Tag Archives: Free Paranormal Story

Author Chris Fenge Tells Her Tale of the Paranormal

Guest author Chris Fenge who writes Young Adult and Fantasy is published with BURST from Champagne Book Group. Chris has a truly unique bio on her beautifully done website—well worth a visit. Her story is a two-fer. Her husband wrote his version (address below).

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ImageWhat follows is a true story, and because it’s true it lacks Hollywood-style sensationalism. Indeed, the events were commonplace enough: two phone calls, a feeling, a coincidence of timing. Nothing more than that perhaps – a mere coincidence?

But I was there. I know the people involved. I remember the look on his face. And even to this day, years later, I feel a tingling terror that the world may not be as I believe it; that there are possibilities beyond the ordinary we both glimpsed that day.

This is what happened: the phone rang.

It was the nursing home…  again. My husband’s mother was ill…  again. Would we go over?

Me: “We should go. She’s 94 years old. They say it’s serious.”

Him: “They’re just covering themselves; they have to say that to relatives just in case. But she’s a tough old bird; she’ll rally. She always does.” He looked at his watch. “Our boy gets home soon. Let’s all go together when he arrives. It’ll cheer Mum up to see her grandson. She’s always had a soft spot for him.”

My husband wandered off humming a Bee Gees tune, tunelessly, in that random fashion he has when all is well with the world and nothing much bothers him. I turned back to the mess I’d created on the dining room table, a chaos of pens, elastic bands and general junk. The bureau had become impossible and I was on one of my rare cleaning sprees, getting some satisfaction from creating pockets of order. I picked up yet another black biro. Where do they all come from? They must be breeding in that bureau. Attempting to scribble with it on a scrap of paper, I was vaguely aware of my husband’s footsteps creaking their way upstairs, with the repetitive chorus of Staying Alive dwindling out of earshot. The scrap of paper ripped, and I tossed the dead pen in the bin to join its fellows before picking up another.

A door overhead slammed. There were running footsteps, and then a tremendous pounding down the stairs. My husband appeared in the room, his face stricken and drained, his eyes pure panic. He couldn’t seem to breathe and was clutching his chest. “We have to go,” he gasped. And then he pinned me with those panicked eyes and yelled: “NOW!  She’s afraid. She wants me with her. We have to go…  NOW!

He rushed out leaving me dazed. This wasn’t like him at all. Something very odd was happening, so odd I knew instinctively not to argue, not even to speak. I dropped the dead pen and dashed after him, grabbing my coat as I reached the front door.

He was already at the car when it happened: the phone rang.

It stopped us in our tracks and he turned to look at me. And with that eye-contact, complete comprehension passed between us, for we both knew it was the nursing home again and that our Mum had just died. And we also knew, with gut-wrenching certainty, that in those dying moments of life she had reached out, somehow, to connect with her son.

That’s all that happened. Not much, really, when you think about it: two phone calls, a feeling, a coincidence of timing. It can’t be anything else. I can’t allow it to be anything else or my whole world collapses, and in march the ghosts and ghouls and other such rubbish that properly belong in story books.

But even today, years later, I feel a tingling terror that the world may not be as I believe it.

(Copyright © 2013 Chris Fenge.  Used with Permission)

P.S. My husband has his own take on what happened, which he believes was an example of “Family ESP.” And he adds: “It wasn’t the only instance on that day.”

If you want to read his version, click on:  dimensionsbeyond.typepad.com/ for ‘Matters of Life and Death: 5.’

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Note: ‘The Salamander Stone’ features a demon (see Extract below). And, since I can’t create characters unless I’ve actually met them (or aspects of them), it follows that I’ve met this demon. The sceptic in me believes it was a dream. Let’s hope so. If this demon exists in reality somewhere, I want out!

The Salamander Stone - coverBLURB: Amber uncovers a conspiracy so earth-shattering it threatens the human race. She goes on the run and everyone is after her—some for her power; some to make her their saviour; others out of twisted love or simple lust. But her necklace, the Salamander Stone, attracts more than earthly evil. A demon is after her too, and what it wants is unspeakable.

EXCERPT: In this excerpt, Amber’s enemy, Meshak, enters the demon’s lair and allows it to sucker onto his soul:

That weird cry came again, much closer now, cutting through the thick air – a high thin wail thrown far into the darkness and returning as a series of diminishing mocking echoes. Like a baby, thought Meshak, though no baby ever cried like that; no human ever cried like that.

He stood up shakily on the sandy path, straining to see, trying to make sense of this alien world. Below him, on the trail he’d just crawled, another thing was crawling. He sensed it as a furry black shadow shifting and sliding, sucking its way towards him. It cried again as it slithered closer.

Meshak knelt in the sand on the pathway, and the thing, the black shadow, stopped crying and snuffled up close, filling the air with its rotting reek. It slithered behind him and he waited. After a moment he felt a soft suction as it burrowed under his clothes and battened greasily onto his back, inching its way up his body until it reached his left shoulder. Its voice hissed, insistent, as it whispered in his ear, filling his mind and blocking out all other thought.

Meshak stood up, his body giving little shivers of excitement like greeting an old friend. A long slow smile split his face in half; an evil gleam glinted in his eye. He moved down the path and back into his own world.

And the shadow on his shoulder went with him.


Visit Chris Fenge: WEBPAGE


Filed under Goosebumps

“SHADOWS” by Graeme Brown

Graeme Brown is a Champagne Book Group author and editor who contributed a story that I made the mistake of reading for the first time at night. Worse yet, my Ouija board is stored in the basement.

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“Never use a Ouija Board alone.” That’s what the student who used to babysit us said. “Put it away in the box, until the next time you come over.”

She was a university student, and thought it was a hoot when my friend and I would use the Ouija Board together and it would spell bizarre things we didn’t even understand. There was a guy who jumped off the cliff and kept spelling lewd words we sort of understood, but she understood better. He was a lot of fun, and kept us entertained for the night. It was my first time using such a thing, and the Ouija Board was mine.

We used it every time I’d come over and Gail was babysitting us. It was a secret. Except she didn’t know that I actually was using the board alone. After school, I’d take it out and wait until the glider started moving. I made a friend who called himself Marko. He spelled mostly swears, and it seemed a lot on nonsense.

“Are there any other spirits in the room?” That’s what I asked one night with my friend and Gail, after our suicide victim entertained us a bit.

The glider moved to the word “yes”.

“Who are you?”

The letters followed, spelling out “devil.”

“Okay, this is freaking me out now,” the babysitter said. The glider moved faster, forming threats. I started to get frightened.


“Stop. That’s enough for tonight.”

We did as she told us and put the Ouija Board away, but I remember when I left the next morning, looking at the shadows under the porch, feeling like something was there.

Over the next week I felt like I was being watched. The shadows under the trees seemed darker, and at night I’d stare at the hall through my open door, swearing I could hear a whisper. It got worse every night, even though I stopped using the Ouija Board alone.

Then one night I actually heard shuffling, or so I thought. The stairwell at the end of the hall looked like it was moving, and even though I was twelve I couldn’t convince myself it was just my imagination. Something was waiting there.

I rushed to my door and shut it, but even with that done I couldn’t sleep. I was terrified. I pulled the blanket up over my head and shook. Spirits can move through doors.

Somehow I did fall asleep. The next day after school I took my Ouija Board and burned the paper off it on the stove. My mom asked why I’d done it and I told her my story. Her eyes went wide with disbelief.

“Oh my God…” She clutched her chest. “I’ve been waking up over the last several weeks at night, feeling someone breathing down my neck.”

Just when I thought it was my imagination she had to say that.

 I should have destroyed the Ouija Board right then and there, but unfortunately I put it in the shed. Ten years later it wreaked havoc in my life, enough for me to finally realize it belonged in a bonfire. Only when I watched it burn did I finally feel that presence leave.

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the pact ecoverEnter the world of Will Lesterall, a boy who’s grown up in the safety of his father’s castle.

Tales of the outside world ruled by warring kings and creatures of nightmare have never seemed a threat, yet on the night celebrating the two hundredth year of the sacred Pact that has kept Fort Lesterall safe, a secret intrigue ripens, and in the course of a few hours Will is confronted with a choice greater than he can comprehend.

Join an unlikely hero as destiny pulls him into the middle of an ancient conflict between fallen gods and ambitious women, one that demands blood, both holy and wicked, and the power of an ancient fire bound in steel. As swords clash below a watching wood, hope and betrayal war as fiercely as fear and valor.

Whether he lives or dies, Will Lesterall will never be the same.


Will hurried across the dark stones. The soft tap of his shoes against the cobbles echoed in the empty Square. In the middle, where the ground sloped down toward the sewer drains, the statue of Amarr the Barbarian cast a long shadow. Will passed into it and stopped. He heard voices.

Two men spoke in hushed tones, but their words carried when the wind wasn’t gusting.

“It’s that hag, I tell ya,” came one voice. “She’s roundin’ them up, preparing one of her big spells, she is. I heards there’s a sacrifice comin’, and she means to raise the dead.”

“Don’t be stupid, Roth.” Will recognized the raspy tone at once. It belonged to Mern, the whitesmith, whose half-slashed throat had never fully healed. Will squinted, but couldn’t see where the voices came from, other than realizing they drifted over from the dark, walled yard outside Hellistead’s Tavern.

“I’ll not have ya callin’ me stupid. Oh no. I know what this is about an’hoo. You’re just afraids, justs protectin’ yurself. Ya know whatcha got in it, ands I don’t blame you for bitin’ your tongue.”

“Quiet, you hay-brained crofter,” Mern spat. “Tonight’s not a night to whisper about such treacheries. The Lord Ham will cut your tongue out, and the world’ll be a better place for it if he does.”

“Old Cren will put it back, if he do, but I says he’d best act quick, or he’ll be lacking for the parts as fits him proper. The night’s black, Mern, and it’s gettin’ blacker yet.”

There was a hollow clatter, then sharp hisses. The man who spoke improperly cursed in words that would have made Grandma Mae gasp then Will heard quick footsteps and a series of clunks. He looked back to the castle, to where father gathered his fighters, then the other way, to the Stablehouse. If father’s in trouble, I have to warn him. Will knew his words wouldn’t be taken seriously, though.

He began to run across the stone expanse. Fort Lesterall won’t fall. Mern’s a wicked man, and whoever that other one is, he’s got no wits. Cren’s just an old woman who lives in the woods. She probably doesn’t even exist.

The side door to the Stablehouse opened as Will arrived, revealing a long labyrinth of stalls lit by rows of hanging lanterns. Jak peeked from behind the door, and Will slipped inside. When the older boy closed it, the dangerous night seemed far away. They were alone, Jak peering at Will, a curry comb still clasped in his hand. He was broad-limbed and of average height, with tousled hair the color of wet earth and eyes like onyx. As usual, he smelled of straw and horse manure, but that only made him all the more inviting.

Jak grinned. “I thought you’d hurry over after the feast proper. Too many clouds tonight, though. I’m afraid we won’t be spying Hell’s Cap, but I’ve another surprise for you. Found it myself, last night.”

“We won’t be going to the groves, Jak.” Will lowered his voice. “The Unborns are going to attack. Alter Dun showed the Red Token. That means the Unborns have challenged us. The Pact is broken. Even as we speak, my father’s gathering an army.”

“Of course he is.” Will turned toward the metal spiral stair. Barrik, a wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair and a bushy moustache, bent his impressive height as he descended from the second floor serving quarters. “I’ve a hundred retainers to see to and that’s lots of horseshit, my little prince. A good thing they’ve taken to the barracks. I’m full, and there’s a thousand more coming, twenty companies marching under you uncle’s banner knight, Telliken. If we hold the night, then there will be others, and we’ll feed the Unborns hell like they haven’t seen in centuries. But if what I’ve heard’s true, then they have hell to feed us first, before we can draw breath.”

Will gaped at the Master of Stables then shook his head fiercely. “Fort Lesterall cannot fall.”

Barrik grunted, though it sounded like a laugh. He picked up a pail and carried it to a nearby stall. “I wish I believed that, lad, but this world’s not run on luck, I’m afraid. A man forges his own blade then learns to use it, or he gets cut by everyone around him. This world’s a fierce battlefield, a bitch with a thousand teeth.”

“We can fight with them,” Jak insisted. “I’ve practiced with the sword you gave me lots of times in the groves. I’m not bad.”

“You would be with armor on.” Barrik came out of the stall with a pail full of black dung. He looked at Will, at Jak, his expression grave. “No, you boys have another errand…

THE PACT BUY LINKS:  Kobo / Kindle / Other formats

AUTHOR LINKS:   Website / Twitter / Blog


Graeme Brown is has been enchanted by the epic fantasy genre since he was a child, and consequently he started creating his own world with its stories at the age of thirteen. Influenced by writers like J.R.R. Tolkien, Robert Jordan, and George R. R. Martin, he has finally brought the first of those stories to life with his debut title, a short story called The Pact—48 pages that will whisk you away to a dark, medieval fantasy world with gritty realism. When he’s not writing, he can be found exploring number theory problems or writing computer programs, training for a marathon, or unwinding in a yoga hot room. He has also explored other facets of art, both as a hobby and a profession, including vector graphics, pen and ink, classical piano, and web design. Despite being a full time student and a junior editor for Champagne Books, he makes sure to do a little writing every day.

For more about Graeme, visit his WEBSITE


Filed under Goosebumps, Guest Author