Shane Kroetsch

Author of dark and introspective fiction

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Shane’s Substack – Subscribe for updates and early access to my latest work!

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I recently moved my newsletter to Substack. Here’s what to expect moving forward…

Low Light Dispatches is my free subscription tier and is exactly what previous subscribers have come to expect. Here you will get work in progress writing updates and usually a new piece of flash fiction in the 250-to-500-word range. Sometimes I’ll whisper very quietly, “please buy my books”, or “please leave a review if you’ve read my books”. As bad as I am at promotion, the last two are important so I can keep writing with the purpose of sharing my work with the world. More on than below.

You’ll also get at least one book review. Last October I started Frank’s Haunted Book Society to promote indie and small press horror. Frank is a haunted book bike that I built as a market display, now he’s running a community hub for horror lovers. The Society started as a book club, but just like me, Frank and his situation are ever evolving. Since Frank has his own Substack where you will find author insights and live interviews, I won’t be doubling up on that content here. I will share my personal review of the Frank’s featured book of the month, but also reviews on anything else that I can sneak in.

The Unfolding Darkness is my new paid tier and may not be something that you expected at all.

I struggle to believe that my creative output has value. This Substack is part of my attempt to prove to myself that it does. So, starting in September 2026, paid subscribers will get immediate access to a digital download of The Black Dogs, a paranormal horror, which is the opening novelette in the Beyond the Divide universe. Two weeks after that, I’m going to start posting chapters of the follow up novella, currently titled The Witch, bi-weekly. That would be Beyond the Divide, Book 1.

I know more than anyone that sometimes just getting by in this life is hard enough from a financial perspective, and there are so many deserving creators out there that need your support. My goal will always be to continue to improve my craft and bring more value to my followers and readers. Let me be clear, I am grateful for your support whether it is monetary or not, and while paid subscribers will have early access and access to unique content, the books themselves will eventually be published and available through all regular channels. I say eventually because I need to find a way to pay my editor and cover designer before that can happen. Which sort of brings this whole thing full circle.

As always, please reach out anytime with questions or feedback.

Frank’s Haunted Book Society

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Do you love reading indie and small press horror? What about live author readings and chats? Well, buckle up, Buttercup, because Frank the Book Bike has some exciting news for you!

The premise is simple: love indie horror, read indie horror. Frank’s Haunted Book Society is a reader-centric book club that launched October 2025. Every month we’ll have a halfway check-in, with the finale and author readings scheduled for the last week of the month.

Speaking of finales, you can find the featured author interviews by clicking below!

Don’t forget to join the conversation on Substack (https://frankshauntedbooksociety.substack.com), and follow @poppubcreative on Instagram, Facebook, and Bluesky.

Thank you for supporting indie creators!

Shit Tickets

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Daniel traversed a narrow path between clumps of dead, wild grass that led him around the back of the crooked farmhouse and out toward the tractor shed. The ancient poplar tree that grew on the border between the yard and the south pasture creaked in the breeze. One of the lower branches, crusted with old snow and snapped at the joint, hung down to the ground.

         What he saw after he rounded the shed stopped him in his tracks. He lifted up on the bent and grease-stained bill of his cap with a sour look on his face. “Melvin, what the hell’re you doin’?”

         Just out of reach of the tangle of branches, fallen walls, and crumpled roof with chipped and curled shingles, a man sat on an exposed outhouse toilet, hunched forward with a cup of coffee in his hand and baggy pants pooled around his untied boots. Melvin turned his eyes, almost clouded over by his scratched-up eyeglass lenses, and wild, bushy eyebrows as white as the chinook arch clouds above. “Takin’ a shit. What the hell are you doin’?”

         Daniel had no response. He only waved his hand in the shape of where the outhouse walls should have been.

         Melvin blew at the steam drifting over the mug, then took a sip. He made a satisfied noise then set it back on his knee. “Got a little windy last night, if you ain’t noticed. This was a little more important’n me bein’ shy.”

         “Why ain’t you doin’ than inside?”

         “Cracked a pipe with the temperature swing. Gonna have to do it the old-fashioned way for a bit.”

         Daniel stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. He sighed as he looked over his shoulder. “I’ll see you in the house, then.”

         “Coffee’s on. Help yourself.”

         Daniel nodded and turned back the way he’d come.

         Melvin sipped from his mug again, then searched around his throne for something that wasn’t there. He craned his neck toward Daniel as soon as the realisation was made. “Hey. Wait up.”

         Daniel stopped. He turned the upper part of his body back to Melvin.

         “Damn storm blew the shit tickets away. Be a friend and grab me a roll.”

         Daniel grimaced but raised a hand in acknowledgement before he continued on to the house.

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Photo by Sandra Grünewald on Unsplash

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Despite Everything He’d Said

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Grandad gave me a lot of advice when I was growing up.

Stand up for what you believe, but don’t ever go to bed angry.

Tell your secrets to the fireflies and moths, it’s the only way they’re safe outside of your own head.

Actions speak louder than words, especially if the action is a solid right hook.

The one he mentioned more than any other was, stay the hell away from the old Boundary Canyon mine.

I feel bad, thinking back, about how all his advice pretty much fell on deaf ears. For whatever reason, I’m a masterclass in doing the opposite of what I’m told.

Two failed marriages should tell you all you need to know about how accustomed I am to going to bed angry, about how I never figured out how to speak up for myself.

I learned the lesson about telling secrets too late. Sometimes trust isn’t as strong as you think, sometimes friend is a four-letter word.

Never did like to fight. Thought I could talk my way out of anything. Turns out reason isn’t always an effective tactic when you’re staring down an angry red neck.

That brings us to Boundary Canyon, and the opening of the big hole leading to the cold and dark and who knows what else. Except, I do know. At least a little. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing here, letting the barricades and bright orange warning signs taunt me. I’ve got a backpack of supplies that probably won’t help a bit, and a flashlight with half-dead batteries flickering in one hand. All going well, I’m about to put to rest the talk about Tom Payne’s bones, a treasure beyond the minerals the ground was opened up for in the first place, that the curse isn’t real, and neither is the ghost. Might even prove that Grandad was wrong at least once in his life. All going well.

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Photo by Valentin Lacoste on Unsplash

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