Stolen Soul

Martin S. Wathen's abstract horror duology comes to a shocking end...

Chamomile’s ‘too perfect’ image has shattered.

Like glass hurled into concrete, it is no longer a haven for those few which remain. Instead; it is a prison. A prison that's shackles are the intensifying malice of those, once innocent, prying eyes. Its walls? The looming timber surrounding them.

Snow has devoured the streets. So deep it threatens to stretch yonder the knee, and more. If their misfortune were to continue, Chamomile’s townsfolk might soon be buried and swallowed beyond the throat. For Rudyard Stockwell, forced to face the labyrinth of crusting limbs which was once his neighbours, and may very well be his dear wife, he knows that one certainty reigns clear above the rest:

There are no limits to the lengths some might strive to conserve a persona of overt purity. Especially, when hurled into a domain where such a façade is worth its weight in gold.