Spotlight on:
Grimm
Woods
By: D. Melhoff
By: D. Melhoff
Blurb
A remote summer camp
becomes a lurid crime scene when the bodies of two teenagers are found in a
bloody, real-life rendering of a classic Grimm’s fairy tale. Trapped in the
wilderness, the remaining counsellors must follow a trail of dark children’s
fables in order to outwit a psychopath and save the dwindling survivors before
falling prey to their own gruesome endings.
Drawing on the
grisly, uncensored details of history’s most famous fairy tales, Grimm Woods is
a heart-pounding thriller about a deranged killer who uses traditional
children’s stories as tropes in elaborate murders. Set against the backdrop of
modern-day Michigan, it’s a journey through the mind of a dangerous zealot and
a shocking glimpse into the bedtime stories you thought you knew.
Author
Info
D. Melhoff was born in a prairie ghost
town that few people have heard of and even fewer have visited. While most of
his stories are for adults, he also enjoys terrifying younger audiences from
time to time, as seen in his series of twisted picture books for children. He
credits King, Poe, Hitchcock, Harris, Stoker, and his second grade school
teacher, Mrs. Lake, for turning him to horror. For more information,
visit grimmwoods.com.
- EXCERPT-
July 7th, 5:44 a.m.
One hacksaw. One hammer, six
boxes of nails. Twelve Mason jars, four hunting knives, two pairs of handcuffs.
Fifteen gallons of gasoline divided evenly among three dented jerry cans.
It’s time.
A
work glove hovered over the table where the objects were laid out side by side
and began ticking the air as though marking off an invisible checklist. The
chamber reeked of mildew, and the walls had no windows or electrical sockets—no
lamps, no wires, no switch covers. A single red candle provided the only light,
its crimson wax dripping down its shaft like blood.
The
hand picked up a piece of paper from the table and slipped it into a blank
envelope. Below, a beetle scuttled across the floorboards. The insect—its
gangly antennae tuned to some foul frequency in the gloom—raced past the sole
of a giant boot just as a drop of liquid fell through the air and struck it
dead center, engulfing its body in a hot, gelatinous blob that filled its
orifices and burned it from the inside out. Another droplet tumbled from the
candle, plopping onto the envelope this time, and then a brass stamp came down
and pressed the wax into a hardened seal.
Drawing
in heavier, raspier breaths, the figure held the envelope up to a corkboard
that was bolted to the wall. More than a dozen pictures of young men and women
were tacked to the panel by their throats and foreheads, smiling in the
shadows.
The
figure pinned the envelope to the board and stepped back to take in the room
again.
The
table and the switchblade.
The
book of matches.
The
iron rods, the hatchet, the .22 Smith & Wesson.
The
smiling faces.
Now, the figure mused, watching the photographs
flicker in the bloodred light. Who’s the nicest, who’s the worst, who wants
to hear a story first?
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