Second Coming: A Horror Novel
Book Details
Author(s)Vincent Bivona
PublisherOrange Otter
ISBN / ASIN0984724702
ISBN-139780984724703
AvailabilityUsually ships in 24 hours
Sales Rank2,315,947
MarketplaceUnited States 🇺🇸
Description
There's only one problem with getting paid to create nightmares: nobody believes the ones that are real . . .
At first Greg Davidson thought there was a problem with his printer. But after the town's residents were found murdered, mutilated in the same chilling fashion his printouts described, he realized he had an even bigger problem.
He had moved to a small upstate town, hoping to start his life over after a divorce. Once a bestselling horror writer, he thought he could pull his career back on track by changing genres and beginning a new novel. Except it seems that cruel fate has intervened--after years of creating nightmares, he has found that he cannot escape them. Has, in fact, stumbled right into one.To make matters worse, the murderers aren't even human. If they were werewolves, vampires, or zombies--something right out of a horror novel--Greg might at least have an idea how to deal with them. But they aren't. They are entirely different. Entirely . . . worse.
Now Greg must pair up with the only person who doesn't think he's insane--his attractive neighbor's teenage son--and together they must stop evil before it has a chance to ravage the town and destroy life as they know it, including Greg's second chance at love.
EXCERPT:
On the other side of town Philip Vaus lay in bed, feverish and weak. Posters of Hawthorne Heights, Underoath, and LIGHTS stared down at him from black walls. His iPod lay facedown on the dresser, his laptop discarded on the floor. What had been blasting a day ago and displaying YouTube videos was now dead and silent.
His ears hurt; they constantly popped as though he were on an airplane. His eyes bothered him also. His shades were drawn against the sun and his room was bathed in darkness. The scar on his cheek, a memento from a childhood accident, stood out against his pale skin.
Phil had been sick before, but never like this. He felt disconnected. Detached. And his leg itched where the dog had bitten him.
"Phil, do you want some soup? Maybe some water?"
His mother's voice was loud, even from the other side of the door. It sounded like it was being shouted through a megaphone.
"No," Phil said. Food was the last thing on his mind. Just the thought of it made his stomach turn. He sat up with great effort and brushed the long black hair out of his eyes.
"Are you feeling any better? Can I come in?"
"No," he repeated.
He heard her hesitate and then finally leave. Her footsteps were gunshots, and he cringed as they exploded down the hall.
He wiped his hand across his forehead and it came away damp and unpleasant. The room started to spin.
At first Greg Davidson thought there was a problem with his printer. But after the town's residents were found murdered, mutilated in the same chilling fashion his printouts described, he realized he had an even bigger problem.
He had moved to a small upstate town, hoping to start his life over after a divorce. Once a bestselling horror writer, he thought he could pull his career back on track by changing genres and beginning a new novel. Except it seems that cruel fate has intervened--after years of creating nightmares, he has found that he cannot escape them. Has, in fact, stumbled right into one.To make matters worse, the murderers aren't even human. If they were werewolves, vampires, or zombies--something right out of a horror novel--Greg might at least have an idea how to deal with them. But they aren't. They are entirely different. Entirely . . . worse.
Now Greg must pair up with the only person who doesn't think he's insane--his attractive neighbor's teenage son--and together they must stop evil before it has a chance to ravage the town and destroy life as they know it, including Greg's second chance at love.
EXCERPT:
On the other side of town Philip Vaus lay in bed, feverish and weak. Posters of Hawthorne Heights, Underoath, and LIGHTS stared down at him from black walls. His iPod lay facedown on the dresser, his laptop discarded on the floor. What had been blasting a day ago and displaying YouTube videos was now dead and silent.
His ears hurt; they constantly popped as though he were on an airplane. His eyes bothered him also. His shades were drawn against the sun and his room was bathed in darkness. The scar on his cheek, a memento from a childhood accident, stood out against his pale skin.
Phil had been sick before, but never like this. He felt disconnected. Detached. And his leg itched where the dog had bitten him.
"Phil, do you want some soup? Maybe some water?"
His mother's voice was loud, even from the other side of the door. It sounded like it was being shouted through a megaphone.
"No," Phil said. Food was the last thing on his mind. Just the thought of it made his stomach turn. He sat up with great effort and brushed the long black hair out of his eyes.
"Are you feeling any better? Can I come in?"
"No," he repeated.
He heard her hesitate and then finally leave. Her footsteps were gunshots, and he cringed as they exploded down the hall.
He wiped his hand across his forehead and it came away damp and unpleasant. The room started to spin.
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