Terror in the Shadows vol. 3: Terror in the Shadows Anthology
Terror in the Shadows vol. 3: Terror in the Shadows Anthology
Terror in the Shadows vol. 3: Terror in the Shadows Anthology
Terror in the Shadows vol. 3: Terror in the Shadows Anthology

Terror in the Shadows vol. 3: Terror in the Shadows Anthology

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With every turn of the page, a new terror is unleashed …

An unwitting antique shopper releases a vicious evil spirit from its ancient prison. A dark ritual turns a woman obsessed with supernatural powers against the people who love her most. A possessed TV proves that old B-Movie monsters can still terrify an unsuspecting audience…

Scare Street’s roster of authors brings you eleven new tales of supernatural horror, in one blood-chilling volume. This macabre collection of short stories is guaranteed to get your pulse racing, and send shivers down your spine.

Each deliciously dark tale will haunt your dreams, and keep you reading long past the witching hour. But wait…What was that noise? Did something move in the shadows?

Just keep telling yourself… it’s only a story.

PUBLICATION DATE November 14, 2022



Cindy took the magnifier and peered at the mark. Leaning closer himself, Steve could see that it was not merely a random splash of ink, but a crude drawing with blurred edges and no real detail. All he could make out was a head of some kind, plus four legs.


"A bear?" he hazarded. "Or maybe a wild boar?"


"No," Cindy said quietly.


"Well, what do you think it is?" Steve said, somewhat piqued. "Cindy?"


"I don't know," she said, not looking at him. "But it looks kind of gross."


She handed the magnifier back to Bevis and walked off without another word.


"Teenagers," Steve said, apologetically. "Okay, what's the story of the mystery blot?"


Bevis looked pleased, very like a man who had mugged up on a subject and was eager to deliver a lecture.


"The story goes," he began, "that one of your ancestors, a chap called John Neville, received this fine estate from the king as a reward for killing the last wolf in England. That was in thirteen-ninety. The incident supposedly happened not far from here, on a peninsula that juts out into the Irish Sea."


"That's awful!" put in Cindy, who was standing at the window, looking out over the castle grounds. "We're descended from a guy who wiped out an entire indigenous species? Way to go, dad."


"We can't help what our ancestors did, honey," Steve protested. "We just have to try and be better people ourselves, right?"


"Wolves were a bit of a menace," said Bevis, in a conciliatory tone. "Always slaughtering sheep, you know, and that meant destroying the livelihoods of ordinary folk. And bolder wolves were known to kill the occasional peasant."


"That's just a myth!" Cindy retorted, turning to glare at the lawyer. "Wolves never attack people, they're shy creatures. They've learned to fear Man, the destroyer of nature!"


Bevis made a helpless gesture to Steve, who smiled in sympathy.


"Please," he said, "go on with the legend - just don't say anything unkind about wolves."


"Well," Bevis said, "the point is that John Neville was supposedly cursed by a local witch for killing the last wolf in England, because the animal was a pregnant female. Strange logic, perhaps, but remember witches were custodians of old pagan ideas, and these did tend to revolve around fertility, the balance of nature, that sort of thing."


Cindy looked more interested, now.


"She was a witch and an eco-warrior? Cool. Why can't we be descended from her instead of some jerk?"


Oh God, Steve thought, she's going to have a pagan phase, sure as I'm standing here.


"The witch," Bevis went on, "said that such an unnatural deed would have terrible repercussions. I can't quite recall what she's supposed to have said but there's some sort of rhyme ..."


The housekeeper spoke, loud and clear, startling them all. They had not even realized that Mrs. French was in the room. But she had obviously been listening, and judging by her expression, she did not approve of Bevis's jocular tone.


"If a Neville stains his hand with blood, the wolf will claim one of his brood," she declared. "That's the rhyme I was taught as a girl. It was why the Neville heirs never went hunting. Of course, nowadays most people don't believe such things."


"Surely nobody really believes such things, Mrs. French?" Bevis said, using his patronizing tone. "This is the twenty-first century, after all."


"During the day, it's the twenty-first century," retorted the old woman. "Come nightfall, we're all back in the Dark Ages, I reckon."


"What does the rhyme mean?" Cindy said, wide-eyed.


The old woman nodded approvingly at the girl.


"At least this young lady has an open mind," she said, with a hint of approval. "Dinner's at half-five, sharp. Hope you like chicken."


The abrupted change of subject caught Bevis and the Nevilles off guard. Mrs. French had swept out of the room before Steve could think to ask her if there was a vegetarian option for Tanya and Cindy.


"She's a trifle eccentric, but a very hard worker," Bevis said, apologetically. "It is rather difficult to retain domestic staff these days."


"I need to lie down," said Tanya abruptly. "I do not feel good."


"Of course!" said Bevis. "We have restored the old elevator to the upper floors, and the master bedroom has been completely refurbished. Let me show you the way."


Later, when Tanya was lying propped up by pillows and cushions, Steve got changed. As he was checking his pockets, he found the used wipe. He balled it up and threw it into a wastebasket. Then a wayward thought struck him and he walked over to retrieve the crumpled fabric. He unfolded it slowly and held it up to the window.


"What are you doing?" moaned Tanya, covering her eyes with one hand. "Please close the curtains, I have a headache."


"Sorry, honey," Steve said reflexively, drawing the drapes.


He scrunched up the wipe again and slung it back in the wastebasket before leaving the room quietly.


So there were a couple spots of blood, he thought, as he made his way back downstairs. So what?


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