R.A.’s Writings

Welcome to Devil’s Pawn: A Soul Proprietorship

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 3, 2012
Posted in: R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a Comment

The Devil’s Pawn

A Soul Proprietorship

 

Welcome to Hell, an unincorporated stretch of land in Southeast Michigan. With an advertised population of 666 and a playful proclivity to garner attention from its infamous name, nobody batted an eye when the self-proclaimed “Prince of Darkness” chose Hell to set up shop. But as business booms in his Soul Proprietorship, rumors begin to swirl. Who is this mysterious stranger and what is really being bought and sold behind the doors of The Devil’s Pawn?

 

The voice on the phone said, “This is an attempt to collect a debt and any information obtained will be used for that purpose.” The caller ID showed the number as unavailable, causing an already aggravated Brooke to toss the phone onto the passenger seat as she returned her attention to the rearview mirror and her mascara.

“Fucking asshole credit card companies,” she fumed, ignoring the impatient horns and shouts from the unfortunate drivers filling the lane behind her white Range Rover. Of course, the call could have just as easily been about her car loan or condo lease. Hell, maybe it was Columbia House finally tracking her down for all of those CD purchases while in college. Regardless,

Brooke’s immediate concern was her lashes.

Two green lights later, Brooke’s Range River finally sped through the intersection. The distraction of the phone call forgotten, she was oblivious to the dark sedan riding her bumper.

 

* * *

 

Michael had found the ad online. Collections Agent. No experience necessary. Some travel required. The description suited him perfectly. He had found himself on the wrong end of collections several times, had no real job experience of any sort, and was looking for any reason to put some distance between himself and the bright lights of Vegas. It all seemed too good to be true when the brief telephone interview turned into a real job offer.

Of course, things are rarely what they appear and the ex-con knew that nobody hires a recently paroled mafia hit man as a best business practice. Still, the $2,500 check to cover moving expenses was real enough, even if it was drawn under a rather unusual name—Devil’s Pawn, 666 Sulfur Street, Hell, MI. Surely somebody’s idea of a joke, he mused.

Michael had still yet to meet his new employer face to face. Beyond a name, Lucien Burns was a complete mystery. He wasn’t even completely convinced that the gentleman he spoke to on the phone during his brief interview was in charge. The entire affair felt a lot like his prior work with a certain unnamed family out in Vegas. But this was Hell, Michigan—far from the lights and glamour of the Strip. Michael was wise enough to know that his work was best handled on a need-to-know basis and not to clutter his mind with useless details.

As expected, the target guided her Range Rover into an office park. Michael followed, wondering just what this crazy bitch could have done to get herself into this kind of trouble.

 

* * *

 

“I want to be beautiful,” she whispered, eyes darting around nervously. The Pawn Shop was empty, save for the well-dressed man who had greeted her entrance. Of indeterminate age, the man exuded a raw confidence and sexuality that made Brooke both strangely at-ease and uncomfortable. He was not what she had expected.

Brooke had found the ad online. Everybody Has A Price. What’s Yours? Call 734.666.6666. The ad’s simplicity is what had initially piqued her interest. What did it even

mean? A price for what? Even the phone number seemed to be a joke. Yet for two straight days Brooke had carefully considered what harm could come from simply calling. She would block her number from the caller id, of course.

“Ms. Jennings, so nice of you to call. How may I be of service?”

Brooke hesitated, unsure how the stranger on the other end of the line could possibly know her name. “I, uh, um.”

“Please, take a moment to collect yourself. I can only imagine how nervous you must be. It takes great courage to embark on this journey,” the man’s soothing voice continued. “My name is Lucien Burns and I assume you are calling in response to the advertisement?”

Brooke’s racing mind made it difficult for her to form a cohesive thought, let alone an apt response. “Mmm hmm.”

The next several minutes passed with Lucien’s hypnotizing voice providing scant information about exactly what it was he was peddling. Yet, within moments, Brooke found herself taking down a few scribbled notes and an address for a business in of all places, Hell.

“Shall we meet at say, seven-thirty tomorrow evening, Ms. Jennings?”

Now, at precisely the agreed-upon time, Brooke stood in Lucien’s presence, baring her soul of its greatest desire—beauty. At just under two-hundred fifty pounds, beauty had always been the proverbial carrot dangled in front of her obese form. From diet programs to health club memberships, nothing had granted Brooke her soul’s deepest wish. Nothing, that is, until now.

“Ah yes, beauty,” Lucien responded with a knowing smile. His closely cropped hair was the color of cigarette ash, granting him the appearance of being both wise with age and virile in youth. Dressed in a well-tailored black suit with a starched white open-collared shirt beneath, Brooke’s attraction to the man was instantaneous.

“So elusive, beauty,” he continued, staring deeply into Brooke’s eyes. “Tell me, Ms. Jennings, at what price does beauty come?”

Brooke broke Lucien’s gaze, “Any,” she whispered, bowing her head with embarrassment.

Lucien reached forward and gently placed his delicate fingers beneath Brooke’s chin, raising her head to recast her gaze. Warmth spread throughout her body as she stared deep into his eyes.

“Let’s talk terms, Ms. Jennings.”

 

* * *

 

Michael parked two rows beyond the Range Rover and watched the white SUV from his rear view mirror. Again, the driver was busily applying makeup. Turning his attention from his target, Michael rummaged through the glove box and pulled forth a manila envelope. Written in flowing script across it’s surface was a name—Brooke Jennings. The ex-con opened the flap and emptied the envelope’s contents onto the passenger seat.

He glanced again into the mirror; no movement from the Range Rover. A single photo rested on the sedan’s leather seat. Michael recognized his target immediately and turned the photo over where the same flowing script provided his brief instructions.

 

Beauty is only skin deep.

Cut it out—along with her eyes.

L.B.

 

Again, Michael reached into the glove box. His hand emerged holding a pair of black leather gloves and a hunting knife with a six-inch serrated blade. The knife disappeared quickly up the sleeve of his jacket as he slid the gloves over his already sweating hands. Casting another glance into the rear view mirror, he emerged from his car, setting the timer on the explosives beneath the driver’s seat. Ninety seconds, he thought, walking briskly in the direction of the Range Rover.

“Excuse me, miss,” he called as he approached his target. “Ms. Jennings,” he called again, now standing at the door of the SUV. A wide smile split his lips as he gazed upon quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered. Pity, he thought, the muscles lining his jaws tiring from the forced smile. Sixty seconds.

Brooke turned her attention from her lipstick application and looked with obvious annoyance at the man standing at her window. Rolling her eyes she reached for the button and lowered the SUV’s window.

“Yes, can I help you?” Her tone clearly implied helping anyone was the last thing on her mind.

Michael leaned forward, sliding the blade free from his sleeve, as the smile fell from his face. “I’m here to collect a debt.”

The blade bit into Brooke’s throat spraying blood and slicing her vocal chords with a single twist. A torrent of blood flowed from her gaping mouth as she struggled to scream.

“Some cultures believe the eyes are the portal to the soul,” Michael stated from memorized instruction as the blade’s serrated edge tore into her porcelain skin. “Lucien was very specific,” he added, plunging the tip of the blade into the corner of her left eye. Glancing over his shoulder at the desolate parking lot, Michael noted the time and continued his task. His target’s sky-blue eyes were soon out and deposited safely into his pocket.

“Tell me, Ms. Jennings,” Michael asked, taking in his handiwork. “What is the price of beauty?”

His target responded with a final gurgle and gasp before her lifeless head fell to the steering wheel. Michael smiled and walked briskly from the parking lot, tossing his blood-soaked gloves and knife into his car as he counted the remaining seconds before detonation.

 

* * *

 

Seated safely behind the wheel of the car he had parked around the block the night before, it wasn’t until he was miles away that Michael finally relaxed. The drive back to Hell would take approximately forty-five minutes—depending on traffic. There would be no follow-up at “the office.” His task was done. At the end of this car ride he would simply climb the stairs to the apartment above The Devil’s Pawn and wait for another envelope to arrive under the door.

His stomach tightened into nervous knots at the approaching sound of police sirens. He stared through the windshield and watched the approaching red and blue flashers of law enforcement as he guided his car to the shoulder. The handful of other cars on the road did likewise. His anxiety lessened as three police cruisers sped past toward the direction of the blast.

He exhaled in relief as he guided his car into the first available lane of traffic. The bumper sticker on the car in front read ‘No rest for the wicked.’ The Collection Agent laughed. Those poor bastards didn’t know how right they are.

 

New Teaser for Grave Undertakings Revealed: Unearth the Prologue and First Chapter

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on January 20, 2012
Posted in: R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 4 comments

PROLOGUE

March 4, 1957

Lake View Asylum

Bedlam Falls, Michigan

The soiled rag did little to silence the screams echoing throughout the hospital’s dank subterranean basement, but it did keep the young woman strapped to the examination table from biting through her own tongue. Small consolation, however, her sky-blue eyes had already been removed and tossed carelessly onto the morgue’s green-tiled floor. Through her muffled cries, blood-filled tears streamed down her face and onto the cold metal table where they collected in a growing pinkish-colored puddle.

Tall and slender, with silver hair falling to his shoulders, Dr. Wesley Clovis stood at the table and surveyed his handiwork. The woman had been brutally stripped naked, her head, wrists, and ankles secured to the table by soiled leather straps. With each spasm of pain, her full breasts heaved and the restraints dug further into her cold flesh, causing the white clad orderly standing at the foot of the table to squeal in obvious delight.

“Douglass, if you would be so kind,” motioning toward a cluttered tray of instruments near the table, Clovis directed his assistant, “I am in need of my scalpel.”

“Indeed,” the diminutive orderly responded, moving to the side of the table and the instrument tray. Douglas’s unsettling grin widened beneath a pencil-thin mustache, revealing a jagged row of yellow stained teeth, he asked in a sinister whisper that was dripping with vehemence. “You gonna cut her?”

Clovis paused, recasting his gaze from the prone woman on the metal table to the impish man in white. “Yes, Douglass, her blood shall flow,” he whispered tersely, and then continued, his voice filling with conviction. “For the life of the flesh is in the blood … for it is the blood that makes atonement for the soul.”

Twenty minutes later Dr. Wesley Clovis walked from the morgue, his starched white shirt soaked with the ‘life of the flesh’. Although, no closer to unlocking the secrets, which separated the living from the dead, he took solace in the knowledge that an unlimited supply of subjects remained at his disposal.

As the sound of Clovis’ thunderous footfalls echoed in retreat though the cavernous basement, Douglass Wyatt was in charge and to left to care for what remained of young Debra Moored. Shrugging free from his pristine hospital uniform, the pony-tailed orderly climbed atop the table, eager to explore the woman’s still-warm flesh before it grew cold.

CHAPTER 1: HEAD GAMES

“So tell me, Mr. Tanner, how’s that working for you?”

Brady responded to the acerbic inquiry with a corresponding sour smile and a long stretch of silence. His weekly tug-of-war sessions with Dr. Laurence Vredeveld were just now beginning to gain traction. Therapy hadn’t been his idea and he wasn’t quite ready yet to acknowledge April’s suggestion to “get some help” as a good idea. Yet he found himself looking forward to his Wednesday afternoon appointments nonetheless.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Brady continued, allowing a brief smile to spread beneath his hazel eyes, “I’m too old for another run at American Idol – damn bastards and their age limits – so I decided to get back into the business of writing. Maybe start slow – fortune cookies and Dove Promise wrappers; nothing too complex right away”

Vredeveld’s shoulders shook with soundless laughter as he plucked the glasses from his face. The psychologist paused to let the mirth drift from the conversation before turning his naked eye to Brady. “Something tells me that’s a wise choice, Mr. Tanner.” He paused briefly, “So what does writing look like to you – a novel or maybe throwing your hat back into the media circus?”

Brady shrugged. “That’s the rub – I’m just not sure; perhaps both.”

Vredeveld considered the reply as he perched his wire-framed glasses once again on the end of his nose. “Can you be more specific? Something tells me you’ve given this some thought.”

Brady fidgeted anxiously in his chair, bringing to mind a sense of déjà vu as he recalled his first visit to Dr. Vredeveld’s office some six weeks prior. A large mahogany desk dominated the space and book-laden shelves lined the taupe colored walls. The combination of furnishings brought to mind the movie, Anchorman: the Legend of Ron Burgundy, starring the incomparable Will Ferrell. During Brady’s favorite scene from the film, Ferrell’s character claimed his self-importance by bragging of his collection of several leather-bound books and an apartment that smelled of rich mahogany. Brady had spent his entire first visit with Dr. Vredeveld stifling nervous laughter and doing his best to resist the temptation to scan the shelves looking for leather-bound books.

“The hospital,” he finally responded, shaking free from the urge to chuckle. “I want to write about the hospital.”

Vredveld sighed noisily. Brady had picked up on his doctor’s “tell” early on in their therapy sessions. A sigh from Vredeveld usually meant he didn’t think whatever Brady was contemplating was a good idea.

“”I’m confused, Brady. During our sessions you’ve done nothing but talk about how badly you wish you could just forget about the whole affair. It seems to me that writing about it is an odd way to forget.”

Brady glanced down at his wrist, much the way someone would glance at their watch to see when they would be released from whatever Hell they had currently found themselves in – work, school, a crowded elevator – or in this case, a therapy session. Yet it was no time-piece that Brady looked to. Instead, encircling his wrist was a simple band of thin plastic. Brady had never once spoken of it in therapy, but Vredeveld could sense its hold over his patient.

“Maybe forgetting isn’t the best option,” Brady stated simply, not wanting to admit aloud that it didn’t appear to be an option at all. Brady’s hopes of moving beyond the unexplainable experiences he had shared with his small circle of friends over the past several weeks were foolhardy, at best. The hospital bracelet about his wrist guaranteed it.

“Can you at least tell me what has changed,” Vredeveld asked, probing for insight. “Haven’t you seen progress, Brady? You’re sleeping better, right – the night terrors and sleepwalking have subsided?”

Brady nodded slowly, “Yeah, I’ve seen progress.” Brady’s short reply hid the truth. The progress which he spoke of was not the kind Vredeveld was referencing. Brady’s battle with the vengeful spirit Ellis Arkema for control over his fragile mind had come to a crease-fire of sorts. Whatever else the plastic hospital bracelet was, Brady believed it was no longer a danger to him personally. There was no malicious intent from its original owner. Ellis’ vengeance, Brady had come to understand, was being redirected elsewhere. That’s not to say that Brady’s role in the matter was resolved. A doorway had been opened inside him – a doorway that led…beyond. The veil has been parted, the once-cryptic message, now rang clear in his tired mind.

“Listen, I’m not saying it’s the right thing to do or the wrong thing to do,” he continued. “I’m just saying that it’s the thing I need to do.”

The silence hung between them. Once again they had reached the familiar impasse. Brady had shared only bits and pieces of his recent brush with the supernatural. Partly because he had hoped that denial would somehow make it all go away, but mostly because he feared the doctor’s ability to have him escorted away for an undisclosed amount of time for intensive treatment. The irony of which, considering his past experience with Janie’s Law and the treatment of individuals with mental illness, was not lost on him.

All sense of joviality was removed from Vredeveld’s voice when he finally spoke. “This writing you plan to engage in, it’s not going to interfere with our sessions, correct?”

Brady’s mischievous grin spread once again across his face. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

Dive Into the MysteryGrave Undertakings concludes the story introduced in my debut thriller Asylum Lake.

With more than thirty 5-Star reviews, Asylum Lake recently cracked the Top 100 List on Amazon Kindle and made it to #3 in the horror genre. Classically creepy, Asylum Lake blends dark humor, chills, romance, and a mystery that will leave you hanging till the very end. I encourage you to dip your toe into the chilling waters of Asylum Lake in preparation for Grave Undertakings to be unearthed in the very near future.

CLICK HERE to purchase Asylum Lake for Kindle for only $2.99. CLICK HERE to purchase an autographed copy of Asylum Lake in print for only $15.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good fright!

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on December 18, 2011
Posted in: R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , . 1 comment

Asylum Lake

Christmas is coming a week early in these parts.  For today only I am offering free downloads of my chilling debut novel on Kindle. Come tomorrow I’ll be taking the title off the shelf temporarily to do some “remastering” of what many are calling “One Creepy Read!”.  So if you’ve been tempted to dip your toe into the chilling waters of Asylum Lake but just haven;t found the courage, please dive in today… on me.

For those of you who choose to wait -and pay the $3.99 when the title goes live again – you will find the same dark tale, all cleaned up, and with the Asylum Lake bonus cut included. Hell – you might just want to download the free version and then pay for the new!

Merry Christmas friends, fans, and followers.

CLICK HERE to dive into Asylum Lake for free!

Asylum Lake is knocking on the door of the Amazon Kindle Top 100 List!

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on November 11, 2011
Posted in: NEWS & Events, R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a Comment

I received some great news last night – thanks to a slew of sales over the last 48 hours my novel Asylum Lake has skyrocketed up the list on Amazon Kindle.  It’s now listed at #153 and with a solid push there is a chance, albeit slight, that it could crack the Top 100 list! (it is also currenbtly listed at #4 on the Kindle Horror Charts and #43 on the Kindle Mystery/Thriller chart).

So what do i need from the cosmos? I need the stars to align perfectly through word-of-mouth with friends, fans, and family alike helping me spread the message and push for more sales.  If you’ve followed followed my blog over the last few months you know that I compare selling books as an Indie Author to slinging crack rock ont he corner and even prostituting myself – so I have no problem begging for help to reach this milestone.

Asylum Lake is available on Kindle for only $.99! CLICK HERE for the link. if you don;t own a Kindle but still want to support me and my writing (or just purchase a great book as a gift for an avid reader) you can CLICK HERE to purchase an autographed print copy for only $15. Fonally, you can CLICK HERE to purchase Asylum Lake for only $.99 on NOOK.

Thanks again for your comments and support with Asylum Lake. I look forward to continued thrills and chills flowing from my dark mind to the pages (and pixels) of more novels in the near and distant future.

Coffin Hop Trick or Treat: A Bedlam Falls All Hallows Eve Special

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on October 23, 2011
Posted in: Contests & Promotions, R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 22 comments

October 31, 1971
Bedlam Falls, MI

The boy’s hand felt awkward and small holding the heavy wooden handle of the oversized kitchen knife; yet his delicate fingers carried a strength and dexterity far beyond his young age.  The blade easily pierced the exposed flesh, deftly carving meaty chucks that collected in moist piles at his feet. The pungent odor of his handiwork filled the otherwise tidy kitchen.

He went about his work seemingly without thought, the faintest trace of a sly smile curving his thin lips.  The last warming rays of late afternoon sun filtered through the window over the sink, stretching long shadows across the soiled countertop.  Eventually, the blade ceased its mindless dance and the boy relaxed his boney fist from the stained wooden handle — letting the knife fall into the discolored sink.

He paused to reflect upon his creation – softly tracing his fingers across the carved flesh, probing the gouges and holes which he had so deftly whittled away.

Walking from the kitchen, his hands and arms sticky and soiled, Lionel Collins made his way through the vacant house and up the stairs to his bedroom. There, he would prepare for his evening, the soothing voice inside his head providing ample instruction, and strength, to complete the tasks ahead.

Small towns are notoriously quirky, and Bedlam Falls’ quirkiness started from the moment of its founding. As Oliver Bryant Bedlam stepped from his horse-drawn carriage to survey the tree-swept fields of the as-yet unsettled acreage he had just purchased, his booted foot slid from the carriage step. His fall to the ground, although relatively short in distance, ended with a fractured skull courtesy of a rock hidden within the grassy plain. Bedlam died from his injuries two days later, and as word of the accident spread beneath headlines and over telegraph proclaiming “Bedlam Falls”, the small northern Michigan town’s name was sealed.

More than a century later, Oliver Bedlam’s grave, marked precisely at the spot where he had fallen from his carriage, remained one of the most visited sites in all of Bedlam County. Of course, the majority of visitors were of the drunken teenage variety; Falls’ Rest Cemetery had become the chosen location for late night teenage debauchery.

Deputy Frank Griggs was recently enough removed from his teenage years to still understand the lure of the secluded gardens of earth and stone. It was for this reason alone that he “patrolled” the area. Nothing was ever amiss in the cemetery, but the kids did keep him fully stocked with beer and on more than one occasion he was able to catch a brief glimpse of a nipple or two. Yeah, between the beer and the breasts, a slow drive through the cemetery was better than anything playing at the drive-in.

Tonight, however, the stone garden was eerily quiet. Griggs’ had expected to hear Rod Stewart’s Maggie May wafting from car stereos, but instead was greeted with an ominous stillness; the feeling of a calm before a great storm. The shadows played tricks with the young deputy’s nervous eyes as he drove slowly through the winding dirt road toward the massive iron gates that marked the only entrance/exit from the cemetery.

A pained wail broke the silence, echoing through the night and sending a chill through Griggs’ thick body. “Ho-ly shit,” the shaken deputy exclaimed to the empty cruiser. “What the fuck was that?”

The cruiser eased to a stop as Griggs scanned the moonlit graveyard. Nothing seemed out of place, at least not from the relative safety of the car. Frank had little time to consider his options as a second cry erupted from the darkness; this one, definitely animal in nature.

“Fucking dogs,” Frank groaned in relief. Earl Stubbs had served as cemetery caretaker for more than 30 years. It was the half-wit’s job to keep the riff-raff out, maintain the grounds, and basically keep the dead tucked safely into their beds. The job didn’t pay much, but it came with one nice perk; free rent in the small house on the northern edge of the cemetery. Earl kept to himself and did a fair job of maintaining the landscaping, but it seemed every stray dog in town somehow made it into his care. Griggs could only imagine what trouble the beasts were getting into with all of the noise.

Griggs exited the cruiser clutching his flashlight and exhaling a plume of vapor into the chilly air. The pale beam sliced through the darkness, revealing a maze of tombstones amidst a tangle of brush. “Here poochy, poochy, poochy.”

Griggs’ calls were met with more silence. He stepped carefully between the stone monuments and markers, allowing the beam from his flashlight to trace over the inscribed names and dates of the deceased.  This area of the cemetery, tucked away in the southeast corner, was relatively new, with plots used only within the last half dozen or so years. The oldest plots, dating back to the late 1800′s when Oliver Bedlam slipped from his carriage, rested neatly in the center of the vast field.

After several minutes Frank neared the edge of the cemetery’s grounds. Here, as the open field gave way to the thick Michigan woods, the young deputy finally found the source of the recent commotion. The sight made his stomach clench with knots of fear.

Sweeping the light across the lone tombstone before him, Griggs could barely discern the etched name beneath the years of weather and what appeared to be fresh blood.

Rylan Walters

1920 – 1960

Loving Husband & Father

Griggs’ had met the former sheriff on a single occasion – and once was more than enough for him to take measure of the man;  a thick-headed blow hard and not nearly the law man that the current Sheriff Buck Tanner was. Even still, Frank admitted to himself, the bastard’s grave didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.

Strewn about the area were bits of what the deputy could only assume had recently been a dog – perhaps multiple dogs.  His suspicion was quickly confirmed as he moved his light from the carnage on the ground to the blood-soaked wooden handle of a shovel sticking up from the freshly turned earth near the headstone.  Placed atop the handle, eyes bulging from their sockets, rested the head of a German Sherperd. Frank’s knees buckled as his stomach emptied onto the soiled ground before him.

Shaken, the deputy’s mind raced with a myriad of thoughts. Turning from his grisly discovery, Deputy Frank Griggs made his way back through the garden of stone to his cruiser. There, in the safety of the car, he contemplated his next move. Surely, he would call it in to the station. The Sheriff would know what to do. But Frank wanted to be the one to notify next of kin. He had shared several classes with her during high school, and although they ran in different circles, he thought the news may best be received from someone she knew.

“Maddie,” Frank said anxiously into the radio, “Get the Sheriff out to Falls’ Rest.” It took only moments to relay the gory details to dispatch. “Let him know that I want to notify next of kin,” he paused before continuing. “And Maddie, one more thing, can you get me an address on Joanna Walters…I mean Reed; Ken Reed’s wife? I’ll drive by once the sheriff arrives.”

Like what you’ve read? Dive deeper into the mystery of Asylum Lake on Kindle, Nook, and in Print now before the upcoming release of the sequel Grave Undertakings.

All visitors who leave a comment on this post will be entered into a drawing for a free autographed copy of Grave Undertakings. The lucky winner will also win a “death” in my current zombie project FLIGHT.  That’s right, a character named in your honor will receive a death befitting a contest winner. Good luck and enjoy the Coffin Hop!

Grave Undertakings – the chilling sequel to Asylum Lake – will be unearthed soon!

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on October 21, 2011
Posted in: R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 2 comments

Beneath the sparkling surface of Asylum Lake, the unremembered have grown restless…and vengeful.

Brady Tanner’s return to the small town where he had spent the summers of his youth has opened long-forgotten wounds within his heart and soul. The unsettling discovery of his family’s dark legacy, and with it the chilling secret which has haunted the small town of Bedlam Falls for more than half a century, has led the former reporter into the darkened hallways of the abandoned Lake View Asylum and the horrifying world of the supernatural. Some memories, he has learned, are best forgotten.

Now Tanner must lead his ill-fated companions in search of the elusive Dr. Wesley Clovis – an ageless and faceless specter whose menacing shadow once filled the hospital’s hallways and now promises a return to complete the unfinished task of parting the veil between life and death itself. As the mysteries surrounding the man’s sinister plans begin to bubble to the surface, Tanner is left to ponder just what could lead a man to such Grave Undertakings.

Souls will be lost and answers found as the final mysteries of Asylum Lake are revealed.

Read the prologue below.

March 4, 1957

Lake View Asylum

The soiled rag did little to silence the screams echoing throughout the hospital’s dank subterranean basement, but it did keep the young woman strapped to the examination table from biting through her own tongue. Small consolation, however; her sky-blue eyes had already been removed and tossed carelessly onto the morgue’s green-tiled floor. Through her muffled cries, blood-filled tears streamed down her face and onto the cold metal table where they collected in a growing pinkish-colored puddle.

Tall and slender, with silver hair falling to his shoulders, Dr. Wesley Clovis stood at the table and surveyed his handiwork. The woman had been stripped naked, her head, wrists, and ankles secured to the table by soiled leather straps. With each spasm of pain her full breasts heaved and the restraints dug further into her cold flesh, causing the white-clad orderly standing at the foot of the table to squeal in obvious delight.

“Douglas, if you would be so kind,” motioning toward a cluttered tray of instruments near the table, Clovis directed his assistant, “I’ve need of my scalpel.”

“Indeed,” the diminutive orderly responded, moving to the side of the table and the instrument tray. Douglas’ unsettling grin widened beneath a pencil-thin mustache, revealing a jagged row of yellow teeth. “You gonna cut her?”

Clovis paused, recasting his gaze from the prone woman on the metal table to the impish man in white. “Yes, Douglas, her blood shall flow, he whispered tersely, and then continued, his voice filling with conviction. “For the life of the flesh is in the blood … for it is the blood that makes atonement for the soul.”

Twenty minutes later Dr. Wesley Clovis walked from the morgue, his starched-white shirt soaked with the life of the flesh. Although no closer to unlocking the secrets which separated the living from the dead, he took solace in the knowledge that an unlimited supply of subjects remained at his disposal.

As the sound of Clovis’ thunderous footfalls echoed in retreat through the cavernous basement, Douglas Wyatt was left to care for what remained of young Jenny Sype. Shrugging free from his pristine hospital uniform, the pony-tailed orderly climbed atop the table, eager to explore the woman’s still-warm flesh before it grew cold.

Dive into the mystery of Asylum Lake today for only $.99 on Kindle. Autographed print copies are available for only $15 by clicking HERE.

Lit Witch Review breathes new life into Asylum Lake

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on September 20, 2011
Posted in: R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . 1 comment

I’ve been following The Lit Witch book blog for awhile now.  They do a really great job of reviewing books from a variety of genres and I have found them to be pretty spot on with their comments. They don’t just rate a book – they go much deeper. Their reviews cover everythng from the plot and characters to the setting and premise. All of those factors are rolled into a final rating. It’s a pretty cool system and provides their followers an opportunity to learn a lot about the book and what the author’s strengths and weaknesses are.

Dive Into the MysteryAfter months of waiting, their review of Asylum Lake went live today and I couldn’t be more pleased. Not just because it’s a 4.5 star review – although that is rock star quality! I’m pleased because the reviewer seemed genuine in her comments; she understood the subtle and not-so-subtle nuances I was trying to portray with my characters, the dialogue, and their struggle to come to grips with a small town’s dark past.

Most refreshing, however, has been the out-pouring of support from readers and fans following the release of the review. I’ve received more than two dozen emails from readers who just wanted to share their appreciation for my dark tale and excitement for the upcoming sequel Grave Undertakings. Several even commented on how they are buying copies for friends or suggesting it to book clubs as a good Halloween read. That, my friends, is the life-blood of author success – positive word of mouth!

Thanks to The Lit Witch for taking the time to review Asylum Lake.  I encourage authors and readers alike to visit her blog and dive into some of the great titles she is reading…and reviewing!

Asylum lake is available for Kindle, NOOK, and in print.  If you’re looking to add some chills to your fall reading list, dive into the Mystery of Asylum Lake today!

Are you ready for Grave Undertakings?

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on June 15, 2011
Posted in: R.A.'s Writings, Uncategorized. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 1 comment

I’ve stumbled across an interesting blog. It appears as though Brady Tanner, the intrepid former reporter best known for his paranormal invetsigation into Bedlam Falls’ abandoned asylum, has been keeping a diary of sorts. Seems like an interesting read and may just include some secrets of what to ewxpect when he eventually finds the elusive Dr. Wesley Clovis. You can read his diary HERE.

CLICK HERE to dive into the mystery of Asylum Lake.

For a special preview of the upcoming sequel Grave Undertakings, CLICK HERE.

 

 

Cover Art for FLIGHT Revealed

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on May 22, 2011
Posted in: NEWS & Events, R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 8 comments

I’ve just finalized the artwork for my upcoming thriller FLIGHT and wanted to share it with you. The very talented author/designer A.J. Powers nailed it with this one! Tell me what you think.

U.S. Air Marshal Liz Downie thought she had lucked out with her assignment – a half-empty red eye from London to the states. The passengers – an odd assortment of State Department staffers freshly plucked from the embattled U.S. Embassy in Afghanistan. These arent your usual friendly skies, however. Tucked into the passenger jet’s shadowy cargo hold hides a secret the U.S. Military will do anything to protect – and Liz Downie everything to stop.

Where do you run when you are 33,000 feet in the air?

FLIGHT

Scheduled for take-off soon