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A fantastic but tad short horror visual novel. It has a truly fantastic and emotionaly charged story as well as very disturbing, downright terrifying, and twisted subject matter all throughout. Seriously, this is not for the squeamish and features eroge scenes as well, which means erotic scenes. You have been warned. But if none of that bothers you, this truly is an outstanding title for anyone who likes both horror and visual novels.

Visual Novel Maker - Horror SE Perfect Collection Crack And Patch

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Now I know this is an unpopular opinion, but Alan Wake on Switch, from my experience in handheld with it, is a perfectly enjoyable and well written horror game which, I'm going to say it, despite its obvious visual downgrades, still looks great at times (and yes, terrible at other times). It runs just fine, it plays great, it moves at a fantastic pace, and its story is always a joy to return to.

App Name: Guildlings Developer/Publisher: Sirvo Studios Release Date: November 8 2019 App Store Description: This is Guildlings, a new story-driven episodic adventure brought to you by Asher Vollmer (maker of Threes), IGF award-winner Jamie Antonisse, and the team of dedicated indies at Sirvo Studios. Drawing inspiration from classic RPGs, point and click puzzlers and visual novel games, it tells a lighthearted coming-of-age fantasy tale within a modern mobile frame.

Exciting news - GAMACHE / BURY YOUR DEAD guided tour of Quebec City is now available exclusively through Marie Legroulx her new website will be live soon; but in the meantime, for tickets and further information contact her via email mlegroulx@hotmail.ca The good people of the Literary and Historical Society (Morrin Centre) are also onboard. Bon voyage et Vive Gamache! Publishers Weekly At the start of Agatha-winner Penny's moving and powerful sixth Chief Insp. Armand Gamache mystery (after 2009's The Brutal Telling), Gamache is recovering from a physical and emotional trauma, the exact nature of which isn't immediately disclosed, in Québec City. When the body of Augustin Renaud, an eccentric who'd spent his life searching for the burial site of Samuel de Champlain, Québec's founder, turns up in the basement of the Literary and Historical Society, Gamache reluctantly gets involved in the murder inquiry. Meanwhile, Gamache dispatches his longtime colleague, Insp. Jean Guy Beauvoir, to the quiet town of Three Pines to revisit the case supposedly resolved at the end of the previous book. Few writers in any genre can match Penny's ability to combine heartbreak and hope in the same scene. Increasingly ambitious in her plotting, she continues to create characters readers would want to meet in real life. People Magazine (4 out of 4 stars) 'editor's pick'! Her beautifully elegiac sixth book interweaves three story lines while plumbing the depths of Gamache's grief. The result is sophisticated and moving - her best yet. Booklist Penny’s first five crime novels in her Armand Gamache series have all been outstanding, but her latest is the best yet, a true tour de force of storytelling….Penny hits every note perfectly in what is one of the most elaborately constructed and remarkably moving mysteries in years. Kirkus Review Gamache's excruciating grief over a wrong decision, Beauvoir's softening toward the unconventional, a plot twist so unexpected it's chilling, and a description of Québec intriguing enough to make you book your next vacation there, all add up to a superior read. Bring on the awards. Library Journal Superb...brilliantly provocative and will appeal to fans of literary fiction, as well as to mystery lovers. BookPage, in the US, had named BURY YOUR DEAD their Mystery of the Month for October Bury Your Dead has received more pre-release praise than any suspense novel in recent memory; I was a little skeptical at first, but I am here to tell you that itis well deserving of every word. And then some! Toronto Globe and Mail . . . Louise Penny’s portrait of Quebec City is as lovingly detailed and evocative as anything she has written, and her control over this intricate blending of history and mystery is absolute. Furthermore, the deepening of Gamache’s character is profoundly satisfying. The book, obviously, is a must-read for her fans, and demonstrates once again that she is in the first rank of crime-fiction writers in Canada, or indeed, in the world.

Tangled Web, UK, Bernard Knight Surete Chief Inspector Armand Gamache is in danger of turning into a latter-day Hercule Poirot....The writing is superb. A magnificent read. The Calgary Herald, Joanne Sasvari A wonderfully quirky, beautifully written story set amid the eccentric residents of charming Three Pines, Quebec. With DEAD COLD Penny has firmly established herself among the best in Canadian crime fiction....Like all the best Canadian fiction, DEAD COLD is a brilliant evocation of place. And like Gamache, you too will be drawn to Three Pines and to this work of magical realism masquerading as a cosy English mystery. The Globe and Mail, Margaret Cannon A beautifully crafted Christmas cracker of a novel. We're back in the charming Quebec village of Three Pines....The setting is wonderfully done, as are the characters. The solution is perfectly in tune with their psychology and there's plenty of evidence that Gamache will make a third appearance. The Halifax Chronicle Herald, Paul Fiander Louise Penny stunned the crime fiction world last year with STILL LIFE....Sooner or later the whole world will discover Penny. With a unique sense of timing, patience and subtle wit, Penny is able to create a whodunit that recalls those of Agatha Christie....Magically bringing the postcard village of Three Pines to life, she gives it innocence, allows a touch of evil to intrude and then brings in the outsider, the intriguing Gamache, to solve the crime. CrimeSquad.com, UK The plots against Gamache made me feel like a pantomime audience shouting 'look behind you', while the unsympathetic characters are so vividly drawn that they, in turn, provoked sotto voce boos... (A five star review) The Sherbrooke Record, Jim Napier DEAD COLD is a richer, darker book, with humour and a sub-plot that builds on relationships only hinted at in her debut novel. The result is an engrossing read that will only add to the ranks of her readers.

The London Times, Marcel Berlins An impressive debut novel…Penny writes with intelligence and subtlety….the result is a first novel promising much enjoyment to come. DearReader.com, Suzanne Beecher A wonderful murder mystery. Shelf Awareness, Marilyn Dahl Louise Penny has written an extremely satisfying mystery, one that will please on many levels…this book touches the heart while engaging the mind. Miss Jane Neal kept a well-read book on her nightstand, C.S. Lewis' Surprised by Joy. That title is a fitting phrase for Still Life. Aunt Agatha's Bookstore, Ann Arbour, Robin Agnew This is an elegantly written, compelling, and masterful first novel. If I were a betting woman I'd advise anyone interested in such things to lay aside a first edition; I plan to myself…If there is a more perfect novel written this year, I would be very much surprised. The Toronto Globe and Mail, Margaret Cannon Ever since Agatha Christie, we long for that perfect village that is touched by death. Three Pines delivers. Toronto Star, Jack Batten A delightful and clever collection of false leads, red herrings, meditations on human nature, strange behavior and other diverting stuff. The Calgary Herald, Joanne Sasvari, This is a much darker, cleverer, funnier and, finally, more hopeful novel than even the great Dame Agatha could have penned. It's light, witty and poignant, a thrilling debut from a new Canadian crime writer.

Miss Jane Neal met her maker in the early morning mist of Thanksgiving Sunday. It was pretty much a surprise all round. Miss Neal's was not a natural death, unless you're of the belief everything happens as it's supposed to. If so, for her seventy-six years Jane Neal had been walking toward this final moment when death met her in the brilliant maple woods on the verge of the village of Three Pines. She'd fallen spread-eagled, as though making angels in the bright and brittle leaves. Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Sûreté du Quebec knelt down; his knees cracking like the report of a hunter's rifle, his large, expressive hands hovering over the tiny circle of blood marring her fluffy cardigan, as though like a magician he could remove the wound and restore the woman. But he could not. That wasn't his gift. Fortunately for Gamache he had others. The scent of mothballs, his grandmother's perfume, met him halfway. Jane's gentle and kindly eyes stared as though surprised to see him. He was surprised to see her. That was his little secret.Not that he'd ever seen her before. No. His little secret was that in his mid-fifties, at the height of a long and now apparently stalled career, violent death still surprised him. Which was odd, for the head of homicide, and perhaps one of the reasons he hadn't progressed further in the cynical world of the Sûreté. Gamache always hoped maybe someone had gotten it wrong, and there was no dead body. But there was no mistaking the increasingly rigid Miss Neal. Straightening up with the help of Inspector Beauvoir, he buttoned his lined Burberry against the October chill and wondered. Jane Neal had also been late, but in a whole other sense, a few days earlier. She'd arranged to meet her dear friend and next-door neighbor Clara Morrow for coffee in the village bistro. Clara sat at the table by the window and waited. Patience was not her long suit. The mixture of café au lait and impatience was producing an exquisite vibration. Throbbing slightly, Clara stared out the mullioned window at the village green and the old homes and maple trees that circled the Commons. The trees, turning breathtaking shades of red and amber, were just about the only things that did change in this venerable village. Framed by the mullions, she saw a pick-up truck drift down rue du Moulin into the village, a beautiful dappled doe draped languidly over its hood. Slowly the truck circled the Commons, halting villagers in mid-step. This was hunting season and hunting territory. But hunters like these were mostly from Montreal or other cities. They'd rent pickups and stalk the dirt roads at dawn and dusk like behemoths at feeding time, looking for deer. And when they spotted one they'd slither to a stop, step out of the truck and fire. Not all hunters were like that, Clara knew, but enough of them were. Those same hunters would strap the deer on to the hood of their truck and drive around thecountryside believing the dead animal on the vehicle somehow announced that great men had done this. Every year the hunters shot cows and horses and family pets and each other. And, unbelievably, they sometimes shot themselves, perhaps in a psychotic episode where they mistook themselves for dinner. It was a wise person who knew that some hunters - not all, but some - found it challenging to distinguish a pine from a partridge from a person. Clara wondered what had become of Jane. She was rarely late, so she could easily be forgiven. Clara found it easy to forgive most things in most people. Too easy, her husband Peter often warned. But Clara had her own little secret. She didn't really let go of everything. Most things, yes. But some she secretly held and hugged and would visit in moments when she needed to be comforted by the unkindness of others. Croissant crumbs had tumbled on top of the Montreal Gazette left at her table. Between flakes Clara scanned the headlines: 'Parti Quebecois Vows to Hold Sovereignty Referendum', 'Drug Bust in Townships', 'Hikers Lost in Tremblant Park'. Clara lifted her eyes from the morose headlines. She and Peter had long since stopped subscribing to the Montreal papers. Ignorance really was bliss. They preferred the local Williamsburg County News where they could read about Wayne's cow, or Guylaine's visiting grandchildren, or a quilt being auctioned for the seniors' home. Every now and then Clara wondered if they were copping out, running away from reality and responsibility. Then she realised she didn't care. Besides, she learned everything she really needed to survive right here at Olivier's Bistro, in the heart of Three Pines. 'You're a million miles away,' came the familiar and well-loved voice. There was Jane, out of breath and smiling, her laugh-lined face pink from the autumn chill and the brisk trot from her cottage across the village green. 'Sorry I'm late,' she whispered into Clara's ear as the two hugged, one tiny, plump and breathless, the other thirty years younger, slim, and still vibrating from the caffeine high. 'You're trembling,' said Jane, sitting down and ordering her own café au lait. 'I didn't know you cared so much.' 'Filthy old hag,' laughed Clara. 'I was this morning, that's for sure. Did you hear what happened?' 'No, what happened?' Clara leaned forward eager for the news. She and Peter had been in Montreal buying canvases and acrylics for their work. Both were artists. Peter, a success. Clara as yet was undiscovered and, most of her friends secretly felt, was likely to remain that way if she persisted in her unfathomable works. Clara had to admit her series of warrior uteruses were mostly lost on the buying public, though her household items with bouffant hair and huge feet had enjoyed a certain success. She'd sold one. The rest, roughly fifty of them, were in their basement, which looked a lot like Walt Disney's workshop. 'No,' whispered Clara a few minutes later, genuinely shocked. In the twenty-five years she'd lived in Three Pines she'd never, ever heard of a crime. The only reason doors were locked was to prevent neighbors from dropping off baskets of zucchini at harvest time. True, as the Gazette headline made clear, there was another crop that equaled zucchini in scope: marijuana. But those not involved tried to turn a blind eye. Beyond that, there was no crime. No break-ins, no vandalism, no assaults. There weren't even any police in Three Pines. Every now and then Robert Lemieux with the local Sûreté would drive around the Commons, just to show the colors, but there was no need. Until that morning. 'Could it have been a joke?' Clara struggled with the ugly image Jane had painted. 'No. It was no joke,' said Jane, remembering. 'One of the boys laughed. It was kind of familiar, now that I think of it. Not a funny laugh.' Jane turned her clear blue eyes on Clara. Eyes full of wonderment. 'It was a sound I'd heard as a teacher. Not often, thank God. It's the sound boys make when they're hurting something and enjoying it.' Jane shivered at the recollection, and pulled her cardigan around her. 'An ugly sound. I'm glad you weren't there.' She said this just as Clara reached across the round dark wood table and held Jane's cold, tiny hand and wished with all her heart she had been there instead of Jane. 'They were just kids, you say?' 'They wore ski masks, so it was hard to tell, but I think I recognised them.' 'Who were they?' 'Philippe Croft, Gus Hennessey and Claude LaPierre,' Jane whispered the names, looking around to make sure no one could overhear. 'Are you sure?' Clara knew all three boys. They weren't exactly the Boy Scout types, but neither were they the sort to do this. 'No,' admitted Jane. 'Better not tell anyone else.' 'Too late.' 'What do you mean, "too late"?' 'I said their names this morning, while it was happening.' 'Said their names in a whisper?' Clara could feel the blood tumbling from her fingers and toes, rushing to her core, to her heart. Please, please, please, she silently begged. 'I yelled.' Seeing Clara's expression, Jane hurried to justify herself. 'I wanted to stop them. It worked. They stopped.' Jane could still see the boys running away, tripping up du Moulin, out of the village. The one in the brilliant-green mask had turned to look back at her. His hands were stilldripping duck manure. The manure put there as autumn mulch for the flower beds on the village green, and not yet spread. She wished she could have seen the boy's expression. Was he angry? Scared? Amused? 'So you were right. About their names, I mean.' 'Probably. I never thought I'd live to see the day this would happen here.' 'So that was why you were late? You had to clean up?' 'Yes. Well, no.' 'Could you be more vague?' 'Maybe. You're on the jury for the next Arts Williamsburg show, right?' 'Yes. We're meeting this afternoon. Peter's on it too. Why?' Clara was almost afraid to breathe. Could this be it? After all her cajoling and gentle ribbing, and sometimes not-so-gentle shoving, was Jane about to do it? 'I'm ready.' Jane gave the biggest exhale Clara had ever seen. The force of it sent a squall of croissant flakes from the front page of the Gazette on to Clara's lap. 'I was late,' said Jane slowly, her own hands beginning to tremble, 'because I had to decide. I have a painting I'd like to enter into the show.' With that she started to cry. Jane's art had been an open secret in Three Pines for ever. Every now and then someone walking in the woods or through a field would stumble upon her, concentrating on a canvas. But she'd made them swear that they wouldn't approach, wouldn't look, would avert their eyes as though witnessing an act almost obscene, and certainly would never speak of it. The only time Clara had seen Jane angry was when Gabri had come up behind her while she'd been painting. He thought she'd been joking when she'd warned them never to look. He was wrong. She'd been deadly serious. It had actually taken a few months for Jane and Gabri to get back toa normal friendship; both had felt betrayed by the other. But their natural good nature and affection for each other had healed the rift. Still, it had served as a lesson. No one was to see Jane's art. Until now, apparently. But now the artist was overcome with an emotion so strong she sat in the Bistro and wept. Clara was both horrified and terrified. She looked furtively around, partly in hopes no one was watching, and partly desperately hoping someone was, and would know what to do. Then she asked herself the simple question that she carried with her and consulted like a rosary. What would Jane do? And she had her answer. Jane would let her cry, would let her wail. Would let her throw crockery, if she needed to. And Jane would not run away. When the maelstrom passed, Jane would be there. And then she would put her arms around Clara, and comfort her, and let her know she was not alone. Never alone. And so Clara sat and watched and waited. And knew the agony of doing nothing. Slowly the crying subsided. Clara rose with exaggerated calm. She took Jane in her arms and felt the old body creak back into place. Then she said a little praye