Blood in the Mirror (Haunted Collection Series)

A mirror’s gleaming reflection bears untold secrets of a dark and haunting past…Stefan Korzh is at it again, and while Ivan’s deadly ghost has thrown a wrench into his son’s plans, the spiteful road to revenge continues. More haunted items from the family’s notorious collection are appearing with new owners. Worst of all is a pen possessing an inviting glimmer that can destroy whoever spills its demonic ink. Jeremy Rhinehart and Victor Daniels are in a desperate rush to stop the mayhem, and seem to be headed in the right direction…but somehow, the closer they get, the harder things become. And they are slowly finding that they’re not the only ones who want Stefan dead.As the histories of the possessed collectibles continue to reveal themselves, more objects emerge, and old family secrets are contained within the elegant ridges of the compact mirror. Everything hangs in the balance, and it’s up to Victor to discard his tragic demons and stop Stefan before the streets are lined with more bodies. But as Victor and Jeremy continue their quest against evil, they discover a terrifying force lurking in their midst. Nothing is ever as it seems…

From the Inside Flap

Excerpt from Chapter 10 Bob looked at the confession he had written and knew it was all true. Every word of it. He had buried it in his heart, long ago. But there it was. Shivering, he reached forward to tear the pages free from the notebook, but cold hands gripped his wrists. He couldn't see anything or anyone, yet there was no denying that fingers of ice were digging into his skin. The pain was hideous, and he bit back a howl. "Tell me," a man whispered, "how do you feel about what you wrote?" "I didn't write that," Bob gasped, struggling to free himself. "Who are you? Where are you? Why can't I see you?!" "You did write that," the unseen man answered, "and as for who I am, call me Cody. And where am I, right here. Oh, and you can't see me because I'm dead. Like the man you killed. You know, confession is good for the soul. Don't you feel better, having written that down?" "No," Bob moaned. "Let go of me! I need to get rid of it!" "Oh no," the dead man whispered, "it doesn't work like that. Not at all. You should know that. This is only part of your confession. Someone else needs to read it. That's the only way to get the full benefit of your admission." "They'll put me in prison again," Bob said, weeping, "I can't go back there. Please, please let me get rid of it." "No," the dead man said. "I can't do that. Perhaps you'll only go away for a little while. Don't you think you should? From what you wrote, I can see that you're a killer and a rapist. Punishment is what you need. Do what's right and bring this to the police. You'll feel better." "No," Bob said, shaking his head. "No!" Again, Bob tried to free his hands, grasping desperately for the paper, yet the unseen ghost tightened his grip and squeezed mercilessly. "You don't have to tell them," the dead man said. "I can't make you do that. But you won't be able to destroy your confession, not at all. We wrote that together. You and I, and I promise you this, Bob, your confession will stand. Someone will find it, they will read it, and you will be forced to explain to them what has occurred and why you did not come forward." Bob was thrown backward, tumbling out of the chair even as the piece of furniture came smashing into him. He struggled to get to his feet, but a force struck him in the chest and slammed him into the filing cabinet. "What will it be?" the voice asked. "Will you admit your transgressions? Shall you finish your confession?" "No," Bob hissed. "Then out," the voice said in a dull, uninterested tone, and Bob was hurled out of the office, the door rocking in its frame and locking him out. Bob threw himself at the door, pounding on it and trying to wrench it open. Yet neither the door nor the knob moved for him. Panic welled up, and he looked around the room frantically. He saw a fire extinguisher on the wall, ripped it free and hurried back to the door. Lifting it up to strike the knob, a blow struck him in the chest and knocked him into the secretary's desk. Struggling to control his racing thoughts, Bob twisted around and tried to find something to smash his way into the inner office. I'll leave, he thought, racing for the exit. The door he had left open slammed closed, and he ran into it headfirst. He staggered, pain shooting down his neck and into his lower back. The tips of his fingers went numb while a bright, painful light filled his vision. Sinking to his knees, Bob threw up onto the rug he had so recently cleaned and struggled to remain upright. "You can't leave, Bob," the dead man whispered patiently. "Accept it. You need to confess. There's no other way out of the situation, I'm afraid." There was a mocking sympathy in the dead man's voice, a hateful, spiteful sound that ripped a scream of outrage from Bob's mouth. With his head spinning and his entire body a throbbing, agonized mass of shaking muscles and quivering nerves, Bob used the secretary's desk for support as he got to his feet. His legs trembled, and his eyes darted from the exit back to the inner office door. He was trapped in a room with a ghost and one who wanted him to confess to rape and murder. Bob's eyes landed on the secretary's desk caddy, and the bright, stainless steel letter opener standing amongst the pens and pencils. He flung out his hand, snatched up the letter opener, reversed the blade, and plunged it into his throat. The tempered steel pierced his flesh, punctured his carotid artery. He rushed to rip the improvised weapon back out of his flesh, and sent a spray of blood across the room. Bob dropped the letter opener to the floor and collapsed beside it, his blood gushed out. A dim shadow separated itself from the far wall, and he could only make out the faintest hint of a human shape. Bob's flesh chilled as the shadow came nearer, then stopped only a foot away. "That," the voice said, chuckling, "is always another option. A pity I'm dead. I always enjoyed the smell of blood. Something so rewarding in the bitter scent of hot copper, don't you agree?" Bob couldn't answer. He was already dead.

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