Mostrando resultados por autor "Steve Vernon" en Todas las categorías

So how does a kelpie, an ex-assassin high school librarian, Santa Claus, the Flying Dutchman, and the Krampus wind up going toe-to-toe with a Martian Expeditionary Force in a highly unidentifiable flying gravy bowl? Why don't you grab this audiobook and hear for yourself?

In 1691, the town of Crossfall taught the witch Thessaly how to die. They beat her, they shot her, they hung her--but nothing worked. When they finally tried to bury her alive Thessaly set the field against them. The first man died as a gust of wind harrowed the meat from his bones. A root,flung like a dirty javelin, cut a second man down. Many more deaths followed. The Preacher Fell impaled the witch upon her very own broom but she dragged him down into the field to wait for three more centuries.

Let's face it. About 75 percent of the world is covered in water - and of that water nearly 97 percent of it can be found in the sea. Maritimers will tell you that there is a story for every wave that has ever washed upon the shoreline. Here are seven of them.

Texas Jack Page, on the eve of his 48th birthday, emptied his last seven cartons of books, placing them volume by volume across his front door - a one-man human cask of Amontillado interring himself inside a shining silver Airstream trailer sized aluminum tomb of tomes.

Some stories tiptoe up and whisper in your ear - all sweetness and gumdrops and happy-ever-after-after-there-you-go. Then, there are the weird ones. We're talking talking-chickens, blue plague spam monkeys, tug boats of unbridled and fetid fecundity, tulwar-swinging cab drivers, malls that maul you, gnawing on screwdrivers and jig-lining elder gods coming at you faster than a ride-on mow-down massacre mower shopping cart caravan. This is a collection for the seriously messed up minds of all you listeners who have grown tired of the trite detritus of day-to-day storytelling.

"Leave Luther's body right where we flung him," Bates said. "You aren't burying him today." After Sally Mae Webster phoned me up to tell me that my Korean War buddy Luther Webster had been shot and killed by the Bates brothers, I knew that I wasn't going to stop until I had righted that wrong. I wondered just how many graves I was going to have to dig today.

Welcome to the hard streets. These are four of the nastiest stories I have ever written: "Leftovers", "Statistic", "Soul Survivor", and "Dopple Dribble".

His name was Adam Kyler. He had eyes as black as licorice jujubes and a spit curl hooked across his forehead that reminded me of a young Superman. He was nine years old. It wasn't his fault he was standing in the alley, but I shot him just the same.... Dopple Dribble is a story of revenge from beyond the grave and I guarantee you without a shadow of a doubt that after you hear this story, the very next time that you hear the sound of some kid walking down the sidewalk under the streetlights dribbling a basketball you are going to spend the rest of the night scared stiff.

This is the story of the end of the world - as told by a teenager. "So as near as I could tell the end of the world began roughly about the time that Billy Carver’s butt rang - about halfway through the War of 1812." Sixteen year old Briar Gamble is having a bad day. It started with the cell phones singing for Santa Claus. Then came the tanks and the storm troopers. The Black Masks, in their black fish bowl sunglasses. And then along came Captain Albino. That's how it all started back in October 2012 when I released the FIRST episode of FLASH VIRUS. What you are looking at now is the ...

Will has got a secret. He keeps that secret hidden in the field out back behind his house. Sam and Artie will do just whatever Will tells them to do because they know what Will's secret is, and they will do anything to make sure that Will doesn't lose his temper on them.

So you think you know all about superheroes? Those guys in the capes and the lightly starched spandex speedoes? Leaping tall buildings and always getting the girl? You don't know nothing. Join Steve Vernon, Nova Scotia's hardest working horror writer, as he takes you into the world of Captain Nothing. It's a world without hope, a world that is as cold and dark as a landlord's heart, three days after the rent is due. It's a world that could give the Batman a case of the squirming night fears.

A short story involving a Celtic water spirit (the kelpie), an assassin, a librarian, a ghost, and a Santa-mugging street gang - a wild weird paranormal romance shoot-em-up story - written for listeners who hate to listen to romance.

In 1691 the town of Crossfall taught the witch Thessaly how to die. They beat her, they shot her, they hung her - but nothing worked. When they finally tried to bury her alive Thessaly set the field against them. The first man died as a gust of wind harrowed the meat from his bones. A root, flung like a dirty javelin, cut a second man down. Many more deaths followed. The Preacher Fell impaled the witch upon her very own broom, but she dragged him down into the field to wait for three more centuries.

There are superheroes, and then there is Captain Nothing - ready to crack knuckles and break heads - no matter what the cost. Here are five truly unforgettable stories - three of them never seen or heard before - plus a behind-the-scenes afterword and a sneak preview of Apocalypse Nothing, Steve Vernon's upcoming Captain Nothing novella.

Ghost stories. Everyone knows one. Everyone can tell you one. Ghost stories haunt and linger and tantalize. Come on along with Steve Vernon - ghost story collector, writer, and teller - as he brings you eight of the creepiest yarns imaginable, stories that will creep up on you and teach you the fine old art of the booga-booga. Eight stories - including Steve's haunting salute to the road gang, "The Forever Long Road of Olan Walker". Walk down this road, if you'd like to. Or better yet - run!

When Daddy put Granny out on the hill to die he thought that was that - but Daddy had another think coming to him. This is a short story of country witchcraft - just like it says in the subtitle. If you want to read something longer you REALLY ought to hunt up my novel Tatterdemon.

“I hate cats more than any on the planet,” Grandpa always told us. “A dog you can take hunting and a moose you can shoot, but a cat only gets in the way and barfs on your carpet in the nighttime, most usually in the very spot that you step on first thing in the morning with your bare feet - and then you are left walking around the whole day long smelling of cat-barfed-on-footprints.”

It started out as a simple drive down a country road. Oh sure, Hillman was thinking about suicide. Oh sure, the dead woman is in his back seat was goading him on. What was the point? Why bother living? Who am I? It turns out Coyote has something to say about that. Coyote...and a troll.

This is the final book of the trilogy - a fat monstrous volume of pure undiluted scarecrow terror.

In 1691, the town of Crossfall taught the witch Thessaly how to die. They beat her; they shot her; they hung her - but nothing worked. When they finally tried to bury her alive, Thessaly set the field against them. The first man died as a gust of wind harrowed the meat from his bones. A root, flung like a dirty javelin, cut a second man down. Many more deaths followed. The Preacher Fell impaled the witch upon her very own broom, but she dragged him down into the field to wait for three more centuries.