検索キーワード： 著者 "Aryn Bats" すべてのカテゴリー

In a city veiled in soot and whispering steam, Detective Sweeney Sable tracks a ritual killer who steals the eyes of the wicked, only to find the trail leading straight into her own nightmares. Each body brings her closer to Morwyn Chapel and to Declan, a brilliant, broken man who claims he can see sin glowing beneath skin. As visions bleed into waking life and a voice coils inside her thoughts, Sweeney realizes the murders are part of something far older and more intimate than revenge. Beneath the city, a machine built from grief and glass is waiting, and it does not just want victims.

There are towns born from rivers, towns born from railroads, and towns born from men with money and matches. But Blackburn was born from a grave. Its heartbeat is the hush beneath the soil. Its breath is the wind slipping through the cedar bones of the houses. Its memory is the echo of every door that refuses to stay shut. People who come here learn to move gently, to tread with the respect you’d give a sleeping animal. Because Blackburn can dream… and when it dreams, it dreams of you. It dreams of your footsteps, your mistakes, your blood, your promises. It dreams in hunger.

This story should never have been told. It was meant to stay buried, hidden among children’s fables and nursery rhymes, safe behind painted illustrations and whispered lullabies. Wonderland was always a lie. It was never a dream, it was a trap. And now, thanks to me, Aryn Bats, you hold the proof in your hands. What you are about to hear is not a fairy-tale. It is a dissection. A peeling back of bright colors to reveal the rotting muscle beneath. Every smiling face you remember has been carved into something else, something hungry, something waiting.

In the shadowed heart of Hallowbend, a cursed village where the Fraser river runs cold and the trees whisper secrets, a night of unimaginable horror unfolds. Around a flickering campfire, the children of the town stand motionless, their faces shrouded in darkness, their eyes glowing like dying embers. Parents and officers, gripped by dread, watch as these silent figures, pale, gaunt, and wrong, step into the firelight. Some bear crudely stitched lips, trembling with something trapped inside; others stare with slack, lifeless jaws. Then the nightmare begins.

In the Canadian Rockies, there is a town most maps mark but few mouths dare to name aloud. They call it Eerie, British Columbia, though those who live there have learned not to say the word after dark. It stains the tongue. It carries weight. And it never lets go. If you are reading this, you have already stepped too close. I warned myself once, too. I thought it was only folklore, the rambling of an old woman tethered to her last breaths. Dolores Balcom. She lived more than a century, and yet the final thing she gave this world was not wisdom or comfort but a confession.

Welcome, curious soul, to the shadowed streets of London, a city choked with fog and oil, where gas lamps flicker against walls slick with rain and something far older than humanity stirs beneath the cobblestones. I am Aryn Bats, your guide through a tale of flesh, steel, and madness, where science and horror entwine like gears in a cruel machine. In this book, you will meet a man, Dr. Jekyll, whose brilliance has fractured his very being, giving birth to a creature of nightmare, Hyde. But do not mistake this for a tale of duality and morality. Here, the serum does not simply transform.

In the hushed reverence of night, beneath a muted lantern, I watch. Eyes are not windows—they are involuntary confessions. Sin stains them. Guilt fogs them. False righteousness cracks their lens. A quiet voice guides me: Collect what they squander. Free the truth trapped behind their blinks. Take the eyes, and the soul follows. Take the eyes, and the lie dies. I am no monster. I am a keeper of endings, a steward of clarity. With merciful hands, I gather final gazes—preserving the last pure light before it gutters out.