Analogue of Horror

1. Current Work (Epilogue Sample)
2. Work in Progress (Chapter Snippet)
3. My Thoughts on Writing
4. The Black Cat of Killakee
5. A Note for Writers

Greetings! Michelle Ian... Native New Englander and Self-Proclaimed Horror Fanatic, dabbling in the Dark Arts of Suspense, Thrillers, and Horror. I also spend my free time sharpening my skills as a creative writer, aspiring to create three-dimensional and emotionally charged characters readers will not only identify with but follow throughout the story. One can also find me on

Instagram. https://www.instagram.com/michelleian_author/.

Goodreads. https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/138913192-michelle-iantosca

A secret never to be shared. A killer seeking vengeance. Is his nightmarish fiction about to become a bloody reality?

Michael Kerrigan is delighted with his success. With his well-received suspense novels putting him on the map, the popular author trades his dark past for meet and greets with adoring fans. But his borrowed peace shatters when a friend he thought he’d buried dead in the ground long ago shows up very much alive… and hellbent on wreaking murderous havoc.

Trapped in a deadly game of cat and mouse, Michael works furiously to uncover the shocking truth while dodging his assailant’s ruthless attacks. And with his sanity splintering as he processes years of suppressed guilt, sacrificing himself may be the only way to protect his loved ones from a crazed enemy’s relentless carnage.

Can Michael undo the sins of yesteryear before he’s the one thrown into a grave?

Self-Publishing: presale May 2023 (Follow up announcement via countdown start on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and wherever E-books are sold)

I don’t want to die. His heart beat like a drum inside his chest, while he fought to keep his head above water. Tempted to give into the shadows, he imagined the moment his body finally broke, when something in his mind unraveled. Breathe. He cast the voice away and opened his mouth, filling his lungs with pure oxygen. He searched again for even the slightest pinpoint of light. A burnt and minty undertone of a recently extinguished candle filtered through the air. The fog in his head abated, but along with his hands and feet, his eyes were useless as tiny shards of glass slashed at his vision. God, please help me. Clawing through the most visceral parts of his mind, he grasped onto anything that could help him escape. He found himself in his car once again, twisting the key in the ignition. He searched the empty parking lot and froze. Not empty, not alone. The reality of what came next seized his chest so tight it took his breath away while the images of that night burst in a series of twisted frames. He gazed upon the face, the malice in its eyes spread across his consciousness like gasoline ignited by a single spark. He stifled a moan, knowing that it was not only useless but dangerous as he heard the approaching footsteps coming from below him. A distant hallucination in his drug-induced mind that closed in from every direction. But this was not a dream… this was real.

As he looked up at the face that stood hovering above his own, he saw it had no emotion, only hunger. It stared down at him, grinning at him… grinning at his terror. Still, if he would die was no longer an uncertainty. To him, it was as certain as the barbed wire used to incapacitate him. He understood that there was nothing he could do to save himself, and so he would defy him… to deny the beast until, at last, the end came. Don’t look at him. He turned away from the figure that knelt down next to him, whispering softly into his ear. Don’t let him in…

You find out your childhood friend might just be a serial killer. What would you do? Try to kill him? Or report him to the police that you know won't be able to contain him?

Gabriel Connolly struggles with what’s right. Then, when he’s faced with pure evil, and realizes he has no choice, he tries to drown his soul-less friend in a river. But evil doesn't die.

And that’s just the start of Gabriel's new nightmare. You can’t cheat death, that’s the trick. Even worse, Gabriel realizes he may have passed on supernatural gifts to a heartless killer.

As fiendish plans and unspeakable atrocities are set in motion, Gabriel learns that he alone may hold the key to a series of terrifying events: a secret cabin in the woods, a hidden tomb housing a trail of dismembered corpses, the young killer who lingers in a coma intent on cheating death. And at last, a depraved madman hellbent on saving his only son’s life. Can Gabriel take back the gifts given and triumph over the wicked? And most importantly, will death lay claim in the end?

(Querying Stage-Update following the initial stages of publication.)

The skipper pressed his lips together in a renewed determination as he backed through the basement’s entryway and shuffled toward the stairs. The young man's hair covered most of his face along with the skipper’s forearms. His chin rested on the crook of his right hand. Dead weight proved the hardest load to carry. He would guide this ship to the right side, the side of the just before bringing the whole Goddamn barge down.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. (Ernest Hemingway) And bleed we do... We bleed equal parts of both sanity and soul. Writing is indeed iron fisted, (Harper Lee) sitting down and doing it whether or not we have it in us. It is heartbreaking most of the time. Sleepless nights, dark rooms, imposter syndrome, wondering if we are ready... Every day we struggle to keep those voices that rage inside us at bay. We live our lives and the lives of our characters together as one. To us, our protagonists and antagonists and even our secondary characters are more than just make believe. They’re real... made of our flesh and blood. Their souls are our own. To come back from the so-called land of make believe is never easy. If I had to describe the feeling, I would simply state this. Writing pushes us to the precipice, drains our vital essence, and fractures crucial parts of our soul with each harrowing tale. We hear our character’s voices and see their faces as if they are in the same room with us. We celebrate their triumphs and mourn their injustices and tragedies because they are our own. The fears and doubts we carry are endless and plague our waking hours and dreams. We are heroes. We are monsters. We feel mighty feels. (Joe Hill) We can never defeat our demons. Instead, we must master how we play with them. Have patience and kindness for the writers of the world. For we are literally doing our best. Writing is hard...

The Black Cat of Killakee:

A building at Killakee in southern Ireland that was used as an arts center was assailed by a

variety of different ghostly phenomena, the worst of which was a monstrous black cat.

The building, called Dower House, was almost in ruins when it was purchased in 1968 by Mrs. Margaret O'Brien, an artist and poet, and her husband, Nicholas. The house had been deserted for years, andthere was so much renovation work to be done that some of the workmen were actually living on the site during the rebuilding. They were first disturbed by strange sounds and doors that seemed to open mysteriously. But it was the sudden appearance and disappearance of a large black cat that most troubled them.

At first Mrs. O'Brien refused to take the stories seriously. "I thought the whole thing was nonsense," she said. "A group of country people sitting alone in a nempty house on a lonely hillside at night telling each other stories and frightening themselves. Then I saw the creature myself and I began to understand their fear." She described the black cat as being about as big as a medium- sized dog. The first time she came across the creature, it was squatting in the hallway. All of the doors of the house had been locked before the black cat appeared, and they remained locked after it disappeared.

A painter named Tom McAssey, who was helping to decorate the house, had an even more alarming experience. He was working in a room with two other men when suddenly the room, which had been quite warm, became icy cold. The room had been locked, but now the door stood wide open. “A shadowy figure stood in the darkness beyond,” said McAssey. “At first I thought someone was playing a joke and I said; ‘Come in, I see you.’ Then there was a deep sort of guttural growl, and the three of us turned and ran in panic. We slammed the heavy door behind us, and I turned and looked back. The door was open again, and a mon-monstrous black cat with red-flecked amber eyes was crouched there in the half-light. I thought my legs wouldn’t take me away from the place... I was really in a bad state.”

McAssey also reported seeing a shadowy figure in the hall, which said in a deep voice, “You cannot see me. You don’t even know who I am.”

In 1968, Mrs. O’Brien had an exorcism performed in the house, and that seemed to quiet things down for about a year. But in the fall of 1969, a group of actors who were staying at the arts center decided-half-seriously to hold a seance, and after that the disturbances started once again.

Next Mrs. O’Brien called in a spirit medium named Sheila St. Clair, who went into a trance and said that she saw the spirits of two women who had helped to serve at Black Masses held by a group of Devil worshipers called the Hell Fire Club in the eighteenth century. Mrs. O’Brien, however, insisted that such was not the case and that the disturbances were more of a problem than an aid to the center. “I finally decided to have the house and grounds exorcised once again, and in July 1970, a priest came up from Dublin. Since then we have had very few disturbances, although the priest felt there were still ‘emanations’ around and we do get the odd bump in the night.”

Edgar Allen Poe

"Beauty of whatever kind,

in its supreme development,

invariably excites the

sensitive soul to tears."

I hope you all enjoyed my newsletter.

Drop me a line with any comments or suggestions.

Until next time, remember...

YOU SHOULD BE WRITING.

The Black Cat of Killakee: The Encyclopedia of Ghosts. Daniel Cohen.1984.