surrounded by darkness and the demons that reside here there everywhere I go lurking in my dreams haunting my dreams why won't they let me be what have I done to deserve this cruel fate and everyone around me is so full of hate

It all begins at 666 West Alchemy Road... Discover the "Secrets of Ravenstone" as a young woman of demonic origins travels to the mysterious Isle of Castillion, where she encounters supernatural and paranormal characters and is introduced to creatures of legend that dwell beneath the island. Follow her dangerous journey, as she's chosen by an ancient orb-stone that has yet to reveal its own secrets. ....................**********....................**********....................**********....................**********........ Book One in my urban fantasy/paranormal romance book series. If you enjoy vampires (that don't sparkle or eat solid foods) lycans (Underworld inspired), jinn, demons, dragons, hellhounds, magic and more, then this could be the series for you!

The heart races, swiftly moving across the fiery landscape, and hastily dragging its reluctant owner along with it. Its goal, an escape from this place akin to hell, is almost within its grasp. My sloppily thrown together preparations don't seem to be enough though; a figure engulfed in shadows as black as a starless midnight blocks my way. I try to ask who this figure is, and from whence he came, but my lips lock themselves together. Then, as if he heard the thought as clearly as I said it in my mind, he steps forward to reveal himself. Even I knew that every story, including real life, needs an antagonist. Yet, like many others, I never expected to be my own. I mentally ask him why he blocks our way, and he gets even closer. The closer he gets, the more my heart seems to sink, cowering in immense fear. He begins convulsing, shifting into past experiences, present pains, and future worries. Luckily, my brain knows what my heart does not; that creature is not me. Hell, that creature isn't even real. Briefly, I compose myself, and stare at this tangible form of anxiety. Slowly, I begin to walk forward. The walk becomes a jog, the jog becomes a sprint, and within the blink of an eye I've moved forwards and the creature is gone. I continue trying to reach the light at the end of the tunnel, and the land itself around me seems agitated by this decision. The fires grow larger than my life itself, creating a graceful yet malicious dance around me. Sparks with a dark intensity fly past me wherever I trod, grazing my barren skin. A heavy gloom begins to slowly roll in. I try to run away from it, but disobeying my commands, my legs begin to crawl to a halt. I close my eyes and silently beg for any person, or any higher power to lift me up and carry me out of here, spending the last ounce of rapidly draining hope left in my body. I open my eyes, and look up, only to realize my last hope was spent in vain. I feel something grabbing me, preparing to drag me deep into the ominously approaching darkness. The steam from my last shed tear climbs my face as quickly as the tear rolled down. I think to myself, “There is no hope. I will never escape this.” Multiple creatures of billowing shadow whisper cruel words into my ear, reaffirming these thoughts. The figures all swirl around me, forming a pitch black tornado and releasing their intense hatred upon me. The largest, and darkest of the figures slowly comes out of the whirlwind and approaches me. A vindictive smile creeps across his face, and he slowly raises me a knife. A bit of reluctance builds up in me as I take the blade, but the faceless voices around me scream in joy, convincing me of the validity of this decision. I turn the knife around, and point at my throat. The cacophony of blackened screams around me grow so loud and restless that they're basically indistinguishable from typical white noise. I let out what I believe to be one last whimper: “goodbye world”. As I get ready to make death my escape from this hell, I can barely make out a seemingly human voice crying out against my decision. I hesitate, and slightly lower the blade. The whirlwind of shadowy figures around me begin to grow agitated. There it is again, and I could make it out clearly this time: a friendly, human voice. The screams around me that were originally of joy shift to sighs of disappointment, and wails of agony. My heart begins to rise. The tornado around me shrieks in pain and terror as an entrance is forced into the tornado. A figure of what appears to be pure light offers me their hand. I grasp them, hope welling up in me once more. That hope was all it took. The world flashes a white purer than the stars, and I feel grass beneath my feet. I look around me, and instead of my hellscape see a meadow, with the person shining brighter than both moon and sun combined smiling at me from within. That was the moment I realized something I now think everyone needs to know. The light at the end of the tunnel won't always be an object or come from within; the key to your cage is never inside with you. The light can be someone around you, an animal, a river, a song, whatever you want it to be. Light has no defined shape. Surround yourself with as many lights as possible, not figures of malevolent shadow.

There is a sign, of course, at the foot of the drawbridge: “Welcome to the inside of my head”. Ah yes... take in the brilliance of my Disney-like castle. The palatial grandeur, the iridescent colours. The bricks are units of time: from small second-bricks to huge year-ones. And those turrets? They're decades. The fourth one is still under construction. Do you see how my castle shimmers on a sunny day? When the skies are warm and blue, marvel at the French doors that swing open to the sound of music. Out pop amazing stories of wild adventures, daring encounters and breath-taking journeys. Out dance passionate affairs dripping in salacious details, followed by hilarious conversations, endearing anecdotes. Inside my Castle of Time it's like one of these multi-screen cinemas where rich assortments of films are playing simultaneously, in various languages and with different subtitles. There's upbeat jazz music – the quick tempo a perfect remedy for the chaos of my ever-spinning thoughts. Fairy lights are a-twinkle and the scent of freshly baked bread magics a smile upon your face. “How clever, how witty!” visitors say. “Super creative… fabulous imagination.” “Aren't you tired? There is SO MUCH going on here,” says a kind soul. “Inspirational.” “I can't stop laughing. Do you do this professionally? No? Well, you should.” “Those psychedelic dreams!” “So capable,” says a tourist, clapping me on the back. “Great potential. When is your book coming out?” But suddenly, thick clouds set in and drown out the sun. The drawbridge creaks and heaves as it clanks down. There, in that muddy moat that hugs the castle, live terrible traumas. Hideous monsters that rise from the murky depths. The tigers crouching under the drawbridge are males who touched me, uninvited. The dragons hiding in the rye are the screamers; dominant men who must be in control at all times. There are more demons in that pond, lurking in the shadows of the Castle. The snakes are the cheaters, the scorpions the contaminators. Worst of all are the piranhas; the loved ones that simply upped and left. They wake up when my castle is stressed, scared or worn out. That's when the CP (Condemning Priest) who rules the place spews his poison, his Sect of Smug Women screeching that nothing I do is good enough. “My book,” I tell the tourist, breathing away the tension, “Oh, I don't know. I…” By now, the grey sky is pressing down on me. I feel exhausted. I want to run inside the donjon and hide in a room marked PRIVATE. It has a sofa with a warm blanket, a TV, books, and mountains of chocolate. “You'll never amount to anything,” the CP sneers. His Smug Women snigger. They've caught up with me, loving the torture. “Others write better, more poignant stories,” they mock. “They're successful. You're not.” “You have no energy to pull it off, a book on the market? You're always tired. Loser!” “Failure!” “You've got wrinkles. Time's up.” “Your body is flabby, you can't stop bingeing.” “You say you work hard but you have only ONE child. Pish.” I try to ignore their scorn. Grunting, I shove the CP and his haters in the pantry and lock it. I have another tourist to show around. “And where are you from?” I ask as I throw away the key. “Macedonia.” “Great,” I smile, opening the golden doors. “Здраво. Јас сум Сузана. Како си? добро или лошо? Мило ми е.” The woman's mouth falls open. “How did you...?” “I learnt some Macedonian whilst studying in Barcelona.” “Which languages do you speak?” “Oh,” I say shyly. “English, Dutch... and to varying degrees, French, German, Spanish, British Sign Language, Arabic, Italian, Mandarin and Turkish. “Can you read the Cyrillic alphabet?” “It was amazing to read signs in Moscow,” I say excitedly. But in the distance, I hear banging and clanking. The CP and his army of Smug Women. They're breaking out of the room. I feel anger bubbling inside. “What about Arabic?” the tourist asks. “Love reading and writing from right to left.” “And the Chinese one?” “Don't push it.” Grinning, the tourist picks up a memory. “Wow,” she breathes. “You covered this posh hotel in the Seychelles? You're a journalist? A writer?” Before I can even reply, the CP comes galloping up, flanked by his faithful followers. “She was,” he barks, “but now...” BAM! My fist hits him square on the nose. He slumps on the floor, clutching his bleeding face. Did I just do that? The tourist is too wrapped up in pictures of tropical trumpet fish and gorgeous Creoles to notice. She grabs a Huge Fact off a shelf. “Who's this handsome little prince? You're a Mum too?” “Lazy sloth…” one Smug Women starts. "She..." But I don't let her finish. “Oi,” I say, yanking the Smug's hair. “I am the Queen of my castle,” I bite at them. “No one else. Shoo!” “That's right,” I tell the tourist as I glare at my retreating demons. "And I do both well.” Yes, I've got some fight left in me. But how do I banish the baddies from my castle forever? Time will tell.

Hey, you! Yes, you. Over here! Not there you moron, over here! The mirror! Yes. Good. So, hello there. My name is- ‎ Whoa whoa don't go away! I'm not going to hurt you. I know it's a little weird that a mirror is talking to you but trust me when I say that I mean no harm. No, you're not going crazy, the last thing you'd imagine if you were bonkers would be a talking mirror! I'd know that considering I WAS a psychiatrist before all this. Well, alright then. Let's start over. My name is Benjamin. Nice to meet you. And you are- hold it up! Good grief you're dumber than I thought. Don't all the supernatural shows you watch always tell you to guard your name? Don't frown like that. If you bandy about your birth name I guarantee that you'll regret it. Of course I'm using an alias, silly boy! Stop scowling! I graduated from college when you were in your diapers, kid. You ARE a little boy. So, let's go again shall we? I'm Benjamin, and you are? Brandon. Good. Nice to meet you. What am I? That's awfully rude of you. I'm not some vile beast. I happen to be a gentleman. Yes, I am simply an unfortunate soul who had the abysmal luck of being imbued to this mirror. It's been so long that I've encountered another being such as yourself that I almost mistook you for an animal! Well, you certainly dress the part. Sorry sorry don't be upset. It's just a little tomfoolery. Anyways what my point is- no I'm not going to tell you to rescue me or anything like that. I WISH I could be freed. But this curse is forever. Don't pity me, it's not so bad- just a plain white void extending infinitely in all directions. In essence a canvas to be filled with your imagination. What I am here to say is a warning. Be wary of demons. Yes. Ghosts, apparitions, monsters they're all one and the same. But what's out there is much scarier than the troupes you'll find in popular culture. Demons are clever, cunning and manipulative, smarter than you'll ever be, even smarter than me. How do you think I ended up in this egregious mess? Don't give me that look. You'll thank me later. Yes, a demon trapped me in here. I was an ignorant tool. And the demon was especially cunning. It was an ideal recipe for disaster. The details are fuzzy. Besides, it's not a memory I particularly like to remember. But basically I was playing a game of question and response with the thing. And I lost. The question and response is the most rudimentary occult ritual and yet, it can yield the greatest dangers. The game is simple: you summon a demon, or encounter one, in my case, and then play with it. You try outmaneuvering it with your words as it tries to prey on your soul. Fun. You might be wondering why you cannot refuse playing altogether. The reason is pretty simple, you often don't even know that you're playing it, so if you detect a demon in your vicinity, hold your tongue and think. That's the safest way to play. You ask a question. You go first, you see, demons like to feign modesty as this can often yield trust. Be aware of every word it utters and every word you do. Your soul depends on it. The demon will lie to you, however it has only two chances to do so. So if you can hold out, it is obligated to answer ANY question you ask. Anything at all. You know, why your grades are falling, or maybe how to score that cute redhead from English class. Lucky guess. Lying during the game allows the monster to do add more lies to its roster. The idea to fish out its lies and then ask your question. Don't be an idiot. The risks, you ask? Well, on a scale of bruises to eternal damnation, it is often the latter. Try to answer your questions as honestly as you can, even if it hurts you. Because if that's the worst the demon can do, then you have played the game correctly. What're you staring at? Were you expecting more? Amusing. No. While there are other arts I'm afraid I must refrain from tainting you any further. You already know too much. Before we part ways however I can offer a little bit of practice if you will... Feeling enthusiastic? All right, you first. How old am I? Well I am 89, quite old, I know. The years have not been kind. How old are you? Eighteen? Ah, such a tender age. What's the time? Why, it's half past three in the morning. What do you have in your pocket? Of course it's your ID! What's my favorite number? What an odd question! Well I've never thought of it like that but I'd say that it's two. Can you do me a favor? Well tell me if you can. It's nothing too much. You don't even have to leave from here. Why, thank you! What question got me in this mirror? Why do you ask? It's not a pleasant memory. I don't wish to talk about it. Can you read what's written on your ID aloud? Don't shake your head. You said you'd do me a favor did you not? You committed. You have to. Don't be afraid, your hands are only moving to keep your word; they like keeping their promises. Don't you? It's alright, everything is going to be JUST fine, Mr. Anthony Green.