From huldra to harpies and dragons to mermaids—when faced with monsters, how far would you go to protect those you love?
Toeing the line between fantasy and horror, this illustrated collection contains five short stories inspired by folklore from around the world.
From wild daughters to monstrous mothers, from a cunning huldra to protective harpies and a malevolent Rye Aunt, these tales feature both fierce and fearsome women clashing in modern folkloric landscapes. Travelling from the lush peaks of the Utladalen valley in Norway to the rugged coastline of South Wales, from Polish woodland to German cornfields and the slopes of Mount Parnassus in Greece, discover myths and monsters reimagined as you’ve never seen before.
Dark Folklore: An Uncanny Short Story Collectioncontains all five novelettes previously published in my Dark Folklore series. Now combined into a single collection, they can be enjoyed as intended as a complete work alongside gorgeous ink-and-charcoal illustrations provided by my favourite artist, Dominique Lane.
‘WELCOME TO CRICK’S HOLLOW. Your nightmare awaits. If you have a heart condition, please inform us now so we can be ready to devour your shell-shocked corpse when it hits the floor.’
A light ripple of laughter. It always got one.
This group was young, vapid, and not as immune to lame humour as their ingrained Gen Z scepticism would like to envisage. It was a more optimistic laugh than the joke might receive from their Millennial peers, whose deep wells of pessimism and faith in their own misfortune would inspire a snort-like grunt: a ‘yeah, we can believe that’ snigger of disparagement.
Over the years, I’d become rather proficient at guessing the age of my audience based on the flavour of their reaction to my welcome.
The crowd in front of me today was the youngest I’d greeted in a while. They owned bodies with supple skin and pliant muscles, with joints that could flex without the invisible grinding of cartilage, without the crackling of pain in every tired sinew. I considered their wealth of energy with interest.
My theme park used to attract, almost exclusively, an older class of patron. People who had been in the world long enough to learn the name of Crick’s Hollow—to glean whispered details from a friend of a friend’s acquaintance and mark a hazy location amid a patch of wild woodland on the edge of the North York Moors. We liked it when our guests put in the effort to find us.
I understood the internet had changed the nature of the game. There were still dark corners where our name was whispered—on niche websites and cryptic forum posts—but increasingly we were being drawn into the light. I felt this more than ever while watching my young audience prepare for their Crick’s Hollow experience.
They twisted around each other for selfies: a blonde girl in baggy jeans and over-sized jumper bent backwards around the Crick’s Hollow sign; one boy lifted another onto his shoulders with a drunken cheer; they all grinned in open-mouthed madness into their phones.
‘Let’s get in there!’ whooped a guy gesticulating wildly in front of the entrance gate. His friend held the camera steady for him. ‘I’m so scared right now, guys. This place is unreal. Let’s do it! Like for part two!’
His smile froze, then dropped away. ‘Did we get it? Was that good?’
‘Bet. Smashed it.’
‘Did you get the weird lady saying her thing?’
The phone camera swung in my direction. ‘Yup, got the close-up. Why’s she not even in costume, though?’ He frowned at my navy boiler suit, then frowned even more deeply while watching the playback of his video. ‘Ah, fuck. It’s all out of focus on her. Blurry and shit.’
His partner, the whooper, groaned. ‘Do you think we can ask her to say it again?’
I stepped between the pair and smoothly interjected. ‘It is time to enter. Your frightful experience awaits.’
They looked at each other and shrugged.
‘Let’s go. Don’t shake the camera too much when we’re running away from stuff, yeah?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m on it. Three, two…’
I watched the pair lope away into the park. Their schtick was ridiculous, but potentially good for business.
‘Excuse me, can we get a photo?’
Ah, the blonde baggy jeans girl. I smiled as her phone clicked. It clicked again, then again.
A flash of rainbow appeared at her side—evidently a friend, wearing a motley of patchwork colours, who then peered over the blonde’s shoulder. ‘You’ve got a weird filter on or something.’
‘No I haven’t,’ Baggy Jeans protested.
‘Then hold it still!’
‘Ladies, I have work to do.’ I moved away and gestured for them to enter the park. ‘I promise I don’t photograph well, anyway.’
Pouting a little, Baggy Jeans and Patchwork sauntered through the Crick’s Hollow gates.
They were tailed, I noticed, by a man who had been hanging at the back. He stuck out for being older, but he had the kind of unweathered, too-perfect skin that made his actual age hard to place. Sunglasses and a baseball cap masked his face. The rest of him seemed designed to draw as little attention as possible. Bland green t-shirt, beige trousers, scuffed trainers: not a pattern or brand in sight.
He’d kept his head bowed through my initial welcome, looked up only as the crowd began to split, and now the sunglasses gazed unerringly at Baggy Jeans and Patchwork as they giggled over their phones and squealed exclamations at each other about which ride to try first.
I watched him follow them onto the Ghost Train.
I pulled up my radio. ‘Hamish. It’s Sal. I’m going on break. Tell Larry it’s his turn on the gate. I’ll feed the ghouls on the way.’
‘You need to say ‘Over’ at the end. Over.’
‘…Over, Hamish.’
I swung by the staff shack to pick up the bucket of chicken livers. There’s much to be said for efficiency. Why make two trips when one would do?
The back door to the Ghost Train was hanging off its hinges—much of the park was desperately in need of repair—and I slipped inside quietly. The empty cars clanked along their track in the dark beside me.
Too many empty cars. Despite the advent of the world wide web, our humble park still wasn’t flashy enough to lure in a large audience. We were desperately in need of updates. Most of this stuff was built in the 1950s and hadn’t changed since.
I stood idly for a while in the tin tunnel, enjoying the cool atmosphere and gently flickering shadows. A duet of screams pierced the silence and I smiled. The girls had likely encountered the first curtain of dismembered limbs.
‘Ready for lunch, lads?’ I rattled my bucket. The girls’ car was approaching. We’d give them a special treat.
A rushing wind filled the little tunnel. I pulled up a slimy handful of livers—admired how they glistened in the dim green emergency lighting—and threw them into the air just as the car rumbled into view.
Lanky arms snatched down from the ceiling. Pallid bodies unfurled from their roosts, stretching towards the trundling car. Baggy Trousers and Patchwork shrieked as eyes burning with hellish embers turned upon them and the gnashing, hungry maws opened…
I rattled the bucket again. The ghouls turned swiftly, lunged for another moist confetti-throw of liver, and then the car was past and the girls disappeared further into the darkness. The echoes of their hysterics were matched by the slick munching sounds of the ghouls, and I knew that noise would be following them for the rest of the ride.
I left the ghouls to their meal. Now the other matter to attend to.
The man in the hat had entered the Ghost Train through the exit.
I jogged to catch up to the girls. I made a note of maintenance jobs on my way. Must order more fake cobwebs. The skeleton wants re-nailing to the wall—he had a habit of going walkabout if left unfettered. That light bulb should be replaced before the next health and safety inspection.
I was unsurprised to see the car stopped up ahead. A wooden coffin had been thrown onto the track and our rickety machinery was no match for such a feeble obstacle. The girls hugged each other in their seat, quietly whispering. Was this part of the ride? It wasn’t supposed to be this scary, was it?
I lingered in the back, absent-mindedly wiping chicken blood from my fingers onto my overalls.
His approach was hardly stealthy. He thought himself a monster, moving through the murky shadows like a devil, stalking prey like a tiger. But also not anything like a tiger, because a tiger would take more care not to spook its quarry.
He was all about spooking them. Clearly delighted by how his heavy footfalls made the girls jump and shiver, and when his voice cut through the buzzing of our neon lights there was a distinct grin edging his words.
‘Hello, darlings. Are you lost?’
‘Fuck off!’ Baggy Trousers shouted. Patchwork fumbled with her phone. Sensible.
He didn’t like it. The grin twisted to a sneer. ‘You have a dirty mouth, bitch.’
If they’d had any doubts about the danger they were in, it was obvious now. ‘Shit. Shit. I can’t move the bar, Jess!’
Ah yes. We should look at getting that fixed. It’s supposedly a safety bar to hang onto, though in reality it serves to keep people in their seats. You don’t want anyone moving off the path with the ghouls around. They work better with routine. If a customer disrupts their routine, well… it gets messy.
The man in the hat closed in, merely a silhouette in the pale green glow. Something sharp and metal glinted in his hand.
‘I’m going to enjoy this,’ he rasped. ‘We’re going to take things nice and slow.’
A talker, I observed. Stupid. Already a faint dial tone indicated Patchwork had managed to get through to 999.
He swiped for the phone, ramming an elbow into the girl’s throat in the process. Her friend screamed—a real scream, and I took a moment to savour it. The scent of true fear. The delicate undercurrent of epiphany, of recognising one’s own mortality.
Genuine terror was so hard to replicate. Adolescent shrieks of adrenaline from shitty theme park rides were a poor substitute for the real thing.
But her scream had spooked the hat-man, and now he was re-thinking his plan. His knife blade came up and the scream got louder—
I sighed. A murder investigation really would be too much trouble.
—the knife clattered to the ground, surrounded by empty air.
‘Where’d he go?’ Patchwork shouted. ‘Seriously where the fuck did he go? If you’re there you better stay the fuck away you fucking freak!’
She screeched her threats until she was out of breath, to no response.
Baggy Trousers, violently shaking, said, ‘I want to leave now.’
The car jolted—to another set of shrill screams—and rattled on its way.
‘What the fuck was that? What the fuck was that?’
‘M-maybe it was part of the ride?’
‘No fucking way.’
‘Where’d he go? It was like he was there and then this— Did you see this… thing? Like it grabbed him…’
I waited until they were out of earshot, then slowly unwound my tendrils from the now lifeless corpse of the man with the hat. It was a long time since I’d had the pleasure of sucking the life juices out of a body like that. I subsisted almost purely on low-grade fear, these days.
I buzzed my radio.
‘What’s up, Sal?’
‘I need clean-up on the Ghost Train. Scramble the crew, please.’
‘Another corpse? Fuck. Did the ghouls get loose again?’
‘No. This one was self-inflicted.’
A short silence underscored Hamish’s disapproval. ‘Fuck me, Sal. Two in one day? You gotta keep that temper in check.’
‘It wasn’t like this morning. Marty brought it on himself too, mind. Anyway, that one wasn’t permanent.’
‘I hear werewolves find it mighty inconvenient when you crucify them though, Sal.’
‘He’ll get over it. Besides, I was feeling symbolic.’
I dropped the fresh corpse to the side of the track and pulled some musty cobwebs over it. That’d do for now. Just one more prop until the cleaning crew arrived.
‘Hamish, I need you to tweak the announcement outside the ride as well. As the next two customers get off, have it say something like, “Can you endure our most murderous ride yet?” You know, something tacky but intense.’
‘I’m not your personal PA system—’
‘You’re a possessed radio. Get over it. Or I’ll exorcise your ass. Over.’
A crackle of radio static let me know he was sulking, but as I slipped away from the ride I heard our new announcement playing over the speaker.
Good. A few more hints here and there, and the girls would believe they’d just had the most intense Crick’s Hollow experience ever.
I wondered vaguely if I could get the video boys from earlier to interview them. But talking to people has never been my strong point.
I glanced down at my overalls, now substantially more blood-splattered than before. Excellent. It would add some extra ambience to my attire.
As I scanned the meagre crowds in the park, I spotted the two girls walking unsteadily towards our Cruel-Tea Café. I prompted Hamish to pass on a message to our server there to gossip about the Ghost Train’s ‘newest addition’. Perfect.
I took a deep breath in: stale candyfloss mixed with sweat and hot dogs and a wavering nuance of fear. Nothing quite as pure as the distilled terror I’d just tasted, but it’d do.
I stretched my neck, ensured my leech-fanged tendrils were neatly folded away, and got back to work.
Thanks for reading! This short story is an excerpt from my latest release, Welcome To The Fang-mily. WTTF is the first book in my new horror-comedy series of novellas, Crick’s Hollow, revolving around a nightmare theme park and its ghoulish residents.
Welcome to Crick’s Hollow, the nightmare theme park that promises a killer time.
When a manhunt brings Detective Constable Reeves to Crick’s Hollow, she knows to expect a certain amount of weird from the actors staffing the park. But nothing could prepare her for just how off-kilter everything is once inside. Why are the guests lining up for a ride that drowns them? How does the Spider Lady make all eight of her eyes blink at once? Why do the bloody costumes stink of genuine human decay?
More importantly, is the murderer she’s chasing hiding somewhere amongst the fake cobwebs?
Here’s a Christmas gift for you! Over a year in the making, A Very Uncanny Christmas was originally supposed to be a 5,000 word short story for fans of Jack Hansard, but it turned into a 19,000 word novella that I’m proud to finally present for your enjoyment.
Funny urban fantasy with a magic(ish) salesman, a Welsh coblyn, and a misguided Christmas spirit.
A Very Uncanny Christmas is a standalone story that you can enjoy by itself or within the context of the main series. (It takes place after the events in The Jack Hansard Series: Season One.) Jack and Ang find themselves in Oxford for Christmas, up to their usual uncanny tricks in the corner of a festive market. But Jack’s keeping a secret from Ang about his real reason for being there: an ordeal like no other – he’s seeing his family for Christmas.
Although Jack’s prepared for a miserable holiday at home, he isn’t prepared for a cursed one. Everyone’s acting out of character; it’s all a bit too jolly, and the knitted jumpers are almost as weird as the freak snow that’s only appearing on their street. There’s obviously some Christmas magic afoot – but will Jack get to the bottom of the mystery, or succumb to the Christmas spirit himself?
When Jack Hansard, Purveyor of Occult Goods, takes a break from hawking dodgy potions and broken magic charms to go home for Christmas, he expects to suffer through a painfully normal family reunion. However, it soon becomes obvious his family is under some kind of Christmas curse: everybody is being too nice.
Then there’s the freak snow, and the weird knitted jumpers, and the elf that little Nicky swears he saw poisoning the mince pies. Whatever’s going on, it’s something that lurks beyond the ordinary.
Jack must face sinister singalongs, enchanted toys, and possibly even Santa Claus himself to get to the bottom of the mystery and save Christmas . . .
. . . Or at least, save his family from Christmas.
A year ago today my short story Ecstatic Birth was published in audio by The NoSleep Podcast. The cast did an incredible job, with Jessica McEvoy giving a truly sinister performance in the lead role as Mandy.
Now, for the first time, I’m publishing this story in text format here on my blog, so you can read at your leisure. If you would like to listen along to the audio while you read, you’ll find Ecstatic Birth at around 00:19:55 in Episode 18, Season 17 of the NoSleep Podcast.
There is a cold drip in my spine. I turn to you and smile the lopsided smirk of a stroke victim; my lazy muscles grant you just half the effort you are so adamant you deserve, despite having put so little effort into this endeavour yourself.
“D’you think it’s a boy?” I slur. The beeping heart monitor makes patterns in the air alongside my voice.
“Shut up,” you tell me.
I start to giggle. Can’t help it. Don’t want to help it.
“Mandy, seriously. Shut the fuck up.”
The midwife gives you a sharp look. Even funnier. She counts down to a contraction and I burst into hysterics.
I see your teeth grinding. “Can we make her stop laughing?”
“No. It’s a common side-effect. Survival reflex, we think.”
They both hold me down as my body nearly shakes itself off the bed in a fit of humour.
“Did you know,” I gasp, “that some women– some women!– say that giving birth is like– is like– having an orgasm!”
It’s too hilarious. I sink deep into the pleasure of its absurdity. Ecstatic birth, they call it. The bliss of expelling a whole lifeform from your core. It must be the body’s joyous reaction – a celebration – to finally be relieved of the parasite sucking on its juices.
My body is preparing for this celebration. My nerve endings are tingling. You look at me with disgust as I start to writhe, as moans escape my throat and mingle with the other sounds dancing about the ceiling lights.
“We need to get it the fuck out of her.”
“The doctor is on her way.”
“We need more than a fucking doctor.”
There is panic in your voice and it is delicious. It lends a mottled hue to the other colours in the air. The monitor blinks in and out with a prickly pink noise. My pleasure-sounds are the rich undercurrent, and we are all swimming in its waters.
The midwife is arguing with you, she is fed up with your language. You are fed up with the entire awful situation. Fever dances in you. You’re so close to the edge. We’re both so close to the edge.
“I just want my wife back!” you scream in a white-hot jet of pain.
That does it. The midwife hisses under her breath, a silky dissonance. “This is it.”
Shivers of ecstasy run through me with every contraction. I feel that my scream is red and bloody, and though my mind says bliss my body says agony.
I’m still laughing, wheezing, straining, as my flesh tears and I am split open in a throbbing symphony of joy and terror, and my swollen uterus finally ejects its horrid passenger.
Behind thick walls of glass, a crowd of figures in white coats bend their heads and scribble on clipboards. I see the quiet sound of their pens scritching; it claws at the glass like a nervous animal.
You have backed into a corner, face too pale, staring in stiff dread at the thing the midwife is wrapping in fabric.
“I don’t want to see it!” I shout, except my voice has ground down to a hoarse, pebbly whisper. It falls from my mouth like little stones. “Take it away. Take it away.”
“Is it over?” you say. You know it isn’t.
The midwife is expressing some information to the bodies in white coats. Her words patter in matter-of-fact data droplets onto the glass. She turns to you, still holding the parcel of infant lifeform. “We’ll need to run more tests.”
“You said we just had to get through this,” you say faintly. “We just had to get it out of her.”
Other bodies are spilling into the room. They have noticed me, that I am still spilling, too. I thought the flow of red might have been the sound of my own breathing, but it appears to be tangible to them and they begin mopping, and prying, and stitching. Someone presses the button on my drip and coldness floods into my back. “Is it a boy?” I ask, and fade from consciousness.
* * *
There is a whole ward dedicated to us. Practically the entire hospital. Only three women currently in its care.
You have been staring at me for a long time. Your voice is so hollow. It has the same weight as an echo as it bounces in and out of the empty beds.
“You won’t give it up, then?” you ask again. You have been asking for days.
A nurse hovers on the edge of the ward. Military personnel swap shifts on the doors.
“We’re just fine,” I murmur, and I blow the sound towards my daughter like a kiss.
“Mandy, it’s not real. You understood what it was, before. Before it was– here.” You touch my arm. The sensation is flimsy, insubstantial. “Please tell me you understand. This is not your baby.”
“I gave birth, didn’t I?” I break from my humming to answer you. I am always humming now. It keeps her warm and calm. She loves the feel of my voice.
You, on the other hand, are a black hole for my sounds. They distort and twist as they near your event horizon, then briefly flare before being sucked irretrievably into your silence. I give them freely, as gifts. I don’t mind that you waste them, these miracles. You’ll have miracles of your own, soon.
Eventually, you speak. Little flashes of energy on the frayed edges of your tired soul. “Do you even remember how it arrived?”
“We were walking in the woods,” I trill.
“Then what?”
“There was music.” The memory may be vague, but the warm flush of anguish is unquestionable. It tinges my cheeks with longing. “It was beautiful.”
You bury your head in your hands. “This is a nightmare.”
“Isn’t it funny,” I say.
“No.”
I hum a laugh, tickled by the old thought that has suddenly resurfaced. “Isn’t it funny,” I say again, “that pain is so necessary?”
The look you give me, it tips me fully into giggles, so I cannot finish the thought to completion. But you would know it, if only you could pause to taste the words. We’ve had the conversation before. Giving birth is the one acceptable trauma, we agreed. Necessary trauma: for the propagation of species; for the flighty thing we call family.
No matter how many chemicals we siphon into our bodies, we can’t escape the aftermath, the broken flesh. And perhaps worse, the result of our efforts remains to cling to us in its fragile newborn skin; a whole lifetime cradled in our palms, unaware of the horrors we shall have brought upon it purely by being in the world.
My daughter pleases me beyond all comprehension. They say you forget the pain, and it shall all be worth it in the end.
You pull me from reverie. “Mandy, look at yourself,” you say softly.
Your hand trembles as you touch my stomach. I know you are afraid to lift the dressings, to see how much of me is really left. The bandage sinks a little, falling into a deep depression under your fingers.
You jerk away, choking back a cry. The noise attracts the nurse, who arrives swiftly at your shoulder, indicates visiting time is drawing to an end. You become ghosts on the edge of my vision.
“Is she going to live?”
“We’re doing everything we can. I promise she’s comfortable. But she won’t be going home.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“She’ll be looked after. Studied, but well looked after.”
“And the… thing?”
She glances nervously at the guards on the door. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
She escorts you into the corridor. You hold a near inaudible conversation, which gently floats back to me over the rest of the day.
“I thought you could help her. They said it was just an infection!”
“It’s not. Listen. You need to let her go. They’ll stop allowing you in here soon.”
“They can’t. She’s my wife.”
“Maybe.”
“What’s that supposed to–”
“You’ll disappear, do you understand? If you don’t let this go. She’ll be safe. They just want to study her. And keep other people… safe.”
“I can’t leave her like this.”
I pluck the speckled sound of your fear out of the air and plait it into my daughter’s pretty gurgling. It weaves into a dappled blanket that curls across the room and drapes around the heads of the soldiers. I send it to keep them warm.
Soon they are muttering. Their skin itches. A heavy base note thuds along their arteries. There is emptiness in them, a hollow well of silence aching to be filled. I send them gifts all throughout the night, until they can feel it dancing inside their swollen stomachs. They drop their weapons and clutch at their bodies, contorting, crying.
What miracles they are blessed with. All life is a miracle: as improbable as pleasure and the forming of stars; as implausible as music born from errant sounds. We shall all be miracle-bearers.
I continue to hum with my daughter, while their screams blend into our beautiful, blissful melody.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story please consider supporting me for the cost of a coffee or recommending my work to a friend! 😊
For more sinister, supernatural stories themed around motherhood, check out my Dark Folklore series of books.
A dark fairy tale in a modern German setting. After inheriting her mother’s dilapidated farm, Marion suffers nightmare visions and a monster from old nursery tales that stalks her daughter in the fields.
Among Strangling Roots is the fourth standalone novelette in the Dark Folklore series, inspired by tales of the Rye Aunt, or Roggenmuhme. The Rye Aunt is a type of Feldgeister, or ‘field spirit’ from German folklore. This is the darkest story yet, with a strong rural horror vibe and not-so-happy ending.
When Marion returns to the house she grew up in, she is haunted by her unpleasant childhood and her own inability to connect with her eight-year-old daughter, Lilli. As her mind unravels, Marion finds herself plagued by waking nightmares and visions of the Rye Aunt: a terrifying, tar-stained shadow that stalks the fields and steals away naughty children.
Among Strangling Roots is available from all popular eBook retailers, and a few more besides. Grab it from your favourite store today!
A dark fairy tale in a modern Welsh setting. The lives of a diver and a reclusive mermaid collide. Will one be the death of the other?
Across Screaming Seas is a standalone novelette in the Dark Folklore series, inspired by tales of Welsh mermaids – or ‘morgens’. Set on the south coast of Wales, this story follows a snorkelling instructor named Erin who comes to the aid of a sea creature caught in fishing nets. Erin is shocked to discover she’s rescued an injured mermaid – which swiftly disappears back into the ocean. Determined to find the creature again, Erin sets out to lure the mermaid into another encounter. A twist of circumstance finds Erin trapped in the mermaid’s lair, wrestling against her own conscience and the instinct to survive…
Across Screaming Seas is available from all popular eBook retailers, and a few more besides. Grab it from your favourite store today!
A dark fairy tale in a modern Polish setting. A grandmother cares for an ailing dragon… but her compassion puts her own grandchildren in danger.
Just released: the next installment in the Dark Folklore short story series. Within Trembling Caverns is a standalone short story (or novelette, if you’re feeling fancy) inspired by the Polish legend of the Wawel Dragon. Set on the outskirts of modern Krakow, an elderly woman named Truda feels a sense of duty to look after a cave-bound dragon near her home. But when misfortune strikes and she can no longer feed the beast, her own family are at risk of becoming meals for her starving, scaly ward…
Within Trembling Caverns is available from all the most popular eBook retailers, and a few more besides. Grab it from your favourite store below:
Today marks the launch of a brand new fantasy story, and a new series along with it. Beyond Thundering Waters is a dark fairy tale set in the lush surroundings of the Utladalen Valley in Norway.
Our young heroine, Ida, gets into trouble when she catches the attention of Maja, a huldra who lives in the forest. Maja is drawn by Ida’s grief – she’s still grappling with the death of her Mamma… and it seems Maja is keen to fill the void that was left behind. Will Ida end up with a huldra for a mother? Can she save her Pappa before Maja takes him away forever?
The Giveaway
To celebrate, I’m giving away a whole bunch of free copies of this eBook! Today you can grab one of TEN freebies using this special coupon code at Smashwords:
Simply enter the code at checkout to get the book for free. Remember, there are only ten copies available: the first ten people to enter the code, win! The code expires next week on 10th May.
This isn’t the only giveaway. You’ll find another code to use on Google Play via my Facebook page, and yet another code in my Reader Group. Current subscribers to my newsletter will get their own chance to win one of TWENTY free copies tomorrow!
And of course, if you want to purchase the story instead, you can find the ebook on all retailers via this universal link: https://books2read.com/b/4jgw9X
If you’d like to help out this little launch, please reblog this post, shout about the giveaways, and share the book link! Love to you all, and I hope you enjoy the story. 😊
Dark Folklore is a new short story series inspired by myths and monsters from around the world.
I love discovering folklore in all its flavors… from elusive beasties that stalk the aging forests to twisting fates in fairytales told from the shadows of a campfire. The more obscure and sinister the tale, the better.
Dark Folklore is a series to indulge this love. Each installment is inspired by a folk legend from a different country, reimagined in a modern setting with new twists and themes. More than just a retelling: each short story is a new, original tale. Expect some spooky vibes and a few unhappy endings… but also the odd uplifting one as well.
The first installment of Dark Folklore releases on Tuesday 3rd May: a story called Beyond Thundering Waters. With a lush Norwegian setting surrounded by mountains and waterfalls, this story draws on a menacing interpretation of the huldra (one of my favourite folkloric creatures). Ida, a young girl still grieving the loss of her mother, must race against time to save her Pappa from the clutches of her own wild valley and the huldra who would keep them apart.
This story is already live for preorder on all the usual storefronts. Stay tuned for a special Launch Day Giveaway: I’ll be handing out TEN free copies of Beyond Thundering Waters via my blog, and even more copies via social media and my newsletter!
So remember to hit the Follow button on my website, and check out my socials on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Subscribe to my newsletter (and receive another free short story) by clicking here.
Do you like dark vibes, spooky tales and Twilight Zone-esque anthologies? Then I’ve got the podcast – and the story – for you!
The NoSleep Podcast releases weekly episodes with their curated selection of the best short horror stories, brilliantly adapted to audio for your listening pleasure. The first half of each episode is FREE to enjoy on their website. (And unlocking the rest is a paltry $2, or $25 for all 25 episodes in a season.)
I’m beyond proud to tell you that one of my stories, Ecstatic Birth, was featured in Episode 18 (Season 17) of The NoSleep Podcast earlier this month. Even better, my story appears in the free portion of the episode, so you can check it out whenever you feel like it! You can find the intro to the story at roughly 00:19:55 in the recording. [Content warning for underlying themes of traumatic birth and postnatal depression: this is darker than other stuff you may have read from me and I don’t wish you to be caught off-guard.] Click here to go listen to it on the NoSleep website.
So excited to be in these credits!
The cast did a brilliant job, and I’m especially in awe of Jessica McEvoy’s performance as the lead. Her wonderfully deranged portrayal of Mandy took the story to new heights and conveyed such a sinister aura that it stayed with me for a long time after listening. The NoSleep crew are topnotch at what they do, and I highly recommend following and supporting their work.
If you listened to my story or the rest of the episode, let me know what you thought of it in the comments!
Georgina Jeffery 