Fortress of Ghosts (Ouroboros Series)

Brad Steiger continues his search for his daughter, Kelly, which leads him to Poland. The Ouroboros cult leader, Jonathan Clay, and Cleo the shape shifter, haven’t been deterred by their failed attempt at a new world order in England. Though their numbers have dwindled, the snake worshippers are still obsessed with taking over the world! Picking up new recruits along the way, they grow more powerful and more confident of their mission’s success. With his companions, Marcus Valentine who is a cult expert, and Denny Pollard, an investigative journalist, Brad’s team is formidable. The trail ends at the castle of Mista Venja also known as the Fortress of Ghosts. The locals fear the castle and its dark secrets. Whispers of ghost soldiers and zombies keep them away. True or not, the team must get inside if they are to find Kelly and stop Jonathan and Cleo. The key to their world domination lies deep within the confines of the castle. Brad’s mental connection with Kelly has brought them this far. As everyone descends on the fortress, ghost soldiers with deadly spectral bullets, and flesh eating zombies defend the fields leading to the castle. Once inside, the Insane One, a horrible mutation of human and snake, awaits the team and the battle for survival and world domination begins…

From the Inside Flap

Private Pavel Lermontov paused in his patrol of the perimeter fence to light a cigarette. It was nearly midnight, and the castle was an island of electric light surrounded by an ocean of darkness. That darkness was a dense forest broken only by a narrow cart track to the nearest village. The perimeter lights flickered. Those sneaky bastards, he thought. What are they doing in there? These scientists gave us nerve gas and the H-bomb, who knows what they might cook up next? Pavel looked up at the castle. The soldier had heard the gossip in the canteen. He had done his share of staring into the woods, wondering if every movement was a 'ghost'. There were stories about the bloody battle for the castle in 1945, when the remnants of a Nazi regiment had been slaughtered by Russian troops. And there were older stories, the ones told by the Polish villagers, about the castle's dark, bloody history. Pavel shuddered, took a deep draw on his cigarette. Then he hefted his rifle and set off again on his patrol. Stories. Ghost stories. For old women and children. Nothing for a man to worry about. The firing began away to his left, in the darkest part of the woods. At first, he heard single shots, interspersed with shouts. Then came bursts of automatic fire. He unslung his rifle and lay flat on the ground, peering into the night. All the shots sounding the same, he noticed. That meant all the guns firing were standard Red Army Kalashnikovs. Which left two possibilities. Maybe the Americans use our weapons, he thought. Dress in our uniforms. Special forces trick. The other possibility was no less worrying. It meant that Pavel's comrades were shooting at shadows. Or at beings like shadows, he could not help thinking. The firing died down as suddenly as it had started, but the shouting continued. Lermontov recognized several voices, including his corporal who was swearing profusely. The perimeter lights flickered again, then went out completely. "Bugger!" hissed Pavel. "The silly sods have blown the fuses!" He got to his feet and took out a flashlight, swept the beam around him. The weak light picked out tree trunks. Above were boughs heavy with spring foliage, below was the undergrowth. A thin figure was standing half-hidden by a tree. But as he swept the flashlight back, Lermontov saw that it was just a sapling. A hand fell on his shoulder. He jumped, spun around, finger on the trigger of his rifle. His flashlight picked out the red star badge on the tunic of the newcomer. "You bloody moron, I could have shot you!" said Lermontov. He flicked the flashlight beam up to see which particular moron he was dealing with. The yellow light revealed a dead face, eye sockets sunken hollows, skin like parchment stretched taut over the skull, black lips pulled back from grinning teeth. Pavel staggered back, dropping his flashlight, as the dead soldier lunged forward. A dead face was pushed into a living one, and Private Lermontov felt a terrible coldness pierce his eyes, his heart, and his brain. He heard the distant shouting turn to screams.

About the Author

David Longhorn was born in North East England long before the internet, but fortunately they had plenty of books in those days! He enjoyed reading all sorts of fact and fiction in childhood and also became a huge fan of old horror movies and the BBC's Ghost Stories for Christmas on television, despite losing a lot of sleep as a result. He went on to get a degree in English Studies, which somehow led him to a career in local government, which in turn took him into a recording studio where he provided voice-overs, read news, and did a lot of other audio stuff. It's been that kind of life, really - a bit random but quite interesting. All the while he was reading and writing supernatural fiction, influenced by both the classic tales of writers like Ambrose Bierce, M.R. James, and Edgar Allan Poe, but also by modern masters such as Stephen King. He hopes to write a lot more about the world of the dead and undead, assuming they let him...

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