Island Life

Some legends are true... The old stories tell of an evil far beneath the earth. When an archaeological expedition ignores local wisdom and opens an old barrow on a remote island in the Scottish Hebrides, they unleash a horror beyond their darkest nightmares. Will anyone survive the onslaught of the Island Life? William Meikle spins a tale of terror that will keep you awake until you turn the final page! Praise for Island Life "...brooding, misty Scottish atmosphere... Many fears come into play—agoraphobia, claustrophobia, acrophobia...solid prose commands attention...through to the climax..." Cemetery DanceMagazine. "...draws the reader in, weaving a tightly spun web of folklore, horror, and suspense from which there is no escape..." Modoc Record “Hard to put down, difficult to forget, Meikle weaves a nightmarish story that leaves me wanting more.” Bookbrowser

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Excerpted from Island Life by William Meikle. Copyright © 2001. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. On leaving the pub he closed the door behind him and was immediately enveloped in damp watery blackness. The mist had come down while he had been inside and was even now clinging softly to his clothes and nestling into his beard. He switched on the flashlight but it was nearly useless, barely illuminating the wall of the nearest outhouse less than ten feet away. Picking out the beaten track with his light he began to walk northwards, trying to ignore the shadows which he imagined were tracking along beside him. The mist enveloped him totally, cutting off all sound so that he was walking in a vast, damp greyness, only the outline of the path to keep him on the straight and narrow. As he walked, his mind churned over what he had found in the pub. He wouldn't believe that it had been a domestic incident. The couple had argued, of course they had - what couple doesn't argue from time to time. But there had been genuine affection there. Even Duncan, with his limited viewpoint on relationships, had been able to see that. And it had been a domestic tiff, why had Jim been caught in the radio room? It just didn't add up. He found it far easier, if a lot more disturbing, to believe that a maniac was at large, one who had killed Jim and abducted the women. But for what reason? There he was stuck. And how would a maniac manage to abduct both women - especially when they were both strong willed? Another thought struck him, one which made him stop in his tracks, the flashlight shaking in time with his trembling hands. What if the woman were dead as well? What if the killer had hidden their bodies? Or what if there were two killers? He sat off again at a faster pace, noticing that the fog was thickening. Two minutes later he was standing outside John Jeffries' farmhouse, listening for any noise, anything at all that would tell him that he was not alone. The building was in darkness, no visible signs of life. With his first sweep of the flashlight he had seen that the front door was wide open and that one thing, more than anything else which may have seemed wrong, had made him stop. John Jeffries was a distrustful man, always double locking all the doors before venturing out from his house, even if he was only going to the barn to milk the cow. For his door to be open was an ominous sign. Duncan couldn't decide on the best course of action. Should he go in, and possibly find a body or should he make speed for the lighthouse and safety? He found that he couldn't abandon the farmer, no matter how objectionable he might be. Trying to keep his light steady, he headed for the door. The door led straight into the main room, a large spacious room with a low, heavily timbered ceiling. He swung his light around, catching a glimpse of himself, wide eyed in the mirror, but there was no other movement. The heavy old fashioned furniture loomed darkly in the shadows - shadows which seemed to creep along the walls, stalking him. He was about to turn and check the kitchen when his left foot hit something heavy on the floor, something soft which moved several inches before resting against his shoe. He turned the light downwards to the rug at his feet and retched as he saw what was lying there, almost bringing up the raw whisky, feeling it burn up his throat as his eyes took in the horror. It was a forearm, a human forearm, roughly torn from the rest of the limb so that the loose flesh hung from the elbow in ragged edges. A small amount of blood, no more than a thimble full, puddled beneath it, velvety black in his flashlight.

About the Author

William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with twenty novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. He has books available from a variety of publishers including Dark Regions Press, DarkFuse and Dark Renaissance, and his work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines with recent sales to NATURE Futures, Penumbra and Buzzy Mag among others. He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company. When he's not writing he drinks beer, plays guitar, and dreams of fortune and glory.

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