Blurb
The
brew is hot and bubbling over with romance and terror in this
twistedly beautiful anthology that welcomes the darkness of horror
and the temptation of love's veiled promises. Six remarkable tales
from six incredible authors fill this book of dark shadows and
ancient whispers.
Fire
Burn and Cauldron Bubble - by Jennifer Patricia O'Keeffe:
Enchanted pastries and spell-brewed coffee make Esmerelda's
sugar-dusted counter the city's most coveted haunt—until a
dangerously charming newcomer slips into her shop, immune to her
magic and unraveling her carefully guarded world. As his witch-hunter
heritage threatens to burn her legacy to ash, Esmerelda finds herself
torn between the threat of revenge from the witch hunter's ancestors
and the intoxicating truth of the connection that they share.
Silverwood
- by Lynn Hubbard: A lonely rancher's daughter finds her isolated
Wyoming homestead upended when an amber-eyed stranger ignites a
mud-splattered passion that defies reason—until his supernatural
secret and the vengeful ranch hands hunting her force her to choose
between the man who saves her and the monster who might destroy her.
Torn between fierce protectors and forbidden desire, she must trust
the very darkness that could shatter her world to survive the wild
frontier's deadliest threats.
Ivy,
Lichens and Wallflowers - by James Ryan: Marketing executive
Hilda finds solace from her stifling corporate life and overbearing
past in the quiet companionship of Miriam, a mysterious 19th-century
marble statue in a city micro-park, only to discover their connection
transcends stone when Miriam begins answering her handwritten notes
through cryptic poetry left in return. As their forbidden connection
deepens into an intoxicating dream-bound romance, Hilda uncovers
Miriam's supernatural secret: she's a cursed thaumaturge sustained by
stolen life force, forcing Hilda to confront whether love can survive
the devastating cost of keeping her alive.
A
Mirror to Die For - by Cindy Lewis Smith: A desperate woman finds
solace in an antique mirror that whisks her nightly to 1880s Arizona,
where a charming outlaw named Johnny Ringo fulfills every
fantasy—until her jealous fiancé shatters the glass and vanishes,
leaving her trapped in an asylum screaming that he is the real
monster, a man who shouldn't exist: Dr. John Henry Holliday, the
gambler who killed Ringo a century ago. Now, with "MPR"
carved into her cell walls and time itself unraveling, she'll stop at
nothing to prove her sanity by proving time travel is real—even if
it means unleashing the very darkness that destroyed her.
Flight
1031: Cosmic Turbulence - by Julian Christian: Diplomatic courier
Sarah Martinez boards Flight 1031 expecting routine turbulence, not a
Halloween dimensional rift that strands her at Germania International
Airport—where the Greater German Reich has ruled since 1943 and
perfected technology to harvest souls from parallel realities through
consciousness-scanning machinery that pulses with seventeen-beat
rhythms. Now trapped in a terminal that breathes like a living
organism, Sarah must navigate a world where every passenger hides a
secret and her resistance could either save her timeline or doom
infinite versions of humanity to eternal enslavement in a Reich that
spans all dimensions.
Dream
a Little Dream - by Jae El Foster: After a near-death car crash
rewires her brain, Sarah's nightmares bleed into reality: sugar on
the counter forms glyphs, bats appear out of nowhere in broad
daylight, and her own hands betray her—while the velvet-eyed
stranger from her dreams appears in her waking hours, his urgency
growing as Halloween's veil thins. Now, with her reality twisting
into something surreal and an ancient language hijacking her voice,
she must confront a dark truth: her soul isn't hers to keep, and the
man who saved her in death is the very entity hunting her in life.
Excerpt
From
‘Dream a Little Dream’ by Jae El Foster
Sarah
didn’t know where to run, where to hide, where to breathe. She
drove until the city’s skyline dissolved into cornfields, until the
morning thickened with minivans and convertibles carrying families on
"ride in the country" escapes. Each passing car—a Jeep
with muddy tires, a sedan with bike racks—anchored her to reality,
the rubber soles of her sneakers still tingling with the phantom
sensation of earth either holding her up or crushing her down.
A
flash detonated behind her eyes: the muffled thud of dirt hitting
wood, shovel after shovel, sealing her inside a coffin. She couldn’t
see it, but she smelled it—the cloying stench of decay merging with
rain-damp soil, the suffocating darkness pressing against her eyelids
as the weight piled higher. The scent of worms and wet pine needles
flooded her throat, thick as grave mold.
The
vision snapped just as her car veered toward the shoulder. She
wrenched the wheel hard left, tires screeching, a horn blaring from
the sedan she’d nearly broadsided. Her hands locked on the steering
wheel, knuckles bleaching bone-white, as she fought to drag air into
her lungs. Slow. Nervous. Don’t die twice. The wreck’s ghost
clawed at her ribs—she wouldn’t invite it back.
Ahead,
a billboard loomed: MEMORY LANE. Beneath the town’s name, bold
letters promised: Step into Memory Lane, where new memories are made!
Sarah’s foot hovered over the brake pedal, ready to U-turn from the
omen of that name, but her ankle refused to bend. Cemented. Her other
foot slammed toward the brake—stuck. Panic surged as she crossed
the town line, tires crunching over the painted border, but then the
landscape unfolded: manicured lawns, white picket fences gleaming
like fresh bone, and 1950s bungalows painted in cheerful pastels. A
sigh escaped her—enchanted.
Chicanery,
she thought, scanning the dollhouse-perfect homes. Porches draped in
wisteria, hydrangeas bursting from flower beds, rocking chairs
swaying in phantom breezes. It felt less like a town and more like a
dream staged for tourists—a nostalgia trap with price tags hidden
in the shutters. She gripped the wheel tighter, the vinyl seat sticky
beneath her sweat-slicked thighs.
The
yards deepened in their perfection: hedges trimmed to geometric
precision, roses blooming in impossible symmetry, each white picket
fence identical down to the last splinter. No cracks. No weeds. No
life. The fences stood sentinel around empty yards, guarding homes
with spotless windows that reflected nothing but sky.
She
passed a brick schoolhouse with a rusted swing set, a park with a
merry-go-round frozen mid-spin, a diner with "OPEN" glowing
in neon, a barber pole coiled in red-white silence, a post office
with mailboxes gleaming under noon sun. No children. No joggers. No
bicycles leaning against fences. Since crossing into Memory Lane,
she’d seen exactly one living thing: a crow pecking at a roadkill
squirrel, its beak crimson.
"Where
the hell is everyone?" she muttered, her voice raw as she
scanned porches, windows, the empty stretch of road ahead. The only
sound was the hum of her engine and the thump-thump-thump of her
pulse in her ears.
Sarah’s
hands left the steering wheel, fingers trembling as she tried to turn
into a driveway for a U-turn. The wheel refused to budge—cemented.
She settled back into the seat, watching it steer itself with
unnatural precision. Her foot lifted from the accelerator, but the
speed held steady, unwavering, until the car slowed on its own for a
sharp right-hand turn onto University Boulevard. The road’s grip on
her feet had vanished, yet the vehicle moved like a thing alive,
hungry for the town square.
To
her left, manicured university grounds sprawled beneath flowering
trees, grand homes lining the boulevard like stage sets. Roses
bloomed in impossible symmetry, hedges trimmed to razor edges. Sarah
groaned at the street name—University Boulevard—its banality a
slap in the face. Two blocks down, the car turned right onto Main
Street, the tires whispering over asphalt that felt less like road
and more like skin.
Ahead,
the town square unfolded: businesses glowing with "Open"
signs, windows spotless, a gazebo planted dead-center like a
tombstone. No cars. No pedestrians. Not even a stray cat to break the
silence. The air hung thick with the scent of cut grass and something
sharper—ozone, like before a storm that never breaks.
Sarah’s
car rolled into a parking spot near the gazebo. The seatbelt loosened
with a hiss, the engine dying as the driver’s door swung open
unbidden. "I don’t like anything about this…" she
muttered, stepping onto pavement that felt unnaturally warm beneath
her sneakers. The keys stayed in the ignition, but fear of theft
never came—who would steal from a town with no one to steal?
The
door shut behind her with a soft click, sealing her in the square’s
suffocating quiet. She forced her breath slow, scanning the
storefronts: two restaurants, a beauty parlor, a bank, antique shops,
a used bookstore, and a theater dominating the square. Its marquee
blazed in vintage bulbs: DREAM A LITTLE DREAM and SHE RISES AT
NIGHT—titles she’d never heard, yet they hummed in her bones like
half-remembered screams.
She
turned toward the right-hand restaurant, heels clicking on the
pavement. Instantly, its "Open" sign flickered and died.
She froze, then pivoted toward the left restaurant—same result. The
sign went dark as if snuffed by an invisible hand.
Sarah
took a step forward, pulse hammering against her ribs. The air grew
heavier, pressing into her lungs like wet soil. She didn’t need to
test it again. The square wasn’t empty. It was waiting.
"What
in the living hell…?"
Every
storefront Sarah scanned flickered dark—the "Open" signs
dying like snuffed candles—but the theater’s marquee blazed
relentless: REEL AFTER REEL. Its sign burned bright despite the empty
ticket booth, the glass doors yawning open onto blackness. Sarah’s
skin prickled. Memory Lane felt wrong, but the theater pulsed with
something hungrier, something that made her stomach drop like a stone
in a well.
She
stared at the theater, arms crossed tight against the chill. The
marquee’s promise—DREAM A LITTLE DREAM / SHE RISES AT
NIGHT—curdled in her gut. Of all places, this was where she never
wanted to set foot. Yet the longer she stood frozen, the more the
building breathed. Orchestra strings swelled—violins sawing a tune
from silent-film days—though the theater’s modern facade held no
projector room. Then came the chatter: phantom voices lining up for
tickets, laughter echoing off empty pavement.
"Nope…"
she muttered, squaring her shoulders. "Fuck this." She
bolted for her car, sneakers slapping the pavement. The driver’s
door handle wouldn’t budge—locked, keys glinting in the ignition
like a taunt.
Buy
Links
Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FS7DXSXX
Smashwords:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1849875
Barnes
and Noble:
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/toil-and-trouble-jae-el-foster/1148244179
Apple:
https://books.apple.com/us/book/x/id6752260026
Kobo:
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/toil-and-trouble-17
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