jamescolton

[jamescolton]

The Snowman

As the classic Christmas song says, “There’ll be scary ghost stories”. So here’s one about a wicked winter apparition that’s sure to make your December a little chillier:

Oscar’s breath rose in a pale haze, momentarily veiling his backyard from sight. Then the crystallized vapor receded, and there it was. Standing at the far edge of the yard, right up against the fence. A place where the unbroken whiteness of the ground reared up in a crooked pillar, flinging wide its slender, misshapen arms that ended in not enough fingers. Oscar looked back and forth, surveying the entirety of his fenced-in property, before returning his gaze to the snowman that newly occupied it.

“Kids,” he sighed, shaking his head. How they’d gotten in and out was a mystery he’d tackle later. However they’d done it, they’d done it silently, without disturbing his sleep. That tree, on the other hand…

It was rooted by the back corner of his house. A black, twisted growth that was mostly docile, except for that one explosion of branches that grasped at his bedroom window. All night long, they’d interrupted Oscar’s sleep with a tek tek tek like fingernails against the glass.

Oscar’s boots crunched across the snow—a sound at once shocking in its violation of the morning’s silence, yet muted beneath the low, gray clouds. The guilty branches quivered as Oscar approached: tek tek tek. Oscar hefted the pruning shears that had until now rested against his shoulder. The scraping hiss of the blades as they opened seemed to cause all of frozen nature to hold its breath. The first offending branch was laid between the shears, where it stilled in acceptance of its fate.

A swift, remorseless action. The twig hand fell away without a cry, and lay black and dead in the snow.

The blades opened again; more branches were offered up. The heavy air was filled with the singing of metal as wood was parted from wood. Fingers that had once clawed at Oscar’s window now jutted out of the snow at his boots. And then the amputation was complete. Oscar gathered up the dismembered branches—wincing as his back and knees protested—and carried them off to the woodpile behind his shed.

As he passed, he once more examined the snowman. It wasn’t right up against the fence, as he’d originally thought, but a couple feet forward. The ground around it was unbroken by footprints or other evidence of its creation. It must have snowed overnight to hide the kids’ tracks.

Oscar dumped his bundle behind the shed and paused to catch his breath, which blossomed around his head in a ghostly nimbus. It hadn’t been hard labor, but he could feel a film of sweat freezing across his face, causing the hairs of his beard to stiffen, tickling his chin. He craved a hot cup of coffee.

He passed the snowman once more as he put away his tools. Its eyes—small dark stones pressed so deep into the malformed face that they were almost lost—stared past him toward his house. Oscar shivered under a fresh gust of wind, and went inside.

Read the rest…

[jamescolton]

The Figure in the Hallway

Once a year, my family would drive several hours north to spend a week with my grandparents at my father’s childhood home. The house occupied a quiet suburb, a small white ranch nestled in the shade of an enormous oak tree. The front door ushered you into the living room, a space darkened by walnut paneling, leather furniture, and carpet the color of pine needles. A large bay window overlooking the front yard provided adequate illumination by day; by night a pair of lamps in the corners gave off the barest amount of rusty light. One end of the living room opened onto the kitchen, from which could be accessed the garage and the basement. The other end led to a narrow hallway lined with doors. The dining room stood directly across from the living room; farther down were the bathroom on the right, and the linen closet and master bedroom on the left. At the very end, a small table stood against the wall, adorned with ornamental flowers piled up to form a sort of pedestal, upon which sat a cloth doll. It wore a primitive gray dress. Its face, sewn from pale fabric and framed in straw-colored hair, was utterly featureless. Directly to the right of this display was the door to the guest room. It was here that my family slept whenever we came to visit—my parents in the double bed that filled most of the space, and I in a creaking old cot tucked against the wall. And it was here, one crisp week in autumn, that my experience began.

Read the rest…

[jamescolton]

The wait is over! Chrysolin Heart, the third and final book in the Weaver’s Stone trilogy, is available now! Paperback and Kindle editions can be purchased here. Thanks to my wonderful readers for coming on this journey with me! I’m beyond excited to share this final chapter with you.

[jamescolton]

Coming NEXT WEEK! The third and final book in the Weaver’s Stone series. Kindle pre-orders are open now!

Haven’t read the first two books yet? Got you covered! Weaver’s Stone and Galreyva’s Heir are free on Kindle now through May 26th. Read on any device with the free Kindle app!

[jamescolton]

Bedsheets

My little sister and I are twelve years apart. This trivial fact occupies an exaggerated space in my mind because it is attached not just to the birth of my only sibling, but also to the single most terrifying experience of my life.

For twelve years I lived in that house as an only child, and I never imagined living anywhere else. So it was a double shock when my parents informed me of my sister’s impending arrival, and of the concomitant need to find a new, larger home. And yet, after the initial shock wore off, I couldn’t say I was altogether displeased. Yes, our current house hoarded all manner of nostalgic memories, but I couldn’t honestly say that I liked the place. There were other feelings less pleasant than nostalgia, feelings I could never satisfactorily explain.

My bedroom lay at the very end of a short hallway. Mother often told me that, in my youngest days, I was a restless sleeper—if I even slept at all—and I never truly outgrew that restlessness. I would often have trouble falling asleep at first, and when I finally did, it was only to awaken some time during the night for no reason I could identify. If put to it, I’d have said there was some noise, or some sensation of movement, from out in the darkened hall. But if ever I held my breath to listen or strained my eyes to look, there would be nothing. As I aged, I learned to ignore these uncomfortable moments. As Mother said, I was simply a light sleeper; a warping timber, a soft snore from the next room were all it took to wake me.

This I told myself. This I believed. Yet even this explanation, so rational, could not banish the semi-conscious dislike I had for our house.

Read the rest:

[jamescolton]

Another fantastic narration by Felipe Ojeda, this time of my short horror story “The Scarecrow”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPaDQVO-ebs

[jamescolton]

My short ghost story “Garringer’s Dog” was recently adapted into a terrifying audio version by Felipe Ojeda. Flawless narration and evocative sound design make it quite a harrowing experience! Check it out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DL7TwzeQQX4

[jamescolton]

At long last, I have finished the first draft of Weaver’s Stone Book 3! This seems like the perfect time for a title announcement, so here it is: Chrysolin Heart. This is the third and final book in the series, and while it was a challenge to write, I’m very pleased with how it all came together. I can’t wait to share it with you! Now, the editing begins ✏

[jamescolton]

A couple of my horror stories received audio adaptations courtesy of Otis Jiry and Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. Check them out!

[jamescolton]

A gift for you! For the first time ever, both Weaver’s Stone and Galreyva’s Heir are free on Kindle, now through December 26th. You can read on any device with the free Kindle app. Merry Christmas!

Weaver's Stone: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1687793379/

Galreyva's Heir: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09VG3SGKT

-Shannen L. Colton

[jamescolton]

The Chilling Tales for Dark Nights Anthology is Finally Here!

It took longer than expected, but I’m thrilled to finally invite you to check out Volume 1 of the Chilling Tales for Dark Nights anthology!

It contains 30 illustrated short horror stories, including my own “The Porcelain Hand”.

Here’s an excerpt:

Although Alan had thus far insisted he felt no guilt regarding Grandmother’s death, there must have been something, at least on a subconscious level, that worked its way out through his dreams. Black, cold dreams. Dreams of stiff limbs, icy soreness in his joints. He could see nothing, but he heard, as if from far away, a voice calling. A creaky voice. A voice he knew and hoped never to hear again.

Alan sat up in the nether hours between night and morning. It had to be guilt. It was the most sensible explanation.

He was about to roll over and fall back asleep when he heard a sound from out in the hallway. A thump, as of a heavy, linen-filled sack dropped on the floor, followed by an interminable dragging. Then there was a period of silence. A moment for Alan to realize he was holding his breath, and it started again.

Thump. Draaag.

The sound moved along the hall.

Thump. Draaag.

It drew near Alan’s bedroom door.

Thump.

His heart beat out an echo to that final, gentle impact. That impact right outside his room. He waited for it to move on, to continue down the hall, to leave him alone.

Thump.

You can buy the book here: https://www.amazon.com/Chilling-Tales-Dark-Nights-Terror/dp/194514002X/

[jamescolton]

Vanitas

One hot July, several years ago, I called an old friend of mine—named Danielle—to say that I would be in town on business, and to ask if she would like to meet up. Danielle and I had known each other since college, and although we’d gone our separate ways afterward, we still kept in touch and saw each other from time to time. Our friendship was entirely platonic, but sometimes I wondered if it might have been something more, if only life hadn’t kept us apart.

But I digress. At first, Danielle said, with much regret in her voice, that she would be busy. She explained that she was moving from her house to an apartment, and that she needed the time to clean out her place in preparation for the move. Not to be deterred, I offered my assistance.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” was her reply, but I could tell by the instantaneous joy and—did I mistake it?—relief in her voice that she would accept my offer. She did, and two weeks later, an early Saturday morning found me knocking at her front door.

I was surprised when the door opened. Surely the woman who stood before me was a cousin, or—more likely—an aunt, who had also come to lend their aid. But then she welcomed me with an enthusiastic hug, and I knew that this was indeed Danielle. But how she had changed! Her hair was graying, her finely creased skin clung tightly to her cheekbones, and the fingers that dug into my back felt like twigs.

I tried to hide my shock as she released me. “It’s good to see you,” I said.

Danielle grinned. “Thank you so much for coming. It was shaping up to be quite a chore without your help. Have you had breakfast?”

I assured her of the filling meal I’d enjoyed at my hotel as we went inside, and said I was ready to get straight to work.

“I’m tackling the basement today,” she said. “It will be a nice break from this heat.”

The coolness of the basement, rising to embrace us as we descended, was indeed welcome. “So,” I asked, “why are you moving?”

“Oh, you know. The mortgage is too expensive, the maintenance is more than I can keep up with these days, and…I just don’t like the place anymore.”

I remembered Danielle’s delight when she first bought the house. That she should grow sick of it after just a few years seemed odd, but I said nothing.

“My new apartment is great,” she continued, switching on the basement light. “Much better suited to someone like me.”

The basement was a dreary place. Cobweb-veiled windows added their meager sunlight to the naked bulb overhead to illuminate dingy, gray walls, with here and there a spot of sickly green where mold had taken root. Every corner was crowded with cardboard boxes sagging beneath the weight of the damp air. I could see why Danielle was so glad to have company.

The first step was to sort through everything to determine what had value and what could be thrown out. This we began, and made strong progress for several hours. By eleven o’clock, we had reduced the considerable amount of rubbish to just a handful of boxes and a shelf laden with loose and varied junk.

“I’m going to start taking these out to the street,” Danielle said; we had accumulated several garbage bags’ worth of refuse. As she hoisted a couple of the bags up the stairs, I turned my attention to the shelf in the back corner. By now, I had developed a pretty good idea of what Danielle wanted to keep or get rid of. Not that it required much training. I had ascertained that her new apartment was significantly smaller, so almost everything that didn’t see at least annual use had to be either thrown out or donated. I started with the easy things: the bottom shelf was filled with empty paint cans. A few scattered rags, made stiff by unknown substances, joined them in the garbage. The next shelf up contained some tools—potentially useful—and a stack of picture frames. Most of these were broken, but one at the bottom of the stack was still intact, and held a photograph of a man I did not recognize. At first, I felt a pang of alarm—then I caught myself. Why should a picture of a strange man worry me? Danielle and I had never been more than friends. And how significant could he really be, if his photo lay discarded at the bottom of a dusty pile? Besides, now that I looked at him, I thought there might be some family resemblance. At that moment, I heard Danielle’s soft footsteps behind me, so I turned and asked, “Who’s this?”

Silence answered me. Danielle was not there.

I scanned the basement, my eyes resting on each box and bag, searching for anything that could have created such a sound, perhaps under the influence of a rogue breeze. Or maybe my unfamiliarity with the house caused my ears to deceive me; it certainly had sounded exactly like footsteps, but they could have come from upstairs, I supposed.

Shrugging to myself, I set the photograph aside and moved on. Next there was a collection of moldy books. They seemed too far gone to be worth donating, but it would be better to check with Danielle once she returned; they may have held some sentimental value. I left them where they were and was about to move on, when I caught a hint of movement behind them. My heart stuttered—was it a rat? I gingerly nudged the books aside, and…

It wasn’t a rat. No. The movement I saw had been my own, reflected back at me in the grimy surface of a handheld mirror.

Read the rest…

[jamescolton]

Heirloom

Toward the beginning of that rainy autumn, the rhythm of my life shifted. It began with a death: that of my husband Noah’s grandmother. She had been a widow for nearly ten years, and now her house was empty. After her funeral, it fell to Noah’s family to divide the material remnants of her life.

“There’s really only one thing I desperately want,” Noah said to me one evening after our children were in bed. “There’s a photo of Grandma and Grandpa with all of us as kids. We were staying there one summer, having a campfire in the backyard, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. It’s one of my favorite memories of them.” He frowned. “Only problem is, between my siblings and my cousins, there’s probably a lot of people who’ll want it. I know my sister will, at least, and she’ll fight for it.”

“Has she told you she wants it?” I asked.

Noah shook his head. “I just know her. It could get ugly.”

“Well,” I thought out loud, “we know where the house key is.”

In preparation for the weekend, when the whole family would convene at the house to sort through everything, Noah’s parents had informed everyone that a spare key was hidden in a flowerbed near the front porch. That way, whoever got to the house first could open it up for everyone else.

Noah smirked. “Can you imagine how mad everyone would be if they found out?”

“They won’t find out. We can put the photo in our bedroom where they’ll never see it. If anyone looks for it at the house, they’ll just assume your grandma lost it. You’ll get what you want, and it’ll avoid an ugly argument.”

Noah eventually agreed, and so, that Thursday night after supper, we hired a sitter for the kids and drove forty-five minutes to the small rural town where Noah’s grandparents had lived. I’d never been to their house before, so it was an unfamiliar journey to me. We drove through soggy cornfields and dripping woods. All the while, the van’s tires hissed against the pavement, making me feel damp and cold inside. We passed an old playground, rusty swing set and lopsided merry-go-round glistening as the sunset shone through droplets of condensation.

“I’m not entirely sure where we’ll find the photo,” Noah said during the last few minutes of our drive. “I seem to remember seeing it in different places over the years. And it’s been so long since I last set foot in the place.”

It was true; I couldn’t recall Noah ever visiting his grandparents since our marriage. We had always seen them at family get-togethers elsewhere.

“I guess we should start downstairs,” Noah continued as we turned onto the final street. “If it’s not down there, then—”

I glanced at him to see why he’d fallen silent. His brow was furrowed in thought.

“Sorry,” he said. “If it’s not downstairs, then we’ll look upstairs.”

We finally arrived at the house. Noah parked the van in the driveway and switched off the ignition. I unfastened my seatbelt and was about to open the door when I realized Noah was just sitting there, staring at the house through the windshield.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said with jolt. “I just…thought of one more thing. Don’t go upstairs without me.” He finally unclipped his seatbelt and stepped out into the cool, damp air.

“Why not?” I asked as I followed him to a flowerbed to the left of the front porch.

“It might not be up there anyway,” he answered. “Just…if we can’t find the photo downstairs, then we’ll go up together.” He dug around in the bushes for a few seconds before picking up a large rock and producing a key. Then we went to the front door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.

Read the rest…

[jamescolton]

The wait is over! Weaver’s Stone Book 2 is available for purchase. Find Galreyva’s Heir on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle editions.

If you missed the first installment of Shannen L. Colton’s YA fantasy, you can get the Weaver’s Stone eBook free now through March 21st, or purchase on Amazon anytime. (Available in paperback, hardcover, and Kindle editions.)

The Kindle App is free, and you can read on any device.

Visit shannenlcolton.com to learn more!

-Some secrets cannot be hidden-

[jamescolton]

In honor of Book 2’s upcoming release, Weaver’s Stone is available for free on Kindle now through March 5th! Read on any device with the free Kindle app, and see how it all began just in time for the launch of Book 2: Galreyva’s Heir.

[jamescolton]

Meant to Be

It's been a while, but I've finally got a new ghost story for you to read! Check it out:

True love. Soul mates. Meant to be. I don’t believe in any of it. Fate is more complicated than that. We always have a choice. It’s just that sometimes—a lot of the time—taking control is more difficult than it’s worth.

Am I really happy with the way things are? No, not entirely. Could I have fought this “destiny”? Perhaps, but with no guarantee that things would have turned out any better. Certainly, they could have turned out worse. It’s easier this way. Safer, for everyone.

I’m not what most people would call lucky in love. I’ve only been in two serious relationships, and they both…well, you’ll see.

The first was Erica Tifft. High school. That first romance—first for both of us—felt like a fairy tale, and in our teenage naivete we treated it like one. We made silly promises, and sealed them with trinkets; the one I remember best was a piece of paper inscribed with every vow we could think of. Each of us signed it, then Erica ripped it in half and folded two little origami hearts, one for each of us. We kept them with us at all times, safeguards against whatever unseen dragons lurked in our future, lying in wait to separate us. Not that we really thought anything would come between us. Our love was meant to be. If ever I was a fatalist, it was back then, when the ideas of destinies and soul mates rang so romantic. We were clueless. We didn’t know that the dragons of real life can’t be warded off by childish rituals. And I know now that sometimes, predestination—if you want to call it that—doesn’t mean a happy ending.

That night, as I waited for her outside the movie theater, even as she ran across the parking lot to meet me with that enchanting grin of hers, I had no idea.

Everyone afterward insisted that I couldn’t have changed anything. That I wasn’t in control. They were wrong. I could have picked a different time for our date. A different movie, a different day. For weeks afterward, my mind spun itself dizzy with all the ways I could have orchestrated things so that Erica wasn’t standing on that patch of blacktop when that pickup truck went roaring too-fast across the parking lot.

Read the rest…

[jamescolton]

Hello, dear readers!

You read that right: The Weaver’s Stone sequel is coming soon! And it has a title! Galreyva’s Heir is almost complete; one more round of edits will have it ready for formatting, proofreading, and finally, publishing. Keep a lookout for more updates! I can’t wait to share it with you.