Fans of the bizarre, the dark and the horrific...And, of the one and only Sherlock Holmes, attend:
Coming October 27, 2015!!!
“When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Sherlock Holmes is one of the most recognizable characters in Western literature. Conan Doyle’s inimitable detective has been the subject of literally thousands of books, movies, television shows, plays and even songs. With the rise of the BBC series and the release of all copyrights, the beloved character has found a new life among modern audiences.
In An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 14 authors of horror and mystery have come together to create a unique anthology that sets Holmes on some of his most terrifying adventures. A pair of sisters willing to sacrifice young girls to an ancient demon for a taste of success, a sinister device that can manipulate time itself, and a madman that can raise corpses from the dead are just a few among the grisly tales that can be found within these pages.
Curl up with a warm cuppa and leave all the lights on. This is not your grandfather’s Sherlock Holmes.
The Fairy Pool by Lucy Blue
Sherlock Holmes and the Hungry Ghost by Katie Magnusson
The Diamond Carter Ghost by Matthew Wilson
The Haunted Branch Line by Tally Johnson
The Arendall Horror by Thomas Olbert
Worlds Collide by S. H. Roddey
Time is Running Out, Watson by Adrian Cross
A Voice in the Blood by Dan Shaurette
The Hunt of the Red Boar by Thomas Fortenberry
The Canaries of Clee Hills Mine by Robert Perret
The Chase by Melissa McArthur
The Adventure of the Missing Trophy by Mark W. Coulter
The Case of the Rising Dead by Trenton Mabey
The Adventure of the Slow Death by Harding McFadden
"The Arendall Horror," by Tom Olbert
Sandborn led us through the tunnel, into the caves. As we all entered, torches lit, I sensed something cold and horribly forbidding in the dank interior of those murky caverns. There was a slimy, rancid stench as if we were walking into a slaughterhouse. “What is that horrid smell?” I asked.
“Rats, I expect, sir,” Sandborn answered. “I saw a few of them down here that night, picking at other scraps of itself that thing had left behind. Then, I heard the poor vermin squealing in the dark as they died.”
Then, I saw it. The torchlight fell on a shadowed corner of the cave. Dripping milky-white fibers formed a grotesque nest of sorts, containing three large, ovoid, leathery objects. They resembled egg pods in a spider’s web, though magnified to scale many thousands of times. I gasped as the horrid things began to split open, bursting from the inside out. Sickly, milky-white fluid coated the abominable things that emerged, squealing as they clawed their way out. To this day, I cannot accurately describe them. The creatures had long, jointed limbs like that of a giant spider, yet they were webbed, like the wings of a huge bat. Their heads were rodent-like and snarling with six-inch fangs dripping. Their eyes glowed green in the torchlight. Scarcely out of their ungodly crèche, they were shrieking and swarming at us with inconceivable speed, slithering on multiple tentacles.