Haughnt: Dark Shapes, Dark Shadows Book 1

By David C. Cassidy

"Wickedly creepy." - Kindle Reviewer, Dawn K

"Horror in its finest hour." - Amazon Reviewer, Cathy DiZi

"I dare you to try and put it down." - Amazon Reviewer, Thomas Donnelly

"Haughnt will get you hooked ... can't wait for more. This author is right up there with Stephen King." - Amazon Reviewer, Carol

A creepy, fast read of desperation and fate, magic and murder.

From award-winning author David C. Cassidy comes a terrifying story with nail-biting suspense, a non-stop thrill ride with twists and turns from start to finish. Curl up and enjoy this modern retelling of the classic tale of a deal with the devil—with a stunning climax that is sure to shock you.

WE'RE ALL DAMNED.
IT'S JUST A QUESTION OF WHEN.

As his estranged father lies on his deathbed, horror novelist Paul Steele is stunned by the old man’s admission: Many years ago, he committed a ghastly crime and was never caught, his freedom bartered in a black-magic spell. On his last breath, he warns Paul that he should expect a visit from a mysterious stranger. “He’ll be coming son. A dark man. A man from the shadows.”

Soon, a chilling figure appears outside Paul’s home during a late-night thunderstorm—a vile and sinister man called Haughnt. When Paul confronts him, he is horrified to learn that not only does Haughnt possess unimaginable magic, but has come to collect on his father’s debt. Given two choices, both unspeakable, he must find a way to break an unbreakable contract, a curse sealed in his family’s bloodline. Stifled at every turn, as time ticks away and Haughnt’s relentless grip tightens, Paul faces a cold reality: We’re all damned. It’s just a question of when.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David C. Cassidy
• Release date: Feb 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370886937

David C. Cassidy

David is an award-winning author, the twisted mind behind several chilling books of horror and suspense. His supernatural thriller, The Dark, won the Independent Book Publishers Award and ReadersFavorite.com Award in horror fiction. If you love horror with unforgettable characters in epic stories that draw you in and won't let go—stories that haunt you long after the final page—then check out his incredibly rich storytelling.A busy little bee, this Canadian writer is also an accomplished photographer and Photoshop wiz—and a half-decent juggler. An avid amateur astronomer, he loves the night sky, chasing the stars with a telescope. Sometimes he eats.

Book preview

~ 1

We’re all damned, Paul Steele thought. It’s just a question of when.

He stood in room six of Shelton House Hospice. Despite the tidy, comfortable space, the blinds were closed, leaving the room dim and dreary. It seemed fitting for a man’s final hours. Certainly this man’s.

His father lay dying in the hospital bed. The old man’s eyes were shut. Three thin scars on his left cheek were still there, though not as visible as they once were. The cancer had turned his skin olive.

As he looked down at that withering face, he wondered what was going on in that despicable, self-centered mind. Wondered whether the bastard was preparing for the next life, if Norman Steel really knew he was going straight to hell. Wondered how it was that such a sorry sack of shit had managed to live to sixty-six. The bottle should have killed him years ago. If only it had, instead of driving Mom to swallow a bucket of Valium.

They hadn’t spoken in twelve years, not since Paul’s first novel, Bloodlust, was published. When he’d called to tell his father, to finally get that respect that he’d wanted so badly, all he’d gotten was a slurred, "Do you know what time it is, kid? Some of us actually work for a living." He could still hear the crack of the old man’s phone as it slammed onto the cradle. He hadn’t even had the chance to tell the prick he’d added an e to his last name, just to stick it to him.

He hadn’t wanted to come. If Erica hadn’t begged him to, he wouldn’t have. But happy wife, happy life, right? The prick could rot, for all he cared. Bury the hatchet? Make amends? Get all sappy and cry? Over this man’s death?

He had to stop himself from driving a fist into Norman’s face.

Norman Steel stirred. His eyes opened slowly. Is … is someone there?

Paul nearly spoke, but stopped himself. The caregiver had told him that Norman had lost his sight. Now the man was listening, his glossy eyes searching.

Are you there, Father? Norman whispered. Is it time?

Last Rites, Paul thought. Hadn’t they done that by now? He should check with the caregiver. It was the very least he could do.

He cleared his throat as quietly as he could.

Father? Norman said.

Paul hesitated. It’s … it’s me.

Wha—? Who?

Paul. Your son.

Puh … Paul, Norman breathed. Paul. My son.

Paul moved closer to the bed. Put a hand on the bed rail. I’m here.

Norman raised a trembling hand.

Paul couldn’t bring himself to hold it. Couldn’t bring himself to touch that old olive skin.

Norman waited, and then his hand slipped down. My son, he repeated. My boy.

My boy? Paul thought. He hadn’t called him that since he was a boy. Before the bottle.

I didn’t do right, Norman said. Not by you. Not by your mother. I didn’t do right. I didn’t do right.

It’s okay, Paul said. It surprised him that he actually meant it. Five minutes ago, he wouldn’t have.

Norman shook