Chris Jags's Blog - Posts Tagged "hate-ghost"
Hate Ghost: An Excerpt
My first novel, Hate Ghost, is a twisted dark fantasy about several strangers at an inn who are engulfed by a powerful vortex and deposited in an ancient and dying necropolis. They must determine why they have been summoned - and by whom - if they hope to survive the desolation around them, one another, and the horrifying spectral entities which stalk the streets. The guilty among them will be judged, and maybe the innocent too.
I like to say it's a horror tale in fantasy pants, or a fantasy wearing horror skin. Here is a short excerpt from Chapter 3:
Erinn hurt everywhere. Whirling debris had dealt her a blow to the skull; nails jutting from a flying board had gouged her cheek; and a spinning cask of Old Plenty's Single Malt had glanced off her left shoulder, nearly dislocating it. As the terrifying vortex had dwindled above her, she'd landed hard on her back, driving the breath from her lungs; and to top it all off, as she lay stunned, a teetering door had appeared at the fringed of her vision and toppled directly across her, pinning her legs to the cold sand beneath her.
For an endless moment, Erinn's head spun as wildly as the vanished maelstrom. Performing a swift mental self-evaluation, she decided she most likely wasn't dying, nor had she sustained any notably serious injuries. Despite being unable to move her legs, she could wriggle her toes, so she wasn't paralyzed, either.
Tentatively tracing trembling fingers across her scalp, she discovered two patches of stickiness which unsurprisingly turned out to be blood, but the damage wasn't severe. Deeply relieved but still too dazed to sit up, she stared blankly at the oppressively low, grey clouds above her and wondered what the hell had just happened.
Surprise! You lived, she thought weakly. As she'd been swept into the mouth of the funnel, soft and breakable amid a storm of flying beams, bottles, and barrels, she'd been fully convinced of her own imminent demise. Yet here she was, aching but alive. She supposed she should have placed more faith in the Goddess Neth's protection.
Wherever she'd landed wasn't her home town of Wintershare, impossible though that might seem. The air tasted peculiarly stale and sour in her mouth - or was that a side-effect of hitting her head? - and the silence was deafening. Erinn would have expected to hear the clatter of hooves on cobbles, the distant barking of dogs and lowing of cows, to say nothing of the clamor and commotion which the inn's collapse would undoubtedly have caused among the villagers. Instead, there was only unnerving, unnatural stillness... at least until someone nearby began to sob, high and thin.
Groaning with the effort, Erinn managed to turn her head, fighting to focus on the shaking lump huddled among the stones to her right. It took her a moment to recognize his threadbare, hooded traveling cape: the robed stranger from the inn. He was quaking with fright or sorrow. Erinn tried to speak, and while she only managed an incoherent rasp, she did succeed in attracting the man's attention.
Lifting his head, he clumsily pulled the hood back. His face was pinched and pale, wild-eyed; stubble discolored his receding chin. He was of middle age - Erinn had pictured a younger man - and his eyes drooped like those of a basset hound. She tried to recollect all that she might know about him, what gossip old Thom, the innkeeper, might have offered up, but she came up blank. All she really knew - beyond his surpassing oddness - was that he'd paid up front and caused no trouble, and she'd had no cause to pay him much mind.
But the vortex, she reminded herself, had opened at his table.
You can also read Chapter 1 on my website.
I like to say it's a horror tale in fantasy pants, or a fantasy wearing horror skin. Here is a short excerpt from Chapter 3:
Erinn hurt everywhere. Whirling debris had dealt her a blow to the skull; nails jutting from a flying board had gouged her cheek; and a spinning cask of Old Plenty's Single Malt had glanced off her left shoulder, nearly dislocating it. As the terrifying vortex had dwindled above her, she'd landed hard on her back, driving the breath from her lungs; and to top it all off, as she lay stunned, a teetering door had appeared at the fringed of her vision and toppled directly across her, pinning her legs to the cold sand beneath her.
For an endless moment, Erinn's head spun as wildly as the vanished maelstrom. Performing a swift mental self-evaluation, she decided she most likely wasn't dying, nor had she sustained any notably serious injuries. Despite being unable to move her legs, she could wriggle her toes, so she wasn't paralyzed, either.
Tentatively tracing trembling fingers across her scalp, she discovered two patches of stickiness which unsurprisingly turned out to be blood, but the damage wasn't severe. Deeply relieved but still too dazed to sit up, she stared blankly at the oppressively low, grey clouds above her and wondered what the hell had just happened.
Surprise! You lived, she thought weakly. As she'd been swept into the mouth of the funnel, soft and breakable amid a storm of flying beams, bottles, and barrels, she'd been fully convinced of her own imminent demise. Yet here she was, aching but alive. She supposed she should have placed more faith in the Goddess Neth's protection.
Wherever she'd landed wasn't her home town of Wintershare, impossible though that might seem. The air tasted peculiarly stale and sour in her mouth - or was that a side-effect of hitting her head? - and the silence was deafening. Erinn would have expected to hear the clatter of hooves on cobbles, the distant barking of dogs and lowing of cows, to say nothing of the clamor and commotion which the inn's collapse would undoubtedly have caused among the villagers. Instead, there was only unnerving, unnatural stillness... at least until someone nearby began to sob, high and thin.
Groaning with the effort, Erinn managed to turn her head, fighting to focus on the shaking lump huddled among the stones to her right. It took her a moment to recognize his threadbare, hooded traveling cape: the robed stranger from the inn. He was quaking with fright or sorrow. Erinn tried to speak, and while she only managed an incoherent rasp, she did succeed in attracting the man's attention.
Lifting his head, he clumsily pulled the hood back. His face was pinched and pale, wild-eyed; stubble discolored his receding chin. He was of middle age - Erinn had pictured a younger man - and his eyes drooped like those of a basset hound. She tried to recollect all that she might know about him, what gossip old Thom, the innkeeper, might have offered up, but she came up blank. All she really knew - beyond his surpassing oddness - was that he'd paid up front and caused no trouble, and she'd had no cause to pay him much mind.
But the vortex, she reminded herself, had opened at his table.
You can also read Chapter 1 on my website.
