DEVIL GOT MY WOMAN
PREMIUM BOTTLED SELECTION
Exclusive Release | Est. 1971
Torre de Ollala de Moncayo
Now that more than two decades have cast their long, settling dust over that chapter of my youth, I find myself drawn back to the Scottish master's lesser-known terrors. For months, a certain audiobook whispered into my sleeping ear—a low, gray murmur meant to hold the spectres of hypnagogic sleep at bay. Yet, what I sought to banish by night only conjured a stranger phantom by day. When the low-volume drone of Olalla finally crystallised into conscious thought, it was not Stevenson's imagined Spain I encountered, but a precise, waking mirror of my own past. I had lived the tale before I ever truly heard it!
My own Olalla bore the name Maria-Pilar, a creature hailing from a long, line of Spanish satanists. Our theatre was a crumbling palace hidden in the sun-bleached isolation of rural Aragon. It was a place of sublime, faded grandeur, where the modern world came to rot elegantly; the grand swimming pool stood perpetually empty like a dry tomb, and the outhouses surrendered slowly to the earth. Within those echoing walls, the macabre was domestic. I recall her father, a silent custodian of decay, keeping vigil beside a glass case that housed a snarling, stuffed wolverine—a beast as misplaced and fiercely preserved as the family's own ancient bloodline.
Yet, the true gothic nature of this clan lay not in their scorpion aesthetic, but in their stark, chilling pragmatism. When a violent carriage accident—or rather, a modern automotive ruin—shattered my vehicle and very nearly my bones, the family's response was swift and wonderfully devoid of human sentiment. Scarcely fifteen minutes had elapsed since the crash when Maria Pilar's brother telephoned. He offered no prayers, nor inquiries into my survival; he simply requested, with a vulture's admirable timing, if he might harvest the battery from the wreckage. Later, we would journey through the dark to a nearby village for the Noche de las Brujas, where Maria-Pilar and her equally breathtaking sister moved among the flames and stars like the very witches being celebrated. In the end, Stevenson's tragedy of inherited curses has given me the key to my own escape. Twenty-three years later, the ghosts of Aragon are finally laid to rest and I have closure.
SHORT STORY: THE CANVAS AND THE CODE
Forget everything you know about literature's most beloved fantasist. Forget the stuttering deacon, the gentle mathematician, and the man who invited you to Wonderland.
THE CANVAS AND THE CODE tears open a 138-year-old cover-up, exposing the terrifying truth: that Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson) was the mind behind a monster.
This isn't just historical fiction; it's a chilling dissection of genius twisted into pure psychopathy. As London burns in panic and the gutter press spins the name "Jack the Ripper," a cabal of Oxford elites push on with their macabre game, leaving behind a trail of clues so subtle, the sharpest minds in Scotland Yard could not follow the white rabbit down the hole.
Prepare yourself for the definitive Jack the Ripper story, where a world-famous literary figure is revealed as its most notorious serial killer. The game is afoot, and you are invited to play.
