Scary Scene from a WIP

Horror is not my happy place. I've tried to learn a little about how to write it. I've had classes in the language of horror and in some of the psychological tools used in horror. But honestly, I don't want to make you afraid. I'd rather creep you out. Fine line, I know, and I'm not sure I have the knack of it just yet. I'm not after terrified. I'm more interested in haunted. So I'll offer up a snippet from a book called Curse of the Lorelei. The book still needs some major rewrites to hop up the creepy and the tension.

The story takes place in the very early days of the Civil War. It's just after the fall of Fort Sumter. It'd be bad enough with just the start of the war. Unfortunately for our heroes, their version of New Orleans is haunted by more than Confederates and Union spies. Charlie is a young woman (and a Union spy) disguised as a boy. Hunt is a British spy bent on destabilizing the situation in the US with the notion that the British crown might be able to recover the errant colonies. They've rowed out to what appears to be a ghost ship that's anchored off shore in quarantine. Hunt boarded the boat. Charlie is standing to under the ship's rail aboard the row boat. Monsieur Foucalte is the dockmaster who won't let the ship dock for fear of disease.

---------------------

            Charlie forced her shoulders down. Rocked her head on her neck.
           A shrill scream, broken by sobs, wrenched her gaze upward. Every muscle in her body clenched.
            “No!” Hunt shouted.
            A body hurtled into the water three feet from the bow of the skiff.
            Water sprayed her. Charlie yelped and crouched low to steady the boat as the impact waves tossed her. Heart a gripping pain in her chest, she gasped, and scanned the surface of the river.
             “Can you see him?” she hollered to the two men still clinging to the side of the larger ship.
            The man surfaced. Flailing. Sobbing. “Help! Help me! Please – ulp!” He floundered toward shore.
            Charlie shot to her feet. The boat swayed in warning.
            “Turn around!” she shouted. “I’ll pull you aboard! Turn around!”
            Caught up in whatever terror had driven him over the rail, he either didn’t hear, or he ignored her. He struggled closer to shore.
            Shouts from the dock caught her attention and she glanced at the men on the wharf. The group roiled and waved, arms swinging in clear ‘go back’ gestures. It did no good.
            The man in the river, yammering a steady stream of pleas for aid, kept heading to shore.
            Monsieur Foucalte, recognizable by size alone, shoved through the knot of dock workers, a rifle in his hands.
            Charlie gasped.
            He raised it. Sighted.
            Her blood ran cold. “Wait! What –”
            The tenor of the swimmer’s cries changed. Climbed. Panic resonated in the sound, shaking her.
            Around the man, the water of the turgid Mississippi frothed. It took several seconds to register what her eyes tried to show her.
            Snakes. Dozens of snakes, wet skins glistening in the sun, surrounded the man. Slithered over his back. Tangled in his kicking legs.
            He hesitated, fell silent.
            As his legs sank and he came upright in the water, the first snake struck. She couldn’t see the fangs, but the big, black snake’s stiff pull back and launch forward was unmistakable. As was the man’s strangled shriek.
            A shot rang out.
            The cry died mid arc. The sailor slumped.
            Snakes - and something much larger, black, gleaming hide, fangs, and blood-red eyes - swarmed him. Kelpie. It surfaced. Made eye contact with her. Sneered. And took a bite out of the dead man’s poisoned flesh.

Scene from The Mars Strain - Happy Halloween!

 This week we’re promoting our scariest book or scene…and, well. I’m a wuss when it comes to scary. I don’t write horror, though some creepy does sneak into my writing. 

So here’s a snippet from The Mars Strain to help you get your Halloween creep on! Enjoy!

Setup:

 Juliet’s in isolation due to a supposed contact 

with the first strain victim—and she’s been watching the clock.

The Mars Strain - Chapter 18

                                                                                                    

My palms and fingertips touch the cold glass and rings of foggy moisture surrounds each contact point. 

There isn’t anyone in the room between mine and the pod with the girl who’s writhing on the bed. She tosses and turns. Her silky black hair sticks to her face and her sheet covered arms and legs strike out again and again. 

Hazmat suits surround her and block her from view. The staff frantically press sensors to her skin, trying to get a vitascan, and two nurses administer injections. 

The man in the pod on the other side of her room has mirrored my stance. My gaze darts between hazmat helmets to him. His eyes bulge and he takes a step back. He holds up a hand to ward off the sight of what’s happening to the other patient and crosses himself. 

The girl lurches up off the bed, breaking through the hazmat suits.

A scream sticks in my throat.

The nurses grab her arms to keep her from landing on the floor. The girl’s knees buckle, her feet are solid purple, like they’ve been bruised. She holds up her petite hands, her fingers are shaking, and they’re bruised just like her feet. The purple of her fingers fades to a dark blue that has crept up her hands and I can see the lines of her veins on her forearms because they’re a dark, angry red. 

Not even her face has been spared. The tip of her nose is dark, and red thorny branches cover her cheeks.

 

She screams. 

Not a scream I can hear through the walls, but a scream I can see and feel. Her neck strains, her mouth is open wide and horror fills her eyes. Every part of her is screaming. My hair stands on end and a prickle chills the skin between my shoulder blades. 

I stumble away from the wall and wipe my hands on my pants. I can’t look away. I can’t look at anything else. All I can look at is the girl who’s stopped screaming, the girl who’s stopped moving, the girl who’s now a lifeless pile on the floor. 

Time of death: 02:59 AM. 

A Glimpse of Dark Wizard

This week at the SFF Seven, we're sharing our scariest book or scene. No, mine isn't from DARK WIZARD, although I love how creeptastic that image is. The thing is, I can't yet share what I think is the scariest thing I've ever written.

See, I never think of myself as writing all that scary. James is the horror writer. KAK delves into the twisted psyche. Usually I see my books as being occasionally dark, but not all that creepy. Readers may disagree. But in general I'm kind of a fragile flower. I don't like being scared. I don't watch or read horror. I'm the one who leaves the room during the scary scenes in a movie, or - far worse! - the gory ones. You guys know me - I'll write all the sex scenes and I advocate for closed-door violence.

Why can't that be a thing?

But this New Thing I've written, the Sekrit Project, is pretty scary. It's tense and twisted and... I already told you I can't share it yet!

Yeah, I hate violence, but I love a tease. 

So, though it's not all that scary, and because I couldn't resist using this creepy image with DARK WIZARD, I'll share an unsettling scene from that book. Enjoy!

***

Having to deal with the inn, the askance stares at his appearance, the averted gazes when they took in his wizard-black eyes, the shocked ones at his white hair—all of it broke him out of his circular thoughts. He tipped the stable girl well to walk Vale cool, rub the gelding down thoroughly, and give him an extra portion of feed. And he tipped the boy in the pub well to bring himself an extra portion of feed, also. Gabriel sat alone in a shadowy corner, using a simple moon spell to reflect curiosity away from himself.

He was more tired than he’d realized, feeling sleepier by the moment as warm food settled into his stomach. He wasn’t used to winter’s bite. And he’d pushed hard to reach House Elal, thinking he’d have days of rest after the wedding. Sopping up the last of the rich mushroom gravy with the excellent fresh bread, Gabriel settled back to savor the rest of his wine—an excellent, robust Elal red, though not as good as Veronica’s special reserve—and watch the room.

Thus, he was in the perfect position to see the hunters arrive.

He knew them for inhuman even before they fully entered the busy tavern. The air seemed to bend before their passage, adjusting to the presence of that which should not exist in this world. There were six of them, slinking into the room like an amalgam of a jackal and a weasel in vaguely human shape, arching like hounds to sniff the surfaces they passed. Nobody else seemed aware of them, so Gabriel made sure to look past the hunters also, focusing on the minstrel blithely singing a song nearby, exhorting the crowd for coins.

He needn’t have bothered, for one of the hunters lifted its snout in the air as if scenting something interesting and fastened one eye on Gabriel. It slunk in his direction, pausing to steal a handful of coin from the oblivious minstrel’s tip basket. It tossed one on the table before Gabriel, an insolent sneer on its distorted face.

“Wissard,” it hissed, revealing inhumanly sharp teeth—several rows of them.

“Hunter,” Gabriel returned. He readied himself, though his water and moon magic seemed unequal to dealing with a creature like this. The books in the House Phel library, at least the legible ones, were short on spells for martial application. Under the table, he loosened his sword in its scabbard, a far more reliable defense.

“You know what I am. Good. I ssseek a familiar, on behalf of the Convocation. Have you ssscented one?” It pushed the coin toward him with a sharp, curving claw.

“This place reeks of sweat and ale,” Gabriel replied. “I’m sure any good familiar would turn tail and hide in their room.”

The hunter sniffed the air all the while Gabriel spoke, barely listening. “You have no familiar.”

“Unfortunately, no. I am but a minor wizard.” Gabriel drew more moon reflections around himself, just in case any of his power leaked through. On the advantage side of being a moon-based water wizard, it was a quiet magic, and often overlooked.

The hunter fixed one ochre eye on him—the length of its snout making looking forward with both eyes at once impossible—and made an unpleasant choking sound. Laughter? “Why are you here, wissard?”

Gabriel gestured at his cleaned plate. “Best mushroom gravy in all of Elal.”

The hunter eyed him for another excruciatingly long few moments. Without another word, it slunk out again, its cohorts streaming to join it, pouring out the door again like smoke. Gabriel blew out a breath, quaffed his wine, and went to his room for the night—dropping the coin, plus a few more, back in the minstrel’s basket.

 

Burned: The Scary Scene

Our scariest book or scariest scene...Weeeeeeeell, I'm not a horror writer so I reckon I have to go with the scariest thing to me, which is reclaiming your sense of self and your soul's strength after enduring an emotionally abusive relationship. To that end, I'd have to say the first book in my Immortal Spy urban fantasy series, The Burned Spy is probably the scariest...emotionally.

In the clip below, we have a classic moment of power disparity being abused between Jörmungand (yep, the Norse World Serpent in humanoid form) and Bix the Gatekeeper. She's broken free of his thrall, but not the god himself. They're in a nightclub. She has no idea he's there until... 

From THE BURNED SPY, Immortal Spy Book 1

Bix headed for the railing overlooking the raucous floor show.

“You reek of Greek,” hissed a too familiar and unwelcome voice.

Her stomach lodged in her throat. “Go away, Jör.”

“You’re under contract with my pantheon.” He trailed a finger up and down her arm. “I want to know why there’s an archangel in our embassy.”

“First, my contract is with your sister. You’re just a witness.” She slanted away from him and drew her shoulder up to her ear. “Second, it’s a condo, not an embassy. Third, fuck off.”

He spread his arms to either side of her, pinning her against the railing. “Hel wants an update on your progress.”

The darkness rippled along her spine. This time, she didn’t fight it as it tore out the back of her dress.

Jör’s eyes widened. He tipped her over the railing until her feet no longer touched the ground, one hand heavy on her nape, the other firm on her hip. She bucked against his grip, but he held her fast.

Fear, thick and heavy weighed her down as every eye in the bar fixed on her. Shame stilled her thrashing and burned her cheeks.

The darkness retracted.

“Finally,” Jör whispered.

Light sizzled and burst.

Jör skidded across the floor in a trail of smoke. A friendly hand grabbed Bix’s feet and pulled her back to the surety of solid ground. Her date wrapped his arm firmly around her waist and hauled her up against his side. An orb of raw electricity crackled in his palm.

She tried to stop quaking. Couldn’t.

Jör regained his feet and smirked. His tongue lashed out and extinguished the smoldering of his chest pocket. He causally doffed his nonexistent hat to Ashtad, even as his gaze shifted to her. His lips moved. She didn’t need to hear his voice to know his words.

“Tick, tock.”

What an asshole, right?  Don't worry, part of Bix's character growth in the book is about no longer being a victim. For more about the Immortal Spy Urban Fantasy Series, click here!