Four Octobers by Rick Hautala

By Rick Hautala

4 OCTOBERS - a suite of Novellas

The days have become shorter, and the wind blows chilly from the north. After the maple and oak leaves flip from eco-friendly to vivid reds, golds, and oranges, they wither, fall, and die, clattering like previous bones as they blow down the road within the twilight. The sunlight isn't as vibrant because it was once, and the nights are darkish and chilly and lengthy. this can be the time of the harvest … the time of Hallowe'en … and a time for recollections of the summer time simply earlier and of alternative summers, now gone. this can be a time of poser and expectation because the earth prepares for the frigid onslaught of winter.

Four Octobers collects for the 1st time 4 loosely interconnected novellas from the bright mind's eye of best-selling writer Rick Hautala. every one tale is decided in October, the month of pumpkins and trick or deal with, of skeletons and haunted graveyards, and every tale is stuffed with nostalgia for occasions prior … for summers and adolescence now long past … for probabilities now not taken … for possibilities now misplaced forever.

"Tin Can Telephone," set in 1957, tells the tale of a tender boy and his buddy who, within the pre-dawn darkness whereas ready to determine the Russian satellite tv for pc Sputnik velocity via overhead, adventure a secret and worry way more terrifying than the specter of Soviets in space.

"Miss Henry's Bottles," might be Hautala's top tale up to now, tells how the straightforward act of discarding empty soda bottles on a neighbor's garden brings to mild secrets and techniques that are meant to have remained buried … yet like any secrets and techniques, this one ultimately is printed with devastating consequences.

"Blood Ledge," set in an Indian summer season of 1971, tells the story of a tender boy who discovers a depressing kin mystery that leads him to just accept a relatives inheritance that has frightening results.

And eventually, "Cold River" is the tale of a guy so misplaced in loneliness and melancholy following the dying of his spouse that he faces a horror worse … a lot worse than drowning within the chilly, darkish river that flows by means of his house.

Taken jointly, those tales exhibit Rick Hautala writing on the best of his online game, telling tales that may not simply kick back you should you learn them, yet will depart you with an icy dread on your center … a dread a lot less warm than any October wind blowing down the road at evening.

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The black hole grew larger and larger, like the shadow of Satan looming over the universe. As it got closer the Oneirophage could see that the black hole had wings. Hooked wings. And hooked horns, hooked shoulders, and a hooked phallus, as well. It was not a black hole, but a soulmate: the fear-raping, nightmare-ingesting, phobiphiliac Democubus. The large, ebon gargoyle demon flew in through the blasted window, his sharp hooks silhouetted against the light of distant galaxies behind him. He had hooks over his eyes, hooked fangs, and hooks on his elbows and knees.

Straws jabbed themselves into his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth, his ears, and the tip of his penis, raising red rims upon the flesh around them and leaking blood from beneath their nearly hermetically sealed edges. The Oneirophage held the other end of the straw in his hands. He raised it to his rainbow lips like a calumet, then began to suck the Necrodelic's blood from every one of his bodily orifices at the same time. Chariah felt as though he had been attacked by his own Bloodbong. The large mouthpiece and nasal tubes were suffocating him as the Oneirophage imbibed his blood, and then his dreams, as the serpent demon sought to replenish his strength.

With several dislodged vertebrae, his spine felt and sounded like a saw, digging into the flesh of his back and torso with tiny ridged teeth, carving at his flesh. Serpentine crepitus breaking the night air like glass, the Oneirophage pulled the Darkprism from its obsidian chain around his neck. Inside were Morpheus Rex's diurnal prey, with which he would heal his wounds by eating and drinking their dreams. As always, the Oneirophage's memories of the day were hazy and surreal, just as Morpheus Rex's recollections of his were-serpent alter ego's nocturnal activities were typically vague and incomplete.

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