Coming October 13, 2025, just in time for Halloween.
In the sweltering shadows of 1930s Atlanta, monsters wear many faces– some human, some not.
Jack Quinn is a detective with a badge, a trench coat, and a beast lurking beneath his skin. His partner, August Sullivan, is a reluctant vampire with a preacher’s guilt and a thirst he can’t quite drown. Together, they navigate a city cracking under the weight of corruption, secrets, and something far older than politics.
When a string of gruesome murders rocks Atlanta– victims left heartless and drained, posed like offerings– Quinn and Sullivan are pulled into a case steeped in blood, myth, and madness. All of the victims are vampires. And someone, or something, wants them eradicated.
As tensions rise between a pair of rival mayoral candidates– one preaching acceptance and peace, the other division and bigotry– the detectives join forces with the mysterious Miss Gray, a woman whose knowledge of the arcane might be the only thing standing between Atlanta and the abyss.
In a world where nothing stays buried, and the line between man and monster blurs, Quinn and Sullivan must face the truth: acceptance may be the only path to salvation… but some truths are too wide-mouthed to swallow.
Hard-boiled to the bone, and laced with cosmic dread, this Southern Gothic detective thriller dives deep into identity, monstrosity, and the things that whisper from beyond.
About the Author
A.C. Hessenauer describes herself as an author of folk horror thrillers with gothic romance vibes, and a little spice thrown in for good measure. A.C. is an active member of the Horror Writers Association.
When she’s not exploring the darkest corners of her imagination, A.C. enjoys spending time with her family; her husband, two sons, and border collie named Maximus. She loves a good horror movie, and of course, indulging in a good book.
I’m bringing back my weekly writing challenge. Every week I will add an additional 500+ words to a short story in progress. My plan is to write 26 stories, one for every letter of the alphabet. During my last foray into this I managed to write stories for letters A thru F.
I previously wrote 500 words for the short story for the letter G – God’s Chosen. Last night after my trip to Baltimore, I added another 618 words to the story in progress. Below is the story from its beginning to its latest point. This is raw work with minimal editing.
God’s Chosen
“Why is it so hard for us to forgive?” Reverend Wilkes asked from the pulpit as he scanned the parishioners gathered to hear his sermon. Many were fanning themselves with the days program, the heat inside stifling even with the windows open. Last night’s storm brought with it an intense heat wave that promised to be the worst they’d known in some time. The reverend also noted that Sally Umstead was shifting in her seat and he zeroed in on her. It was terrible what she and her sister were doing to the Plimpton girl. She’d never hurt anyone but to hear them tell it she was evil incarnate.
“Because the evil one is a good salesman.” Reverend Wilkes shouted, slamming his fist on the pulpit to get their attention. He was satisfied to see many of the younger ones stop their squirming and were sitting up straighter in their seats. They knew it was about to get interesting.
“He hates forgiveness because he knows that if he can persuade us not to forgive even one person, our own forgiveness from God will be cut off.” He stopped, letting his gaze linger across the parishioners who were all now paying close attention. For a moment it seemed the heat had been forgotten.
“The devil whispers very persuasive lies to us,” he said quietly, forcing the congregation to lean forward to catch his words.
“Did he lie to you?” He shouted, pointing at Sally.
“Did he lie to you?” He asked, shifting his attention to the widow Barnes. He knew she was responsible for the problems the Plimpton girl was experiencing.
Glancing to the back of the church he spotted the ushers gathered around one of the windows. Bobby Franklin pointed at something outside and turned to look in Reverend Wilkes direction. The terror on his face was clearly transmitted across the room and a ripple of voices followed his gaze.
“What is it Bobby?” The reverend asked, wanting to get this issue out of the way so he could continue his sermon.
“It’s the widow Franklin, sir.”
That wasn’t possible, he’d personally overseen the widow’s grave side services less than a week ago. The scattering of voices became focused on Bobby’s words as several of the parishioners closest to the window left their seats to see for themselves. Several ‘Oh my gods’ were punctuated by a woman’s scream. Reverend Wilkes pushed his way to the window.
The widow Franklin staggered down the center of main street dragging what looked like the lining of her coffin behind her on one foot. The clothes she’d been buried in were a muddy mess
Turning from the window Wilkes pushed back through the crowd and crossed to the doors for the church.
“Where are you going?” Someone shouted behind him. He stopped and turned to face the crowd.
“I don’t know what happened but I’m going to find out.”
“Don’t, please, what if she hurts you?”
“What if she wasn’t dead when we laid her to rest.” Reverend Wilkes said, “certainly, she’s terrified by now and needs someone to help her understand what is going on.”
On the street the heat hit him with a physical force that slowed his steps. The widow Franklin approached, staggering down the center of main street. It was early yet, and though not all of the inhabitants of Whisper Cove attended services regularly, the streets were empty.
Where does she think she’s going, he wondered as he stepped off the curb and moved to intercept her. With every step closer his resolve began to wane. It wasn’t his job to maintain order on the streets. His was to protect the souls of his congregation. When he was a few feet away he stopped and pulled his kerchief from his breast pocket to place it over his nose. The smell coming from the old woman was overwhelmingly bad.
“Mrs. Franklin, are you all right?” It was a stupid question to ask. Obviously she was not all right. For one thing she stunk, for another her eyes had taken on an unnatural cast, and as if to add insult to injury her lips had been sewn shut. She was far from all right.
She turned in his direction, her feet becoming tangled in the coffin lining, and she fell headlong to the pavement. Reverend Wilkes tried to catch her, but was too slow, and she hit the ground with a wet squishing sound that strayed dangerously close to unnatural. It was enough to give him pause, and he stepped back as she thrashed about on the ground, grunting and groaning in a primitive manner that further distanced her from the prim and proper matron she’d been when she lived.
But she was alive. Wasn’t she? He wondered as he remained rooted in place, afraid to get any closer.
The sound of an approaching vehicle drew his attention, and he looked up as Deputy Frank arrived in his cruiser.
“What’s wrong reverend?” Deputy Frank asked as he stepped out of his patrol car.
“It’s Mrs. Franklin, we buried her last week, but it appears she wasn’t dead. How she got out I have no idea, but she needs help.”
“Well, what are you going to do?” the deputy asked.
“Me? What about you? Help the woman.”
Deputy Frank stepped closer, and though he stood a good six four, his expression collapsed into that of a frightened young boy confronting his first nightmare. “I don’t even know what to do.”
“Let’s help her up,” Reverend Wilkes said as he stepped forward and stooped down to grab one of the woman’s arms.
She nearly yanked him off his feet as she thrashed about, and the spongy way her arm felt under his hand left a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach. It felt like he was trying to grab something stuffed with wet noodles.
Deputy Frank managed to find his balls long enough to step forward and lend the reverend a hand, but he quickly backed away when she lunged at his hand with her face.
“She tried to bite me,” he said, his voice rising in an unmanly manner.
“Nonsense, her lips are sewn shut.”
“How do you even know that?” Deputy Frank’s expression had dissolved completely into that of a frightened schoolboy.
“I called an ambulance,” Derrick, one of the ushers, said as he came up behind Father Wilkes who continued to struggle with the old woman. “Let me help you,” he said as he tried to slip the old lady’s loose arm over his shoulders. She lunged at his face, pulling at the stitches holding her mouth closed as she tried to bite him.
To be continued!
I’m Looking For My Tribe.
Did you enjoy the story above? If so you might be the reader I’m looking for. I’m even giving away a full novel to find out for sure. A novel available nowhere else, written specifically with my idea reader in mind. Is that you? Let’s find out. Sign up for my mailing list today and receive my novel ZOMETHING DEAD THIS WAY COMES.
If you don’t like what I do, unsubscribe and keep the book. It’s my way of saying thanks for trying my work. You’ve got nothing to lose.
In the thirties a young writer by the name of Howard Phillip Lovecraft created an ethos that is still going strong to this day. Dubbed the Cthulhu Mythos, he wrote of ancient gods who came to this planet long before man emerged, arriving upon astral winds from the fathomless depths of deepest space. Before man’s arrival the great Cthulhu retreated to the briny depths of the ocean’s deepest parts where it is said he lies dreaming to this day.
While for most people this seems like a pretty far fetched idea, the concept of Cthulhu makes an appearance in modern works. Most notably as the visage of Davy Jones in the blockbuster series “Pirates of the Caribbean.” Lovecraft himself drew a picture of Cthulhu that presented the body of a man with the face of a squid whose tentacles formed a beard. In its distilled form every writer of note has put forth their own take on the concept of ancient alien gods.
When you look to the stars, can you honestly say you believe that among the thousands of spots of light spread across the night sky, representing a very small fraction of what can be seen with the naked eye, that we are alone in the universe?
Many find it difficult to wrap their minds around the concept of time beyond the measure of a human life, which is but a brief twinkle, a nanosecond if you will, when compared to the immensity of cosmic time. Current estimates place the age of the Universe at around 13.75 billion years. But there are those within the scientific community who believe we’ve underestimated that number. Keeping with the current estimate the Earth, by comparison has only been around for 4.5 billion of those years. The Universe was 9.21 billion years old when the Earth, and the solar system it inhabits, first formed.
Allowing sufficient time to cool to support life, let’s say it was 4.6 billion years after the big bang before the first single cell organisms could have conceivably formed on earth like planets. A point in time over 9 billion years ago. Life on Earth has had 4.54 billion years to develop into the intelligent beings of today. What’s to say intelligent alien life wasn’t standing at the point we currently find ourselves, when the Earth first formed? Giving them a 4.5 billion year head start on humans.
Granted some alien societies would not have survived beyond the nuclear age. We ourselves face the possibility of extinction as a direct result of our nuclear proliferation. I’m sorry, but while others may disagree with me, there are some nations and leaders who should never possess such capabilities. Iran and Korea being the first that comes to mind.
Yet we face unlimited potential. Given time I’m confident electricity can be generated in a safe, low cost, manner that protects what natural resources we have. Just as I’m confident many alien societies faced the same hurdles we do now, back when the Earth was but a spinning cloud of vaporous rock whipping around a newly formed star.
Those that didn’t succeed perished. But not all of them would have fallen to extinction. Some would have realized the potential we now face. Some would have overcome their internal bickering to become a single species united in a common goal. Be it a life of leisure, or one of exploration. Some would have chosen to live their lives in eternal comfort, focusing on their concept of beauty and the arts.
Others would have followed their curiosity to the stars in vehicles capable of reaching across the vast expanses of time and space. Quite possibly visiting our world at a time when man viewed these visitors from the stars as gods.
Could it be the legends of the past were inspired by these otherworldly visitors?
Are the creations of H.P. Lovecraft, and Clark Ashton Smith, mere imaginings, or did they come to the same conclusions? Would an early predecessor to man view these visiting aliens as Gods? Is it possible these visitors seeded a young earth with Homo sapiens? Or is there a more sinister reason we accompanied them?
We are left with the question, What if?
What if we were nothing more than food for this alien visitor? Cattle in the field that left to its own devices managed to evolve into the intelligent human being of today. There are as many possibilities as there are stars in the sky.
I wanted to give a shout out to a writer I have a great deal of respect for, Dan Franklin. I’ve read his previous works, These Things Linger, Down Into The Sea, and Eater of Gods. He’s a writer who is an instant buy when I see a new release from him. His latest is Steel Machines. It’s on pre order until August 19, 2025, and the kindle edition is only $0.99. Check out the details below.
Prague, 1945
Eight year old Otto Braum is the sole survivor of the massacre that claimed his parents and left him sustaining himself as best he can in the ruined attic hideout above his childhood home.
But Otto is not alone.
His father had a secret—a creation, unfinished, that he left behind. A secret that is pitiless in nature, relentless in design. A secret with the heart of a steel machine.
From the Amazon best selling author of Down Into the Sea and These Things Linger comes a horrifying reimagining of the story of the golem. Part I Am Legend and part Caging Skies, STEEL MACHINES is an unrelentingly tense tale of haunting, of vengeance… and of survival at any cost.
“Both Intimate and epic, brutal but beautiful, unapologetic yet restrained… STEEL MACHINES is a perfect novel.”
– Nick Roberts, bestselling author of The Exorcist’s House, Mean Spirited, and the upcoming Lyla, in the Flesh
“A heartbreaking tale of survival amidst tragedy and horror, this is a beautifully written dark fantasy that will remain with you long after you’ve read the last word. Highly recommended!” – Tim Waggoner, internationally acclaimed author of The World Turns Red
“This is the best kind of horror.” – Leigh Kenny, best selling author of Cursed, and Hush, My Darling
“If this was made into a movie, it would be an international blockbuster.”
– MJ Mars, best selling author of The Suffering and The Fovea Experiments
In 1978, at nineteen years of age I was serving with the United States Army as an armor crewman. In 1977 the motion picture, A Bridge Too Far, was released and featured a star-studded cast. I along with a couple of my friends watched it at the base theater in Fort Hood, Texas. The following year our unit was slated to take our six month turn at the tip of the spear at the U.S Army’s heavy metal playground in Grafenwoehr, West Germany. Located 21 miles from the Czech Republic border, a member nation of the Warsaw Pact. 21 miles from a border of concrete and barbed wire constructed to keep their citizens from escaping the harsh life of a communist regime. Our only goal, our sole purpose was to halt any soviet advance that might push across the border. As such each of our tanks carried a full load (67 rounds) of what we referred to as service ammunition. It was a mix heavy on armor piercing and HEAT (High Explosive Anti Tank) rounds, designed to slice through enemy armor.
In Graf, we lived in Quonset huts that featured a large open bay filled with beds and footlockers. It was where we stayed when we weren’t working on our tanks in the motor pool, or out on maneuvers with other units preparing for a day all of us feared. Many a night I would lie in bed worried if I had what it would take to face our adversary. Thankfully that day never came. We also had most weekends off allowing us a chance to blow off some steam.
Germany is a small country, a little larger than the state of Oregon, and aside from the autobahn, the railroads are a prime means of transportation. You can go practically anywhere on the European continent with a train ride. Which is how a small group of us ended up in the Netherlands, following a route carved into history, and featured in a recent movie we had all watched. What I’m referring to is the primary route followed by the ground forces in Operation Market Garden, one of the most disastrous allied operations during the war.
In short the operation’s purpose was to open a path into the interior of Germany to outflank the Siegfried Line. The operation used elements from the British First Airborne Division, the Polish 1st Parachute Brigade the 82nd and 101st U.S Airborne Divisions. Their task was to secure and hold the bridges until 30th Corp could relieve them. This would have opened a direct route into the heartland of Germany if it succeeded. Possibly shortening the war. But it didn’t work out that way.
It’s been forty-seven years since I walked that route, and while much of what I remember from that day has faded into the mists of time, the emotions are still very strong. I recently watched A Bridge Too Far, again, as I recover from knee surgery and those emotions are as powerful today as they were then.
At the time of our little walk, thirty-four years after it happened, I don’t believe we really understood how deep that river ran through us. I can recall feeling a sense of walking upon hallowed ground, what one might feel at Arlington. Our usual jack assery settled as we were filled with a sense of walking among the honored dead who gave their all for what they believed in. Yet when your nineteen and with your friends it’s nearly impossible to fully explore your emotions of the moment. As such the respect of silence was all we could offer.
Every year, on the anniversary of the operation, a memorial walk is held, and I’d give anything to follow once again in the footsteps of those who went before, while I still have time. Only this time not as a young man struggling to figure out life. But as an older, wiser man who understands the full measure of devotion needed to throw oneself against such odds.
They were called the greatest generation, and their numbers dwindle everyday. It falls to us then to carry their stories forward for a new generation to maybe learn from.
Follow the link below for some amazing then and now photos from Arnhem.
Richard Schiver 