The Covenant Engine

The following is based on a review on The Jerusalem Post, with names changed to protect the innocent...

1988.

Caleb Rourke’s fingers trembled as the vision took hold of him. In the darkness before his mind’s eye, an image twisted into view—a long-forgotten chamber, its walls slick with moisture and draped in shadows and ruin. He stood at its threshold, alone, breath shallow, yet the air inside carried an electric hum, as if the room itself was alive—waiting. Before him lay a gilded, coffin-like container, its surface etched with symbols of an ancient covenant. Within its walls, six-winged angels pulsed with an otherworldly light, their forms glowing in rhythmic, silent motion.

It’s real, Caleb thought, heart racing, pulse drowning out his thoughts. 

“The Ark,” he muttered, knowing the word would haunt him forever.

“You know nothing,” a voice—deep, omnipotent—crashed through his mind. The words sent a shock through his chest. “You cannot fathom the weight of what you seek.”

“Who are you?” Caleb whispered, voice barely rising above the hum, as if speaking louder might shatter his fragile grip on the vision. "What is this place?"

“You are trespassing,” the voice intoned, cold and distant. “The protectors will rise when the Ark is disturbed.”

With suffocating intensity, a wave of dread washed over him. Around him, the air in the chamber seemed to stretch and warp, as if the room itself were breathing. Caleb stepped forward, hypnotized by the golden glow emanating from the Ark. Beneath his feet, he felt a faint tremor, a pulse—sharp—as if something ancient and unforgiving had noticed his intrusion.

“You can’t,” the voice warned again, though this time, it sounded more like a plea.

“Too late.” Caleb’s voice was grim, resigned. Temptation surged within him, an insatiable curiosity he couldn’t ignore. He reached out, fingers brushing the surface of the Ark, feeling a jolt of heat shoot through his hand.

The room trembled violently. The protective wards, the sealed forces of millennia, shattered like glass. As Caleb staggered back, the floor beneath him gave way. In the freefall, the vision shattered into a thousand fragments—each revealing something different, something at once more grotesque and more divine. Figures in white robes surrounded him, faces obscured by shadows. He heard their chanting, ancient and sorrowful. Rising from the depths of his being, the words pierced his mind, resonating with the call of something eternal.

Arabic, Caleb realized in a hazy panic. They’re calling me.

The Ark began to glow brighter, its golden surface cracking, as if awakening from a centuries-long slumber.

“You are not meant to—” The voice echoed one last time, but Caleb was no longer listening. 

As the glow reached its peak, a wall of energy surged upward, engulfing him. Time warped, distorting reality as he reached out for the Ark, feeling something—something ancient—pulling at his soul. There was a roar—a scream—felt more than heard. 

“Remember what you awaken,” the voice hissed, before it was drowned out in the chaos.

Caleb’s last thought, his final breath, was swallowed by a force older than time. The light from the Ark expanded until there was only darkness.

Outside, the world remained unaware, oblivious to the force that had stirred beneath the earth. But Caleb knew, deep within, something had been unleashed—a power that would not be easily contained.

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I’m excited to announce that Cumberland Chronicles is now live on Books2Read! If supernatural, horror, and weird tales are your thing, this one's for you. If not, sharing it with others who might enjoy it would be a huge help. Thanks for all the support!

Strikes and Remains

Welcome to The ParaZone—transforming today’s headlines into eerie, esoteric micro-fiction, blurring the line between reality and the surreal. Today, we will dive into a psychic’s search for a missing girl, which unveils a buried secret and a lingering presence.

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The following is based on a WMGE report, with names changed to protect the innocent...

October 2024.

The wind howled through the hollow bones of Maple Lanes, an abandoned bowling alley slouched under decades of rot. Lorraine Bellamy stepped over a sagging patch of warped linoleum, her flashlight flickering as if protesting her presence.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she muttered, pulling her coat tighter against the cold clinging to the building’s skin. Her boots crunched over broken glass and shattered pins—too sharp, too awake in the sleeping dark.

A voice rasped behind her ear.

"He’s waiting."

She froze. Not a whisper. Not imagined. A voice—low, graveled, close enough to feel the breath that never came.

She turned toward the back exit, its door half-hinged, revealing a path swallowed by weeds and broken stone. Her pulse quickened.

"You better be right about this," she said aloud, to no one—or everyone. “I’ve followed your voices through attics, woods, basements… This is the last time.”

A bowling pin clattered in the distance.

Outside, moonlight bled through skeletal birches. Lorraine pushed into the overgrowth, the flashlight beam jittering with each breath. A crow perched on a rusted gutter, watching.

She halted.

Behind the building, the earth dipped unnaturally, as though it had sighed open. A pale fragment of jawbone caught the light through moss and dirt.

“No…” Lorraine dropped to her knees, scraping at the soil with bare hands. “This can’t be Emily.”

A skeletal hand emerged—brittle, limp, as if it had reached up and given up halfway.

Another voice—quieter. Male. Frantic.

"Help me—please—she’s not—"

The rest garbled into static. Lorraine sat back, chest rising fast. “Who are you?”

Silence.

"Not the girl you seek."

Her flashlight trembled. Beneath the bones, the ground scorched. Faint letters seared into the concrete.

“What the hell…” she whispered, tracing them. “Who did this to you?”

Leaves stirred behind her.

“I should call this in,” she said, rising. “Get you home. You deserve that much.”

Pins inside the alley toppled—one after the other, like invisible players rolling perfect strikes.

A new voice emerged.

Young. Clear.

"I’m still here."

Lorraine spun toward the alley. Her breath fogged, though the night remained warm.

“…Emily?”

Darkness pressed in.

Something moved down the lane—a shape, a girl, maybe. Watching.

Waiting.

Her fingers gripped the pendant at her neck—the charm Emily’s mother had given her. It pulsed.

“I’m listening,” she whispered, stepping toward the yawning doorway.

Pins no longer fell.

Trees rustled behind her, low and constant.

She didn’t need more proof. The dead had spoken. And someone else, someone lost, had begun to answer.

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I’m excited to announce that Cumberland Chronicles is now live on Books2Read! If supernatural, horror, and weird tales are your thing, this one's for you. If not, sharing it with others who might enjoy it would be a huge help. Thanks for all the support!

 

The Dollmaker’s Curse

The following is based on a paranormal weekend in Key West…

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Claire Monroe drew in a steadying inhale, her fingers trembling inches above the doll’s unfinished porcelain face. Candlelight danced nervously across the stone walls of Fort East Martello, illuminating forgotten relics—each object holding its silence.

“Are you ready for this?” David Sloan murmured, eyes narrowed with grave intensity. His practiced but hesitant hands rested upon the doll’s blank torso, as though it might recoil beneath his touch.

Claire exchanged a brief glance with Dustin Pari, who lingered slightly apart, jaw clenched tightly, his gaze fixed unblinkingly upon the doll. “We’ve conducted experiments before,” he said slowly, voice low and cautious, “but never here—not in Robert’s home. This place feels…hungry.”

Ignoring the chill snaking down her spine, Claire straightened her posture. “We came for answers, didn't we? If the Philip Experiment worked once, it can work again. Belief makes it real.”

Dustin's expression softened cautiously. "Then let's begin."

Their voices melded seamlessly into rhythmic chants, each syllable softly reverberating within the fortress walls. As shadows deepened, the air thickened, pressing closer with an almost tangible presence. With sudden intensity, temperatures around them plummeted, their exhales visibly clouding the oppressive chill.

“It’s working…” David whispered urgently, voice tight with awe and dread. “The eyes—they’re moving.”

Claire stared as the doll’s glass irises shimmered faintly, reflecting something deeper than candlelight. Her pulse thundered louder, chants faltering while an electric current of fear and exhilaration surged through her fingertips.

A violent crash shattered their concentration. Claire jerked backward, heart jolting painfully in her chest as dust cascaded from the ceiling. Objects rattled furiously upon shelves, and candles flickered desperately, threatening extinction.

“Did you feel it?” Dustin demanded harshly, voice brittle, flashlight trembling in his grip while piercing the suffocating gloom.

“Something touched me,” Claire whispered urgently, tugging her jacket tighter around herself. Her voice strained under surging panic, pulse drumming in her ears. “Cold—small fingers.”

David Sloan narrowed his eyes at the doll, its stitched lips twitching beneath wavering shadows. Tentatively, his fingers stretched toward the porcelain form. “We need to move it. Whatever awakened is centered here—”

“Don’t!” Claire snapped sharply, but Sloan’s fingertips brushed the doll’s surface too soon.

Instantly, temperatures plunged, frost crystallizing midair as an inhuman scream erupted from deep within the fort’s darkness—raw, agonizing, and piercing. Staggering backward, the three investigators shielded themselves from invisible fury.

“It’s awake!” David shouted desperately, clutching a frostbitten hand close to his chest. “We awakened something—something worse than Robert.”

Immobilized by dread, Claire watched helplessly while the doll toppled from the table, landing upright with unnatural precision. Its empty eyes awakened into pools of absolute darkness, fixing upon her relentlessly.

“It’s inside,” Claire whispered hollowly, limbs numb, voice barely audible above her racing heartbeat. “We didn’t create a haunting—”

Dustin completed her sentence shakily, eyes widening in horror. “We gave it a body.”

Shadows deepened around them, creeping hungrily forward. Impossibly, porcelain fingers twitched and moved, creaking softly as the doll took one trembling step toward them.

Claire swallowed sharply, terror tightening her throat. “Run.”

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Exciting news! My book, Cumberland Chronicles at Books2Read, is now available! If you enjoy the supernatural, horror, and the weird, I’d love for you to check it out. Even if it’s not your thing, a quick share would help me reach the right readers. Thank you for the support!

The Bronze Omen

Welcome to The ParaZone—transforming today’s headlines into eerie, esoteric micro-fiction, blurring the line between reality and the surreal.  Today, we will dive into one Detective Vance who hunts a thief, only to unleash a long-dormant evil bound within a cursed statue.

The following is based on police report in New Orleans...

The hum of the security monitor filled the dimly lit NOPD precinct office, casting long shadows across the cluttered desk with its bluish glow.  Leaning forward, Detective Isaac Vance clenched his square jaw, deep lines marking his face as his tired blue eyes tracked the grainy footage.  In the stagnant air, the scent of stale coffee and damp paper lingered.

“Run it back,” Vance murmured, rubbing his temple, eyes narrowing as he focused on the screen.

Rodriguez, the younger officer at the controls, rewound the tape, fingers tapping anxiously against the desk.  “Again?”

“Again.”

The screen flickered—an empty porch, then movement.  A hooded figure slinked into view, the gas lamp’s glow warping their silhouette.  Quick, deliberate hands plucked small parcels with practiced ease.

Rodriguez exhaled sharply.  “Package snatchers?  Hell, I thought we had worse.”

“Wait,” Vance muttered, his gaze locked onto the figure’s final target—a battered wooden crate shoved against the porch railing.  The thief hesitated, a brief reverence in their pause, before prying it open.  Dim light caught something metallic within.  The thief pulled it free—a shattered bronze effigy, its single remaining horn gleaming like a crescent moon.

Vance’s heart skipped a beat.  “Pause it.”

Rodriguez halted the tape.  “What is that?”

Vance’s fingers hovered over the screen, tracing the jagged edges of the statue.  The name surfaced from memory, dragging up a nightmare.  Baphomet.

Rodriguez shifted uncomfortably.  “That some kinda—”

“It’s old,” Vance interrupted, voice tight.  “And it’s not supposed to be here.”

The precinct’s walls seemed to close in, the air growing thick with something unspoken.  Vance straightened, jaw tightening.  He recalled the stories—the occultist who vanished decades ago, the rumors of a curse, the warnings whispered by those who remembered.

Rodriguez frowned at the screen, glancing back at Vance.  “You think it’s worth chasing?”

Outside, rain began falling, soft against the windowpane.  The streetlights flickered.

Vance grabbed his coat, slipping his gun into the holster.  “No,” he muttered.  “I think it’s already chasing us.”

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From the warehouse rafters, water dripped steadily, its slow patter echoing through the cavernous dark.  With his gun drawn and footsteps light, Detective Isaac Vance moved cautiously, his breath steady despite the weight pressing against his chest.  The air carried the stench of rust, river rot, and something older—something wrong.

A voice, hushed and feverish, slithered through the silence.

“…Venire… aperire… sanguis…”

Vance edged closer, his boots scraping against damp concrete.  The lone bulb overhead flickered, casting a dim glow around a hunched figure kneeling before a crude altar of wooden crates.

The thief.

Whole once more, the bronze statue rested before them—horned, twisted, and impossibly lifelike in its grotesque form.  With trembling fingers hovering over its surface, the thief mouthed a frantic prayer, words spilling in an unintelligible rush.

“Turn around,” Vance ordered, voice flat, controlled.

The murmuring continued.

Vance tightened his grip.  “I said—”

The thief’s head snapped up.

Eyes glazed, unfocused, they rolled skyward.  A ragged sound scraped their throat, words falling into a choke.  The warehouse light flickered again, its glow waning like a fading pulse.

Then the statue moved.

A tremor—subtle, but unmistakable.

Vance’s stomach twisted.

“Get away from it.”

The thief exhaled a broken laugh, their shoulders convulsing.  “It’s too late.”

The bronze surface split with a sickening crack.  A fissure raced down its torso, tendrils of darkness spilling forth, curling and twisting like smoke, like breath—something waking, something far worse.

Vance raised his gun.  “Move!”

The thief didn’t flinch.  The air thickened, pressing against Vance’s ribs, sinking into his skin as though cold fingers were grasping him.

The statue’s mouth yawned open.

And something inside—ancient, hungry—began to pull itself free.

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Exciting news!  My book, Cumberland Chronicles at Books2Read, is now available!  If you enjoy the supernatural, horror, and the weird, I’d love for you to check it out.  Even if it’s not your thing, a quick share would help me reach the right readers.  Thank you for the support!