CRIMSON

The citizens of the Canadian town of Davinsport, Ontario, are no strangers to fear. Evil has walked their streets before, leaving in its wake a legacy of murder, and madness. No one likes to talk about it anymore, and most people have managed to convince themselves it never really happened, but secrecy and denial can only hide the truth for so long. Evil can wait forever.

By 1967, what had happened was nothing more than a legend, a scary story told around roaring campfires. Four boyhood friends are about to discover the truth, but no one will believe them. Their parents think the boys' anxiety stems from simple childhood fear, but they are wrong. What the four friends release from an icy well that summer, begins a chain reaction of unspeakable terror that will shake this tiny farming community to its very core. The people of Davinsport will soon be reminded about the horrible things that happened back in 1945 . . . because they're about to start again.

CRIMSON Praise:

“Already an accomplished anthology editor, Gord Rollo now turns his talents to the novel form and he has succeeded yet again. If you’re a fan of classic horror that features evil creatures, murderous madmen, and a deadly secret that haunts a small town for generations, then Gord Rollo’s CRIMSON is the book for you.”
— Edo van Belkom, Bram Stoker Award winning author of Martyrs

“Gord Rollo’s first novel, CRIMSON, has some of the same strengths as Stephen King’s early work. The emphasis is on story—no stylistic jukes or barrel rolls, just straight-forward, fast-paced storytelling. There is a deft handling of characters as children, reminiscent of IT. The violent scenes are well-done, but disturbingly graphic. If Mr. Rollo continues to progress in his development, he is indeed a writer to watch—perhaps a major one, making the King comparison more than just hype.”
— Gene O’Neill, Author of The Burden of Indigo.

“Just give him a few pages. If this book doesn’t hook you, then you’re already dead. Crimson is the color of fear, and Gord Rollo is its voice.”
— Brian Knight, Author of Dragonfly

“Now that Gord Rollo has proven himself to be an editor with impeccable taste (UNNATURAL SELECTION, DREAMING OF ANGELS), he decides to let us all in on his little inside joke. He can also write. Man, can he write!”
— Brian A. Hopkins, Bram Stoker Award Winning Author

Exerpt...

In the Beginning . . .

The Genesis of a Small Town’s Fear
Davinsport, Ontario, June 21, 1945

A tall, heavy-set old man walks along a desolate country road by the cloud-filtered light of the new summer moon. In his wake he leaves a dotted crimson trail dripping from the blood-smeared head of the axe casually slung over his left shoulder. He is oblivious to the cool North wind blowing the thin branches of the Willow trees around him into a lashing frenzy. His feverish mind, a jumble of broken thoughts. Get home, Jacob, before the police . . . that fucking bastard, Sanderson. How dare he try . . . get hold of yourself. You’ve gotta . . . the blood, oh how I love that sweet coppery taste . . .

Jacob stops at the end of a narrow gravel driveway, not entirely sure where—or who—he is, until he glances at the battered metal mailbox with the crudely painted HARRISON scrawled on both sides. Ah yes . . . he thinks, shambling over to smear a big red X over his family name with the sticky liquid covering his trembling hands. Home sweet home . . .

Vivid images of his family flash helter-skelter through his confused mind, rapid-fire snapshots of recent days and years long past. Emma and him smiling on their wedding day, her white dress badly wrinkled from sneaking off from the party for a quickie in the barn loft . . . Holding little Emily in his arms last year, joy etched onto his face at having fathered such a beautiful child so late in life . . . His oldest son Josh spitting out a mouthful of thick, syrupy blood after Jacob smashed his face against the dining room wall, two front teeth still stuck in the otherwise smooth plaster surface . . . Proudly walking hand in hand with the two boys when they are little, heading to their favorite fishing hole in the woods . . . Christmas day five or six years ago and Jacob dressed in a red Santa’s hat, merrily dancing around the brightly-lit tree . . . Plunging a fork into Jack’s throat to shut his youngest son up and finally stop the whiny little bastard screaming . . . Using his body to hold Emma down as he saws through the wrist bones of her left arm with a rusty hacksaw . . .

These images and more swirling in and out of the dark abyss that his consciousness has become. Part of him is sickened by these vivid memories, making him long for better days gone by, but part of him also rejoices, reveling in the blood, torture, and pain. Death has come to the small Canadian town of Davinsport, and madness is Jacob’s only companion now.

The shrill blare of a distant police siren brings Jacob out of his sweet-and-sour reverie. The cops! He knows they’ll be coming for him soon, once they realize what he’s done to Danny Sanderson back at the textile factory.

He turns from the mailbox to gaze toward the house at the end of the gravel drive. The Harrison farmhouse is a large two-story wooden box with a covered porch tacked on the side facing the road. There’s a floodlight on the porch, but it’s unlit. In fact, none of the lights in the house are burning, the visible windows as black as Jacob’s murderous mood. Devoid of life now, but not empty of occupants. Jacob’s family is still there—most parts of them, anyway—keeping a quiet vigil along with the gathering flies, waiting patiently for his return.

“They’re all . . . ”

Dead, Jacob is about to say, a smile forming on his bloody lips, but before he can spit the word out, over the noise of the howling wind, he hears a sound from within his home.

A baby crying.

Emily?

He’s forgotten about Emily. Sweet little Emily, who until recently has been the light of his life. How long has she been left alone, laying in darkness, in filth, amid the slowly rotting bits and pieces of the family she’d never know? Jacob doesn’t know the answer to this question, and the weight of the shame that washes over him brings him to his knees. His mind is clear for the first time in months, crystal clear, but the dementia returns almost immediately, clamping down on him like a steel-toothed bear trap. A war rages within him, an internal battle between good and evil, sanity and oblivion, life and death.

Thirty seconds later, Jacob Harrison regains his feet and begins walking toward the porch. He’s dragging the axe behind him, cleaving a thin groove in the gravel as he approaches the stairs. There is no emotion on his face, no pictures racing through his thoughts. He’s a man on a mission now, his decision unalterable, knowing exactly what must be done.

Inside the house, Jacob heads straight for the child, homing in on the infant in the dark by her high-pitched squeals. He finds her underneath an end table in the living room, wrapped in a blood, urine, and feces soaked bath towel, half-hidden by an old newspaper. Emily is disgustingly dirty and screaming loud enough to shatter glass, but she’s unhurt. Jacob hurries her to the large country kitchen, where he gently places her in the sink and washes her soiled body with soapy warm water. After she is thoroughly clean, Jacob gets her a bottle filled with apple juice from the refrigerator. Emily, starving and dehydrated from neglect, greedily slurps it down. After the bottle is drained, Jacob finds her pacifier and soon little Emily is fast asleep in her father’s powerful arms.

Jacob quietly searches for what he needs, careful not to make any noise that might wake the child. He finds the large metal pan on the floor in the walk-in pantry. He places Emily inside the deep pan and then Jacob, without thought, without emotion, without remorse, carries the pan back into the kitchen, pops it into the oven, and cranks the cooking dial up to its highest setting.

Jacob then turns away from the kitchen and heads up the staircase to Jack and Josh’s bedroom at the rear of the house. He retrieves a thick rope from the boys’ closet, skillfully fashions a perfect hangman’s noose, and slings the rope over an exposed rafter in the ceiling. He takes a moment to scribble a quick suicide note for the police, then gets up on Josh’s bed to put his neck through the noose. Stone-faced and completely out of his mind, Jacob Harrison steps off the bed and into urban legend—his legacy of evil to influence the nightmares of the people of this small town for generations to come.