1. The Beast of Gevaudan is an unidentified creature that killed over 100 people in France during the 1700s.
SAMCRO's ruthless killer, Happy Lowman has been keeping a secret from his brothers. It wasn't to go against the club but more to protect his weakness. Everyone knows that Killa only cared about 2 things, his mother and his club. What if there was something else he cared about or more importantly someone else. Happy didn't want the club life for her but what if she was thrown into it anyways.
A hauntingly romantic paranormal Jane Eyre reimagining, by the author of Phantom Heart! Eighteen-year-old Jane Reye is a psychic artist. She draws what she sees, and what she sees are spirits and the supernatural. Growing up orphaned, she’s now of legal age and can no longer return to the girls' school she’s called home for most of her life. Lost and alone after the death of her lifelong friend, she receives an invitation to partake in a study at the English manor Fairfax Hall: an investigation of the property that requires her specific area of expertise. Upon arrival, Jane understands this will be no ordinary study when she meets Elias Thornfield, the elusive proprietor of the estate, a boy her age, roguishly handsome, who dons a mysterious eye patch. During the study it becomes clear that something is amiss—something having to do with Elias and the spiritual activity taking place around the manor. Turning to her art to unravel the mystery, Jane is shocked to find that her talents—and her growing affection for Elias—could be the key to saving him from a horrible fate. Product DetailsISBN-13: 9780593116081 Media Type: Hardcover Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group Publication Date: 08-22-2023 Pages: 368 Product Dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.40(d) Age Range: 12 - 17 YearsAbout the Author Kelly Creagh is the author of Phantom Heart, the Phantom of the Opera inspired supernatural romance, and the Nevermore trilogy, a contemporary paranormal romance heavily influenced by the life, works, and mysterious death of Edgar Allan Poe. Nevermore (2010), Enshadowed (2012), and Oblivion (2015) were all published in hardcover by Atheneum and still enjoy a strong fandom and readership. Buzzfeed named Nevermore one of 21 Amazing Young Adult Series That Ended in 2015. Nevermore has been published in multiple languages and countries, including Poland, Brazil, Germany, and Hungary. Kelly Creagh is a graduate of Spalding University's MFA in Writing program. She teaches creative writing workshops for children, teens, and adults, and is a regular guest speaker and lecturer for the Louisville literary community and local libraries and schools. Kelly has also guest-lectured at the SCBWI Midsouth conference and is a current SCBWI member.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt Great. It’s back. The entity. More likely, it never left. Awesome. A second shadow—just what I always wanted. Per usual, this ghost—or whatever it is—is currently just an impression on my mind. A picture and a feeling combined into one, except the details are blurred, obscured by the noise and action of the waking world. Concentration is the flashlight that illuminates the shades I encounter. But I never get the whole picture until I put charcoal to paper and draw what I “see.” I don’t want to look too closely at this shadow figure or render it into more solid shapes of black and white. I’ve successfully avoided doing so for four weeks now, assuring myself all the while that this creeper will eventually scram. I’ve learned the hard way how bestowing attention of any kind can invite certain spirits closer. More than that, I’m afraid that if I do sketch my sketchy tagalong, I’ll discover that it’s something other than a ghost. But then, isn’t that what my intuition has been whispering all along? To find out if my instincts are right . . . well, I’ll have to draw it. Cringing, I focus on the passenger seat in front of mine, tuning my ears to the hum of the Boeing jet that, like my life, carries me forward at a velocity unfelt. Night occupies the skies we fly through, and thousands of miles below, the Atlantic churns, as do the lightning-illuminated clouds outside the little window. Rain slashes the layered glass, and my mind is as turbulent as the weather. Because there’s so much that I don’t know. Even outside of what this thing is that’s following me, or what it wants already. I don’t know, for instance, what to expect at Fairfax Hall—who I’m going to have to contend with there or what. What else. More troubling than that—I don’t know what comes after this job. And that mystery, the yawning void of the whole rest of my life? Well, that’s scarier than any incorporeal lurker. Gritting my teeth, I fight the urge to think too far ahead. Ugh. This thing is stressing. Me. Out. I hadn’t expected it to follow me to freaking England. I guess my hope had been to escape from it like everything else. Leave it behind like an ugly sweater that I conveniently “forgot.” Now, though, my fear that Fairfax Hall and this spirit are linked begins to seem less improbable. Either way, the last thing I want is to arrive on the scene of this gig the way I have for most situations in life: with built-in issues. There is, after all, a lot of money on the table. Enough to keep me flush until I can figure out how to survive on my own. Enough that I can buy the name-brand cream cheese. . . A definite plus since I don’t currently possess enough cash for a return flight. Not that I’m ever going back. To Lowood at least. Of course, there’s also the little problem that, oh yeah, I’m supposed to help clear Fairfax Hall of its skulker, not import a new one from America. The salt-and-pepper-haired man seated next to me, closest to the window, draws a sudden breath, making me jump. He has his chair reclined and his eyes shut. Envy for the rest he’s getting prods my already sour mood. I had hoped to sleep on the plane before landing in another time zone, another country. Another world. Steeling myself, I finally give in and glance behind me down the aisle, toward the seat that my senses—the extra ones—tell me holds my stalker. The seat appears empty, though the one across from it is occupied by a blond woman wearing headphones. She flicks me a dirty look, then goes back to perusing her magazine. If only she knew what sat across the aisle from her. She might drop her magazine in search of a parachute. I sit forward again when the plane hits another pocket of turbulence. Usually, lurkers—the ones I choose to ignore—eventually get bored with me. For whatever reason, this one wants my attention. Enough that it’s willing to wait for me to acknowledge it. Is that what it’s waiting for? From what I can tell, I’ve got two equally terrible options. One, I can keep ignoring it, and assure by doing so that it’ll still be on my heels when I walk into this job—which I need—or two, I can unmask it and start to deal with its janky ass. Helen. What would she do? I sigh and lean forward, jerking my carry-on knapsack out from beneath the seat in front of me. After yanking my sketchpad free, I scrounge for one of my charcoal pencils. Setting the sketchpad on my lap, I go to work, tracing a faint black outline. My pencil flits here and there, following the orders of my intuition. My irritation—and, yeah, my fear—lends the lines a frayed look. A tatty, not-cool shape comes together. Narrow frame. Lean limbs. Sharp and gaunt features half-lost beneath the hood of a heavy black cloak. Ashen skin like cracked and peeling plaster. Next come the eyes, which are . . . informative. Not that I need more evidence to confirm my instincts regarding this thing. Like a pair of high beams, two orbs of penetrating firelight-orange blaze through the shadowed hood, each slit through the middle vertically by a blade-thin pupil of pure black. My charcoal can’t convey the color I “see,” but it does illuminate a gaze full of intent. Think feral predator in the dark, except with lava eyes. But there’s more. Against pale skin he wears a thin black necklace adorned with a single matching bead pendant. Because accessories are everything. Thin dry lips are parted, almost as if he doesn’t want me to miss this detail: the razor teeth that lie beyond. They make me want to ditch the sketchpad and start looking for my parachute. But . . . I don’t stop. It’s too late, like I’d known it would be the moment I started. Like the moment after I signed that waiver. Got on this plane. Told everyone at Lowood what I really thought of them. . . My heart speeds up as my hand keeps going, almost like it’s possessed, the tip of my pencil trading off between outlining and filling in details. Locks of long, silken, snow-white hair escape the hood that, on either side of the entity’s head, hides something . . . bulky. The heavy fabric of the hood conforms to curled shapes that conjure the image of a ram’s horns. I keep going. His hands tell a story, too. White fingers, cracked as well, degrade into long, sharp black claws. After finishing his obsidian manicure, my pencil flits back to those eyes. Because there’s something about them. Flashlights of soul-searing doom. Those onyx gashes that serve as pupils . . . It’s like I know them. Saw them once in a nightmare I never remembered until now. And somehow the blackness of the shadows that cling to him isn’t black enough. Shit, though. My pencil’s not black enough. I see you, too, those eyes seem to say. Along with so much else I don’t know how to translate—or capture—with the tools at my disposal. I go after answers anyway and, against my better judgment, continue to excavate from my inner perception the terrifying image of a . . . a. . . “The F are you?” I whisper under my breath. And what do you want from me? I don’t dare ask this second question aloud. Instead, it echoes through my mind as I pause to examine my work. But then all thought derails the moment those eyes, the ones on my paper, blink. Terror detonates in my gut. My hands tremble to the point that there will be no more drawing. My heart hammers even harder, beating a warning I know from experience to heed. If only I knew what, exactly, that warning was. When the overhead lights flicker, I make myself pause and reevaluate. I make myself think logically. This thing. I don’t know what it is and I’m too afraid to guess. But am I letting my fear give it more power than it truly has? It’s entirely likely, for instance, that what I’d perceived as m
Enochian is an actual real-world language that was recorded in the private journals of the occultist John Dee and his colleague Edward Kelley from the late 16th-century England. Claiming to have discovered the language with Kelley acting as a spirit medium, both men claimed that the language was delivered to them by real angels, and also had alternate names such as the Celestial Speech and the Language of Angels. In Bayonetta games, both the Angels of Paradiso and the Demons of Inferno use Enoch
The all-new Walk With Spirits Tour at Winchester Mystery House delves into the supernatural lore of the world’s most famous haunted mansion.
