Raven's Roost

  Pologue: The Bare Attic** In the biting chill of October 2025, Ethan Spectre, an 18-year-old with tousled brown hair, piercing blue eyes, a lean build, and fair skin, climbed the creaking stairs to the attic of his family’s new home in Wolf Creek, Oregon. The house, once owned by the Wolf family, had been sold after their daughter Jennifer vanished without a trace, leaving whispers of mystery in the small town. The attic, now Ethan’s bedroom, was starkly empty, stripped bare by the Wolfs. No remnants of Jennifer’s rumored Egyptian relics remained, only dust motes swirling in the slanted moonlight. Yet, as Ethan arranged his modest desk and horror novels—dog-eared copies of Shirley Jackson, Anne Rice, and Daphne du Maurier—a strange pull tugged at his senses, like a whisper from the house itself. In a shadowed corner, a black Samhain 1500 computer materialized, its sleek monitor dark, its crimson keys glowing with an eerie pulse, as if summoned by the house’s secrets. Ethan, a hor...

-Chapter 1: The Scribe’s Forbidden Muse (Day 1) In the cedar-scented attic of her new home in Wolf Creek, Oregon, 18-year-old Jennifer Wolf sat alone, surrounded by her cherished Egyptian relics. Hieroglyphic posters adorned the walls, their intricate symbols glowing faintly under the amber light of a desk lamp. A small statue of Bast, the cat goddess, stood sentinel on her desk, its emerald eyes glinting. Her ankh necklace swayed gently as she moved, a comforting weight against her chest. The attic was her sanctuary, shielding her from the isolating halls of Wolf Creek High, where, as a new senior, she had yet to make a single friend. Her true passion was ancient Egypt, ignited by her cousin, Samantha Carter, a 22-year-old archaeology student at Brown University. Samantha had been invited to a prestigious dig near the Great Pyramids, a feat that cemented her in Jennifer’s mind as a “female Indiana Jones.” Samantha’s long, curly dark brown hair, voluptuous curves, and confident stride ...

**Chapter 1: The Muse Unformed** Scotty James Mitchell, a 44-year-old bestselling erotica author under the pen name Sarah Ravenscroft, slumped in his cluttered home office in Wolf Creek, his muscular frame rigid with frustration. The room was a chaos of books, crumpled energy drink cans, and dog-eared manuscripts, the air thick with the stale scent of coffee and ink. His ancient computer, the faithful conduit for his steamy tales of lustful werewolves and seductive vampires, flickered ominously, its screen casting a sickly blue glow. Then, with a crackle and a shower of sparks, it died, the acrid stench of burnt circuitry choking the air. Scotty swore under his breath, slamming a calloused fist on the desk. His latest novel, centered on a vampire named Angelica, was barely a sketch in his mind: *A woman of shadow, her desires raw, her body a vessel for lust.* At 44, his financial reserves were drained, bled dry by a loan for his mother’s mounting medical bills, despite the success of h...

Dennis trudged through the Amazon warehouse, his chest tight, his breath ragged from the grind of endless boxes. At 38, he was a man on borrowed time—two heart attacks had left his heart fragile, and the relentless pace of sorting, lifting, and scanning under harsh fluorescent lights was a slow poison. His flannel shirt clung to his sweat-soaked skin, his thinning brown hair matted under a cap, his broad frame slumping from exhaustion. He endured it for Nicole, his wife of twelve years. At 36, Nicole was a quiet woman with hazel eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, her face shadowed by grief over her dream of a child—a son or daughter to love—slipping away. Four fertility clinics, thousands spent, and nothing but the same verdict: no medical issues, just a cruel absence of life. Nicole’s silences cut deeper than any warehouse noise, and Dennis would’ve given his life to see her smile again. “You holding up, Dennis?” his coworker Mike asked, tossing a box onto the conveyor belt. “You lo...

In a penthouse perched like a dark jewel above the neon sprawl, Raven stood before a full-length mirror, her pale skin catching dawn’s feeble light through rain-streaked windows. Her shoulder-length black hair, tipped dark violet, hung in tangled waves, framing emerald eyes that burned with intent and a flicker of longing. Her lips, naturally pink but chapped, pressed into a thin line, her reflection showing a 22-year-old woman hardened by power and loss. She wore a loose black satin camisole, straps slipping to reveal a raven tattoo above her cleavage, wings spread like a silent omen, and black lace panties, edges frayed. One hand clutched a note from Sarah, her ex-wife, not crumpled but carefully folded, its ink clear: a farewell thanking Raven for her freedom, a choice to embrace the Church of the Fallen’s power. The gothic bedroom pulsed with decadence: crimson silk sheets unmade, a velvet chaise draped with a leather jacket, a bar cart cluttered with empty whiskey glasses, smudged...