Aaron Gehrig's Blog
October 24, 2025
Upcoming Dark Gothic High Fantasy Epic Series Launch
Brackengloom
, Tales of the Thornborn Series.
Book 1: A Whisper beneath the Roots.
An Introduction to Brackengloom
Before memory had roots, the world was nothing but hollow darkness. Before the first word was spoken, before breath had meaning, there was only silence.
From that silence stirred a single pulse, deep and slow, like the breath of something vast beneath the skin of the world. The pulse became a rhythm, and the rhythm became life.
The root that formed from it glowed faintly beneath the black soil, coiling and twisting until its veins spread like fire through the dark. The old tongues called it Vaelmiren, the First Root, the heart that beats beneath all things.
From its glow came warmth and hunger, both born in the same breath. The Root reached upward, and where it touched the cold sky, the heavens began to bleed green light. From that light, the land awoke.
It named itself Brackengloom.
The forests of Thornreach were the first to rise. Towering trees broke through the crust of the world, their bark slick with sap that whispered to the wind. The thorns along their limbs carried memory, and when they cut the flesh of a beast, they learned its name. From these trees came the Thornborn Wyrms, serpentine creatures born of bark and flame. Their scales shimmered like dying embers beneath moss, and their eyes glowed with the knowledge of the Root’s dreams. The Thornborn were neither beasts nor gods, but the bridge between both. When they breathed, the vines grew thicker. When they slept, the forest dreamed of blood.
From the glow of the peaks to the west came storm and fire. The Obsidian Peaks cracked open and bled molten rivers that carved the land into shapes unknown. From that flame were born the Dragons, first children of the mountain’s heart. Their wings carried storms. Their fire burned without heat, turning the air into song. Each dragon bore the memory of the Root’s wrath, and through them, the world learned fear. Griffins rose to hunt them, carved from wind and lightning, noble yet doomed to eternal hunger for the sky. The grifflets followed, smaller, horned, sharper claws, stealth hunters of the foothills.
In the deep places beneath Thornreach, where the roots hung heavy with moisture and the soil was black as rot, the first Goblins crawled from the mire. They were molded by decay and shadow, the refuse of the Root’s earliest dreams. Their eyes burned with the pale fire of the swamps, and their laughter carried through the fog like breaking glass. They built their kingdoms in hollowed trees and fed their young on the marrow of the dead. When the Root whispered, they heard only madness. To them, the world was a wound that never closed.
Far above the mire, light pooled among the branches. From that shimmer, the Elf-Kin were born. They took shape from the Root’s yearning to remember beauty. Their skin bore the silver of moonlight, and their eyes reflected the stars that still watched the newborn land. The Elf-Kin sang the first songs, words that carried power enough to bend the air. They built citadels woven from branches and glass, where light was trapped like water and poured into mirrors. Yet in their music lay sorrow, for they knew the Root was not sleeping. It dreamed through them, and they through it, never free of its memory.
In time, the Elf-Kin’s purity fractured. Some among them sought to walk the shadowed paths, curious of the dark beneath the world. These became the Serathi, born of forbidden mingling and blood once thought lost. They were half-light, half-root, and within their veins glowed the pulse of Vaelmiren itself. The Serathi learned to commune with the Living Veins, glowing roots that wound beneath every forest and marsh. In their dreams they heard whispers of worlds forgotten. They learned to ride the Mountclaws, great cat like beasts shaped from the same soil as their masters. Together they roamed, memory-keepers of the land. Yet every dream they carried pulled them closer to madness, for each vision showed the same truth: the Root remembers everything, even what should remain buried.
From the eastern bogs came the Gloom Rabbits, creatures born of moonlight swallowed by mud. Their fur absorbed light until their bodies became shadows that breathed. They wandered the marsh, their burrows leading through folds in time, and wherever they fled, death soon followed. To glimpse one before dawn was to know your name had already been remembered by the soil.
The Nomadic Wizards came next. Traders and Weavers of a hybrid magic, sacred, mixed between dark and light… light-shadow magic. Both creators and destroyers, their songs create balance through the lands, where at times, chaos ran rampant.
The Elder Gnomes came last. They did not crawl or fly. They stepped from beneath the molten crust, eyes bright with forge-fire, voices low and steady. The Root had given them purpose, to shape what others only dreamed. They built halls beneath Elderroot Hollow, where metal sang like wind and stone remembered touch. They forged the Heartshard Chalice, a cup filled with the Root’s own sap. Any who drank from it saw the true age of the world and never slept again.
As the ages turned, and cycles completed, each race carved its dominion. Dragons ruled the peaks. Elf-Kin guarded the groves. Goblins drowned their dead in the mire. Serathi rode between realms, carrying songs that no longer belonged to them. The Gnomes whispered to the stone, and the Wyrms slumbered beneath the forest, coiling through the bones of Brackengloom.
But the Root beneath them never ceased to dream. It dreamed of what had been, of what was lost, and of what would one day return. When it dreamed of death, the rivers darkened. When it dreamed of fire, the sky bled crimson. And when it dreamed of memory, the living forgot themselves.
The Root’s breath still moves through the soil. It remembers the names of kings turned to ash. It hums beneath the marshes and whispers through the thorns. Each whisper grows louder with the turning of the moons, and in the stillness before dawn, it is almost a voice.
“All that lives must return, Thorns guard, wyrms rise, legends awaken.”
Book 1, Coming November 2025.
Stay tuned for more information.
, Tales of the Thornborn Series.Book 1: A Whisper beneath the Roots.
An Introduction to Brackengloom
Before memory had roots, the world was nothing but hollow darkness. Before the first word was spoken, before breath had meaning, there was only silence.
From that silence stirred a single pulse, deep and slow, like the breath of something vast beneath the skin of the world. The pulse became a rhythm, and the rhythm became life.
The root that formed from it glowed faintly beneath the black soil, coiling and twisting until its veins spread like fire through the dark. The old tongues called it Vaelmiren, the First Root, the heart that beats beneath all things.
From its glow came warmth and hunger, both born in the same breath. The Root reached upward, and where it touched the cold sky, the heavens began to bleed green light. From that light, the land awoke.
It named itself Brackengloom.
The forests of Thornreach were the first to rise. Towering trees broke through the crust of the world, their bark slick with sap that whispered to the wind. The thorns along their limbs carried memory, and when they cut the flesh of a beast, they learned its name. From these trees came the Thornborn Wyrms, serpentine creatures born of bark and flame. Their scales shimmered like dying embers beneath moss, and their eyes glowed with the knowledge of the Root’s dreams. The Thornborn were neither beasts nor gods, but the bridge between both. When they breathed, the vines grew thicker. When they slept, the forest dreamed of blood.
From the glow of the peaks to the west came storm and fire. The Obsidian Peaks cracked open and bled molten rivers that carved the land into shapes unknown. From that flame were born the Dragons, first children of the mountain’s heart. Their wings carried storms. Their fire burned without heat, turning the air into song. Each dragon bore the memory of the Root’s wrath, and through them, the world learned fear. Griffins rose to hunt them, carved from wind and lightning, noble yet doomed to eternal hunger for the sky. The grifflets followed, smaller, horned, sharper claws, stealth hunters of the foothills.
In the deep places beneath Thornreach, where the roots hung heavy with moisture and the soil was black as rot, the first Goblins crawled from the mire. They were molded by decay and shadow, the refuse of the Root’s earliest dreams. Their eyes burned with the pale fire of the swamps, and their laughter carried through the fog like breaking glass. They built their kingdoms in hollowed trees and fed their young on the marrow of the dead. When the Root whispered, they heard only madness. To them, the world was a wound that never closed.
Far above the mire, light pooled among the branches. From that shimmer, the Elf-Kin were born. They took shape from the Root’s yearning to remember beauty. Their skin bore the silver of moonlight, and their eyes reflected the stars that still watched the newborn land. The Elf-Kin sang the first songs, words that carried power enough to bend the air. They built citadels woven from branches and glass, where light was trapped like water and poured into mirrors. Yet in their music lay sorrow, for they knew the Root was not sleeping. It dreamed through them, and they through it, never free of its memory.
In time, the Elf-Kin’s purity fractured. Some among them sought to walk the shadowed paths, curious of the dark beneath the world. These became the Serathi, born of forbidden mingling and blood once thought lost. They were half-light, half-root, and within their veins glowed the pulse of Vaelmiren itself. The Serathi learned to commune with the Living Veins, glowing roots that wound beneath every forest and marsh. In their dreams they heard whispers of worlds forgotten. They learned to ride the Mountclaws, great cat like beasts shaped from the same soil as their masters. Together they roamed, memory-keepers of the land. Yet every dream they carried pulled them closer to madness, for each vision showed the same truth: the Root remembers everything, even what should remain buried.
From the eastern bogs came the Gloom Rabbits, creatures born of moonlight swallowed by mud. Their fur absorbed light until their bodies became shadows that breathed. They wandered the marsh, their burrows leading through folds in time, and wherever they fled, death soon followed. To glimpse one before dawn was to know your name had already been remembered by the soil.
The Nomadic Wizards came next. Traders and Weavers of a hybrid magic, sacred, mixed between dark and light… light-shadow magic. Both creators and destroyers, their songs create balance through the lands, where at times, chaos ran rampant.
The Elder Gnomes came last. They did not crawl or fly. They stepped from beneath the molten crust, eyes bright with forge-fire, voices low and steady. The Root had given them purpose, to shape what others only dreamed. They built halls beneath Elderroot Hollow, where metal sang like wind and stone remembered touch. They forged the Heartshard Chalice, a cup filled with the Root’s own sap. Any who drank from it saw the true age of the world and never slept again.
As the ages turned, and cycles completed, each race carved its dominion. Dragons ruled the peaks. Elf-Kin guarded the groves. Goblins drowned their dead in the mire. Serathi rode between realms, carrying songs that no longer belonged to them. The Gnomes whispered to the stone, and the Wyrms slumbered beneath the forest, coiling through the bones of Brackengloom.
But the Root beneath them never ceased to dream. It dreamed of what had been, of what was lost, and of what would one day return. When it dreamed of death, the rivers darkened. When it dreamed of fire, the sky bled crimson. And when it dreamed of memory, the living forgot themselves.
The Root’s breath still moves through the soil. It remembers the names of kings turned to ash. It hums beneath the marshes and whispers through the thorns. Each whisper grows louder with the turning of the moons, and in the stillness before dawn, it is almost a voice.
“All that lives must return, Thorns guard, wyrms rise, legends awaken.”
Book 1, Coming November 2025.
Stay tuned for more information.
October 16, 2025
Book Launch
1313 Going Up?
Launches tomorrow on Amazon, Goodreads and Kindle Unlimited!
1313 ~ Going Up? ~ Written as Aryn Bats ~ Supernatural horror, psychological thriller, and detective noir, weaving a dark tale of demonic influence, betrayal, and investigation in a haunted modern tower.
Trigger warning
This book contains graphic scenes of psychological and physical horror, including death, gore, fire-related trauma, suffocation, hallucinations, and claustrophobic settings.
It also explores themes of guilt, mental deterioration, murder, self-destruction, and supernatural torment.
Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Not recommended for readers sensitive to violence, confinement, or depictions of death by burning, asphyxiation, or dismemberment.
Dead-ication
For those who linger between floors, between dreams, between lives. May you find the door that opens home, or learn to love the dark that keeps them.
Introduction
It was now 1996, and there was a building on 102 Avenue in downtown Edmonton the city didn’t talk about anymore. On paper, it was just another relic of the early nineties, a thirty-story high-rise that promised luxury living and architectural perfection.
Rooke Tower.
Built on ambition, finished in tragedy. They said the thirteenth floor was never built. The blueprints jumped from twelve to fourteen, like most towers do, because superstition sells better than honesty. But sometimes, when the moon was full and the night air turned that strange, electric blue, the elevator stopped where no button existed. The doors slid open.
A hallway waited.
Dim lights. Patternless wallpaper. A single suite at the end with a black door and a silver handle.
Room 1313
No one who’d ever stepped inside had come back down. Eight people had vanished from Rooke Tower over the past five years. All caught, for a split second, on the lobby camera stepping into the elevator… then gone.
The city blamed faulty wiring, unregistered renovations, or doctored footage. But one detective wasn’t convinced.
Tabitha Darquequist didn’t believe in ghost stories. She believed in patterns, in cause and consequence, in missing persons who deserved to be found. That’s why she was here, at 11:58 p.m., the night of the full moon, staring at the tarnished elevator doors that gleamed like the surface of a pond before rain. The building hummed around her, a low metallic breath, as though it was waiting. She pressed the call button.
The light flickered once… twice…
Then the doors slid open with a sigh that sounded almost human.
Tabitha stepped inside alone. The air smelled faintly of ozone and old metal. She touched the panel and stared at the floor numbers climbing steadily: 1… 2… 3…
The elevator hummed louder. Something shifted in the cables. A chill brushed her neck.
“Going up?” a voice whispered from the speaker mounted in the roof. She recognized the voice, it belonged to Elias Rooke. Missing since October, 1991.
She only knew the voice because of a recording found in a cassette recorder in Lily Crane’s studio.
Tabitha froze.
Launches tomorrow on Amazon, Goodreads and Kindle Unlimited!
1313 ~ Going Up? ~ Written as Aryn Bats ~ Supernatural horror, psychological thriller, and detective noir, weaving a dark tale of demonic influence, betrayal, and investigation in a haunted modern tower.
Trigger warning
This book contains graphic scenes of psychological and physical horror, including death, gore, fire-related trauma, suffocation, hallucinations, and claustrophobic settings.
It also explores themes of guilt, mental deterioration, murder, self-destruction, and supernatural torment.
Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Not recommended for readers sensitive to violence, confinement, or depictions of death by burning, asphyxiation, or dismemberment.
Dead-ication
For those who linger between floors, between dreams, between lives. May you find the door that opens home, or learn to love the dark that keeps them.
Introduction
It was now 1996, and there was a building on 102 Avenue in downtown Edmonton the city didn’t talk about anymore. On paper, it was just another relic of the early nineties, a thirty-story high-rise that promised luxury living and architectural perfection.
Rooke Tower.
Built on ambition, finished in tragedy. They said the thirteenth floor was never built. The blueprints jumped from twelve to fourteen, like most towers do, because superstition sells better than honesty. But sometimes, when the moon was full and the night air turned that strange, electric blue, the elevator stopped where no button existed. The doors slid open.
A hallway waited.
Dim lights. Patternless wallpaper. A single suite at the end with a black door and a silver handle.
Room 1313
No one who’d ever stepped inside had come back down. Eight people had vanished from Rooke Tower over the past five years. All caught, for a split second, on the lobby camera stepping into the elevator… then gone.
The city blamed faulty wiring, unregistered renovations, or doctored footage. But one detective wasn’t convinced.
Tabitha Darquequist didn’t believe in ghost stories. She believed in patterns, in cause and consequence, in missing persons who deserved to be found. That’s why she was here, at 11:58 p.m., the night of the full moon, staring at the tarnished elevator doors that gleamed like the surface of a pond before rain. The building hummed around her, a low metallic breath, as though it was waiting. She pressed the call button.
The light flickered once… twice…
Then the doors slid open with a sigh that sounded almost human.
Tabitha stepped inside alone. The air smelled faintly of ozone and old metal. She touched the panel and stared at the floor numbers climbing steadily: 1… 2… 3…
The elevator hummed louder. Something shifted in the cables. A chill brushed her neck.
“Going up?” a voice whispered from the speaker mounted in the roof. She recognized the voice, it belonged to Elias Rooke. Missing since October, 1991.
She only knew the voice because of a recording found in a cassette recorder in Lily Crane’s studio.
Tabitha froze.
October 11, 2025
Book Launch
Coming to Amazon, Goodreads and Kindle Unlimited tomorrow.
"The Coroner's daughter."
In the quiet, tree-lined streets of Calgary, Samantha Marie Cadence was a name that carried weight, spoken with admiration by teachers, with pride by her parents, and with a knowing nod by neighbors who saw her as the golden child of a respected family. At sixteen, she was a prodigy, her brilliance outshining the auburn fire in her hair, her gothic dresses trailing whispers of elegance down Stephen Avenue. Daughter of Dr. Samuel Cadence, the city’s esteemed forensic pathologist, she was already certified, already stepping into the shadow of her father’s world of scalpels and secrets. To the outside eye, she was flawless: an honor student, poised, untouchable, her freckled smile a beacon of promise. But beneath the surface, something darker bloomed. It had taken root long ago, in the rich soil of her grandfather’s Chestermere garden, where the scent of tomatoes mingled with blood, and a six-year-old girl first glimpsed the thrill of death. Guided by Terrance Oswald Cadence, a retired police officer whose kindly facade hid a cruel precision, Samantha learned lessons no child should know. In the cool shadows of a hidden cellar, she traded innocence for a knife’s edge, her small hands steady as they carved a path to a truth she could never unlearn. What began as a secret ritual, shared over steaming bowls of pasta and forbidden flavors, became a bond, a legacy, a hunger that grew with her.
At sixteen, Samantha stands at a crossroads. By day, she navigates her father’s morgue with clinical grace, her mind a steel trap of logic and ambition. By night, the lessons of her grandfather whisper to her, pulling at something primal, something insatiable. As Calgary’s streets grow restless with whispers of missing souls and unexplained wounds, Samantha’s mask of perfection begins to slip. The girl who once buried a cat with tenderness now holds secrets that could unravel her world, or set it ablaze. In a city that sees only her brilliance, the truth lies hidden: Samantha Marie Cadence is no ordinary prodigy, and the darkness within her is only beginning to stir.
Written in the style of a novelist interviewing Papa and Samantha from a penitentiary after they were convicted. Lydia tells their story as the serial killers recount theirs.
I'm proud of this one.
This one also ties together, 2 other saga's of mine.
Grey Kong and Bah Bah Blacksheep.
As the two new additions to RavenRidge Penitentiary meet Marcus Grey and Tristan Brachenloch while inside.
Hmmmm
What could wrong?
Stay tuned 😁 ✌🏼
"The Coroner's daughter."
In the quiet, tree-lined streets of Calgary, Samantha Marie Cadence was a name that carried weight, spoken with admiration by teachers, with pride by her parents, and with a knowing nod by neighbors who saw her as the golden child of a respected family. At sixteen, she was a prodigy, her brilliance outshining the auburn fire in her hair, her gothic dresses trailing whispers of elegance down Stephen Avenue. Daughter of Dr. Samuel Cadence, the city’s esteemed forensic pathologist, she was already certified, already stepping into the shadow of her father’s world of scalpels and secrets. To the outside eye, she was flawless: an honor student, poised, untouchable, her freckled smile a beacon of promise. But beneath the surface, something darker bloomed. It had taken root long ago, in the rich soil of her grandfather’s Chestermere garden, where the scent of tomatoes mingled with blood, and a six-year-old girl first glimpsed the thrill of death. Guided by Terrance Oswald Cadence, a retired police officer whose kindly facade hid a cruel precision, Samantha learned lessons no child should know. In the cool shadows of a hidden cellar, she traded innocence for a knife’s edge, her small hands steady as they carved a path to a truth she could never unlearn. What began as a secret ritual, shared over steaming bowls of pasta and forbidden flavors, became a bond, a legacy, a hunger that grew with her.
At sixteen, Samantha stands at a crossroads. By day, she navigates her father’s morgue with clinical grace, her mind a steel trap of logic and ambition. By night, the lessons of her grandfather whisper to her, pulling at something primal, something insatiable. As Calgary’s streets grow restless with whispers of missing souls and unexplained wounds, Samantha’s mask of perfection begins to slip. The girl who once buried a cat with tenderness now holds secrets that could unravel her world, or set it ablaze. In a city that sees only her brilliance, the truth lies hidden: Samantha Marie Cadence is no ordinary prodigy, and the darkness within her is only beginning to stir.
Written in the style of a novelist interviewing Papa and Samantha from a penitentiary after they were convicted. Lydia tells their story as the serial killers recount theirs.
I'm proud of this one.
This one also ties together, 2 other saga's of mine.
Grey Kong and Bah Bah Blacksheep.
As the two new additions to RavenRidge Penitentiary meet Marcus Grey and Tristan Brachenloch while inside.
Hmmmm
What could wrong?
Stay tuned 😁 ✌🏼
October 9, 2025
Up-coming New Release
Hello horror fans.
I am excited to announce my latest novel, "The Stitched," is now available exclusively on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.
I take pride in this one. It is a dark, supernatural, psychological thriller that will grip you, bite you, chew you, and spit you out horrified.
I am now working on editing a new one titled, "The Coroner's Daughter." I different spin on a serial killer crime fiction, written from a reporter's perspective as she visits RavenRidge Penitentiary and interviews two of its latest additions.
A haunting tale that, in the end ties together with two other book series of mine. "Grey Kong," and "Bah Bah Blacksheep."
Both novel saga's are also about convicted serial killers who all end up in the same penitentiary, RavenRidge aka "The Saw."
If you haven't read those, I highly recommend that you do. Then once "The Coroner's Daughter," comes out, you will see the link and wonder what else is to come?
A bit about me.
I am a disabled, stay at home Father. Last year a successful back surgery lifted me from a long standing depression and re-inspired my love for writing.
I started writing in highschool. 32 years ago. But life came along, and I focused on career and family. Now, no longer able to work a physical job, I write and publish works that had sat in a dusty box for too long.
Grey Kong 1,2,3, were my first novels written starting at age 16. When I dug them out of the box, I performed extensive editing and expanded the story.
I began publishing the series in December of 2024. Now, with most of my older stories published, I continue to create new ones.
I wrote under two names. My real name, Aaron Gehrig and occasionally I let my darker half, (Aryn Bats) out of his cage to write the darker stuff. I feed him stories and he spits out bloodied masterpieces that ooze ichor from its pages.
I have many more books coming, but to date have published over 40!
I won't stop, I can't stop, my ADHD mind won't allow it. I have about 10 books on the go right now, and each day I spend up to four hours writing. Some days I write over 30,000 words.
I do hope you get the chance to dive into my work and leave me some decent feedback and reviews.
On a side note, if you do happen to come across errors in my work, please reach out to me and I will correct them. I do extensively edit before publishing, but my ADHD mind occasionally misses things and I have had to go back into published works and fix them.
I truly appreciate your time to reach out before leaving a review, feel free to email me at my author email. authoraarongehrig@gmail.com
Have a great October!
I am excited to announce my latest novel, "The Stitched," is now available exclusively on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.
I take pride in this one. It is a dark, supernatural, psychological thriller that will grip you, bite you, chew you, and spit you out horrified.
I am now working on editing a new one titled, "The Coroner's Daughter." I different spin on a serial killer crime fiction, written from a reporter's perspective as she visits RavenRidge Penitentiary and interviews two of its latest additions.
A haunting tale that, in the end ties together with two other book series of mine. "Grey Kong," and "Bah Bah Blacksheep."
Both novel saga's are also about convicted serial killers who all end up in the same penitentiary, RavenRidge aka "The Saw."
If you haven't read those, I highly recommend that you do. Then once "The Coroner's Daughter," comes out, you will see the link and wonder what else is to come?
A bit about me.
I am a disabled, stay at home Father. Last year a successful back surgery lifted me from a long standing depression and re-inspired my love for writing.
I started writing in highschool. 32 years ago. But life came along, and I focused on career and family. Now, no longer able to work a physical job, I write and publish works that had sat in a dusty box for too long.
Grey Kong 1,2,3, were my first novels written starting at age 16. When I dug them out of the box, I performed extensive editing and expanded the story.
I began publishing the series in December of 2024. Now, with most of my older stories published, I continue to create new ones.
I wrote under two names. My real name, Aaron Gehrig and occasionally I let my darker half, (Aryn Bats) out of his cage to write the darker stuff. I feed him stories and he spits out bloodied masterpieces that ooze ichor from its pages.
I have many more books coming, but to date have published over 40!
I won't stop, I can't stop, my ADHD mind won't allow it. I have about 10 books on the go right now, and each day I spend up to four hours writing. Some days I write over 30,000 words.
I do hope you get the chance to dive into my work and leave me some decent feedback and reviews.
On a side note, if you do happen to come across errors in my work, please reach out to me and I will correct them. I do extensively edit before publishing, but my ADHD mind occasionally misses things and I have had to go back into published works and fix them.
I truly appreciate your time to reach out before leaving a review, feel free to email me at my author email. authoraarongehrig@gmail.com
Have a great October!
