“The final 50 pages are outstanding and contain such an incredible revelation that the ending is not soon forgotten…the author was able to create such a plot twist, that it gave me goose bumps.”

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“The final 50 pages are outstanding and contain such an incredible revelation that the ending is not soon forgotten…the author was able to create such a plot twist, that it gave me goose bumps.” — Horror Web

One of the leading websites in the horror and suspense genre, Horror Web has become known as a destination point for all things related to the horror industry: the latest news, book and movie reviews, contests, interviews and games.

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On the way to Thomaston to pick up his dead father’s things, Jeboriah Taylor found himself thinking back on the events that had shaped his life. He wasn’t usually one to dwell upon old memories, particularly those that involved his father. What was done was done; if you spent your life looking back, you had the tendency to keep running into walls. But tonight was different. Tonight was a celebration of sorts, a new chapter. Tonight he would finally be free.

Drinking and yelling, that’s what he remembered about his daddy. That and the thing his daddy had done, the thing that nobody in this town could ever forget, no matter how hard they tried. The thing that had shaped the family’s reputation in everyone’s eyes forever.

And all that somehow had to do with another funny thing; the confrontation he had this morning with his Gramma Ruth, who was still alive, but going senile. He could never be sure if Ruth was following things or not. She hadn’t been truly herself for years. But this morning her eyes had been unusually bright, and he knew she was having one of her clear days. Jeb hadn’t been sure if she even understood her son had died until then.

“You going to that prison, Jeboriah?” she’d said, when he walked through the kitchen on his way to the door.

“Later today. I gotta pick up his things.”

“There’s nothing of his that suits a boy like you. He’s dead, Jeboriah. I don’t want his things in this house. I don’t want him buried near your Momma and I don’t want any service.” She peered at him until he got the uncomfortable feeling she could see right through his head and glimpse what he was thinking. “I want him buried somewhere far away from here. And I want you to promise me. Promise me you won’t even look at his things. Don’t touch them. Just throw them away.”

Jeb started to say something, but she had turned back to the stove and he could see she was already fading away, that light in her eyes a swiftly sputtering candle. Anything else he said would make little difference to her. He left her staring aimlessly into space, a smile on her face, as if she were thinking of things far away from him and her dead son.
What the hell all that had meant, he couldn’t say. Maybe she hadn’t been having one of her clear days after all, maybe her mind had run out on her again. But none of that really mattered anymore. Now he felt the dark all around him and the loneliness of the open road and he thought to himself, tonight I’ll finally be free of it all. Free forever.

Route One wound its way along the coast, through the old sea towns and stretches of thick woods. The road was already narrow and the way the pine trees crowded the shoulder made the corners tend to sneak up on you. But Jeb Taylor drove like he might take off at any moment, lift right off the ground and into space like some nightmare ship bound for the stars. He felt a strange kinship with the darkness of space, the way he’d heard talk about the coldness up there, the distance. He felt like outrunning whatever was chasing him, but no matter how fast the car went, whatever it was kept right on behind.

The car’s headlights sliced through the darkness ahead and the sixty-nine Chevy gobbled up asphalt and spit it out behind, dual side pipes growling like a wounded bear. Nothing like a sixty-nine for pure, raw speed. The seats were big and slippery and the clutch was looser than a whore, but the engine was good old USA steel. Gas tank could eat a twenty quicker than you could turn around, but ain’t nobody gonna catch me out here unless he’s Superman. Jeb used to watch Superfriends on Saturdays, and he always thought a good double barrel in the chest would stop the Wonder Twins, and maybe Aquaman because he was such a pussy and talked to fish, but Superman could do anything. Superman was made of pure steel.

Into a straightaway the car surged again, the speedometer ticking up past eighty and still climbing as the tires scrambled for purchase. The dash lights were green and pulsed slowly as the alternator struggled along under the hood. Jeb’s face seemed to pulse like a bullfrog’s throat. He smelled burning oil and hot rubber, watching the road with one hand gripping the wheel, the other piloting the stereo controls.

The oldies station was playing one of his favorites by the Thunder Five;

Good doctor-man, can ya lend me a hand
There’s a feelin’ I get and I don’t understand
Gotta fever burnin’ in my brain
Good doctor-man, ‘fraid I’m going insane

The song suited his mood just fine. What was it like to go crazy anyway? Was it like old Annie Arsenault out at the swap shop who sometimes forgot her own name and wandered around outside buck naked? Crazy old witch sometimes made it all the way down Route Twenty-seven to town before anyone saw her. Jeb’s Gramma Ruth used to find her sitting on a bench outside the Railway Cafe wearing nothing but a straw hat, and when she tried to get her in the car old Annie Arsenault would tell her to go to hell.

Maybe, he thought, your daddy could have told you something about crazy. But it’s too late for that now.

Jeb took the next corner a little too fast, and fat tires squealed on tar as the big car swung sideways into the wrong lane. He wondered for a moment as he twisted the wheel and pumped the brakes if he was going to make it. Then the car righted itself and he was left wondering whether he was actually trying to kill himself or whether he was just plain stupid. He drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel in time with the music. It was nerves, that was all. He had to be honest with himself, tonight of all nights; he was dreading what was ahead, what was waiting for him at the prison. Not for what his father could do to him physically, of course; it was way too late for that. Ronnie Taylor had died in his cell the night before from some kind of heart failure, and was already rotting away on a cold slab in the morgue.

No, Jeb was afraid of what other old memories might come floating to the surface. He hadn’t even seen his father in ten years, never mind heard his voice. The sound of that voice wouldn’t ever be able to touch him again; but he would surely see Ronnie Taylor in his dreams.

* * * * *

Thomaston State Prison was located just outside the town of Rockland, on a straight, dull stretch of Route One. It looked like a factory building, and you might think it was somebody’s place of business, except for the high fences and barbed wire. Jeb parked and went around to the visitor’s entrance, where he was met by a fat guard with a black mustache and a stain on his blue prison shirt that looked like mustard. The guard’s face was greasy and his collar ringed with sweat. “About goddamn time,” the fat guard said. His beady eyes blinked through pockets of fat. Jeb could see bits of white that clung to the hairs of the guard’s mustache, remnants of his last meal. “Taylor, ain’t it? What took you so long?”

“Sorry,” Jeb muttered. He tried but could not meet the guard’s stare. This was what he hated the most about himself. When it came time to stand up to people, to show them who was boss, he just couldn’t do it. People took one look at him and assumed control like this guard was doing already.

Fucking fat bastard. I oughta show you a thing or two . . .

But he didn’t say anything, just followed numbly along as the guard led him through a maze of corridors and barred doors. The doors rolled and clanged shut heavily behind them, sounding like distant thunder. They saw no one, but now and again noises floated down from the prison cells that sounded more animal than human. The corridors were thick with the smell of hot male sweat. Jeb couldn’t help thinking that this was where his father had spent the last ten years of his life, caged up like something less than a man. Something to be feared. But that was part of what his father had wanted, after all; and wasn’t that just a little of what he wanted too? For people to take a step back when they saw him, for the other person to look away first?

At a desk they met a second guard propped up next to a wall of television screens, his feet on the counter, hands locked behind his head. This guard was short and completely bald, his head so shiny and smooth it reflected the lights in the ceiling. “Watched you come in,” he said, as the other guard disappeared into another room. “Nice wheels.”

“My father’s car. Restored it myself.”

“Yeah?”

Jeb smiled at the man, wondering what he was thinking. Bet you think my daddy stole it, don’t you, you prick? For all I know he did. But it’s mine now.

The fat guard came back from the inner room carrying a stack of papers in one hand and a suitcase in another. “This is all Ronald’s things,” he said, dropping the suitcase on the floor. “There ain’t a lot. Few old clothes, couple of books and girlie mags. You don’t go out shopping much when you’re in for murder, eh? No field trips to the mall.” He grinned, then slapped the papers down on the counter. “You need to sign a few places here.” He pointed with a pen. “Here, and here.”

“You’re Ronnie Taylor’s son,” the bald guard said, as if he’d figured out a riddle. He took his feet off the counter and sat up. “You must be how old, eighteen, nineteen maybe? I don’t remember seeing you around here.”

“Me and my father aren’t too close. Weren’t, I mean.” Jeb straightened up and handed the signed papers to the fat guard.

“Didn’t like him much?” the bald guard asked, persisting.

“Ronnie was an ornery bastard,” the fat guard interrupted. “Always causing an uproar around here, getting the inmates going so as we’d have to lock him up in solitary. Son of a bitch.” He looked at Jeb with little squinting pig eyes. Some crumbs fell off his mustache onto his shirt. “No offense.”

Jeb wanted to leave. The fat guard was blocking the door. “You said you wanted him buried, right?” the guard said. “Potter’s Field, eh? No service?”

Yeah, you fat sick blubbering pig, now get the fuck out of my way.

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“Just making sure. Normally the funeral parlor has them cremated if nobody claims the body. The parlor will send you a bill for the plot.”

“How much?”

“Depends.” The guard paused, squinted at him as if sizing up the competition. “Costs less to cremate. What the fuck you care, anyway?”

Both guards were looking at him now. Jeb’s throat felt as if it were about to close; he was starting to sweat. He looked at the floor. The corners of the room were yellow and crusted with dirt.

“Maybe you ought to talk it over with the rest of the family?”

“No. Cremate him.”

The fat guard looked like he’d just won something. He led Jeb back through the dim hallways, unlocking and locking the doors as they went. Each one clanged again, and this time the sounds seemed hollow, following them as they continued to the outer doors. Jeb carried his father’s suitcase in his right hand, the handle slippery under his sweating fingers. An image of the bald guard hung in his mind; watching him through the cameras, hands clutching his belly, laughing. Those damn guards had been laughing at him the whole time, but what was he going to do about it?

If I were back there now I’d shut their mouths. He imagined jacking the fat guard up against the wall with his forearm, holding him there while he gave the other one a look, saying, don’t fuck with me, I’ll look through my father’s things whenever I goddamn please. The other one just standing white-faced, nodding yes sir, whatever you say sir.

The plastic handle of the suitcase felt as if it were on fire in his hand. He imagined something moving around inside, thumping and wriggling and bulging. Popping the latch, lifting the lid, feeling things flying out at him, liquid screams through open mouths, nightmares and memories of nightmares thrusting their cold, moist jaws into his face. And he felt that if he opened it now it would be like opening up his father’s life again, ready to swallow him whole.

Ronnie’s an ornery bastard.

Maybe he was, Jeb thought. But not anymore. My daddy’s dead now, and nothing else. I’m free now, you hear me?

He left the fat guard behind and when he was out of sight of the doors, he broke into a run for the car.

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My wife and I were delighted with our new apartment. On the third floor of an attractive, red brick building, situated on a pleasant street away from the noise of the city, it was all we had hoped to find and more. We moved in quickly, settling our belongings the way we liked in each room, laying out rugs, hanging pictures, and filling the closets. The living room was bright and sunny, with a fireplace, high ceilings, and large windows that faced the south, looking out over a pleasant lot filled with green grass. The bedroom was darker, and often gloomy, which I did not like as much; but my wife seemed to take to it, and spent much of her time sitting in the rocking chair beside the only window.

Our neighbors seemed to be pleasant people, though for the first few days we heard little from them other than a quick hello in the stairwell as my wife and I headed out to dinner one evening. That was why I was so surprised when I was approached by the woman who lived in the next-door apartment, as I was leaving one morning. She had heard a racket through the walls last night and wondered if everything was all right. I assured her everything was fine, that my wife and I had christened our home with our first fight, a few pots and pans had been thrown, but that otherwise we had survived. I apologized for alarming her, and told her things would be quieter from now on.

I missed the bus and was late for work, which only irritated me more, and by the time I was on my way home that night I was in an extremely agitated mood. I was a bit worried about how my wife would react to me when I returned. What we had fought about the night before I could barely recall, but I knew that it had been important to her, and that for all intents and purposes I had spoiled the first week in our new home.

I detoured to pick up a bouquet of wildflowers from the local shop and a bottle of wine. When I returned to our apartment I found my wife in the bedroom, reading a book in what had swiftly become her favorite spot, that rocking chair by the window. I asked her forgiveness and gave her the flowers. But while we were preparing dinner I thought she reacted rather coolly to my questions, and that set my mind to worrying. My wife had been occasionally distant during the course of our marriage, and lately it had seemed to get worse, which was one of the reasons I had wanted to move in the first place. I was afraid she had been losing feelings for me, while I was still desperately in love with her. I had always wondered why she married me. She was a beautiful woman. Many better men had been attracted to her, and still were, I knew. So I had always tried to be attentive and kind, heaping my affections on her, knowing that if she left me I would lose my mind with grief.

During the meal, I told her about my conversation with the old lady next door. She seemed to find it amusing for some reason, or perhaps it was just the wine. After the dishes were done we made love in the living room in front of the fire, and although she returned my embrace, it seemed that some of her usual passion was missing, though I did not question her about it. Later I awoke in the middle of the night and saw her sitting in her chair by the window, her eyes moist in the moonlight, hands clasped in her lap.

The next day I took the afternoon off to buy her a present. I shopped for hours, becoming obsessed with finding the right gift, something that would restore her feelings for me. I had done her wrong, and she had evidently not forgiven me though I had tried everything I could to convince her. Something more drastic was in order. Finally I ended up in the most expensive jewelry shop in town, and bought a diamond choker the jeweler assured me would warm any woman’s heart. I hurried home after the sun had fallen.

But if I had hoped for a warmer reception at the door, I was sorely disappointed. I found her in the bedroom rocking chair again, reading glasses perched in her nose and a book in her hand, though she was not looking at the print but staring into space, deep in thought. When I entered the room she did not realize I was there at first, and then I believed I saw a frown pass across her face as she glimpsed my reflection in the window. I showed her the necklace, and helped her put it on. She seemed to brighten a bit, and as she appraised herself in the mirror I imagined a smile touched the corners of her mouth. But when I kissed her she turned away.

I was crestfallen. What had I done to deserve this treatment? I had a good job with a decent salary. I had always provided for her, in every sense of the word. I rarely raised my voice in anger. If she wanted something I had a habit of getting it for her as soon as I could. I was attentive and loving. What more could she ask for in a husband?

I asked her what was wrong. She only glared at me, as if she could not believe I did not remember. Again, I apologized for the fight, and told her it would never happen again. I had lost my temper, but, I reminded her gently, so had she. Weren’t we both equally at fault? And, if not, then couldn’t she accept that I had suffered enough?

Nothing I said had any effect. I wanted to throw my arms around her. I wanted to fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness. But in the end I did nothing. That night I ate alone in the kitchen, and when I entered the bedroom and climbed into bed, she was asleep, and did not stir. The diamond choker sat in its box on the dressing table by the mirror.

When I awoke the next morning she was not in the bedroom, and her side of the bed was cold to the touch. I found her in the living room, sitting by the dead embers of the fireplace and dressed only in her nightgown. I told her she looked a bit pale and she would catch a chill, but she only glanced at me in disdain, her wide, beautiful eyes seeming to mock my every word. I draped my coat around her bare shoulders and went into the kitchen to make us breakfast, but my stomach was churning, and I could not eat.

At work I grew desperate. I tried to come up with another way to prove myself, but I could think of nothing. I had spent a good part of my savings on the necklace, and anything else I bought for her would seem ridiculous in contrast.

My mind had turned to darker thoughts by lunchtime. I began to fixate on all sorts of things once again. Picking up the ringing phone and finding no one on the other end; discovering a pair of panties I had never seen before in her dresser. What if she had been having an affair after all? Suddenly the idea would not leave my mind. I called the apartment, and got no answer. I imagined all sorts of scenarios; I imagined her in bed with another man, and my heart twisted in my chest. Making up my mind to confront her, I gathered my things and headed for the bus.

When I arrived home, I found her alone in the bedroom. I asked her why she had not answered the phone. She continued to read in her chair, as if I weren’t there. I asked her why she would not speak to me. Could I have been that much of a brute? After all, I had done everything in my power to make her happy. Our fight had been such a trivial one; I knew she had been faithful to me, I told her. Why I had ever doubted it I couldn’t say. We were in love. We would always be together. Nothing could change that, nothing.

I paced, I raised my voice to her. She did not respond. Did she want the neighbors to hear? I raised my voice further; I ranted and raved. I pulled at my hair, pacing back and forth in front of her. Why was she torturing me this way, I asked her. If I had hit her I regretted it, I would do anything to take it back. I fell on my knees in front of her, begging her to forgive me for what I had done. When still she did not answer I grew wild. She had the run of the house, I said. Why should she remain in that damned chair all the time? It wasn’t healthy, a young woman like her, sitting in such a gloomy room all alone, such a gloomy, stuffy room, with that smell hanging in the air like spoiled fruit. She was suffering for it, that much was clear. She had simply to look in the mirror, see her pale skin, her limp hair and bloodless lips.

Still, she mocked me. That look on her face! I grabbed her by the arms and shook her, her odd slippery arms, so cold and slimy to the touch, her eyes staring, couldn’t she stop that staring, that staring all the time…

A noise in the other room, a shuffling of feet, a voice calling out to ask if anything was wrong. Suddenly I heard a scream.

I looked up. There in the open doorway stood my neighbor, hand clasped across her mouth, looking into our bedroom in horror, looking at me and the ever silent form of my wife in her rocking chair.

—END—

“A solid first novel by any standard…one part ghost story, one part spiritual journey, and one part Our Town rolled up into a neat package. Nate Kenyon is a writer to be watched.”
- THE HORROR CHANNEL

“A solid first novel by any standard…one part ghost story, one part spiritual journey, and one part Our Town rolled up into a neat package. Nate Kenyon is a writer to be watched.” — The Horror Channel

The Horror Channel is an online and broadcast channel dedicated to the horror genre, providing both shared and original content. Their mission, as stated on their website, is “to create the first and only 24-hour cable and satellite network dedicated to the Horror genre and to become the branded television gateway for the underserved Horror fan base.”

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“Kenyon’s style has echoes of early Stephen King. Crisp prose and straightforward storytelling make Bloodstone a must-read!”

- BRIAN KEENE, Bram Stoker award-winning author of Terminal, The Rising, and City of the Dead

“Kenyon’s style has echoes of early Stephen King. Crisp prose and straightforward storytelling make Bloodstone a must-read!” — Brian Keene, Bram Stoker award-winning author of Terminal, The Rising, and City of the Dead

Brian Keene is the award-winning author of a number of short stories and novels, including the modern classic of zombie horror, The Rising. One of the fastest-rising stars in the horror genre himself, Brian has made his reputation with tight, sharp storytelling and plenty of action, coupled with everyday characters placed in extraordinary situations. His latest novel, Terminal, is a dark, noirish take on the lengths one desperate man will go to save his family.

Learn more about Brian here.

Bloodstone Back Cover Excerpt (Hard cover edition)

He went to her quickly, a moan dying in the back of his throat, and touched the side of her neck, feeling for the jugular. No pulse. He looked up past her body to the red-streaked mark on the wall, and his dream came crashing back to him like a wave; tumbling, her head hitting the plaster with a sickening crunch, a splash of blood, her hip snapping like dry kindling. Just the way her husband had died, ten years before.

He raised his gaze to the top of the steps and his eyes locked with sudden shock on the thing that had been Jeboriah Taylor.

Glittering, feverish eyes set deep in hollow sockets, behind heavy brows, searching him out, pinning him with their fury; yellow skin, a wound for a nose, pale, lipless mouth spread in a lunatic’s grin. He heard the deep, rasping breaths in the silence of the house, and then the stink hit him in the face like an open-handed slap. A smell like a rotting sewer.

Oh my sweet Jesus. He backed away, mindless now, the fear like bile in his throat. He could not take his eyes from the creature at the top of the stairs.

The thing chuckled, a deep, bone-jarring sound. A long, slow line of spittle dripped from the corner of its mouth and spun to the floor.

This was not Jeb. It could not be; and yet, the slump of his shoulders, the way he stood, hip cocked, head forward on a thin neck. Harry thought of the frightened little boy so many years ago who had acted like a dog that had been kicked too many times. He felt himself gasping for air, his chest heaving, hands out, as if in supplication. You cannot be Jeb Taylor.

His back touched the edge of the open front door. It hadn’t closed on him after all. He was free.

Harry Stowe turned and ran, shirt flapping, out into the cheery bright spring morning.

“Reminiscent of Salem’s Lot, Bloodstone is a terrifying horror novel that is action oriented yet doesn’t neglect the development of the characters that come across as believable to the audience. Even ghosts take on a new dimension in this chilling tale as Nate Kenyon’s concept of what they are is both original and frightening. This is the kind of horror novel that will make readers want to sleep with all the lights in the neighborhood shining brightly.”

–Harriet Klausner, Alternative Worlds
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