W.D. GAGLIANI

I’m sitting on a covered porch at this very moment, looking out at a still lake, its borders hugged by closely packed trees. A few birds chirp in the branches around me. There’s nary a ripple on the pristine water. It’s a sunny day with the promise of rising humidity.

My family and I will be plodding down to the water soon. At this particular spot, we’ll be the only people enjoying the lake, bobbing on rafts. The water by the shore is clear. We can see the sandy bottom and occasional fish dart by. But if we paddle out a little further, the water becomes impenetrable.

Out beyond the dock, the sand stops and the slimy muck begins. Treading water, you can’t see your knees, much less your toes.

And you wonder, what else is in the water, right now, just below my paddling feet? It’s a big lake. There aren’t many power boats. This is canoe country. Nature rules here. If your raft drifts into the center of the lake, you know you’re floating high above an unseen bottom that is deeper than you’d care to imagine.

Something splashes behind you. Your head jerks around, but you only see the widening rings of something’s dive into the depths. What the hell was that? It sounded big. Too big. You paddle fast, eyes fastened on the dock where your wife snoozes in the sun, unaware that something has risen up to view the lake’s interloper.

There’s that splash again, closer this time, following you. Your arms burn. Your heart trips and stumbles. A loon releases its ululating cry in the distance. At the moment, it sounds like a warning. Or is it cheering on the thing trailing you?

You want to cry out, but you can’t scare the kids. So you keep paddling, despite the cramp in your shoulder. You feel a thump under the raft that nearly jolts you into the air.

Stay calm. Keep paddling. Christ, what was that?

And suddenly, you can see the bottom again. Your daughters are playing Frisbee in the water. Your wife wakes up and asks, “You want another beer?”

Yes, oh yes, I’d like that.
------------------------------
Hunter Shea
July 23, 2014


Publisher’s Weekly named the upcoming thriller, THE MONTAUK MONSTER, one of the best summer books of 2014:

The urban mythologies of the Montauk Monster and the government labs on Plum Island unite to cause staggering levels of mayhem when mutant animals with toxic blood descend on a Long Island town. This wholly enthralling hulk of a summer beach read is redolent of sunscreen and nostalgia, recalling mass market horror tales of yore by John Saul, Dean Koontz, and Peter Benchley. — PW

The Montauk Monster, Synopsis and Advanced Praise:

"Shea combines ancient evil, old school horror, and modern style." --Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author

It Kills. . .

On a hot summer night in Montauk, the bodies of two local bar patrons are discovered in the dunes, torn to shreds, their identities unrecognizable. . .

It Breeds. . .

In another part of town, a woman's backyard is invaded by four terrifying creatures that defy any kind of description. What's clear is that they're hostile--and they're ravenous. . .

It Spreads. . .

With every sunset the terror rises again, infecting residents with a virus no one can cure. The CDC can't help them;FEMA can't save them. But each savage attack brings Suffolk County Police Officer Gray Dalton one step closer to the shocking source of these unholy creations. Hidden on nearby Plum Island, a U.S. research facility has been running top-secret experiments. What they created was never meant to see the light of day. Now, a vacation paradise is going straight to hell.

"Hunter Shea is the real deal.. . .intense." --Gord Rollo, author of Valley of the Scarecrow and Crimson

"Shea delves deep into the unknown. A thrill-ride of a read!" --Alexandra Holzer, author of Growing Up Haunted

Called “Most Anticipated Summer Read of 2014” by The Horror Bookshelf along with Stephen King’s Mr. Mercedes and Brian Moreland’s The Vagrants.
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Growing up an absolute horror junkie, starting at around age 5, when it was time to write my first full length novel, I had one major question to answer. What, out of all the monsters, spirits and demons that populate my subconscious, will I pluck out and spend the next year or so living within an almost invisible, conjoined twin state? I spent a lot of time living with that question, letting it roll around the old brain pan, sifting its contents like a mad gold digger until I found that one true nugget that could give birth to a writing boom.

And then it hit me. It has to be about ghosts! Why ghosts? Because, unlike discovering gold in them thar hills, most people either have a personal ghost story, or are close to someone who has lifted the veil between this world and the next. I recently tested that theory in my writer’s group when I brought the subject up. Sure enough, five out of six people had had their own encounter with a phantom, wraith, ghost, whatever you want to name it.

Ghosts scare people because of what we, as a society, perceive to be their very real nature. Even if someone says they don’t believe in spirits, put them in a strange house at night and see how they react to odd noises or distant moans. Sure, it could be the house settling, but there’s a very primal part of our brains that reacts to the potential of the supernatural in ways we can’t control. Everyone loves a good ghost story, even the ones who say they get scared by them. It only seemed natural that I try to spin my own ghost story, and for close to four years I did just that, writing my book, Forest of Shadows, combining the classics of a good haunt with new, hopefully terrifying twists and turns.

Another reason for choosing ghosts was a series of unexplained encounters my wife and I had with a phantom boy in my house for over a year. He would be there, clear as day one moment, and gone the instant you went to seek him out. The oddest part of all was the feeling of comfort that always washed over us when he was around. Who was that boy and why did he only stick around for that one year? We’ll never know. But I did know that I wanted to get aspects of those events onto paper.

So I wrote. And the ghosts of my past and that shades of society’s darkest nightmares became my constant companions. When I knew I was going to write a scene involving apparitions or shadow people, I would darken the room, so it was only me and the feeble light from my computer screen. I wanted to feel the tingle of the phantom presence at my back, catch shadows within the inky darkness moving about from the corner of my eye. I wanted to be scared.

Enjoy this excerpt from Forest of Shadows. If you feel you have to sleep with the light on tonight, I’ve done my job.

--
“I’m here,” he called out with far less authority than he had wished. His voice cracked and he swallowed off the last syllable as he gulped for air.

With the normal night sounds silenced, his ragged breathing sounded like the whoosh of an incoming breaker.

He caught movement behind the window leading to the great room. A flash of something pale and alive. He blinked hard.

The face of a boy was pressed against the glass. But there was no body beneath it.

Judas stifled a scream and felt a strong urge to empty his suddenly swollen bladder right there and then. He watched the face, with its benign expression, indifferent to the terror stricken man in the front yard, as it pushed forward through the glass without breaking it. As the head hovered on the porch, a prepubescent body dressed in a dirty t-shirt and shorts slowly materialized. His neck came into focus last, forming the bridge between head and torso.

No way! No freakin’ way! Judas turned on his heels and started to run.

Shadows were seeping out of the trees like spilled molasses, coiling through the grass and sweeping up their trunks. The deathly quiet was broken by the hum of incoherent murmurings. Dozens of whispered voices swirled around him as the shadows continued their steady march towards the driveway and his only means of escape.

He swung back around and the boy was only a few feet from him, his body more corporeal. In fact, if Judas hadn’t seen him materialize from a wafting head he would have sworn he was face to face with your average ten year old boy out for a late night sneak.

This time Judas gasped aloud.

The boy narrowed his cold gray eyes, raised a rigid arm and pointed at the advancing shades.

Even though he wanted to run mad and screaming from this place, something compelled him to stay. Slowly and with great fear, he turned his head.
---

http://store.samhainpublishing.com/forest-shadows-p-6508.html?osCsid=0e2aeca5196563a84a95963ca0977bb8


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