Wrong Channels
Every town has its stories. Bridgeport has more than most.
They travel through the wrong places…through static that never quite clears, through streetlamps that buzz when no one’s around, through the shadows under beds and behind closet doors.
The grown-ups say it’s bad wiring, bad dreams, imagination.
The kids know better.
Because in Bridgeport, stories don’t stay stories. They crawl out of the woods at night with eyes that glow like flashlights. They sit waiting on your porch in cracked birthday greasepaint. They whisper from under the mattress, humming in voices too close to your own. They smile wide, open their arms, and ask for a hug.
Once you’ve heard them, they don’t let go.
From ghost cats to playground lights that burn long after curfew, from the substitute teacher who doesn’t quite blink right to the baby that scurries under your bed when your parents aren’t home, Wrong Channels is a collection of dark legends and suburban horrors. Stories passed from kid to kid, from night to night, until they start to sound less like fiction and more like memory.
And once you tune in, you’ll never be able to change the channel.
Bridgeport is waiting
Look, I know the drill. We’re all tired. The world is a lot. I don't write stories to give you a lesson or a hug. I write them because I want to see what happens when things go sideways. This isn't high art for a coffee table. This is for the people who miss when stories felt a little dangerous, a bit more honest. If that sounds like your kind of trouble, please buy the book. It helps me keep the lights on and the coffee flowing. More importantly, it keeps me at the keyboard instead of shouting at clouds. I’d appreciate the support, and I think you’ll appreciate the ride.