BROKEN BARRIERS Completed!

I just slapped "THE END" on my 15th novel, Broken Barriers, to be released a bit later this year. This is the sequel to The House at Black Tooth Pond, which came out in 2025. I'll have the proofing, editing, and all that stuff to do, but the bulk of the book is finished. Might need a celebratory martini this evening!

Here's the teeny-tiniest of excerpts... 

Doctor Melissa “Mel” Crawford's deep green eyes lingered on Parrott’s for a few seconds. They sat across from each other at a small table by the front window of Willy’s Downtown Tavern, which offered a lovely view of the sprawling, two-century-old First United Methodist Church building across Main Street (the congregation of which had disapproved of the tavern’s proximity for a full half as many years). Doc Crawford had always looked far younger than her age, which he put at around forty…or maybe thirty…or maybe fifty…who knew? But since last month, several new lines and creases had formed at the corners of her eyes, and a few gray streaks ran through her short, wiry brown hair, so that she resembled a sagacious pixie. As the county medical examiner, she had borne more than her share of the FBI’s condemnation during its investigation of Aiken Mill’s missing six.

“When was the last time I trusted anyone?” Parrott asked.

“Well, you trusted me when I told you we were dealing with something wholly unexplainable at Black Tooth Pond. And when I advised you to call the FBI, you up and did it, against your better judgment. And when I said, ‘Let’s go out to dinner because you need cheering up,’ you accepted. At this point, I would have to call you exceedingly gullible—the fact that we were dealing with something wholly unexplainable notwithstanding.”

“Point taken, but our admittedly nasty intercourse with the FBI was inevitable. We were in over our heads.”

Doc Crawford snickered and raised her nearly full glass of Chardonnay. “To intercourse and being in over our heads.”

Parrott lifted his half-empty, no-longer-chilled mug of Thunder Knob IPA to touch her glass. He struck it a little harder than he intended and sloshed a smidgen of her pale gold-tinted wine onto the table. They both ignored it. A couple of seconds later, the last of his beer had vanished.

#

I Wonder What That Is...

Well, it sure looks like something is out there at Black Tooth Pond.

My work on the sequel to The House at Black Tooth Pond is coming closer and closer to its end. Only a couple of chapters more, I believe, before I can slap "The End" on it. And then we shall see...

The Devil Flies in Strix

For reasons I really can't detail here, I'm just going to say that this has been one of the worst weeks of my life, and I'm feeling a little broken. The only reason I'm mentioning this here is because there's a certain catharsis in putting it out there. I'm sure that, given time, I'll be all right, although, in its way, this is a life-changing situation. Physically, I'm completely fine, though for right now, I will not deny that I'm feeling a bit of a wreck.

That said, this week I received a most-welcome acceptance from KJK Publishing for my story, "The Devil Flies in Strix," to appear in their upcoming Cryptids anthology later this year. It'll be my second cryptid-themed story to see publication this year; the first — also a "devil" story — titled "The Devil of Transylvania County," appeared in the recent Myths Reborn anthology from October Nights Press. KJK Publishing previously published my story, "Magic Eye," in their Horror Collection: Crystal Edition, in February 2025.

And in other decent news, I'm getting to the last leg of my sequel to The House at Black Tooth Pond, which I'm pretty sure will be titled Broken Barriers. The cover art has been acquired from artist J. Edward Neill, whose art also appeared on the cover of The House at Black Tooth Pond and Deathrealm: Spirits.

And speaking of spirits, hopefully, next entry, mine will be better.

Sylvan County's Voice of Love, Wisdom, and What All

Know what? I feel compelled to inflict this on you. When we were kids, my brother and I made tape recordings of a little fictitious radio station, WDUM, and on it, we did a show called "Mother Bell" which consisted primarily of prank phone calls. It occurred to me the other day that I should include Mother Bell as a podcast in the sequel to The House at Black Tooth Pond, tentatively titled Broken Barriers.. Prepare to be inflicted upon.

The Mother Bell Podcast
Sylvan County’s Voice of Wisdom, Love, and What All

Hello, children! This is Mother Bell, back with you on a chilly Sunday evening, hoping that come tomorrow, you survive your daring leap back into the workweek. I myself have had the loveliest weekend, and I trust you did too. My son, Scott, and his wife, Bethany, and my two grandchildren, Johnny and Mary Lynn, visited me yesterday, and I can’t tell you what it means to me that they give so freely of their time and energy in my old age. Without them, I could not get by. Oh no, I could not! And I know, many of my friends and neighbors are envious of this, and even some of you, too. But that’s okay. Y’all just envy away. Someday or another, everybody’s gonna get what’s coming to ’em.

Speaking of, whatever is coming, ain’t nobody knows, but I’m here to tell you things here in our town are spooky. It’s like, not so long ago, all these people from here vanished under 'mysterious circumstances.' So, what about our good ol’ sheriff, huh? Well, he and his people did their investigation stuff and such for a while, and then...they up and threw up their hands. Well, that’s what I heard. Then the FBI comes along, and they do their FBI stuff and such, and then they throw up their hands and go away.

I ask you, children, what is going on here?

Imma let you in on a secret. A lot of y’all know that I live up on Copper Peak, and in my lifetime, I have seen devils flying around up here. These are real, true devils, not just bad people who’ve never had the Lord in their hearts. I know, nowadays, we prefer to think that the devil is nothing more than the evil that human beings do, but I’m here to tell you, it’s not like that. These are the most frightening things you could ever imagine, and sometimes you can even smell ’em. Sometimes, that’s the only way to know they’re nearby.

And listen. They’re not just up on Copper Peak. Oh, no, they’re all around in this old, old part of the country, lurking and skulking in the dark shadows.

So, I’m telling you, children, keep the Lord in your hearts and be vigilant. Be careful of these devils. If you see them, they may well see you. And if they do, you’d better be wearing the Lord’s armor, else they may not pass you by. I keep my armor on day and night, and I surely do thank the Lord every day for His protection and His mercy.

We gonna talk more about this in a bit, but right now, I’m gonna put on one of my all-time favorite praiseful songs, “This Is the Day That the Lord Has Made,” sung by the incomparable Mr. Fillmore Skillman, for you to contemplate and enjoy. And while I’m gone, let it be known, like I always tell you: you won’t see me, but Imma see you, because I’m gonna be around, children. So, bye-bye for now, and I’ll be back in five.

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Broken Barriers

Ms. B. at the "real" Black Tooth Pond in 2010

A little excerpt from the sequel to The House at Black Tooth Pond (possibly titled Broken Barriers at this point)...

My God, she thought, aware of a vague but mounting apprehension, the people of this town had no concept of the horror that had taken root here, somewhere in its dim, distant past. After however many eons, this horror still prevailed, even if it lurked half-hidden in the darkest, most desolate corner of this county. Barely over a month ago, a malign, inhuman something had lashed out and erased from existence at least six individuals, leaving scarcely a trace of tangible evidence. Whether this inhuman something sprang from the same dark netherworld she had infiltrated twelve years earlier or an altogether different one, she had no idea. She didn’t really care to know.

However, preventing any further incursion by the something in question was her job.

Aiken Mill, Virginia. “The cold case capital of the world,” she’d heard this town called.

She slowed her jet-black Ford Expedition and parked it in a muddy circle at the end of the rutted dirt road she’d followed from the main highway. Beyond the windshield, a barrier of tall reeds impeded her view of the misty space beyond.

As she opened the door, a gust of icy air swirled inside and pummeled her face, so she grabbed her black knit stocking cap from the passenger seat, tugged it over her mop of dark brown hair until it covered her ears. Then she slid out and onto the uneven, half-frozen layer of mud. Yeah, it was cold out here, even colder than Alexandria when she’d left this morning. She paused for a moment and glanced around at the skeletal trees that towered around her. But there was no wind now. Not even a whisper of breeze.

Silent.

Damn near creepy.

She ambled toward a narrow gap in the barrier of reeds at the end of the earthen circle and peered into the space beyond.

There it was, glowering in the shadows beneath the skyscraping trees: the dark, glistening surface of Black Tooth Pond, named for the array of jagged, broken tree trunks that protruded from its far end. Around its banks, a thin layer of mist swirled and shimmered like a living, silken shroud. She saw no other movement, heard no sound except the gentlest of lapping of water at the nearest banks.

Still, she sensed an ethereal, dangerous atmosphere about this place, which raised her hackles anew.

And then…

A sharp, warbling trill, uncannily loud, pealed from somewhere in the distance.

A bird cry. The eerie, mournful voice of a whippoorwill.

Only it wasn’t a whippoorwill.

The cry had an unnerving, alien quality, for it was produced by some organ of sound that did not belong to any bird.

She listened for many long seconds, but the cry did not repeat. Whatever had made it was still out there, though. She could feel it: the uncomfortable certainty that some unknown, unstoppable—unearthly—predator was watching her.

After a couple of minutes, her anxiety diminished slightly, and she gazed again at the far end of the pond, studying the jagged, blackened tree trunks, the last remnants of some ancient forest fire.

She had seen countless photographs of this location and read the detailed reports filed by FBI Special Agent Tyler Kincaid, who had headed the Federal investigation of the previous month’s events in Aiken Mill. He had hoped to gather more intel about this place by placing a half-dozen trail cams at various points around the pond and in the woods. However, he had reported that, for reasons unknown, the batteries in those devices continually died within minutes, and none, during their short lifespans, had recorded anything unusual.

Two decades ago, Agent Kincaid had experienced a Close Encounter of the Fourth Kind—a physical interaction with something not of this Earth. It had changed both his life and his official job description. It was for this reason that he had been chosen to lead the FBI investigation of Aiken Mill’s missing six. What he found was a dire—and patently unbelievable—state of affairs.

Therefore, Kincaid’s superiors had turned the case over to Majestik.

And Majestik had dispatched Agent Celeste Muir to take up the torch.

# 

"Black Tooth Pond" by Charles Hill