And…here is my offering in the Friday the 13th Horror short story series…
Fun Fact:
This story is very loosely influenced by the movies Sometimes They Come Back (1991) and Buried Alive (1990), coincidentally both starring Tim Matheson. On second thought, it’s not like them at all. But they both gave me the creeps and I hope my story will give you the creeps as well.
About Dirty Girl:
A couple involved in an illicit affair are responsible for a tragedy that results in a young girl’s death. They think they’ve buried their transgressions and can get on with their lives.
But they are very, very wrong.
Excerpt:
He took the girl’s hand, and a shiver raced over his body. Her flesh was ice-cold, even though it was a warm June day. An odor emanated from her…something unpleasant…like damp earth.
Like the dirt they’d buried the poor girl in…
He shook himself mentally. It was just his guilty conscience. This girl was probably about the same age and was similar in size and coloring.
He went to pull back his hand, but her grip tightened almost imperceptibly, and he met her dark eyes. Something seemed to lurk in their fathomless debts. Some kind of secret knowledge…or accusation. He wanted to look away, but was unable to. Light flickered in the brown orbs and he saw a flash of a scene…just a brief moment but he could swear it was there. Headlights shining on trees, the glint of moonlight. Two figures—one thrusting a shovel into the dirt, the other holding a flashlight. The smell of dirt assailed him and, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
“Dad?” An uncomfortable chuckle from Corbin. “You can let go now.”
Corbin’s voice brought him out of the trance. He shuddered and released the girl’s hand. Before he turned away, he detected a small quirk of amusement on her lips, then it was gone.
About the Author:
Alicia Dean lives in Oklahoma where she enjoys creating dark, suspenseful stories. She loves scaring people and, when she was a child, she did so by doing things like putting panty hose over her face and going into the back yard and looking into her sister’s window. Now that she’s grown—and realizes she could get arrested for such antics—she lets her stories do the scaring.
The fourth of thirteen creepy tales of murder and mayhem on Friday the 13th…
Broken by Laura Strickland
Fun Fact:
I’m a great believer in Karma, Fate, Cosmic Justice or whatever you’d like to call it. What goes around comes around, and stories of retribution satisfy me deeply. This tale takes that concept through several centuries and gives it a twist of horror. I’ve seen these karmic consequences come true in real life. But that’s another tale…
Find Laura’s Friday the 13th story here…
Blurb:
When Burton Renfrow awakens from his thirteenth nightmare in a row early on the morning of Friday the thirteenth, he doesn’t expect to be drawn into a tale of betrayal and retribution. But there’s a dead woman in his studio, a shard of broken mirror embedded in her breast. And when Burton falls into the mirror, he faces his own past, one so terrible it changes who he thinks he is, and who he’s always been.
How long might it take for a man’s misdeeds to catch up with him? Is there any escape, once vengeance tracks him down? What is the just punishment for rampant greed and selfishness? The answer just may leave him broken.
Excerpt:
As he moves into the studio, he senses something. Something amiss. Despite the darkness and the clutter, he knows this space. After spending untold hours here indulging his passion, its details are imprinted on his brain.
Even when he steps out of the light spilling from the bedroom, he can see enough. Ambient radiance shed by the street lights bleeds through the tall windows.
Bleeds.
He can smell blood.
A shiver travels down his spine, one that reaches right in and twists his bowels. No, surely not. He’s carried that from the dream.
On soundless feet, he pads forward. Weaves his way between the pieces of furniture that now seem marooned without purpose. The canvasses. The draped forms. Toward the tall mirror which should, as it always does, wink at him through its oval eye.
Mr. Bolton wants his daughter painted as if framed by that mirror, so Burton has left it out in the center of the room.
It does not wink at him now.
The smell of blood grows stronger as he crosses the floor toward the wooden chair, which sits in the center of an open space where he surely did not leave it.
Something is in the chair.
Something that should not be there.
His breath catches and then rattles in his throat. He doesn’t want to see.
He must see.
The overhead lights, as he knows, will illuminate the place to an almost unbearable degree. He does not want that.
There’s a lamp he uses for shadowing on the table to his left. He steps over and switches it on.
The light, soft as it is, makes him blink. At first he doesn’t comprehend what he is seeing. Because it shouldn’t be there. It can’t possibly be there. All in black. And red. A glitter of light where there should be none. An impossible juxtaposition of visuals.
He jerks his gaze up and encounters the cheval mirror. The frame of the mirror, he corrects himself, for the glass has been shattered and lies about the base in shards.
All but the largest of them, which is embedded in the breast of the woman in the chair.
About the Author:
Laura Strickland delights in time traveling to the past and searching out settings for her books, be they Historical Romance, Steampunk or something in between. Her lifelong interest in Celtic history, magic and music are all reflected in her writing.
Please help me welcome today’s guest, Jacquie May Miller with her wonderful new release…
What did you learn writing your first book that helped you write your second book?
I learned that an outline may be nice for some people, but it didn’t work for me. As soon as I started down one road, the characters took me on another path. I truly did not know how my first book was going to end until I got to the last few chapters.
I used that same philosophy with my second book and was very happy to meet some new characters I had never imagined until they showed up on the page. Writing is an emotional journey guided by a cast of interesting people (yes, I know they are not real, but my imagination might disagree) who led me to an ending I couldn’t have written without them.
Are your characters based off real people or did they all come entirely from your imagination?
They say you write what you know. My protagonist, Jack Madison, is the personification of my dad, Jack May. He’s been gone quite a while now and although he had a relatively happy homebody life, I could tell he would have loved a little more travel and adventure. Taking him on a cruise and involving him in a mystery was my way of bringing him back to life. Some of the other characters were patterned after people I know (including myself – Jamie is me, for sure), but others are pure figments of my imagination.
Oh, and the names were chosen for their similarity to the names of the people who inspired them.
If you could tell your younger writing-self anything, what would it be?
I would tell her not to listen to people who told her to ignore her dream of becoming an author. Although I put my aspirations on hold for many years, I’m glad I finally dared to believe in myself and follow that dream.
What do you want readers to come away with after they read DO YOU TAKE THIS MAN?
I think this book is for my generation. I want them to know (me included) that there is hope for a second chance at love even in your 60’s and beyond. And while life is full of challenges—hopefully not as challenging as being accused of murder—there is always a ray of sunshine trying to peak through.
Will their second chance at love lead to someone’s final journey?
Excerpt:
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Mary Bradley? You can’t marry that son of a bitch. You’re still married to me!” Vern was moving closer, his six-foot two frame closing the space between them far too quickly.
“What do you mean? We’ve been divorced for almost two years.”
“Not in the eyes of the church, we’re not. Catholics can’t get divorced. Don’t you remember your religious upbringing? You made me convert to your damn religion and now I’m cashing in on the Pope’s words.” Vern took another step toward the newlyweds.
“Hold it right there, Vern. I’ve got a big ass knife in my hand, so don’t come any closer or I’ll use it, I swear.” She pulled the knife free from Jack’s hand and raised it high. “You never gave a damn about the church when we were married. You don’t get to find religion when it’s convenient.”
“I got a piece of paper that says you’re going to be excommunicated if you leave me.”
“I don’t give two shits about the church anymore. They never gave me any help when you were using me for your personal punching bag. They can’t kick me out—I quit!”
“You’re surely going to hell, Mary.” He moved closer, obviously not afraid of the knife that was now within striking distance of his oversized beer gut.
“I lived in Hell for over forty years. The church might not agree, but the State says I’m rid of you, so get the hell out of here.” She lowered her hand.
Jacquie May Miller published her first article at age eleven in her neighborhood newspaper, the Nosy Neighborhood News. And now many years later (not saying how many) she has turned her love of writing into two published novels.(Thanks to her wonderful Editor, Ally, at the Wild Rose Press). Jacquie’s debut novel, THE PRICE OF SECRETS, is a work of women’s fiction which explores the tenuous thread connecting family and a love left behind so many years ago. Secrets of the past will either break or strengthen that slim thread, but not without a price. If you like her first novel, the sequel (a mystery), DO YOU TAKE THIS MAN? continues the story with an emphasis on the senior members of the family. For a taste of her writing, Jacquie has created May Daze, a blog exploring the value of friendship, family and life’s little surprises. You will find her at http://www.jmaydaze.com where she has attracted a loyal following.
The fourth series of Friday the 13th horror short stories is now available. In each, a murder takes place or a body is found on Friday the 13th. See if you can spot the other recurring elements. Dive into these short horror reads and have a frightfully great time!
****** Only 99 cents until the witching hour when the price goes up! (Well, until around midnight :))
For the series buy link, click on the below:
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Spit on a grave by Tamrie Foxtail
Fun Fact:
When I was in high school there was a cemetery across the street. It may sound odd, but it was a quiet place to study and walk. And there was that one mysterious headstone…off by itself…broken….
About Spit on a Grave:
No one likes a bully and Kiera’s tormented by four of them. But Kiera knows something they don’t. She knows how to turn the tormentors into the tormented.
Snippet:
“Audrey’s right,” Makayla said. “This is spooky. Why can’t we just say we went?”
“Because we have to post a picture,” Jenna said. “With the time.” She pointed to her right. “Kiera said the grave is over there in the corner, under the oak tree.”
They walked two abreast, dead leaves crunching beneath their feet and the full moon playing hide-and-seek through bare branches.
“There,” Alissa said, pointing at the lonely stone. She motioned for the other three to follow.
“Do we just take a picture standing in front of the grave?” Audrey asked.
“We’re supposed to spit on it,” Makayla said.
“That so disrespectful,” Jenna said.
Alissa shrugged. “Who cares? She was a child killer.” Alissa turned on her camera and aimed it at the stone. “Here we are in front of the grave of Barbara Dawn Callan,” she said in a spooky voice. “So scary. Not.” She made certain she was in the video, turned and spit on the grave. “There you go Barbara Dawn. Come and get me.”
Makayla followed. “Waiting for you, Barbara Dawn,” she taunted.
About the author:
Tamrie Foxtail followed her husband from the Sunshine State to the Sooner State thirty years ago. She loves carousels, reading, her family, and her fur babies.
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Soulless by Alicia Dean
Fun Fact:
When I write, I like to pay homage to things I love or that are personal to me. In Soulless, there are several scattered throughout:
The name of the town is Pleasence, after Donald Pleasence who played Dr. Loomis in the Halloween movie franchise.
A nearby town is called Boone Springs, which is the name of the town in my grim reaper romance, Soul Seducer.
My sheriff is Rosalyn (Roz) Grimes, and Rick Grimes is my favorite character in Walking Dead, and Roz is from one of my favorite sitcoms, Frasier.
Of course, I mention Elvis, though briefly.
And, I mention MLB, although at the time I wrote it, I didn’t realize that no post season game would be happening on Friday, although in the story I say there is.
And, lastly (I think), my bad guy’s name, Dearil, means ‘call of death.’
About Soulless:
When Sheriff Rosalyn Grimes shoots and kills the serial killer who is holding her daughter captive, she thinks the ordeal is over and her town is safe. But a rash of new murders plunges them right back into the nightmare—is there a copycat on the loose or, even more terrifying, has the same murderer come back to life?
Snippet:
He was only ten feet away, and she was suddenly afraid to go any closer. He gave off a bad vibe…as if just his being naked in the middle of the road wasn’t a bad vibe enough. No, there was something about this guy she wanted no part of. Screw it, she’d definitely call the police. And grab her gun while she waited for them.
She backed away, keeping her eye on him, but still, he didn’t move. She turned and hurried to her porch. She was twisting the knob when a smell like death assailed her nostrils. Fear choked her, and she whirled to see the man looming behind her. How had he gotten here so quickly?
She fumbled for the door and managed to get it open, then hurried inside. When she went to slam the door shut, he shoved it open from the other side and sent her tumbling to the floor.
He stalked over to her. “Let me in, little piggy.” His harsh voice rumbled out of him like a death rattle.
Shivers raced over her skin. “What do you want?” she managed to get past the lump of fear in her throat. “My husband’s upstairs, and he’s got a gun.”
His grotesque mouth lifted in the parody of a smile. “Don’t lie to me, Bethy. Your husband’s out of town. I need his clothes.”
The moon outside the window passed from behind the clouds, illuminating his features, and she gasped with recognition.
About the Author:
Oklahoma author, Alicia Dean, has an unhealthy fascination with murder and all things creepy and disturbing. On a lighter note, she’s a lifelong Elvis fan, loves the NFL and MLB, and hardly ever makes her darkly disturbing fascinations a reality.
Some friends and I attended a forensic class at a Skeleton Museum. We were given a skull and instructions on how to determine the cause of death. It was interesting to go through the steps anthropologists and forensic scientists go through to determine age, sex and physical trauma. Skeletons really can tell a story of a person’s life.
About The Widower:
Lucy Cable has an inexplicable talent for reading bones—she can look at a skull and see the person’s face. While touring a local bone museum, she notices a skeleton on display and is horrified to identify it as her missing friend. When another murder takes place, Lucy realizes a maniac is in their midst. Can she figure out how to stop him before her snooping around puts her next on his list?
Snippet:
“I didn’t think the museum would have this effect on you. Seriously, I just thought it would be a fun party.”
“I’m fine,” Lucy said. “I just need to sit down for a bit.”
“Ok, if you don’t mind, I’m going to find Cora.”
“Knock yourself out.” Lucy headed for an empty bench across the room. She was almost there when a sight stopped her short. She couldn’t have seen what she thought she had. It couldn’t be. Slowly, she pivoted on her heels. She had to be imagining things. She walked toward the single skeleton in the far corner of the room.
She put her hands on the glass and stared at the figure allowing the flesh to layer in her mind. There was no mistaking it. The same pert nose. The high cheekbones. The perfectly shaped rosebud lips. Add the blue eyes and long blonde hair. It was Maeve. Her mind spun with the implications. She’d seen her last night and now her skeleton was on display. “Oh, Maeve.”
“Now, what do you think of my museum?” Professor Porter beamed down at her. Lucy looked into the eyes of a killer.
About the Author:
Krysta Scott is the author of the novel, Shadow Dancer. Since publishing her first book through the Wild Rose Press, she has since published two novellas in the Martini Club 4 series and three novellas in the Friday the Thirteenth series. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, daughter and dog.
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The Boy in the Bubble by Stephen B. King
Fun Fact:
This story was inspired by meeting someone who spent his childhood as a true boy in the bubble due to severe allergies that would kill him if he left it. Later in life, when he gained some immunities, though he still has to lead a sheltered life, he suffered a hernia and the operations went wrong. We can all be grateful that he didn’t have the telekinetic power Timothy does in the story……
About The Boy in the Bubble:
Timothy has spent his life in a bubble which protects him from fatal allergies. But nature always compensates and Timothy has developed incredible telekinetic powers. When a simple hernia operation goes wrong causing him unbearable, non-stop agony, Timothy strikes back the only way he knows how by reigning death and destruction.
Snippet
Much later, when Joseph recalled the incident, he realized their attacker suddenly resembled a marionette operated by a manic puppeteer. As the man reeled backward away from the cab, his hand, which held the switchblade, trembled as it turned toward his own stomach. The man seemed to be fighting with an invisible bodyguard, and he grasped his right wrist with his left hand to try to stop the knife from stabbing into his own body. But he was fighting a losing battle, and the blade disappeared into his stomach as he screamed a blood-curdling yell which ended with an even louder shriek.
“No,” Joseph shouted frantically, “Timothy, stop.”
The man jerked the knife out, and a squirt of blood arced toward the open door, some hitting Miriam’s skirt. “Arggghhhhhh,” the mugger exclaimed and looked directly into Joseph’s eyes as the knife re-entered an inch higher, then again, and again, repeatedly until he fell to the sidewalk, shaking and kicking his legs in pain before passing into unconsciousness.
About the Author:
I am thrilled, and deeply humbled to have published 17 books. Though my first love is psychological thrillers featuring the worst serial killers imaginable, I have also written romantic thrillers, horror stories and even a time-travel romantic thriller where the protagonist comes back in time to save the world, and falls in love. Find me on FB: @stephenbkingauthor
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A Wicked Fate Mark Edward Jones
Fun Fact
I like to pluck quotes from Shakespeare’s different works and in Hamlet I found ‘Our wills and fates do so contrary run.’ I wanted to show a bit of the killers’ perspectives in this story. Can the young female antagonist, Miomir, resist her destiny, or will her uncle force her to accept her fate?
About A Wicked Fate:
Miomir ìl Kurić desires money, power, and to be feared, while unburdened by her past. Her Uncle Karanosz insists she remains a part of their unique family, one which harbors special skills … and connections to evil.
Snippet:
The ancient granite structure no longer offered Christian worshipers a place for gathering in southern Vienna. The Catholic Church abandoned then sold St. Ezekiel—some said because the hauntings had never ceased. A half-century earlier, the Jews of Vienna had been herded like cattle into the old church before transport to Mauthausen or one of its surrounding camps. The church sat empty for decades, an outcast building with broken stained glass, dusty pews and altars, and fading memories of the long-ago tragedy.
Two people had claimed a portion of the former church. A man with a fedora in his lap leaned back into a cushioned love seat, his head tilted upward with eyes shut. A young woman paced the living area, clenching an unlit cigarette between her lips.
Miomir stared and yanked the cigarette from her mouth. “Comfortable?” she asked, staring at her resting uncle. “Two dead, and now we are the hunted again.”
Tasev sighed and sat forward. “Dear Miomir, I cannot believe you let it happen.” He shook his head. “There will be many questions about the condition of the body. If someone knows your … abilities, they will identify you.”
About the Author:
Mark retired from higher education finance in 2017. He is working on his third detective mystery, has written three paranormal short stories, and has completed the first chapter of a proposed sci-fi mystery.
One morning, during the writing process of SHARE my grandson and I went on a bicycle ride through town. On our way home, our path led us beside an abandoned building with an entire wall missing. We could see something inside and climbed onto the crumbling foundation to get a better look. There, standing alone, was one single piece of furniture–a baby cradle complete with bedding. In contrast to the surroundings, the cradle was in perfect condition. The scene absolutely took my breath away, because of the similarities to my existing book cover–so much so, I snapped this picture with my phone.
About SHARE:
Expectant mother, Autumn, offers to lend her body through “lend and borrow” technology to her childless boss and mentor, Sadie, who longs to experience the movement of a child within her before she dies. However, Autumn is horrified to learn that her good intentions have warranted certain death for her unborn child. Sadie doesn’t like to share.
Snippet:
“Wow,” Autumn breathed, stopping in her tracks. “Look at that.” She pointed to a large painting of a crying infant whose colorful—was it a soul?—descended from the sky, entering the child, filling its small body with light. A Not For Sale sign was attached to the ornate frame.
Sadie approached, touching Autumn’s arm. “How far along are you?”
She turned slowly toward her. “Almost five months. But most people are surprised when I tell them. How did you know?”
“I just knew.”
“Do you have children?”
“Actually, no. I’ve had three miscarriages, each at around twelve weeks gestation. Shortly after the last one, our house burned down, and my husband died in the fire. No children, no husband. It’s just me and my shop. Loss is so painful.”
“That is heartbreaking.” Autumn wrapped an arm around Sadie. “Your husband is waiting in heaven for you. Your babies are there, too.”
“I wish that were true. But my children never drew their first breath, therefore they never received a soul.” She looked up at the painting. “The soul is granted by God when a newborn child takes its very first breath. The soul is precious. Reserved for children who thrive outside the womb, not those who merely exist inside it.”
“You said yourself it was painful to lose your children,” Marlene piped in, her words bristling with irritation.
“Extremely painful. But even more painful was the acknowledgement that each of those small, lifeless bodies lacked a soul.”
The breath whooshed from Autumn’s lungs. She steadied herself against a sturdy-looking bookcase as Marlene put an arm around her and glared at Sadie. “Seriously, lady? What you said goes way beyond polite conversation.”
“I’m sorry—”
About the Author:
Anna is a screenwriter, freelance writer, and fiction writer with twelve books in publication and over a dozen articles/stories featured in Writers’ Digest, Southern Writers, and Woman’s World magazine. She was named “Oklahoma’s Best Author of 2021” by Oklahoma Living Magazine.
In “Blanks,” my favorite character, Josiah Poopart, better known as Beaver, rides again. I liked him so much in “Stripes” that I couldn’t resist writing a sequel. I’ve known him in various forms my entire life: canoeing buddies, fellow soldiers, family members. Men with a simple yet somehow poetic view of life. None as homicidal as Beaver, of course, but they speak of the world much as he does. He is very true to my experience and very close to home. He is not sophisticated, but he is creative, and he’s never met a story he was afraid to embellish. He’s so fun to write. My hope is to write at least five stories documenting the misadventures of my lethal, bucktoothed friend. I’d like to eventually publish them as a single work. (Title suggestions are welcome. 😊) We’ll see.
I did a lot of research for this story (LSD, Spavinaw history, etc.) I always do. My favorite scene, however, wasn’t due to any research or innate creativity on my part. I really wish it was. The Tale of the Depressed Duck was given to me whole cloth by my buddy Colin. He had just had a nearly identical conversation with his wife and was wondering how he should respond. I had no advice for him but, I roared when I heard the story and had to find a way to make it Beaver’s. Fortunately, Colin was willing. I’m hoping you enjoy my retelling of The Depressed Duck. If not, that’s on me. The original version was hysterical.
About Blanks:
Beaver Poopart has graduated both the VA psych ward and the police academy. Now he’s gone to Oklahoma in search of a wayward woman. Lots of people are going to wish he hadn’t.
Snippet:
“Anyway,” I said, “thirteen weeks I spent getting my head unscrewed and re-screwed. No booze. No women. Nothing but cigarettes and all the sleep and VA chow you could eat.”
“Food bad?”
“Hell, no. I ate better than I ever did. Free, too. They had this carrot Jell-O that I got to liking a lot. Little blob of whip cream on top. Real darn good. Sometimes I think I ought to head back over there for dinner or lunch some time. In fact, we could—” I stopped myself. Shooter might meet one of my docs. He might not understand about that dead orderly, Raymond.
Nothing to do with me, of course. People break their necks falling down the stairs all the time. They don’t often die on the fire escape outside my room, but that ain’t my fault. Truth is, nobody knows what he was even doing out there. I reckoned him for a peeping Tom, and I told them so. I told them I was suing for sexual harassment. I pointed out that he kept trying to give me weed, which everybody knows is a gateway drug to sexual slavery. Turns out they had their own suspicions.
About the Author:
Christopher Farris lives in a very old, very small house in a very old, very small town nestled deep in a valley of the Boston Mountains of Northwest Arkansas. His novels, The Fountain, and Intersection: A Trucker’s Christmas Carol are available at Amazon.com, as are his Friday the 13th short stories, including the first Beaver story, “Stripes.”
The climax to the story takes place in the old Rainier Brewery in south Seattle. The huge building is next to the freeway with an iconic “R” sitting on top. Millions of people have driven past the place, but few have entered it. I decided the bowels of the building would be an ideal setting.
About The Devil’s Dregs:
A witch has stolen Steven Metcalf’s newborn son and intends to sacrifice the child to her dark lord. Steven and his two friends scour Seattle to rescue the infant, but the city has become infested with witches and their allies. Can Steven and company save the innocent before it’s too late?
Snippet:
We were about fifty yards down the hill, stumbling through the ferns and salal bushes when a bright flashlight illuminated us. A woman shouted, “This is the police! Stop where you are!”
We ignored her and increased our pace, careening down the hillside by taking flying leaps through the wet fall foliage. Gunshots rang out. I could hear the whizzing sound of bullets flying past us and into the leaves of bushes. Bark flew off a nearby tree. This caused us to leap even faster until we entered a copse of evergreens with low-hanging branches, shielding us at least from view. We crouched on the ground and gathered together as bullets continued to wiz over our heads.
“What now?” asked Hu. While normally cool as a cuke, her voice betrayed her desperation.
About the Author:
Robert Herold is the author of the award-winning Eidola Project novels, which follows a team of 19th-century ghost hunters, and The Seattle Coven Tales, declared by N. N. Light Book Heaven as the “must-read paranormal series of the year.” Find out more at:http://robertheroldauthor.com
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Feast or Famine by Jon Minton
Fun Fact
The story contains a scene at the Teatro della Pergola, an opera house in Florence, Italy. It opened in 1656 and still hosts shows today. In the scene, the main character is watching Robert le Diable, a Meyerbeer opera about the medieval legend who discovers he is the son of Satan. Released in 1831 it is known for the provocative Nun’s Ballet.
About Feast or Famine:
Theresa Salomé is cursed and blessed. Every Friday the 13th, she must kill and cannibalize her victim, extending her life. She’s collected knowledge, amassed wealth, and watched empires come and go. But as centuries pass, the cycle and isolation threaten to tear her mind apart. Is she a monster, a preview of humanity’s future, or just another pawn for gods and devils.
Snippet:
Tess’s strength and extended life came from the brain and heart, the meat and potatoes of the meal. She threw the heart to Marco, who tore into the tough muscle like butter. Despite popular opinion, the brain isn’t something you can hold. Tess scooped out gelatinous fat, slurping it from her hand like an oyster.
Everything that came after the brain and heart, just like the spinal fluid hors d’oeuvres, could be skipped. Tess reminded herself that there was a technical need. If nothing else, body disposal. On a cursed day, she tore flesh and consumed it with the same efficiency as her companion, and together, they would devour it down to the bone in a single day.
About the Author:
Jon Minton is an American speculative fiction writer based in Oklahoma City. He is a software developer but has always been passionate about a great story.
The natural springs and caverns that are part of this story were once popular spa destinations in Florida for travelers in the laste 1800s and early 1900s.
About Violet:
Ivy Powers, now Ivy Ligon, is happily married, renovations to convert the Victorian home she inherited from a distant relative into a bed-and-breakfast are almost complete, and she just discovered she’s expecting. Life is perfect except for troubling dreams and the heartbreaking wail of a child that keeps waking Ivy in the middle of the night. While one lost soul may be seeking solace, another intends to keep its secrets buried…forever. Ivy will be forced to pay a price in her quest to right a wrong…but will it be worth the cost?
Snippet:
“Did you hear about the skeleton they found at the sinkhole on Aaron Rebisz’s farm?”
Ivy was sitting cross-legged next to a box of ledgers from the 1900s the town librarian had dropped off for the new museum. Across the room, Truby Santella was methodically sorting four generations of war medallions donated by Pete Wilson, a retired Navy captain who came from a long line of patriotic men and women who’d served in the Armed Forces.
“Passaway is slow to reveal her secrets, but nothing stays buried forever.”
Ivy flinched at Truby’s choice of words. Although she’d slept a few more hours, undisturbed by eerie cries, the thought of a small child dying in an underground cavern unsettled her. She’d confessed her feelings to Mike who frowned sympathetically but cautioned her about jumping to conclusions.
“We don’t know what happened,” he’d said, smoothing a strand of hair out of her face. “A family could have been picnicking out in the field on top of another sinkhole and the child fell in and was trapped under the dirt and rocks. Jackie mentioned something about a health spa where people came to swim in the natural springs. Could be the child accidentally drowned or was swept away by the waters. Whatever it was, I suspect it happened a long time ago, given there are no stories about children who unexpectedly went missing in the area.”
Her husband was right. The child’s death was most likely an unfortunate mishap.
No, it wasn’t.
Ivy’d had a series of baffling and inexplicable events when she first arrived in Passaway. Premonitions, visions and dreams that seemed to be those of another woman, ghostly encounters, roses with supernatural abilities—all related to Rosemary Storm’s murder. She’d learned to trust her intuition and believe in the unbelievable.
There was a dark secret connected to the child’s skeleton spit out by the earth yesterday. What would it take for the truth to be revealed?
“You’re familiar with the town’s unofficial history.” Ivy tried to sound curious, not like she was digging. “Have you ever heard of a young boy or girl getting lost in the caverns around here?”
“That’s not something I know,” Truby drawled. “Each generation has its own secrets.”
About the Author:
Connor Treadway is the pen name for the writing team behind Gothic thrillers and mysteries. The duo lives and writes in northeastern Florida.
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Karma’s a Bitch by TL Schaefer
Fun Fact:
This was one of those stories that just appeared in my head as I drove back from a lunch meeting with my writer friends! Driving time is the best time for conjuring ideas.
About Karma’s a Bitch:
Millie is determined to prove the existence of the paranormal in Bountiful, Oklahoma. But the people of Bountiful don’t care much for strangers asking questions…
Snippet
A monster emerged soundlessly from the depths of lake into the eerie silence, the last rays of sunlight putting her on display.
She was small, no bigger than Millie, but pure presence and power surrounded her like a nimbus, making her seem larger than the men arrayed before her combined. Her naked body was mottled gray and green and brown, long knotted ropes of what looked like moss shrouding her face. She was grotesque and stunning at the same time, and her terrible, terrifying beauty made the breath clog in Millie’s lungs.
The water streaming off of the monster was clear, and all around her water lilies formed and bloomed, a riot of green and white and pink against cool, crisp water that had looked black and clouded just a moment before.
A kind of wonder tinged with terror swept through Millie, leaving chill bumps on her arms as she looked and tried to comprehend. Failed. She’d never seen anything like this. Had a feeling no one had, except the men who’d summoned the creature.
About the Author:
TL Schaefer writes mysteries/police procedurals that also have a romance twined throughout. And likely some stuff that goes bump in the night.
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Knockers by Mary Coley
Fun Fact
The KNOCKERS story came together after visiting the famous Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, CO this summer.
About Knockers:
Trina Ellsbury needs a break. Then she checks into the StayLonger Inn. The desk clerk neglects to tell her about Knockers that linger on the fifth floor, or the history of Room 511.
Snippet:
“Front Desk. How may I help you?” A woman asked.
“Trina Ellsbury in 511. I need maintenance. The water in my bathtub is brown.”
“511? That can’t be right. What room, Ms. Ellsbury?”
“511. I checked in last night and have been here all day.”
The woman cleared her throat. “I have no one in 511. We don’t rent that room. Please check the number again. I’ll be happy to send someone up.”
“Trip has been here several times today.”
“Trip? We don’t have an employee by that name.”
“Then ask Lou. He delivered food and picked up something for the cleaners. I assure you I’m here and in room 511.”
“Lou? We have no one on staff named Lou. I’ve been at the desk all day.”
“Mr. Jenkins has helped me each time I’ve called. Get him, please. Mr. Jenkins, the manager.”
“There is no Mr. Jenkins. I’m Sandra Lawson, the night manager.”
Someone knocked on the door. Knock…knock, knock, knock, knock. Five times. In my head, the two answering knocks sounded.
“Maintenance, Ms. Ellsbury.” Trip called. He knocked five times.
Through the peephole, I recognized Trip’s blazing smile. I knocked twice in response, loudly, and let him in.
About the Author:
Mary Coley thinks in mysteries. Her favorite question is WHY? A traveler, nature and dog lover, her next story is just around the corner. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband and Trixie, their current rescued hound.
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Spine Chilling by Michelle Godard-Richer
Fun Fact
I put up a post in The Booklounge For Readers and Authors to ask men which classic books were their favorites to decide which book Peter McFadden would possess.
About Spine Chilling:
Peter McFadden’s life is ending, but he isn’t ready to leave this world and his killing ways behind. His spirit lingers inside his favorite vintage book, tethering him to this world, while he waits for his next victim.
Snippet:
Esme kneeled beside her sister and angled the flashlight on her phone into the dark space beneath the box spring. The beam illuminated two boxes. A black metal case and a big shoe box.
Lucy pulled them out. “If he had anything valuable in this room it would be inside these.” She tugged the metal box towards her and lifted the latches. “Yep, this is his old Colt. We’ll take this with us. What’s in that one?”
With an unexplainable sense of unease lifting the hair on the back of her neck, Esme pulled the shoe box towards her and flipped it open. “This is weird.” She picked up a bundle of cards, with a woman’s driver’s license on top, held together by an elastic band. She tugged the elastic off and spread what turned out to be a bunch of driver’s licenses across the carpet. They all belonged to young women. “What the hell, Luce? Why would he have these?”
“I don’t know. I’ll google the names.” Lucy’s fingers flew across her iPhone as she glanced at the driver’s licenses. Her skin turned clammy, and her hands shook.
“What’s wrong, Luce?”
“Ohmigod. I’ve searched three of the names so far, and they were all murdered by the Colorado Strangler. And the police still haven’t caught him. But that still doesn’t explain why Dad has these.” Lucy picked up a small jewelry box, the only other thing left in the shoe box. “I wonder what’s in here.”
Esme’s stomach twisted into a tight knot as her brain worked through the shock of their discovery and arrived at a horrific conclusion. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”
“Why not?” Lucy opened the box, then dropped it, and covered her mouth.
The box landed on its side and a mound of gleaming white teeth spilled out all over the carpet. Almost as if their father had polished each tooth individually after…he yanked them out of someone’s mouth.
About the Author:
Michelle Godard-Richer is the award-winning author of The Fatal Series. She writes edge-of-your-seat suspenseful stories with strong protagonists and diabolical villains. linktr.ee/mgodardricher
Happy 2023! It’s almost release day for a series of horror short stories revolving around Friday the 13th. I will be sharing each story on my post, one per day. Today, I’m pleased to welcome Dex Rivers with his story, House on 13th…
Fun Fact:
I researched deadly, quick-acting poisons for the story, but they are surprisingly hard to obtain, so I had to use another murder method. If the authorities check my search history, I’m in big trouble.
*** Pre-Order the Friday the 13th stories for only 99 cents!!!
Newlywed Linette Holmes is ecstatic to have found her Mr. Right, but she’s less than enthusiastic about moving into the home he shared with his first wife, who met an untimely end. However, she wants to make him happy, so she reluctantly agrees and moves in, ready to start her new life.
When her husband abandons her for a business trip, she’s stuck alone with his morose housekeeper. Soon, things start to go very wrong and she has a close call she barely escapes. She assumes it’s just an accident, but when the ‘accidents’ escalate, she can’t ignore that her near misses appear more calculated. Is the housekeeper trying to kill her or is something otherworldly at play? When a visitor is killed in the house, she decides it’s time to vacate the premises. But easier said than done. In the beginning, the house didn’t seem to want her there, but now it won’t let her leave.
Excerpt:
“You seem like a good person. I’m glad Brenton found somebody.”
“I’m sure he’s been lonely since he lost Gillian.”
Rex chuckled. “Oh, Brenton doesn’t allow himself to be lonely for long. It’s a shame about what happened to that girl.”
“You mean his wife?”
“No, the other one. Melody Delgado. Did you not hear about that?”
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but she said, “Hear about what?”
He winced. “I guess maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but it wouldn’t be too hard for you to find out.”
“Find out what? Please tell me what what’s going on.”
He hesitated for just a moment, then said, “Your husband was dating this nice little girl. Last May, she had a terrible accident. Right here at the house.”
Fear gripped her throat. “Accident? Is she okay?”
Rex gave a humorless chuckle. “I wouldn’t say she is. Poor girl is dead.”
Linette’s hands shook, and she nearly dropped her coffee cup. “How did she die?” The words trembled out of her.
“Seems she got disoriented and fell down the stairs. Broke her neck. They say she died instantly.”
Fell down the stairs? Regina’s doubts came to mind. Was she right in thinking that Brenton might have had something to do with his wife’s death? Surely the police wondered how two women could suffer accidental deaths in this man’s house. “Where was Brenton?”
“On a business trip. She was staying here at the house while he was gone. I met her a few times. Really nice girl.”
Dread tightened her stomach. “So the police cleared him?”
Rex frowned. “Yeah, the police definitely cleared him. He had a solid alibi he was in Chicago. You don’t suspect your husband of killing her, do you? Why, I know Brenton and there’s no way he’d do something like that.”
She forced a smile. “Of course not. I was just…”
They chatted for a few more minutes but Linette couldn’t recall anything they discussed. Her mind was racing with thoughts of two women who had been with Brenton both dying in this house. And now she had to live here. Chills raced over her flesh. Was she crazy or should she be scared?
Bio:
I live on the East Coast where I spend my free time devouring horror novels. I enjoy them so much, I sometimes wonder if something is wrong with me… To be safe, I decided to channel my affinity for the macabre into writing about it rather than acting it out…you’re welcome.
Please help me welcome Dex Rivers with the next story in the Friday the 13th Series, The New Guy...
Fun Facts:
My story is loosely inspired by a movie I watched years ago called Sometimes They Come Back. Have you seen it? It’s pretty wicked/cool.
Another Fun Fact…
I wanted a mention of Elvis Presley in my story. I also wanted the prologue to take place in the 1950s and my character to be at a movie theater and for a murder to happen on a Friday the 13th. Jailhouse Rock was released in November, 1957 and, as it turns out, December 13, 1957 was a Friday. I love it when a plan comes together.
Blurb:
Brielle hates being the new girl at school. She’s made exactly one friend and her fellow students’ favorite activity is tormenting her. Then a new guy arrives in town. He’s offbeat, with a low-key retro vibe like he’s from another century, but she likes him. And he somehow understands what she’s going through.
When one of the mean kids is murdered on Friday the 13th, Brielle isn’t sorry. But when another ends up dead, she starts to freak out and wonders if the new guy is involved. Is the killer only taking out bullies, or does she have reason to fear for her life?
Excerpt:
Mariah slapped her hands down on the book Bri held and knocked it to the floor. When Bri bent to pick it up, Hannah brought her knee up into Bri’s nose. Pain exploded in her head and warm liquid ran over her mouth and chin. Bri cried out and slapped her hand over her nose, tilting her head back to stem the blood. She tried not to cry but it hurt like hell and she was bleeding all over the place. She could taste the rusty fluid dripping down her throat.
Male laughter rang in her years. She squinted one eye open and looked over Mariah’s shoulder. Gabe, Eric, and Hayden stood there, laughing and pointing.
“Ironic, huh?” Gabe said. “Yesterday, you stuck a pig, now you’re bleeding like one.”
Trinity stepped forward. “You assholes. What is wrong with you? Leave her alone.”
“Fuck off, nerd.” Hayden shoved Trinity’s shoulders. She stumbled back into the lockers and landed hard on her ass.
Carley and Hannah had joined them and the six of them were guffawing like a bunch of hyenas.
“Apologize.” A low male voice broke through the laughter. The words weren’t said loudly, but they held a command that got everyone’s attention.
A guy Bri didn’t recognize was helping Trinity to her feet. His face was pale and he wore his dark, wavy hair in a retro, slicked back style. He was slender, but she could see defined muscles beneath the white t-shirt he wore under a leather jacket. He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and gently laid it on Brielle’s bleeding nose.
“What did you say, freak?” Gabe puffed out his chest and glared at the newcomer.
“I said, apologize. To both these ladies. Right now.”
Gabe shook his head in disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak, then his expression suddenly changed as he stared at the new guy. His mouth clamped shut and his face paled. “I—what the—” He moved backward, and his posse moved with him. “What the actual fuck?”
Bri frowned and looked at the guy. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “What just happened?”
The new guy shrugged. “You okay?”
She nodded.
Trinity’s face split in a wide grin. “Bri, meet Vince Ramono. The new guy.
About the Author…
I live on the East Coast where I spend my free time devouring horror novels. I enjoy them so much, I sometimes wonder if something is wrong with me… To be safe, I decided to channel my affinity for the macabre into writing about it rather than acting it out…you’re welcome.
Please help me welcome today’s guest, Susie Black…
Good morning, Susie…Please tell us a little about yourself, where are you from?
I grew up in the greater Los Angeles area.
Where do you live now?
Now I live in Palm Desert, California, close to Palm Springs.
Tell us about your family.
I am married, have one adult son, and a younger brother and sister.
Pets?
No, regrettably after our last dog passed away, it was too painful to get another one.
Where did you get the idea for Death by Sample Size?
I got the idea of Death by Sample Size after a challenging meeting with a difficult buyer and visualized murdering her.
Why did you choose this genre (is it something you’ve written in before)?
This was the first book I’ve written in this genre. I chose this genre because it is the one I read and enjoy the most. I love to solve puzzles, I am curious and ask a lot of questions…some say I am nosy, LOL.
Was there anything unusual, any anecdote about this book, the characters, title, process, etc, you’d like to share?
I am an apparel sales exec and all my stories take place in the LA garment center. I keep a daily journal chronicling the quirky people I’ve encountered as well as the crazy situations I’ve been in. The journal is the core of my research and is the foundation of all I write. All of the characters I write about are based on real people. I enjoyed re-creating these real people into characters that were my image of them.
What is the most difficult thing about writing a book?
The most difficult part of writing a book was being careful not to change the point of view. I write in the first person, so if the main character wasn’t in the room, she couldn’t comment on what happened since she wasn’t there. I had to create a group of women called the yentas to fill the main character in on things she had not witnessed on her own.
What was the most difficult thing about this one in particular?
The most difficult part of writing this one in particular was to have enough believable red herrings to throw the reader off. So far, no one has figured out whodunit.
Would you rather have a bad review or no review?
I would rather have a bad review than no review. I write for an audience, not for myself. If you don’t get a review, you have no way to gauge where you shined or where you need to improve.
What is your favorite quote?
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”
What do you want your tombstone to say?
WHODUNIT??
What is the toughest criticism given to you as an author?
If you can say it in five words, the author says it in ten.
What has been the best compliment?
The book was so well-written, you’d never know it was the author’s debut publication.
Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work?
The late great Joan Hess. I love her irreverence, her sarcasm, her wit, her ability to poke fun at the society she grew up and lived her life in by caricaturing it.
Thanks for joining me. Ha, love the tombstone answer. :D. Please tell us about your book.
Everyone wanted her dead…but who actually killed her?
Blurb:
The last thing swimwear sales exec Holly Schlivnik expected was to discover ruthless buying office big wig Bunny Frank’s corpse trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey with a bikini stuffed down her throat. When Holly’s colleague is arrested for Bunny’s murder, the wise-cracking, irreverent amateur sleuth jumps into action to find the real killer. Nothing turns out the way Holly thinks it will as she matches wits with a wily killer hellbent on revenge.
Excerpt:
When the elevator doors opened, I had to stop myself short not to step on her. There was Bunny Frank-the buying office big shot-lying diagonally across the car. Her legs were splayed out and her back was propped against the corner. Her sightless eyes were wide open and her arms reached out in a come-to-me baby pose. She was trussed up with shipping tape like a dressed Thanksgiving turkey ready for the oven with a bikini stuffed in her mouth. A Gotham Swimwear hangtag drooped off her lower lip like a toe tag gone lost. Naturally, I burst out laughing.
Before you label me incredibly weird or stone-cold, let me say genetics aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. If you’re lucky you inherit your Aunt Bertha’s sexy long legs or your father’s ability to add a bazillion dollar order in his head and get the total correct to the last penny. Without even breaking into a sweat, it’s easy to spout at least a million fabulous traits inheritable by the luck of the draw. Did I get those sexy long legs or the ability to add more than two plus two without a calculator? Noooooooooo. Lucky me. I inherited my Nana’s fear of death we overcompensated for with the nervous habit of laughing. A hysterical reaction? Think Bozo the clown eulogizing your favorite aunt.
I craned my neck like a tortoise and checked around. Then I clamped a fist over my mouth. Cripes, how could I possibly explain my guffaws with Bunny lying there? The disappointment was simultaneously mixed with relief when there was no one else in the parking lot. Where was security when you needed them?
I toed the elevator door open and bent over Bunny. I’d seen enough CSI episodes to know not to touch her. She was stiff as a board and I attributed the bluish tinge of her skin to the bikini crammed down her throat. I was no doctor, but I didn’t need an MD after my name to make this diagnosis. Bunny Frank was dead as the proverbial doorknob.
It was no surprise Bunny Frank had finally pushed someone beyond their limits. The only surprise was it had taken so long. The question wasn’t who wanted Bunny Frank dead. The question was who didn’t?
Born in the Big Apple, Susie Black now calls sunny Southern California home. Like the protagonist in her Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series, Susie is a successful apparel sales executive. Susie began telling stories as soon as she learned to talk. Now she’s telling all the stories from her garment industry experiences in humorous mysteries.
She reads, writes, and speaks Spanish, albeit with an accent that sounds like Mildred from Michigan went on a Mexican vacation and is trying to fit in with the locals. Since life without pizza and ice cream as her core food groups wouldn’t be worth living, she’s a dedicated walker to keep her girlish figure. A voracious reader, she’s also an avid stamp collector. Susie lives with a highly intelligent man and has one incredibly brainy but smart-aleck adult son who inexplicably blames his sarcasm on an inherited genetic defect.
Please help me welcome today’s guest, Vanessa Westermann…
Please tell us a little about yourself, where are you from? Where do you live now?
I’m half-Canadian, half-German and was born in Germany. I moved to Canada two years ago and currently live in Ontario.
Why did you choose this genre?
I’ve always loved reading crime fiction, starting with Nancy Drew mysteries to Agatha Christie and Tana French. It’s not the violence of the crime, but the emotion that motivated it that intrigues me – the why, rather than the how.
I wanted to write a traditional village mystery, with its puzzles and quirky characters, but include the suspense of a thriller. In order to accomplish this, An Excuse For Murder is told from two points of view: from the perspective of Gary Fenris, a haunted former bodyguard who commits murder and then has to live with the consequences, and from the perspective of Kate Rowan, a bookstore owner who discovers the body. The characters are linked by danger and uncertain romance.
Do you have another occupation, other than writer? If so, what is it and do you like it?
Besides being a writer, I’m an English teacher and have also taught creative writing to young adults. I love teaching. Having the chance to inspire students and make a difference in their lives is wonderful. There’s never a dull moment. And I get to spend my day talking about books.
What was your first job?
My first job was in Karstadt Oberpollinger, a department store in Munich, Germany. I worked in the store’s pop-up Christmas market. Besides having to listen to two recently released pop albums being played over and over again at the MAC cosmetics counter, it was a lot of fun.
What’s your favorite book of all time and why?
My favorite book of all time would have to be The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. Literary detective, Thursday Next, is on the trail of a criminal mastermind who is kidnapping characters from classic works of fiction. In this alternative version of 1985 London, people are obsessed with books – there are museums devoted to famous authors and “HyperBookworms”, i.e. Thesaurean maggots. The Eyre Affair is surreal, witty and gripping.
My favorite childhood book is I Capture The Castle by Dodie Smith and my favorite picture book is The Balloon Tree by Phoebe Gilman.
What do you want readers to come away with after they read An Excuse For Murder?
After they read An Excuse For Murder, I would like readers to come away with a sense of hope: that Gary will lay his ghosts to rest and that he will solve another crime with Kate. I would be thrilled if my characters linger on in readers’ minds after the last page has been read, and that Kate, Gary and Marcus feel like old friends.
Would you rather have a bad review or no review?
I would have to quote Oscar Wilde on that one: “There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about.” I would rather have a bad review than no review.
What is your favorite quote?
“The trouble with real life is that you don’t know whether you’re the hero or just some nice chap who gets bumped off in chapter five to show what a rotter the villain is without anyone minding too much.” ― Sarah Caudwell, The Sirens Sang of Murder
If you could spend time with a character from your book, whom would it be? And what would you do during that day?
I would love to have tea with Kate in The Old Fire-hall Café and then help her stock books in her bookstore, while discussing the mysterious behavior of the late Mr. Wendell.
What is the toughest criticism given to you as an author? What has been the best compliment?
The toughest criticism given to me as an author was by an editor who described an early version of An Excuse For Murder as a “woman-in-danger novel”. I was horrified that I had given the impression that my female protagonist needed saving. I revised the novel, making sure that Kate showed strength and courage in every decision she made and every action she took. The best compliment I received was from Barbara Fradkin, in her praise quote for An Excuse For Murder: “Kate Rowan is the perfect heroine for our times; wit, charm, and spirit balanced by impressive skills in self-defense and lock-picking.“ Taking the tough criticism to heart, and making those changes, led to the best compliment.
How did you come up with the title?
The book was originally titled The House of Silent Words. In that earlier version of the manuscript, the focus was on Kate and the other tenants living in the fairy-tale house, owned by Kate’s great-aunt. Gary Fenris was just a shadowy figure on the sidelines. During revisions, Gary became a protagonist in his own right and the title had to reflect that change. An Excuse For Murder stems from Gary’s storyline and emphasizes the theme of revenge.
Blurb:
As a former bodyguard, it should be easy for Gary Fenris to kill, especially when the motive is revenge. But Gary has made two mistakes in his life. The first was letting the woman he loved die on his watch. The second was thinking vengeance could bring him peace.
Local bookstore owner and amateur lock pick Kate Rowan loves nothing more than a good mystery. Her curiosity soon leads her down a trail of blackmail, obsession and death. Despite the risk – or maybe because of it – Gary finds himself drawn to Kate. When danger strikes, Gary is forced to face the fact that he used love as an excuse for murder. And he’s got one last score to settle.
Excerpt:
The ghost of her laughter teased across his skin, raising the hairs on his arms.
There she was, vibrant as though she was in the room with him. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it.” She gave her new dress a twirl, barefoot and beautiful, all ready for a night out but for the heels she would wait to put on to the last. Her toe-nails were painted red. The arch of her foot flexed strong and graceful with the movement. Her blonde hair shone in the light of memory. She stopped short, the soft blue fabric swinging against her legs, and grinned at him.
It went straight through him. He raised the bottle of Scotch to his lips, holding on to the vision. It wavered beneath the intensity of his gaze.
Then there was nothing on the floor but scuff marks and the shimmer of dust. His trainers, mud-caked from that morning’s eight kilometer run, took up the space where her heels should have been. He had almost forgotten the way she used to toe her shoes off, always sliding the left one off first for some inexplicable reason.
The wall was cold and hard against his back, the Scotch smooth and warm.
There was no other choice. He’d made his decision two years ago. It was time.
Vanessa Westermann is a former Arthur Ellis Awards judge, and has given a talk on the evolution of women’s crime writing, at the Toronto Chapter of Sisters in Crime.
Her book review column entitled “Vanessa’s Picks” was published in the monthly newsletter of a popular Toronto mystery-specialty bookstore, from 2012 to 2016. The column was developed into a blog, featuring literary reviews and author interviews.
While living in Munich, Germany, Vanessa attained an M.A. in English Literature and went on to teach creative writing.
Vanessa currently lives in Canada and is working on her next novel, while drinking copious amounts of tea.
I am especially pleased to introduce today’s guest. I have had the pleasure of working with Jessie Clever, proofreading and editing some of her work. Her books are fantastic! Historical is not my preferred genre, but her stories definitely kept me engaged. Her characters and premises are unique and compelling. She has a knack for bringing you into the story, the setting, and makes you want to keep turning pages.
Today, she is sharing an interesting article about working with a voice artist on an audio book. I had the experience myself, and it was quite an adventure. Please help me welcome Jessie with her take on the process….
The Voice in My Head: Working with a Voice Artist to Bring Your Story to Life
As an author, I jumped on the audio bandwagon with unstoppable glee. I could not wait to turn my Regency romances into audiobooks in order to reach the voracious audio listeners I knew I was missing. My main goal in writing has always been to share my stories with those who crave them, and romance readers are an exceptional bunch. We are always looking for more, and audio has allowed me to reach even more wonderful readers.
So when I first approached this business of audio recording, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I used an online service called ACX that allowed me to audition voice artists for my manuscript. Now, I’m sure like many of you, when I read something, a certain voice appears in my head. Depending on the book. Depending on the genre. Or depending on my mood at the time. The story has already taken on a voice before someone reads it aloud. So the auditions became something for which I was not prepared.
None of the auditions sounded like what the story sounded like in my head. They got it all wrong! That was not how Jane sounded. She was not a cranky old lady. She was very much a debonair, refined lady of the ton much like Maggie Smith’s performance on Downton Abbey. Nora was not whiny and weak. She was demure and controlled. Her very voice spoke to her struggles as a character. My unstoppable glee was quite quickly, well, stopped. I didn’t like the “sound” of this business at all.
And then I received one more audio file from a voice artist outside of London. (That is the magic of the Internet, isn’t it? We creatives get to collaborate with folks from around the world while sipping coffee in our bathrobes.) I reluctantly clicked the play button on this audition, steeling myself to hold back the disappointment that I knew would be coming in waves. But then—What was that? That clear, concise voice. Those softly rounded consonants. That contrasting crisp voice of authority and surety that said nothing more than dignified. That. That right there was the voice! That was Nora. That was Jane. That was even rascally Alec, the Earl of Stryden. Yes! Finally, I heard it. The thing I didn’t even know I was looking for.
The very voice in my head.
The one that had tripped along silently as the Black family spun their tales of espionage, war, and romance.
How could it be? How had this amazing, talented person “heard” what I heard? How could she have interpreted these characters so precisely as I had? It didn’t seem possible. But as I finally came to understand, this is the mark of a truly talented voice artist.
I immediately accepted the audition of this brilliant artist, and so began a journey I will treasure as a very special part of my writing endeavor. Rachael Beresford took on the Black family and their many misadventures, their trials and tribulations, their passions and joys. She took these characters that until then had only existed in my head and pulled them out, fluffed them up, and made them like real, tangible things. Now when I heard my stories performed back to me, it is as though I could reach out and give Jane a hug. (And oh, what a wonderful thing that would be!)
Once Rachael completes the narration, I receive the files for review. That is one of my favorite times as an author. I covet that time. I treasure it. I curl up in said bathrobe, steaming cup of coffee in hand, and click play. And Rachael reads me a story. A story completely unlike the one I wrote. That, too, is the magic of a talented voice artist. The story becomes something else. Something more. It is no longer the black and white text you’ve carefully created on the page. It’s suddenly alive and three-dimensional. The characters shape the sounds that until then had only been black lines on a page. And that’s just it. They’re sounds. The characters are suddenly human.
While I relish reaching the end, I’m saddened to no longer have the anticipation of discovering the story again through Rachael’s performance. I usually listen to her narration all in one sitting, because I cannot bear to interrupt it. Once approved by me, the files are whisked off into the ether of the web, and Audible and iTunes suddenly have a packaged audiobook ready for hungry readers. It looks so mundane, that thumbnail of the final product. But beneath that quiet exterior, magic awaits. And more, as a reader, you know it’s there. Waiting.
That is the power of a talented voice artist. That is the magic that only a true narrator can weave. As an author, I would advise other authors not to settle on the first audition if it doesn’t seem quite right. Somewhere out there is the right narrator for your story. You need only wait and listen.
To celebrate the release of the final book in the Spy Series on audio, I am giving a copy of the audiobook of the first book in the series, Son of a Duke, to a random commentor on this blog post. Just answer this question: audiobooks – do you love them or hate them? And if you love them, what is an audiobook that you fell in love with instantly and forever just from the sound of the artist’s voice?
Blurb:
When an assassin threatens England’s spy network, Lady Margaret Folton must find the killer before it’s too late. Hardened from being forced to witness the murder of her British spy parents by French revolutionists, Margaret approaches this mission like any other, with steely determination and a resolute focus on the necessary outcome at the cost of all else.
Commodore John Lynwood, newly returned from the Mediterranean, finds himself granted the title of viscount in honor of his service during the war. Plagued with a string of good luck throughout his life, the title serves as another reminder that Jack has done nothing to earn the glory and prestige that comes with his position, and he’ll be damned if he’ll enjoy such an honor.
But when Jack is accidentally granted a title meant to be used as bait to lure the assassin into the War Office’s trap, Margaret must face the tragedy of her past and decide which is more important: the assignment or love?
The books in the Spy Series:
1/2. Inevitably a Duchess (A prequel novella)
1. Son of a Duke
2. For Love of the Earl
3. A Countess Most Daring
4. To Save a Viscount
Excerpt:
London
August 1815
He had grown so accustomed to the sound of gunfire that he did not hear the shot that was meant to kill him.
This would have worried Richard Black, the Duke of Lofton, if he had had time to think on it. But as the situation inherently required immediate action, prolonged and abstract thinking on the subject was neither prudent nor wise. So he refrained. Instead, he wondered whom it was that smashed into him at incredible speed, sending him tumbling backwards off the walk along the Thames and into the bitter, black water below.
He had been meeting his contact there along the water at an unholy hour, and darkness had lain all about him. The exchange had gone as planned, and he now held the knowledge that he knew would prove key to his current assignment with the War Office. But as the inky water of the Thames closed over his head, he wondered if he would ever get that information to the necessary people.
And then as the last of the light disappeared, he thought of Jane, his wife. His Jane. He did not think of her in specific instances or certain memories that lay in his mind. He thought of her in pieces. Her smell. Her laugh. The sound her hair made as she brushed it at night. The way she always laid her hand on top of his whenever they should find themselves sitting next to one another. Her amazing talents with chestnut roasters.
He would have laughed if such an action would not speed up the inevitable drowning that suddenly became all too real, flushing thoughts of Jane from his mind. His arms began to push against the water as his feet began to pulse, driving him toward the surface. Only he did not move. Whoever it was that had slammed into him still held him about the waist, dragging him deeper into the water. He began to struggle, the need for air and life and Jane surging through his veins in a way he had never felt before.
And then a hand brushed against his cheek, and slender fingers came to rest across his mouth. He wanted to open his eyes, but he knew it would do no good in the black water. But he let the feeling of his attacker’s hand brush against his skin, the shape of it press into his face, the narrowness of limb and the delicate arch of bone.
Jessie decided to be a writer because the job of Indiana Jones was already filled.
Taking her history degree dangerously, Jessie tells the stories of courageous heroines, the men who dared to love them, and the world that tried to defeat them.
Jessie makes her home in the great state of New Hampshire where she lives with her husband and two very opinionated Basset Hounds. For more, visit her website at jessieclever.com.
Author Alicia Dean 