||Garrett Calcaterra lives on the west coast, eking out a
living as a writer and teacher. He is the author of several
forthcoming books and has published dozens of short stories,
articles, and reviews in a wide variety of genres and styles,
though more often than not, he leans toward writing dark
speculative fiction. When not writing, he enjoys hiking with
his two dogs and quaffing good beer.
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||Congratulations, Garrett, for winning second place in the
2010 Preditors and Editors Readers Poll!
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|Twenty years after he left, Dedrick Hearne returns
to the once opulent Victorian style mansion where he grew
up—and where his childhood friend, Penny, disappeared
without a trace. In each room of the labyrinthine mansion
Dedrick finds answers to the puzzle, but at the cost of
reliving the horrific childhood he has put behind him. The
only way to save himself and find out what happened to Penny
is to unlock the doors of his family's past... The Key Ring.
After a freak accident leaves star athlete Damon Cody
paralyzed from the neck down, Damon turns to writing tales
of a vigilante super hero with the voice-recognition
software his two life-long friends, Brad and Hayley, have
given him. When the vigilante acts from Damon's stories
start happening in real life, though, Brad and Hayley must
uncover the identity of the vigilante before he turns on
them all... The Shadow.
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(ISBN # 978-0-9844521-8-7)
| Never throw away a key. That’s a habit I
picked up from Uncle Ormund. It’s some twenty years since I last
saw him and I’ve still got two key rings: the everyday one for
my house and car keys, and the big one—the kind you see janitors
toting around—with close to a hundred keys on it. Some I still
use occasionally. A few others I still remember what they once
unlocked. The rest are lost in the dusty, cobweb-filled vaults
of my memory. Of the ones I remember, there’s the set to our San
Francisco condo we rent out and the storage space we still have
there in the City; the ones from Erica’s old apartment, and
mine; the spare to my wheelie-happy, three cylinder Kawasaki she
made me sell after I ran it through a stop sign post and
fractured the ulna in my right arm; the padlock key I stole to
the cafeteria ice-cream freezer at Stoneridge Academy; and
probably a dozen ancient-looking warded keys from the Hearne
In the dream I had last week, I was trying to find this
Grams was lying on the bed, beckoning me closer for a
kiss. There were mealworms in her mouth and eyes, and skin was
tightening in from the walls and ceiling all around me. I tried
running, but my legs were mired in that invisible bog that
always slows you to near paralysis in dreams. I was slipping
downward towards Grams’ maw, a gaping pit of chains, shit, and
blood. I grasped out for anything to hold on to and found a
doorknob. Summoning some unfound strength, I pulled myself
through the doorway and slammed the door shut behind me. The
shadows from Gram’s tentacles projected beneath the door. I ran
to my desk and fumbled through the drawers.
You can’t leave her locked in there forever, Uncle
Ormund suddenly says to me, but then he turns to dust.
I finally find the key ring and turn to face the
doorway . . .and that’s when I woke up.
“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you, Dedrick?”
my wife asked me.
I was standing in my study—my real study—between my
drafting table and desk, only in my underwear, with the big key
ring in hand. Erica was standing at the doorway where she
must’ve just flipped on the lights. It’d been years since she
last found me sleepwalking. It’d been years since I had a dream
I remembered. I don’t know what she made of it. All she said
was, “I’m going back to bed.” Me? I knew something was wrong.
In the morning I got the call from the Lake County
coroner’s office saying that Uncle Ormund had died of heart
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