Bredevoort Van Den Berg – författare

DAWN OF THIEVES - HORROR STORY - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERGIn the forsaken heart of South Africa's Highveld, a man named Willem Strydom reads the signs others cannot see. A master locksmith by trade, he possesses the rare ability to perceive the fragile boundaries that separate our world from what lies shuddering behind it. Dragged from his exile by a ghost from his past, Willem is forced to assemble a fractured crew for one last, unthinkable job: to crack the Aurora vault. But this target is no mere repository of wealth. It is a living, breathing entity, a psychic fortress that consumes and guards the most volatile currency of all, human memory and desire itself.What begins as a high stakes heist quickly descends into a nightmare of psychological terror. As the team navigates the vault's pulsating, organic architecture, they are hunted by a defense system that attacks not just the body, but the very fabric of the soul. Paranoia becomes their constant companion, and the shadows within begin to mirror the traitors among them. For fans of visionary horror and cerebral science fiction, this novel is an exploration of the darkest corners of consciousness. It is a metaphysical puzzle box where the cost of survival may be the sacrifice of your own mind. "e;The air had no scent. It had a texture: fine dust and the sweat of decaying dreams. It was the breath of the Highveld, and Willem Strydom carried it in his lungs like a disease. He stood on the porch of his dilapidated smallholding, his hands—a gravedigger's hands, a dissector's hands—clenched around the iron railing. The metal was warm, but the heat didn't come from the sun. It seeped from within the steel, a slow, unnatural fever.Before him lay the mountains, not like a bruise, but like a giant corpse beneath a purple blanket. The cloud gathering over them was not heavy with rain. It was heavy with silence. A thick, humid silence that devoured sound.Inside the house, the silence was worse. It wasn't the absence of sound. It was the presence of something that should have long been dead, but still breathed. It was the feeling of someone behind your shoulder, even though you know the room is empty."e;

THE LAST EYE - HORROR STORY - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERGOn the unforgiving shoreline, the sea no longer spits out corpses. It spits out eyes. Elsa Kriel watches, as the old lighthouse keeper, Uncle Frik, makes a horrifying discovery in the damp sand: a single, glistening eye the colour of weathered copper. It is the eye of his wife, lost to the waves forty years ago. But this eye is not dead. It is awake, and it isn't looking at him, it's looking through him, with its gaze fixed on Elsa.This is the beginning of a chilling descent into a reality where nothing is as it seems. The eye refuses to be discarded, reappearing always wet, always watching. Fragments of a memory that is not her own, the sensation of cold silk, the taste of salt, and the crushing weight of a dark water grave invade Elsa's mind. Small, bare footprints emerge from the surf, leading to her door before vanishing into nothingness.The horror is not confined to the beach. The town's inhabitants are changing. Their own eyes are taking on an unnatural, coppery sheen, and they stand in silent, expectant vigil. This is more than a ghost story, it is a creeping infection of the soul, a psychological horror that questions the very nature of memory and identity. As the line between the drowned and the living blurs, Elsa must confront a terrifying truth: the sea has been waiting, and she has been chosen."e;The sea no longer spat out corpses. It spat out eyes.They lay on the beach like wet pearls, glistening in the twilight. Elsa Kriel stood with her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets. Her father, a man who had sailed the sea for fifty years, had said the ocean had a memory.A shriek cut through the rumble of the breakers. Not a shriek of fright. One of recognition.Elsa turned. Uncle Frik, the old lighthouse keeper whose mind came and went like the tide, knelt in the damp sand. In his upturned hands, like an offering, lay an eye. The iris was the color of copper, speckled with gold."e;Annette,"e; he whispered. His wife. Lost at sea forty years ago. Her body never found.Elsa stepped closer. The eye in Uncle Frik's hands did not look up at him. It looked at her. The pupil, black and infinite, narrowed to a pinprick. Elsa felt it focus. On her face."e;

THE BLACK CROWN - HORROR STORY - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERGJourney into the heart of corruption where faith is the final battleground against unspeakable evil. "e;The Black Crown"e; is a suspenseful historical psychological horror story, set during the brutal era of the Dutch East India Company. When the mighty VOC ship Good Hope is shattered upon the rocks of a forgotten shore, the surviving crew believes their nightmare has ended. But their struggle has only just begun. Stranded on a desolate island, they are ensnared by the mesmerizing and terrifying Lukas de Witt, a man who claims to speak for a darker power.This is not merely a story of survival against the elements, but a harrowing descent into a psychological thriller where devout belief clashes with cosmic despair. Lukas de Witt, armed with an ancient and malevolent artifact known as the Black Crown, performs the Devil's work, twisting the minds and souls of the castaways. As the line between salvation and damnation blurs, the survivors are forced into a confrontation not just with a madman, but with the supernatural evil that empowers him. This epic Gothic adventure challenges the very core of what it means to be human in the face of overwhelming darkness.Perfect for fans of cosmic horror, folk horror, and historical fiction, "e;The Black Crown"e; weaves its terror from the threads of true history. This story is for readers who crave literary horror. If you are drawn to tales of supernatural terror, psychological depth, and the grim realities of colonial history, this book will consume you. "e;The devil's breath blows tonight over the 'Good Hope'. Maarten van Dyk feels it in the twilight, threading through the rigging. Everywhere is the sweet smell of tar. It intoxicates the mind, this air, and Maarten, still young at twenty-one years old, feels his soul weaken for the first time. He tries to pray, but the words stick in his throat.Around him the ocean lies dead calm, a mirror of lead beneath a heavy sky."e;It makes you feel small, doesn't it, Van Dyk? The great nothing."e;Maarten hears the words. Lukas de Witt, the Under-Merchant, stands beside him, so quietly that he might have been there all along. His clothes are neat, his face shaved, his hair perfect. He smells of soap, dry leaves, and copper."e;