Through the Woods
D. M. Million, R. M. Carpus
(A Short Story Anthology, Vol. 2)
Publication date: September 9th 2025
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Horror, Paranormal
Welcome to Thorn Valley, where the dead make the rules and the living follow them.
Everyone knows what goes on at the Thorn Valley Cemetery. The locals never stray from the three sacred rules.
Don’t speak when you enter through the gate.
Never visit at night.
Never visit alone.
Seems simple enough, but in this town, nothing is simple, and no place is safe. Don’t let the white picket fences and cozy shops on Main Street fool you. Here, the dead don’t sleep, and they’re always in charge.
Escape to the small, eerie town of Thorn Valley in this fresh collection of spine-tingling tales from the much anticipated next installment of THROUGH THE WOODS.
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SNEAK PEEK:
Then I see where I’m standing, at the edge of an ivy-covered gate, black iron, sharp-toothed rods I recognize well, even in the damp, cold night. The entrance to the Thorn Valley Cemetery. My freezing fingers lace tighter around Eva’s, and I look down at my bare, mud-caked feet. I’m in my blue satin nightgown, half-sheathed by my lace ivory bathrobe. Gasping, I cover myself and whirl around in the damp cold, searching the night for signs of life
or reason.
“Why am I here? What are we doing here?”
Eva releases my hand but keeps her eyes locked on mine as if I might disappear. She shakes as she tugs the quilt from her shoulders to wrap me in its warmth. “You had another spell,” she says, still trembling as she guides me away from the gate. “You were trying to climb up and over. Your sister called me and said you were gone, that your bedroom window was open, the curtains pulled wide. She woke up to make tea because she couldn’t sleep and had a feeling
she should check on you.”
“Another dream.”
“Yes.”
“They’re getting worse.”
“I know.”
“I was . . . on the coast.” Dizzy and dazed, I pause for a beat to get my bearings. Eva stalls too, waiting patiently for me to find my balance. “The sea was coming for me, it wanted to drown me. I was running, then climbing . . . trying to climb toward the sky.” I can feel Eva’s horror, her pupils like frozen, black saucers stunned as they study my face.
“There was so much sun, so much blue, an unwavering stillness on land. But the sea . . . it roared, it wouldn’t stop reaching for me. I felt an earthquake, an imminent tsunami in the distance, even in the stillness. I couldn’t let it have me, I just couldn’t—” Eva takes hold of my shoulders, carefully turning me toward her. I know in that moment my eyes are tinged with a ripple of madness, and that she sees it, too. “This is going to stop.”
-“Night Fever,” Thorn Valley – R. M. Carpus
Author Bio:
DM Million: I grew up in southern New Jersey, reading fantasy and paranormal books. I love anything that whisks me away to another world, and I wanted to create my own worlds for readers like myself to enjoy. I believe reading is not only an escape from our real-world problems, but a way to expand our minds, keep us sharp, and bring us joy. What I love about books is that we can use our imaginations to "see" what the author sees. When we watch TV or a movie, we can turn off our creativity and mindlessly view what the creators intended for us. But reading requires the engaging of our creative minds. I hope that you will enjoy my stories as much as I have enjoyed writing them.
R. M. Carpus is the author of THE CITY WIFE and co-founder of Wraith House. Born in Philly and raised in sunny Southwest Florida, her nomadic spirit has carried her all over the U.S. She now resides in the moody Pacific Northwest, where she dwells with ghosts of the bygone grunge era, always on the lookout for Eddie Vedder, killer whales, and inspiration for the next book. When she’s not reading or writing, she’s engrossed in ’90s music and reruns, catching a film at SIFF, or hiding away in the San Juan Islands or the Olympic Peninsula. She loves animals, the ocean, and spooky season.
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My existence was as cold as my birth. I was born with both knowledge and will—an inevitability for my kind. Drawn to the final moments of mortal life, we came into being. Some of us became Reapers, tasked solely with ferrying souls to their afterlife. Others craved the power of souls, calling themselves gods of Death—Shinigami. They believed that devouring or absorbing souls granted them greater might, but found that power only deepened their coldness and emptiness. Those gods of Death became husks, bored of their own immortality yet too frightened to end themselves. But being a Reaper can yield the same chill. Though I know the souls would be lost without our guidance, my own existence seems bound to a perpetual winter, drawn to the final beat of each mortal life.
