M.C.V. EGAN ❧Defining Ways❧

The sedan’s engine rattled — a sound Riley had learned to distinguish from its other mechanical complaints over the past three states. This particular rattle meant she’d make it another fifty miles, maybe more if she kept her speed steady. Her knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel somewhere around the state line, and she couldn’t remember now how to relax them. The GPS showed their arrival in Christmas Cove, and Riley’s shoulders tensed further, an automatic response to any declaration of reaching a destination.

Dusk had settled over the town. Main Street stretched before her, lined with Victorian storefronts that belonged in a Thomas Kincade painting. White lights twisted around lampposts, and wreaths hung at precise intervals, each decorated with the same combination of pine cones and red ribbon. Fresh snow dusted the sidewalks in a way that seemed too perfect, too deliberate. Riley checked her rearview mirror again — the same compulsive glance she’d made every thirty seconds for the past six hours. Empty road. No one following. No one cared where she went.

She drove slowly past the Sugar Moon Café, noting its warm glow and the silhouettes of people inside. Past a bookstore with a display of holiday romances in the window. Past a hardware store already closed for the evening, its owner probably home with family, sitting down to dinner, living a normal life. The thought made something twist in Riley’s chest, but she pushed it down. Normal was a luxury she couldn’t afford to want.

The residential streets branched off from downtown. Riley followed the GPS directions, checking the crumpled paper in her cup holder against the street signs and the directions from the GPS. One too many times, it had taken her the wrong way. Oak Street. Maple Avenue. Someone had named these roads with an almost nauseating wholesomeness, as if determined to prove the town’s charm. She turned onto Pine Ridge Road, where the houses grew sparser and the forest pressed closer to the road.

A small sound from the backseat made Riley’s gaze dart to the mirror. Sabrina stirred in her car seat, her head rolling to the side as she woke from the nap that had mercifully consumed the last hour of driving. Riley watched her daughter’s eyes flutter open, adjusting to the darkness and the strange lights outside.

“Mama?” Sabrina’s voice carried that quality of toddler confusion. Not quite upset, but teetering on the edge of it.

“We’re here, sweetie.” Riley forced warmth into her voice, though her jaw ached from clenching. “Look at all the pretty lights.”

Sabrina pressed her mittened hands against the window, leaving tiny smudges on the glass. “Lights!” She bounced in her seat as much as the straps would allow. “Pretty, Mama! Pretty!”

“Very pretty.” Riley’s smile felt tight on her face. She wanted to share her daughter’s uncomplicated joy, but she kept scanning the streets, cataloging escape routes, noting which houses had lights on and which sat dark. Old habits. Necessary habits.

The GPS announced their final turn, and Riley’s breath caught. The cottage stood at the end of a short gravel drive, a small structure someone’s grandfather had most likely built and barely maintained enough to keep standing. A single porch light illuminated the front door, and beyond it, the forest loomed.

Riley pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The sudden silence felt heavy, broken only by Sabrina’s humming as she kicked her feet against her car seat. Riley sat motionless, her hands still gripping the wheel, and studied their new home.

The cottage was smaller than the photos had suggested. Single-story, with a chimney that leaned slightly to the left. The windows were dark, revealing nothing of the interior. Snow had drifted against the front steps, undisturbed except for what looked like animal tracks, probably a deer or raccoon. The porch railing needed paint, and one shutter hung at an angle.

But for now the house was theirs. For six months, at least, with the first month paid in advance with money Riley had saved from extra shifts and skipped meals. Six months to figure out what came next. After that, she’d have to either renew the lease, or move on to another town.

“Out, Mama!” Sabrina had moved past patient and into demanding. “Out now!”

“Just a minute, baby.”

Riley scanned the neighboring properties. The nearest house sat quite a distance down the road, its windows dark. On the other side, nothing but forest. The isolation should have comforted her. Fewer people meant fewer questions, fewer chances of being found. But instead, it made her hyperaware of how alone they were. No witnesses if something went wrong. No one to hear them scream.

She shook her head, dislodging the thought. Nothing was going to go wrong. This was a fresh start in a quiet town where nobody knew her name or her history. Where Sabrina could grow up without her mother constantly looking over her shoulder.

Jessica Coulter Smith is an acclaimed romance writer with a passion for storytelling. Her works showcase the power of love and its ability to transcend boundaries, capturing the hearts of audiences worldwide. With a unique writing style and perspective, Jessica continues to inspire and entertain readers from all walks of life.

Find her online…

 

Website * Blog * Facebook * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

 

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a $20 giveaway!

Enter the Fur, Fangs, & Mistletoe Giveaway Here

Ronan squeezed his hands tight and looked out the window. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his mind, but he just couldn’t. The anger kept building.

            Out the window and beyond, into the fields beside his house, snow was falling, that glorious, amazing December, winter break snow. He could see deer walking gracefully along the fence line. In his yard, the tall cottonwood trees stood stately and quiet, their bare black limbs stretching up into the grey-white sky. Huge flakes, perfect flakes, fell easy and gently to cover the ground with another layer of fresh powder.

            Normally, he would be out there in it, racing around, laughing, and chasing his sister, Croia, and coaxing Kenna, their new sister, to come play. But not today. And not any day since the first snow.

            Around him at the table, he could hear Croia and Kenna chatter with their grandmother, Brighid, who had come from Ireland to spend the year with their family. They were laughing and telling each other about their school day as they sipped their tea.

            After-school tea had become an instant tradition when Grandmother arrived in October. Every day, she made some amazing treat and brewed a pot of hot Irish tea, all ready to be enjoyed when the three got home from school.

But Ronan couldn’t bring himself to enjoy today’s raspberry teacake, normally one of his favorites. It just felt like sand in his mouth. The tea was too bitter, and no matter how much sugar and cream he added, he couldn’t get it right. So, he set his teacup down and looked out the window.

            “Do you want to talk about it?”

            Ronan heard his grandmother’s quiet voice ask. He looked around and was surprised to see Kenna and Croia gone and the table cleared. He glanced over and saw Grandmother’s kind eyes watching him, waiting. Right then, he wanted to jump out of his chair and scramble into her arms like he’d done when he was little. He knew if he did, she would hug him and hold him, and everything would be alright.

            But he wasn’t little anymore. In a year, he’d be in high school. He was supposed to be a man. Whatever the hell that meant. He blushed at the use of the word, feeling sheepish that he’d say such a thing in front of his grandmother, even if it was in his own mind, and she couldn’t hear him.

            But what the hell did it mean? He couldn’t even properly defend his own twin sister. She cried and ran to him for help, and all he did was put his arm around her and help her walk away. All he did, as that new kid hurled insults and mockery after them, was walk beside her and help her get in the car with Kenna. All he did was hold Croia’s hand in the backseat as tears streaked down her face as Kenna drove them home. Every day this week, that’s all he did. Which is different than what he wanted to do.

He wanted to punch the guy’s lights out, knock him flat for making his sister cry. He knew he could do it. He was strong. He even spent time thinking about how he’d make a fist, draw his arm back, and pow—hit him right across his mean face.

“I don’t know, Grandmother.” Ronan scrubbed his hands together and wiped his hair back.

“Okay.” Grandmother patted his hand. “I am here.” She picked up her teacup and took a sip.

“I am so angry!” Ronan blurted. “There’s this new kid at school, and he’s super mean. He’s made Croia cry every day this week. He’s in a couple of our classes, and he says snide things there too.”

Grandmother set her tea down and leaned forward in her chair.

Bonus Author Giveaway!

Celebrate the spirit and magic of Yule with Whitney Morgan Media! In the spirit of the season, they’re giving every participant a prize—including chances to win an autographed copy of Celebrating Yule: The Celtic Wheel of the Year Series – Book 2 and exclusive author swag from Rionna Morgan!

Enter here: https://deformity.ai/d/GdT4YeEfTPix

Rionna Morgan is an international, best-selling novelist, poet, and recognized icon in the Web3 literary space.

Creator of The 7 Love Stories, a digital collection making literary history, her work bridges tradition and innovation, with recent features including a digital poem showcased in Paris.

As owner of Whitney Morgan Media and former Editor-in-Chief of Vagobond Magazine, Rionna empowers writers and builds vibrant communities where stories and creators are celebrated and honored.

Her writing appears with Simon & Schuster, Mythic North Press, and in features like Celtic Life International and Fortune dot com.

A sought-after speaker at NFTNYC and the Academic Web3 Conference, she lives between Montana and New York, always dreaming up new worlds.

 

Website * Facebook  * Instagram * TikTok * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

 

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a $10 giveaway!

Enter the Celebrating Yule Giveaway Here

There’s a bite in the air that I haven’t felt since … well, since the last time I was here. I pull the jacket round me and do the zip up halfway.

After unlatching the gate, I walk it back, fastening it in place with its rope to a hook on the old stone wall, then dash back to my car and park up.

The house seems at first to be in darkness, but then I catch the orange quiver of candlelight through the windows.

Angela must be painting. Just my luck.

I grab a holdall from the boot—the rest of my things can wait until the morning—and make for the front door. I knock. Wait. And, as expected, there’s no reply.

A glance up at the sky tells me this pause in the rain won’t last long, so I head around the back of the cottage, through the knee-high grass and wildflowers to the old wooden summer house. I lift the locking bar and let myself in.

Cobwebs stretch from corners, telling tales of a summer to forget. I swat them away, careful not to catch any spiders in the process, then make for the curtain at the back. Sweeping it aside, I find the painting—my sister’s first ‘with help’, as she likes to put it—and take it down. The front door key is, as always, nestled in the corner of the frame.

With the summer house locked up, I traipse back to the front door and carefully unlock it. I creep inside, leaving my bag under the coat rack, then lock the door with as much stealth as I can manage.

Now, all that’s left is to follow the wavering shadows from the candlelight, and the pungent fragrance of henbane, to Angela’s studio on the other side of the cottage. I think about using the torch on my phone, but fear the consequences if I wake her while she paints.

The walls are emblazoned with canvases from the hall through to the lounge. The styles are eclectic, so varied you could never say they prescribed to any specific theme. Such is the way of things in her line of artistic expression.

When I reach the glass panelled door to the studio, I pause before turning the handle, knowing as I do that what I’m about to witness will never not jar with me. I take a breath, hold it, and push.

The door glides silently open and she’s there, facing me, hands frantically swiping with the brush on the portrait canvas before her. She balances with poise on the high artist’s stool, despite the extravagant motions of her painting, despite the fact her eyes are rolled back, the bulging sclera pulsing, criss-crossed with angry-looking pink veins. The shadows, swaying in the candlelight, render the scene still more other worldly. Unsettling.

The decades-old futon in the corner looks so inviting, especially as I have no idea how long this could continue for. But curiosity tugs at me, even through the fog of my exhaustion. I always want to know what she’s painting, even if I’m not wholly convinced by the way she describes her methods.

Taking care not to get too close, I tiptoe around the edge of the studio and come to a stop behind her. Her brush hand continues to thrash one way and the other, while mine are drawn, without my permission, to my mouth.

On the canvas, there is a room. The utterly unremarkable magnolia walls and fireplace are not what has stolen my breath. That prize goes to what’s at the centre of the piece. A green, leather armchair, somehow, remains intact, as do one and a half of the legs ‘sitting’ on it, if you can call it that.

At the top of the worst affected of the two legs, the thigh is a bubbled, overcooked mound of flesh, from which a charred femur extends. The torso is missing, but for a blackened imprint melted into the fabric of the chair behind. Despite this, the right leg remains covered in a fragment of a pressed, grey trouser leg. Each foot remains encased in a perfectly preserved shoe.

I try to breathe. Try to remember the mechanism by which my lungs have been pulling in air for the length of my life to date. The extremities of my vision begin to darken, my balance slipping away, when I hear Angela’s voice.

“Not again.”

Originally from the UK, but now living in Lisbon, Portugal, Kev Harrison is the Independent Press Award-winning author of Shadow of the Hidden and his newest novel, Pyres, as well as the novellas, Below and The Balance. His short fiction has appeared in more than twenty venues and is collected in Paths Best Left Untrodden. When not crafting creepy tales, he can be found travelling and eating with his partner in crime, Ana, or singing bizarre songs to his three cat overlords.

Website * Facebook * Instagram * Bluesky * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

Enter the Pyres Giveaway Here