A thin veil exists between reality and make-believe. When you take a moment and push that veil aside, perhaps you will see this place.
In The Endlands, nothing is what it seems.
Noises are not what you think.
Dreams are often nightmares.
Nothing is off limits.
No place is safe.
12 amazing writers!
17 suspenseful stories!
Read an excerpt!
"To Read or Not to Read" by Vincent Hobbes
“Welcome. Welcome. Please do come in,” said a friendly voice.
A chime chingled, and Shelby hesitated at the door. She wasn‟t sure why she had entered, and nearly turned away. But something was enticing about the place, she had time to kill, and was curious.
The store was small, quaint. The room was dimly lit, and smelled of leather and pine wood polish. It had a soothing feel to it, and Shelby took another step inside.
“Welcome to my humble store,” said the voice. It was a heavy dialect. A familiar accent. The words were guttural, and deep.
“Hello,” she said.
“Strauss Books. I know the name is plain, but how could I possibly explain this place?” he asked with a laugh. It was high pitched, cackling.
“W . . . where are you?” she asked, still paused in the doorway.
Poof!—like a magician, he appeared from behind the shadows of piles of books.
“Allow me to introduce myself—” the man said boldly. He moved like a flash of light. One moment he was rounding the counter, the next he was directly in front of her. With a flick of his wrist, he eccentrically extended out his hand.
She took it by habit.
The man shook Shelby‟s hand vigorously, a wide, curved smile on his face.
“My name is Günter von Strauss,” he said. “And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Uh, nice to meet you too, Günter.”
“Herr Strauss,” he corrected.
“Oh, my name‟s Shelby—Shelby McClain.”
“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” he complimented, winking.
She smiled at this, and relaxed. His hand was soft in hers. Frail. Cold. Now that Shelby could fully see him, her apprehension drifted away.
The man was elderly. Perhaps in his seventies, maybe older. He wore a black suit, tailor-made. His shirt was maroon, flashy at the collar, but still proper.
Strauss‟ hair was full, and swiped back with a dime-size bit of grease. It was gray, and he had a distinct widow‟s peak. A few wrinkles covered his hollow face. He was clean-shaven, and wore thin glasses that drooped down on his nose.
For some reason, the man reminded Shelby of a circus ringleader.
Strauss‟ body might have been old, but his eyes flurried with life. Shelby could see it—a passion that still burned inside him. Youthfulness—mixed with a friendly smile. Shelby could not help but feel welcomed.
“Your accent—” Shelby began. “German?”
“Indeed,” he responded. “Now that we are introduced, might I ask a question?” Again, another smile formed across his face. Sincere. Grandfatherly.
This brightened her, and she responded, “Of course.”
“What brings you into my humble store?”
She blushed, lowering her head shyly. “I‟m just passing some time.”
“I see. Let me guess—your kids are at the roller rink across the street.”
“How did you know?” she asked, looking up.
Strauss leaned in close. “I‟ll admit, most of my business is women waiting on their children.” He leaned his head back, chuckling softly.
She joined, easing the tension of talking to a stranger even more. “My oldest is at a birthday party. I couldn‟t stand the music,” she said with a laugh.
Shelby looked around. The bookstore was small—paling in comparison to the mega-chain retailers she normally shopped. Yet, something about the place made her feel comfortable.
Strauss stepped back a few paces and wildly extended both his arms. He gestured grandly, saying proudly, “Strauss Books. I stock only the finest collection.”
He bowed extravagantly.
Shelby giggled at this. “You have a nice place,” she complimented, taking a slower look at the vast selection.
“Thank you,” he replied. Although his accent was heavy, Shelby understood.
“Do look around,” he offered.
“Oh, I . . .” she began. “. . . I‟m afraid I don‟t have much time.” She looked down to her watch, knowing that was untrue. She had forty minutes to spare—plenty of time.
“Nonsense,” Strauss responded. “There are only two options on this block. My place, and McGraw‟s Lumber. Now, I don‟t think that sounds very fun.”
“No, it doesn‟t,” she chuckled.
“Stay for a moment. It is chilly outside. I just finished brewing some tea. I‟ll make you a cup.”
“You don‟t have to.”
“It‟s my pleasure. Take your time and look around. I‟ll be back in a flash,” he insisted, passing behind the counter and into a room behind it.
“Is this a rare book store?” she asked loudly, hoping he could hear.
“Oh, no,” he replied from the other room.
Shelby could hear the clank of mugs.
“I carry something for everyone‟s taste,” Strauss added.
“I don‟t have much time to read,” said Shelby. Her fingers traced the outline of a shelf of hardback spines.
“Do tell—why not?” he said from the kitchen.
“Well, my husband travels a lot. With three boys, I hardly have the time. Soccer practice. Music lessons. School. Ugh. It‟s hard enough to find time to watch a television show, let alone read a book.”
“I would suppose so,” he chimed, his voice friendly. “You look much too young to have three little-uns.”
She laughed at this. “Thirty-two, and I‟ll take that as a compliment.” Her fingertips drifted to another row.
Strauss appeared around the corner, carrying a mug of warm tea.
“Thank you,” she said, gripping the mug.
“Please, take your time and peruse my selection. I think you‟ll find it very diverse. I have Mark Twain and Sherlock Holmes. I have Socrates and Plato if ancient philosophy is your thing.”
“Ugh. No thanks,” she said, sipping her tea.
“Greek mythology?”
“Nope,” she said with a smile.
“Ha. Very well, perhaps you prefer something more modern. I keep up with all the bestsellers. Although I prefer the classics myself, I don‟t expect my patrons to. New titles are on the far shelf. Paperbacks are to the left.”
Shelby turned and walked to the shelf. She was merely being polite, having no intention of buying anything. There was a pile of unread books on her nightstand, and the last thing she needed was to add to her collection.
“Horror on the left. Science Fiction below—I‟m afraid I don‟t carry much of that. But I do have action and adventure. Mystery. Perhaps you‟re looking for romance. Hmm,” he said, with a quick lick of the lip.
“No, thanks,” she said bashfully. “I usually stick to crime novels, stuff like that. I like James Patterson. Michael Connelly. A few others. But I‟m not into romance novels. Not at all. I‟ve never understood how women get into such things.”
“I see,” he said, looking almost suspiciously at her. “Most of my regular clients like romance. Married woman, especially. I suppose their husbands don‟t give them much attention. Although, I do not judge on what book a patron chooses. I merely sell a service. Your privacy is safe with me.”
Had he said he sold a service?
Didn‟t he mean a product?
Perhaps she heard him wrong. He had simply misspoken, she convinced herself.
Shelby took her time at the shelf, recognizing many of the names. They were new bestsellers as promised, although she had no real interest. Shelby was merely being polite, and sipped her tea while browsing. She even set her mug down a few times, flipping through the pages of a few books, acting as if she was interested.
Again, Shelby looked at her watch. Thirty-five more minutes.
“Do you see anything you like?” Strauss asked. He was close behind, peering over her shoulder. For an instant, it appeared as if his neck was extra long. It stretched like a snake, moving his small head past her shoulder so he could see better.
She snapped her head, but Strauss was a few feet away, and not invading her personal space.
She thought it strange, but dismissed it, shaking her head at the notion.
“Oh, a few authors I enjoy. I didn‟t know Dan Brown has a new book out.”
“As I said, I carry the most up-to-date titles. My patrons insist upon it.”
“I see.”
Shelby heard a chime.
“Oh, pardon me,” said Strauss with another bow. “I must tend to a customer. Her time is up.” He turned to walk away, but she interrupted his step.
“What do you mean?”
Strauss looked oddly at her, as if she should know. “Her time is up. Frau Tinkleton is a trooper—over twenty minutes inside.” He smiled and turned again, walking down a short hallway.
“Welcome. Welcome. Please do come in,” said a friendly voice.
A chime chingled, and Shelby hesitated at the door. She wasn‟t sure why she had entered, and nearly turned away. But something was enticing about the place, she had time to kill, and was curious.
The store was small, quaint. The room was dimly lit, and smelled of leather and pine wood polish. It had a soothing feel to it, and Shelby took another step inside.
“Welcome to my humble store,” said the voice. It was a heavy dialect. A familiar accent. The words were guttural, and deep.
“Hello,” she said.
“Strauss Books. I know the name is plain, but how could I possibly explain this place?” he asked with a laugh. It was high pitched, cackling.
“W . . . where are you?” she asked, still paused in the doorway.
Poof!—like a magician, he appeared from behind the shadows of piles of books.
“Allow me to introduce myself—” the man said boldly. He moved like a flash of light. One moment he was rounding the counter, the next he was directly in front of her. With a flick of his wrist, he eccentrically extended out his hand.
She took it by habit.
The man shook Shelby‟s hand vigorously, a wide, curved smile on his face.
“My name is Günter von Strauss,” he said. “And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Uh, nice to meet you too, Günter.”
“Herr Strauss,” he corrected.
“Oh, my name‟s Shelby—Shelby McClain.”
“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” he complimented, winking.
She smiled at this, and relaxed. His hand was soft in hers. Frail. Cold. Now that Shelby could fully see him, her apprehension drifted away.
The man was elderly. Perhaps in his seventies, maybe older. He wore a black suit, tailor-made. His shirt was maroon, flashy at the collar, but still proper.
Strauss‟ hair was full, and swiped back with a dime-size bit of grease. It was gray, and he had a distinct widow‟s peak. A few wrinkles covered his hollow face. He was clean-shaven, and wore thin glasses that drooped down on his nose.
For some reason, the man reminded Shelby of a circus ringleader.
Strauss‟ body might have been old, but his eyes flurried with life. Shelby could see it—a passion that still burned inside him. Youthfulness—mixed with a friendly smile. Shelby could not help but feel welcomed.
“Your accent—” Shelby began. “German?”
“Indeed,” he responded. “Now that we are introduced, might I ask a question?” Again, another smile formed across his face. Sincere. Grandfatherly.
This brightened her, and she responded, “Of course.”
“What brings you into my humble store?”
She blushed, lowering her head shyly. “I‟m just passing some time.”
“I see. Let me guess—your kids are at the roller rink across the street.”
“How did you know?” she asked, looking up.
Strauss leaned in close. “I‟ll admit, most of my business is women waiting on their children.” He leaned his head back, chuckling softly.
She joined, easing the tension of talking to a stranger even more. “My oldest is at a birthday party. I couldn‟t stand the music,” she said with a laugh.
Shelby looked around. The bookstore was small—paling in comparison to the mega-chain retailers she normally shopped. Yet, something about the place made her feel comfortable.
Strauss stepped back a few paces and wildly extended both his arms. He gestured grandly, saying proudly, “Strauss Books. I stock only the finest collection.”
He bowed extravagantly.
Shelby giggled at this. “You have a nice place,” she complimented, taking a slower look at the vast selection.
“Thank you,” he replied. Although his accent was heavy, Shelby understood.
“Do look around,” he offered.
“Oh, I . . .” she began. “. . . I‟m afraid I don‟t have much time.” She looked down to her watch, knowing that was untrue. She had forty minutes to spare—plenty of time.
“Nonsense,” Strauss responded. “There are only two options on this block. My place, and McGraw‟s Lumber. Now, I don‟t think that sounds very fun.”
“No, it doesn‟t,” she chuckled.
“Stay for a moment. It is chilly outside. I just finished brewing some tea. I‟ll make you a cup.”
“You don‟t have to.”
“It‟s my pleasure. Take your time and look around. I‟ll be back in a flash,” he insisted, passing behind the counter and into a room behind it.
“Is this a rare book store?” she asked loudly, hoping he could hear.
“Oh, no,” he replied from the other room.
Shelby could hear the clank of mugs.
“I carry something for everyone‟s taste,” Strauss added.
“I don‟t have much time to read,” said Shelby. Her fingers traced the outline of a shelf of hardback spines.
“Do tell—why not?” he said from the kitchen.
“Well, my husband travels a lot. With three boys, I hardly have the time. Soccer practice. Music lessons. School. Ugh. It‟s hard enough to find time to watch a television show, let alone read a book.”
“I would suppose so,” he chimed, his voice friendly. “You look much too young to have three little-uns.”
She laughed at this. “Thirty-two, and I‟ll take that as a compliment.” Her fingertips drifted to another row.
Strauss appeared around the corner, carrying a mug of warm tea.
“Thank you,” she said, gripping the mug.
“Please, take your time and peruse my selection. I think you‟ll find it very diverse. I have Mark Twain and Sherlock Holmes. I have Socrates and Plato if ancient philosophy is your thing.”
“Ugh. No thanks,” she said, sipping her tea.
“Greek mythology?”
“Nope,” she said with a smile.
“Ha. Very well, perhaps you prefer something more modern. I keep up with all the bestsellers. Although I prefer the classics myself, I don‟t expect my patrons to. New titles are on the far shelf. Paperbacks are to the left.”
Shelby turned and walked to the shelf. She was merely being polite, having no intention of buying anything. There was a pile of unread books on her nightstand, and the last thing she needed was to add to her collection.
“Horror on the left. Science Fiction below—I‟m afraid I don‟t carry much of that. But I do have action and adventure. Mystery. Perhaps you‟re looking for romance. Hmm,” he said, with a quick lick of the lip.
“No, thanks,” she said bashfully. “I usually stick to crime novels, stuff like that. I like James Patterson. Michael Connelly. A few others. But I‟m not into romance novels. Not at all. I‟ve never understood how women get into such things.”
“I see,” he said, looking almost suspiciously at her. “Most of my regular clients like romance. Married woman, especially. I suppose their husbands don‟t give them much attention. Although, I do not judge on what book a patron chooses. I merely sell a service. Your privacy is safe with me.”
Had he said he sold a service?
Didn‟t he mean a product?
Perhaps she heard him wrong. He had simply misspoken, she convinced herself.
Shelby took her time at the shelf, recognizing many of the names. They were new bestsellers as promised, although she had no real interest. Shelby was merely being polite, and sipped her tea while browsing. She even set her mug down a few times, flipping through the pages of a few books, acting as if she was interested.
Again, Shelby looked at her watch. Thirty-five more minutes.
“Do you see anything you like?” Strauss asked. He was close behind, peering over her shoulder. For an instant, it appeared as if his neck was extra long. It stretched like a snake, moving his small head past her shoulder so he could see better.
She snapped her head, but Strauss was a few feet away, and not invading her personal space.
She thought it strange, but dismissed it, shaking her head at the notion.
“Oh, a few authors I enjoy. I didn‟t know Dan Brown has a new book out.”
“As I said, I carry the most up-to-date titles. My patrons insist upon it.”
“I see.”
Shelby heard a chime.
“Oh, pardon me,” said Strauss with another bow. “I must tend to a customer. Her time is up.” He turned to walk away, but she interrupted his step.
“What do you mean?”
Strauss looked oddly at her, as if she should know. “Her time is up. Frau Tinkleton is a trooper—over twenty minutes inside.” He smiled and turned again, walking down a short hallway.
Read the reviews!
"There is little more primordially frightening to us than the unknown. "The Endlands" is a collection of short stories aimed to frighten and ponder what we all fear the most, what's behind that corner, what is there to antagonize us and what we simply cannot explain. With plenty to ponder and plenty to make it quite hard to put down, "The Endlands" is an excellent read and very highly recommended."
--Midwest Book Review
“Imagine a place just a little removed from reality, a place where nothing is as it seems, and where anything could be just around the corner. Imagine no more: The Endlands is here... These are not specifically science fiction, or fantasy, or horror stories, but the sort of stories that could easily be made into episodes of "The Twilight Zone" TV show. In fact, the book is dedicated to Rod Serling. These stories will give the reader a kick in the psyche, and they are very good.”
--Dead Trees Review
PURCHASE THE ENDLANDS AT THE FOLLOWING ONLINE RETAILERS:
Ebooks
Amazon Kindle
NOOK
Sony Reader
Kobo Books
Diesel Books
Smashwords
Paperbacks
Amazon
You can read more about him at: http://www.vincenthobbes.com/.
No comments:
Post a Comment