Not unlike a multi-layered puzzlebox, Hell has many varied levels, each infinitely worse than the last.
Horrid images of horned demons and fiery rivers of damnation are the most common, though an unfortunate few have felt the searing flames within the mundane confines of their everyday existence.


Ultimately, only death may provide potential relief to those decayed souls whose guilt threatens to cannibalize their very sanity, only to awake and discover that the sins of one's past come with a horrific price, thus earning them a 'Passport to Hell.'


In the shocking tradition of his earlier novels, ‘SKELETAL REMAINS’, ‘BLOODLINES’, and the more recent ‘BONE CHILLS’, this psyche-jarring collection of suspense/horror/mystery tales from Nashville’s own Terry Lloyd Vinson will leave the reader equally shell-shocked and horrified....but screaming for more!



PANDORA’S BOX PERSONIFIED:


A stack of unlabeled DVD’s are recovered within the stony confines of a desolate mountaintop hideaway by the last seven survivors of a planet ravaged by an alien-initiated apocalypse. Upon closer inspection, the band of rag-tag, battle-scarred veterans discover that each disk contains a separate tale of terror; brief chronicles of nightmarish landscapes that seem far too realistic for anything Hollywood could have ever produced.



Examples of the extreme horrors on display include:



PUREBRED


‘Man’s Best Friend’ has a sudden, insatiable craving for something substantially more filling, not to mention a bit fleshier, than a bowl of soggy ‘Alpo’…


SIBLING RIVALRY


The multi-faceted personalities of a gravely disturbed mental patient are successfully cloned, the end result of which is less a miracle of science than a warped manifestation of pure evil….


DONNER PARTY REVISITED


Red-suited, white-bearded ‘Jolly old Saint Nick’ and his magical band of reindeer pick the wrong deserted isle with which to crash land upon one humid Christmas eve, and soon discover the famished inhabitants have added them to the Holiday dinner menu...as the main course….


REVELATIONS IN HELL’S BREAKROOM


Two off-duty demons discuss the pro’s and con’s of job security in the stressful modern day workplace that is the shadowy realm of Satan.…



WHITE MAN’S BURDEN, WHITE MAN’S PAIN


In the deep South of the late 1800’s, a young man writes his aunt a letter laced with fear and desperation after his father foolishly digs a water well inside the marked perimeter of an old Indian burial ground, thereby setting into motion a chain of grisly events that threatens an entire community…..


INSOMNI-MANIAC


Severe sleep depravity has several distinct levels...the final stage of which may birth symptoms more normally associated with the criminally insane.......


PASSPORT TO HELL


At a remote, formerly Top Secret Military Installation located within the rocky terrain of a Colorado mountainside, seven battle-weary survivors face down an army of alien invaders for what little remains of the free world. Against seemingly insurmountable odds that make the infamous ‘battle of the Alamo’ seem like an even playing field by comparison, only one will live to recall the astonishing acts of bravery and selfless sacrifice that followed.

Trapped within a surrealistic realm where the fine line between reality and fantasy merge, the lone survivor of a lifeless planet will eventually find that sometimes it is indeed preferable to expire with honor than survive in cowardice, for the latter might well have earned him a ‘Passport To Hell’…




ON SALE NOW in paperback at ELECTRIC EBOOK PUBLISHING.COM!


Now available at Amazon.com , Booksamillion.com and other on-line retailers..

                    

Excerpt
From "White Man's Burden, White Man's Pain":




August 11
Year of Our Lord 1858


Dear Aunt Charlotte,

Don’t think I’m going to get the chance to mail this off, but I’m hopin you or somebody else will be abel to find it when you get here so you can know what hapened to us. My writin and spellin might not be so good, cause Im scriblin this in a mitey big hurry. Don’t really know how long fore whatever is out there desides to come inside for a visit. I just know there ain’t a blessed thing I can do to stop it. I peek out the front window ever now and then, but its as dark as Foley’s Swamp out there. All I can see is the edge of the forrist and the growin fog. Finally stopped rainin at least.


I ain’t never been this scart in all my thirteen years, Auntie C. I thought about runnin, but somethin ain’t lettin me. Like my feet are stuck in kwik sand or somethin. Papa would have forced me to go, I think, but Papa ain’t around no more to do so.

**
The whole blamed mess started a week ago today, when Uncle Cyrus came by to help Papa find a new wellspring. The old one had dried up a few days earlier, so Papa was havin to make trips into town and load up the wagon with water pulled from Uncle Cy’s well.


I was with them when they found the natural spring on the east edge of Kane’s woods. I heard Uncle Cy telling Papa to pass it up and keep headin back west for a closer source. Uncle Cyrus is a big man, and probly the strongist I’ve ever knowd. Stronger than Papa even. But that partickular day, Uncle Cy was shakin like a pup dipped in freezin creek water. He was tellin Papa that the land was damn land, or doomed land. Something like that. He said that the well was to close to an old Cherokee buriel bureal burial ground, and that any water pulled from such a well would be poison to a mans soul. Papa laughed at Uncle Cy and called him yellow, saying that those old injun stories were nothin more than cow chip tales made up by old women with nothing better to do than flap there gums after Sunday prayer meetin.


They dug out the well that very day, and I recall Uncle Cy’s face turnin a scary shade of white. Kinda like a dreid up dog turd in the summer sun. Two or three days passed before Mama got real sick, doublin over at the kitchen table like somebody socked her in the guts. Papa said her head was sizziling hot with a terrible fever, and rode into town to get Doc Campbell. While Papa was gone, I heard Mama screamin and carryin on like a bobcat with its paw caught in a bear trap. Auntie C, I ain’t never heard a human bein make noises like that before. It had the hair on my head standin on end like a lightnin strike had peeled my hide.