📖First Chapter: Monsterland by Michael Okon #FirstChapter

Title: Monsterland

Author: Michael Okon

Publisher: Chelshire, Inc.

Publication Date: July 18, 2025

Pages: 359

Genre: Action/Adventure

Format: Hardback, Paperback, Kindle, Kindle Unlimited

Wyatt Baldwin’s senior year is not going well. His parents divorced, and then his dad mysteriously died. He’s not exactly comfortable with his new stepfather, Carter Wright, either. An ongoing debate with his best friends, Melvin and Howard Drucker, over which monster is superior has gotten stale. He’d much rather spend his days with beautiful and popular Jade. However, she’s dating the brash high-school quarterback Nolan, and Wyatt thinks he doesn’t stand a chance.

But everything changes when Wyatt and his friends are invited to attend the grand opening of Monsterland, a groundbreaking theme park where guests can interact with vampires in Vampire Village, be chased by werewolves on the River Run, and walk among the dead in Zombieville.

With real werewolves, vampires, and zombies as the main attractions, what could possibly go wrong?

Read a sample here.

Monsterland is available at Amazon.

First Chapter:

The Everglades  

The fire Billy created burned bright; rabbits roasted on a spit made from hickory, the juices dripping to hiss in the flames. Seven of his hairy friends lay in scattered repose, enjoying the late afternoon lull—two napped, the others tossed a stuffed fur in the form of a ball around the clearing, hooting with amusement when it rolled into the brush. 

They traveled in a pack, his group, his makeshift family, foraging together, hiding in plain sight. It had been that way for generations. But the glades were getting smaller, the outsiders invasive. Humans respected no boundaries.

Mosquitoes droned lazily over the still water. Frogs croaked while they sunbathed on waxy lily pads. The sun started its slow descent to the horizon, hot pink and lilac clouds rippling against the empty canvas of the sky. Here and there, fireflies flickered to life in the gloom, doing a placid ballet in the humid air.

Unseen, the men moved closer to the campfire as light faded against the western treetops.

Billy’s pack rarely spoke, communicating with grunts, so easy was their companionship. Billy only had to think it and he knew the others could sense what was in his mind. They did share a language of sorts, they used it in both forms of their manifestations.

A lone hawk cried out a warning, disturbing the peace of the marsh. They froze in their spots, their eyes alert, their bodies stiff with fear.

Huge birds answered, flapping their wings, creating a cacophony of swamp sounds. The area became a concerto of animals responding to the disruption of their home—wild screams, squeaks, and complaints of the invasion of their territory.

Billy stood, his head tilted as he listened intently. He heard a melody drifting from the water. It was a strange organization of sounds, predictable as well as dangerous instantly making his skin ripple with terror. Memories of another life flooded back, bringing waves of panic. His pulse raced, and he knew his face and bare back were slick with sweat. It had been years since he’d heard music, so deep were they hidden in the bayou. The discordant noise echoed in his head, assaulting his sensitive ears. 

His nose twitched, his lips pulled tightly against his teeth. One of his pack whimpered like a child, he felt them drawing close, their bodies tensing with fear. Suppressing a growl, he forced his hands to unclench. He rolled forward onto the balls of his feet, his stance preparing the others to get ready. His stomach twisted with uneasiness. Where those rhythms originated meant only one thing—they were not alone in the swamp.

                His pack rose in unison, coiled and alert, their eyes watching the darkening waterway. Billy parted the thick leaves to expose a brightly lit flat-bottom craft with strangers floating toward them. Floodlights bathed the passengers revealing what appeared to be a party atmosphere. Were they lost? He wondered. He held a finger to his lips silencing the rustling of his friends.

                The boat was filled with a variety of people, their expensive khaki bush clothes ringed with sweat. Billy counted the humans. Some held camera equipment. Drinks, he remembered the dark-colored bottles as beer, were being distributed by wait staff. He squinted, trying to make out individuals, but they blurred together in the dusk. 

             He could hear their excited babble as they pointed in their direction, as if they could see right through the greenery into the heart of their home. 

             “They don’t know we’re here?” Little John, Billy’s best friend, leaned closer and mumbled. 

             “Tourists,” Petey spat.

             Billy noticed the rifles before the rest of his group. He made a chopping motion with his hand signaling for silence. “Not tourists. Enemies,” he replied, his voice so low it was barely a whisper.

             Conversation drifted on the humid air. Snatches of sentences, words like capture, hunt, and kill punctured the peace of the glade. Billy sensed Little John’s shiver, and he squeezed his shoulder to calm his friend, even though he fought the fear that threatened to engulf himself.

                This is no good, Billy thought furiously. So caught up with the invasion of their territory, his eyes opened wide with the realization of the hour. It was late. He had to get them out of there. It’s going to happen, and once the thrashing starts, the outsiders will witness it.

                He looked over his shoulder to see the bald top of the moon peeking over the line of trees in the south, the sky graying to twilight with each passing second. Night came fast in the marsh, dropping a curtain of darkness, extinguishing all light except for the beacon of the full moon. It continued to float upward, indifferent to the consequences for its innocent victims.

             A halo of paler blue surrounded the moon dusting the trees silver, the cobwebs in the branches becoming chains of dripping diamonds in the coming night.

             What do these strangers want? Billy suppressed the urge to scream. This is our home. Humans don’t belong in the swamp. If only… if only they could learn to control– Arh-whoooooo. The howl was torn from his throat. The others followed an instant later, a domino effect of noise exposing them to all the world.

             The moon continued rising indifferent to the familiar agony beginning in his chest. A full moon, a dangerous moon. Billy attempted to squash the demons churning within his body, feeling the pain of metamorphosis.

             He curled inward, resisting his nature, hunching his shoulders. The curse of his biology made his spine pull until his tendons and muscles ripped from their human positions to transform into something wicked.

                Another howl erupted, this time, full-throated and loud. It was followed by another, and then another. Grabbing handfuls of dirt, he tried to fight the awful change, but, as the sun set, the moon took control of his life, and the unnatural force ripped through his unwilling body. His loincloth tore from his powerful hips, joining the other bits of cloth on the ground.

             Reason fled, his heart raced. Falling on his hands and knees, Billy let loose a keening cry as his face elongated, his body changing into a canine, fangs filling his mouth.

             He raced in a circular demented dance, knowing his fellow pack members did the same thing.

                Slowing, he regulated his labored breathing, forcing the icy calmness he needed to keep some semblance of reason. He peered through the brush. Lights from the search party bobbed in between the thick reeds. The odor, the stench of humanity, filled the clearing. The enemy had quieted. They lined the deck of the ship like carrion waiting to pounce on them and pick their bones. 

             Billy sniffed the air, then sneezed. their eager anticipation carried a stench unlike any other. The smell reeked of evil. 

                He turned, digging furiously with his paws, throwing dirt on the campfire flames, hiding their existence. He directed them to sweep the discarded loincloths under the low branches surrounding them.  Discovery would ruin everything. No one could live with their kind.

             Humans brought disease; humans brought anger; humans brought hatred. They were there; he could smell them growing closer, see their clumsy bodies splashing through the bog.

             “They’ve found us,” he growled in the unique language they used after transformation. “Run!” he barked to his pack, watching his friends’ naked skin transform until it was covered with the same silvered fur.

             They cried out in unison at the pain, howling with the injustice, and then ran in fear from the interlopers threatening their habitat.

             Separating into two groups, they took off in different directions to confuse the strangers.

                Billy raced through the brush, thorns ripping his fur, and, in his adrenaline rush, he didn’t feel anything. He glanced backward; the humans were chasing them, one running with a handheld video camera. Nine other hunters followed, the long barrels of their rifles bearing down on them.

             Behind him, he heard multiple shots and triumphant shouts, knowing that his friends were succumbing one by one.

                With a frantic growl, he urged Little John, Petey, and Todd to run faster. He knew he had to find water. They’d be safer near water. They could hide their tracks, their scent. When in trouble, Billy always headed to a lake or stream.

             Little John’s massive body was blocking him. Billy bayed at him to keep his head closer to the ground. He worried about Little John, knowing that his big frame might as well have had a target painted on it.

                “Stay close together,” he urged breathlessly. His heart sank when he heard Todd yelp. The shot hit his friend from behind, sending him cartwheeling into a trench. Billy wanted to stop but knew he couldn’t help Todd. The humans were on the fallen body seconds later. He had to find Petey and Little John a place to hide.

                Billy’s tongue lolled, saliva dripping from his jaw. His blood pounded loudly in his ears, and he wondered if his veins would burst from the effort. He was not as young as he used to be. He hadn’t exerted himself like this in years. Little John was overweight. He could hear him huffing and puffing, and were he in human form, his face would be beet red. Only Petey, the youngest surged ahead of them. Billy watched him disappear into a thicket of bushes. Little John would never make it through the tight spot. He had to find another place for them to escape.

             There was a loud scream, definitely human, as one of their pursuers stumbled on a root to their left. Billy paused, panting wildly, to get his bearings next to the broad trunk of a cypress tree.

             “Which way?” Petey called his head poking out of the greenery. 

             “Hide!” Billy cried. 

             Billy’s eyes searched the tangle of the mangroves for a larger opening.

             A shot rang out, splintering a tree, sending shards of bark around them. Billy reared in surprised shock. It wasn’t a bullet. A red feathered dart was vibrating next to him, sticking out of the wood.

             “What is that?” Little John whimpered.

             “It’s a dart,” he explained, his voice puzzled.  “For sedation. They’re trying to capture us. This way!”

             He and Little John took off, disappearing into the twisted vines.

             They clawed through the bayou, meeting up with Petey who hid behind a cluster of Spanish moss. They stood in two feet of water that reached the hair of their chins. They dipped lower in the swamp when the hunters approached.

                One man in the group stood taller and leaner than the rest, his dark wolfish eyes scanning the undergrowth looking for them. He climbed onto the vee of a tree hoisting himself up on a twisted limb. He became so still that he blended in with the scenery. Only his eyes moved. 

             The man paused, training his gun in Billy’s direction. Billy stiffened, as he felt the cool stare of his enemy wash over their hiding place. He knows we’re here, he thought with shock.

                Little John snorted quietly, water spraying softly from his nose. 

             Quiet, Billy communicated with a hard stare. 

             The man raised himself up, then sat back down as if he had all the time in the world. The three werewolves melted together until they appeared to be part of the scenery, hidden in the gloomy shadows. 

             Was the stranger part werewolf? Billy wondered, watching the predatory eyes searching the undergrowth. He shivered uncontrollably, instinct telling him the man had a purpose and somehow, Billy and his pack were part of it.

             Billy held his breath for what seemed like minutes, terrified of discovery. 

                There was a loud scream, human and terrified, extinguished as suddenly as it began. The man cursed. He rose, gripping his gun, and with a harsh word to the others in his party took off in the direction of their fallen colleague. The footsteps of their pursuers seemed to recede. The werewolves waited in claustrophobic silence for the night to pass.

             Billy jerked his head in the direction of the bay. 

             Together they waded off, skirting solid ground, their bodies quivering with fear. Billy glanced at the sky, willing the sun to rise so that he would transform back to being human. He wasn’t sure which was safer.

                They hunkered down in a mangrove swamp, their heads barely above the water, their four feet clinging to the slimy roots beneath them. His eyes watered from the odor of decay, filling his nostrils to replace the stench of the humans.

             Billy spied a dinghy stacked with cages heading towards the flat-bottom boat as dawn approached. Soft whimpers and moans drifted over the water. They heard the sputter of an engine being turned over.

             “They’re leaving,” Little John said hopefully.

             The rays of the sun lit the eastern sky. It was quiet once more. Billy, Petey, and Little John paddled softly toward the shore. 

             Coming out of the water, they shook themselves off of the slimy residue of the swamp, their throats thick with the musty smell of the marsh. Early morning bird calls broke out in the silence.

             Too late he heard them sloshing in the muck. Billy barked a cry of dismay as shots rang out. Little John went down in a tumble of leaves and mud, a dart silencing him.

             Billy veered right, squirming under a broken log, Petey barreling over it. The report of another shot and a loud thump told him that he had lost Petey too.

             What do they want from us?

             Billy dug his paws into the marshy land, his heart pumping like a piston. He leaped high over an alligator dozing in the shade of a leafy tree. Billy felt the impact of a dart, a sharp pain ripping into his flank.

             His eyes dimmed as he tumbled headlong into the boggy ground. He rolled over and over, coming to rest on a bed of rotting leaves. He couldn’t move; his limbs were leaden. His ears registered the sound of running feet.

             Billy looked up into the triumphant, black eyes of the man who led the attack. His adversary. His enemy. The hunter placed his boot on his neck, holding him down.

             “Got you,” he heard the man say with a thick accent before everything went dark.

About the Author:

MICHAEL OKON is a best-selling author and award-winning screenwriter whose compelling storytelling spans paranormal, horror, thriller, action-adventure, and self-help genres. With a BA in English and an MBA in Business and Finance from Long Island University, Michael merges his creative passion with entrepreneurial spirit to craft unforgettable narratives across his novels and screenplays.

Born into a family of avid writers and readers, Michael’s passion for storytelling runs deep—writing isn’t just something he does; it’s who he is. Ever since he first watched The Goonies as a kid, Michael has been captivated by the power of adventure, compelling characters, and the ability of stories to entertain and inspire. Whether crafting monster theme parks or penning insightful guidance in self-help, his goal remains the same: to create narratives that stick with readers long after they’ve turned the last page.

Michael is a lifelong movie buff, a music playlist aficionado, a horrendous golfer, and a sucker for esoteric & self-help books. He lives on Long Island’s North Shore with his wife and children.

His latest book is Monsterland.

Connect with Michael on X and Instagram.

 

 

 

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