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Owl Goingback

The July Special Guest Story is by

Owl Goingback

Please feel free to visit Owl HERE

Owl Goingback

SEALED WITH A KISS
by Owl Goingback

“I’d sell my soul for a beer!” Kent Phillps yelled, a wave of anger surging through him. “I swear I would. A nice cold can, ice crystals clinging to it.” He licked his lips and waited, but on one rushed forward to accept his offer. His words floated unheard across the fallow fields and fell to earth among weeds and sticker bushes. A beer would be nice, but what he really needed was a ride.

He turned and looked behind him. The road stretched like a black ribbon through the Georgia countryside. Empty. No cars. Not a one. Nor had he seen any for hours. Miles from the nearest town or store, maybe even miles from the closest farmhouse, he couldn’t have picked a more inconvenient place for his car to breakdown.

About five miles earlier, his Toyota Corolla had made a funny coughing noise, the warning lights had come on, and the engine had seized up and died with a shudder. Despite being a jet engine mechanic in the Air Force, he didn’t know the first thing about piston engines and carburetors. He didn’t know much about Georgia either. A city boy from Chicago, he hadn’t realized just how rural certain parts of the state were.

He should have known better than to come on this trip, especially by himself, but a friend had told him about the Confederate Prison Park at Andersonville and he wanted to see it. Unfortunately, Andersonville had been closed, something about a college kid from Florida discovering a tunnel full of skeletons.

Since he couldn’t visit the park, he’d decided to drive on down to Plains, Georgia to see the hometown of former president Jimmy Carter. He could have saved himself the drive, for Plains was a big disappointment. Wasn’t much to see, just a couple of filling stations and a few old stores, their shelves stocked with cheap souvenirs and empty cans of Billy Beer. About the only thing of interest was the giant peanut statue, with the familiar toothy grin, that stood in front of Elmer’s Food and Gas, and that was full of woodpecker holes.

He’d left Plains, trying to salvage what was left of his weekend by taking a shortcut back to Robins Air Force Base. Somewhere north of Americas, but still south of Fort Valley, he had gotten lost, the car’s engine had died, and he had spent the better part of two hours walking.
Kent spotted movement to his left and stopped. He watched, amused, as a scrawny gray cat slipped from beneath a sticker bush and cautiously approached him. The cat probably belonged to a farmer and was out hunting field mice.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” he called, holding his hand out. He slowly squatted down, trying not to make sudden movements. “What are you doing out here? Hunting?” He glanced at the barren field where the cat had been. “Looks like you could have picked better grounds.”

The cat stopped while still about ten feet away, sat down in the middle of the road, and began to groom itself. No wild cat here, Kent thought. This cat’s comfortable around people.

“You wouldn’t know where I could find a pay phone, would you?” he asked. Ignoring him, the cat lifted a leg and licked its butt. Kent laughed. “No, I didn’t think so.”

Reaching in his shirt pocket, he fumbled past the book of matches he’d picked up in Plains, and pulled out a piece of beef jerky. “You hungry?” he asked the cat. “Or did you get enough mice to eat?” He unwrapped the dried beef and held it out. “Come on, you can have it.”

At the sight of food, the cat stopped licking and meowed. Kent smiled as it stood up and walked toward him. “Yeah, I thought this would get your attention.” Halfway to him, the cat stopped again, frozen in place with one paw raised in the air.

“What’s the matter, stupid? You don’t like beef jerky?”

The cat stared past him, ignoring the tasty offering. Curious, Kent looked behind him. The road was empty. No dog. No people. Not even another car. Nothing. Still, the gray cat must have seen something it didn’t like, for it arched its back, hissed, and fled back beneath the bush.

Kent stood up and looked around, wondering what had frightened the cat. He didn’t see anything, only the empty fields, the road, and the gray horizon. His gaze lingered for a moment on the western sky, which was no longer gray but black. He licked his finger and held it up. The wind blew from that direction.

“Storm coming,” he said, wishing he’d stayed in the barracks. The approaching storm was probably no more than ten miles away and would be over top of him in less than an hour. Georgia thunderstorms could pack quite a punch, especially during the summer months. He needed to find shelter, but the only thing around was a few straggly pine trees and they would make better lightning rods than protection.

He shoved the beef jerky back into his pocket and continued walking. About half an hour later, he paused to study the impending tempest. The thunderstorm stretched across the sky like a giant black curtain, providing an ebony backdrop for the trees and fields. The effect was eerie, but beautiful, for everything stood out in sharp contrast against the darkness.

“Going to be a bad one,” he said, his attention drawn to what looked like a whirling mass of leaves silhouetted against the storm. He watched, fascinated, as the leaves, tossed about by the wind, rose and fell, dissipated and regrouped again. His fascination gave way to a feeling of dread, however, when he realized that it was not leaves but birds that he watched.

What the hell?

Kent was spellbound. He had never seen so many birds together at one time. Sparrows, pigeons, doves, even a pair of hawks, they dove and soared, clumped together and broke apart, racing ahead of the storm, fleeing from it. The air filled with the flapping of their wings, and their startled cries, as they passed overhead.

Nor was it just birds that fled the storm. He spotted twenty or thirty deer, their tails held high in warning, running through the fields. Snapping at the deer’s heels were dogs. Lots of dogs. Hunting dogs, hounds, collies, pit bulls, and Doberman pinschers, they ran with tongues hanging and ears laid back. A chorus of yips, barks, and howls marked the motley pack as they passed out of sight. Close behind the dogs came rabbits, squirrels, and an assortment of other small animals.

A lone horse galloped by, riderless, the reins of its bridle flapping behind it. Kent stared at the horse and wondered how a thunderstorm could cause such fear in so many different animals. A fire yes, a tornado perhaps, but not a thunderstorm. Maybe there was something different about this particular storm, something deadly.

He might have allowed the storm to overtake him, just to see what was so unusual about it, had it not been for the animals. Knowing that their sense of danger was more acute than his, he trusted their judgment that the approaching darkness was something to be feared rather than welcomed. So instead of waiting, he decided to keep moving.

Kent jogged down the center of the road as fast as he could. He wasn’t as quick as the deer, nor could he keep up with the dogs, but he did a damn good job of keeping distance between himself and the storm. Still, he was not a strong runner and would soon tire. He had to get someplace safe. But where?

The thought had just crossed his mind, when he spotted the roof of an old farmhouse about a mile up the road.

Thank God.

The house sat about two hundred feet off the road, in a yard reclaimed by weeds and kudzu vines. A tin-roofed wood structure, with peeling paint and a sagging porch, the house perched above the ground on concrete blocks to allow the summer breeze to circulate beneath it. Whoever lived in the dwelling had moved out long ago, for all the windows were covered with weathered sheets of plywood.

Fearful of falling through, he carefully climbed onto the rotted porch, testing each board before he took a step. Among the problems he did not need was a broken leg. The front door was unlocked and opened with a squeak.

The smell of dust, mildew, and rodent droppings greeted him as he stepped across the threshold into the living room. The tiny room was bare and unpainted, with strips of cardboard tacked to the walls for insulation. On the eastern wall stood a brick fireplace, probably the only method of heating the house.

“Not exactly the Hilton, is it?” he said aloud to himself.

Two doorways led off the living room. One went to a bedroom, the other opened onto the kitchen. He checked out the bedroom first, found nothing of interest, and backtracked through the living room to the kitchen.

Spiderwebs hung like silken chandeliers from the kitchen ceiling, their beauty marred only by the long dead insects caught in their gossamer strands. A crude wooden counter ran along the back wall, centered beneath a pair of boarded up windows. On the counter sat a large candle, which had melted into a pyramid-shaped blob of wax. Since there were no electrical outlets in the kitchen, Kent assumed there had never been a refrigerator or dishwasher, none of the modern conveniences that made life easy. In one corner of the room, a discolored patch of floor marked where a woodburning stove had once stood.

To the right of the counter was another door. He tried the door, found it locked, slipped the deadbolt back and opened it. Fresh air rushed in as he looked out upon a backyard waist high in weeds. A large pile of rotted wood and sheets of tin, all that was left of a barn, rose above the sea of weeds. Halfway between the barn and the house, a rusty pump stood like a silent sentinel over the cistern. Kent heard a rustling sound and caught a glimpse of a fleeing rabbit.

Overhead, a flock of crows called loudly to each other as they raced ahead of the storm.

Going to be a bad one.

Suddenly, the tiny farmhouse he had chosen for shelter didn’t look quite as sturdy as it had moments before. He remembered the flying house from The Wizard of Oz and wondered if he too would end up somewhere over the rainbow.

“Just follow the yellow brick road,” he said, closing the door. He had just turned the lock, when he heard the front door bang shut. Figuring that the wind must have caught it, and not wanting the door to be torn off its hinges, he hurried into the living room to close it. To his surprise, he found that it wasn’t the wind that had slammed the door. He had company.

The woman stood with her back to the door, breathing hard. She wore cutoff blue jeans, white tennis shoes, and a dirty gray T-shirt. Her hair was blonde, and her skin darkly tanned with a scattering of freckles. She was probably in her thirties, but could have been older. He noticed scratches on her legs and the left side of her face.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

“My horse threw me,” the woman replied. She turned and tried to lock the door. After a few seconds of fumbling unsuccessfully, she looked back at him. “Don’t just stand there. Help me.”

Getting over the surprise of having an unexpected house guest, Kent crossed the room. “Let me try it,” he said.

He struggled with the lock, but had no better luck than she did. The door had warped with age, and the deadbolt no longer lined up with the door frame.

“Hurry!” she said, her voice urgent. He wasn’t sure why she wanted the door locked, but from the tone of her voice it seemed like a good idea. As he fought with the lock, the room grew dark. The storm had reached them.

“For God’s sake, hurry!” she shouted.

“Here,” Kent said. “I’ll put my weight against it while you try to lock it.”

He let go of the lock and shoved with all his strength against the door. At the same time, the woman twisted on the latch. After several attempts, the deadbolt finally slipped into place.

They had just gotten the door locked when something crashed against it from the other side. They both jumped back, startled. Kent started to say something, but the woman held a finger to her lips, motioning him to silence. They stood as still as statues, listening as something sniffed at the door and scratched to get in. A dog, Kent thought. But then the doorknob jiggled back and forth.

Not a dog. A person.

He started to go to the door, but she grabbed his right arm. He turned, and her look of fear held him in place. An uneasy moment passed, and then the knob stopped moving. The scratching also stopped. Kent, realizing that he had been holding his breath, let out a sigh of relief.

“Are you in trouble?” he whispered. “Someone after you?”

The woman let go of his arm and smiled. “No, darling. I’m not in trouble. And no one is after me.”

Then who was that at the door?”

She stepped back and looked him up and down. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

He shook his head. “I’m in the Air Force, stationed at Warner Robins. My name is Kent.”

“Soldier boy, huh?” She smiled again. “I should have known. Probably a Yankee I bet. Not that it matters to me one way or another. Lord knows, a Yankee’s just as good as a southern boy when it comes to taking care of business, if you know what I mean. My name’s Beverly. Beverly Sanders. I’m originally from Waycross, but I’ve been living here-abouts for the past few years.” She smiled again, a little mischievously. “I’m a working girl.”

The shock must have shown on his face, for Beverly burst out laughing.

“Honey, don’t look so surprised,” she said.

“You’re a hooker?”

“Hooker’s a Yankee word. I prefer ‘lady of the evening.’ Don’t worry, I don’t bite--not unless you pay me to. As for your question...It wasn’t a ‘who’ that was at the door. It was a ‘what.’”

“I don’t understand,” Kent said.

“Judgment day, sweetie. The end of the world, at least for some folks. Old Luke’s out walking around, brought all his haints with him. That’s what spooked my horse. Spooked all the other animals too.” She paused and looked at him funny. “Land sakes, haven’t you ever read the Bible?”

He shook his head.

Beverly laughed. “Now don’t this just beat all, a southern whore teaching the Bible to a Yankee. Anyway, folks about these parts have been talking about the end of the world for a long time. Old Maribel Johnson even got herself a poem about it. Loves to recite it on Sundays. Let’s see if I can remember how it goes.” She thought for a moment, then recited the poem.

“Dark of the moon, in the month of June, and Old Luke will come out to play. He’ll lay the houses low, and death he will sow, as he carries the sinners away.

“So pray for your souls, and keep all your doors and windows closed, and maybe he’ll pass you by. Cause in the dark of the moon, in the month of June, many a sinner will cry.”

“Who’s Old Luke?” he asked when she had finished with the poem.

She again gave him a funny look. “You must be dumber than I thought. Old Luke. Lucifer. The Devil himself.”

It was Kent’s turn to laugh. “What a crock. It’s not the end of the world; it’s just a storm.” Suddenly, as if on cue, they heard the sound of rain hitting the tin roof. He looked up. “See, what did I tell you? It’s just a storm.”

Beverly also looked up. “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.”

The room grew very dark as the storm moved over them. Kent remembered the melted candle in the kitchen and went to get it. Luckily, he still had the pack of matches with him.

The sky had opened up with a torrential downpour by the time he returned with the candle. The noise of the rain hitting the tin roof was deafening. In the distance, thunder boomed.

Beverly still stood in the center of the room, staring up at the ceiling. Kent started to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of water splattering against flat stones. He turned and saw rain pouring down the chimney into the fireplace. Mixed with the rain were tiny objects that bounced and skidded across the wood floor. He thought they were hailstones at first, but then one of them rolled up against his foot.

Kent looked down and saw a tiny frog laying on its back, legs kicking, trying desperately to right itself. Curious, he stepped closer to the fireplace and saw dozens of frogs on the floor, with hundreds more spilling out of the chimney.

“Will you look at this. It’s raining frogs!” he said, shocked. Beverly quit looking at the ceiling and stared at the floor instead.

He tried not to step on any frogs as he approached the fireplace, but that was nearly impossible. The floor was covered with them. Most of the frogs were dead, but some were still alive, their bodies broken from hitting the bricks that lined the bottom of the fireplace.

Nor was it just frogs that fell from the sky. Mixed in with the tiny amphibians were body parts. Human body parts. On the hearth in front of the fireplace lay a man’s hand, severed at the wrist with an inch or so of bone protruding from the bloody flesh. A few inches away from the hand lay a foot, still encased in a woman’s black shoe. Beyond that, an eyeball was wedged against the pale belly of a frog.

“Oh, dear Jesus,” Kent said, his stomach heaving. He jumped back, covering his nose and mouth with his hand to keep from retching.

More body parts fell down the chimney. An ear. Part of a face. Intestines. More frogs hit the stones with a sickening thud. And the rain that fell from the sky wasn’t rain, but blood. The blood poured down the chimney, splattered dark red against the floor and walls.

Kent backed away from the fireplace and nearly collided with Beverly. Outside the thunder drew closer.

“Judgment day,” Beverly whispered, staring in horror at what was spilling out of the chimney.

“There has to be a logical explanation for this,” Kent said, though he could think of none.

Maybe there was a plane crash. A midair explosion. That would explain the body parts. But what about the blood? A hundred planes could blow up and you wouldn’t have that much blood.

Whatever the explanation, it would have to keep, for suddenly someone knocked on the door, turned the knob, and tried to get in.

A tingle of fear walked down Kent’s spine as he turned toward the door. His legs trembled. The knocking grew louder, desperate, frantic. The whole room seemed to shake from the pounding. Whoever it was, they weren’t going away this time. A minute passed. Two. Kent was afraid to move, but knew that he had to do something. He set the candle down on the floor, took a deep breath, and inched toward the door.

“Kent, don’t!” Beverly warned.

He reached the door, placed his palm against it, felt the wood tremble from the knocks. Someone was out there, standing just on the other side of the door.

“Go away,” Kent said, his voice choking. “Go away and leave us alone.” The knocking didn’t let up. “Go away!” he shouted.

The knocking stopped. A moment of silence passed, and then a man’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Help me. Please, help me. Open the door.”

Kent gasped. Someone was out there in the storm, in the rain of blood and things too ghastly to mention. He grabbed the doorknob, fumbled with the lock to open it.

“No!” Beverly screamed. She ran across the room, flung herself against the door. Kent tried to push her out of the way.

“Someone’s out there!” he yelled. “He needs our help.”

“Don’t open this door!”

“I can’t just leave him there.”

“You must.”

The voice from the other side of the door spoke again, softer. “Beverly? Is that you, Bev?”

Beverly froze, her eyes wide.

“It’s me, Bev. Reverend Atkins. Open the door and let me in.”

“Go away,” she whispered, her voice so low that Kent could barely hear her.

Kent tried to pull her away from the door so he could open it, but she wouldn’t budge. “Beverly, it’s someone you know. A reverend. We have to let him in.”

“No,” she said, fighting him. Outside the thunder drew closer. One steady boom after another. Each equally spaced apart, each exactly like the last, but louder.

Boom...Boom...Boom.

He heard the thunder, felt the house tremble from it, and wondered how it could be spaced so evenly apart. Of course, it couldn’t be. Not unless it was something else.

BOOM...BOOM...BOOM.

Terror gripped Kent by the balls as he realized that he wasn’t listening to thunder. They were footsteps. Something big was coming down the road. Something really fucking big. With the footsteps came an odd, reddish glow, like a fire, that seeped through the cracks in the walls and floated down the chimney. The glow lifted some of the darkness in the room, bathed them in the color of blood.

Kent grabbed Beverly’s arms and pulled her away from the door. “For God’s sake, open the door. He’s a reverend. He’s your friend!” He pushed her out of the way, turned the lock, and pulled open the door.

BOOM...BOOM.

Beverly screamed at him, tried to stop him. “He’s not a friend. He’s a customer!”

The words sunk in like a knife, but it was too late. He already had the door opened. Reverend Atkins stood on the porch. He was scarecrow thin and drenched in blood, his short hair plastered to his scalp. Around him, the porch was littered with dead frogs and chunks of gore that had fallen from the sky.

“Thank you,” the reverend said, his lower lip trembling. “Oh, thank you.”

He started to step across the threshold, but something fell from the sky. Gray and slimy, it was as thick as an oak tree and a mile long. A giant serpent that shot out of the eerie glowing sky and wrapped around the reverend’s body, snatching him off the porch.

Reverend Atkins kicked and screamed as he was lifted high into the sky, dancing like a kite on a string. Before he disappeared, Kent saw that it wasn’t a serpent but a tongue that had grabbed the good reverend. A giant tongue. The tongue of Old Luke himself.

Kent felt his sanity start to slip away as he stood in the doorway, looking upon the face of Satan. The face was a festering mass of boiling flesh, as wide as a mountain, with eyes that were two glowing orbs of brimstone. Around the Devil’s face hovered his minions, creatures too hideous to describe, with leathery bat wings, fangs, and claws. Kent gazed upon these things, and screamed.

He was still screaming when Beverly grabbed him from behind and pulled him back into the room. She pushed past him, slammed the door shut and locked it. “You stupid fool!” she shouted, turning on him. “Old Luke knows we’re in here now. We’re next.”

He shook his head, tried to rid his mind of the ghastly vision. “The door’s locked. He can’t get in.”

Beverly laughed. “We’re talking about Satan. He doesn’t need a key to get in. He’ll make his own door.”

No sooner had she spoke, than something brushed against the door, testing it, perhaps checking for a weakness. Kent shuddered as he thought about the tongue, and imagined it licking against the brittle wood, searching for a way to get in, looking for them. Outside, the footsteps had stopped, and the night had grown strangely quiet. The bloody rain no longer poured down the chimney.

But it’s still raining. I can hear it on the roof.

He turned and looked at the fireplace. If the rain hadn’t stopped, something must be blocking the chimney.

“Oh, my God.”

Kent picked up the candle and hurried across the room. The floor was slick with blood and the bodies of frogs. He stepped on the frogs, felt their bones crunch like potato chips. Twice he slipped, almost fell.

He reached the fireplace and dropped to his knees. Setting the candle on the floor, he used both hands to push aside the dead frogs and body parts that had piled up. Only a few drops of blood fell down the chimney. He stuck his head into the fireplace, lifted the candle above him.

The tiny flame didn’t illuminate all of the chimney, but it lit up enough area to see that the shaft was blocked solid. Guided by hundreds of thin, translucent tentacles, like whiskers on a cat, the giant tongue crept spider-like down the chimney. At the tongue’s very tip were eyes, dozens of eyes, red and glowing, with vertical pupils like those of a snake.

The eyes saw the candle, saw Kent. Their guidance no longer needed, the tentacles quit probing the walls and the tongue shot down the chimney at incredible speed.

Kent screamed and grabbed the handle of the lever that closed the flue. He prayed that it wasn’t rusted in place, pulled the handle, and closed off the chimney. He heard a wet, squishy sound as the tongue hit the metal plate, followed by a demonic shriek of rage from outside the house.

He scooted back out of the fireplace, stood up, and started across the room to where Beverly stood. He was halfway to her, when the house shook and there came the tortured scream of nails being ripped from boards, followed by the snapping of wooden beams. Kent froze and watched in horror as the roof of the house was completely torn away. Nothing remained, net even the rafters. Blood rained down on him.

“Run!” he yelled, though there was nowhere to go. He had only taken two steps when the giant tongue fell from the sky like a coil of loose rope and landed at his feet. Kent tried to jump over the tongue, but it grabbed him. Like a giant anaconda, it wrapped around him, squeezed him, crushed the breath from his lungs. He tried to call for help, but only a soft hissing of air escaped his mouth.

The tongue slithered across his body, its tip rising off the floor to dance before him like a cobra. The eyes stared at him, studied him. Kent was terrified, but he was unable to turn away. He screamed in agony and wet himself as one of the eel-like tentacles caressed the left side of his neck, searing his flesh like a branding iron. Then suddenly, quite unexpectedly, the tongue released him.

He fell to the floor and grabbed his neck. Rows of blisters were already forming where the tentacle touched him. A piercing scream reminded him that the danger was far from over. The tongue had let go of him, but it was closing in on Beverly. 

Beverly ran to the front door and tried to yank it open, but the tongue wrapped around her legs and tripped her.

“Help me!” she screamed, beating on the giant appendage with her fists.

Kent got to his feet and staggered to Beverly’s aid. He kicked at the tongue and tried to pull it off of her, but he wasn’t strong enough. If only he had a gun.

“Please, please, don’t let him take me,” she begged as the tongue started to slowly recoil back into the sky, lifting her legs off the floor. Kent tried to force his hands between the tongue and her legs, but he couldn’t. Beverly, hysterical, screamed again and grabbed hold of his shirt.

“Why me?” she yelled. “Why not you? Why didn’t he take you?” She looked at his face, desperately searching for an answer. His shirt ripped as the tongue of Old Luke snatched Beverly Sanders up through the roofless house, carrying her into the sky, to him. Kent heard her scream once more, a long piercing cry of terror and pain. Silence followed.

His body trembling, he stood with his face lifted to the pouring rain and watched as something fell from the sky. A tiny metal cylinder streaked from the sky like a meteor and stuck the floor near his feet, its impact softened by the bodies of the dead frogs.

Kent stared at the can, saw what it was, and started to laugh. Softly at first, but then so hard his whole body shook. He remembered the offer he had made earlier in the day, said only in jest, but obviously taken seriously. His fingers went to the blisters on his neck, and he laughed even harder.

He had been touched by the Devil himself. Marked. His soul bought and paid for, cursed to an eternity of brimstone and hellfire. The deal had been sealed with a kiss. The purchase price was the twelve ounce can of Budweiser that lay on the floor, ice crystals still clinging to it. “I’d sell my soul for a beer,” he had said, and the Devil had taken him up on it.

Kent doubled over with laughter, the mirth of a doomed man. Even as the tongue fell toward him, he kept laughing. Wiping a tear from his eye, he looked up and said, “Make it a Light.”

Having served in the Air Force, and the former owner of a restaurant and lounge, Owl Goingback became a full time writer in 1987. He has written numerous novels, children's books, screenplays, and short stories.

His novel CROTA won the Bram Stoker Award  for Best First Novel, and was one of four finalists in the Best Novel category. His novel DARKER THAN NIGHT  was also a Stoker Nominee for best novel of the year.  Both books draw upon his Native American heritage to tell a story of supernatural suspense, as do his other novels EVIL WHISPERS, BREED and SHAMAN MOON.

Owl’s children’s books, EAGLE FEATHERS and THE GIFT, have received critical acclaim from parents and teachers, and are currently used in numerous reading programs. EAGLE FEATHERS is a Storytelling World Awards Honor Recipient.

In addition to his writing under his own name, Owl has also ghostwritten several books for Hollywood celebrities. He has also lectured throughout the country on the customs and folklore of the American Indians.

Recently, Owl converted four of his novels into electronic format for the Kindle. He is currently working on a dark fantasy trilogy and several screenplays. For more information about the author, please visit his website http://www.owlgoingback.com

You can see all of Owl's books HERE

Crota

Evil Whispers

Breed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crota Evil Whispers