"It's not safe!"
He wakes in utter darkness, his memory and identity stolen.
Subjected to strange experiments and visited by spirits, he must not only find a way out of the cage he's trapped in, but discover his identity and discover the truth about who is behind the CELL!
But how can he when he keeps dying?
Book one of The Cure Collection, a new trilogy that will turn the zombie genre on its brain eating head!
Book One: Cell
Book Two: Cult
Book Three: Captive
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"Spooky, chilling, you're great at writing these, author, you're incredible! Hats off to you :)"
"I mean these never bore me! So greatly penned. Love this to the core<3"
"Mind-blowing and gripping"
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Our senses tell us where we are. In a way, they can tell us who we are. How we see, taste and smell. How things feel. Cold isn't cold to everyone. Pain is agony to some and an ache to others. Our senses open up the world to us.
Without them, we are lost. Helpless. Alone.
The floor, for gravity insisted it was such, brought him back to reason. He was not floating and his senses, though they'd fled for a moment, were returning. He was laying down. The flooring, being uncomfortable, gave emotional comfort if not physical. It was something to touch. He pushed himself up to sitting from his prone position. His head throbbed from sudden vertigo as the world righted itself and his up and down settled into their correct places, the darkness making them unsure if correct was actually correct.
Looking around was pointless, but he did so anyway. Perhaps there'd be a light or a glow. A difference to the darkness that would indicate the world still existed around him. Grey, or at least less black, against the black. There was none. Bending down, close enough for his nose to be in contact with the floor, he hoped to see a change in the night. A glint of the metal. The colour trying to push through the nothing to celebrate its existence. It was pointless.
Perhaps he was blind?
Eyes. Open your eyes, he told himself.
He tried to, but something was making him resist. Not patches or tape, as he could feel nothing on his eyes to prevent him from seeing around himself, but he was unable to make his lids separate and let the light in. If there was light to be let in.
Hand. Lift your hand to touch your face, he told himself. Prise your eyes apart.
He tried to, but his arms wouldn’t move. Nothing held him down that he could feel, like restraints, but his arms disobeyed his instructions. He visualised each part of his body externally, to see if any of it would oblige. Fingertips. Nose. Mouth. Toes. They had all forgotten they were attached to him and were meant to follow his instructions. He was in charge of his body, not the other way around. It was meant to work for him.