Every Fate Worse Than Death

A Gateway to Hell. A War That Could Change Forever.

World War Two, 1944. As the tide begins to turn against the Axis powers, a new threat emerges inside Houska Castle in Czechoslovakia—a fortress long rumored to conceal a gateway to Hell.

When Allied intelligence learns that the Axis plans to harness the castle’s dark power to alter the course of the war, a team of commandos is assembled for a dangerous mission behind enemy lines. Led by decorated soldier Lionel Sweeney, a man already marked by a deadly bounty, the crew must infiltrate the castle before the enemy can summon something beyond their control.

Joined by an apprentice Rabbinical student and the protégé of a World War One saboteur, Sweeney and his team face more than soldiers and secrets. They must confront an ancient evil that could reshape history itself.

Step into a World War Two supernatural thriller where folklore, occult danger, and wartime courage collide.

Excerpt from the book

Houska Castle, municipality of Blatce, Czechoslovakia - October 1944

They had run out of wine about two months previously. Ludvig never imagined they would go through every case, but in the year he’d been at Houska Castle, they’d consumed every bottle. Ludvig had enthusiastically accepted the assignment to oversee the castle and ensure _Betriebsgateway’_s success. He was so relieved to be out of North Africa that he never questioned his new assignment or what had happened to his predecessor. However, he reasoned anything would be better than the Libyan heat.

Of course, things were also taking longer than anticipated, so Ludvig found solace in some of the creature comforts he’d brought from home. He cut himself another section of wild boar. He would have preferred the animal spit-roasting on a fire before him, but he also recognized he needed to maintain a certain level of decorum in the great hall. Therefore, the animal would not be spit-roasted. He had let himself go in many ways and didn’t adhere to every code or regulation. His shoes no longer shone, nor was his shirt tucked into his pants. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d donned his uniform. No, he’d allowed himself to be given over to his more base animal instincts. He hunted in the forest around the castle and ate what he killed. He made a cloak from a stag he’d shot, which he currently wore. He’d let his beard grow, and he looked more like a Norse warrior than a member of the Wehrmacht. He twirled the end of his mustache, chewed, and drank some more. The memory of the origins of the drink came flooding back.

“Mead with cider,” Shultz had said as he dumped a sack of apples onto the table.

“The apples grow wild around here, and I have a recipe from my grandmother,” Shultz added.

“Does this concoction have a name?” Ludvig said, picking up an apple and taking a bite. It was sour, but that didn’t matter. It was fresh, and the sound reverberated around the kitchen.

“Cyser,” Shultz had said.

When they’d first arrived at the castle, Shultz was just beginning to go gray around the temples. Now, his strawberry-blond hair was almost entirely white. Since their occupation of the castle, they hadn’t managed to summon “The Great One.” However, on one particular occasion, something did come through the portal, and Shultz had been on point that day. One look into the abyss had prematurely aged him.

“Looking forward to trying some,” Ludvig had said.

Shultz had seemed enthusiastic about making cyser, so Ludvig figured, why not indulge him? Now, Ludvig took another sip. It wasn’t half bad. The elixir wasn’t as good as the confiscated Bordeaux they had brought with them, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Ludvig ate some more boar. He had gone hunting with his father in the forest near his home in Gröbenzell. He’d had an aptitude for stalking game, and after killing his first stag, he developed a passion for it as well.