Toil and Trouble - Week Blast

Romantic Horror Anthology

Date Published: 09-22-2025

Publisher: DCL Publications

The brew is hot and bubbling over with romance and terror in this twistedly beautiful anthology that welcomes the darkness of horror and the temptation of love's veiled promises. Six remarkable tales from six incredible authors fill this book of dark shadows and ancient whispers.

Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble - by Jennifer Patricia O'Keeffe: Enchanted pastries and spell-brewed coffee make Esmerelda's sugar-dusted counter the city's most coveted haunt—until a dangerously charming newcomer slips into her shop, immune to her magic and unraveling her carefully guarded world. As his witch-hunter heritage threatens to burn her legacy to ash, Esmerelda finds herself torn between the threat of revenge from the witch hunter's ancestors and the intoxicating truth of the connection that they share.

Silverwood - by Lynn Hubbard: A lonely rancher's daughter finds her isolated Wyoming homestead upended when an amber-eyed stranger ignites a mud-splattered passion that defies reason—until his supernatural secret and the vengeful ranch hands hunting her force her to choose between the man who saves her and the monster who might destroy her. Torn between fierce protectors and forbidden desire, she must trust the very darkness that could shatter her world to survive the wild frontier's deadliest threats.

Ivy, Lichens and Wallflowers - by James Ryan: Marketing executive Hilda finds solace from her stifling corporate life and overbearing past in the quiet companionship of Miriam, a mysterious 19th-century marble statue in a city micro-park, only to discover their connection transcends stone when Miriam begins answering her handwritten notes through cryptic poetry left in return. As their forbidden connection deepens into an intoxicating dream-bound romance, Hilda uncovers Miriam's supernatural secret: she's a cursed thaumaturge sustained by stolen life force, forcing Hilda to confront whether love can survive the devastating cost of keeping her alive.

A Mirror to Die For - by Cindy Lewis Smith: A desperate woman finds solace in an antique mirror that whisks her nightly to 1880s Arizona, where a charming outlaw named Johnny Ringo fulfills every fantasy—until her jealous fiancé shatters the glass and vanishes, leaving her trapped in an asylum screaming that he is the real monster, a man who shouldn't exist: Dr. John Henry Holliday, the gambler who killed Ringo a century ago. Now, with "MPR" carved into her cell walls and time itself unraveling, she'll stop at nothing to prove her sanity by proving time travel is real—even if it means unleashing the very darkness that destroyed her.

Flight 1031: Cosmic Turbulence - by Julian Christian: Diplomatic courier Sarah Martinez boards Flight 1031 expecting routine turbulence, not a Halloween dimensional rift that strands her at Germania International Airport—where the Greater German Reich has ruled since 1943 and perfected technology to harvest souls from parallel realities through consciousness-scanning machinery that pulses with seventeen-beat rhythms. Now trapped in a terminal that breathes like a living organism, Sarah must navigate a world where every passenger hides a secret and her resistance could either save her timeline or doom infinite versions of humanity to eternal enslavement in a Reich that spans all dimensions.

Dream a Little Dream - by Jae El Foster: After a near-death car crash rewires her brain, Sarah's nightmares bleed into reality: sugar on the counter forms glyphs, bats appear out of nowhere in broad daylight, and her own hands betray her—while the velvet-eyed stranger from her dreams appears in her waking hours, his urgency growing as Halloween's veil thins. Now, with her reality twisting into something surreal and an ancient language hijacking her voice, she must confront a dark truth: her soul isn't hers to keep, and the man who saved her in death is the very entity hunting her in life.

Excerpt

From ‘Dream a Little Dream’ by Jae El Foster

Sarah didn’t know where to run, where to hide, where to breathe. She drove until the city’s skyline dissolved into cornfields, until the morning thickened with minivans and convertibles carrying families on "ride in the country" escapes. Each passing car—a Jeep with muddy tires, a sedan with bike racks—anchored her to reality, the rubber soles of her sneakers still tingling with the phantom sensation of earth either holding her up or crushing her down.

A flash detonated behind her eyes: the muffled thud of dirt hitting wood, shovel after shovel, sealing her inside a coffin. She couldn’t see it, but she smelled it—the cloying stench of decay merging with rain-damp soil, the suffocating darkness pressing against her eyelids as the weight piled higher. The scent of worms and wet pine needles flooded her throat, thick as grave mold.

The vision snapped just as her car veered toward the shoulder. She wrenched the wheel hard left, tires screeching, a horn blaring from the sedan she’d nearly broadsided. Her hands locked on the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching bone-white, as she fought to drag air into her lungs. Slow. Nervous. Don’t die twice. The wreck’s ghost clawed at her ribs—she wouldn’t invite it back.

Ahead, a billboard loomed: MEMORY LANE. Beneath the town’s name, bold letters promised: Step into Memory Lane, where new memories are made! Sarah’s foot hovered over the brake pedal, ready to U-turn from the omen of that name, but her ankle refused to bend. Cemented. Her other foot slammed toward the brake—stuck. Panic surged as she crossed the town line, tires crunching over the painted border, but then the landscape unfolded: manicured lawns, white picket fences gleaming like fresh bone, and 1950s bungalows painted in cheerful pastels. A sigh escaped her—enchanted.

Chicanery, she thought, scanning the dollhouse-perfect homes. Porches draped in wisteria, hydrangeas bursting from flower beds, rocking chairs swaying in phantom breezes. It felt less like a town and more like a dream staged for tourists—a nostalgia trap with price tags hidden in the shutters. She gripped the wheel tighter, the vinyl seat sticky beneath her sweat-slicked thighs.

The yards deepened in their perfection: hedges trimmed to geometric precision, roses blooming in impossible symmetry, each white picket fence identical down to the last splinter. No cracks. No weeds. No life. The fences stood sentinel around empty yards, guarding homes with spotless windows that reflected nothing but sky.

She passed a brick schoolhouse with a rusted swing set, a park with a merry-go-round frozen mid-spin, a diner with "OPEN" glowing in neon, a barber pole coiled in red-white silence, a post office with mailboxes gleaming under noon sun. No children. No joggers. No bicycles leaning against fences. Since crossing into Memory Lane, she’d seen exactly one living thing: a crow pecking at a roadkill squirrel, its beak crimson.

"Where the hell is everyone?" she muttered, her voice raw as she scanned porches, windows, the empty stretch of road ahead. The only sound was the hum of her engine and the thump-thump-thump of her pulse in her ears.

Sarah’s hands left the steering wheel, fingers trembling as she tried to turn into a driveway for a U-turn. The wheel refused to budge—cemented. She settled back into the seat, watching it steer itself with unnatural precision. Her foot lifted from the accelerator, but the speed held steady, unwavering, until the car slowed on its own for a sharp right-hand turn onto University Boulevard. The road’s grip on her feet had vanished, yet the vehicle moved like a thing alive, hungry for the town square.

To her left, manicured university grounds sprawled beneath flowering trees, grand homes lining the boulevard like stage sets. Roses bloomed in impossible symmetry, hedges trimmed to razor edges. Sarah groaned at the street name—University Boulevard—its banality a slap in the face. Two blocks down, the car turned right onto Main Street, the tires whispering over asphalt that felt less like road and more like skin.

Ahead, the town square unfolded: businesses glowing with "Open" signs, windows spotless, a gazebo planted dead-center like a tombstone. No cars. No pedestrians. Not even a stray cat to break the silence. The air hung thick with the scent of cut grass and something sharper—ozone, like before a storm that never breaks.

Sarah’s car rolled into a parking spot near the gazebo. The seatbelt loosened with a hiss, the engine dying as the driver’s door swung open unbidden. "I don’t like anything about this…" she muttered, stepping onto pavement that felt unnaturally warm beneath her sneakers. The keys stayed in the ignition, but fear of theft never came—who would steal from a town with no one to steal?

The door shut behind her with a soft click, sealing her in the square’s suffocating quiet. She forced her breath slow, scanning the storefronts: two restaurants, a beauty parlor, a bank, antique shops, a used bookstore, and a theater dominating the square. Its marquee blazed in vintage bulbs: DREAM A LITTLE DREAM and SHE RISES AT NIGHT—titles she’d never heard, yet they hummed in her bones like half-remembered screams.

She turned toward the right-hand restaurant, heels clicking on the pavement. Instantly, its "Open" sign flickered and died. She froze, then pivoted toward the left restaurant—same result. The sign went dark as if snuffed by an invisible hand.

Sarah took a step forward, pulse hammering against her ribs. The air grew heavier, pressing into her lungs like wet soil. She didn’t need to test it again. The square wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

"What in the living hell…?"

Every storefront Sarah scanned flickered dark—the "Open" signs dying like snuffed candles—but the theater’s marquee blazed relentless: REEL AFTER REEL. Its sign burned bright despite the empty ticket booth, the glass doors yawning open onto blackness. Sarah’s skin prickled. Memory Lane felt wrong, but the theater pulsed with something hungrier, something that made her stomach drop like a stone in a well.

She stared at the theater, arms crossed tight against the chill. The marquee’s promise—DREAM A LITTLE DREAM / SHE RISES AT NIGHT—curdled in her gut. Of all places, this was where she never wanted to set foot. Yet the longer she stood frozen, the more the building breathed. Orchestra strings swelled—violins sawing a tune from silent-film days—though the theater’s modern facade held no projector room. Then came the chatter: phantom voices lining up for tickets, laughter echoing off empty pavement.

"Nope…" she muttered, squaring her shoulders. "Fuck this." She bolted for her car, sneakers slapping the pavement. The driver’s door handle wouldn’t budge—locked, keys glinting in the ignition like a taunt.

Week Blast - October 25 to October 31

October 25th

October 26th

October 27th