Official Website of Gothic Poet, Crime Thriller and Horror Author Rena Aliston

Frequently Asked Questions

Frequently Asked Questions

Questions & Answers

About The Books

About The Author

My books can be purchased through most major retailers as well as through my official shop. Each book page has a complete list of sites where the book is available for purchase.

Yes. My books are available through libraries. Please visit the Local Library section of the website for more information.

Yes. The Xander Walsh series is told in chronological order with each book being a continuation of the previous.

There will be three books in the series. The first two books, The Devil’s Grave and The Devil’s Hymn, have been released. I’m currently writing the third and final book in the series.

There will be five books in the gothic poetry collection. The first four books have been released. I’m currently writing poems for the last book.

Signed copies of my books are available through my official shop, but only available in the US.

Neither. My name is pronounced ray-nuh.

I started writing when I was 22, while in the early stages of sobriety. Writing poetry became a way for me to express myself.

As a disabled author, I try to write every day, but it doesn’t always work out that way.

One of my therapists actually enjoyed reading my poetry and told me I should look more into it. I didn’t know anything about writing or publishing at that time, but I love learning new things, so I started researching different poetry forms and joined a few writing sites. After I started posting my poetry and receiving feedback, that was when I began tinkering with the idea of becoming a writer.

I’m a discovery writer (pantser). When I get an idea for a story, it unfolds like a movie preview. I’ll get glimpses of the beginning and the end. The middle of the story unfolds as I write.

I try keep my daily word count at 2,000 words. When it comes to editing, I like to edit at least two chapters a day.

I taught myself archery during the pandemic and fell in love with it. I’d like to try my hand at a crossbow. I also do graphic design for my two businesses. My downtime includes reading, gardening, listening to music, and playing jewel quest.

Everywhere – movies, real life events, history, art. Sometimes things just pop into my head. Being a crime writer, I watch a lot of true crime channels on YouTube, which also helps to get the creative juices flowing.

My preferred time of day was between 8am and noon, but after adopting my dog, Angrboda, my schedule shifted. Now I write between 7am and 10am. That doesn’t mean I stick to only that time, as I’ve written in the evening and am known for waking up in the middle of the night to write.

Write, write, write. The more you do something, the better you get at it. Know who you are as a writer and be true to that. And most importantly read. Read everything, it doesn’t just have to be the genre you write in.

Vengeance: A Xander Walsh Novella

Chapter 1

AISLY PINES’ SHADOWS haunted me. Spirits danced around, fluttering with the leaves, begging me to solve life’s riddles. But I couldn’t. All I could do was stand in the copse and stare at her lifeless body.

One eye greeted me—blue and speckled with red—while the other was sewn shut, surrounded by a sea of purple and black.

I focused on the Svefnthorn carved into both sides of her face. They were identical in length and depth.

Next, I studied the crescent moon engraved on her forehead before following the trail of blood that ran from her torn septum to her lips. My attention shifted to the symbol etched on her chin.

I stepped back and surveyed the scene. Her battered corpse hung before me, her shirt torn o-pen, flesh carved through. Her arms were stretched out beside her, bound at the wrists with ropes. I followed the cords until I reached their end, tied to a tree branch.

The flash of a camera over my shoulder forced my eyes to journey down the rest of her body. Runes danced around her torso, running a-cross her abdomen underneath her breasts. My eyebrows knitted as I stared at the bind rune etched above her belly button before shifting my attention to her blood and dirt-stained pant legs. Her bent knees rested on a wooden altar.

Captain Jansen shuffled through the forest, parting the crowd of detectives gathered around the crime scene. “Please tell me you’ve found something.”

“I haven’t figured out the eyes—why one is open and the other sewn shut—but her cheeks bear the Svefnthorn, a Norse symbol meaning ‘sleep thorn.’ The two crossed arrows on her chin represent traveling.”

Damon tapped his pen against his notepad. “Any particular place?”

“It depends on your beliefs.”

“Care to elaborate?” Captain Jansen inched closer to the body.

“For Christians, it’s heaven or hell. For everyone else, it varies based on their culture and views of the afterlife.”

“What do you believe?”

A gust of wind swept through, muffling the surrounding chatter. A few evidence unit technicians battled with loose sheets of paper fluttering in the breeze, but I remained entranced by the markings on the altar. Damon cleared his throat, breaking my concentration. I glanced at him and smiled. “I’m not a Christian.”

He chuckled and pointed to her abdomen. “What’s that?”

“A bind rune. It’s for protection.”

Captain Jansen peered over his shoulder. “From what?”

“From evil.”

“Jesus!” He hurried over to Coroner Watts and a group of evidence technicians huddled beneath a maple tree.

More detectives arrived on the scene, among them Smyth, smirking and glancing in my direction.

Damon stepped between us and sighed. “He’s not worth it.”

“I know.” I moved to the right side of the victim, focusing on the rope around her wrists before examining the ground. A piece of broom sedge lay beside the altar’s base. I knelt and signaled for an evidence technician, pointing at it. He retrieved a paper envelope and a pair of forceps from his case and collected the plant.

“Is that significant?” Damon asked.

“It’s used to make brooms and is connected to cleansing, purification, and protection.” My eyebrows knitted as I stepped back and surveyed the victim. “Like a witch’s broom.” I knelt in front of the altar, my eyes drifting from the etchings on the altar to the markings on her flesh. “Brooms symbolize feminine strength, freedom, and defiance.”

I circled around to the back of the body. Her shirt draped over her shoulders, revealing a bloody handprint in the middle of the fabric. “Sweeping is about getting rid of the old. A new beginning.” My eyes traveled down her back, past the altar, and toward the terrain. One set of footprints was embedded in the soil.

Damon stood on the other side, shadowing me. My cautious steps drew everyone’s attention as I turned my gaze to the trees. Broken limbs, leaves, and twigs covered the undergrowth, complicating my search.

Other officers and detectives joined us. Captain Jansen and Coroner Watts pushed past the technicians, positioning themselves at the front of the crowd while monitoring my movements.

I rushed to the second tree. There, at the base and nestled in the brush, was a basket containing three apples.

Captain Jansen hurried toward me. “Tell me that means something.”
“Nehalennia.”

Excerpted from Vengeance: A Xander Walsh Novella by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2025 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Penance: A Xander Walsh Novella

Chapter 1

THE STENCH RADIATED throughout the loft as the blaring sun shone through the industrial glass windows. White suits skated across the tiled floor, clashing with the suffocating darkness hovering over the apartment.

Life’s fingers pried my legs to move, but I refused. Instead, I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into the heart of the house.

Death stalked us with its stagnant rhythm. Each note lingered, inviting mankind to peer into the black pit of despair to see its design.

I tried to look past it, concentrating on my reflection in the window, but my heartbeat crashed against its tempo. Lost in its cadence, it trapped me behind steel bars. My soul begged for freedom, but my flesh resolved to dine with misery.

Evidence unit technicians stampeded into the loft. The creaking tires and metal rattling against the tiles broke death’s spell.

I plodded down the steps and parked myself at the main entrance to the living area. A gray sectional sat in the middle. Three vases and notepads rested on the left-hand table.

My attention shifted to the other side of the loft. A lone credenza reclined against the far wall.

Detectives rambled into the room, disturbing the flow of sliding cart wheels and the clicking of cameras. They huddled in the corner, gossiping a-bout me, no doubt.

I ambled to the breakfast nook and fixated on a silver tray with two half-empty glasses before wandering to the green folding chairs encircling the dining table.

A granite-topped island held a ceramic dish full of wooden utensils, a stack of plates, and a terracotta bowl. Everything appeared to be in order. No sign of a struggle.

Chatter from the adjoining room interrupted my concentration. Cameras flashed. Feet traipsed across the floor. Detectives shot glances in my direction.

I stepped around the brick partition, grasped my pendant, and recited her name—Baduhenna.

White suits scattered as I pushed my way further inside. Whispers battered my eardrum. Shuffling evidence bags and shouting from the hallway created a cacophony of madness, but I deafened their cries and focused on the gray pipes traveling along the ceiling.

I followed the round spiral ducts, running the length of the bedroom down the wall, before shifting my attention to the nightstand. A framed picture sat next to a lamp and an alarm clock.

Officers dispersed, retreating to their designated corners, fabricating fresh stories about my past. I smiled as they spun a web of tales—kidnapped as a child, a secret serial killer. Someone accused me of eating children at one point.

I remained fixated on the wall. My eyes traced the liquid dripping from the red letters, spilling over the wooden slat headboard.

Damon sauntered into the room, his arm brushing against mine as he skated past me and slid on his mask. He wrapped his arms around his chest and recited the lines. “Your naked carcass lies sprawled across the bed begging for redemption while your eyes taunt my blade to dance with your tongue.”

“What the hell does that mean?” an officer said.

“Anyone look inside their mouths?”

Detective Smyth and a few of his cronies peered in my direction. “Aren’t you supposed to be the expert, Xander?” Their laughter faded in the distance as they rounded the partition.

“I’ll meet you outside.” Damon removed his mask and bolted out of the room.

Caught in death’s puzzle, I pulled the mask off my face and examined the bodies. One male. One female. On their backs, their arms lay by their sides. Dressed, the woman’s legs were straight, but slightly opened. Her shoes were placed at the end of the bed.

The man lay naked with his clothes folded and positioned beside his left foot. His legs crossed at the ankle.

I knelt and studied them—the position of their limbs, where her shoes were as opposed to his. “Why are you undressed?” My head tilted as I gazed into his eyes.

Murmurs interrupted my train of thought. A few detectives gawked, fingers pointed in my direction.

“Detective Xander Walsh.” Coroner Watts skirted around the partition, wearing his coveted smile. “You look like you have a question?”

“I take it you’ve seen the message?”

“Yeah. Interesting start to my morning.” He flipped through his notepad. “His tongue’s missing.”

“Just his?”

“Hers is fully intact.”

“Anything else before I head out?”

“He slit her throat. It was quick. Can’t say the same for him.” He pointed to the man’s neck. “He drained him through the carotid artery. I’m assuming he used some of it to write on the wall, but I can’t be sure.”

“Maybe he took some with him, like a trophy.”

“That’s possible.”

“Is that how he died?”

“It appears so. I’ll know more once I examine the bodies.” He turned and stared at me. “Welcome back.”

“I’m glad someone’s happy to see me.”

“Don’t worry about these guys. Most of them can’t even spell their names. Anyway, we all have demons to fight.”

I nodded before studying the scene one more time. “They were bound.” I pointed toward their wrists as Coroner Watts leaned over the mattress.

“It’s possible.” A technician approached the bed holding a manila envelope. “There’s sticky residue around their wrists.”

“Alright. I’m headed to the station. Call me when you have something.”

“Will do.”

I walked out of the room, exited the loft, and bolted toward the stairs.

Neighbors gathered in the stairwell, slowing the flow of traffic. Officers shoved them away, yelling for them to get back into their apartments.

I pushed through the crowd as the onlookers scattered into the main hall. A few ran into their lofts, escaping the madness, but most lingered in the walkway, backs pressed against the wall, watching evidence being carted out of the building.

I hurried out the front door and stepped down the single brick step. The sun reflected off the bright yellow ‘Welcome to Winston Estates’ sign, forcing me to squint.

A group of officers stood at the helm of a mob forming outside, shoving a few pedestrians who were forcing their way through the crime scene tape. More occupants sprinted up the sidewalk, demanding entry.

The television station van skidded into the lot across the street, parking beside the local gossip mill. They jumped out of their vehicle with cameras ready and scurried onto the road, bobbing and weaving between cars as drivers beeped their horns.

Damon sat on the hood of his car stalking them, his eyes ping-ponging from the street to the sidewalk.

The reporters darted past him, thrusting their microphones in Captain Jansen’s face.

“You left kind of fast.”

“Didn’t sleep well.” Damon grasped onto the styrofoam cup and sighed. “Even the coffee tastes stale.”

“You and Jackie alright?”

“We can’t seem to get our shit together.”

“You two will work it out. You always do.”

He slid off the hood of the car and smiled at me. “What about you? You’re back. Some of us missed you.”

“What’s wrong? My replacement wasn’t good enough?”

“You’re the only one I’ve been able to mesh with.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet. You’re definitely getting a Christmas card this year.”

“Wow, really?”

An officer handed me a photograph.

“What is it?” Damon said, peering over my shoulder.

“The poem.”

“Poem? Is that what we’re calling it?”

“For now. Maybe it’ll lead somewhere.”

We got into the car, sped out of the parking lot, and turned onto Birchwood Boulevard. A group of women ran across the street, trying to beat the changing light, while horns and skidding tires clashed with the chirping birds and music blasting from the truck behind us.

Damon rolled up his window to mask the sound, but it didn’t help. Instead, our vehicle vibrated against the concrete.

We inched closer to the funeral home and a little past the corner of Millwood Street before traffic came to a crawl. People ventured out of their homes, rushing to their neighbors to find out what happened. I rolled down my window, sticking my head out to get a better look.

The tow truck operator hauled a blue car, indented on the right side, onto its bright yellow flatbed. He secured the tires, jumped into his vehicle, lifted the bed, and sped down the street.

The truck in front of us crept forward. We followed behind, watching officers question the driver on the side of the road. He staggered back and forth as they put him in the police car.

The rest of the ride was uneventful. A couple argued on their lawn. Children boarded the school bus. A few cars turned into the parking lot of Latte Madness for their morning fix.

I cringed at the thought. Coffee never enticed me. I preferred iced tea—unsweetened.

Damon beat his hand on the steering wheel, bobbing his head as the radio blasted from another vehicle. “I love this song.”

“Well, we all have our vices.”

He laughed as the car turned down the alley, music fading in the distance. “What do you think about this case?”

“I don’t know. I’m not much into poetry, but I’m assuming there’s a hidden message somewhere. Otherwise, the theatrics are pointless.”

“You don’t sound enthused.”

“Are you?”

“No.” Damon pulled into the lot and shut off the engine. “Are you ready?”

My lips parted, but no words escaped. I stared out the window, contemplating whether I was ready for the forthcoming onslaught.

Excerpted from Penance: A Xander Walsh Novella by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2025 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The Blue Hour: The Hourglass Collection Book 4

The Dancer

I bend to pain’s desires,
kneeling at her altar
while she serenades
me with timeless hymns.
My shadow awakens,
dancing to an unknown
rhythm, harmonizing
with my soul’s cries.
I watch in fear
as my pride crumbles.

Deception

Deception sleeps in a garden
of willows and daffodils
while thorns from yesterday’s
rose bush pierce my skin.
Lies bleed, flowing upon the soil,
planting animosity – bitterness,
still I attempt to harvest
the disguise I crave.

Decaying Flesh

My shadow builds
an altar with my
broken bones
and drags my decaying
flesh across the field.
She points to the stones
and wood, entreating me
to rekindle the flame
I snuffed out, but I no
longer seek the reunification
of my pieces, for the vision
I held has passed.

The Welcoming

Out of the black,
it happened as I rolled
over, two arms pulling
me toward the divine.
My soul shattered.
Shards of glass slit open
old wounds, unhealed
trauma. My eyes open
as the clock welcomes
another shade of death.

Brittle Bones

Death’s knife slices.
My blood spills,
hydrating brittle bones.
My spine rejoices
as bitterness runs
over the sands of time,
drowning the past.
My closed eyes open –
the right, the left,
the one in the middle.
I see the veil once again
taunting me to embrace fate.

Tossed

Thrown in the fire,
I tossed my soul into agony’s
pit, begging for relief.
Tears drowned any attempt
at escape as I crawled
along the ground, fighting
life so death could erase
my pain. Neither won.
They tossed my soul
into the river and laughed
as my pride floated away.

Wisdom’s Silence

I questioned time
as if I were entitled
to an answer to all
the bitterness lingering
within man’s pillar.
She laughed at my plea,
tore out my tongue
and fed it back to me,
hoping I’d choke on my
pride’s echo and embrace
wisdom’s silence.

A New Dawn

When the crow calls
and the winds sing the song
of the nightingale,
then will the sun and moon
dance below the blackened
sky, rejoicing the coming
of a new dawn.

Excerpted from The Blue Hour: The Hourglass Collection Book 4 by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2026 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The Black Hour: The Hourglass Collection Book 3

One

I stand by the river
staring into her eyes,
haunting, yet I refuse
to turn away for she
is I – we are one.
Our words meld together,
sinking into my bones
like holy fire raining
upon my flesh,
a welcoming brand,
for my disguise
no longer confines me.

The Old Gods

I dine with the old gods,
ones who sacrificed
time and danced with
death’s daughters.
Those who rode
the winds amidst
storms while the sun
scorched their sins away.
Captivated by the old songs,
the old gods, the old ways –
I walk with my ancestors.

Resentment

Two ravens sacrifice
one eye so I can see
through the cobwebs
blocking my view.
I hold them up
to the sky and divine
while hailstones pelt
my flesh. I feel the moon’s
pain as the sun melts away
illusions. Her words crash
against my temple,
begging for my reply,
but my tongue refuses
to release its bitterness.

The Black Hour

The blackest hour holds the key.
My soul releases pain and glee.
Upon the altar – sacrifice.
The guardians of death entice.
Unite with mother, maiden, crone.
Come separate my skin from bone.
Render my carcass, flay my flesh.
My shadow, sun, and moon enmesh.

Rain

I sank further into myself
as they continued to sing
their songs. Lyrics rained
upon my flesh, battering
the little girl inside.
My blood spilled,
rehydrating the sand
as my image appeared
in the glass.
No longer turning away,
I face myself as tears
replenish my pain.

Fraction

My shadow levitates
above me, hovering
like an umbrella
shielding me from rain.
My blood sings as pain
separates, shattering
my disguise.
Only a fraction of my soul
remains intact,
but it’s enough
for me to remember
who I once was.

Devoured

My tongue untangles
time’s riddles.
Serpents slither
across the ground,
over my feet.
They penetrate my flesh,
devouring life’s curse
as I chant the runes
Raidho, Tiwaz, Berkana –
the journey continues.

The Vision

From pain comes healing.
With healing, the vision
unfolds. I see myself
on fire, at the base
of Yggdrasil, at the feet
of the Norns, reciting
their spell as they weave
death’s story – my story,
for we are one.

Excerpted from The Black Hour: The Hourglass Collection Book 3 by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2025 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The Green Hour: The Hourglass Collection Book 2

I Ache

I hide behind the willow
bush, thorns ripping
my hands and feet.
Blood trickles, hydrating
pain buried deep.
I pull the knife
out of my throat
and wail at the gods.
My tears conjure storms.
My animosity separates
truth and lies,
still I ache.

Death’s Womb

She said I suffer
because I dwell
in the light where
pain festers, stimulating
torment’s reign.
I scried – eyes focused
on the flame
within her abdomen.
Death’s womb opened.
I entered and saw
her – freedom.

Desecrated Feathers

Time taunts my flesh,
begging me to sever
ties with desecrated
feathers, but I cling
to dead birds, hoping
my last breath will
rejuvenate their flight.

Nine

Truths – that thing that lies
underneath the graves we dug –
beyond six feet, closer to nine –
that divine number. Three eyes –
one for the mind, one for the soul,
one for the heart – unsynced
through life, rejoined through death.

Excerpted from The Green Hour: The Hourglass Collection Book 2 by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2025 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The Red Hour: The Hourglass Collection Book 1

Submission

I saw the fire
in the distance,
not far from
my bedroom window.
My soul crept
toward it as I battled
with myself.
Through an open
window, my soul
split, removing itself
from the temple
I created with animosity
and madness.
My mind is aware
of its divergence
but humbly submits
to my will.

Retreat

I ventured toward the cliff.
Temptation struck. Jump
shouted from within,
but my desire to survive
the clock’s madness won.
I backed away but caught
a glimpse of her. The one
who lifts the veil between
the worlds. She taunted me.
Her charms delighted
my ears, but I withdrew
further within myself,
retreating into the forest
I tried to escape.

Wallow

I wallow in my
personal hell trying
to decipher riddles
I recite to myself.
My mind is a puzzle
that needs solved.
My flesh is a map
with no destination.
I’m stranded, wandering
between time and
circumstance, lingering
between deception and
redemption. My feet
traipse through the forest,
trying to find its way home
as I’ve given up on myself.

Cursed Flesh

Cursed flesh dances, tangos
with deception’s pleas.
My tongue recites salacious
tales of bodies entwined,
burning skin, flayed carcasses,
lacerated limbs. My desires
writhe with illusion’s grace,
rewriting sacred hymns.

Waves

I lie broken on shards
of glass. Each piece holds
a memory, a reflection
of who I became
after multiple waves
crashed against my sanctuary.
Shattered bones spread
across time’s map,
my feet embrace the journey
but my eyes refuse to seek.

Frost

Frost dances with my torso,
reimagined pain seeks tears,
pulling my carcass deeper
into agony’s pit. My tongue
recites yesterday’s story
while carving a new image
into fire’s design. My hands
reach for death’s timeless
embrace as she beckons
my soul to reclaim its power.

Excerpted from The Red Hour: The Hourglass Collection Book 1 by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2024 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The Devil's Hymn
A Collection of Short Crime & Horror Stories

The Rock

TIMOTHY GRASPED ONTO the flashlight as I chiseled the stone. The light bounced around as his eyes searched the field.

“Hold it still, dammit!”

He gripped tighter on the flashlight as a piece of the rock broke off.

My eyes widened as the diamond glistened. “Oh, look at her. She’s a beaut.”

“How much do you think we’ll get for her?”

My eyes darkened as I turned to face him. “You mean, how much will I get?” I grasped onto my knife and sliced through his throat. His body fell to the ground as a grin spread across my face.

Secrets

IT STARTED AS a joke–a game–hide and seek. The first seeker, I found Shawna hiding in a bush. The others gathered around as she told her secret–she slept with Paul, January’s ex-boyfriend.

January glared at her before laughing. “We were over years ago. But you were caught, so you’re now the seeker.”

We scattered around the forest as Shawna searched for us. A scream crashed against the sky, sending us trampling through the woods.

January hovered over Shawna’s body, blood dripping from the log she held. Her eyes darted in our direction as she smiled. “Want to know my secret?”

Kia

“KIA,” I WHISPERED, peering through the dense fog as it danced around me. I knew better than to bring her to the park this late. Her parents were going to kill me. My feet brushed against the gravel, sending stones and leaves rustling through the night air.

My head turned as a branch snapped. A part of me wanted to shout out for her, but fear wrapped around my throat, forcing a squeal to emerge instead.

I jumped as a squirrel darted in front of me. A chuckle escaped as I placed my hand over my heart and closed my eyes.

I took a few deep breaths before continuing, checking my watch to make sure we returned home before her parents arrived. I didn’t enjoy babysitting, but if I was going to escape the clutches of this town, I needed money.

Making my way to the swing set, I spotted her blue jacket laying on a bed of leaves. I reached for it, bending over to pick it up as an enormous figure moved to my left. My body straightened. My heart beat against my chest. I turned–no one was there.

I picked up the jacket, clutching onto the fabric as I peered through the fog, hands feeling around for the swing chain. The swing creaked as the wind pushed it away from my hand. I waited for its return, but it never came.

My eyes widened as my head turned. There it stood. Big black eyes. Saliva running down its chin. It towered over me, opening its mouth as the mist cocooned its ochre-colored body.

Sweat beaded across my forehead as I pulled the coat closer to my chest. I took a step backward. My foot connected with a branch, sending me crashing to the ground.

The monster snarled as it inched closer, feet marching over a bed of leaves as another breeze swept through. I froze as my back pressed against the soil. A tremble emerged as I dug my fingers into the dirt. My mind screamed move, but my body refused.

It hovered over me, one leg on each side of my torso. The fog cleared as it leaned over me, its warm breath caressing my face. Screams bellowed through the darkness as its mouth widened.

I raised my arms, attempting to block death’s shadow from devouring me.

“Nova, what are you doing down there?”

The wind calmed as I removed my arms from my face.

She stood over me, one leg on each side of my torso, her breath intermingling with mine—Kia. A giggle escaped as she picked up her jacket and skipped around the playground.

My eyes fixated on the night sky as I laid on my back, hand on my chest. My breathing returned to normal as the last trace of fog disappeared.

I pushed myself up off of the ground. My eyebrows knitted as she twirled round the playground, dancing with the leaves as the creaking swing swayed back and forth.

I grabbed hold of her shoulders, forcing her to stand still. “Are you alright?”

“Of course.”

“I thought you were missing.”

Her blue eyes turned gray and then blue as she placed her hands over her mouth and giggled. “Don’t be silly.” She darted past me, running up the street.

I hesitated at first, but followed behind, turning the corner, crossing the street, and sprinting through the front yard. She forced her way inside the house, darting up the stairs as I closed the door.

I paced around the living room, wringing my hands as the tires scraped against the gravel driveway. What happened? What’s wrong with Kia? Do her parents know? My body jolted as the car door slammed.

Their laughter penetrated through the window, traveling up the concrete steps and into the house.

“Nova, how was everything?” Kia’s mom asked as she removed her coat.

“Fine, just fine.”

“Good.”

“It’s foggy tonight,” Kia’s dad said, as his eyes darted in my direction.

“We barely saw the road. It hasn’t been this foggy in years,” Kia’s mom said as she brushed my hair over my shoulder. “You didn’t go out, did you?”

“Of course not.”

Her father’s eyes stalked me as I lowered my head to the floor.

I grabbed my jacket from the arm of the couch and scurried to the door.

“Will you be available next weekend?”

My heart beat against my chest as my feet hesitated to move. “I’ll have to look at my schedule.”

“Well, of course, dear. Let us know.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I hurried out of the house and down the steps. My soul screamed ‘keep moving’, but I didn’t. I turned. I had to see.

My eyes darted toward Kia’s room. There she stood, in the window, smiling as my mind struggled to make sense of what happened.

Sheila

THE MISSED CALL notification popped up on the screen. I dialed Sheila’s number. A piercing sound radiated from my cell. I threw the phone on the table and got ready for work.

The rest of the day was uneventful–a few meetings followed by an impromptu dinner date. Dave called an hour after I got home, asking if I’d seen Sheila. She sent him a weird message about something being inside her, but no one could find her.

Glass shattered in the kitchen as I hung up the phone. I ran downstairs. There she stood. Matted hair. Knife in hand. Sheila.

Excerpted from The Devil’s Hymn: A Collection of Short Crume & Horror Stories by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2025 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The Devil's Grave
A Collection of Short Crime & Horror Stories

Death’s Choir

MY SHADOW CREPT below the pier last night, hovering over an innocent smile. My pain sung, blotting out another’s light.

I sat alone, pondering this existence. I’d become him, the one who invited the serpent into our home. I’d become what I fought so hard against, yet secretly craved.

My hands sought repentance. I told myself, what happened last night would never happen again, but my tongue told tales, for I’d already planned the finale–his finale.

My shadow will creep and pain will sing again, but this time for the one who deserved to be serenaded by death’s choir.

Avenge

NO ONE ANTICIPATED the ravishing tide that swept through the village. The blood-stained streets smelled of rotten flesh. Our boots, soaked in mud, trampled over corpses as many carried their deceased to the center of town.

We huddled together. Some released their anguish through tears, while others wailed to the gods, begging for relief. A storm cut through their cries, washing away crimes bestowed by the night.

Many scattered, retreating into their homes. But nine of us remained. Our eyes surveyed the remnants of our ancestors as we grabbed our swords and mounted our horses, promising to avenge their murders.

One Million

I ENTERED THE competition on a whim. Wasn’t expecting to win, but I did. One million dollars. I just had to spend one night in the house. But not just any house—the Baker house, which was haunted.

Sitting in the back of the limousine, I clutched onto my overnight bag. My mother’s words blasted against my eardrum–Stay away from the Baker house. Many have come and gone, but death’s shadow remains.

Nothing anyone said was ever proven, but speculation was enough to keep everyone away. Of course, a few strays tested the waters. Some came out unscathed. Not everyone was lucky, though.

Stories circulated around town. A few escapees started a podcast, interviewing other survivors. Each with their own rendition of what happened.

I didn’t believe everything I heard. But the stories flooded back as the limousine pulled up in front of the house.

A small crowd formed at the end of the street. Citizens applauded, showing their support. The others weren’t as friendly—congregating across the street, holding up warning signs.

I closed my eyes before exiting the limousine, begging for my mother’s strength. The back door swung open. Forcing myself out of the car, I stepped up on the sidewalk.

Michael Atkins ran the competition. He raised his arms to the crowd before positioning himself in front of me. A smile spread across his face, pushing his cheeks up toward his eyes as the sun reflected off of his white teeth. “Tasha, are you ready?”

“I guess.”

He stepped to the side as cheers traveled up the sidewalk. My feet slid across the concrete. Heart pounding through my chest, I knew the clock wouldn’t start until I made it inside. Another step. Another.

I turned around, looking toward the crowd, pushing forth a nervous smile, before making my way up the concrete steps, onto the porch, and inside the house. My body jolted as the door slammed behind me. My eyes penetrated the dark room, searching for a place to set my bag. A lone table rested against the far wall. I set my bag on top, unzipped it, and pulled out a battery-operated lantern.

The stairs were to the left of the table. I glanced at the bottom step. My eyes traveled to the top. Backing away, twenty-four hours entered my mind, running like a mantra. I continued to inspect the first floor, moving from room to room, closing doors behind me.

I made my way back to the main area of the house, running toward the window as the limousine pulled away and drove down the street. The crowds disappeared as the streetlight came on.

I pulled the curtain closed and made my way to the couch. A cloud of dust rose as I sat down. Fanning my hands in front of me, a cough escaped.

My eyes shifted to the right as a faint cough came from the kitchen. Echo. It was my echo. I jumped up from the couch, grabbed my bag from the table, and sat against the wall in the corner of the room.

***
Thump.

My eyes shot open. Another thump, louder than the first, came from the kitchen. I pushed my body up off the floor, grasped onto the lantern handle, and walked through the living room.

My feet stopped as a chair slid across the floor. “Is someone there?” My hand flew over my mouth. Stupid. Never call out. I took a deep breath and continued toward the kitchen.

Pushing the swinging door open, I walked over to the chair, slid it back underneath the table, and scurried over to the sink.

I peeked out the window. Blackness surrounded the house. My eyes widened as a thump came from behind. I turned. My screams crashed against the creaking of the swinging chandelier.

There she stood, on the table—a woman. Her white dress splattered with red. Her cracked gray lips parted, saliva running down her chin. Black eyes stared back.

The lantern crashed against the tiled floor as I darted out of the room. She followed behind, grabbing a handful of my hair and slamming my forehead up against the wall. Her fingernails tore through my back. I screamed. Louder. But no one could hear. No one would come.

Silence enveloped the room. As quickly as it began, it ended. I pushed my body away from the wall and turned around. She was gone.

Drops of blood patterned the floor. The wetness of my back soaked through my shirt as I ran to the corner, grabbed my bag, and darted into the bathroom.

A moan parted my lips as I removed my blouse, tossing it on the floor. I pulled a water bottle out of my bag and soaked my towel. Draping it over my shoulders, I pressed my back against the wall. My flesh burned, but the coolness of the rag brought relief.

A bang against the door forced my eyes open. Another bang came from the wall behind me. My hands trembled as the doorknob turned. I removed my body from the wall, grabbed my bag, and hid in the shower.

Silence returned. I put on a fresh shirt and stepped out of the tub. A part of me wanted to stay in the room and hide away until the morning, but I needed my lantern. My eyes closed as I grasped onto the doorknob. I exhaled as I opened the door.

I peeked my head around the frame. The room was empty. Tiptoeing toward the kitchen, I pushed open the door. The lantern rested on the floor beside the table. My feet traipsed along the broken tiled floor. I picked up the lantern but I couldn’t move. I felt it—the darkness. Hovering. Shadowing.

My arm trembled, sending the light from the lantern dancing against the wall. I turned. Its eyes. Pitted out. Staring. It stretched forth its arms. I backed away as it moved toward me. My eyes closed. My mouth opened. Screams vibrated against my eardrum, but they weren’t mine.

My eyes shot open. Four little girls stood in front of me, screaming. I dropped the lantern. My hands flew over my ears as their cries turned into shards of glass, piercing my eardrums.

It stopped. Silence once again greeted me. My body trembled as a nervous laugh forced its way out. Tears streamed down my face as my laughter turned into screams. I collapsed to the floor, wrapping my arms around my body. Get up, my mother yelled.

I rose to my feet, picked up my bag and lantern, and ran out of the kitchen, past the swinging door. My eyes landed on the bathroom. Focused on the bathroom door, my feet moved and legs pumped, but I was still in the same spot.

Laughter penetrated through the walls. Doors opened. Slammed. Opened. Slammed. I fell to my knees, crawling toward the bathroom. My hand grasped onto the bottom of the door. Almost inside, something grabbed hold of my ankles and pulled me through the living room.

My stomach burned, rubbing against the wooden floor. It released my leg. I rolled over onto my back. Our eyes met. She stared, tilting her head as she knelt down, placed her hands on the floor in front of her, and forced her knees off of the floor.

Her back arched as she opened her mouth. Tiny razor sharp tentacles escaped through the gaping hole, slapping against my legs. I screamed as they lacerated my flesh.

My hands reached into my bag. Grasping onto my knife, I swung my arm, slicing through a few of her tentacles. She retreated into the kitchen as I ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

The madness continued all night. The screams. Banging. Glass shattering against the floor. Someone calling my name from upstairs. I hid in the bathroom all night, praying for morning to come.

I collapsed on the floor. My body ached. My shirt stuck to my back as the blood dried. Gashes ran down my legs. No sleep came. Instead, I stared off into space, humming, like I did when I was five. Blocking out my father’s drunken rage while he and my mother argued in the other room. I felt trapped. Alone.

Light peeked through underneath the bathroom door. My body refused to move. I thought the house was playing another trick. But it wasn’t. I heard him–Michael, on the bullhorn. Faint cheers penetrated through the walls.

I sat up, grabbed my bag, grasped onto my knife, and opened the bathroom door. Light shone in through the white curtain. My feet were hesitant, but I willed them to move. The house was at peace, but inside I still heard it calling. The screams. Laughter. Brutality.

My hand grasped onto the doorknob. The click radiated throughout my palm as I turned the knob. The door creaked open.

The crowd stood at the bottom of the steps. Cameras flashed. People cheered. And then silence returned.

My eyes darted around the crowd. Pointed fingers greeted me. Whispers. Questions.

Michael approached, his eyes looking me up and down. My disheveled hair. My blood-stained clothes. The cuts across my legs. Knife in hand. I grasped tighter on the handle as a wail leapt from my mouth.

He ran up the steps, wrapped his arms around me, and led me down the stairs. I collapsed in his arms as the front door slammed shut.

Excerpted from The Devil’s Grave: A Collection of Short Crume & Horror Stories by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2024 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Conjure Volume 1: Dark Poetry

Echoes

My shadow lingers
in the darkest places
where skeletons dance
with corpses while
serenading souls gathered
around time’s cauldron.
I brew storms, awaken death’s
desires while reciting sacred
hymns of those who’ve
come before – healers
long gone, but their echoes
shatter my bones, unveiling
illusions my tomb harbors,
unraveling binds wrappedaround my third eye.
My mind opens to truths
buried in time’s soil.
My ancestors stampede
across my soul as I answer
the crow’s call.

Pleading For Relief

My silhouette
drapes over time’s
shoulder watching
as she deceives
man’s heart with
promises of love,
and peace while
animosity festers
within his loins.
My whispers crash
against her eardrum,
pleading for relief.

Linger

Without my soul
leaching off life’s
terrain, my heart
runs free, dancing
to an unknown rhythm
while everything around
me crumbles.
I chant healing words.
Deafened ears rebuke
my spell for they
would rather linger
in the light
than in the dark.

Devoured

I never meant to swallow
the sky’s right eye
but the left one penetrated
my soul, begging
for answers I couldn’t give.
My tongue refused
to wrap around its vision
so I attempted
to escape, devouring
the one that couldn’t see.

Excerpted from Conjure Volume 2: Dark Poetry by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2025 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Conjure Volume 1: Dark Poetry

Repercussions

Repatriate your soul,
Erasing flesh wounds.
Perpetual madness
Envelopes my heart,
Reminiscing on time’s
Curse. Your freedom
Underestimates
Salvation’s dance with
Sin. Healing manifests
Illusions.
Oblivious to my pain, death
Negotiates the price of your
Soul.

Reunited

I tripped over your corpse
chasing shadows. Unaware,
your soul levitated,
blade in hand, attempting
to sever our ties forever.
But with one slice
you did the opposite –
reuniting us in death.

Pillage

My carcass bleeds.
Iniquitous ink
spreads across the sky.
You steal from time
disguising my pain
rewriting hidden messages.
My eyes harbor angst
while you pillage.

Lilac and Ginger

Lilac and ginger,
ice and fire
trapped between the two,
I dare to escape
this oblivion.
My heart split
in opposite directions,
my pain traverses
along love’s floor
begging your bitter vines
to untangle me.
But I remain engulfed
by your fire, frozen
in your ice. Your fragrance
still lingers –
lilac and ginger.

Excerpted from Conjure Volume 1: Dark Poetry by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2024 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Divine Madness: A Dark Poetry Collection

Brimstone

You’re born of fairy dust
sprinkled with honey.
Succulent, like a rose,
your fragrance hovers
over my grave begging
love to awaken a heart
dying of thirst underneath
barren skies. My desert
desecrates your feathers.
My burning flame
scorches your petals,
for I am born of brimstone.

Entice

I slumber deep within life’s storm
love’s agony becomes the norm
time’s tentacles ravish within
these bitter tales of pain transform

No longer running from the sin
that bellows underneath my skin
my pillar seeks a sacrifice
to bait the flood I hold within

Delicious is my plight’s device
to flay the heart and melt love’s ice
as time releases its last breath
you’ll taste the bane that you entice

Antipathy

He betrayed me again
desecrating my flesh,
tormenting my soul.
I lay bare, empty.
My pain separates.
My mind relinquishes
bitter tales, escaping
as blood spills over
my canvas. I no longer
feel, love, live. A relic
of my true self, I splinter
as my fragmented pieces
crumble under the weight
of his antipathy.

Divine Ritual

Underneath the moon’s
watchful eye, I bleed
iniquitous tales
reciting death’s spells.
Thunder crashes against
my spleen as I break,
shapeshifting into time’s
raven, stalking your
shadow as the sky spills
riddles upon your grave.
I desecrate love’s soil,
pulling your carcass along
my procession of bitterness.
My splintered feet claw
through sand and stone,
building a new altar
as the crow chants
and the owl studies
my divine ritual.

Sour

Sour, my tongue produces
silence as my knees scrape
against time’s sandpaper
dragging bitter bones
and shallow hymns
under a broken halo
and blackened rainbow.
I taste salty tears
as my river overflows
crashing against your temple.

Fettered

I’m still dancing
with the ghost
of last summer.
Hands tightly
wrapped around
my spine, pulling
me toward iniquity.
Our barbed wire
tongues confined,
knotted like a closed
fist beating against
love’s deception.
I ache for one more
dance, but my heart
drifts toward another
flame, the one
I’m forever bound to.

Excerpted from Divine Madness: A Dark Poetry Collection by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2025 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Woven Tales: Selected Poems

Blessed Illusions

Our love is alluring to those with blind eyes
cloaked in our facade, absorbed in our lies.
Only those beguiled come to these conclusions,
all we’ve compiled are blessed illusions.

No one can hear the silence you render
nor see the fear of this great pretender.
The life we portray to avoid their confusion,
we stand on display and welcome intrusion.

The scratch on your face, perfection jarred.
My eyes can’t erase what’s fatally scarred.
We want to be free, remain in exclusion,
but no one can see our love’s a collusion.

All share the bliss of our twisted deception.
Our love can’t exist without their conception.
The roles we play to maintain this delusion,
we dare not betray our blessed illusion.

Louder Than A Scream

Lasting is the hidden pain and
Ominous is the prevailing silence that lies
Underneath my smile.
Disguising my sorrow has become
Everything I am.
Releasing the pain will destroy the strength I’ve come to rely on.

Then it becomes too much.
Holding back no longer suffices my soul, so I
Allow the rushing tide its freedom, yet
No one’s listening.

Am I the only one who hears?

Silent tears fall
Carrying my mind’s burden.
Reflections in the mirror
Erase the soundless smile I hide behind.
As my pain breaks through
My silent tears become louder than screams.

Calluses of the Heart

Flesh remains stagnant displaying your art
bleeding through time, calluses of the heart.
Deepen the scars, complacent is silence
beating the chamber held in defiance.

Shades of black and blue shadowing your crime
calluses of the heart bleeding through time.
My skin holds your desert, waters depart
veiling the wayworn awaiting love’s start.

Enduring the battle, secrets impart
bleeding through time calluses of the heart.
Destiny’s soul chokes the breath I ingest
freedom unspoken, my will you contest.

Stricken and defeated, hear death’s bell chime
calluses of the heart bleeding through time.
Remaining in this grave of flesh you chart
I disguise a love that’s falling apart.

I Remain

Broken, crawling – you want me
begging for freedom while falling
in your shadow’s desire.
Flesh mates with rejection,
willingly embracing deception’s dance.
In your arms, I taste
the tides of shallowness
still I remain
drowning in my tears.

Beautifully Dark

My pillar wears a carefree mask
in darkness bask
the crimson face,
your heart’s disgrace.

Prophetic visions shun my tears,
replacing fears
my kiss of salt
to show your fault.

My stain’s a proud porcelain doll,
watching you fall
beauty within,
the finest sin.

Forbidden Waters

I climb your never-ending vine,
escaping your solitary tower of ungracious lies.
Blackened eyes clad with sinister smiles
watch as I descend into your pool,
drowning in love’s forbidden waters.

Blackened Sun

A world without a sun is fear.
We walk toward light but never reach
the sands of life upon its beach.

We’re careless with the truths we hear.
Upon these honest steps we lie
to justify what we deny.

Man’s helping hand can disappear.
Your trust in life’s a parasite
where leeching souls will find delight.

The darkest lies can persevere.
The stars can guide you toward a cause
while moonless nights reveal your flaws.

The blackened sun’s a pioneer.
Through life we learn our lessons well,
survival comes when we rebel.

Life’s Disguise

Within the night my soul will rise
while shadows rest beneath the ice.
My freedom is death’s compromise,
behold my vision – life’s disguise.

The moon does worship man’s demise,
damnation joins without a price.
Within the night my soul will rise
while shadows rest beneath the ice.

Linger within life’s masking eyes
the sun shines brightly to entice.
Your trust in time, man’s greatest vice,
angels and demons both despise
within the night my soul will rise.

Excerpted from Woven Tales: Selected Poems by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2024 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Shadows and Mirrors: A Dark Poetry Collection

Defenseless

Within fire’s eyes I foretell time’s riddles,
curses laid upon my throne while love’s
pillar aches for revenge. I await the moon’s
anguish, festering below my wings as I remain
lost in death’s labyrinth where your passion
echoes through my defenseless walls.

Feast

Gnawing on bone, the bitter taste
my death misplaced,
this soulless ache
to grace my wake.

You bid farewell with eyes that seek.
You bled all week.
My lover’s call
my pillar’s thrall.

I grant your wish, vision behold.
My flesh still cold
tonight we feast
to calm the beast.

Poisoned Poetry

Pain spills like ink
Over a white page.
Illusions awaken
Surrendering to
Open wounds.
Nefarious visions
Entrance. The moon
Dances with the sun.

Pen and paper
Orate while shadows
Escape
Time’s tomb
Releasing
Yesterday’s rage.

Pain

Pain has a vision,
peers through open wounds.
It shadows reality
desecrating pride
until scorched flesh bleeds
iniquitous hymns, recitations
of regurgitated bitterness.
Time’s carcass harbors animosity.

Expired

Your love is enticing snow.
Frozen pillar melting under
lustful bliss, spilling
over my carcass,
invigorating my expired
heart to beat once again.

Your Love

Lust evaporates when molten
lips penetrate feverish skin.
Forbidden whispers chant
temptation’s secrets.
Satin sheets suffocate
passion’s reign. Your love
sets the sun ablaze.

Twisted

The space between my ears
and heart deciphers riddles
overflowing, pouring out
of my mouth. My twisted
tongue spits venom
while my soul screams
hymns of forgiveness.

A Crime

This felony – our love, a crime
of lust. Suffocating hearts
swallow contemptuous words
while clinging onto hopeful
dreams of unbridled passion.
This deceitful fever whispers
spells of forgiveness.
Bitterness lingers underneath.

Excerpted from Shadows and Mirrors: A Dark Poetry Collection by Rena Aliston. Copyright © 2023 Rena Aliston.
Excerpted by permission of Owl-Raven Books. All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.