New Novella for 2022
You're receiving this email it's because you either once signed up for it or were once a supporter of my Patreon, and may be interested in hearing about my new novella that I'll be publishing to Patreon starting January 4, called TIMBERBEAST.
[incredibly Stefan voice] This novella has everything:
- isolated cabin in the woods
- The Yellow Wallpaper
- systemic fungal infections
- locals know something's in these hills but won't talk much about it
- actively processing the trauma of 2020
- fake academic papers
- Horror With A Hopeful Ending™
- deer
On a more serious note, I suspect many of you missed the fiction that I posted regularly in 2019 and 2020. I took 2021 to focus on writing a novel I could query (since anything I publish on Patreon I can't sell traditionally), and I couldn't really do more than one thing at a time, given the chaos of the world. But you know what? I missed this too much. I missed sharing what I create. So, if you left my Patreon because you just want fiction, great news, it's back, for the same low price of a dollar a month!
Below is a preview of TIMBERBEAST, please enjoy!
This house is a window into the soul of its owner. No longer here, comfortable with strangers passing through, willing to remodel the rooms in a way that said nothing personal about them, only set to accommodate others in a way that they felt was nice enough.
And then there's the room. With the wallpaper.
The owners can't see it, but they cannot bear to have it changed. I pressed my hand into the mattress and felt springs creak under my palm. The other rooms had new, foam mattresses. Who had slept here? How were they not ready to bear parting with the bed, but comfortable with unknown bodies changing the shape of it, changing the imprint of a body that was likely now buried?
But the longer I stood in that room, the room that was intended to be my personal space, the less comfortable I felt. Not that it was a trespass. I've long forgotten how that feels, walking through hundreds of homes now. Immediate acclimation was important in my line of work.
I wasn't a trespasser, but I was certainly being watched.
Not a feeling I often get. Even living in a city, walking home alone late at night, I don't get the sense that I'm being watched or followed. Perhaps I'm wrong and was incredibly oblivious to the dangers around me, but that paranoia never settled into me.
But no. Something in that room watches me. I can't put my finger on it. I don't believe in ghosts or spirits or anything (though I'm willing to sage a space if a client asks) but there's something there. A presence.
I tried telling Neil this, but he thinks I'm being silly. He thinks quarantine is getting to me. He's wrong, though. There's something wrong in this room.
Honestly my first thought is mold. When people walk into a room and feel anxious and have trouble breathing, every single time, mold. What this place needs is a good inspection.
And still. I know this. I know this. Houses aren't haunted. It's mold, carbon monoxide, poorly-hung doors, bad wiring, old pipes. Sometimes it's the person. Sleep paralysis can happen regardless of how well-maintained the house is.
But as I sit in this yellow room, writing this down, I can't help but feel like I see movement in the small scenes on the wallpaper. The shepherdess, she watches me as my pen drags across the paper, tending her sheep, wondering where she might direct the wolves. The farmer boy swings his scythe to cut the wheat, staring at me, thinking of what he might cut down instead. The flowers wilt, rotting at the stem. Animals stalk behind them, showing me a promise of teeth.
I turn to look at the wallpaper directly. Everything is as it was before. The small scenes are frozen in place. The flowers bloom beautifully. The water stains have gone still.
So. Obviously. Something is wrong with this house.
I hope you're all safe and happy and healthy. Have a lovely new year holiday, and please look forward to new fiction starting January 4.
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