Black Red Blood White: Viktor A. King Anna, #2

By Viktor A. King

In "Black Red Blood White" by Viktor A. King, the haunting secrets of a seemingly picturesque English town continue to unravel. This gripping sequel delves deeper into the enigmatic world created by King, where forbidden love, supernatural forces, and relentless pursuit of truth collide.

The town's dark history is further exposed as a series of gruesome murders of young women comes to light, leaving the community in a state of fear and suspicion. Anna, the ethereal and limbless ghost who remains trapped within the confines of an English country house, embarks on a harrowing journey to uncover the chilling truth behind these heinous acts.

As the narrative unfolds, readers are drawn into a realm where the past and present intermingle, and where the line between reality and the supernatural becomes increasingly blurred. Anna's determination to confront her tormentor, Henry, the very man responsible for her tragic fate, leads to a climactic and spine-tingling showdown.

"Black Red Blood White" is a multi-layered tale of horror and redemption that explores the darkest corners of the human psyche. It's a narrative that transcends language barriers, captivating readers across the globe with its relentless suspense, intricate storytelling, and shocking revelations.

Building upon the resounding success of 'Tacit Resonances,' which took the literary world by storm in 2021, 'Black Red Blood White' emerges as the highly anticipated sequel that fans and readers worldwide have been clamoring for. With 'Tacit Resonances' achieving record-breaking sales and garnering critical acclaim, the bar was set exceptionally high. However, Viktor A. King's storytelling prowess proves once again to be unparalleled.

As the chilling saga continues, 'Black Red Blood White' seamlessly weaves together the threads of the first installment, further immersing readers in a world of heart-pounding terror and unrelenting suspense. The enigmatic town's secrets are laid bare, and the harrowing journey initiated in 'Tacit Resonances' takes on an even more ominous and gripping dimension.

Readers can expect a narrative that not only lives up to the legacy of its predecessor but surpasses it in spine-tingling intensity. 'Black Red Blood White' is a testament to Viktor A. King's ability to craft narratives that captivate, terrify, and resonate with audiences on a global scale. It's a literary journey that has left an indelible mark on the horror genre, and with this sequel, that legacy only grows stronger."

This passage emphasizes the success of "Tacit Resonances" and the anticipation surrounding its sequel "Black Red Blood White.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Viktor A. King
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223416098

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VIKTOR A. KING©

LIFE OF STARS

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LIFE OF STARS

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www.unavitadistelle.com

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BLACK RED

BLOOD WHITE

VIKTOR A. KING

CHAPTER ONE

It was a foggy day, much like any other. My father had bestowed upon me a terrible gift: despair. Despair had sustained me thus far, nurturing me through a consistent partnership that stole my breath and desire, flattening and solidifying the metabolism of my emotions until it extinguished. However, in its recess, it birthed another formidable force: resentment.

I brooded with anger as I observed my new fascination. A statuesque blonde with long, slender legs, and elegantly shaped knees, like the legs of a giraffe, swayed her hips with mesmerizing circular motions—right, left, and then left, right, mirroring each movement.

The house had erupted in chaos. The garage, the machines, our little diversions collected over years of selection—all reduced to lifeless, charred remnants.

It wasn't that wickedness was born in me because of my father; it's just that, when one dies, they typically rest in peace. Instead, he had always lingered in my ear, repeating words that made me increasingly uneasy. I was inherently malevolent, relishing in the suffering of others.

They could perceive fear and that exquisite moment when they realized it was all over for them. There was no escape from the inevitable future, from what they envisioned would be done to them, which invariably surpassed their wildest imaginations.

Was I cruel? No, merely different. Not savage. I didn't annihilate populations for profit, spread diseases through the air, traffic in weapons, or consume meat from industrial farms. I had chosen amusement as a means to combat the boredom of an ordinary life—the doctoral title, the noble responsibilities, creating offspring, raising them, being upstanding, loyal, and honest.

And then what? And then nothing. The family home had been blown to bits like a poorly constructed Lego set, my Bentley reduced to a pile of twisted metal, and my precious, compartmentalized companions, the most exquisite I had ever adored, burned alive, tethered to their cribs, with no hope of rescue. Some were even carrying my unborn children.

My team had worked tirelessly amid the debris, gathering and concealing the mutilated bones and charred remains. They were now interred among the roses in the garden, nurturing the soil.

I still couldn't fathom how one woman, that robust gymnast, had unleashed a flurry of blows, incapacitating my entire team. Archibald, driven by intense sexual passion, had met his end, crushed by his own motorcycle. Unbelievable, as he was a man of voracious carnal appetites. Watching him impregnate his companions had been as comical as watching The Simpsons on Christmas Day by the fireplace.

Yet certain aspects didn't add up. How had the police car moved on its own, and why had the garage door opened? I vividly remembered locking it with the motorcycle inside to prevent the beautiful Helena from escaping. I had sensuous plans for her—I wanted to remove her womb to study it, to observe how female organs evolved in masculine women. Yet, she had the audacity to beat me like a schoolboy stealing her snack. Shameful, for his virility and because of his title; after all, he was an earl.

He had relocated to the country house, a logistical challenge, far from town and the crossroads that halted the beautiful ones on their journey to London. But, as optimists tend to find a silver lining, it possessed intriguing architectural possibilities. There was a cellar, at times wider than the house's perimeter, accessible only through a single entrance, cool and refreshing, yet not damp. It provided perfect preservation for their limbs and created space for their games—the operating room, the infirmary, and the training ground for future fighters, all within the span of a few flights of stairs.

Mrs. Boff had also perished, having jumped. Her limbs were found scattered, reaching as far as her residence's lobby—ears, skull, arms, legs—ripped apart within seconds, likely very close to the detonation's epicenter. I mourned her loss; Mrs. Boff was invaluable. She prepared a delightful broth using the young ladies' arms, meticulously cutting their fingers with her nails, creating five or six slices that simmered for hours. The flavor was exquisite, the cartilage possessed a unique meaty richness and was rich in iron. I would never savor such a broth again, and she had always silently attended to the household chores, picking, cleaning, and disinfecting. Priceless.

I gazed into the green eyes of the young lady beside me, envisioning her limbs inside, imagining their color, the pungent scent of decomposing flesh, the odorous discharge of lifeless intestines, dissonant amid her fresh and striking beauty—arrogant yet tender. Yet, ultimately, they all smelled the same.

I was their god, with the power to decide their fate—to let them live maimed but fertile or to consume them, literally.

Darling, could we continue our conversation at my country estate?

I could already sense that I was ready, and an overwhelming excitement consumed my thoughts.

Well, I intended to find lodging at the inn first. Perhaps we could dine together?

I happen to know that the inn has no vacancies; they only have two rooms, which are consistently occupied by grandchildren and relatives. It doesn't quite function like a traditional inn, except for the excellent cuisine. Their sandwiches are renowned throughout southern England.

I'd still like to inquire. Maybe I'll get lucky. Can we have dinner there at the inn?

My dear, she was reluctant to accept the invitation, but she also didn't want to release the virtual noose she believed she had placed around my neck.

Certainly, Mrs. Geoffrey will warmly welcome you; you'll see. I'll be waiting for you there for tea. Alternatively, if you prefer, you can find me at the estate, a few miles outside of town. It's easy to locate; everyone in town is acquainted with it.

Everyone knows it. You can't miss it—an obedient and contented citizen.

Alright, thank you. I'll head there immediately.

When the time comes, I'm certain you'll impart a different and absolute meaning to the word 'thank you.'

I watched her walk away, her miniskirt dancing over her bare legs, slightly curving at knee height, as if her knees were giving each other a tender farewell kiss with each step—long, lustrous legs of pearl-white skin, young and smooth from the sun and saltwater of countless summer swims.

A girl immersed in her youth, reveling in joy and custom, at the heart of her world, yearning for life and excess.

We would redefine the word 'excess.'

I, too, set off, heading