ValentineDavis21

Adermoor Cove is a serial I'm working on about a town on an island just off the coast of Maine and a young man who goes to the town in search for answers. The young man, Lane Hardy has been on the run for a year, being stalked by a supernatural force he doesn't understand, as well as his own uncontrollable powers. Adermoor Cove is supposedly where the dark source comes from. As he tries to find out more about the dark forces and his own past, he discovers the town isn't what it seems. Today I want to talk about the inspirations I had to write the story. Silent Hill: I saw the movie when I was eleven on a rainy day. My mom and I didn't have anything better to do so we went to one of the cheapy movie theaters. my mother hated it - she didn't understand it, and anything she can't understand she hates. I loved everything about: the premise, the creepy atmosphere and music, the sense of dread. Ever since I saw the movie I've always wanted to write something similar. Stephen King: I remember Mom read his books a lot in college. I was exposed to his work from a very young age. I started reading him when I was in middle school. Of course at that age I couldn't fully appreciate his work the way I do now. I tend to like his early work: The Shining, Cujo, Firestarter, Pet Semetary, and Misery being among my favorites. None of these books really scare me, except Misery because of the one scene with the axe (Stephen KIng as a way of writing where you can actually see what's happening as if you're there yourself). If anything i find these books to be tragic. They've stuck with me because of their bleakness. Even if the main character survives at the end it doesn't necessarily mean the story ends on a happy note (The Shining, Firestarter, Cujo, and Misery). I want to capture that feeling of tragedy, of true bleakness. And of course Stephen King inspired games like Silent Hill. H.P. Lovecraft: I have never read any of his stories but I love the mythos he's come up with and the idea around dealing with forces the world doesn't understand. And like the creatures he's created his stories truly have an alien feel to them. I've seen several movies based or inspired by his work that i found rather terrifying (The Thing, In the Mouth of Madness, and The Void). While Stephen KIng will always be closest to my heart without Lovecraft I don't think writers like Stephen KIng or Clive Barker (another writer I love) would be who they are. And finally last but not least: Myself. My experiences. Having experienced mental health issues and trauma Adermoor Cove is really just an analogy of how I feel: Running from my depression and anger, paranoia, feeling as if there's no one I can trust. In the story there's a saying: I'm going to quote a character from my story: "People who leave Adermoor Cove always comes back one way or another." And people who go there who aren't from there get stuck. That's how i feel after fifteen years of living in Indiana, where I'm from so I put that in the story as well. Oh and I also have a lighthouse fetish which is a central part of the story. Anyone who reads this entry please consider at least try reading the first part of Adermoor Cove. At 11,000 words it is a quick read. i am currently in the middle of posting the second part and almost finished with the third. i would like to hear your thoughts on the story.

Charlie collapsed into the empty spot of the bed next to Lane. His chest heaved up and down as he fought to catch his breath. Dan McCafferty of Nazareth sang about how love hurts on the old vinyl record player. “Goddamn,” Charlie said, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep my hands off you for a whole weekend.” Lane grinned from over his shoulder. He laid on his side with his head propped up on his knuckles, so the Grim Reaper was flipping Charlie the bird. “It’s just for two days

“Hey buddy, are you okay in there?” the guy on the other side of the door asked. There came out sounding like theugh. Lane snickered, wiping his face with the back of his cast. Even after a month of living in Colorado he was still getting used to the Northern accent. The guy knocked on the door again, making it shake. “C’mon, guy, my little boy out here needs to use the can.” “I’ll be out in a minute,” Lane said impatiently. He pulled the nozzle on the toilet and watched his lunch, a

He opened his eyes and saw the right side of the bed was empty - Charlie was gone. The terror was still there, as stark and raw as the smell of blood. He could still feel his father’s hand on the back of his hair, shoving his head under cold bath water; the helpless feeling of not being able to fight back. And then the feelings of guilt and fear when the smoke cleared and he found his mother sobbing over his father’s dead body and he realized he was a killer. Charlie was gone.

Exhausted and reeling from the nightmare events at the Rainbow Beret, Lane has finally reached Adermoor Cove. There he meets Vanessa Stanton, a woman who's dying from terminal cancer. Meanwhile, in flashbacks, the truth about Charlie's death is revealed.

I always have formatting issues with the whole copy and paste thing. I will try to be more contientious of that in the future.

Lane was ready to pack up and start driving towards Maine, but first he had to get his last paycheck from Phillip. He was reluctant to see the nasty old bastard and would have rather just forgotten about it but he needed all the money he could get. The moment he walked through the door, he sensed something was wrong. There was no one in sight: no one stood behind the bar serving drinks or played pool or sat in the booths. The jukebox was on, playing a Johnette Napolitano song: “Who’s holding

Thank you, Howzat.

Brendan tossed and turned throughout the night. It was unusual, not being able to sleep. He went to bed at the same time every night and got up at the same time every morning - but he couldn’t stop thinking about Lane. The more he replayed last night's events in his head the more he began to think there was something with Lane he’d missed. Ignoring the voice that told him to leave well enough alone, Brendan got in his truck and drove to The Rainbow Beret. He peeked inside and saw Lane was

Thanks Carlos, fixed it.

Brendan pulled up to The Mountaintop Inn in his red Ford pickup truck. He’d put on a plaid shirt and jeans and cologne. I’m too old for him, he kept telling himself. Why would he want to be with an old man like me? But then he reminded himself he’d never been with a man who wore eyeliner and had piercings and tattoos, or was half his age. This was a first. Looking at himself in the mirror, he ran his hand through his thinning hair and tried to cover up the bald spot as best he could. When he

It was close to the end of the shift and the bar was closed. Everything was quiet except for the jukebox, which was playing a Johnette Napolitano song (Lane’s choice). Jamal, the cook, having already cleaned up the kitchen, had left. Phil was back in his office, counting the cash today’s business had brought in. Business this evening had been good. Lane hadhis own nice wad of cash in his pocket from tips. Quite a bit of the cash had come from Brendan. Lane was caught between hoping he would make

Brendan McCoy went to The Rainbow Beret faithfully every Friday. Friday was always payday at the factory where he worked, manufacturing water bottles. He made just enough to pay the bills and come to the Beret at the end of the week to have a couple of beers. He mostly went to see if he could find someone who wouldn’t mind spending the evening with him - ultimately curbing the loneliness that came with being an aging bachelor. The Rainbow Beret was a small bar on the side of I-70; wooden wa

New bartender, Lane Hardy, has come to work at The Rainbow Beret, a gay bar outside of Denver. Regular customer Brendan McCoy is immediately attracted to his odd nature and appearance. But the more he gets to know Lane the more he senses the young man is on the run - from what he doesn't know, and what he doesn't know could kill him.

XNCRZY I am getting ready to do a rewrite of the first part and then will finish the project as soon as I am done with the current project I'm working on Hellscape. There will be some changes made to Danni's character and he will have a better backstory. I'm just not happy with the first draft and Danni's character. I think he's kind of cartoonish. Stick around Part 2 will happen.

Will I appreciate you pointing these grammatical mistakes out. It's one less thing I have to pay editors for when I go to publish. Sometime in the near future I will be doing a rewrite of this - there are some things I want to change and other things I want to add. This is just the barest bones of the story and there's so much I didn't put in there that I wanted to. When I do the rewrite it would be helpful to have someone to catch these things. And with my other works as well.

After a day and a half of stumbling through the cold, past gnarled branches and through a wind laced with razors, the wood parted and at long last Skold came to Chateau de la Maubvin. The castle sat atop a tall hill, surrounded by trees. Looking upon its many towers and parapets Skold could see the majestic beauty the castle once held. But, as with many things, the black plague had altered its appearance, sapped the life from it. Yet the sense of being watched crept over him like a cold chill. T

The rabbit scampered through the snow, a flash of brown fur in an expanse of snowy white and twisted brambles. Skold saw the diamond shaped spots of white fur on its back, the frantic black of its eyes. He stood under the branches of a tall tree, the hood of his jacket pulled over his head. He stood perfectly still, the arrow knocked back. The only sign of movement was his eyes tracking the rabbit’s every step. He blinked once and released the arrow. The arrow shot through the frigid air, pu

After three weeks of traveling through treacherous hills and cutting wind Skold and Konstantine finally reached an elven settlement called Ostette. They would have reached the settlement sooner had they not been delayed twice: the first time by a group of orc rangers and the second time by a snow blizzard. From the orcs they’d hid behind a scraggly cluster of weeds and from the blizzard they’d taken refuge in a cave for three days. It has snowed so on the third day Skold and Konstantine had to s

For a moment all Dionysia could do was stare. Could he really be standing before her, the Prophet? Her memory flashed back to the surreal moment where she’d stood before him at the altar, the entire congregation, the buzzing sensation she’d felt whenever he touched her. “Dionysia?” her father called. “Who is it?” She glanced over her shoulder at him, uncertain of what to do. Helpless. Phillip craned his neck and scowled at her when he saw who it was. “Well don’t just stand there like a

Thank you so much for your input. It's really helpful. So far A Different World has been my own personal favorite project to work on and it's the one that's got the least attention on here so any help is appreciated. As far as your 'dream' comment a few chapters back there is a movie that heavily plays on the concept of dreams becoming nightmares called Vanilla Sky? Perhaps you've seen it. It's one of my favorites. It's not for everyone and calls for multiple viewings for it to make sense but I do recommend it.

Every inch of Skold’s body ached. He and the remnants of his group had been trudging through Swineshead Wood for hours. Soon, he sensed, it would be morning. He pushed aside a long gnarled branch and there, just yards away, was the stream they’d passed on the way to the orc camp. Most of it was frozen in places but there were still spots free from the ice. He knelt down in the snow and dipped his hands into the freezing water. His hands were instantly numbed but he didn’t care; his throat w

It was difficult for Maeglin to walk: His legs were full of pins and needles and it was hard to balance himself with his arms being pinned behind his back. He winced, hating the smell of his own waste, the feeling of it brushing up against his skin. The orcs were laughing and he imagined it was at the expense of his humiliation. Once in the center of the camp they were surrounded by orcs. A massive hand shoved Maeglin roughly to the ground. He fell over with a grunt and tried to catch his b

Everyone inside the church froze, eyes agleam with anticipation. Even the children had gone quiet. It was almost unnatural, this silence. Dionysia’s heart fought to burst its way out of her chest. Here it was, the moment when she would finally get to see the Prophet in the flesh. And why not? It was the least God could do for them after all the pain and heartache her father and she had gone through. The knight was staring at something no one else could see. His face betrayed emotion. Then a

Skold stood in the middle of the court yard breathing in the smell of smoke and dead bodies. Everywhere he looked dead eyes looked up at the sky; some mouths hung open in permanent screams of terror while others were closed in grim contemplation. Many (usually those who had never been in the midst of a battle) believed people died with their eyes open but more often than not this was not the case. There was one corpse he found himself staring at in particular. General Cevna seemed to stare