Leading up to this date I’ll be sharing the first few chapters to whet your appetite.

Blog is below:-

‘Reeling from a recent tragedy, Michael Parker and his family arrive in a remote Cornish village where a centuries old evil awaits.

Michael’s young son is kidnapped by a demented religious cult who believes his sacrifice will prevent Armageddon.

Michael must team up with an old foe and put their differences aside to survive the night.

Can Michael save his son or be dead by dawn?’

CHAPTER ONE

The woman ran along the blackened castle ruins, her bloody bare feet striking the rain soaked ground. Her rapid breath came pumping out of her open mouth in grey plumes, as her body neared exhaustion. Rushing on, not for her own life, but her daughter’s. The baby’s cries echoed in the darkness as the woman ran.

Rain lashed at her pained face as she desperately looked for an escape route. The woman’s long blonde hair whipped behind in the biting wind as the rain soaked night gown clung to her body like gossamer.

The walls rushed by like jagged, blackened teeth as her pursuers began to close in.

She knew it was futile but her instincts couldn’t allow her to give up and hand her baby over to the evil that chased them.

The woman knew what fate lay ahead for her baby as she was once the predator, hunting down the innocent, but now she was the prey.

The woman’s tired foot clipped a rock and she fell. She managed to twist onto her back before striking the ground.

She tried to get up but many hands grabbed her, the woman’s screams merging with her baby’s cries. Surrounded the woman was roughly brought to her feet, legs shaking. A tall figure stood before her. A flash of lightening illuminated the scene and she saw the figure smile. Her eyes fell upon the dagger that he was holding in one hand. The knife looked ancient, its hilt encrusted with jewels and steel blade inscribed with symbols and words from an age long since dead, shone wickedly in that brief light.

The woman pleaded for the life of her daughter but the figures stood silent and unmoving. The main figure turned and walked towards the centre of the ruins, the others following, roughly pushing the woman and her baby onward towards a slab of stone that resembled a table.

The woman tried one more desperate move to escape but another figure stepped forward and punched her in the face. As she fell back from the blow, she felt her baby snatched from her weakening grasp. She sensed the muddy ground on her back and heard the high pitched screams from the baby before darkness enveloped her.

The baby was handed to the figure with the ancient dagger and he moved on towards the stone table, the others following silently behind.

CHAPTER TWO

Michael Parker sat up in bed his body shaking, sheathed in cold sweat. He reached a trembling hand to the other side of the bed, expecting to feel Kim, but struck the wall instead.

Michael tried to recall the nightmare but was unable to, left only with a feeling of impending doom.

He looked over at the ‘Barbie’ clock on the night stand, the numerals, 3.01a.m. glowed pink in the darkness.

Michael got out of the single bed and padded out onto the landing. He could see light coming from Jamie’s room and soft crying. Michael crept towards the door.

By the light of the Marvel night stand, Michael could see his son sleeping soundly, his super hero bed covers gently rising and falling with his breathing.

Michael’s dark brown eyes fell upon the source of the crying. Kim knelt beside the bed; small sobs escaping as she tenderly brushed the fair hair away from Jamie’s face.

His hair was so soft and silky, just like Jenny’s. The thought of his daughter stabbed him in the heart as the realisation he would never see her again hit him like a sledgehammer.

Kim looked over her shoulder and fixed Michael with a cold stare. Michael backed out as Kim kissed her son, switched the night light off, and exited the bedroom.

Kim turned to Michael, his trim, athletic body clad in pyjama bottoms. Michael nervously ran a hand through his ruffled dark hair.

‘How is he?’ Michael asked.

‘Bloody peachy,’ Kim said her sharp whisper like a slap. ‘Now go back to bed, tomorrow’s going to be a long day.’

With that she brushed passed him returning to her room, leaving Michael on the landing alone with his torturous thoughts.

Jason Duck 2026.

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The launch date is Saturday 4th July and leading up to the big day I’ll be previewing some chapters, to help whet your appetite.

It will be available as a paperback and an eBook on Amazon.

Thanks to Ian Ayris, author of the John Sissons trilogy who gave the following quote regarding the book:-

“A dark, fast-paced slice of folk horror, packed with brutal imagery and relentless action-ideal for readers who like their horror intense and uncompromising.”

The book cover looks amazing and captures the true spirit of the book. Thanks to Daren Inainner at fiverr for doing such a great job.

The blog is below:-

‘Reeling from a recent tragedy, Michael Parker and his family arrive in a remote Cornish village where a centuries old evil awaits.

Michael’s young son is kidnapped by a demented religious cult who believes his sacrifice will prevent Armageddon.

Michael must team up with an old foe and put their differences aside to survive the night.

Can Michael save his son or be dead by dawn?’

I’ll be posting chapters one & two here next Friday.

Jason Duck 2026.

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Jason Duck- A Journey into Darkness is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

If you liked this please like, share or comment.

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My horror short story has been published on ‘Creepy,’ an American podcast.

Thanks to who suggested this podcast in one of her posts.

Before then I’d never even thought about sending a story to a podcast.

The ‘Torn Man’ is a traditional ghost story with a slight twist.

A big-headed young life guard has agreed to look after a remote hotel in Scotland, during the winter.

At the hotel he experiences spooky goings on involving a mirror, bumps and screams in the night and visitations from the Torn Man.

Is it real or is he slowly going insane?

Find out in the link below:-

Jason Duck 2026.

https://www.creepypod.com/episodes/2026/5/20/the-torn-man-amp-if-you-live-in-my-town

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First the governments of the World denied global warming existed.

They laughed off the scientists as being ‘over sensitive,’ and ignored the science.

Until they couldn’t any longer, as the Earth began to heat up, the fires spread and the oceans rose.

People now scramble for food, on land that is shrinking fast.

The next war will be fought not over oil but water.

The rich were so distracted by chasing wealth that they forgot that you can’t eat pound and dollar notes, or drink oil.

What’s the point in being rich when there’s no land to live on and nothing to eat and drink?

Jason Duck 2026.

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His boss smiles but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he looks down at Shaun, clamping a large hand on his frail shoulder.

Fifty years of service, the best years of his life, condensed into this gold plated watch.

He had worked late most nights. Worked weekends to get the work done and missed close family events, while his boss played golf.

He had had so many arguments with his wife, he’d lost count.

In time the fighting stopped as his wife ran away with the next door neighbor.

‘You were never at home,’ she said, slamming the front door behind her.

Now he was retiring, pushed out rather than going of his own free will. His old bones replaced by a shiny new computer and AI system who could do it 10 x faster with zero personality.

Looking from the blank face of the watch into the equally blank faces of his soon to be ex colleagues, Shaun realised all those years were for nought and all he had to show for his blood and sweat was this gold watch, that looked like it had come from Temu and knowing his boss probably had.

Shaun knew it was too late to turn back the clock and he smiled grimly, gripping the watch tightly, ignoring the pain in his hand and heart.

Jason Duck 2026.

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“What?” Mike replied.

“They come back to feed,” continued George, eyes glinting in the dying sunlight.

“Bullshit.”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” George mumbled, head bowed.

The two friends were sitting in a grave yard, among the head stones.

They were Goth teenagers so this place called them like a siren.

“What comes back then? Vampires?” asked Mike.

“No of cause not. Vampires don’t exist.”

“Then what?”

“Zombies.”

“Come off it.”

“You know the myth of zombies was based on true events?”

“Bullshit,” Mike replied but started to look uncomfortably at the fresh grave, that lay next to him.

The headstone read,

‘Lynda Copeland

Our Dearest Daughter.

Taken too early from us.

Aged 8.’

There was a birth and death date too but Mike was too pissed to read it.

“They need to feed even though there’s no need for them to do so,” George continued.

Mike took a deep tug from the bottle of ‘Jim Beam,’ as his friend talked, before handing it to George.

George took the half empty bottle and took a swig.

A muffled sound, like splintered wood rode on the chilling wind.

“Did you hear that?” Mike asked looking nervously at the grave.

“Nah, must be the wind,” George replied, taking another gulp of whiskey.

Twilight turned to darkness as the boys continued to drink and chat.

The moon rose and bathed them in a ghostly glow.

The wind increased and its chill arms wrapped around the young Goths.

“I’ve got to get going,” George said, getting up on unsteady legs.

“Yeah don’t want to upset your mommy,” Mike teased.

“Don’t be like that,” George said, slurring his words as the booze cruised through his veins.

Mike got up and stood over his friend.

“Or what you’re going to do about it then?”

George stared up at Mike. He often got like this when he was drunk, just like his old man, like father, like son.

But before George could reply, Mike screamed.

George looked down and couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing.

A milky-pale hand was gripping Mike’s ankle and by the light of the moon George could see earth coated, little fingers digging into his friend’s flesh.

The bottle of whiskey dropped from George’s trembling fingers, spilling the last of its contents onto the ground.

Mike tried to pull away from the hand and made a grab for George. George backed off in shock and terror, slapping away Mike’s shaking hands.

Mike lost his balance and fell.

George took one last look at the grave and saw a small head coming out of it, dirt hair in French plaits, a mouth opening wide. Moonlight catching sharp teeth.

George ran as fast as he could away from this horror movie made flesh. The screams of pain and terror from Mike pursuing him like a phantom as he jumped over the cemetery wall.

Jason Duck 2026.

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My three sons ride beside me as we charge, swords held high, lusting for the blood of our enemies.

We are greatly out numbered but this is our home land and the heathen horde will taste our vengeance and steel.

The galloping hooves of our war horses slice through the morning mist, jet and scarlet standards fluttering behind us. We descend upon the enemy, our battle cries ringing in their ears.

Swords clash and flesh is slashed as we smash into their armoured bodies like a battering ram. Battle axes and swords strike our shields as we hack out with our blades, finding flesh and bone. We give no quarter. The blood of our enemies spills upon the ground and we smile.

The Valkyries watch on ready to take the dead to Asgard, where the blood of our enemies lies.

Jason Duck 2026.

This was inspired by the song, ‘Blood of My Enemies,’ by the heavy metal band Manowar.

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I park up and take out my baggy of coke. I tap out a small amount on the back of my fist and take a snort with my left nostril. I shake out some more for the right- lovely. Now I’m ready.

I bowl into the main building I’ve still got ‘Mike’ in my pocket as I step onto the factory floor. All the staff have been given the day off- no witnesses. There’s a small group of men in the centre of the huge room. Giant machinery all around stands silently watching.

The small group part like the Red fucking Sea to reveal a terrified looking man tied to a chair, naked.

‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t old Timmy Tomlin. A little birdie tells me you’ve been talking to the filth?’ I say as I approach.

‘No, no Tommy it wasn’t me.’

I loom over Timmy and smile wickedly.

In the background the news is on the radio talking about how Russian mobile nuclear missiles have been seen moving towards NATO’s boarders.

‘Turn that shit off,’ I tell one of the lackeys. I then turn back to Timmy.

‘We know it was you. You were fucking seen. It’s just a question of what you’ve told them about our operations. That’s where I come in, damage control.’

I take out ‘Mike’ and show it to Timmy who literally starts to piss himself, the dirty little fucker.

I work on Timmy with ‘Mike’ for nearly three hours, coaxing every ounce of information from the fucking little grass. By the time I’m finished with him; his own fucking mother wouldn’t recognise him and was begging for death.

Well I consider myself a fairly reasonable man and granted the prick’s wish.

I order the men that have been standing there watching the show; some look a little green around the gills, I might add. They untie him and then bound his wrists with a long metal link chain. They attach the chain to a hook that hangs nearby. I watch as the broken, bleeding man is then hoisted up into the air and hangs above a huge machine that had sat behind Timmy like a sleeping metal giant.

The machine has a wide opening at the top which tapers down to a narrower end in its base- a funnel. A couple of feet from the base a wide metal pipe with many holes at the end juts out.

This was the end game all along. Hence Timmy being naked, me pulling out all his fucking teeth, finger and toe nails during the main event.

I watch Timmy dangling over the funnel like some hellish string puppet before I’m handed the remote control for the winch.

‘Gentlemen start your engines,’ I say before a low rumble deep within the metal funnel sounds, quickly turning into a growl that echoes around the cavernous factory.

I ignore Timmy’s pleads of mercy as I push the red button and he descends slowly into the funnel. This is one of the other perks of owning a pie factory. Killing someone is easy. Bang and it’s over. The real hard part is getting rid of the body.

Well problem fucking solved.

We all look on in fascination as Timmy is lowered into the giant meat grinder. His pleads turn to hysterical cries and then to agonise screams as his naked feet reach the powerful stainless steel cutters.

Blood coats the interior of the funnel and Timmy’s twisted face as the cutters and grinders go to work. Timmy’s screams reach new heights as his body is slowly devoured by the machine. At the pipe end Timmy starts to be ejected from the machine and plops into a waiting stainless steel tray below.

By the time the cutters and grinding wheels have reached Timmy’s chest his screams fall silent as he finally gets his wish and death falls upon him like a cold, wet blanket.

I watch in silence as the rest of Timmy is spat out. ‘Sullivan’s Supreme Pies’ are popular all over the East part of London and Kent, must be the secret ingredient that sets it apart from their competitors.

It’s just gone half five and I’m clocking off. I give Mr Sullivan the update on the blower when I’m back in the car. After I hang up I remember the race horse and check out the results on my phone.

I smile broadly as ‘Crimson Glory’ has won. I drive off and head to the ‘Barking Dog’ for a celebrational pint.

I sit in the corner of the pub my back against the wood paneled walls, a pint of John Smiths Extra Smooth in one hand. I take out Randy’s number from my pocket and look at it. I decide to give her a bell and see if she wants to meet up tonight.

As I’m punching in the numbers on my phone the mobile springs to life and emits a powerful siren. A message with a black and yellow striped boarder flashes. I look around and everyone’s phone is going fucking mental as well.

‘What the fuck,’ I mumble as I look at the flashing message.

‘Emergency, seek shelter immediately. Await further instructions.’

People start talking amongst themselves, wondering what’s happening. The Landlord switches on the telly that sits above the bar. Images of submarines, battle ships and tanks cover the screen. Writing on the ticker-tape at the bottom of the screen says that Russia and China have launched an attack on Europe and the first wave of nuclear fucking missiles was heading our way.

Fuck.

I step outside on wobbling legs, people all around me screaming, shouting and running around like headless fucking chickens. Not me I’m facing it head on. There’s no hiding from this.

I stand on the high street watching cars and a bus smash into panic stricken pedestrians as they try to escape- the fucking muppets.

I look up towards the early summer sky and see several black dots against the blue. I rise my glass to them as they speed towards London, before taking a hefty swig of my bitter.

I close my eyes and wait for the end.

Jason Duck 2024.

First published in Byker Books on 3rd July 2024. Feel free to check out some other crime stories from me and other writers on this excellent Substack page about council estate life.

The Bitter End - Byker Books

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I put a ‘monkey’ on the horse, ‘Crimson Glory’ that Sid tipped to win as I munch on me burger. The odds are 50-1, so a great result if it comes romping in.

The early summer sun at last has broken through the clouds and a beam of light shines down as I drive over to Brentwood for my penultimate job.

***

This job is at a strip club the owner is complaining about paying over the odds for our security and allowing us to peddle our drugs to his punters. I slip through the back door; I’ll give him a nice surprise, trusty ‘Mike’ back in my pocket.

Darren Goldhart owner of ‘Golden Hearts-Gentlemen’s Club,’ sits in his plush office behind a massive oak desk. Loud rock music pounds out of hidden speakers as he snorts up a thick line of coke. One of his strippers performs a private dance for him. He’s got a fucking pole and little stage in here and the tight little blonde with small waist and big tits is working her little arse off for him and the fucker isn’t even paying her the attention she fucking deserves.

The girl stops and Goldhart senses a change in the room. Looking up he turns off the music with a little remote.

Goldhart waves the girl away with a limp hand and she rushes off, picking up her skimpy clothes from the floor as she goes.

I take a long lingering look at her shapely behind as she runs out the door. I turn back and fix my dark eyes on Goldhart.

‘I understand that you dislike Mr Sullivan’s security arrangements,’ I say walking past a huge tropical fish tank that takes up half the wall. Loads of fish of many different colours swim in its blue waters looking out at me with wide eyes as I approach the desk.

‘Well yeah. Big Tel’s killing me with the increases he keeps demanding.’

‘Cost of Living mate but I see you can still afford blow though.’

Goldhart looks a bit embarrassed as he sniffs, wiping his big nose with a shaky hand.

‘Well you need some perks in life,’ he says quietly.

‘Indeed you do,’ I say reaching his desk. ‘So have we got a problem?’

‘I think we have. We need to renegotiate our terms.’

‘Renegotiate?’ I reply through gritted teeth. ‘Fucking renegotiate this.’

I grab the cunt with both hands and pull him over the table. He screams as I drag him over to the giant fish tank and lift the lid. I shove his head into the warm, blue water, fish dart away as he opens his mouth in a silent scream. I count to ten and lift his head back up. He splatters; trying to take big lungful’s of sweet air before submerging him again. I hold him down for twenty seconds this time.

‘Do you still wish to renegotiate Mr Goldhart?’

‘No,’ he manages to shout back before I shove his head under once more for luck.

I drag his head out after thirty seconds this time and leave him coughing on the lush shag pile carpet.

As he’s trying to recover I slide ‘Mike’ out of my pocket and swing it in a wide arc. The metal head strikes the glass of the fish tank and hundreds of litres of water floods out along with the fish.

‘That will be your head next time if you complain again,’ I tell him.

I leave Goldhart trying desperately to save his fish that are flapping on the soaked floor and close the door behind me.

I pass the stripper in the corridor as I walk to the main bar. She’s fully dressed now, if you can call a skimpy dress with high heels fully dressed.

She winks at me and smiles.

‘Hi, I’m Randy,’ she says in her sing-song voice.

‘I bet you are,’ I reply.

‘Here’s my number,’ she says handing me a piece of paper. ‘He’s such a pig. About time someone brought him down a peg or two.’

I smile as I pocket the number.

The bar is pretty full with the late lunch time crowd. Men of all ages buying overpriced beer so they can get an eye full of pussy.

I head for the main entrance where one of the bouncers is standing by the bar. I bung him a few quid and get a small baggie of coke from the next bouncer who is standing in the foyer.

‘I don’t think you’ll get anymore grief from Mr Goldhart,’ I tell him as I leave. He nods, grinning.

I get into the Mondeo and head back to Dagenham for the last job of the day.

Jason Duck 2024.

First published in Byker Books on 3rd July 2024. Feel free to check out some other crime stories from me and other writers on this excellent Substack page about council estate life. Part 3 next week.

The Bitter End - Byker Books

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A pretty waitress comes up to me to take my order. I don’t need to look at the menu I know what I want. I order a full English with extra chips and a mug of tea. The waitress nods nervously and scurries off. She promptly returns with my cuppa. I slurp my cup of Rosie and flick over to the front page.

More bad news- Russia is continuing to misbehave and threating the rest of the world with war if they don’t get their own way. I don’t know much about politics but I do know that Russian president is a cunt.

My breakfast comes and I tuck in. I attack the fried egg first, sticking my fork into the greasy yolk and slashing it with my knife. My wife keeps telling me to cut out all this shit food or have an early death. I tell her that I’d rather die early and enjoy myself than eat porridge and prunes all day- fuck that.

I’ve got a busy day today so need my strength. Can’t smash heads and break bones on a diet of fucking muesli. I’m on the wrong side of fifty but I’ve still got it. Six foot four and well-built thanks to my younger days being a boxer and night club bouncer, fed on a diet of meat and steroids.

A bit more fat these days and a lot less hair but plenty of muscle there too. I can still have a good tear up with the best of them.

For the past eight years I’ve worked for ‘Big Tel’ Sullivan a local crime boss who has his fingers in a lot of pies in the area. I’m his enforcer and if I turn up on your door step then something has seriously gone fucking wrong. I’m the last resort, break fucking glass in an emergency, the big bad fucking wolf.

I finish my breakfast and walk out. I don’t have to pay as they know who I am.

The sun is trying to break through the dark clouds but is failing miserably. Right, now off to my first job of the day.

***

The first job is a local betting shop in Dagenham. The owner a right weasel has borrowed forty grand off of Mr Sullivan and is struggling to pay the loan back, the mug. I’m here to persuade him to cough up last week’s and this week’s money or he’s going to be eating hospital food for the next six months.

I look up at the shop a right shit hole in an even bigger shit hole. Presently I live in a two bed flat on the Thames view Estate. I want to better myself but life seems to not offer me any breaks. Don’t get me wrong I’m not like these poor twats; I’m the lion in this jungle, the apex fucking predator but I’d like to be more like Mr Sullivan and have a big fuck off house in Emerson Park, rather than a poky flat in Barking. I suppose my coke habit isn’t helping but you need something to give you a boost from time to time don’t you?

I stroll into the shop and fix eyes on my prey. A short, fat man with shifty eyes stares back at me as if I’m the devil himself.

I suppose to him I am.

‘Good morning Sid,’ I say as I slowly turn the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed,’ before crossing the threadbare carpet, stained with years of sweat, tears and fag ash. A few punters at the slot machines or poring over the ‘Racing Post’ see me and suddenly remember they have more pressing business elsewhere and fuck off.

Sid doesn’t say anything but stiffly nods his head in the direction of his back office, his triple chins wobbling with the exertion.

***

We’re in his office, a poor excuse for one, more like a broom cupboard. I stand menacing in the small room, the interior as depressing as the shop floor.

‘Listen, I haven’t got all the money yet,’ he says, putting his hands out as if this will stop me thumping the cunt.

I take two steps forward.

‘Wait. I have a great tip on a horse that’s running today at Epsom at 3 o’ clock. I know the owner.’

I take another step towards him, my face a fucking nightmare.

‘It’s a fucking dead cert.’

‘Mr Sullivan needs all what’s owed right now or I’ve been told to break your legs.’

I remove my trusty claw hammer, ‘Mike’ from the inside pocket of my leather jacket for emphasis and wave it slowly before Sid’s shocked face.

I was a huge fan of Mike Hammer, that old T.V show about a private detective when I was a teenager. Loved that shit. He always solved the case and got the girl. I always wanted to be like him.

‘I’ve got half the money now,’ Sid said, his voice going up an octave.

‘Well in that case then I’ll break only one of your legs,’ I say before getting down to business.

***

I get back in my black Ford Mondeo and bung the brown envelope stuffed with cash into the glove box with ‘Mike.’ I take out a pair of knuckle dusters and slip them into my jacket pocket. Now off to Tilbury Docks for the next job

I drive into an industrial estate that houses hundreds of shipping containers. I park up and I’m met by two guys from the firm. They’re not that bright but can handle themselves if needed.

‘Where’s the little cunt?’ I ask the bigger of the two.

‘He’s in here Tommy,’ he says pointing to one of the containers.

Without another word I stroll towards the red coloured metal container, the other two following in my wake.

I enter the container and the stink hits me like a heavy weight’s upper cut. It smells of sweat, shit and fear. As my eyes adjust to the gloom of the interior I see another member of the firm near the back, standing by a wooden chair with a man tied to it.

His head rises from a bloody vest that was once white. A spot light, powered by a generator hangs above the chair, offering a harsh glow. I guess he’s in his mid-twenties but it’s hard to tell as his features are bloated with the beating that he’s already received by the warm up act. Now I was here, the main fucking event.

The man’s crying a long line of snot hangs from one flared nostril.

‘Please,’ he begs. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard Kenny,’ I say, slowly slipping my brass knuckle dusters onto my large hands, the metal gleaming in the light. I ignore his pleading.

‘You’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Mr Sullivan doesn’t like members of his own firm ripping him off.’

‘I’m innocent.’

‘Shut it. If we let you off what kind of message would that send to the rest of the firm or our rivals?’

I stroll over to the poor excuse of a man and go to work on him.

Afterwards when the man is gurgling on his own blood and teeth I take a Stanley knife from my black jeans pocket and run the razor blade smoothly across Kenny’s skinny throat. His puffy eyes widens as a crimson line appears across the white skin. Then the wound yawns and blood jets out of the cut like a geezer. Luckily I’d side stepped before making the cut, this isn’t my first fucking rodeo you know. So the gush of blood misses me but finds the shorter of the two guys who’d met me outside earlier.

I laugh wiping the blood from my blade against Kenny’s shaking legs as the last of his life leaves his broken body for good. I turn to the three guys in the room, ‘Now clean this shit up.’

Without a backwards glance I’m off to my next job.

Jason Duck 2024.

First published in Byker Books on 3rd July 2024. Feel free to check out some other crime stories from me and other writers on this excellent Substack page about council estate life. Part 2 next week.

The Bitter End - Byker Books

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The priest looked upon the man with annoyance as his presence disrupted his service.

The congregation stared at the dusky skinned man with dark unkempt hair and beard, dressed in rags.

The man looked upon them, eyes blazing with an inner fire. His bright hazel eyes took in their Sunday best and expensive jewellery.

“Why do you keep such riches when the poor are so in need?” the man asked, his voice strong and commanding.

“Shut up,” a lady cried and everyone joined in.

“Call the police,” another said, “How dare this man come into God’s house looking like this. He’s disgusting.”

“Why do you twist the truth for your own gains?” He called to the priest. “Have you forgotten my teachings. The rich can not enter my father’s kingdom.”

“Blasphemer,” the priest boomed.

“You think you’re Jesus, you haven’t even got blonde hair,” a man mocked, pointing to the stranger, a gold Rolex clamped to a fat wrist.

The police came swiftly and took the man away.

The man sat in the police cell, shaking his head.

Mankind hadn’t learnt anything in the past two thousand years and he wept for them.

Jason Duck 2026.

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Her proud parents looked on as she skipped around the beautifully turned out garden.

“Daddy, am I getting warmer?” she giggled, looking under a stone bench.”

“Freezing,” he said, enjoying seeing his daughter play.

Early morning, every Easter Sunday, they would do this.

It was a family tradition, going back centuries.

Annie cartwheeled across the manacled lawn and landed before a replica of the ‘Venus de Milo.’

“Are you here,” she laughed, looking around the plinth, which the stone statue stood upon.

Her keen eyes fell upon empty lawn.

Annie’s long fingers curled around the ankles of the armless statue, like a viper.

“Getting warmer dear,” her mother encouraged.

Annie skipped on.

She found herself by the rose bushes, her heightened senses telling her she was near.

Annie looked under the nearest rose bush.

Empty.

A bit disappointed she moved on to the next.

“You’re getting warmer honey,” her father said.

The second bush was empty too.

So was the third.

Annie moved slowly towards the last bush.

“You’re boiling,” she heard her mother say as she bent down to see what was hiding behind the bush.

Annie smiled.

With unnatural speed and strength she leapt over the bush, landing behind it.

“Found one,” she screamed.

Annie looked down at the terrified woman who was begging for her life, eyes wide with fear.

Annie smiled broadly, revealing sharp fangs in the moonlight.

This was the best part Annie thought, first kill of the Easter hunt.

Jason Duck 2026.

Happy Easter everyone!

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Creepy Podcast gave me my first pay check for a spooky story and will be broadcast soon (watch this space). You may have seen me celebrating on notes the other week regarding this.

I sent off my story to the fantasy magazine, ‘Savage Realms,’ a year ago. It took a few months before I got the great news they wanted it, but it has taken up to now to let me know it will be published in their next edition and they will be sending me a contract and payment shortly.

‘Savage Realms,’ I read in an article along with other titles on Substack but can’t remember who mentioned it now but thank you whoever mentioned it.

Also I’ve just completed formatting my first novel and have created it on Amazon with a book cover. I will be covering this in more detail later, with info of the launch date.

So I cast the seeds a year or so ago and now I’m reaping the rewards!

With all this going on I may not have time to do anything new on Substack, fiction wise, but we will see.

Take care everyone and keep on reading.

Jason x

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The Pharaoh’s wife smiled as he was laid to rest, at last she was rid of him. The slab of stone came crashing down, sealing her in the tomb with the dead pharaoh for all of eternity.

Last Gasp Lounge

The line of wing backed armchairs seemed to stretch out forever, filled with half dead, old people, listening to children’s TV. This was Margaret’s new home…for now.

Blood Banker

The Vampire grabbed the banker, “I would like to make a withdrawal,” he said before stinking his fangs into their neck.

Mother Knows Best

Mother knows best. She speaks to me still, even though I killed her years ago.

Jason Duck 2026.

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Zombies stagger towards stalled school bus.

China doll smiles with evil intentions.

Priest prays as demon possesses child.

Masked killer swings axe, blood spills.

Man turns into wolf and hunts.

Feel free to add your own 6 word horror story in the comments below. I’ll love to read them.

Jason Duck 2026.

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Although only six words in length these words evoke so much and keeps the reader guessing and wanting to know what happened. Every word has to earn its place.

Trying to write a story in only six words is a challenge for any writer but I thought it would be fun to do a few horror tales that are only six words in length.

So, here it goes:-

Boy sleeps while the monster creeps.

The Jin, three wishes, totally evil.

Bugs crawl through brain, devouring memories.

New grave, heavy banging, muffled screaming.

Feel free to write your own horror story in only six words and leave them in the comments below, I’ll love to read them.

Jason Duck 2026.

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The fire raced through the waxwork museum like a comet. The wax melted off the figures, revealing the dead flesh and bone beneath.

Bath Time

The woman screamed as she lowered her naked body into the bath tub. The liquid that lapped at her body was not water but acid.

Strip Tease

The stripper smiled seductively at her audience as she began to take off her flimsy outfit. The audience gasped as she began to peel off her skin, revealing the bloody muscle and tissue beneath.

Hillbilly Bar-B-Q

“Billy Bob, are you a breast or leg man?” Johnny Lee asked. “Neither, I’m a rump man,” Billie Bob said leering at the spit roast of the girl hiker they’d caught in their bear trap the day before.

Mummy’s New Garters

My mummy always threatened me when I was naughty to ‘have my guts for garters.’ I always thought it was just a saying..I know better now.

Jason Duck 2026.

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Where am I?

Jenny slowly sat up and took in her surroundings. She was on an ice plain; a blue hue running through it. The white-blue ice stretched out as far as she could see.

What place is this?

Jenny rose on unsteady legs and began to walk. She could see that the ice plain met with a row of mountains far away, their craggy surfaces encrusted with a thick coating of blue ice. They stood quietly majestic, the ice glowing like turquoise from the light of the sun that hung low in the blue sky.

How did I get here?

Jenny tried to remember but her head hurt so much. A deep throbbing pain in the centre of her brain, like tentacles radiating out to the sides of her skull and pushing outwards, threatening to crack the bone open.

She stopped walking and looked down. She was bare footed the soft pale skin turning blue. Jenny noticed she was wearing a dressing gown, its fleecy material baby blue. She gripped the dressing gown tighter around her frail frame but it gave no comfort, the cold spread through her body like a blue ink stain.

Jenny stumbled on, her feet becoming numb from the cold. She saw a frozen sea and as she reached its edge and looked down through the blue ice and into the deep aquamarine depths Jenny saw movement.

She looked closer, trying to make out what it was. Huge bodies cruised through those frigid blue depths, colossal tails lazily moving up and down. As the dark titanic bodies swam closer Jenny began to see the various blues from their long, slender bodies as they swam.

Blue whales?

Jenny tried to remember how she got there. She remembered leaving a New Year’s Eve party a bit worse for wear and getting into a friend’s car. They had skidded on ice and crashed.

Am I dead?

Jenny looked at her hand, the veins blue against the skin. She could see the tips of her fingers turning blue. Feeling sleepy she lay down above the swirling blue-grey mammoth shapes of the whales. She shut her blue eyes against the cold sapphire land scape.

Is this Hell?

As Jenny lay on the ice she heard her Mother’s voice and waited.

*

Linda looked at her daughter laying on the hospital bed, prone body hooked up to various machines that were monitoring and keeping her tethered to life.

Linda held Jenny’s cold hand. The doctors said she was in a coma but the patient may still be able to hear. Linda sat by the bed and whispered to Jenny how much she loved her and prayed she would find her way back home.

Jason Duck 2023.

This was originally published in Candle Lit Magazine Issue 2 -April 2023.

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Marcus stood in the garden already feeling the warmth of the sun across his broad back, as he tended the land that he worked so hard to gain.

The heady scent of Rosemary, Thyme and Oregano drifted on the light winds as Marcus tended to the various plants and vegetation of the garden.

For nine long summers he had toiled this earth, replacing the sword and shield for plough and sickle.

For more years than he could remember he had fought hard in far flung countries, many leagues from his beloved family and home, killing, enslaving and conquering in the name and glory of Rome.

The great standard of the eagle stood above the many fields of slaughter as the mighty Roman war machine marched across the newly conquered lands, like a plague. The smell of spilled blood and rotting flesh strong in the charred air.

For his years of service he’d been rewarded this garden and modest villa.

His hands once drenched in blood now were covered in the life giving earth. Tending this garden had more or less stilled the ghosts and memories of battle and blood shed. Nightmares of warfare still vexed him but not as frequent as once it did. Nature and the earth had a calming effect on him, that he was grateful for.

But like the budding shoots of corn that can sense the sun as it lays in the earth, Marcus knew war was coming.

Like the distant drums of battle the signs were already there.

His dear friend the Emperor had died two years past and the new one was younger, less patient and quick tempered.

He had made more foes than allies and he was losing his grip on the senate.

The new Emperor needed another successful campaign and memorable victory to silence his critics that whispered daily treacherous comments behind his back.

So far all the generals had failed in taking the land they called Britannia. Rumours had reached Rome that this land was filled with demons and mad men, that drank the blood and ate the flesh of Romans.

Voices once a whisper, that spoke of these lands as unconquerable, became a rallying cry of defiance.

In the north another contender for the throne of Rome had emerged and rumours were strong that his armies were growing and would march upon the city walls before the end of summer.

Although Marcus disliked the new Emperor he would obey, like all loyal servants of Rome.

He slowly stood up, the muscles in his back and legs protesting at the effort. No longer a young man but still he could hold his own in battle, Marcus would wager, if ever he was called upon again.

As if in answer, Marcus saw a lone rider charge over the far hill, the sunlight gleaming off breast plate and plumed helm. Marcus squinted to see more detail of the rider, finding it difficult with his aging eyes. Yes, the rider was indeed a soldier of Rome, dressed in the garb of a centurion and heading his way.

The rider charged towards him, as swift as Mercury himself and Marcus calculated he only had a few minutes to wash and than greet the centurion.

After a hasty wash and change of toga, Marcus greeted the centurion in the shade of the villa’s atrium. After a rushed greeting the centurion handed a sealed scroll to the old General.

The centurion looked on as Marcus broke the seal and began to read. As he read the words on the parchment Marcus smiled but there was no joy to it. He was being ordered back to his previous life of war and chaos. With grim acceptance he stiffly nodded to the centurion, knowing it would be years, if at all, that he would see his family and tend to his beloved garden once more.

Jason Duck 2026.

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Every night is the same.

I perform my nightly ritual of not looking at any screens one hour before going to bed. Take a warm shower, ensuring the bed room is cool, and do my breath exercises.

I go to bed, my head on the soft pillow, the Egyptian cotton cool on the back of my head.

I close my eyes and… nothing.

Sleep eludes me like a teasing lover.

The clock mocks me, showing me the hours as they painfully claw their way towards the new day.

The numbers have patterns, 1:11, 2:33, 2:46, the classic 3:33, and so forth.

I doze and wake, doze and wake. In the early hours of the new morning I fall into an exhausted slumber, only to be shocked awake by the screeching alarm of the clock.

I have to endure a day of tiredness, where I feel like I can sleep just about anywhere, but come bed time that tiredness evaporates like drew drops before the rising sun.

I begin to dread the sleeping hours. As night falls like a cold, black blanket, I feel my heart hammering in my chest. My breath quickens as I feel the first rivulets of cold sweat running down my back.

I brace myself for another endless night ahead.

Jason Duck 2026.

Dedicated to the 850 million adults worldwide that live with insomnia.

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