They’ll be coming soon, they’ll let me out soon. The two thoughts chased one another through his mind as the night gave way to dawn and the sounds of a new day filled the compound.
“What about the one in the box?” One of the farmhands shouted from somewhere nearby.
“Leave him, he hasn’t learned his lesson yet.” Came the answer that sent the first waves of panic washing through his body. They weren’t coming to open the box anytime soon, not before he learned his lesson.
What lesson?
He hadn’t done anything and he fought to quell the panic that threatened to turn him into a raving lunatic that would batter its flesh against unyielding steel in a mindless foray into madness.
It won’t be much longer. He tried to convince himself but that need to stretch his legs grew with every passing moment. The steel around him became warm as the suns rays broke across the horizon. Spilling through the countryside like a river unleashed from it restraints. Running wildly as it cast long shadows for the remnants of the night to seek shelter in.
He focused on keeping himself calm, a nerve-jangling panic thrumming just beneath the surface of his consciousness as he pressed the palms of his hands against the warming steel that was mere inches from his face.
It won’t be much longer.
His leg jerked spasmodically, driving his knee against the lid of his prison, coffin, and pain washed up his leg as panic and rage swelled within him. He screamed as he beat against the lid of his prison, soft flesh turning to mush against the unyielding steel as flecks of blood rained down upon his face. He thrashed back and forth, bouncing his head from unforgiving steel, his screams filling the confined space, ringing in his ears as he pummeled the lid.
He didn’t know how long he had been screaming before the lid was lifted, he was only dimly aware of the cold gray steel replaced by a featureless blue sky. Rough hands reached into the box and pulled him to his feet, standing him next to the box where he collapsed onto the ground.
“On your feet boy,” that familiar voice shouted and he struggled to stand as gloved hands held him steady. He was whimpering in his throat as he gazed about the compound. The featureless gray buildings that surrounded him represented his future. Endless days beneath a relentless sun and the stinging whip of the overseer. Bent to his task until he could no longer stand up straight. Scrabbling through the remainder of his short life like a deformed crab performing tricks for its master for small scraps to sustain itself.
No!
He looked down, catching a glimpse of a well-worn handle, the butt of a pistol sticking out of its holster on the overseer’s hip. Before reason could stop him, he reached out and snatched the pistol from the holster. He fumbled with it in his hand, not sure how to use it, relying more on instinct as he wrapped one hand around the handle and pointed the muzzle at the three farmhands who had come to take him from the box.
“Let’s get him back to the…” the man in charge began, the rest of his sentence dying as he turned to find the muzzle of the pistol aimed at his face.
One of the most common questions a writer hears is, “Where do you get your ideas?”
Being the typical smartass that I am, I sometimes reply they come from the idea tree.
But the real answer, when authors are willing to admit it, is simple, yet elusive. Ideas emerge from some of the most unexpected places. Maybe a fleeting moment, a snippet of conversation, or even a dream. For some, inspiration is rooted in personal experience or observation. Mark Twain famously based Huckleberry Finn on a childhood friend, proving that real life often provides the richest material for fiction.
Other writers find their muse in the world around them. News stories, historical events, or even graffiti can spark that “what if?” moment that leads to a compelling narrative. Many authors, like Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, describe their ideas as arriving unbidden. Sometimes half-remembered, sometimes fully formed, yet always demanding attention.
In his book On Writing, Stephen King spoke of ideas using the cup and the handle metaphor. How some ideas do not arrive fully formed and ready to go. But they get catalogued anyway until the idea that represents the handle or the cup arrives to complete the set.
But the secret isn’t just in having ideas. It’s in recognizing their potential. Writers train themselves to notice the unusual, the poignant, or the extraordinary in everyday life. They jot down stray thoughts, nurture them, and let them grow into stories. Sometimes, inspiration comes from other art forms, travel, or even the simple act of people-watching.
For me personally I watch strangers. I work part time at Wally World, and I’ve wasted a few moments building narratives in my mind for the lives of the shoppers around me. Simple little tales that at times uncover a deeper narrative that refuses to be set aside. Like a hidden treasure trove of ideas that emerge from a simple act.
Every writer’s process is unique. The magic comes with being open to inspiration while being brave enough to follow these ideas to where they ultimately lead. Turning ordinary moments into extraordinary tales.
When ancient evil awakens and the line between reality and nightmare blurs, it takes more than a badge to survive. In Adversary, Detective Sam Hardin is forced to confront not only the darkness stalking his city, but the shadows haunting his soul. Grieving, guilt-ridden, and driven by a fierce love for his family, Sam’s journey is as much about redemption as it is about survival.
Today, we sit down with Sam Hardin to talk about loss, courage, and what it means to face the unknown. Whether you’re a fan of psychological suspense, cosmic horror, or stories of family resilience, Sam’s answers offer a glimpse into the heart of Adversary, and the man at its center.
1. Sam, your story begins with a heavy burden of grief and guilt. How do you cope with the loss of your wife, Anna, and how does it shape your actions?
Losing Anna was like losing the sun in my sky. I tried to drown the pain in a bottle, but all that did was push me further from my kids and from myself. Grief is a shadow that follows you everywhere, and guilt. Well, that’s the weight you carry for all the things you wish you’d done differently. Every decision I make, every risk I take, it’s all colored by that loss. I guess, in a way, it’s what drives me to keep fighting, even when the odds are impossible.
2. As a detective, you’re used to confronting darkness in the world. How did the events at the warehouse challenge your understanding of evil and reality itself?
I thought I’d seen the worst humanity had to offer. Murderers, thieves, people who’d sell their soul for a quick buck. But what happened at that warehouse. It was something else. Evil isn’t always human. Sometimes it’s older, colder, and it doesn’t care about our rules. That night forced me to question everything I believed about the world, and myself.
3. Family is central to your journey. What does protecting your children, Cheryl and Frankie, mean to you, especially when the threats become supernatural?
My kids are all I have left of Anna, and the man I used to be. Protecting them isn’t just a duty, it’s the only thing that gives my life meaning. When the threats stopped being things I could put handcuffs on, I realized I’d do anything, break any law, cross any line, to keep them safe. Even if it meant facing nightmares I couldn’t explain.
4. You’re haunted by both literal and figurative shadows. Can you describe a moment when you questioned your own sanity during the investigation?
There were too many moments to count. The dreams, the voices, the feeling that something was watching me from the dark. I started to wonder if I was losing my mind. But when you see things you can’t explain, things that leave bodies in their wake, you stop worrying about sanity and start worrying about survival.
5. The knife from Antarctica becomes a focal point of terror. What was your first impression of this artifact, and how did your feelings about it evolve as the story unfolded?
At first, it was just evidence. A weird, ancient knife. But the more I learned, the more I realized it was a key to something much bigger and older than any of us. That knife carried a presence, a hunger. By the end, I didn’t just fear what it could do, I was afraid of what it wanted.
6. Throughout the book, you struggle with addiction and self-doubt. How do these personal battles affect your ability to lead and make decisions under pressure?
Addiction’s a liar. It tells you you’re not good enough, that you need something to get through the day. Self-doubt is its partner in crime. There were times I hesitated when I should’ve acted, and times I acted when I should’ve thought things through. But when it came down to it, when my family was on the line, I found a strength I didn’t know I had. Maybe that’s what redemption looks like.
7. You encounter characters who are both allies and adversaries. Some human, some not. Who surprised you the most, and why?
Honestly, Michelle surprised me. She stepped up when things got really bad. I always thought I had to carry the weight alone. But she showed me that sometimes, letting someone in is the bravest thing you can do. As for adversaries, let’s just say evil wears a lot of faces, and some of them look just like your own in the mirror.
8. Dreams and nightmares play a powerful role in your experience. Was there a particular dream that changed your perspective or gave you a warning you couldn’t ignore?
There was one dream. Anna appeared to me, warning me to protect the child. It felt more real than anything I’d ever experienced. That dream wasn’t just a warning. It was a call to arms. It reminded me that some things are worth fighting for, even if you don’t understand them.
9. If you could speak directly to readers facing their own “shadows of the past,” what advice would you give them about guilt, redemption, and hope?
You can’t outrun your shadows, but you can face them. Guilt will eat you alive if you let it, but redemption starts with one choice. One act of courage. Hope isn’t about believing things will be easy; it’s about believing they’re worth the fight. Don’t give up. Even in the darkest night, there’s a dawn waiting.
10. Without giving too much away, what do you fear most about what’s still lurking in the dark, and do you believe the battle is really over?
What I fear most is that evil never really dies. It just waits. Maybe we’ll win this round, but the shadows are patient. I’ll keep my eyes open, and I’ll keep fighting. Because as long as there’s something worth protecting, the battle is never truly over.
Sam Hardin’s story is one of struggle, sacrifice, and the relentless pursuit of hope in the face of overwhelming darkness. As he reminds us, evil may never truly die, but neither does the will to fight for those we love. If you’re ready to journey into the shadows and discover what it takes to stand against the unknown, Adversary is waiting for you. Pick up your copy today. Remember, sometimes our greatest battles are fought not with monsters, but with the ghosts of our own past.
Click on the cover below to start your own journey into the shadows of the past.
Haunted by tragedy and driven by guilt, Washington D.C. detective Sam Hardin is thrust into a deadly web of mob intrigue and supernatural terror. When a stolen ancient artifact unleashes an alien power, Sam faces a possessed adversary whose rampage threatens reality itself. As ancient forces rise, Sam must confront his own demons in a battle for redemption, survival, and the fate of his family.
The man in charge looked down upon him, his features twisted with a sadistic cruelty.
“I thought we had agreed you weren’t going to cause any trouble, boy?”
Gus shook his head as he worked his mouth silently.
“Look at this, boys. It thinks it can speak.” The man in charge said. The other hands laughed, Gus’s subdued attacker lying at their feet. The rest of the captives kept their heads down in a submissive manner, their eyes fixed on the bowl in front of them.
“Maybe a night in the box will teach him his place.” The man in charge said before the emptiness swelled up from the black depths around him to envelope him in its smothering embrace.
He drifted across a black sea buoyed by a single thought that anchored him to the reality of his past. He was not like the others. He had a life, a family, a wife who loved him. The thought of abandoning her as he had, even though everything that had happened to him up to this point had been out of his control, sent a dagger of guilt into his heart. She would be frantic, not sure what to do, lost within the terror of being deserted.
What was her name?
He searched his memory for her name, the throbbing at the base of his skull growing as he struggled to remember even the simplest details of his past life. They had children, or did they? If only he could remember her name, it would strengthen the anchor that tied him to the reality of his past and give him hope to battle the despair his life had become.
Around him the shadows were deep, the sides of the steel box in which he lay were pressed tight against his shoulders, the crown of his head was wedged against the top while his feet were pressed flat against the bottom. It was a cramped space with a narrow slit along the top that allowed a soft breeze to dance across his naked flesh.
They had taken his poncho.
With shaking hands he reached for the top, his palms encountering cold steel as he pushed against its unyielding surface.
He was trapped within the confines of a box too small for his frame, filled with the need to get up and move around, a restlessness that became the center of his world. Beyond the box the night moved resolutely towards morning, the sky to the east growing lighter as the world continued to turn upon its axis, unaware, uncaring, following a course that had been plotted long before he’d been born and would continue long after he was gone.
His legs grew even more restless, and he struggled to keep them under control as spasms racked his muscles. He didn’t know how long he’d lain unconscious in the box, but judging by the pain in his legs it had to have been the better part of the night.
Maybe they’d let him out with the dawn, to work the fields, to move about freely with the others. The thought gave him a goal to focus on as the birds sang in greeting to the approaching dawn, somewhere a rooster crowed as he concentrated on that single thought.
They were going to let him out soon.
Somewhere a door slammed, keys jingled, and a muffled shout came from the low-roofed building where the others were being kept.
As the first light of the coming dawn crested the roof of the barn the doors of the barracks swung open, and the workers were driven towards the building where they had been fed the night before.
They’ll be coming soon, the thought whispered through his mind, followed promptly by another. They’ll let me out soon. His legs had fallen asleep, his buttocks was numb from resting on the unyielding steel, and the flesh covering the nubs of his shoulder blades felt like it was becoming raw.
If you’d like to start the story from the beginning follow the link below.
I’m running a little late this week. That’s been the story of my life lately while I work to bring my post apocalyptic series to an end. Without further adieu let’s get into this.
One of the most common questions a writer hears is, “Where do you get your ideas?”
Being the typical smart ass that I am, I sometimes reply they come from the idea tree.
But the real answer, when authors are willing to admit it, is simple, yet elusive. Ideas emerge from some of the most unexpected places. Maybe a fleeting moment, a snippet of conversation, or even a dream. For some, inspiration is rooted in personal experience or observation. Mark Twain famously based Huckleberry Finn on a childhood friend, proving that real life often provides the richest material for fiction.
Other writers find their muse in the world around them. News stories, historical events, or even graffiti can spark that “what if?” moment that leads to a compelling narrative. Many authors, like Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, describe their ideas as arriving unbidden. Sometimes half-remembered, sometimes fully formed, yet always demanding attention.
In his book On Writing, Stephen King spoke of ideas using the cup and the handle metaphor. How some ideas do not arrive fully formed and ready to go. But they get catalogued anyway until the idea that represents the handle or the cup arrives to complete the set.
But the secret isn’t just in having ideas. It’s in recognizing their potential. Writers train themselves to notice the unusual, the poignant, or the extraordinary in everyday life. They jot down stray thoughts, nurture them, and let them grow into stories. Sometimes, inspiration comes from other art forms, travel, or even the simple act of people-watching.
For me personally I watch strangers. I work part time at Wally World, and I’ve wasted a few moments building narratives in my mind for the lives of the shoppers around me. Simple little tales that at times uncover a deeper narrative that refuses to be set aside. Like a hidden treasure trove of ideas that emerge from a simple act.
Every writer’s process is unique. The magic comes with being open to inspiration while being brave enough to follow these ideas to where they ultimately lead. Turning ordinary moments into extraordinary tales.
Richard Schiver 