Official description for Witcheskin:
Following the disappearance of his father, keen photographer Owen returns to the Welsh village where his parents grew up to live with his mother and her boyfriend. Despite being born in Wales and having been raised in England, Owen feels like an outcast, and the villagers are unfriendly. He soon discovers an epidemic of cattle mutilations that have been spreading through the countryside like a rash and, determined to discover the cause, he takes up his camera and starts snapping pictures.
While pursuing the mystery, he meets Maredudd, an old friend of his parents of whom they had never spoken, and Owen can’t help but feel drawn to him. Maredudd seems to know more about the mutilations than the other villagers are willing to admit, and even more about the supposed death of Owen’s father than his own mother does. Maredudd shows Owen things he never thought possible, and Owen soon finds himself at the centre of the kind of folk tale only his father could dream of.
Maredudd rubbed my knuckles with his other hand. “Relax. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“But what if someone sees?”
“Sees what?” he asked, his smile morphing into a mischievous grin. I stared at him, exasperated.
“You know… Sees us holding hands…” I whispered, even though there was no one around to hear our conversation.
“So what if they do? We’re not breaking the law. I like holding your hand. Nobody is going to stop me from doing that, especially if you like holding mine in return.” He raised his eyebrows at me, and I couldn’t very well argue with that.
“I do like holding your hand,” I mumbled, feeling stupid. We had stopped at the bottom of the beach, and the tide was lapping at the sand, gushing up to meet our toes. I contemplated taking my boots off.
When I turned to look at him, he had moved closer, and I drew in a sharp breath, aware that he was now right against my side. I could feel the front of his hard torso touching my arm, his body heat comfortable, and gentle despite the blazing sun overheard. His eyes, like green lanterns that seemed to give off light of their own no matter the shadow upon his face, peered right into my own, and I was so astonished, frozen to the spot, when I should have known what would come next. He lowered his head, brushed his nose against mine as though asking permission. My chest was rising, and falling heavily, heart throbbing, lungs puffing, my throat contracting as I swallowed.
I wanted it desperately, but I couldn’t lead when I was so shy, and untouched, afraid of embarrassing myself, and anxious that someone would see us out here. His eyes half-closed, and I thought he would move away. My hand immediately gripped onto his tightly, squeezing it in my grasp in a silent bid to tell him not to. The whole world began to slide and melt out of my consciousness, and we were the only people left, isolated except for the soundless surf that flowed towards us rhythmically. Finally, I felt his lips pressing to mine, and that electricity that had crackled earlier suddenly became a shower of lightning. Like a developing storm, the clouds rolling, and thunder tolling, I let go of my emotions, abandoning the fear I was clutching at moments before.
Official description for Rough Sleepers:
Leon, drag performer and club owner, is attacked by a werewolf one night and loses an arm—and more, after massacring his club guests. Now homeless and tormented by nightmares, he runs away from everything he knows.
Eventually, he meets Ceri, who invites Leon to live with him above a shop owned by a woman who lost her husband and son to a werewolf attack. She and Ceri are still hunting the unknown perpetrator, and Leon gladly lends his own assistance, eager to atone for his bloody past in the hopes he might one day be able to have a home and family again…
The pain was swelling inside my torso, spreading out into the rest of my body like poison in my blood stream, reaching even the tips of my fingers and toes. There was pressure in my lower back, pressure in my lower face, pressure in my lower legs. Like those areas were going to explode. Blues guitar shrieked in my ears and I heard and smelled every single person inhabiting the premises. A plaintive moan escaped my painted lips; a trembling hand spasmed and reached out as bones cracked and claws split through flesh.
“Noooooooo!” I howled, collapsing forward onto my knees, my hand thrusting out to stop my face from hitting the ground. “Whaaaaat’s haaaaaaaappening!”
Diana stumbled away from me, screeching as she lost balance on one of her heels and accidentally twisted her ankle, the foot bending inwards and causing her to fall back against the opposite wall. Her eyes were wild with terror. I saw my reflection in them, the reflection of a freak. My face started to change shape, contorting, growing, flesh stretching into the maw of an animal. My clawed hand tore at the corseted dress imprisoning my body, buttons and gemstones scattering across the concrete floor as the fabric ripped open, the string of my ivory brassiere getting caught on a talon and tearing away with it. I bellowed, my consciousness lost in the eye of the storm that filled me within, an animal on the inside trying to get out. Silver fur bursting through my skin, springing out like the first shoots of grass on a parched field, and as my feet shed their heels, enormous paws split open my stockings and stretched outwards, tendons taut as guitar strings. A tail twisted out of my back and the agony, the torture was as though my very spine was being dragged out of my body. On and on, the transformation went, Diana’s diminutive form cowering in my shadow under the fluorescent lighting.
“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Our very own Murderess, returning to the stage at last! You’ve pined for her beauty, her intelligence and her dazzling wit! The weekends just wouldn’t be the same without her!”
Diana let out a meek whimper followed by a hysterical scream as I rolled her over, grabbing her by the neck and throwing her across the corridor, her body thumping face-first against the wall like a sack of potatoes. She started to crawl, knees crunching crystals and sequins as she headed towards the stage door, blood dripping from her flattened nose, sobs squeaking from her open mouth. A clawed hand snatched her ankle and dragged her back. Her screams echoed down the empty hall and there was a hissing patter of hot liquid as lashings of glistening blood sprayed up the wall, falling in a rain of shimmering droplets that appeared almost black in the dim light.
“Here she is folks! The lady herself, the Murderess herself, Leona Valentine!”
Recognising my name, I lifted my dripping muzzle and roared. The sound was lost in the din of music and cheering. I barrelled forward on my three limbs, leaving behind me a train no longer made of fabric but instead made of gore, red footprints following me towards the light shining through the door. The audience didn’t know what to expect of Leona Valentine’s glorious intro, but whatever it was they had envisioned, it was nothing like this.
About the Author:
Nem Rowan lives in Sweden with his wife and their girlfriend. He loves reading non-fiction and is fascinated by True Crime and unsolved mysteries, especially missing persons cases and serial killers. Nem is also well-read in mythology and folk tales, particularly British and European folklore. He is a huge fan of Horror movies and Retrowave music.
Nem started writing when he was 11 years old and since then, he’s never looked back. Romance has always been his favourite genre after inheriting a box of Mills & Boon novels from his grandma, but being a Horror fan, there is always some way for him to work in a bit of that to make sure things don’t get too mushy.