P R A I S E F O R
M A G I C K & M I S E R Y
“Lincoln Crisler’s Magick & Misery is an eclectic mix of supernatural chills, hardcore horror and good old-fashioned madness and mayhem. Definitely a writer worth keeping an eye on.”
– Gord Rollo, Author of THE JIGSAW MAN and CRIMSON
“…a kick missing from most of today’s horror…packs a considerable punch.”
– FRIGHT.COM
“… Crisler’s variety of subjects keeps the book fresh and flowing. You’ll dig it.”
– The Horror Fiction Review
“… [an] entertaining ride on the dark side and a decent introduction to an author to watch for in dark anthologies and magazines.”
– HELLNOTES
“His talent with the mechanical craft of prose is undeniable, and his stories wield a distinctive, uncompromising edge. To enter Lincoln’s world is not to tread lightly, because very often that “bad thing” you fear so much waits just around the corner, hungry and lurking.”
– SHROUD Magazine
On sale NOW from a variety of retailers, or order an autographed copy for below MSRP!
*****
DEVOTION
Richard gripped Melanie tightly and pressed her against the rough brick wall. He hadn’t seen as much fire in his wife Diane’s eyes since they were newlyweds. Twenty years they had been together, so far, and the fire had gone out long ago. But he recognized that look, even after so long; more intense by far than the looks Melanie had been throwing his way for the past month. The two of them were always in public, though, at the office, and now they were alone.
Her hot loins ground against his as she moved against him, and he grew more excited. It bothered Richard and he knew it was wrong, but he was, after all, a man. How else could he react? Diane was beautiful and gentle and smart, but they’d grown apart over the years. It wasn’t her fault, but it wasn’t his, either. Life had just gotten in the way. Melanie’s nails raked against his back, hurting him a bit even through his shirt and he cried softly under his breath. He grabbed her by the wrists and forced her hands to her sides. She pushed against him more insistently and his erection strained against his slacks.
They’d flirted for weeks at work, in the hallway, the elevator, at each other’s desks; he’d always thought their witty banter a harmless distraction from the daily grind, but she’d started talking dirtier and coming by his desk more frequently to continue their verbal sparring. Still, he’d stayed faithful to Diane, had held her close every night and whispered his love to her, even though she was always too tired to hold him back, to whisper back, to love him back. He’d known from the start it was only a matter of time before he and Melanie made plans, made excuses, made love the way they talked about jokingly day by day.
She rocked against him harder, pushed him back and grabbed furiously at his crotch. He brought his hand up and smashed the heel of it into her jaw. Her teeth clicked together and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She looked surprised even as he pulled her head down, bent her double and slammed a knee into her stomach. Threw her back into the dingy, chipped, red brick, reached into the sheath at the small of his back and came up with a knife.
“It has to be this way,” he whispered. “I love Diane too much.” He shoved the knife between her fourth and fifth rib, at an angle. More blood bubbled from her mouth as she slumped forward in his arms, impaling herself further on the blade.
“What the–” she gasped. “I thought you wanted it too.”
“I did. That’s the problem.” He laid her gently on the wet, trash-strewn pavement, knelt beside her and took her hand.
“I’m sorry.” She took one last breath, and closed her eyes. Before she did he saw the same electricity as before, even then.
“All for you, Diane,” he whispered as he left the alley and headed for home. He smelled Melanie’s perfume on his dark, but no doubt bloodstained, shirt. He’d wash it when he got home. It’d be a shame if Diane found it first and got the wrong idea.
P R A I S E F O R
D E S P A I R S & D E L I G H T S
“…Simple, well-written, fireside fare…an entertaining and delightfully scary read in one late-night sitting…”
– Nicholas Grabowsky, Nick Reads & Reviews
“A solid debut for Crisler… enjoyable around any campfire.”
– Kevin Lucia, The Binghamton Sun & Press Bulletin
On sale at Barnes & Noble and other fine retailers! Download a FREE PDF copy or order an autographed copy!
*****
KNIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD
“And remember, keep clear of the Dark Oaks, this night of all nights,” Orland called out as Anders thundered away from the castle. Anders, bent low over his horse’s neck, smirked behind his helm.
Superstitious old man, he thought. Feast of the Dead, my ass. If his lord, the count, had seen fit to send his finest champion on an errand on this night, what danger could there be? Anyhow, there was nothing his sword couldn’t handle, and certainly nothing his horse, Fleetwood, couldn’t outrun. Of course he was cutting through the Dark Oaks; going around would cost him an additional day. What did Orland know, anyhow? He was a wise old sage, to be sure, but knew nothing of the ways of combat. Anders was a knight. He would ride to Ernif, roust the brigands his lord’s subjects were complaining of, and return home while there was still feasting to be enjoyed.
The Dark Oaks did look especially forbidding tonight, Anders thought as he approached the forest at dusk. He’d grant Orland that much. By the same token, however, the Dark Oaks were supposed to be forbidding; a six-hour ride through thick, treacherous woods that had deterred the count’s enemies for as long as the family had held the land. The peasantry had been scaring themselves with talk of walking corpses for almost as long, but what else could be expected from uneducated folk? Anders supposed he’d be scared too, if he wasn’t a knight. He didn’t blame them, really. But he knew better.
Fleetwood halted at the edge of the forest, ears pricking up as a stiff wind blew across the dusky field. Anders drew his cloak tightly around him and whispered to his mount.
“Come on, old boy. We’ve done this a hundred times.” Finally the horse acquiesced and plunged into the Dark Oaks. Branches smacked against Anders’ armor and tugged at his cloak as Fleetwood, gaining confidence, moved faster along the familiar path. It was so dark Anders could barely see the horse beneath him, and the wind howled through the trees. There were no animals, no birds, no insects; only the rushing of the wind, the whipping of the branches and the surefooted clip-clopping of the horse.
They traveled the next ten miles in silence; Anders nodded in his saddle, Fleetwood’s steady gait, the ungodly hour and lack of companionship conspiring against him. When he raised his head for a sip of ale, he noticed a flickering light shining through the trees. He slung his aleskin back over his shoulder, took Fleetwood’s reins, halted the horse and listened intently. There were low grumbling and moaning sounds from the direction of the light. Perhaps there was celebration to be had in the woods. Anders shook the reins and Fleetwood plodded towards the light.
When they were halfway to it, Fleetwood halted and pricked up his ears. His nostrils began twitching and Anders’ hand slid instinctively to his sword. Suddenly, Fleetwood leapt into the air and galloped recklessly through the woods. Anders dropped the reins, released the sword and clung to his horse’s neck for dear life.
“Fleetwood! Devil take you, slow down!” He screamed into the horse’s ear, to no effect. Fleetwood ran, faster, if anything, and burst through the thick brush blotting the light. Anders inhaled a fetid stench as he caught a glimpse of a campfire, and…
There’s no way I just saw what I think-
His forehead slammed into a tree branch, and he slipped into unconsciousness…
