The best horror books from Next Chapter [March 2023]
Horror fiction is a genre of literature that aims to scare and unsettle readers by exploring the darker aspects of human nature and the unknown. It is a popular and enduring genre that has captivated readers for centuries, with roots that can be traced back to folklore and mythology. Horror fiction often features supernatural creatures, such as ghosts, demons, and vampires, as well as psychological terrors like insanity and fear itself.
The appeal of horror fiction lies in its ability to tap into our deepest fears and anxieties. By exposing us to terrifying scenarios, it allows us to confront and overcome our own fears in a safe and controlled way. Horror also has the power to explore complex social issues and human experiences through the lens of fear and terror. For example, horror stories can tackle themes of grief, loss, trauma, and addiction.
Despite its popularity, horror fiction is often dismissed by some as a mere form of entertainment with little artistic merit. However, horror has produced some of the most enduring and influential works of literature, including Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein," Bram Stoker's "Dracula," and Stephen King's "The Shining." By tapping into our deepest fears and exploring the unknown, horror fiction continues to captivate readers and push the boundaries of what is possible in literature.
Here you’ll find some of the best horror books from Next Chapter, as of March 2023. All of our books are available in eBook and paperback, and some in audio as well.
If you enjoy one of the stories below, please don’t forget to leave the author a review! Don’t agree with our choices? Please comment and let us know your favorite :)
Books featured on this page
Saucy Jacky: The Whitechapel Murders As Told By Jack The Ripper by Doug Lamoreux
The 11th Percent (The 11th Percent Book 1) by T.H. Morris
Unknown (The Forsaken Series Book 1) by Phil Price
Dark Voyage (Tales From The Dark Past Book 1) by Helen Susan Swift
When The Creatures Call (Led By Beasts Book 2) by Clark Roberts
Ghost Song by Mark L’Estrange
Book excerpt
“Once Jenifer realised that I had relented, as she knew that I would, I was dragged by my sleeve to the door of the wagon. Naturally it was left to me to knock, which I dutifully did by climbing up the short wooden steps which led to the arched door. We did not have to wait long before we were ‘invited’ to enter the inner sanctum when the occupant yelled back at us with an unceremonious, ‘Yes’.
“Leading the way, I tentatively pushed open the door and peered inside. The interior was very badly lit, which I believe was done on purpose to help create a suitable atmosphere. The tiny space was cluttered with all manner of different sized chests and boxes, brimming over, in most cases, with what appeared to be bolts of different coloured cloth. The containers had been arranged in such a way as to allow anyone entering a clear path to the other end of the wagon.
“The lighting, such as it was, was subdued to say the least, and my nostrils were immediately assailed by the scent of incense sticks permeating the air. In the far corner there was a small area which had been curtained off but the fabric used was so thin that it barely concealed anything behind it, and squinting through the darkened haze I could just about make out the figure of a small woman sitting on a wicker chair, behind a small, oval table.
“I remember turning back as Jenifer gently squeezed my hand, as I was not initially sure if her signal meant that she still wanted to venture in or for us to beat a hasty retreat. As it was she gestured with her head, instructing me to go forward, so I turned back around and called out to ask if it was alright for us to come in. I could just about make out through the misty atmosphere the woman signalling with her hand for us to join her. I gently pulled Jenifer towards me so that she was clear of the door as it slowly closed behind us.
“It might sound a little odd, but as we carefully manoeuvred through the gauntlet of trunks and boxes I remember thinking that the wagon seemed to be emanating a strange aura which immediately made me feel slightly uncomfortable. At the time I put it down to whatever we were inhaling from the incense, but when I spoke to Jenifer about it later that evening, she confessed to having had the same impression upon entering.
“We made our way steadily towards the flimsy fabric which acted as the partition, and once we were close enough to be able to see the woman behind the curtain properly I felt obliged to ask again if it was ok for us to be there. Once more the gypsy gestured without speaking for us to move forward, and once we were both through the curtain she signalled towards the two chairs which were placed opposite her for us to sit down.
The Accursed Moor by Stuart G. Yates
Book excerpt
The next few days shot past. It had always been like this, ever since he took up teaching. He remembered his first job, fresh out of school, sixteen years of age and eager to please. The boss told him he didn’t like clock-watchers. In those far-off days, the minutes seemed like hours and the days dragged by so slowly. He would begin work on Monday, wishing to God it was Saturday. One day off a week. He hated every moment. And he studied his watch constantly. To hell with the boss, to hell with all of them.
Now, it was all so different. Since becoming a teacher, time simply disappeared. Before he knew it, the clock had turned to four and the day had become Friday. It happened in a blink and it all felt a little frightening. Time rushing by, beyond his control, every day a blur.
This first week had been the same. With Monday well behind him, before he knew it, he found himself at the school gate on Friday afternoon, saying farewell to his class, the buzz of excitement and anticipation for the weekend to come heavy in the air. Fearn stood a little way off, hand half-raised in salutation, then the fingers coming up to show him ‘eight’, followed by the thumb. Salmon responded, returned the gesture, and went back into his classroom where he stood and gazed at the pile of exercise books on his desk. They needed marking and the urge to escape from them was strong. He could do just that, take up Fearn’s invitation, look forward to a nice, relaxing drink in a real old pub. For some reason, however, he couldn’t shake the feelings of trepidation that lingered in every pore. He felt sick in his stomach and he couldn’t shake it. Sometimes he wished he could put it all aside, go out, forget it all. That would mean a conscious change, a determination to cast away the shackles of a past life that forever pulled him down into depression. It was not going to happen anytime soon.
He gathered together his briefcase and the bundle of books to be marked sometime over the weekend unless, of course, he merely left them untouched on the kitchen table. A noise made him turn and he gave a little start, noticing the caretaker for the first time mopping up around the sink. Friday, the traditional day for Art. The children invariably spilt paint left unwashed brushes piled up in the sink. Salmon had done his best. Now he could see the caretaker, armed with scouring pad, applying liberal amounts of cleaning fluid across the sink’s surface. He grunted every now and then, but never looked up.
Saucy Jacky: The Whitechapel Murders As Told By Jack The Ripper by Doug Lamoreux
Book excerpt
It was an interesting walk back to my lodgings – to say the least. Not on account of any particular event that took place. Merely for all that was happening inside of me. Forgive me, if I fail utterly in reporting it clearly. I shall try.
First, I must say, I struggled physically all the way home.
I wanted to run. Charged with energy, exhilarated, I wanted to run and shout. But, of course, that was out of the question. The last thing I should or would have done at that moment would have been to draw attention to myself. Still, despite the insanity of it, my whole inner being was thrilled and wanted to shout it to the world. So I concentrated, like a child learning how to walk, like a cripple regaining his legs, like an accident victim wobbling to his feet from the depths of unconsciousness, I concentrated mind and soul on walking normally.
I wanted to stay in the shadows. The cold cruel darkness of the East End was suddenly my friend. But I knew it wise to fight that friendship as best I could. Flitting from shadow to shadow would, too, give me away. I needed to stay true to a course, a fellow out for a stroll following a long night at work. Out for a think and a breath of air.
People passing… nothing there. Always people in the streets of Whitechapel, day or night. Ignore them. Hands in pockets. Head down. Watch the pace. Walk. Don’t let your good work show on your face. Much better. I felt so much better now, on my way back to my lodgings.
So much less confused.
After all the turmoil, Emma Smith – and her ilk – finally made sense in my world. I had found purpose. I’d discovered my place. Don’t misunderstand, I make no claim to having moved comfortably into my future with that single event in George Yard. But I knew I had found my niche. I was at home with myself – and would make a special home for myself in this East End.
I already said, I’m a reader. And so, as I take that walk again in my mind, I offer a short but necessary history lesson:
The East End is the urban area of the Tower Hamlets (and was before it was the East End), its earliest residents owed military service to the Tower of London and the crown for their existence. While the term East End did not appear until recently, the first written reference to the area as an entity (I said I am an obsessive and attentive reader) appeared in John Strype’s 1720 ‘Survey...’, where he described London as being comprised of four parts: the City, Westminster, Southwark, and ‘That Part beyond the Tower’. The bulk of my story concerns only ‘That Part beyond the Tower’; specifically, the parishes of Whitechapel, Spitalfields, St George-in-the-East, and Mile End Old Town as they existed in 1888.
While there are no universally accepted boundaries to the East End, and probably never will be, it is generally thought to commence outside the eastern (ancient Roman) city walls, running with the old roads leading from Bishopsgate and Aldgate, and along and north of the River Thames; in other words, part of Central London, East London, the London Docklands, and the East End (once all marshland). The Aldgate Pump, on the edge of the city, was the symbolic start of the East End. On the river, according to some, Tower Bridge served that function. To close the loop it should be mentioned, I suppose, the various channels of the River Lea are considered to be the eastern boundary. That debate rages and, for my tale, doesn’t matter a jot.
The East End has always been a no man’s land.
The 11th Percent (The 11th Percent Book 1) by T.H. Morris
Book excerpt
Consciousness suddenly gripped Jonah's body. But he didn't open his eyes. He was leery of what he would see if he did.
His last memory was the ambush by two brutes who claimed to be spirits. But there hadn't been anything ghostly about their hands and feet. He could still feel the proof of that in his upper body. And then there was something about being shielded and finding him when he thought about his grandmother . . .
Then he got slapped by some wind that had blown one of the spirits away, and then the other spirit had thrown him into the path of a van. Then that weird man appeared and grabbed him. After that, things went black.
Was he dead? Had that guy who'd grabbed him been Death itself, selfishly clamping him into an eternal grasp?
No. That couldn't be. He'd always heard that in death, all pain was taken away. But that wasn't the case, because he still felt dull agony in his back and gut. While he was thankful for that particular fact, it did very little to decrease his anxiety.
If he was still among the living, then what had happened? That van had definitely been coming full speed ahead, yet he was here, not recalling anything past that point.
Was this some kind of limbo? Some kind of stage between living and dying, where you were departed but pain and feeling were still present?
A meow pierced the silence, finally forcing his eyes open. But before he looked for the cat that made the sound, he took in his surroundings.
He no longer thought he was in a death-like limbo. Because if that were the case, he doubted it would be in a bedroom.
It was spacious and modestly furnished. There seemed to be more of the room than the furniture that occupied it. The walls were a soothing bluish white. An old-fashioned rocking chair was in the corner, which had a dusty, forgotten look about it. A chest of drawers was nearby, and next to his bed were a nightstand and lamp. He could see the morning sun through the lone window.
The windowsill was occupied by the familiar calico, which was perched there like she was standing guard. Though her gaze was penetrating and rather eerie, she made no move at all. She simply meowed again and lowered her head.
The space next to the cat shimmered and darkened. The dark mass quickly formed the silhouette of a tall man, who then gained corporeal form, flesh, and clothing. The visage completed itself, forming the man that Jonah had seen three times now. Even though the man had saved him, Jonah was not very thrilled to see him again. His presence always seemed to precede some sort of trouble.
At first, the man paid Jonah no attention. He took the time to remove a necklace from his pocket and put it on. It was an interesting piece, with what looked to be an intricate figure eight with a line crossing the point where the two rings joined. Once he was finished, he turned his grey eyes to Jonah.
Unknown (The Forsaken Series Book 1) by Phil Price
Book excerpt
Birmingham, England, 2005
The woman walked to the end of the garden path, pausing at the wooden gate. She turned around to look at her son, wanting nothing more than to gather him in her arms and tell him it would all be okay.
“Are you sure you'll be alright?” she asked.
“I'll be okay Mum. At some point, I’ll have to get used to this, so I may as well get used to it sooner rather than later.”
The woman looked at her son and thought how cruel the world could be, to subject someone so young to so much pain. “Well, you know where we are,” she said. “And we'll see you Sunday for dinner?”
“I'll be there. Two o'clock, right?”
She took one final long look at her son before replying. “Yes, Jake, see you then.” She turned and walked out of the garden, past the hedges belonging to the house next door and out of sight.
Jake Stevenson stood there on the doorstep, wondering how long he could stand here before he had to face the inevitable. He knew that the neighbours would be twitching their curtains soon, so he turned and walked into the house, closing the solid wooden door behind him. Once into the dimly lit hallway, he wondered what to do. He stood there weighing up his options before opting for a cup of strong coffee.
Walking through his house suddenly presented him with a problem. Every room in the house contained pictures of his wife and young daughter. His wife and daughter who had been killed three weeks before in a hit-and-run. No matter where he looked, he could see reminders of his lost family.
“I can take the easy route and put them all in the loft,” he said to himself. “Or I can just deal with it. I'd rather have the pain and still see their faces when they were happy.” He chose the second option.
Jake made his way down the hallway towards the rear of the house, catching his reflection in the mirror on the wall. He stopped and looked at himself briefly. Dark smudges sat under his eyes, his dark hair looking unruly. He seemed to have aged ten years in the last few weeks, looking weary and haggard. His usual boyish good looks seemed a million miles away on a face that spoke loudly of his grief.
As he sat at his kitchen table looking out through the window at the autumn scene in his back garden, he started pondering what he was going to do next. He had spoken at length with his wife about what would happen if one of them should die, with the emphasis on Jake as his career in the police had exposed him to real dangers over the past few years. However, he never imagined that it would be him sat alone, trying to plan the next stage of his life. And with no daughter to soften the blow, things seemed bleak for him. He gently sipped at the steaming brew as he tried to plot his course through dark waters.
Dark Voyage (Tales From The Dark Past Book 1) by Helen Susan Swift
Book excerpt
Laden with ice, the February wind rattled the rigging of the ships that crouched miserably beside the harbour warehouses, their masts and spars stark as charity and their hulls half seen in the bleak dawn light. Intermittent sleet pattered the puddles on the quay as a train chugged past, spewing steam against the closed windows of the Seaman's Hostel and the classical authority of the Custom House.
'Who the hell's that?' A labourer paused from piling jute onto an already heavily laden cart to jerk a thumb toward me.
His colleague looked, shrugged and spat phlegm onto the ground. 'Fuck knows or cares, because I don't.' He returned to work, glowering at me as if at a mortal enemy.
When the train gave a sudden shriek of escaping steam, pigeons exploded from the Royal Arch that acted as a majestic backdrop and a reminder of the still lamented Queen Victoria. The echoes faded slowly from the dreary dockland of Dundee.
'Lady Balgay!' I hailed the small craft that lay forlorn between a great three master and a rust streaked coaster on whom the red ensign flapped like the duster of a Lochee housewife.
'Aye,' the reply sounded surly, as if the owner of the voice was reluctant to admit on which vessel he sailed. A tall man appeared; polishing the shine on his bald head with a filthy rag, he glowered a challenge at me. 'What do you want?'
'I'm Iain Cosgrove. I'm sailing with you this voyage.' I looked up, hoping for some encouragement or even acknowledgement before I added, 'I'm the surgeon.'
There was a few second's hesitation as the bald man voice looked me up and down, spat over the side and eventually jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 'Are you, now,' he said, and then, 'Christ help you. You'd better come on board, I suppose.'
Lady Balgay was much smaller than I had anticipated, with the vessels on either side towering over her two masts and the thin smokestack that seemed so out of place. On first sight the deck seemed dirty, littered with gear that the tattered crewmen were engaged in stowing away while a stocky, half-shaven man watched, his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes pouchy beneath a filthy cloth cap.
Another seaman, elderly, with a beard that matched the iron-grey of his eyes, was shouting obscenely and, waving his arms at a crow that perched on the deckhouse.
'Get away you dirty black bugger! I'll not have you bringing your bad luck to this ship. Fly, you evil beast!' He swore foully when the bird refused to move, and threw a short length of tarred rope. The bird rose reluctantly, black wings flapping in a weary admission of failure as it retreated to the nearby quay and stood in dejected misery with its dark eyes never leaving Lady Balgay.
'Bloody black bastard!' The old seaman watched the bird with a mixture of hatred and fear, until the bald headed man pushed him roughly.
'Get back to your duty, Pratt! You're not here to go bird watching!'
'But it's a crow; they're bad luck!'
'It's a bloody bird, that's all!'
I looked away, wondering what sort of life I would endure for the next few months if everybody were as surly as the bald man and this bearded crewman appeared to be.
Sinistrari by Giles Ekins
Book excerpt
POLICE SERGEANT HERBERT GIMLET STAGGERED SLIGHTLY as he backed into Chief Inspector Collingwood’s office, a quivering edifice of files and papers balanced precariously in his arms, his chin pressing down onto the top of the pile to try and hold it in place. Carefully he turned around, ready to place the papers onto a battered looking mahogany table in the corner of the office.
‘This is all of ’em, I think, Gov’nor,’ he said, tottering backwards and forwards with the pile of documents like a funambulist suddenly overtaken by a dizzy spell.
Slowly he bent over to the table, carefully setting down his slippery burden of papers, holding them in place as though they were a precariously balanced assemblage of rare birds eggs; ready to topple and fall at the slightest quiver or breath of breeze. Slowly Gimlet began to straighten, gently releasing his grip on the pile, lifting his hands no more than an inch or so from the topmost document, spreading his fingers wide in mute appeal, as if willing the papers to behave themselves and stay in place. His lifted his hands away another inch, fingers still spread. Another inch. Another inch more, slowly straightening his back as he did so.
For the first time in a minute or more, Gimlet took a breath, the air whistling loudly in his nasal passages. He nodded at the pile of papers, the victor acknowledging his vanquished opponent, and brushed at some dust and cobwebs clinging to his waistcoat front. As he did so the pile of papers – dockets, reports, documents, files, newspaper cuttings and the other accumulated printed matter – gracefully, ever so slowly, as if encapsulated in gelatine, leaned over and slid in a glissading cavalcade to the floor. Gimlet leaped for the pile but too late, succeeding only in knocking heavily into the table with his thigh and hastening the avalanche of papers on its way to the floor.
Files split open, spilling papers and letters across the floorboards like giant confetti as reports leapt to freedom and slid beneath the table and other papers sliced across the floor to seek sanctuary beneath Gimlet’s desk. A box file burst its seams, scattering yet more paper, autopsy reports and photographs in all directions as a bundle of newspaper cuttings, tied together with red binding tape, escaped their bonds and came to rest by Collingwood’s feet.
‘Oh, bugger,’ exclaimed Gimlet in a high pitched squeaky voice curiously at odds with his vocation as a police officer, ‘what a mess of confusion this is. Gawd, it’ll take me a month o’ Sundays to sort out this little lot. Sorry, Guv’,’ he added as an afterthought, but not in the least bit chastened. Collingwood would chew him out and no mistake for negligence on the job, but not for an accident like this. Not for a simple accident like this. Surely not!
The Chapel by S.T. Boston
Book excerpt
Ellie Harrison stood in the entrance lobby of The Old Chapel and stared at the large wooden crucifix. Yesterday she'd rehung it onto its large and secure hook. A hook that held it firmly in place, and yet had somehow it had managed to come off that hook and land back on the floor. She’d wager that if she’d traced a line around the large crucifix yesterday, a little like American detectives drew round bodies in those old murder mystery shows, then geometrically it would be in the same spot now, and not a fraction out of place. She stared at it for a few drawn out seconds, consumed by the morning silence that hung like an invisible blanket in the building, her mind racing at the possibilities of what it could mean. Deep down she knew what it meant, someone or something had moved it, possibly The Man, or whatever it was that had been in Henry’s room last night. Possibly something else! And to believe that meant you had to believe in the boogieman and the monsters who were told of in countless books and fairy tales that lurk under your bed at night. The kind ready to bite your feet off if you were foolish enough to get up and go for a wee. But those things weren't real, were they?
Whatever the truth behind it she was now almost certain that her brother had indeed been awake and had indeed seen something. Something or someone had been watching him. Ellie shivered at the thought, it started at the top of her spine and ran the length of it.
Bright shafts of morning summer sunlight streamed in through the tall stained-glass windows that stood either side of the front doors. It made her feel as if she were stood in a spotlight on the stage, like when she’d played Eliza Doolittle in the year eleven production of My Fair Lady. The stained glass filtered light would give the entrance, if viewed in a picture, the pretence of serenity. Stood in that light experiencing it, it felt anything but. The tranquil morning light seemed to be more of a mask, a mask that hid something monstrous behind its façade. She wasn’t sure how she knew, she just did, she could feel dread in the pit of her stomach, the feeling wriggled and churned there, at times stronger than others. A chill ran through her body for the second time as her mind wandered back once again to the fear-frozen state she’d found Hand-Me-Down-Henry in. The chill in his room that was so unnatural against how warm her own room had been, then that dull but definite thump from somewhere in the building. The tiny hairs on her arms stood to attention as her hackles rose. Something was off with the place. It shouldn’t be, the place had been a chapel, a place of worship, yet it felt rotten, like the apple given to Snow White. It wasn’t what it seemed.
Ellie knew that if she voiced this opinion to her parents, they’d see it as no more than another last-ditch ploy to be allowed to head home. Even with Henry’s testimony they’d never buy it. They knew she was prone to the odd hunch, but they’d think she was using it as an excuse. Either that or they’d think she’d watched one too many paranormal investigation shows and that they'd warped her young mind and made her hyper-paranoid about old buildings. Ellie had always wondered what it would be like to stay in one of the venues featured on some of her favourite shows, The Jamaica Inn, which she’d got to visit the day before, the Pritchard house on East Drive in Pontefract and Leap Castle in Ireland had been recurring favourites and places she’d have given good money to visit. Now, stood in the entrance hall of this strange old chapel without a TV crew or team of fellow investigators she wasn’t so sure she wanted any of it.
The Alternator by B.H. Newton
Book excerpt
Early morning and it was just about time to leave Cheyenne. He watched the breath puff out of his nose like a Pamplona bull through the predawn light. A few antelope stared at him from the edge of barbed wire across the street then calmly went back to their breakfast. Humans outside of their metal monsters were considered non-threatening to their wild ways. He climbed into the warmed-up all-toasty cab and tried again to find something other than country on the dial. He would hit something faint around the 98 FM range but not quite strong enough to make it out, just ghosts of a drum machine and maybe a keyboard, the distant cry of a girl in pink pleather and feather earrings pleading for reassurance? It would be lean listening between here and Flagstaff, not exactly the hotbed of pop music but he would be diligent, homing in on whatever sounded the least bit promising. He needed his big hits, the one-hit wonders or the newest single from a superstar who dripped greatness off their golden tongue like he needed recycled oxygen, jerky and the wheel humming gentle under his fingers. This explosion of classic rock stations the last couple of years disgusted him. Music was like milk, it had an expiration date, if it didn’t, why did people keep making new songs? He didn’t need to hear the past and he had more reason than most. She loved the old songs, held on to them while blindfolded from her present hells. Screw that, everything moves forward, he was excited for the next new catchy song with the hook that repeats, repeats, repeats in your head as you try to silence your mind and go to sleep at night and is right there back again when you wake up in the morning, your very own radio show that is constantly rolling out new episodes. No room for the reruns upstairs. Songs tied to memories had become the late-night cable movie he wasn’t allowed to watch. He had no one to hide the remote from him. He was the parent and child. A delicate dance. What he watched now was a shy pink sky appear above the high prairie as Cheyenne was to become yet another memory he filed high and tight in a vessel behind his eyes, a damp room that was filled with them inside a vast storehouse with a series of locks with not a single key.
When The Creatures Call (Led By Beasts Book 2) by Clark Roberts
Book excerpt
After telling his younger brother to hustle it up, Oliver turned away from the ice-cream truck thinking, this might be the best day of the summer yet.
The sun shined, but wasn’t burning, and Dad had toted them up to the city park to bang the basketball against the unforgiving backboards and rims.
It wasn’t often Dad pulled away from work for an entire morning to spend time with Ollie and his brother, so when it happened, woo-boy it sure seemed the treat. Topping it off, after a few games of H-O-R-S-E and a round or two of Lightning, the familiar tunes of an ice-cream truck rolled down the street. In the most unlikely behavior, Dad had opened his wallet and handed over a ten to Ollie and told both he and Noah to go ahead and splurge. Dad didn’t know a whole lot about the prices of an ice-cream truck, because a ten spot certainly wasn’t going to allow a ten-year-old and his younger bro to splurge, but hey, like Dad so often pontificated, beggars couldn’t be choosers. So off they’d raced waving down the ice cream truck. They were even first in line when the truck pulled over, and a small cluster of kids had gathered behind them.
Dawn Of The Mummy by Mark L’Estrange
Book excerpt
The Seddon Academy boarding school for young ladies lay nestled in the Hampshire countryside, half a mile outside Clevedon. The school prided itself on teaching those in its charge all the refinements that accompanied good breeding, as well as providing the very best education money could buy.
At £10,000 per term, the fees alone ensured that only the wealthiest and most distinguished of parents applied to enrol their daughters into the Seddon Academy and, due to the strict limitations on class size and teacher-pupil ratios, the board was at liberty to refuse entry to offspring of those parents who, although wealthy enough, lacked the requisite elements of refinement and culture on which they insisted.
There had already been several high-profile reports in the media about the daughters of pop stars, sports personalities and television celebrities to whom the academy had declined enrolment.
Butcher In The Cabin by A.E. Stanfill
Book excerpt
Everyone wanted to be like Johnny, and he loved the attention and having control over them. Tommy was pissed off, and he shouted, “Why don’t the three of you get off that bus and say that to my face.” Johnny just started laughing at him. “Something funny?” Tommy asked, with a hint of anger in his voice.
“Yeah, we’re looking right at it,” Spike yelled out, laughing as he did so.
That’s when I opened my mouth. “Like you have room to talk.” That’s when Spike came running off the bus with a wild look in his eyes.
Chameleon by B.H. Newton
Book excerpt
Now Mrs. Dripp had her an expansive ole house far off the little two lane lookin’ down on a deep holler and down into the river valleys. The rutted gravel drive was damn near straight up to the front door, and would chip your tooth if in the driver’s seat. There was many a time when people were stuck up there for days during a torrential rain or an ice storm. Luckily, Mrs. Dripp could cook up an old shoe and you would lick your lips after you had the last bit of shoelace. She kept folks happy that stayed there and all kinds of travelers knew she kept a mighty fine home. A railroad ran north and south a few miles over and even the hobos had a permanent sign for kind woman at the bottom of the drive if you knew where to look. Sure, not a good many of them had the salt to hike up all the way to the front door, but a few did and they would gladly chop some wood or pull weeds for a few hot meals and even a cot on the screened-in porch where the boards were still tight and the breeze blew cool up on top of the knob. It was common knowledge that inside was for payin’ customers only, and Mrs. Dripp wasn’t one to bend the rules when it came to the lodgin’ business.
Songs Of The Dead by Andy Rausch
Book excerpt
Joel stared at his laptop. So far the only words he'd written were “Untitled Novel by Joel Wise”. He'd written those six words a week ago and hadn't been able to come up with anything to add. Nothing.
He couldn't even force words onto the page. He had no idea what his novel was even going to be about. All he knew was that he wanted desperately to write one. He'd always felt it was his destiny to write the next Great American Novel. Not just any novel—certainly not a paperback original—but something iconic. He'd dreamed of this his entire life but had never actually sat down and attempted to write it. At least not until now. But here he was, and writing was a hell of a lot harder than he'd ever imagined. He believed if he could just come up with one interesting well-drawn character, the words would start flowing and eventually he would have an actual novel. If he could just write a line or two, that would grow … and the words would come from some unseen muse. He envisioned such a thing as being akin to dictation. Joel had heard many famous authors explain it that way, but he himself was not a famous author. At this rate, he might not ever be an author at all. At the moment, a single good sentence seemed unattainable.
Well, there you have it - the best horror books from Next Chapter in 03/2023. We hope you enjoy the stories - and if you do, please leave a comment below, or a review in Goodreads or your favorite store. It would mean a lot to us!
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