The invitation that came in Tuesday morning was different.

Instead of being a printed form letter on cheap, onionskin typing paper, this particular invite was written in old-fashioned, though perfectly legible, script.  Black ink on ivory parchment. Very tasteful.  It read:

September 2, 1997

Dear Miss Morgan:

We own and operate a small, stylish restaurant in Knox County, Maine.  Because Destiny Island is ten miles south of Vinalhaven, we advertise Destiny Island Gourmet as "out of the way—and way out of the ordinary."

Our house specialties include Ham with Plum Sauce, Cheese-Stuffed Mushrooms and Destiny Island Bloody Mary Cocktails. We are not a chowder house or lobster shack.

For your convenience, we have enclosed a plane ticket via Delta, from Logan to Bangor, and taxi fare from Bangor International Airport to Owl's Head.  There is a toll ferry at Owl's Head, which stops at Vinalhaven, and again, your fare is enclosed.  As soon as you arrive on Vinalhaven, our own ferry will bring you to Destiny Island.

We sincerely look forward to serving you at our restaurant.  We hope it will be a dining experience you'll never forgive!

Sincerely,
Jerome & Serena Radcliffe,
Master Chefs & Proprietors

###

Had the letter really said what I thought?  I had to read it again to be certain.  Obviously, there was an error in the last sentence.  "Forgive" should have been "forget."

I peeked into the envelope and found the plane ticket, predated September thirteenth.  The two a.m. red-eye flight, oh joy. This was very presumptuous of the Radcliffes, as well as costly. What if I declined? I opened a stiff cardboard flap inside the envelope and found a banker's check from Chase Manhattan for five-hundred, signed over to me.

If I hadn't been so blatantly honest, I could have cashed the check, pocketed the money and no one except the Radcliffes and I would have been the wiser.  But I couldn't do that.

I had my secretary check my schedule for the following week. I was free on Friday, Saturday and Sunday; which meant I could go to Maine if I wanted to.  Truth is, I really did want to. If all I had to do was sit though a meal on Destiny Island, then I could spend the remainder of my weekend on a mini-vacation.

I thought it might be nice to get away for a while.  My longtime lover, Kirk Hardy, left me a month ago for a dancer.  When I found out about her, I assumed she was a cheap slut who paraded around topless in a stag bar and I was a little disappointed that she was not.  Dana dances in Broadway shows.  I've seen her perform and she's quite talented.  Kirk introduced us, and it added insult to injury that she's also bright and articulate. I wanted to hate her for stealing my man, but I couldn't.  Things were souring between Kirk and me, romantically.

Spending the weekend cooped up alone in my penthouse didn't appeal to me at all.  So, I signed and cashed the check to go to Maine.

The trip was uneventful. I took along the latest issues of Gourmet Magazine and The New Yorker to bide my time.

When the ferry dropped me off at Vinalhaven, I stood on the dock for a few moments.  That's when I felt a premonition, an awful feeling of impending doom.  I leaned on the railing, looking out to sea, wondering why I was feeling this way.  I tried to deal with it as I deal with everything else, logically.  I reminded myself that all was well and what I was feeling was just a minor case of jet-lag.

I scanned the horizon where the sky and sea formed a dark blue line where they met. In the foreground there were fishing vessels of every color and size.  The air smelled so fresh. Salty. Someone nudged my elbow and I gave a startled yelp.  (I'm usually very calm, but I suppose I was so lost in my thoughts that I still thought I was alone.)  An old man had joined me at the railing.

"You Dinah Morgan?" he asked, his voice thick with a Yankee accent, clipping off the R as if it didn't exist. 'Mawgun' was how he pronounced my last name.  He looked to be at least 75 with clear, blue eyes and grey hair curling out from under a red beanie.

"Yes, I am," I said. "I didn't mean to jump, I'm not usually startled, but—"

"You looked like you were a thousand miles away," he said. "Sorry for giving you such a start."

"How did you know my name?"

"I've been sent to fetch you up. Name's Cappy.  Jerry Radcliffe said I should meet you here, and since there's no one else here dressed up like a city slicker, I figured you'd be Miss Morgan."

I gave him a smile and said, "Well, lead the way, Cappy—I'm half starved."

Cappy pointed to a skiff at the end of the dock.  "That's my boat down there."  There he goes again, I thought.  ‘There' sounded like ‘they-a'.  Did all Main-ers talk this way?

"Come along with me," he was saying, "just watch your step on the ramp.  Them city shoes look like they'd love to give you a good slip."  I followed him carefully, picking my way around coils of rope and old, wooden crates.  "Good thing you're bringing your appetite, Miss Morgan," he said over his shoulder, "there's no finer restaurant than the one on Destiny Island."

"Is that so?  Then why in heaven's name would anyone have a restaurant so far from the mainland?  Surely, they can't have much of a clientele.  How do they stay in business?"

"Well, they cater mostly to yacht clubs and seafarers.  Not poor folk like me.  Oh, they treat me to a meal once in a while, but only because I work for them."  Cappy helped me into his little boat and he pulled the cord to start the engine.  The outboard motor sputtered, belched out bluish smoke, then purred like a kitten.  A loud kitten with a chest full of phlegm.

I clung to the seat, certain that my fingerprints were imbedded in the metal.  I had no idea the waves would pitch us as much as they did.  We had just started out and there were ten miles to go.  I doubted I could handle such a trip and still maintain an appetite.

"We aren't going to the island in this boat, are we?"  I shouted to Cappy.

He laughed. "Oh, no, Miss Morgan.  We're going out to my boat.  You'll find her a bit more accommodating.  I'd be a fool to run you out there in this tiny thing."

I breathed a sigh of relief.  My new, strange-speaking friend was going to see that I safely arrived at my destination.  No pun intended.

Cappy pulled his little boat up to a much larger vessel.  A mini ferry with plenty of seats, enclosed to protect us from the wind and spray.  I was the only passenger on this trip, which I thought was odd.  But Cappy assured me that tourist-season was about over and he'd been well paid to make the trip to pick me up.

"Can you take me back to Vinalhaven after dinner?" I asked.

"If you'd like," he said from the helm, "but you may prefer to retire to the inn up over the restaurant for the night and come back to Vinalhaven in the morning.  I imagine you've probably had enough traveling for one day."

How true.  I had envisioned a trip back to Vinalhaven in the dark and trying to find a room in a strange town.

An hour later, Cappy dropped me off at the dock on Destiny Island.  A boardwalk led up a hill to the restaurant.  I shielded my eyes with my hand to get a better view and my heart skipped a beat at what I saw.

The restaurant was a tall log cabin assembled from the thickest logs I'd ever seen.  I couldn't even imagine trees that large, except for the giant sequoias out in California.  The restaurant had big, brightly-lit windows and a huge sign on its shingled roof that read its name in Old-English script.  I heard my stomach rumble as I made my way up the steps and onto the boardwalk.

A path of crushed granite lined with six-foot, salt water rosebushes led from the boardwalk to the front door.  Such a shame the roses were gone by, but I could almost envision their summer glory.  I listened to the crunch of my "city shoes" on the gravel and knew that it was eating up my heels.

Around the white door of the entrance was an exquisite carving of thick rope that looped over the top of the door and down each side.  Hand-carved wood.  I reached out to touch it, marveling at the craftsmanship.  Then I opened the door.

Before I analyzed the atmosphere and decor, before I made a mental note of tidiness and sanitation, my well-trained nose was suddenly affronted with the most sensational aromas: Roast pork with rosemary, Béarnaise Sauce, Ginger, Apples, the mellow scents of Cream and Vanilla.  I knew the simple smell of food—any food—was probably going to appeal to one so hungry and tired as I, but I was already certain that I'd rate this restaurant four stars.

The little bell on the door tinkled behind me as it swung shut.  I gazed around the large dining room and saw that there were no booth seats here.  No Naugahyde.  No plastic tables. I saw spotless linen table cloths and napkins, polished silver dinnerware, crystal chandeliers.  The tables were spaced well apart.  They were wooden and heavy, and looked brand new.

To one side was a wet bar of mahogany, shaped like a giant wave surrounded by captain's chairs on swivel posts.  Lights behind the bar illuminated hundreds of sparkling bottles.  There was not a speck of dust to be seen, not even on the authentic oriental carpet beneath my feet.  The sign to my right instructed me to please wait to be seated.  I stood there, wishing that my stomach would be quiet and that the wait wouldn't be too long.

It wasn't.

A woman with flame-red hair brushed through the swinging doors at the back of the restaurant and approached me with a friendly smile.  She was impeccably attired in a black and white uniform.  Her skirt, I thought, showed a bit too much leg.  But maybe I was just being catty.  She was pretty enough to be a model.

"Miss Morgan?" she asked, her green eyes sparkling like the bottles at the wet bar.

"In the flesh," I said, extending my hand.  She reached forward and clasped it in her own.

"Welcome to Destiny Island Gourmet," she said. "I'm your hostess, Serena Radcliffe.  I hope you brought along your appetite."

"Oh, I did," I said, keenly aware that she was still holding onto my hand.  She looked down and blushed, releasing me from her grasp.

"Please allow me to seat you." Serena led me to a table by a window that faced the sea.  I removed my jacket and sat down, thankful to be off my feet.  A brick fireplace near me crackled with flames spouting around a single log.

"This is my favorite place to sit," she told me as she handed me a menu bound in black leather. "May I suggest a cocktail and an appetizer while you decide?"

"What do you recommend?" I looked up and noticed how uncomfortably close to me she stood. A fleeting question passed through my mind—Is she just glad to see me?  Or is she interested in serving me more than a meal?

As if she'd read my thoughts, she picked up my hand and brought it to her lips.  I watched in horrified amazement as she kissed my fingertips, then sucked my middle finger into her mouth. Her eyes never left mine.  After a second she stopped and kissed my hand, below the thumb.

"You are so exquisite, Miss Morgan.  I just couldn't help myself." She released my hand and added, "May I suggest our specialty cocktail, a Destiny Island Bloody Mary with a touch of horseradish and our Cheese-Stuffed Mushrooms?"

"Okay," I agreed, after I found my voice.  So she was glad to see me and she was obviously interested in serving me more than a meal.  I watched her sashay off toward the kitchen—her tiny, black skirt working back and forth over her firm, shapely rump.  I turned back to the window and caught my own reflection staring back at me.

Dinah Morgan, I chided myself, what in the hell are you thinking?  You're a heterosexual woman, always have been . . . even if this woman finds you attractive, surely she's manipulating you for a rave review of her restaurant. Nothing more.

I looked down at my middle finger, the one she'd put in her mouth.  The one she sucked on.  There was a faint ring of red lipstick around it.  It occurred to me that I let her do that. What if someone had seen us?  Then, only then, did I realize . . . I was the only patron in the restaurant.  That struck me as odd, but then, Cappy had said it was, "'bout the end of tourist season."

Serena returned a moment later with a tray hoisted expertly on one hand.  Such a pose made her breasts jiggle, saucy and full.  "Here you are, Miss Morgan," she said in a breathy voice as she set down my drink and hors d'oeuvre.  "I'd just love to stay and chat with you, but right now, Jerome needs me in the kitchen.  Enjoy these, and I'll be back out to take your order."

She started for the kitchen and I called out, "Excuse me—but why am I the only customer in your establishment tonight?"

Serena's smile broadened.  "Oh, tonight's a very special night.  I think there's some sort of local celebration going on at the mainland.  But think of it this way, tonight, Jerome and I can devote our full attention to you."

She turned and walked back to the kitchen.  I was sure that she was swinging her hips on purpose.  I took a sip of the ice water, which had been waiting on the table for me.  I swished it around in my mouth to clear my palate.  Then, I tasted the Bloody Mary and found it to be excellent—just the right amount of vodka in ratio to tomato juice.  A tiny zing of horseradish.  There was a sprig of curly parsley on top, which tickled my nose delightfully.  I set my drink down and speared a mushroom with my fork.  I didn't recognize the variety, but they were large and meaty.  The insides of the caps had been spooned out and stuffed with cheese.  Brie, my trained tongue told me, with a mixture of herbs . . . simply elegant.  I ate another and sipped my cocktail as I glanced through the menu.  I decided upon the Ham with Plum Sauce.

As I finished my drink, and those wonderful mushrooms, I looked up at the window again.  It was nightfall. I could hear the surf slapping at the rocks below.  I could see the lights lining the boardwalk like an airport runway.  I thought I heard the dull roar of a boat engine, but I couldn't be certain.

I focused upon my reflection.  I looked tired, my face puffy from hours of travel, my hair undone by the boat ride to the island.  I wondered if I'd look better if my lips were fuller, like Serena's.  No, I'd probably look like a fish with a mouth like that.  I could just imagine round, googly eyes and silver scales, a set of gills where my ears should be.  I'm better off with what I've got—brains instead of beauty, a discernible tongue and the ability to rave or scathe.

I drained my glass and all that was left inside was clinging, telltale bits of tomato pulp.  It tasted so good that I considered running my finger along the inside of the glass and licking it off . . . then I remembered Serena sucking on my finger.  I couldn't do it.

I began to feel strangely lightheaded. I told myself that I was a fool to drink on a nearly-empty stomach.  The vodka had gone straight to my brain.

But . . . what if the mushrooms were poisonous? I clutched the sides of the table as hard as I had hung onto the seat on Cappy's boat.  My vision began to swim.  My bearings were off kilter.  My tongue felt thick, immobile.  I was vaguely aware that my head thumped down upon the table.  I closed my eyes and welcomed the soothing, dark-red comfort of my heavy lids.  And I began to dream strange, disjointed dreams.

Of Serena.  In her black, little number of a skirt.  In stiletto heels.  Moving her lips and tongue over my body, seeking out the secret places that bring the most pleasure.  Of me moving beneath her, tracing her curves with my mouth.  Her bush was as red as the hair on her head and it tasted like spice . . .

I felt something smack my face.  A hand, slapping me.  As I opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong.  I felt cold, and my ankles and wrists were held by something colder, something hard.  My limbs felt taut. I tried to move.  Couldn't begin to focus, and it occurred to me that I'd been drugged.

My vision cleared. I was bound upright, arms and legs apart, in a room of white.  There were two stainless steel tables on each side of me.  With horror, I realized that I was nude.  The smell of food was strong and my stomach rumbled with hunger.

A stranger approached from behind and came into my line of vision—a man, dark and leering and extremely muscular.  His eyes appraised my body and he licked his lips.

"What the hell is going on?"  My voice sounded raspy. "Where am I?  Where are my clothes?  I demand that you release me right now!"

He walked over to me and tilted my chin upward with his hand.  "You're in no position to be making demands."  He smiled down at me.  "Don't worry, now.  You're quite thin for my taste.  I doubt you've got the fire inside, but we'll see.  For now, Serena will comfort you."

Serena sauntered in wearing the same short, black skirt, fishnet stockings and stiletto heels.  And nothing else.  She stood in front of me, hands on her shapely hips.  She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and I suddenly felt very afraid of her.  The intentions in her sparkling, green eyes were profane, impure.  I trembled in my vulnerability.

"Oh, no," I moaned, straining against my bonds. "Please don't—I don't want to do this—"

"Go ahead and scream, Miss Morgan.  It'll make it more interesting.  Jerome and I like to see a lot of emotion in our subjects, don't we, Darling?  Is the camera ready?"

"It's on," I heard him say and I turned to see that he had a camcorder in his hands.  He was zoning in on my face.  I turned away as much as I could, outraged, embarrassed.  And still too drugged to be putting up much of a struggle.

Serena reached out and grabbed my face.  She began to kiss me.  I felt her tongue move into my mouth.  She tasted like spice.

At last she drew away so I could breathe.  "I really think you're going to enjoy this.  I know I am."

"But I'm not a lesbian," I shouted, struggling to free myself.

"That doesn't matter," she promised, kissing me again.  I felt her fingers trace their way down from my throat to my breasts.  She drew imaginary rings around my nipples and despite my revulsion, they hardened, begging her to touch them, pinch them, suck them.

I moaned, hating her for making my body respond to her touch.  Jerome brought his camcorder in close for a shot of her mouth on my breasts.  I hated him even more than I hated Serena; I saw the swell of his hard-on behind the zipper of his jeans.

Serena dropped to her knees, and I felt her tongue in the spot where Kirk liked to kiss when he was drunk on Dom Perignon.  I forgot about the camcorder and Jerome. I forgot about the chains stretching my body.  I tried to imagine that it wasn't another woman between my thighs.  Ecstasy washed over me, and I shuddered in release.

As I climaxed, I felt a sudden flash of pain at the end of my right foot. I looked down past Serena and screamed in horror at blood gushing from where my big toe . . . used to be.  Jerome knelt and picked up something bloody.  My screams hurt my own ears.

Serena left my thighs and bent to drink from my injured foot as it fountained blood.  I continued screaming until Jerome raised his hand and brought it down across my face in a stinging blow.  My mind welcomed the blinding light, then the blackness.

When I came to, the pain was gone and there was a tight bandage on my foot.  My head felt groggy, sore. I'd been given more drugs.  Serena and Jerome were at one of the stainless steel tables, slicing something which they put onto crackers.  The camcorder had been left on, its red light glowing up at me from between my legs.

"Oh, ecstasy is scrumptious," I heard her say as she chewed.

"Can you really taste it?" Jerome asked her. "Let me have some."

"Oh, yes, here, Darling . . . it's exquisite, don't you think?"

Jerome stopped munching and motioned at me with his thumb.  "She's awake and ready for round two and I'm ready for the second course."

They turned and looked at me in the way that wolves would examine a helpless fawn.

"P-please, don't hurt me any more."

"But we aren't finished yet," Jerome said, reaching out to fondle my breasts.  His hands were not gentle; they squeezed and pinched painfully.  He moved behind me as Serena picked up the camcorder.  I heard him unzip his jeans.

"N-no," I pleaded.  "Don't do that, please . . . "  In a clearer frame of mind, I'd have told him that I had Aids or syphilis.  In a clearer frame of mind, I'd have begged him to use a condom.  I felt him jab at my pussy, then plunge inside.  I squirmed and bucked, resisting his penetration.

"Do her good, baby," Serena demanded, crouching to zoom in with the camcorder.

Screams tore from my vocal chords as he tore into me.  His shaft felt as thick and long as my arm.  He was much bigger than Kirk.  Much.

Serena set the camera down near my left foot.

I felt another blinding flash of pain and once more, she was drinking my blood.  Only this time, Jerome was still pummeling my tender aching regions.  I passed out before he finished.

I awoke to find the other foot bandaged as well.

"...I liked the taste of ecstasy better," Serena was saying as she bit down on a canape.

"Ah, but there's a certain tang to her humiliation and terror.  Do you think we should try adrenaline in another form before we wear out our entree?" Jerome took another bite of cracker.

Serena looked over at me. "I think we can try her again.  She's awake."

Serena marched up to me and dealt me a stinging blow across the face. "You bitch," she said, her lips curling into a sneer.  "How dare you fuck my husband.  You enjoyed it, didn't you, slut?  I wonder who would like to see this movie we're making?  I think we'll send it to one of those gossip magazines . . . of course, they wouldn't be able to use all of it.  We did get some pretty clear shots of your face, though, and there'd be no question as to what you were doing.  I can guarantee, you won't be shutting down anymore restaurants with your snotty, little quips."

"Who the fuck are you people?"

"You really don't remember us, do you?"  Serena glared at me.  "Do you remember a little restaurant in the North Bronx?  The Starlight Steak House?  You shut us down five years ago.  Since then, we've been doing a little experimenting with new and different kinds of meat.  And naturally, we thought of you."

"You rotten bitch," I said.  I gathered up a mouthful of spittle and I let her have it.  It struck her cheek.

"Do you see what she did?" Serena asked Jerome.  "I think there's still plenty of fight left in this one."

He popped another canape into his mouth and approached me. "Aren't you mad at us, Dinah?  Don't you just hate us?"

"I wish you'd drop dead," I told him.

I saw the silver flash of a boning knife and I tried to move my hand away, but I was too late.  The pain in my hand was worse than having both toes hacked off.  I dropped my head, swimming in agony.  But I didn't pass out.  I clung to consciousness as a drowning man clings to a life ring.  Serena passed my severed finger to Jerome as she drank from my hand.

"Maybe we should make her eat it," she said, her teeth red with blood.  My blood.

Jerome sneered as he looked at me.  He brought my severed finger to his mouth and ate it in front of me.  My stomach lurched and I heaved, bringing up nothing but air.

* * *

"Think we should unchain her?" Serena asked.  "I'd like her to last a few more days.  We're learning so much about meat preparation for maximum flavor."

Jerome chuckled. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt.  She's been clipped.  I don't think this scrawny, little game hen is going to get away."

"Well, even if she does, she's on an island, for fuck's sakes.  If she tries to swim, she'll be one dead duck."

I heard them laugh as they released my bonds.

I slumped to the floor, flinching as the blood returned to my hands.  Under my latest bandage, my hand throbbed.

I asked for my clothes, but Serena shook her head. "I think you'll be less likely to escape if we keep you naked.  And don't be thinking you can get a ride off the island with Cappy.  He works for us."

Jerome pulled me to my feet. "I think we better get some nourishment into you.  We've got to keep up your strength."

"Why? So you can torture me some more?   I'd rather die."

"Of course, we can compromise," he said as he and Serena led me to a table.  "We'll let you go if you'll write a rave review about our restaurant."
 

I slumped down into a chair.  "You're both insane."

"She'll feel better after she eats," Jerome told Serena.  "Go fix her a plate."

Moments later, my hostile hostess brought a steaming dish of food from the kitchen.  She set it before me, and as badly as I hated to admit it, it smelled like heaven.  There was Ham with Plum Sauce, mashed potatoes, green beans.  I was so weak and hungry, I couldn't pass it up.  I ate with one hand, awkwardly.  My other hand lay aching in my lap.

"This is our house specialty," Jerome said.

"This is Ham with Plum Sauce, right?" I asked with my mouth full of food and I didn't care if it was impolite.

"Not exactly," he said.

I looked up, eyes narrowed. "You claimed that Ham with Plum Sauce was your specialty in your invitation."

"So I did.  The ham is human flesh."

I dropped my fork.

* * *

I planned my escape, waiting until Serena and Jerome fell asleep.  I couldn't walk, but I could crawl.  I left their island in the darkness of a moonless sky, the Autumn wind biting into my bare skin.  I scraped my knees and elbows bloody upon the beach rocks as I crawled to the sea.

Cappy's boat was gone.  But I found some driftwood and managed to roll it ahead of me to the water's edge.  The ocean felt icy.  As the salt water seeped into my bandages, I thought I would pass out from the pain.

I didn't drift long in the numbing-cold ocean but each second felt like an eternity.  My feet and hands felt ten times their normal size.  My arms and legs felt stiff.

I saw a light up ahead and I heard voices.  I yelled, thrashing about in the dark water.  The light approached, and I felt myself being lifted to safety.  I couldn't pick the fishermen who rescued me out of a lineup.  Everything was so hazy by then.

* * *

Here I lie, confined to a hospital bed.  The doctor is treating me for hypothermia.  He puzzles over my injuries, asking me over and over to repeat how I got hurt.  He writes it into his report as he analyzes me.

The police came by this morning to question me about Jerome and Serena Radcliffe.  I told them everything I previously told my doctor: how they drugged the mushrooms and tortured me, how they dined on human flesh.  I left nothing out, not even the rape.

But the police said there's no such place called Destiny Island.  Not in Maine.

While the doctor suggests that I may have amnesia due to trauma, I've drawn a map on a napkin for the police, showing the location of Destiny Island.  I watch them examine my map and I search for compassion in their eyes.  They look so tired, so bored with their jobs.  They're probably pretty sick of listening to me, too.

They insist that the only island south of Vinalhaven is called Matinicus.  And there's no gourmet restaurant there, especially one that dishes up human flesh.  They say there's no ferryman named Cappy, either.

I'm aware of their apathy and I'm tired of arguing with them.  In fact, I'm getting tired of everything.  There's a clear bag suspended over me—an IV drip.  The bag is labeled "Saline Solution" and underneath is a smaller one. I can't read its label, but I pray to God it's a sedative.   That would explain my fatigue.

The nurses come in, urging me to eat, to at least taste the food.  This morning, they sent in the head nurse because I pushed my breakfast tray to the floor.

Every meal contains pork in some form or another.  Bacon and eggs for breakfast, a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch.  I shudder to think of what they'll come up with for supper.

I know exactly what they're serving me.   I'd rather starve to death than taste human flesh again.
 
 
 
 

About the Authoress:

Fiction by T.M. Gray has appeared / is slated to appear in: Bloody Muse, Errata, Gathering Darkness, Dueling Minds, The Goblin Muse, Blood Moon Zine, UNHINGED, HorrorFind, Deviant Minds and two upcoming anthologies: Dueling Minds Antho and LWP's Extremes III: Terror on the High Seas.  Her horror video review column The GrayZone can be read at Gathering Darkness.  T.M. Gray is a member of the Horror Writers Association, The Underside Horror Writers and
Gathering Darkness communities.  You can visit her website at
T.M. Gray.