomach twist tighter.  I slapped at his hands as he reached for the collar of my jumper, tugging at it. I clawed at his face until he had no chose but to fight back. HE slapped me hard across the cheek and I could taste blood in my mouth, but I would not give up.

He fought with me, finally managing to rip the jumper and fur from my body. Tossing them aside, he exposed my bare flesh to the light of the moon. I had already flowered as a dona, my body ready to bear a child.  He stared at me, before reaching to touch my exposed breast, and I slapped his hand away, scratching and growling as I fought off his disgusting touch.  My body was not his to molest, my body was to only be touched by Kurt, my marit.

“I knew you had fight in you. I like that, I may just keep you as a pet for a while.” He said and stroked my arm. With my free leg, I kicked at him, hoping to hit his male parts, if he had any.  I missed and he laughed in quiet amusement.

Shaking his head, he grabbed my neck, pushing on my throat until I could no longer breathe, with the other massive hand he released the trap and lifted me as if I were a sack of feathers.  He held me at arm’s length, my feet dangling in midair as he held me in the moonlight, his monstrous face twisted in confusion.

“Still no cries? Do you not know that you will die soon, little one?” He asked, bringing my face close to his, but holding my arms tight to my sides. I was bare, cold and unable to reach the blade that was in my boot.  “You are a brave one.” He looked down at my leg, the one he’d released from the trap and stared at the pristine white of my fur lined boot  and intact skin.  “Why isn’t your leg broken?” He asked, more to himself than to me.

The moons of Eldorra have different effects on the people of my village. The silvery moons in the south gave us an unparalleled strength.  The sick and injured would travel to the south and lay naked in the moon’s glow to heal.   The blue moons of the west were rejuvenating, soothing and promoted fertility. At the end of the Soltaia, the new couples would journey to the cottages of the west and spend their choosing night. It is the place donas go to ensure that they are full with child during the snows. The lavender moons did something different altogether that is why I am the only one to hunt these fields, it is the reason I wear such a heavy hooded fur and jumper.

I could feel the glow of the lavender moon on my skin and a smile began at the corners of my mouth.  I tossed my head back as the transformation began, I could feel the muzzle pushing out, elongating my mouth and teeth. The silver white fur started on my belly and face as it always did, and I began to laugh a deep hallow laugh as I stared into widening eyes of the beastie.

“Because I am not the one who’s going to die.” I said. He released me and turned to run, but it was much, much too late. I landed on all fours, growling as I gave chase through the frozen waste lands of the barrens.   This is why I wear a red fur in the stark barrens of the outlands a bright beacon in a colorless landscape.

The rise of the moon isn’t the only reason the beasties hide at day fall. My name is Lycia Monglave, I am fourteen cycles old and I am a caçador.


Tanisha Jones is a writer of Urban Theological Mythological Slightly Erotic Romance or Paranormal romance for the less creative thinker.  She was born and raised in New Orleans, where she still lives with her daughter.  When she isn’t writing, she is a true New Orleanais either cooking, reading or watching the New Orleans Saints.

Follow Tanisha at:

Tanisha D Jones, Divinely Dark Romance:

Twitter: @tanishadelill


Black Women in Horror: Sycorax’s Daughters

Sycorax’s Daughters gives Black Women in Horror a Voice

By Sumiko Saulson, editor of Black Magic Women
Editor’s Note: On February 5, 2018 the Horror Writer’s Association announced that all three of the works by black women mentioned in this article have made it to the final Stoker’s ballot. The article was written when the ballot was still preliminary and reflects this.

Currently on the preliminary ballot for the Horror Writer Association’s Bram Stoker Award in the short story category, Sycorax’s Daughters is a short story anthology showcasing works by women of African heritage. Originally published in February 21, 2017, the book is experiencing a new wave of interest due to its position on the HWA preliminary ballot, and because of Black Magic Women, as the books share a common theme and about a third of the same authors. Its editors are Linda Addison – the first and only black Stoker Award winner; Kinitra Brooks – an academic who researches black women who write horror – and Susana M. Morris.

Hopefully, this year will mark the end of Linda’s reign as the only black author to have won a Stoker. Her co-editor Kinitra Brooks is also on the preliminary list for non-fiction for her book Searching for Sycorax: Black Women’s Hauntings of Contemporary Horror. Although Octavia Butler is gone, she is also on the preliminary ballot in the graphic novel category, for Kindred: A Graphic Novel Adaptation which lists her as author alongside Damian Duffey.

However, the preliminary list is not the same thing as the final list, and these people are not even considered nominees. As far as I know, Tananarive Due is the only other black person to have made it to the final ballot. If more than one black author makes it to the final ballot this year that, and of itself will be a very big deal. And you have to know that everyone associated with Black Magic Women is paying close attention, since we are now following in their footsteps.

As Walidah Imarisha: explains in the foreword, Sycorax was the mother of Caliban in Shakespeare’s The Tempest.  She was banished before Caliban was born, but her son tells Prospero that he is the rightful owner of the island because it once belonged to his mother. So the title, Sycorax’s Daughters, refers to how like Sycorax, black women have been historically silenced. Our stories are told by our sons – black men – or through the eyes of the oppressor, like Prospero. Stories of the terrifying Sycorax are used by Prospero to keep his white daughter, Ariel, in line.

Anthropologists and those who study human DNA have confirmed that Eve, the first human woman, was an African. Black folks existed in Africa 100,000 years before humans were found anywhere else in the world. But like Sycorax, the black woman has been silent. She has frightening legend to terrify little white girls into chastity and obedience to men, or a mother the enslaved black man wistfully invokes when he tells the white man about the power he used to have when his mother ruled the world he is now enslaved in. But what of Sycorax’s daughters, the women in this anthology ask.

Picking up pen and putting it to paper, her black daughters give voice to their mother; finally allowing the long silenced African woman to tell her own story.

I first met Walidah Imarisha and Kinitra Brooks at the end of AfroBlackness II at Loyola Marymount College back in March 2015. I was down there on a book promotion tour with author Crystal Connor. Since I was foolish enough to travel without my business bank card, and my personal credit is poor, I was stuck on the bus. I was pretty frazzled by the time I arrived. Crystal and I whispered back and forth about how intimidated we were to be down there with Kinitra Brooks, PhD; I do believe Nisi Shawl was there as well.

Black Girl Nerds like me and Crystal Connor have our own relationship to black women in horror, which is a lot like musicians on the Chitlin Circuit or poor rappers who sell mixtapes out of the trunk of their car. These women were so educated, and felt outclassed and were terrified that we were going to say the wrong thing or use the wrong salad fork. They took us down to a bar that had barbecue, and we did our best to fit in.

I’d been corresponding with Kinitra Brooks for about a year at that point. She’d contacted me about my 2014 book 60 Black Women in Horror. She’d been using it as a reference for a book she was working on Searching for Sycorax: Black Women’s Hauntings of Contemporary Horror, and wondered if I could help her with the book. It soon became apparent that I was not really educated enough to help her do anything more than locate black women who write horror. As a reference guide, 60 Black Women in Horror which will be re-released February 15, 2018 as 100 Black Women in Horror – is more of a Who’s Who than anything else. So I ended up giving her a lot of people’s email addresses and we both added a bunch of women on Facebook.  She ended up working with a friend of mine, Linda Addison – who I was introduced to by a good friend and local author Rain Graves. I am not the least bit ashamed to admit that Linda is a lot more educated than I am. And she’s the only editor of Sycorax’s Daughters who doesn’t have a PhD after her name.

I am incredibly proud of the black female horror writing community, and the small role 60 Black Women in Horror played in what would become Sycorax’s Daughters, a sort of a matchmaking service introducing black women in horror to each other. In a very real way, bout Sycorax’ Daughters and Black Magic Women owe a tremendous debt to Sheree Renée Thomas, the author of one of the short story Seven Bells Turns the World Round Midnight. She was the editor of a series of anthologies showcasing horror by black authors called Dark Matters. A large segment of the women who ended up on the list 60 Black Women in Horror were authors on that project.

Another woman we owe a debt of gratitude to isn’t black at all. Hannah Neurotica, the woman behind Women in Horror Month, a February celebration of women in all aspects of the horror industry, not only writing, inspired the 2013 blog series that became 60 Black Women in Horror.

Sycorax’s Daughters contains 28 horror stories and 14 dark-themed works of poetry. The book gives voice to a diversity of black female horror writers. Some of the authors are relative newcomers. The authors include established, award-winning authors who are not best known for horror such as Patricia E. Canterbury, a number of authors from the Dark Matters series like Joy M. Copeland, several horror-branded authors like Kai Leakes, Nicole Givens Kurtz, Crystal Connor, Zin E. Rocklyn, L. Marie Wood, Sheree Renée Thomas and Lori Titus. There are authors of dark speculative fiction who cross genres into fantasy, paranormal and sci-fi like Eden Royce and Valjeanne Jeffers.

The other authors on the project are Tiffany Austin, Tracey Baptiste,  Regina N. Bradley, Amber Doe, Tish Jackson, Tenea D. Johnson,  R. J. Joseph, A. D. Koboah A. J. Locke, Carole McDonnell,  Dana T. McKnight , LH Moore, L. Penelope, , Kiini Ibura Salaam, Andrea Vocab Sanderson,  Nicole D. Sconiers, Cherene Sherrard, RaShell R. Smith-Spears, Tanesha Nicole Tyler, Deborah Elizabeth Whaley, , K. Ceres Wright, and Deana Zhollis

 About the Author: Sumiko Saulson is Sumiko Saulson is a horror, sci-fi and dark fantasy writer, winner of the StokerCon Scholarship from Hell and 2nd Place Carry the Light Sci-Fi Short Story Award. Born to African-American and Russian-Jewish parents, she is a native Californian and has spent most of her adult life in the Bay Area. She ranked 6th place in the Next Great Horror Writer Contest.

Book Review: Sycorax’s Daughters

Sycorax is an unseen sorceress and presence in William Shakespeare’s The Tempest. She is present in the memories of men and though invisible; she is the force behind her son, Caliban.  The anthology, Sycorax’s Daughters, introduces us to women like her.  Women whose existence as storytellers is outside mainstream entertainment. Black women who weave stories of enchantment and horror.

And, they excel at it.

Sycorax’s Daughters is imaginative, lyrical, intelligent, beautiful, and terrifying. The editors, Kinitra Brooks, Ph.D., Linda D Addison, and Susana Morris Ph.D. chose powerful stories, poems, and novel excerpts. When you read them, you step into another world.

The book begins with a “Tree of the Forest Seven Bells Turns the World Round Midnight” by Sheree Renèe Thomas. In this tale, a man’s journey to meet his lover’s mother meets with chilling results. The story is a perfect introduction to the book. It gives a taste of what’s coming.

Within these pages, monsters receive fresh and startling retellings. Vampires aren’t tired, Transylvanian Princes. They are far more deadly and erotic. Mermaids are outcasts among their own kind, demons require vengeance, monsters prey upon males (and wear interesting footwear), paranormal detectives investigate, and ghosts seek to leech off the living.

My favorite story concerns a woman called Naomi and her spirit partner, Alexa. Though Alexa can possess Naomi, she is not a demon. Rather, she is an ally, one who aids Naomi in her chosen profession. Alexa also disapproves of Naomi’s choice in men and must take matters into her own hands. I hope the author will consider turning this tale into a book. The world she created is amazing.

The book ends with an afterword (in the form of a poem) by Linda D. Addison. It’s called “Sycorax’s Daughters Unveiled,” and it’s a fitting and beautiful piece.

I’ve read many anthologies. Most have included big name horror authors. None of these previous anthologies thrilled me as much as this one. I kept expecting to find a lump of coal among the gems.

I never found one. I don’t think you will either.