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[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.

[jamescolton]

Just launched a new website design! Minimalist aesthetic with a focus on typography and readability, plus a new logo: https://www.jamescolton.com/

[jamescolton]

It's here! Void Knight, the third and final book in the Null Saga, is now available in both paperback and Kindle editions! Here’s an excerpt from one of the opening chapters:

The eldyr generator hummed to life, and Rysa was bathed in welcome light. The glow was cold, unnatural, nothing like the sun she so sorely missed, but anything was better than the oppressive darkness.

The luminators revealed a ruined street choked with debris. Cobblestones were shattered or missing entirely. Buildings had crumbled and slid into the crater. Rysa identified bits of Dolls. “Let’s get started,” she said. “If you find any remains, the nearest burning pile is in the north square.”

Around her, rebels and soldiers began moving the rubble. Rysa reminded herself that there was no difference between the two groups anymore. The loyalist soldiers had been quick to defect once the Yndspawn were taken care of. Now they were all just Yvyrhausters. All working to clean up the mess that was Nauthrind.

The workers gathered the debris in a pile. Dolls helped with the heavier chunks of blasted masonry. Rysa shifted a piece of stone, and her breath caught. A small sleeve poked out from the rubble at her feet. Rysa took a moment to steel herself before clearing away the rest of the wood, stone, and dust.

Just an empty jacket. Rysa heaved a sigh of relief as she tossed the tattered garment into the pile, then she looked at her hand. There was a sticky red spot where she’d touched the cloth.

Feeling sick, Rysa staggered to the other side of the street and sat down on a fallen beam. The Yndspawn had done this. They’d called down the Ynd on their own city, not caring who was caught in the destruction. She wiped her hand off on her trousers and let her head hang between her knees. So many dead. And to think she’d served in the army that helped it happen.

No. She’d been forced into a tiny office where she could barely do anything. And once the Yndspawn took over, she’d done everything she could to resist. Don’t shoulder the guilt for this, Rysa. Make it better.

Yet, as she looked back up at the ruins of Nauthrind, she felt powerless to do anything. More than a week since the fighting had stopped, and the city didn’t look any different. They moved debris from one spot to another, only to reveal hollowed out shells that had once been homes. The surviving citizens emerged, some helping with the cleanup, others wandering the streets in a daze. They were all starved and pale. Frightened.

And the darkness. It hadn’t gone away like Atra had promised it would. It hovered over the city, a storm cloud no wind could banish.

Don’t start doubting her now. Rysa thought. No one could have predicted what would happen after the battle.

She felt the darkness pressing in. Over the past few days, it had gotten worse. Firelight was almost useless now. Only the high-powered luminators—banks of them mounted on towers of scaffolding to maximize their effect—provided any relief. Relief, scoffed Rysa. They only show us what’s left. How much we lost.

A deep, echoing crack permeated the air. Rysa barely acknowledged it, except to note that it was louder than the last one. That was another thing that had started after the battle: those noises. They seemed to come from the north, where the darkness was impenetrable. Some speculated it was thunder, and speculation was all they had. No one sent to investigate had yet returned.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

Rysa looked up at the worker who stood before her. “Yeah. The gloom is just getting to me. Think we can make the luminators any brighter?”

“We can try,” the man said. “They’re pretty close to full capacity as it is, though.”

She held out a hand, and the worker helped her to her feet. As she stood, a bell began tolling the hour. Rysa couldn’t see it because of the thick, never-ending night, but Nauthrind’s clock tower in the north square was the tallest structure left now that the observation tower was destroyed. The sound was supposed to restore some sense of life to the city. Rysa hoped it was having more of an effect on the citizens than it was on her.

All right. Back to work.

She counted the bell strokes as she shifted debris. …Three…four…five— She stopped in the middle of carrying a larger stone to the pile. That couldn’t be right. It wasn’t that late. Couldn’t be.

Nine. Ten. Eleven.

A few of the other workers had noticed as well. They stopped and looked in the direction of the clock tower.

Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

A scream snaked out of the darkness beyond the luminators’ reach.

Needles pricked the inside of Rysa’s stomach, and every hair on her body stood on end, pulling away from that awful sound. No. It can’t be. We beat them!

“It’s coming from the north square,” someone said. A few of the soldiers still wore weapons, which they now gripped apprehensively.

Rysa pushed down the nauseating fear in her throat and said, “Then let’s get over there. Saving this city cost us too much to let them take it back!”

As she and the other workers ran, Rysa thought, How did they survive? We killed so many. And now Atra’s gone, what can we do—

Rysa burst into the north square. A huge fire occupied the center, incinerating the bodies of Nauthrind’s dead. The square was ringed with luminators, and above it all rose the clock tower, tolling again and again. Spellfire made the air sizzle, weaving between streaks and pillars and maddening forms of black. Black was everywhere, looming overhead, wrapping around. A low, grinding roar made Rysa’s ears ache beneath the ringing of the bell, but she didn’t have time to wonder where it was coming from. Yndspawn swarmed the square, but like no Yndspawn she’d ever seen.

Gone were the flapping, tattered cloaks, the ravaged flesh, and even the sewn-shut eyes. These figures were shadow made solid. A dozen of them melted away, only to rise up again on the southern edge of the square where they consumed the soldiers who were firing on them. Another Yndspawn climbed atop the burning pile of bodies, seemingly impervious to the flames. He barked orders and spewed jets of dark energy from his mouth.

Rysa drew her spell projector and fired at the Yndspawn. Her aim was true. The magic burst against the Yndspawn’s chest, polychromatic energy splashing against an onyx surface. Cracks appeared, but in the glow of the firelight Rysa watched them vanish. The Yndspawn still stood, completely unharmed.

He turned his black face in her direction.

“Giratvik,” she breathed. Then she dove aside as a spray of dark magic rushed toward her.

She hit the cobblestones and rolled. Behind her, several soldiers who hadn’t been as quick went down, their bodies pierced by a hundred eldritch shards. Rysa rose to a kneeling position and took another shot at the Yndspawn, this time catching him in the shoulder. The blast’s impact caused him to twist around, but that was all. The ebony skin remained unmarked.

The Yndspawn hurled another counter spell at her, then bellowed to his followers, “Kill the light!”

Rysa scrambled behind a chunk of debris. Why isn’t it working? she thought. Maybe energy can’t hurt them. That’s why he can stand in the fire. She broke cover and picked up a sword from a fallen soldier. She charged across the square toward an Yndspawn that was pouring all his power into one of the eldyr generators running the luminators. Rysa came up behind him and swung with all her might.

The blade clanged against the Yndspawn’s skin, sending painful vibrations up Rysa’s arms. Her elbows ached from the impact, and the sword rebounded, its edge chipped.

The Yndspawn spun on her, claws like obsidian knives slicing through her forearm. The cuts weren’t deep, but Rysa staggered back. The Yndspawn began to dematerialize, then the eldyr generator he’d been attacking exploded.

The blast sent both the Yndspawn and Rysa flying. Rysa skidded across the stones, scraping her cheek. When she finally came to a halt, the Yndspawn was nowhere to be seen, and the light in the square had dimmed. One of the luminator banks overhead had gone dark.

“Ma’am,” said a soldier, helping Rysa to her feet, “we need to pull out. We can’t kill these things.” The words were barely out of his mouth when a black tendril snapped through the air, vaporizing the soldier’s head. Rysa shrieked and tore free of the dead man’s grip. Around her, people ran and screamed. Yndspawn flooded the square, most of them tearing apart the eldyr generators. One of the luminator banks tipped over. It crashed against the clock tower, and in the flicker of its dying light Rysa saw the bell, still rocking in its belfry, tolling one baleful note after another, as a bloody corpse clung to the rope.

More explosions erupted around the square. One by one, the luminators vanished, and Rysa was carried along in a current of panicked Yvyrhausters. She passed a Doll that stood its ground, spell projector blazing against the oncoming Yndspawn. There was a mad pelting like heavy rain against a metal roof, and the Doll collapsed, its armor riddled with holes. A soldier behind Rysa screamed, then his voice gave way to the buzz of Yndspawn magic. The gong of the bell chased them, still counting up the infinite hours.

Or counting down, Rysa thought.

The last feeble glow of the luminators went out, and the low rumble that had eaten away at Rysa’s ears the whole time rose to prominence. Stone ground against stone. A great breath, like that of the sky itself, gasped. The bell at last fell silent.

Rysa didn’t look back to see what had happened. All she knew was that Nauthrind was dark, the Yndspawn were chasing, and the ground was shaking beneath her feet. Despairing cries echoed, and not just from the soldiers that fled alongside her. Every cross street they passed channeled the sound of fighting from other parts of the city.

They reached the southern edge of Nauthrind, where dozens of luminators cast their glow over the cleanup effort’s base of operations. A worker met Rysa. “What’s going on?” he asked. “What’s that noise?”

“Run!” Rysa shouted. “Leave the luminators on and run!”

The shrill edge to her voice quelled any further questions. Alarm spread through the base. Workers tripped over themselves in their hurry to escape. The tremors Rysa had felt earlier intensified, as did the screams from behind. Cries for help, desperate, piercing, as if by sheer force of voice they could stave off the doom that closed around them.

Rysa led the flight from the city, leaving the ruined buildings behind. They ran into the wind, which seemed to fight them every step of the way, trying to force them back northward. Only when she could no longer feel the tremors beneath her feet did Rysa pause long enough to look back.

The base’s luminators lit the southernmost buildings, but little else. Rysa could see other patches of light here and there, but those winked out as she watched. The base was the last to go. Just before it did, plunging the city into darkness, Rysa saw the buildings collapsing, falling away, becoming dust. Then—

Silence. No more screams, no more ominous rumbles. Just the eternal, black emptiness of the north, and the ever-present wind drawing them toward it.

In the quiet, Rysa’s head invented noise. The pound of her blood through her ears became the soft ghost of the clock tower bell, counting down, down, down…

Get it at Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B098M4YG7L/