Showing results by author "David Boyer" in All Categories

Leo Baynes, a rich, charming entrepreneur, whose personal tastes tend to lean toward the “exotic”, was so intent on discovering the secret of his own wanderlust, he would travel to the very ends of the earth just to satisfy his own insatiable thirst for things most men would run from. That is, until he met Chio - the cat woman. Now, the very doorway was now opening to more than just a handful of humans who had ever known existed, much less tasted, pleasures that would redefine the parameters of sexual sensation - and other unknown terrors...

Serial killer Martin Campbell has planted his seed within her now, one he hopes will grow stronger and be nurtured by her to it’s full maturity. She can feel it coursing through her veins like a runaway train, her adrenaline pumping now as well, as she descends the dirt path behind their condo and into the darkness of the ghostly tree line. He will follow close behind her - only to make sure she is an apt pupil - but not too close, doesn’t want to throw off her concentration. After tonight, though, she will be on her own.

Abby Williams and Libby German. Their voices have been silenced forever now, except for home videos or memories. Abby and Libby need a voice again, so now it is up to their families - and the rest if us who want justice for these girls - to create a new voice for them, to tell their story, and never stop our voices from speaking up until the man responsible is behind bars forever.

As an “amateur” filmmaker, I can't rightfully boast of being another Spielberg or Eastwood, but I know a really crappy movie when I see one. For example: the ever-present “final girl” chase scene at the end of most low-budget horror films. In reality? That is not the way it happens at all. I should know, from experience...

Ray Striker was a Gulf War veteran turned street vigilante who guarded his own neighborhood like it was his own family. But too many years chasing ghosts and taking the law into his own hands now made it impossible to chase his own inner demons away.

The grand re-opening of the saloon was the biggest event the Gulch had seen in 20 years–the last biggest event in memory being the local Radio Shack carrying cell phones and the only used car dealership in the county now selling cars and trucks that weren't manufactured in the 1970s.

Had serial killer Henry Lee Lucas turned to God in his last moments, for redemption? Had he really loved Frieda "Becky" Powell? We may never really know the truth.

Even small towns can harbor big secrets. Jake Collins, the former Deputy Sheriff in Deadman's Gulch, Texas, knows this all too well.

When the ghastly thing opened its mouth, Alan could have sworn he could smell the overwhelming odor of death itself, coming from deep inside it's rotting guts.

Whether it be a police officer or fireman or hospital employee or retail workers or mail carriers or the nice guy next door who helps you feed your kids or lets you borrow his lawn mower, there are so many heroes, often times right under our nose, that we don't even seem to notice exist.

Lucid dreaming: Experienced with the dreamer feeling awake, aware of dreaming, and able to control events consciously. Nightmares: A frightening or unpleasant dream; a terrifying or very unpleasant experience. Lucid Nightmares: Being awake during a terrifying experience, and helpless to do anything about it.

In the story “Beautiful Ghost”, an aging writer, reflecting back on his youth–and his first true love–finally realizes that the only way he'll ever see her again is in his dreams. In “Dancing with the King”, a lonely, awkward young girl who is terrorized by the local bullies finds solace in being able to dance with the ghost of Elvis. A heartbroken man grieving over the loss of his beloved pet is granted a visit to the Rainbow Bridge.

In Tiny Terrors: Part 2, author David Boyer once again thrusts the listener head first into a world we thought we knew all too well, but weren't aware of what may exist in that world once you've crossed the barrier between the light and the darkness.

I'd had too much to drink again. The demon alcohol, always there, tempting me to have another drink. He knows that if he just tempts me enough, pushes me enough, I'll give in. I always do. Because I am weak, and I am a coward. At times, I've wondered if the demon alcohol was really the Devil incarnate. How else could he always win the battle between good and evil, using only a bottle of cheap liquor? Evil does exist, my friends; never, ever have any doubt of that. I know from experience; I've shaken hands with the devil and lived to tell the tale....

When Sampson came back from the war again, he wasn't sure how happy his remaining family would be to see him, but there was only one way to find out. Who knows? They might welcome him back with open arms. Then again, they might hide up in the trees and take potshots at him with their hunting rifles. He hadn't exactly left his old home on the best of terms. His own father—or what almost passed for a father—had called him a demon. As if he had any reason to act self-righteous. But no matter now; he was back home again, and he had important things to take care of.

The saddest day I can recollect now is the day I left my clan alone. My brethren. I'll never forget the look on the faces of my clan; one of fear and anxiousness and most of all, sorrow. It wasn't only that they feared for my safety, either; they were afraid of being without their Master, their keeper. Their hero and best friend. We had not only developed a rapport with each other over time, but a genuine love for one another as well. Love, respect, and loyalty. And now I was leaving them behind, even if only briefly, to risk my life for them.

Sometimes, guardian angels can show up in the most unexpected places....

Our woodland had become a utopia; an wonderous place of ideal perfection. To us, at least, it felt this way. We had no concern what others thought of our world. They were considered nothing more than interlopers, threats, and were not welcome there. All was calm and peaceful. That is, until I'd found a trail of fresh blood, and determined beyond a shadow of a doubt it was not human blood, but animal blood, with spent rifle shells littering the ground nearby. It at that moment I knew that once again, our peaceful solitude was about to be interrupted by mankind's lust for blood.

I am now the master of my domain. These woodlands are my Kingdom, and I rule them with a fair but iron hand. Just like my Brethren. The Brethren that were tired of playing dumb. Unlike myself, the undomesticated beasts of the wood, the task at hand would prove to be more difficult; they had to play wild and free, and play stupid. Easy prey for the man who walked the woodland paths with guns.

He smells like blood and opium and whiskey, and underneath that something sickly sweet, like rotten fruit. That's what starvation—and death—smells like. He is so thin and frail now, almost gaunt in his appearance, almost skeletal. His current accommodations, a musty, cramped room above a motel-saloon, have also been converted into somewhat of a shrine to him: his 1877 model Colt Lightning hangs on one bedpost, and his trusty Bowie knife from the other. His hand-tailored black hat with the hand-curled brim hangs over the bed, on the wall, like some would hang a picture of Jesus.