The Nightmare Room by Chris Sorensen

The Nightmare Room
The Messy Man Series
Book One
Chris Sorensen
Genre: Paranormal Fiction
Publisher: Harmful Monkey Press
Date of Publication: 1/25/2018
ISBN: 978-0998342412
ASIN: B07943P5S8
Number of pages: 273
Word Count: 45,000
Tagline: The past is always present in the Nightmare Room.
Book Description:
A boy in a basement, a man in a booth and a darkness that threatens to swallow them both…
New York audiobook narrator Peter Larson and his wife Hannah head to his hometown of Maple City to help Peter’s ailing father and to put a recent tragedy behind them. Though the small, Midwestern town seems the idyllic place to start afresh, Peter and Hannah will soon learn that evil currents flow beneath its surface.
They move into an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town—a house purchased by Peter’s father at auction and kept secret until now—and start to settle into their new life.
But as Peter sets up his recording studio in a small basement room, disturbing things begin to occur—mysterious voices haunt audio tracks, malevolent shadows creep about the house. And when an insidious presence emerges from the woodwork, Peter must face old demons in order to save his family and himself.
The man threw
open the basement door. A rush of mildewed air rose up from the darkness, like
the hideous breath of some subterranean thing. He flicked on the light, and the
cascade of descending stairs came into view. Among their number was the
treacherous one midway down, the one that bent like a bow at the slightest
“Are you going
down on your own or do I have to make you?”
The boy looked
up at his father. The anger that had fueled him thus far was fading, seemingly
sapped by the trip from the boy’s bedroom. Instead, his father looked pained.
If he didn’t know better, he might think the Old Man was about to cry. But his
father had said he was tired. Dead tired. And perhaps it was as simple as that.
go,” the boy whispered, and he took the first tentative step down.
The change in
temperature was immediate; it was like diving into a cold pool. He took another
step down, and another.
He paused on the
third step and looked back at his father. The bare bulb above paled the man’s
countenance. The grey circles under his eyes made him look like he’d been
“Git!” the Old
Man snarled. The boy went. When he reached the sagging step, he stopped, took a
breath and leaped over it. His heel hit the lip of the next step, but the wood
was damp, and the boy came down hard on his butt.
“Get some sleep.
And no more dreams.”
As if he could
help it.
His father
closed the door, and the lock clicked. It would not open again until morning.
The boy
descended the final few stairs and stepped onto the floor. Ice-cold cement
sucked heat from his soles. He squinted, trying to adjust to the dark.
The usefulness
of the light bulb ended a few feet into the basement. And there was no more
source of light until he reached the…
The gears in his
head ground to a halt, stopping short of allowing the dreaded name to be
He started
picking out objects around him. The solemn metal face of the furnace, a stack
of water softener salt bags, the frame of an old bicycle.
Straight ahead
lay a distance of twenty or so feet before he’d come to a door. Three-quarters
of that stretch was in pitch black. To get to the door, to get to the room, he
had to dash through the darkness until his hand found the doorknob. Then, he
would throw the door open, reach to his right, flip the wall switch and presto.
An island of light in an ocean of black.
He girded
himself for the sprint.
He hesitated…but
why? He’d already made this run two times this week. Both Monday and Thursday,
he’d awakened screaming, bringing down the Old Man’s wrath, and sending him
here. To the penalty box. To time out. To the Night—
The boy startled
at the sound of his own voice, and he lurched into motion. He hurtled into the
darkness, his feet slapping the floor, echoing off the walls in hollow
He bumped into
something and spun, temporarily throwing himself and his inner compass off
balance. He skidded across the floor and came to a stop.
Heart pounding
in his chest, he quickly located the lit stairs off to his left. He made a
rapid calculation and turned to face the invisible pathway to the room. He
bolted, coming to a halt only when he slammed head-on into the door.
His hand
floundered before finding the knob. He launched into his practiced routine.
Open door, flip switch, step inside.
In seconds, the
boy slipped into the room and slammed the door shut. A pink light overhead
bathed him in imaginary warmth—he had made it.
He stepped back
and sank into the waiting beanbag chair, facing the door. The small room with
its mint green walls and rollaway bed felt almost welcoming, an odd feeling for
a place that was meant as a punishment.
The boy pulled a
quilt from the bed and wrapped it around him tight. For the first time in his
life, he felt safe here in this room—in the Nightmare Room.
Because he
hadn’t bumped into something out there in the dark. He had bumped into someone.
He was almost
certain of it.
He kept one eye
on the door as the minutes hummed past on the illuminated clock on the
nightstand. He busied himself with crayon and paper, doodling to keep his mind
quiet. Soon, his vision began to flutter; the room began to strobe. And, in the
space between two breaths, the boy sank into his beanbag chair and fell into a
fitful sleep.
The doorknob
The boy bolted
upright. He pressed back into the chair. His whole body started shivering, and
he feared he would wet himself for the second time that night.
A thought…no, a
voice crept into his head.
Coming in.
The door
quivered as if someone was leaning against it, trying to stifle a laugh. Nails
scratched against the wood.
“Dad?” the boy
The door
“Is that you?”
Knowing it was not.
“Please don’t.”


About the Author:
Chris Sorensen spends many days and nights locked away inside his own nightmare room. He is the narrator of over 200 audiobooks (including the award-winning The Missing series by Margaret Peterson Haddix) and the recipient of three AudioFile Earphone Awards. Over the past fifteen years, the Butte Theater and Thin Air Theatre Company in Cripple Creek, Colorado have produced dozens of his plays including Dr. Jekyll’s Medicine Show, Werewolves of Poverty Gulch and The Vampire of Cripple Creek. He is the author of the middle grade book The Mad Scientists of New Jersey and has written numerous screenplay including Suckerville, Bee Tornado and The Roswell Project.


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Enchanter Redeemed by Sharon Ashwood


Enchanter Redeemed
Camelot Reborn
Book Four
Sharon Ashwood
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Publisher: Harlequin Nocturne
Date of Publication: February 1/6 2018
ISBN: 978-1335629487
Number of pages: 300
Word Count: 80,000
Cover Artist: Brandon Allen
Tagline:  Ancient magic and new passion…
Book Description:
In the last battle for Camelot, Merlin had to make a terrible choice. Now he must pay the price. When a demon from his past reappears, she wants nothing more than to destroy the wizard. Now to reap her vengeance as a lover scorned, the demon occupies the body of Clary—the apprentice who is capturing his heart—and has the innocent behaving in uncharacteristic ways. Ways that push the forbidden desire Clary and Merlin share into heated play…
Harlequin       Amazon       BN      Kobo       iBooks
Other Books in the Series
Book 1 – Enchanted Warrior (RITA nominee)
Book 2 – Enchanted Guardian
Book 3 – Royal Enchantment
Clary jolted
awake. Power surged through her body, painful and suffocating. Her spine arched
into it—or maybe away from it, she wasn’t sure. Merlin had one hand on her side
and the other on her chest, using his magic like a defibrillator. The sensation
hammered her from the inside while every hair on her body stood straight up.
When he released her, she sagged in relief. A drifting sensation took over, as
if she were a feather in an updraft.
Merlin’s fingers
went to her neck, checking for a pulse. His hands were hot from working spells,
the touch firm yet gentle. In her weakened state, Clary shivered slightly,
wanting to bare her throat in surrender. She was a sucker for dark, broody
masculinity and he projected it like a beacon. All the same, Clary sucked in a
breath before he got any big ideas about mouth-to-mouth. If Merlin was going to
kiss her, she wanted wine and soft music, not blood and the dirty workshop
Another bolt of
power, more pain, another pulse check. Clary managed a moan, and she heard the
sharp intake of Merlin’s breath. His hand withdrew from her pulse point as she
forced her eyes open. He was staring down at her with his peculiar amber eyes,
dark brows furrowed in concern. She was used to him prickly, arrogant or
sarcastic, but not this. She’d never seen that oddly vulnerable expression
before—but it quickly fled as their gazes met.
“You’re alive.”
He said it like a fact, any softness gone.
“Yup.” Clary
pushed herself up on her elbows. She hurt all over. “What was that?”
“A demon.”
“I got that
much.” Clary held up her arm, peering through the rents in her jacket where the
demon’s claws had slashed. Merlin’s zap of power had stopped the bleeding, but
the deep scratches were red, puffy and hurt like blazes.
“Demon claws are
“Got that, too.”
“I can put a
salve on the wound, but you’d be smart to have Tamsin look at it,” Merlin said.
“Your sister is a better healer than I am.”
“She’s better
than anybody.” Clary said it with the automatic loyalty of a little sister, but
it was true. “She’s got a better bedside manner, too.”
Merlin raised a
brow, his natural arrogance back in place. “Just be glad you’re alive.”
She studied
Merlin, acutely aware of how much magic he’d used to shut the demon down. He
looked like a man in his early thirties, but there was no telling how old he
actually was. He was lean-faced with permanent stubble and dark hair that
curled at his collar. At first glance, he looked like a radical arts professor
or dot-com squillionaire contemplating his next disruptive innovation. It took a
second look to notice the muscular physique hidden by the comfortable clothes.
Merlin had a way of sliding under most radars, but Clary never underestimated
the power he could pluck out of thin air. She was witch born, a member of the
Shadowring Coven, but he was light years beyond their strongest warlocks.
That strength
was like catnip to her—although she’d never, ever admit that out loud. “What
were you doing?” she demanded, struggling the rest of the way to a sitting
“I was watching
the demons through a scrying portal when you interrupted me.” His tone was
precise and growing colder with every syllable. Now that the crisis was over,
he was getting angry.
“The she-demon
tried to kill me.” Clary’s insides hollowed as the words sank home. Dear goddess,
she did kill me! And Merlin had brought her back before a second had passed—but
it had happened. Her witch’s senses had felt it happen. The realization left
her light-headed.
“She doesn’t get
to have you,” he said in a low voice.
Their gazes
locked, and something twisted in Clary’s chest. She’d been hurt on Merlin’s
watch, and he was furious. No, what she saw in his eyes was more than icy
anger. It was a heated, primal possessiveness that came from a far different
Merlin than she knew. Clary’s breath stopped. Surely she was misreading the
situation. Death and zapping had scrambled her thoughts.
“I shouldn’t
have walked in on you.”
“No, you
shouldn’t have,” he said in a voice filled with the same mix of ice and fire.
“You’d be a better student of magic if you paid attention. You asked me to
teach you proper magic and not the baby food the covens use. Real magic is
Abruptly, he
stood and crossed the room to kick a shard of agate against the wall. It
bounced with a savage clatter. Clary got to her feet, her knees wobbling. He
spun and stormed back to her in one motion, moving so fast she barely knew what
was happening.
He took her by
the shoulders, the grip rough. “Don’t ever do that again!”
And then his
mouth crushed hers in a hard, angry kiss. Clary gasped in surprise, but there
was no air, only him, and only his need. She rose slowly onto her toes, the
gesture both surrender and a desire to hold her own. She’d been kissed many
times before, but never consumed this way. His lips were greedy and hot with
that same confusing array of emotions she’d seen a moment ago. Anger. Fear.
Possession. Protectiveness.
Volatile. That
was the word she’d so often used in her own head when thinking about him.
Volatile, though he kept himself on a very short chain. Right now that chain
had slipped.


For the first two chapters, click here:
About the Author:
Sharon Ashwood is a free-lance journalist, novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk. As a vegetarian, she freely admits the whole vampire/werewolf lifestyle fantasy would never work out, so she writes paranormal romances instead.
Sharon lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.

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The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Crave by Deborah Wilde

Spotlight HTML Release Day Blitz The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Crave
by Deborah Wilde


The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Crave
Nava Katz
Book Four
Deborah Wilde
Genre: urban fantasy / romance
Publisher: Te Da Media
Date of Publication: February 20, 2018
ISBN: 978-1-988681-10-8
ASIN:  B0784674R3
Number of pages: 438
Word Count: 92,500
Cover Artist: Damonza
Tagline: Meet Nava Katz. Punches like a girl. Kicks demon butt.

Book Description:
What doesn’t kill you… seriously messes with your love life.
Nava is happily settling into her new relationship and life is all giddy joy and stolen kisses.
Except when it’s assassins. Talk about a mood killer.
She and Rohan are tracking the unlikely partnership between the Brotherhood and a witch who can bind demons, but every new piece of the puzzle is leaving them with more questions than answers.
And someone doesn’t appreciate them getting close to the truth.
Go figure.
On top of that, a demon known only as Candyman has unleashed a drug that’s harming users in extremely disturbing ways.
After a friend of Nava’s is hurt, she vows to take this demon down. But will life as she knows it survive this mission, or will this be the one time she should have looked before she leapt?
Happily-ever-after: barring death, she’s got a real shot at it.
On Sale up to 60% Until Midnight Feb 26
“I love home delivery.”
Malik lounged in his doorway, eyeing me the way the wolf must have with the
three little pigs. His British accent was pure sin.
“I love your
arrogance that you didn’t bother moving after I almost killed you.”
He laughed,
flashing straight white teeth against his bronze skin. He was still the only
being I’d ever met who could pull off a Caesar cut, and was still the stuff of
billionaire romance cover fantasies in his soft gray trousers that were
artfully tailored to the hard lines of his body and navy shirt, carelessly
folded back at the cuffs. “Oh, petal. I’d say I missed you, but I didn’t. Now,
unless you brought the more interesting twin?” He peered into the hallway.
He shut the
door, but I stuffed my foot in to block it. Not like he politely stopped trying
to close it. “Ow.” I pushed my shoulder into the door to keep my poor bones
from breaking. “If you weren’t wondering why I was here, you wouldn’t have let
security buzz me up or let my toes cross the wards I’m sure you’ve got strung across
this door.”
“Ten seconds.”
“That’s not–”
“Five, four…”
“Demons are
being bound.” I rushed my words as he made a buzzing noise.
Malik yanked me
inside by my collar and slammed the door.
I wrenched free.
His penthouse
apartment hadn’t changed. Still to-die-for sweeping views of the city, a
massive glass wine storage unit in the open concept space, and a loft bedroom.
He pointed at one of the leather sofas, custom made to hug the curved walls.
“Sit and talk.”


About the Author:
A global wanderer, hopeless romantic, and total cynic with a broken edit button, Deborah writes urban fantasy to satisfy her love of smexy romances and tales of chicks who kick ass. This award-winning author is all about the happily-ever-after, with a huge dose of hilarity along the way.