The Pub at Crokers Crossing

By Kris Ashton

Two retired couples on a caravanning holiday decide to visit a ghost town they find on an old map, but the town has not been abandoned entirely—as they soon discover in terrifying fashion...

 

And when it's up to them to spread a warning to the rest of the world, what could possibly go wrong?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hell Hare House
• Release date: Aug 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223012467

Book preview

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by HELEN M. MERRICK

THE PUB AT CROKERS CROSSING by KRIS ASHTON

SANCTUARY by MICHAEL J. STIEHL

THE DEVIL AND THE LOCH ARD GORGE by LEANBH PEARSON

THE PUB AT CROKERS CROSSING is

Copyright © 2022 Kris Ashton

First published in Australia in August 2022

by Black Hare Press

The author retains the copyright of the works featured in this publication.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this production may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

Edited by D. Kershaw

Formatting by Ben Thomas

Cover design by Dawn Burdett

Connect: linktr.ee/blackharepress

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Kris Ashton

Black Hare Press

Sanctuary By Michael J. Stiehl

Chapter One

Raindrops struck the roof around midnight. Intermittent clicks at first, then a many-footed tap dance that grew louder and louder until it filled the caravan with its rushing aluminium din. My wife, Jan, slept on. She and Jenny had gone to bed early while Tom and I stayed up yarning and sipping coffee, camp chairs parked at a small campfire. Coffee for me was a morning beverage, something I drank to kick-start my brain, and my reckless evening consumption had kept me unwantedly perky.

I reached for my phone and its screen lit up, bathing Jan’s face in a cold glow. I watched her sleep a while, hair scattered across her brow in ash-blonde commas, then I tapped the phone’s weather app. Although our campsite was just outside town, internet reception was down to a single bar, so it took quite some time for the rain radar to load. When it did, my heart sank. A massive cell swept up from the south, its centre painted in angry red and orange blobs. The blue dot denoting our position floated on the cusp between the yellow and orange bands. As if to confirm this, precipitation started to come down with such force it sounded like hail.

The