Hanika The Fear Monger

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-3-7394-8069-5
Verlag: tolino media
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 190 Seiten

Fear, blood, pain. Chester Harris wants more. He writes horror fiction and is no longer satisfied with shocking his readers with lurid and ghastly tales. To solve his dilemma, he invites unsuspecting guests to an evening of unspeakable gruesomeness. They must play a game of life and death. To survive, they must go beyond all limits their own and all those conceived to be human. Fear, blood and pain are on Chester's menu and his gluttony for this grisly fare knows no bounds. Be forewarned: This horror novel contains explicit descriptions of violence and horrid details that will repulse the reader.

Tanja Hanika ist Autorin von Horror- und Schauerromanen. Geboren wurde sie 1988 in Speyer, studierte in Trier Germanistik und zog anschließend in die schaurig-schöne Eifel, wo sie mit Mann, Sohn und Katze lebt. Seit sie mit acht Jahren eine »Dracula«-Ausgabe für Kinder in die Hände bekam, schreibt und liebt sie Gruselgeschichten.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hanika, Tanja

Leseproben

Chapter 1 – Several Months Prior
The floodlight was burning into his skin like hellfire. Considering the few lamps that were directed at him, one could hardly speak of floodlights. Chester Harris was a writer of horror novels. In recent years, he had achieved an abundance of success with his frightful stories, even garnering some fame outside of his immediate circles. Not once during his previous readings did Chester as much as break a sweat, not even at his very first event. His skin was glowing like an ember. The delicate trickle running down his back was to blame for him getting muddled while reciting an excerpt from his novel—a mishap of unforeseen importance for him. He would usually read the words aloud with unrelentingly sharpness to further intensify the horror his stories instilled. Sheer fright was what he longed to see on the faces in the audience. Chester looked up, let the sentence linger and beheld his audience. Twenty-eight people were sitting on their chairs in front of him without wide-opened eyes, tightly pursed lips, or hoisted shoulders. He felt himself turn to ice on the inside. The letters of the final paragraph became blurred before his eyes. Chester inhaled deeply, fighting to maintain his composure. He knew the final sentences by heart and recited them without looking up from his book. His mouth became drier and drier. If the end was not so soon, he would have needed to break away and grab an untouched glass of water. Even that would have been unacceptable according to his standards. How could he be an authority when he needed water like any other normal human being? The illusion would be destroyed. He, who knew how to relate dark secrets and gruesome incidents, were not supposed to appear like an average nice neighbor from next door. Chester had reached the end of the section. Normally, he would inconspicuously rub his hands together because he left his audience in the claws of the worst type of a cliffhanger—reason enough for everyone who had not already bought his book. On that evening, he was merely happy to be over and done with his reading. In the two seconds it took for the applause to begin, he recognized three things: A man was scribbling something onto a sheet of paper on his lap; maybe he was cheeky enough to add some treats to a shopping list. Two women hastened discretely toward the exit, while another man stared at his watch, yawning. Not long before, the audiences had hung onto every syllable that ran from his lips. They had inhaled every one of his words as if they were a breath of fresh air. And then it all changed! Chester Harris tried to act confident and thanked his audience by nodding. He swallowed bile churning its way up his throat just the way he had learned to over the years throughout his childhood. He got up gracefully from the chair on which he had been forced to sit through his reading to answer questions. The audience wanted to know the same thing as after every one of his reading events: How had he become a writer? Where did he get such gruesome ideas? Whether he could ever or would ever act the same way as his characters? They sought a sprinkling of anecdotes that provided a glimpse into the life of a writer and explained to them how a novel is created. Chester rattled off his litany of standard answers until no hand was raised for further questions. At the end, he walked over to the table where he would be signing his audiences’ books and dropped down into the waiting chair. He felt slightly dizzy; the questions he had just answered kept swirling through his head. As usual, a reasonably long line had formed. Almost everyone wanted him to write something into one or another of his books and sign it with his signature. A young woman came up to the table. “Excuse me; I have four books for you to sign. I've been wanting to listen to you read something for a long time. Would you mind writing a short dedication into all four of them? These are my absolute favorites by you.” “Yes,” that flattered him, and he complied with her wish by writing some pithy phrases in her books. The same sentences he had written into countless books, ‘In memory of a reading’—then added the venue. Here's to a gruesome read. Yours, Chester Harris. Fear, dread, and horror. Best wishes, Chester Harris. Wishing you endless nightmares, Chester Harris. The woman picked the stack of books up and pressed them to her chest. “Thank you so much, Mr. Harris.” Red in the cheeks, she went away. “You know,” the next man in line lectured him, “your novels are good. But in the book with that hotel, you should have chosen a different ending. Please write that you dedicate this book to George. Thank you.” He did the man a favor. But did not reply to his advice. It was astonishing for him to see how many readers knew better than he how his novels should be written. The next man in line was the shopping list scribbler. Restlessly, he shifted from one leg to another and stared holes through Chester with curious glances. “I read your books, voraciously. The way you write … I can’t even describe how much I love it. By the way, my name is Ethan Josephson. For the signing, I mean.” Chester signed his name underneath the dedication and put the pen aside to loosen his hand. “Thanks, Ethan, I write to inspire my readers. How nice that I succeeded to inspire you.” But that was only half the truth. Fear. He wrote because he wanted to instill fear in his readers. The man pointed to several of Chester’s novels stacked behind him, aligned to inspire people to buy. “That one: ‘Death follows on silent steps,’ is my favorite of your novels. I read it at least four times.” Waving, the man lifted his hand and made room for the next event attendee behind him. It didn't escape Chester's notice how the man went up to a woman and proudly showed off the dedication to her. Of course, that reaction made him happy, but it was not the reason he wrote. Chester shook out his hand again before signing the next book. He otherwise never had cramps, but that evening, he was not himself, so nothing surprised him anymore. His pen must have rolled off the table because when he went to pick it back up, it was gone. He briefly searched for the pen underneath the table and next to his chair but, since he could not find it, had to make do with an old spare one. Also, the last seven reading attendees’ soon had their books filled with dedications. Chester had made it through the evening. He was looking for the lost pen halfway stooped under the tabletop when the owner of the bookstore approached him. “Nice reading, like last time.” Fortunately, this idiot has neither eyes nor ears, thought Chester. “I’ll gladly come back for the next novel, provided the publisher wants to organize another reading.” “I presume he will. Maybe, we’ll get all the seats occupied again next time. On one of the first warm days of spring, you can’t knock the people for wanting to spend their late evenings out in cafés. I’ll send you Miranda. She’ll help you pack up. I’ll be in the office in case you need anything. Thank you very much, and see you next time!” “Thanks, but I don’t need any help. I’ll be off right away,” Chester hurried to say. “Suit yourself. Goodbye.” His car was parked just a few meters away from the bookstore. Once in, he enclosed the steering wheel with his hands gripping until they had lost all feeling. What had happened in there had made him almost unable to breathe. He had failed or had been such a close shave from failure that his insides were twisting in shame. Was he no longer able to captivate his readers? Instill fear in people? That sublime pride when his audience clung to his every word, spellbound by the story, locked between the desire to know what will happen next and the fear that it could be too much for them to stomach. Other people’s fear scintillated Chester, and it diverted his attention from the dread and fright he had felt throughout his own life. It angered him to believe that he could no longer survive if he were to lose his lust and taste for it. He started the engine, dealt the steering wheel one final blow and proceeded to weave his way into London’s left-hand traffic. On the drive home to his flat, he would have plenty of time to think about what he had become. At home, Chester threw his car key into the glass jar he kept on the dresser for that purpose and tossed his jacket onto the coat rack. Immediately, his eyes focused on the bookshelf in the living room even if he could not see it yet. It stood behind the wall and drew him towards it like a magnet. Proudly, as his fingers caressed the spines of the novels he had published, his racing heart slowed. These were his works! All their words and stories had snaked their way out from inside of him into the outside world to meet with his readers. And what a readership he had found! His career had started rapidly and catapulted him ever further up the ladder than he would ever have imagined. Whenever anyone in Britain bought horror fiction, it was likely that Chester’s name was written on the front cover. He was the one who made the entire island tremble while wading through oceans of imaginary blood. He offered to anyone bold enough to read him the nightmares one desired. Chester went up to his office, the place where he felt most at peace. There on the wall hung his pinboard cover in filing cards with ideas he had jotted down for upcoming stories, diligently arranged...