Tuesday, March 29, 2016


Joe takes Fred out for a special treat. It's a house he knows with some real accommodating ladies.

"Smithville wasn’t far. It was what they used to call a one horse town. Now it had been reduced to a dilapidated crap town with only one thriving industry: the local whore house.

“Guys come from all over. It’s got a good reputation, I know! The girls are past it but the madam keeps them clean. She insists.”

The house stood near the river. Lit up like a Christmas tree. “They got everything; girls for every sort of inclination, if you know what I mean.”

The madam, a big, blousy orange-haired woman did know Joe. She looked delighted to see him. “Where you been, stranger?”

Joe patted her ass. “Back now, baby! Whatcha you got for us?”

“Depends on what you can pay for, my love. No freebies.”

“Even for old times’ sake?"

The madam nodded. “Sorry.”

Joe winked, reached into his pocket, and handed her a twenty. “My treat,” he told Fred.

That did it. She asked them to both follow her up the stairs. “I got two girls I can recommend. Daisy for you because she likes lollipops and Lucinda for you, handsome, because she likes it any way you want to give it to her.”

Fred was in heaven, or at least he thought he was."

"Riveting. Imaginative. Chilling. Fantastical."

"Wonderful horror with a side order of ribs."

"Never going to the circus again!"

"True horror!"

"The circus you really don't want to join."

“Scary from beginning to end! Sit back,and read your way into a horror filled tale! Enjoy!

Monday, March 28, 2016


Can monsters? Can vampires feel love and passion?  I think most readers of paranormal and Gothic fiction would agree they can.
But can they love without being 'good'? In other words, can thoroughly evil, vicious, demonic creatures such as demons and vampires actually 'love?'
Why not, everyone has their good and darkside? Sound silly? Well, let's consider!
For those of us who like real, dark villains, not pouty vampire ones, this is a question we like to consider.
Can't there be a part of a monster that actually can love? I think there can be. I think the tragedy of the monster suddenly feeling something that tames him and mellows him even if it is for a short time, is to be explored, developed and written about because it's interesting!
Those of us who adore Coppola's film of Dracula know what that means. I've blogged about it before.

In fact, I was inspired to write The Fourth Bride (of Dracula) because of that film! 
In my novel, just as in the film, Dracula is not diminished in the least. He kills and corrupts, he is evil, he is hellish but he is also tragic.
He loved once as a human being and he loves again, not just those lusty 'brides' of his, but the profound love he felt in his living life he experiences again when he sees Mina in the film and Dia in my novel.

And by the way, this, the fourth book in my series can
be read as a standalone. The Fourth Bride
This question of a demon feeling love, spawned two books. Those two books are Unholy Testament - The Beginnings and Unholy Testament - Full Circle
Make no mistake about it, Eco was a vicious blood monster in the first book, The House on Blackstone Moor. He raped my heroine and would have taken her to hell with him.
However! It is in both volumes of Unholy Testament that he explains how he did this when, in fact, he had fallen in love with her! Hence, his confession to her which is what both these books are about.
This is a complex demonic vampire. This is an intelligent, corrupt being who has killed and destroyed and wallowed in sin, but who has felt love in the course of his immortal existence.
I am dedicated to pushing the boundaries with my fiction. I want to see what I can do, where it can go, where I can lead the reader. That's what this, my dark Gothic romantic fiction is all about! 


Friday, March 25, 2016

The Ointment: A Story for Easter

This story eventually inspired a book and an entire series. It is an intelligent demon’s account of The Crucifixion.

"Yes, it is I—Eco, the son of a fallen angel and a human mother. Eco, the demon spawn who lives his eternal existence glorying in his damnation. Eco, who was sent by Satan to see him whose birth was prophesized.

But the babe was just a babe and nothing more. Truly, I was not particularly impressed I have to say, not at first. It was as the man that I was struck by him: by his voice and what he said. “Pray for those that persecute you!”

Could he mean it, I thought. How could he say such a thing? The very logic of it was illogical, was it not? I was thinking this when he looked at me. His eyes, seeming to go through me, piercing into my flesh in a way no being has ever been able to do.

Our eyes locked onto one another’s and I felt every bit the demon I was. And because I did, I hated him and found I wished to destroy him. This hatred festering until it seemed to become its own separate being. I became like one obsessed and began following him from place to place being drawn to his words but at the same time hating them because I hated him!

If I hated him others hated or feared him. Rome considered him a threat to its power and so he was eventually arrested and tried for having this power or seeming to. That was the truth of it, whatever Pilate postulated. Pilate, Governor of this hot, dusty troublesome place was Rome’s representative. Pilate who had been sent there for some infraction, Pilate, who would eventually commit suicide was now to move this entire thing to its earthly conclusion.

“Take him away…” His final words. I stood amongst supporters and enemies too, all of us witnessing. And then when they took him away, I ran along and watched it all. There was screaming and shouting. There were onlookers tearing at their clothes and wailing for the Rabbi.

It seemed to me he had more support than not! That’s when I began to grow fearful. If I felt the slightest bit of satisfaction at the suffering of this, my avowed enemy, I suddenly became aware of an awful truth, a certainty I knew to be a certainty! This Rabbi was going to be remembered! And it was going to be Rome’s fault because they were making a martyr out of him! My hand flew to my mouth as I considered the ramifications.

And then the most amazing thing happened! The Rabbi looked at me! Oh yes he did! He turned around and found me instantly! If his look had been one of condemnation before it was different now. There was calmness in his eyes. His expression was neither triumphant nor vengeful. If anything, it was saintly. It was then that I knew. He was the Messiah! He was what they said, God’s son come to earth!

I gazed Heavenward for a moment, and then I understood everything. No matter how much terror Satan causes or those in league with him cause, they will never defeat Him!

I left then; I just walked through the deserted market, up past the city gates and onward. At last I came upon a man. “Have you seen him?”

I knew who he meant at once. “Yes. They are taking him to crucify him!”

The man nodded and hurried away. It was then that I heard Satan’s voice; it was as though he whispered to me. “Judas,” he said. “He is mine now.”


“He died in agony,” Satan said nodding.

We were sitting in one of his favorite caves just on the outskirts of Jerusalem. He looked very pleased. “I spoke to him in this very cave, you know! I offered him anything he wished. But—he kept talking that nonsense.” He glanced over at me. “But it is all done now, isn’t it?”

He was so pleased. It didn’t occur to him that he could be wrong. Actually I never regarded Satan as overly bright.

Frankly, and I don’t mean to sound boastful, I find him to be (at times) a little on the thick side. You see he doesn’t quite get things others do. “I am sorry Satan, but I cannot agree with your pronouncement. I think they have made a martyr of him. I think this is the beginning and not the end!”

He scowled. “I think you are wrong. I think he is gone now and the only thing left of him will be his rotting corpse. Why would his name be recalled when others have gone before and lie dead and forgotten?”

I nodded, but said nothing. I knew what I knew. Satan’s self assuredness would prove as wrong as Rome’s intention to suppress it all.

If Hell burns, its flames are never as bright as Heaven’s light. Truth is truth after all. Ah! I have surprised you! Well, it is truth and demon though I am; I know truth when it stares me in the face.

I knew something else as well. This truth was subjective. I was changed forever. Now for the first time in my existence I had become fully aware of my own limitations. Yes, I was immortal but it was the other side that had the power. We could tell ourselves we were powerful but we weren’t and we never would be.

All we could create were different levels of mischief of varying intensity. Yes, we would terrorize and torture, we would spread evil through willing vessels but in the end we were little more than insects, little more than flies in Heaven’s ointment.

For Heaven’s ointment has the power to befuddle us always and forever."


The novel it inspired is Unholy Testament – The Beginnings, Book 2. The Blackstone Vampires Series

It is one of the stories in Carole Gill's House of Horrors. 

Copyright 2011 Carole Gill

Thursday, March 24, 2016


The first in The Blackstone Vampires Series. Step inside and see how the nightmare began:

"They say my father was mad, so corrupted by evil and tainted with sin that he did what he did. I came home to find them all dead; their throats had been savagely cut.

My sisters, only five and eight, were gone, as well as my brother who was twelve. My mother too lay butchered in her marriage bed. The bed her children were born in.

I discovered him first—in the sitting room lying in a sea of crimson, the bloody razor still clutched in his hand. How pitiful I must have looked, bent down trying to wake him. Calling to him over and over, “Papa please, please wake up!”

He could not, of course, waken. No more was he to open his eyes in this world—had I not been struck mad, I would have realized. Yet, madness is sometimes a mercy when shadows come to take the horror away.

Do not pull away in terror, please. I have much to confess. Just be patient, for I promise I will tell you everything. The only thing I ask in return is for you not to judge me until you hear my entire story..."

(end of excerpt)


eFestival of Words 2014: Best Villain, Eco/ Best Horror, The House on Blackstone Moor
"The figure of the gothic child was there. Stoker's horror was there. Along with the romance! At the heart of her writing one stumbles upon a genuine search for that darkness we lost with the loss of Stoker." 
DR. MARGARITA GEORGIEVA ~ Gothic Readings in The Dark
Top 10 Books - 2013
Aoife Marie Sheridan - ALL THINGS FANTASY
Publisher, Ultimate Fantasy Books 

"92 Horror authors you need to read right now"
Carole Gill -- the Blackstone Vampires series
~Charlotte Books - EXAMINER
I for one found this gloriously gothic, refreshingly brutal, honestly horrific and a great read. 

~Taliesin Meets the Vampires

Monday, March 21, 2016


Ladies and gentlemen, this is not your ordinary sideshow. No! This is a most unique display of the unusual acquired for your enjoyment. 


"… found on the boardwalk, set up on a grassy field, a Detroit rave, a darkened alley, or on the plains of a blasted future America, tantalizing, forbidden, electrifying beyond imagination. It is everywhere and every-when. And at some point, everyone gets a ticket.

The Sideshow …a mirror to the blackness inside the human soul."




Phil Hickes 

The lady with the white frilly cap

crumples as the cudgel is smashed down on top of her head.

Her attacker pauses, black eyes glinting with malicious

glee. She cowers in a corner, shielding her face with her

tiny hands. He emerges from the shadows, a huge scarlet

grin spread across his face. Relishing her terror, he slowly

advances. Then, a second later, he hits again. Harder this

time, across her lower jaw. He raises the stick one more


A feint.

Then he strikes again, into the ribs, then another across

the ear. Faster the blows come, accelerating like a piston,

until the cudgel becomes a vicious blur.

Strike. Strike, strike.



S. MacLeod



Time and memory rise, shift, fall over each other like

ocean waves. Even tranquil death brings no release from desire.

Longing to touch skin not covered in grotesque hair, longing to

be touched, to be loved and warm.

The Other.

My motionless hands cradle my child, the way I never

could when he was alive. He died too soon. He’s not here, just

the dried husk, and I miss him so, the way he felt when he lived

inside of me.

Lewis held back the curtain and looked out over the

midway. Though it was still early, a crowd had gathered

before the row of freakish attractions, their faces turned

up, eager. Lewis and his traveling exhibit, the Ape Woman

or Missing Link and Child (depending on the day), had

just joined the show after two years with traveling fairs in

Europe and America.


Leigh M. Lane

Sandra watched as the smelly, middle-aged man reached

into his jacket pocket and produced his own deck of Tarot

cards. She opened her mouth to tell him she was done, but the

words wouldn’t come.

He began to shuffle the cards. “When was the last time

someone gave you a reading?”

She shrugged, the sense of intimidation she felt over the

idea nearly stealing her air.

He set the cards down on the counter between them. “I’d

like to give you a reading.”

She stared at the deck for a moment. She knew she couldn’t

refuse him, but she feared what he might tell her. Taking the

cards into her shaking hands, she decided she would focus on

a benign question. She shuffled the cards, mentally choosing

the old standby, Tell me about the men in my future, and handed

them back.

The man breathed on the cards as he placed the top eleven

into a spread Sandra had never seen. He pointed to the first

card, the Tower, and then glanced at her with a dire face. “Your

world is getting ready to crumble.”

Sandra nodded, knowing that the Tower often did forecast

great loss or hardship. The idea that her world might soon

“crumble” might have been an exaggeration, but not knowing

the layout, she could only guess at the card’s full meaning. The

Devil, the Eight of Wands, the Two of Cups, and the King

of Swords surrounded the Tower card. She knew that, if the

configuration had been in a Celtic cross, with the Tower in the

centre, she would interpret it as a signal to avoid the scenario.

She watched Ed as he assessed the cards and carefully chose

his words.

“A man, an air sign, is going to destroy you.” The words

were as sour as the stench that rolled into her with them.


Tina Swain

It was her stare. All engrossing. And next he knew, there

was this sudden urge to untangle her bodice, his desire to

bring her on board outweighing any logic. Making sure the

gag was yanked secure, he brought her out of the water. As the

wind blew and her scales dried, her transformation began. In

a matter of moments, the sea hag became heavenly: luscious

long locks replaced the baldness, supple flesh supplanted the

leathery skin, and her tail had morphed into two stunningly

smooth legs. Malone couldn’t take his eyes off her—even as

her rusty, nail-like teeth sliced through the gag as if it were


“What are your intentions?”

Stunned, Malone backed towards the captain’s chair. “You


“I do a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“I’m going to stand on my legs; I am going to walk towards

you; I’m going to caress your neck and lean in for a kiss. And

when I do, I’m going to eat the face off your body. Then I’m

going to feed bits of you to my sisters. I haven’t had human in

eons, and my sisters are only now learning to hunt.” Her hiss

sent his hair to stand on end.

She stood unaware of the crew of two closing in from


Malone came out of the trance as quick as he’d fallen in.

“You stupid barracuda. You should have kept that to yourself.”

The machete was swift. Her torn torso began to gush.

Malone reached out for the death blade as he stood over the

woman’s nude body. No words were spoken. With a single

slash, her head was severed and rolling towards the side of

the boat.


Shawn Pfister

Lydia pushed her hair behind her left ear and winked. Her

long, sinuous tattoo shifted and rearranged itself slowly on her


The boy stepped back in fear, but then bravely moved

forward to touch the new shape.

Noticing he’d lingered, his mother grabbed his hand.

“Don’t touch her, Mark. You don’t know where she’s been.”

Turning on her heels, she quickly pulled him along, the boy

stumbling to keep up.

Lydia smiled and waved goodbye to Mark, who was

happily waving back.

Then her tattoo shifted again, waving its own farewell.

Mark’s eyes grew at the sight of the excited tattoo.

Glancing away, Lydia muttered, “He’s just a child, leave

him alone. I don’t even know him.”

But it’s been so long since you gave me something to play with,

a voice that only Lydia could hear whispered back.

She could feel the tattoo shifting all over her body, its

excitement obvious.


C. B. Doyle

The woman looked at the girl. “You sure you want to go,

Lori? Carnivals can be scary.”

The girl nodded.

“The both of you had better mind—”

“I know, I know,” Henry broke in, “keep a close eye on Lori.

Don’t let her walk away by herself. Stay by the stall when she

goes to the bathroom, and be a good and protective friend or

I will be grounded.”

The mother’s voice rose: “And do NOT touch any of them

animals ... not unless somebody is right there saying it’s okay.

Are we clear, children?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Henry and Lori answered together.

They dashed off as Sarah called after them, “Henry! You

*the karma carnivale*

hold that child’s hand if she needs it, and be home before



Melissa Stevens

A visit to the Freakshow on a whim almost four years

before left him with an inextinguishable need to learn more

about the woman known as Raggedy Ann, or The Living Doll.

After watching her move about the stage with such fluid

grace, he was enamored. When she stepped fully into the light

and removed her cowl, the audience was repulsed, but he’d

been ready to leap onto the stage and protect her from such

malevolent behavior. Instead, he went home to his humid, ill-

furnished apartment in the city and began devising a plan to

introduce himself.

Thomas visited twice more the week the show was in

town, but never did he see her again. Then, the Freakshow


For three years Thomas returned to the same area

at roughly the same time, hoping the traveling show had

returned as the enamored feelings began to dim. The fourth

year promised to be his last, and he expected nothing more

than what he’d received the previous three.

To his astonishment, however, when he arrived at the

tiny field on the outskirts of the city, a small village was being

erected. Fabric tents of every size and color spilled from the

ground to the sky, with narrow alleys creating extravagant

mazes leading all to the largest tent in the center.

The stage.


Carole Gill

She was reclining in her usual way, atop the display

structure they had built especially for her. All of the exhibits

were shown off in the best way possible. They had to be. They

had to satisfy the audience, you see: the gawkers and jerk offs

that came to gloat. Feeling superior, many of them on the

rare occasions that they saw something more monstrous than


For the most part, they were losers, stuck in low paying

jobs with little or no prospects. They tended to be without

dreams or hope or respect, either for themselves or others.

Their own looks ranged from unremarkable to homely to

worse. They were wallflowers and dopes, people that had been

passed over and passed by, ignored and bullied.

Often they were bullies themselves with little or no self-


Psychological compensation was their middle name.

Of course, there were also present among the gawkers,

nice-looking men and women who relished feeling superior.

It was a great feeling, sauntering amongst the hideous as it

boosted their self-image even further.

How lovely it was to think of oneself as perfect.

There were also those who were genuinely curious.

Neither bad nor evil people, per se, although what positive

experience could have resulted from a jaunt to a sideshow was


Generally, most of the ‘exhibits’ knew this to be a fact, even

if it couldn’t be proven. They knew that most of the lookers

were there to satisfy a need, a prurient need to gaze upon the

most dramatic examples of unfortunate human beings they

could possibly find.


Lisamarie Lamb

“Look over there, Jemima, it’s a funhouse.” The girl’s father

pointed, and Jemima looked, even though she had seen it as

soon as she had reached the top of the hill. Seen it and been


She dutifully looked, and pretended it was for the first

time. “What’s a funhouse?” The cat puppet in her hands, over

her mouth, masked her voice and muffled the words.

Her mother rolled her eyes: at the question, at the toy, at

the girl. “It’s a place where you have fun.” She nudged Jemima

forward. “Fun, you know. Laughing and stuff. Fun.”

Tracey had made her point, and Jemima felt her bottom

lip trembling in anticipation and expectation of soon being

told off. She rubbed her face with the cat and inhaled its

scent. Home. Comfort. Love. The three things she wanted and

wished she could have more than anything else.

“Want to go in?” Connor’s voice was deep and rattley,

phlegmy, like someone was shaking a pair of maracas in his


Desperately wanting to go inside, she smiled and squeezed

her daddy’s hand. “Yes, please!”

The big man looked around. No one. There was no one to

give money to, which was one thing, but as a bonus, there was

also no one to tell them they couldn’t send their four-year-old

daughter in on her own. “Off you go, then.”

Connor released his grip and pushed the girl forward,

through the heavy double doors, and in, into the place made

of glass and fear, where it was cold and strange and really not

all that much fun, at all.


Rob M. Miller
A Sideways Tale

The noblest art is that of making others happy.
P. T. Barnum


and pizza, damn straight. A wild man, a crazy man: and oh,

yeah, a magick man.

The Wizard.

He was tall, lanky, and old—waaay old, but with a

kid’s set of eyes, and a smile that could best-friend a grizzly.

Others saw him different. Most, anyway. Not all, but

most. Too much prejudice jading their vision, making ’em

walk around blind. I might have been that way, too ... at


But peanuts and pizza, Grams taught me to always

give-a-chance to people, to at least be kind, polite, to be ...

swift to hear, slow to speak, slow in getting pissed off.

Can’t say I’ve always been successful, but that day, that

God-blessed Saturday afternoon playing-in-the-sunshine,

at the park on the swings, the slide, the teeter on one side,

the totter on the other, I did all right. Especially when he

first came up to me, wrinkled, a stranger (and therefore,

quite scary), but with that little-boy smile that I grew to love.

I’d taken a break and was sitting on a bench, alone, not

involved with any of the older teenagers hanging out on the

merry-go-round with their cigarettes, spiked hair, and what

Grams called sassy mouths.

Staring down, enjoying the breeze taking the edge off

the summer heat, I suddenly saw a pair of jeans in front of

me covered in yellow, blue, red, and even plaid iron-ons. The

denims ended in one highly-glossed, black dress shoe, and one

old left-footed once-white Nike, with a dirty swoosh.

Then I looked up.

“Watcha doin’?”

I had to squint, for the man was standing back-lit by the

sun, a bright halo of light circling the man’s crazy Einsteinian

hairdo, and backdropping his white dress shirt underneath a

blue- and red-striped vest covered in flair: Ren and Stimpy

buttons, Flintstone characters, all the Looney Tunes, and an

assortment of this-and-that, and with all of the pins mixed up,

no like pieces grouped together. They looked randomly placed,

and yet ... there was a pattern—kinda sorta. I couldn’t figure

it out.

“Up here, young man.”

I looked at his face, still squinting, and saw age. Real age.

Gaunt cheeks full of lined canyons and wisdom and perhaps

even something unnameable, maybe even terrifying, if caught

at the right angle, and at the right time of day (or night). And

I saw no stubble—no, not even a single grayed-out whisker.

I almost took off running, but then I caught the invitation

of his smile.

“Sorry ... I, uh—”

“It’s the sun, isn’t it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but moved a bit. I couldn’t

tell if it was to the left or right, at an angle or what. Maybe he

didn’t really move at all. But he seemed to. Perhaps just the

tiniest fraction needed. A degree or so. Whatever ... it was

enough that I could look right at him, eye-to-piercing-blue-

eye, without the sun nearly blinding me. And what I saw now,

clear-crystal, was just a smiling, friendly old man. Someone

who had probably caught the bus here from Kook Street, but a

nice guy just the same. Least he had all his teeth. “I’m Ronald.

Ronald Trower. What can I do for you?”

“Ah, now that’s a surprise. A young gentleman with

manners. A rare find; that’s my reward.”


E. A. Irwin

Twilight twitched upon the lips

of  the moon. Shadows danced and stretched to claim

the secrets of glaring day, only to then lull them into the

false security provided by darkness. An eventide blanket

to cover all sins, each perfect stitch sewn creating an ever-

changing blueprint on which the masterpiece of night lay

built—fantasy with promise at its core.




A blush first felt as a tingle of intrigue which

blossomed into the unknown as it wound through the

senses, overwhelmed and enveloped, until hunger and need

possessed from head to groin, and toyed with the knowledge

the blanket held something more. Something powerful.

Life changing. Something denied, unless one could lift

the blanket’s corner and peer into the depths of true

dark and dwell within the homeland of hidden delicacies.

A vast stretch of space beneath authentic and mechanical

stars, where the patina of the city’s veneer shone brightly in

the eyes of the seeker.

To wonder and wander. To dream and descend beneath

the blanket’s comforting midnight.

A cover of protection, or a cloak to hide within.

Shadows stilled their dance now daylight lay firmly within

the deep pockets of their pitch-black overcoats. A flick of a

switch. The hum begins. Enchanted—colorful glows—mystic

melodies cast upon winsome winds, lured, exotic and erotic

scents heightening the ever-growing frenzy to slip inside the


Leathery flaps of wings entice to come forward. Distant,

yet still inside one’s ear—of a truth, inside of yours. The sounds

grow louder with every step. Forward. You must go forward.

But then ... hesitation.

A step back.

Sounds increase inside your head, no, outside your body,

the lure of wild things in the distant future drawing you into

their inner sanctum. Standing on the precipice of indecision,

you wait, wonder if it’s your heart pounding out some kind of

Morse code stating you should continue, or is that flapping the

caged bird frantically banging against the gilded cage inside

you yearning to break free?

You hear it call—No one will know what you do once you

enter the gates.

The shadows are the guardians, each secret held tightly

within their voluminous folds of night. Whatever whispers in

this place escapes and is muffled by the comfort of the blanket.

It appears before you, the incessant noise finally making

sense. Canvas brightly decorated with language indiscernible,

yet you understand their questions. Murmurings of cloth

match that of the caged bird’s singing. You must know why

you know. Must lift a corner of this enticing blanket and peer

inside. Just one look at the city and then you’ll understand.


Jody Neil Ruth


made out of felt, and wearing a sunburst headpiece, looking

like something a child threw together. Heck, I’m only 14

and a cripple, but even I could have done better, if only

someone had let me.

Still, I don’t mind wearing it as long as it lets me work

with Furnace.

She doesn’t speak. At least I’ve never heard her. But she

always seems to listen when I talk ... something that no

one else ever does. Instead, they treat me as the disabled

kid who cleans up the animal shit ... which, I s’pose, I am.

At least our act serves as a distraction, makes me realize

there are nicer things in life. We travel across the Free Lands

putting out shows almost every day, which means I get to

work with Furnace all the time.

I don’t know where she came from, or even her real

name. The other kids sure aren’t talking. Whenever I ask,

they just shrug. Once I brought it up with the Ringmaster,

stupidly caught him at the end of an all-night drinking

session with some of the other acts. He split my lip and

gave me a black eye. For a week, having to borrow a make-

up kit from one of the clowns, I looked even a bigger fool than

normal during our performance.

The Ringmaster often hides Furnace in his own caravan,

sometimes for an hour, sometimes longer. Not sure what

they do, but I’ve seen Maurice, otherwise known as Atlas, the

Strongman, going inside and giving money to him.

Once I knocked on the door to see if she was alright,

but the Ringmaster kicked me off the step ... said they were

rehearsing an act. It’s strange, because the only act she does is

with me.

The day after, the Ringmaster came to my trailer, grabbed

me by my collar, and lifted me off the ground. I could smell the

beer and cigars on his breath as he held his face inches away

from mine, and made it clear I was to stay out of his business

and ignore whatever it was going on inside the trailer—his


I told him I didn’t know what was happening, which was

why I’d asked.

Then came my first real beating. Not just the odd clip or

punch I usually received, but a mud-stomping full of punches

and kicks that made the whole day go away. Later, I came to in

bed, deep in the night, awake and feeling every lump.

Right now, I’m sitting outside the Ringmaster’s van, sewing

up a rip in my outfit. I’m not very good with needle and thread,

and the tear isn’t fixed straight, but it’ll do. It’s under my arm,

so no one’s gonna notice. That’s a good thing. These days, even

the smallest offence earns a beating.

But then, most things I do seem to end in a beating.

The door of the Ringmaster’s caravan opens and he comes

stumbling out into the mud, kicking beer cans and magazines

full of naked girls.

And Furnace.

His hand’s holding her hair, and her shirt and jeans are

hanging loose off her small body. Her brown eyes are wide and

fearful ... and staring straight at me.


Well there's, your taster! 


will be setting up its tents at Amazon on March 22nd!






Friday, March 18, 2016


This is it! They're waiting for you! 


What exactly is wrong with this circus?

There are demonic, flesh-eating clowns, the midgets are murderous but they all have reasons as you will see for being the murdering maniacs that they are. 

If that isn't enough, there are a lot of very strange beings not to mention a succubus or two and some beings from hell!

"Riveting. Imaginative. Chilling. Fantastical."

"Wonderful horror with a side order of ribs."

"Never going to the circus again!"

"True horror!"

"The circus you really don't want to join."


Free story to read.  Happy Flash Friday! 

"He was a wise man, the village story teller and chronicler—the archivist of tales. Tales he would recount orally for that was the way of his people.

Sometimes there were visitors, they were generally lost and frightened. Frightened by the fierce appearance of these his tribal brethren. Mainly the interlopers were hunters who were lost.

He always helped them. Occasionally, they carried within their numbers a wounded comrade; mauled by the demon vampires that still dwelled deep within the surrounding jungle. There was only so much folk magic that would work. He could tell when they were going to die or even become a vampire themselves.

His people would release such a demon to go back to their kind. It kept their attacks few and far between. In fact there hadn't been many attacks on the village in years. All hoped that it would not change.

Very little else happened but then some strangers had wandered in, people in funny clothes with peculiar ways.

The elder had heard of them before. Europeans. They were neither wounded nor lost. They made themselves understood, gesturing and drawing lines in the sand. Thankfully, there was one among them who spoke a familiar dialect enabling some communication to take place.

The chief elder was not surprised when asked about the demon vampires.

They gestured for him to speak so he nodded and began to spin his tale. He spoke slowly and paused repeatedly so that their interpreter could cope with his story.

"At the beginning of time there were the great mancats that roamed throughout the world. These beautiful beasts were more like panthers than men. On occasion they would turn into handsome men, thereby ensuring human women would mate with them. The offspring of such union were the world's first vampires. They lived in packs, and fed upon most living things, draining both animals and humans of their blood. They could be heard hissing at night—baying like wolves at the moon and roaring too when they mated with others of their kind. Their forbears died out—but their children survived.

Euta, a small female lived in a pack but the others bullied her, stealing the rodents she fed on from her and driving her out from the enclosure.

Euta often wept for herself but her cries were low for she did not wish the others to hear. Sometimes children were taken from the villages as food and Euta tried to set them free. She always preferred to feed on small animals.

A man saw her once. He watched her remove a child from the enclosure when the others were asleep. She carried the babe back down the hillside.

The man came forward then, for although he realized she would not harm the babe he wished to make his presence known. When she saw him she cried out.

"Don't worry I won't hurt you." he cried.

They could understand one another or so the legend says.

She watched him return the child to its rightful place. She wanted to make friends with the man but he had a woman. And because she was jealous, she wished to tear apart the woman so she might have the man all to herself.

It is the only violent thought she had ever had. But she didn't do anything, instead she went back to her pack.

Eventually, she was thrown out and fled down to the village but was attacked with bows and arrows.
The man saw her and saved her. And because he tended her wounds, his woman left.

He left soon after with her following him, hiding in the shadows—not caring what kind of existence she would have for she would not wish to be far from the man.

The legend says that she died shortly after, and the man did mourn her as a friend if nothing else…"

The elder stopped spinning his tale because one of them, a distinguished looking man looked disappointed. The translator spoke with him and nodding he asked the elder:

"The gentleman wants to know about the other demon vampires, the ones that tear apart flesh and consume blood. It is those and only those that he is interested in."

The wise man shrugged. "The world has always had evil monsters in it. But very well if that is what he wishes to hear I shall tell him."

The translator told the man what the elder had said.

"Thank you," Bram Stoker replied. "I would be most grateful, most grateful, indeed."

© Carole Gill Copyright 2013


Saturday, March 12, 2016



The award-winning series spans many human lifetimes because it is the story of vampires. The saga begins in Victorian England and ends there, but takes the reader into Ancient Egypt, Rome and beyond.

You will meet the famous and infamous. Ever wonder what vampire brothels are like? Some Roman emperors liked them! Well, Caligula did, as you will see!
You will also see what sacrifice is all about. Would you give up your soul for love? If you don't think you would, you might change your mind after reading the series!

At the core of it all, is the passion of the vampire. Although, dark--it is deep. It lasts for centuries because the vampire does!

The Omnibus comprises:

After discovering her savagely murdered family, Rose Baines is plunged into a nightmare of hell. She is incarcerated in two madhouses, after which she is helped to obtain a position as governess at Blackstone House. Located on haunted moorland, nothing is as it seems for the House and its inhabitants have hideous secrets. There is unimaginable horror there, and love too--love that comes at a terrible price.

Rose and her children find themselves held captive on a ship staffed by vampires, overseen by the mad and evil demon Eco. The last time Rose saw Eco he tried to destroy the children, and now he tells her he loves her. 

“I saw you leave the house that day, Rose. That terrible day you discovered your family butchered. I saw you…” 
Eco, believing he has fallen in love with her, pens a confession documenting all sins he has committed during his immortal existence. 

From Ancient Egyptian vampire cults, Roman vampire brothels, The Dark Ages, The Crusades, The Black Death of 1348, on to his meeting with the child murderer and Satanist Gilles de Rais, and concluding with his wicked, blood-soaked affair with the Blood Countess herself, Erzebat Bathory. The pages are filled with debauchery, vice and murder – how can one stained with so much blood and evil possibly be trusted?

Vampiric orgies and satanic rites fill the pages of this book. All of the hideous secrets of Blackstone House are revealed. Every evil that Rose Baines was subjected to is closely examined, as are those who committed the worst sins against her.

Rose and her children's ordeal continues. They are still held captive on a ship staffed by vampires, overseen by the demon Eco.

There are more blood-drenched confessions to read. Rose has no choice but to finish the journal. Eco, mad and as unpredictable as ever, can snap at any time. But will he? 

The rest of the journal tells of the sick and twisted obsession Eco has had for Blackstone House's former mistress, evil and debauched Eve Darton. There are aristocratic devil rites, both in England and France, including satanic sacrifices. There is the Great Fire of London 1666, plagues, vampire destroyers, witch hunts and resurrection men who supply a necrophile doctor. 

The novel comes full circle as all the hideous secrets of Blackstone House are revealed, as are the reasons Rose’s father killed himself and his family. 

Eco, first seen in the previous book, has documented all of the sins he has committed during the course of his immortal life. Trying to get Rose to forgive him, he forces Rose to read his journal by holding her children hostage.
Dracula makes his debut. He is a friend of Eco's. He and the other vampires have killed a child's mother.  The dying mother begs Rose to take the child and she does.

Dia, the child Rose adopted grows to adulthood and marries. But after the tragic and sudden death of her groom, Dia, cursed by Dracula as a babe, is taken to his castle. Once there, she is seduced and turned by the count and becomes his fourth bride. The other brides are to be her sisters. All are to love and feed upon one another. Dia's tale is full of erotic sex and graphic violence. It is a tale of love and lust but mostly of blood, for the blood is everything.


2014 - Amazon Bestseller in Dark Fantasy - THE BLACKSTONE VAMPIRES OMNIBUS
2015 - Amazon Bestseller in Vampire Horror - THE BLACKSTONE VAMPIRES OMNIBUS

"92 Horror authors you need to read right now"
Carole Gill -- the Blackstone Vampires series
~Charlotte Books - EXAMINER

"In the attempt to find the just measure of horror and terror, I came upon the writing of Carole Gill whose work revealed a whole new dimension to me. The figure of the gothic child was there. Stoker's horror was there. Along with the romance! At the heart of her writing one stumbles upon a genuine search for that darkness we lost with the loss of Stoker." 
DR. MARGARITA GEORGIEVA ~ Gothic Readings in the Dark