The Next Adventure

‘You did wrong. You must die.’ The voice would declare.

And then the blade would slam down on him one final time and burst his world in raging pain.

Callan has told Aileen what he remembers from the night that changed his life forever, leaving him an amputee from his right knee down. For the first time, they’re on the same page, ready to put the past to rest and move ahead. They’re happy together, Dachaigh is doing well, and for once, there is nothing threatening to tear their perfect little haven apart.

But what happens when bygones don’t remain bygones?

Someone’s back in Loch Fuar, stirring up trouble for Aileen and Callan, prodding into the past, and poking at past memories. It’s true what they say—sometimes your brain forgets for a reason. In this game of cat and mouse, the stakes are worse than death.

How will Aileen and Callan get out of this obstacle? Broken or at last truly alive?

Find out what happened to Callan in Aileen and Callan’s next adventure. Preorder now so you don’t miss out!

Due July 2025

‘Hello? It’s the police.’

Once more the shrub rustled, but no one emerged or said anything. Had to be an animal then.

His best bet would be to scare it away.

Callan found a long branch. Then holding it like a sword, pierced it into the thick cluster of shrubs.

The leaves shook with the sudden impact, then he heard the scampering of non-human feet. ‘Eejit!’

Extracting the branch, he let it fall to the ground. This was a wild goose chase. If he got back into his car, he could find a way to get in touch with his colleagues and let them know this had been a prank call. Whoever lived in this house was either not home or fast asleep. And there was no ‘monster’ lurking about in this weather.

Muttering more profanities especially at how this shift had gone from bad to hell, he circled back to the front of the house. He was halfway across to his car when he heard the crunch of gravel.

Callan swivelled, ready to attack whoever what thinking of creeping up on him. Nothing. All that stared back at him was the darkest pit. It was a miracle he had any sense of up from down.

Still a shiver zinged down his back. His brain had started up a slideshow of his nightmares… memories of that night.

Get in your car and drive away, Cameron.

Aye, there was no point thinking about the past, or trying to recall memories which were nothing but made-up nightmares.

Callan turned, heading towards where he had parked his car earlier. The first thing he noticed was the red. Hot, blazing red beads stared back at him.

Then the shape formed around them—the shape of a devil. He heard the otherworldly growl emanating from its chest, its pointy fingers clutching a sharp machete.

Callan took a step back. But his foot caught and this time, he lost his balance. He crashed to the ground, palms slamming on the sharp rocks. Pain radiated through his hands, so sharp, he went blind for a moment.

When his vision cleared, he blinked.

Callan used his palms, uncaring of the scraps, and pushed himself up. The red-eyed devil followed with one slow step and then the other. Even in the lightless dark, the machete caught the light, its blade promising pain.

Callan froze, his arse still on the wet ground, limbs now leaden with… fear. He wasn’t in his own body anymore. No, his eighteen-year-old self stood next to him now, watching the scene like a spectator knowing exactly what was going to happen next.

After all, twenty years ago, it had happened to him.

The devil progressed, closer, closer, closer. Callan couldn’t get away. He forced his limbs to move. Scampering on his hands and knees, he didn’t care what he tread over as long as he got away. ‘Wh-why?’

The barely heard his own question. Sweat joined the rivulets streaming down his face. His breath hitched, stuttered, then Callan wasn’t sure if he inhaled at all.

His heartbeat dimmed, demanding his muscles seize and let it all happen again.

2005. Oh heck, in 2005 he was minutes from this very house, this very spot. And this devil… it was there.

’N-no.’

The eyes glared at him, right above him now. Callan kicked out a leg and connected thin air.

‘Don’t you remember? You hurt me…’ the voice was robotic, gender-less. Callan recognised it immediately, a memory slamming into him. This voice speaking to him, face-less in the dark of the night.

Callan pushed back and felt the ground behind him dip.

‘I told you to stay away. Now,’ the machete flung up, then cracked down.

‘Aah!’ Callan curled into himself, like a snail retreating into its shell.

Clang!

The sharp blade struck against Callan’s prosthetic leg. The devil cackled. Callan whimpered. His body wasn’t fighting, it wasn’t making plans to get away either. No, his vision was turning blurry, his muscles atrophying.

The red eyes glared at him, leaning down until Callan felt the warm breath of the devil on his cheek. ‘You pry anymore, you’ll find that girlfriend of yours loses her limbs, one painful bit by another.’

A cold tip touched the cheek. The tip of a machete. ‘Remember.’

Callan opened his mouth to do something, to brace for what’s to come next, but the darkness seeped into his sight. Blackness sank its claws into his consciousness and, at last, dragged him under.