Previous Page of 168Next Page

When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor

spinner.gif

WHEN GRAVEYARDS YAWN

The Apocalypse Trilogy

Book One

G. Wells Taylor

Copyright 2002 by G. Wells Taylor

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This digital book MAY NOT be modified without the express written consent of the author. Any and all parts of this digital book MAY be reproduced or transmitted in any form and by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, provided that the original content is not modified in any way from the original work and that no compensation is received for any method of reproduction.

Second Printing: 2008

ISBN: 978-1-4357-1391-8

WILDCLOWN MYSTERIES

Email: books@wildclown.com

Website: www.wildclown.com

Cover Design by G. Wells Taylor

For

Mary Cushnie

Other Titles by G. Wells Taylor

The Apocalypse Trilogy

WHEN GRAVEYARDS YAWN - A Wildclown Novel

THE FORSAKEN

THE FIFTH HORSEMAN

Wildclown Mysteries

MENAGERIE - A Wildclown Novel

WILDCLOWN HIJACKED

WILDCLOWN HARD-BOILED

THE CORPSE - HARBINGER

Gene Spiral Stories

6 - PORTRAIT OF A 21ST CENTURY SNUFF FIGHTER

1 - HISTORY OF THE MOONCALF

Horror Fiction

MEMORY LANE

BENT STEEPLE

THE LAST CAMPING TRIP

Check wildclown.com for publishing updates.

Part One: Changeling

Chapter 1

The dead man looked at the clown and smiled. The clown was draped over a chair and desk across from him in a semi-intoxicated state of contemplative repose and was too busy studying his reflection in a hand mirror to notice the nervous gesture. The clown's small black eyes studied the image in the mirror with something like the concentrated discipline of an astronomer. They squeezed into tight whirls of flesh and pondered, peering at the silvery surface from cavernous sockets in a right then left canted head as though such contortions could help him fathom what the eyes saw. A hazy border of greasy fingerprints obscured the issue more giving the reflection a dream-like quality. The clown could easily make out the dark spiky hair that grew to his shoulder and the tip of his nose painted black. By lifting his chin he revealed a wide grin scrawled across his white-powdered cheeks, by dropping it he showed scripted eyebrows swooping up and over the tall forehead in exclamation or terror. They wrinkled, gleaming with sweat. Perhaps they posed a question.

An ill-fitting coverall hung on the big man's frame with all the sophistication of an oily tarp thrown over discarded car parts. The apparel was decorated with faded colored spots that vied equally for notice with stains of various sorts. His boots were black and heavy, better suited to combat than office work. They were crossed on the desk, and threatened to upset the telephone where it had been pushed with a pile of papers and overflowing ashtrays.

Previous Page of 168Next Page

Comments & Reviews

Login or Facebook Sign in with Twitter
library_icon_grey.png Add share_icon_grey.png Share

Who's Reading

Recommended