Saturday, October 22, 2016
Have you ever based your book or characters on actual events or people from your own life?
Not as of yet, but you never know lol
What would your readers be surprised to learn about you?
I am a very playful person. Sometimes my facial expressions will have people believe that I’m serious or upset. 9 times out of 10, I’m thinking of something silly and laughing to myself.
When you’re not writing what do you do? Do you have any hobbies or guilty pleasures?
I’m either in the gym, at a movie premier, listening to music, viewing art, spending quality time with my family or simply relaxing. Guilty pleasures? Pizza. It was once chocolate but chocolate doesn’t agree with my complexion lol. It’s so delicious. A bittersweet sacrifice to maintain clear skin J
Of all the characters you’ve ever written, who is your favorite and why?
Adam and Carly are tied as my faves. Adam’s imperfections and Carly’s strength are both admirable qualities.
If this book is part of a series…what is the next book? Any details you can share?
The next installment in the Scion Saga is Split Adam. I’m extremely excited to see where Adam & Carly take me. So far, they’re both dealing with familial loss. No more spoilers for ya lol
What is next for you? Do you have any scheduled upcoming releases or works in progress?
More books! I’m drowning in manuscripts right now. So many of my characters want me to write about them but I only have 2 hands and 24 hours to work with lol. I’m currently scheduled to appear at Barnes & Noble in Palmdale on October 22nd and Barnes & Noble in Santa Monica on November 12th for the release of Opaque. I’m super excited!
The Scion Saga
Genre: Young Adult, Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Romance
Publisher: Nnylluc Book Group LLC
Date of Publication: 10/22/2016
Number of pages: 256
Word Count: 96,910
Cover Artist: Calix Leigh-Reign
and Joshua Jadon
"Her crimson limbal ring glows and I focus my sight as the incandescence dims. I clearly see it for sure this time. There's no denying it. Carly isn't human. She's something more - and if she isn't human, neither am I."
For those craving an untapped Sci-Fi niche - Opaque delivers in this gripping page-turner involving mutated Limbal rings, biokenretic anomalies, mental dysfunction, perplexing Russian ancestry & romance.
Cālix takes us on an adventure that begins when 16 year old misanthropic Adam unknowingly reaches biokenretic puberty, and his supernatural abilities awaken to save him from his murderous intentions. His every thought revolves around the extinction of the human race until mysterious Afro-Russian Carly Wit stumbles into his English class one morning. Adam notices something otherworldly about her immediately but denies the bio-synch taking place inside of him. As he resists their blossoming love, he battles with unnatural thoughts of his mother.
Discovering his origin isn't what he'd thought, he becomes determined to peel back the layers of his lineage and unmasks a multitude of mind-bending secrets along the way.
About the Author:
Cālix is the published author of the Russian-mutant, psychological Sci-Fi fantasy novel, Opaque. She's a certified paralegal and has studied creative writing under English teacher, script writer and published author Larry Strauss. Her earliest literary inspirations include Alice Walker, Larry Strauss, VC Andrews and Stephen King. She spent a majority of her childhood in libraries and developed an intense relationship with words. She's a member of YARWA and RWA and is currently serving as a judge for YARWA's 2016 Rosemary Contest. She enjoys prayer, discovering the minds of those who rebel against social programming, listening to music, a great cup of coffee, exquisite ethnic cuisine, spending time with family & friends, attending movie premieres, traveling and the arts. She spends her free time in the gym, fantasizing about story plots and different ways of changing the world.
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
People often assume a story-line or character in a novel is representative of the author. After releasing “Turbulent Passion” I had phone calls and text messages from people as far back as high school, women asking if I was Lisa, men wanting to take me out after reading the sex scenes, family members asking if I had been assaulted! It’s FICTION I reiterated.
As one friend, a male friend, said to me “those thoughts have to be in your mind somewhere.” Yes, I literally laughed out loud as I pleaded the fifth. I think most authors put some part of themselves in each book, whether it be the storyline or a character. Obviously, being a flight attendant gave me insight into the world of aviation, but I had to step out of my comfort zone and research the Air Force reserves and combat.
My inspirational romance, “The Strength of Love,” is built upon a prayer I prayed in my twenties and the fact God hears our prayers, but doesn’t always answer them the way we intended. Lisa, in The Flyboy Trilogy, is naïve, as I was in my twenties, and a flight attendant, but that pretty much is all of me there is within her creation. Her best friend, the energizer bunny, is most definitely based on my best friend. The rest of the characters are unique mixtures of different people and personalities meshed together.
I laugh when I’m out with friends and someone comments, “Watch what you’re saying it may end up in a book” or they do something and reply, “That needs to be in a book, Gayle.” Yes, beware of authors in your midst, but please remember it’s fiction!
The Flyboy Trilogy
Genre: Contemporary Romance/Military Romance
Date of Publication: October 11, 2016
Number of pages: 344
Word Count: 80, 500
Cover Artist: James at GoOnWrite.com
Lisa’s memory has returned along with her burning desire for insanely hot Captain Lance Miller. Passion soars when the two unite.
Lance is thrilled his goddess finally remembers him, but which Lisa is coming home with him? In some ways he is eager for the return of his original, sweet, loving Lisa, but he also adores his new and improved, sexy, opinionated, wild tiger.
They are settling into their smooth sailing, happily reacquainted life when Lance’s flyboys are called to Afghanistan. This disruption is nothing compared to the turbulent arrival of Lance’s long lost half-brother, fighter pilot Derek Fuller. Derek’s arrival may cause Lisa’s path to be completely rerouted.
Also Available - Books 1 and 2 of The Flyboy Trilogy
"Turbulent Passion" named to Steamy Romance Books Top BDSM Erotica EBooks Guide (The Top 50 Reader and Editor picks)
"Burning Desire" named to the RomCon 8+ list
Short Animated Teasers
Crosswind is the conclusion the of the Flyboy Trilogy
Turbulent Passion Release Date 11/20/2013
Burning Desire Release Date 09/16/2014
Crosswind Release Date 10/11/2016
Step by firm step he approaches me, backing me against the wall. “Lisa, I can only be so strong.” He captures my wrists, holding them firmly above my head. Staring vehemently into my eyes, he continues, “I’m not a saint. I love my brother, but when it comes to you I lose my mind and my honor.” His eyes lower to my heaving chest. After dropping his head back to look at the ceiling, he returns his gaze and continues, “I’m begging you to stop whatever this teasing torment is, because if you keep this up we’re both going to wake with regrets.”
His forearms rest against the wall. Fanning his warm, labored breathing across my face, his hips press firmly against me. The heat of his rock solid erection between my thighs excites and lubricates every blessed inch of me. His head drops to my shoulder. Against my ear, he whispers, “You’re my kryptonite.”
“My hearts pounding,” I reply.
“Sweetheart, mines been pounding ever since I first laid eyes on you.”
I whisper, “You really want me…and think about me?”
With his forehead pressed to mine, he replies, “If you’re asking me how many times you’ve entered my thoughts I would have to say once, because, quite honestly, you never really left my mind from our very first encounter.”
“How much of what you say is bullshit and how much is sincere?”
He tosses his head back and laughs, before placing his lips directly in front of mine. “When it comes to you, Lisa, it’s all factual.”
His crystal blue eyes turn dark. “Well, that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
His breath brushes warmly against my lips. “Are you going to kiss me?” I ask.
“I want to.”
“Then do it. I miss being kissed.”
About the Author:
G.L. Ross is a proud, sixth generation, native Texan. As a true Southern Belle, G.L. has always dreamt of the “happily ever after,” the prince riding in on the white horse sweeping her off her feet. She hasn’t found “Prince Charming” – yet (always an optimist) – but finds him every time she writes about her characters’ “happily ever after” endings.
Her motto in life is to “always find the good” in every person and situation. Whether through laughter, prayer, music, or a glass of wine or vodka, G.L. finds the good in life and shares her sense of humor, love, and adventure in her stories. Each book will inspire you to stand strong in faith and believe in second chances. Take flight with Lance & Lisa in Turbulent Passion, Burning Desire, and Crosswind (The Flyboy Trilogy). After twenty-seven years as a Flight Attendant, G.L. has incredible and often humorous insight into the aviation industry. She shares many of these stories in the Flyboy Trilogy. Plus, you must meet hunky rancher, Graham Gaskin, in A Rose Has Thorns…he is hot! Fall in love with Rachel and Brooks in The Strength of Love, an Inspirational Romance and recipient of the Reader’s Favorite 5 Star Seal.
Join G.L.’s Street Team: The Flygirls to receive the most up to date information regarding releases and prize opportunities:
September 19 Guest Blog
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September 20 Spotlight
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More Books Than Livros
September 23 Spotlight
The Book Tree
September 26 Interview
Infinite House of Books
September 27 Spotlight
Mello and June, It's a Book Thang!
September 28 Interview
Ramblings of a Coffee Addicted Writer
September 29 Spotlight
Books N Pearls
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Share My Destiny
October 3 Spotlight
Book lover promo
October 4 Spotlight
Sapphyria's Book Reviews
October 5 Spotlight
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The Cubicle Escapee
October 7 Spotlight
Ogitchida Kwe's Book Blog
October 10 Spotlight
Lisa's Loves(Books of Course)
October 11 Spotlight
Sylv all about books and films
October 12 Spotlight
Lisa’s World of Books
October 13 Guest Blog
October 13 Spotlight
Ramblings of a Book Nerd
October 14 Review (all 3)
The Book Junkie Reads . . .
October 17 Review
October 18 Guest Blog
The Creatively Green Write at Home Mom
October 19 Guest blog
The Silver Dagger Scriptorium
The Infernal Detective
Genre: urban fantasy/suspense
Publisher: Misterio Press
Date of Publication: May 2013
Number of pages: 274
Word Count: 75,000
Cover Artist: Becky Scheel
Murder. The undead. Irritating relatives.
When Riga Hayworth finds a dead body in the bedroom, it’s par for the course. When the corpse drives off with her fiancée… That’s a problem.
Riga knows dead. More intimately than she’d like. So when a murdered photographer walks away from her pre-wedding party, she believes there’s necromancy afoot. And when she discovers that several of her wedding guests are under the influence of dark magic, she’s certain. But how can she catch a killer and stop a necromancer when even her nearest and dearest are lying to her?
Marrying romance, mystery, and the metaphysical, The Infernal Detective is a fast-paced urban fantasy, where nothing is quite as it seems, and magic lies just beyond the veil.
Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/7kohhn5z3bM
“A high-voltage, cleverly-spun mystery that I couldn't put down. Riga Hayworth is addictive.”- Diana Orgain, Best-selling author of The Maternal Instincts Mysteries
Excerpt: Chapter 1
Riga checked her watch.
It was thirteen o’clock, and her feet hurt.
She’d never liked high heels, shouldn’t have worn the over-priced, strappy black pumps. Riga had been almost relieved when one of the heels snapped, relieved for the excuse to slip upstairs, relieved to escape.
A roar of laughter, punctuated by shattering glass. On the stairway, Riga winced, the relief evaporating. A week to the wedding and she’d already begun to feel proprietary about his things, their new lake house. But the crash was likely only a wine glass, and Donovan – they – could afford it…
Frowning, she looked again at her watch.
Riga rubbed her eyes. She had imagined the thirteen o’clock. It wasn’t an omen, a portent.
She limped up the steps, dangling the broken pump from one hand, the other hand grasping the hem of her gown, a sweep of formfitting black lace. She looked damn good in it, but the dress was a fraction too long for her five-foot-six form, and she’d been stumbling over the hem all night.
At the top of the steps, she walked down the wood-plank hallway to a tall door swagged with holly. She pressed her forehead against the wood, and released her hold on the dress. Riga shut her eyes. Inhaled the scent of Christmas garlands and wood polish.
It had been a trick of the light, a trick of her brain.
It wasn’t magic. Not here. Not so close to her wedding.
She’d told Donovan that the wedding was the least important part of a marriage, and Riga was old enough to believe it. Donovan needed good press after a recent unfair pummeling to his reputation. So she’d pretended enthusiasm when his PR team planned their “celebrity” wedding, invited names she recognized but didn’t know, sent out press releases.
Soon they’d be married, and free. Riga smiled broadly. She could do this for him and in a week, the tumult would end. Her thumb found the band of platinum that circled her third finger, explored its edges.
A draft of cool air pebbled the flesh on her arms.
Idly, she wondered if the place was haunted, if someone had opened a door, or if they needed new insulation. Donovan had closed on the gabled manor a month ago, and any and all options were possible. Riga was coming to learn that just because something cost a fortune, it didn’t mean it was well constructed.
“Escaping?” Donovan asked from behind her.
She turned, leaned against the door, her auburn hair pillowing about her head.
Donovan prowled up the stairs, his green eyes gleaming, a great cat in black Armani. God, he was gorgeous. Wavy, raven-black hair, broad shoulders, chiseled features. But he had other, more important, attributes that attracted her. And he was easy, oh so easy, to love.
She held up her shoes, dangling from a slender finger. “Regrouping.”
“Hm…” His broad hands traced the curve of her hips and he bent, kissing her, slow and intoxicating. He smelled of wild things, deep forests. When he pulled away, her lips burned.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“Once or twice.” She laughed. “Tell me again.”
His lips quirked, tugging at the small, cross-shaped scar on his chin. “I saw your expression when that heel broke.” His fingers traced a line from her jaw to her collarbone, and her skin tingled beneath his touch.
“Annoyance?” She tugged lightly on his crimson tie, pulling him toward her.
“Relief.” His voice was a low rumble.
“I just came up here for my Jordan McCall CD. Do you think he’d sign it for me?”
Donovan chuckled. “Star struck?”
“A little. So far, the only thing that’s stopped me from asking him is embarrassment. I don’t have any of his wife’s CDs.”
“Liar. Deep in that dark little heart I’ll bet you’re an Annabelle Lee fan.”
“A sucker for country love songs? Guilty.” She arched toward him, her soft curves molding to the hard contours of his body. “It’s a lovely party.”
“I know.” He pressed against her, one hand exploring the small of her back. His mouth grazed her earlobe, his breath uneven upon her neck. “Let’s ditch.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She reached behind her, fumbling for the doorknob. The metal chilled beneath her fingers, iced, cold enough to burn. She gasped, jerking away.
Donovan took a step back, releasing her. “What’s…” He trailed off, brow furrowing.
Ice crystals spread from the knob across the surface of the door and the wall beside it, expanding outward in a circular pattern. The temperature in the hallway dropped. Riga shivered in her thin gown. Another ghost. And she had a good idea whose. After years of exposure, she’d gotten used to them. But Donovan had only recently gained the ability to see ghosts, and if Riga was right about this particular ghost… There were issues.
Donovan groaned, his lips twisting into a snarl. “Dad. He’s more irritating as a ghost than he was as a live father. Dad?”
But no specter appeared.
“Show yourself,” Donovan said in a low voice. “I’ve got some things to say to you.”
A breeze gusted mournfully down the hallway.
“Maybe I should leave you two alone,” Riga said. Both Donovan’s parents had died when he was a child. He never spoke much about what had happened after, but Riga was a detective and had pieced together a rough sketch – court dates and foster homes until Donovan came of age, and could manage a casino the state-appointed custodian had run into near-bankruptcy.
“No. I need to talk to him. But this is our time, and I’m fed up with him knocking things over, chilling rooms, slamming doors, and not telling me what he wants.”
Riga’s teeth chattered. “They may not be games. This may be the only way his spirit can communicate. If we understood what he wanted—”
“Right now, I don’t care what he wants. He’s the master of bad timing.” Donovan glanced at her, and whipped off his jacket, draped it over her shoulders. Grateful, she slipped her arms inside, and pulled it tight around her.
He rattled the knob, gripped it with both hands, muscles straining. He stepped away, wiping his hands on his slacks. “He’s been dead for decades.” He tackled the door again, grunting. “And instead of acting his age, the man plays poltergeist.” His hand slipped off the knob, and his knuckles banged the door frame. Wincing, he sucked on the broken skin. “Can’t you…?” He jerked his head toward the door.
“Use magic?” She shook her head. “The last time I tried that I melted the doorknob. I could burn the whole place down. Or worse.”
“Worse than burning down our new home?”
Riga didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure what was more depressing – being haunted by her future father-in-law or the fact that her magic was still a disaster. That missing piece of her was like a wobbly tooth she couldn’t stop probing with her tongue. She told herself she could live without magic, but the loss nagged.
“Right.” He nodded curtly, took a step back from the door.
Riga backed away, alarmed. She recognized that look. “Dono—”
He raised one knee and stomp-kicked the door. The wood splintered, and the door crashed inward, ricocheting off the far wall. Donovan stopped the door’s return flight with one hand. He looked at Riga. “Were you saying something?”
“No. Nicely done.” There was a trick to kicking in a door. She felt irrationally pleased that he knew it.
He strode inside, and Riga trailed behind, wary. The ghost had frozen the door for a reason – a symbol, a sign, a warning. But as she followed Donovan down the short hallway into the master bedroom, she didn’t sense anything wrong. A king size bed faced the darkened window, a faded kilim arranged artfully upon the hardwood floor. Glass doors looked out upon Lake Tahoe, a black pool at night. The waning moon was a mercury trail on the water and reflected lights glittered along the far shore. Above it, snowcapped mountains rose darkly.
“Enough games,” Donovan said. When there was no response, “Dad? Do you hear—” His voice dropped. “Oh, hell.”
Riga stumbled to a halt beside him.
On the far side of the bed was a reading area with a stone fireplace, wide, cozy chairs, and bookshelves. Before them lay a man’s body, a plastic bag wrapped tightly about its head, clouding his face.
“Oh my God,” Riga whispered, swaying. It had to be murder.
Donovan knelt beside the dead man, and grasped his wrist. He shook his head, pressed his fingers to the man’s neck. Donovan looked up at her, his expression grim. “He’s gone.”
Even with his features distorted behind the plastic bag, Riga knew the man was dead, could sense his spirit had fled. The body was just an inanimate object now, an empty vessel. Of late, death seemed less an old acquaintance and more an annoying relative who visited too often, stayed too long, drank her best wine and hit her up for money. She stepped closer, swallowed. “That looks like Cam Mitchell.”
“The photographer?” A pulse beat in Donovan’s jaw.
“His wife is downstairs.” Riga leaned one hip against the bed and grasped the post, feeling sick, out of balance. “We have to tell her.”
“She’s pregnant, you know.” Donovan stood, not looking at her, and she knew he was thinking about his childhood loss, the years in foster homes.
“I didn’t know. How did you?”
“He was crowing about it to anyone who’d listen.” He slipped his cell phone from his jacket pocket, thumbed the keypad. “Let’s call the Sheriff before we notify anyone else.”
Riga nodded, ashamed at her relief at the delay in giving the widow the bad news.
“King. Donovan here,” he said into the phone. “I’m at my lake house. Riga and I found a body.”
Riga shot him a questioning look. He knew Sheriff King’s direct number?
“No,” Donovan said into the phone. “Someone helped him along… Right. Fifteen minutes.” He hung up. His eyes were hard, cold. “I should stay with the body until the police arrive. Why don’t you go downstairs, meet the Sheriff when he gets here.”
She approached the body, knelt on the soft white throw rug, placed one hand on the arm of a nearby cream-colored chair for balance. “Donovan… The killer had to be one of the guests.”
“I know.” His words were clipped. “What I don’t understand is what the photographer was doing up here.”
“I don’t see any drag marks on the rug, no sign of a struggle. And to do this…” She motioned towards the photographer’s head and the plastic bag wrapped tight around it. “He wouldn’t have let someone do this without a fight. Unless he was drugged, somehow incapacitated first.”
“We’re getting married in a week,” he said.
She flushed. “And the police will take care of this. Sorry. Habit.”
Riga backed out of the room, closing the fractured door quietly behind her. She turned and faced two elderly women, dressed in black.
“Gagh!” Riga clutched her chest, breathing heavily. “Aunt Peregrine, Aunt Dot. What are you doing here?”
Dot peered up at her through coke-bottle lenses. They inflated her blue eyes to the size of silver dollars. Her black dress sagged and bagged around her, two sizes too big for her rotund frame. “Looking for you, dear.”
Peregrine, a good foot taller than her niece, peered over Riga’s head at the broken bedroom door, drifting open. Her shoulders hunched, vulture-like, and she clutched a massive black purse in her hands.
Riga hastily grabbed the knob and yanked it shut. She smiled. “Well, now that you’ve found me, let’s head back to the party.”
“You look jumpy.” Peregrine lowered her head, studying Riga. “Is something wrong?”
“No. No. No, nothing’s wrong.” She felt sweat bead upon her lower back. Why did her aunts terrify her? She was an adult, dammit, and this was her house.
Dot tapped Riga on the arm, and Riga’s skin twitched from the contact. “Well, of course she’s nervous, Peregrine. She’s getting married in a week!”
“Yes,” Peregrine regarded Riga narrowly. “Awfully short engagement, if you ask me.”
Dot swatted her sister. “You’re so bad! Of course she’s not pregnant? At her age? Really!”
“At my… I’m only forty four!”
“Not exactly a spring chicken,” Peregrine said. “I hope you’re not rushing into things because of the tick-tick-tick of your biological clock? Sometimes, it really is better to be alone.”
“No, Aunt Peregrine,” Riga said through clenched teeth. “That’s not why we’re getting married.”
“Don’t feel bad, dear,” Dot said. “What bride doesn’t feel occasional jitters? Poor cousin Lettie? What a mess she was. And then her bridesmaid fainted dead away. Knocked the ring bearer flat. What was his name? Wasn’t that Harold’s son?”
“That wasn’t Lettie’s wedding,” Peregrine said. “That was Al’s daughter, Suzy. And the groom fainted, not the bridesmaid.”
Dot covered her mouth with her black gloved hand. “Was it? I was certain it was Lettie and the bridesmaid. Don’t you remember? The bridesmaid ended up marrying the best man.”
“No, no.” Peregrine shook her head. “She married the father of the bride. Such a scandal.”
“Oh.” Dot patted her hair, tied neatly in a silvery bun. “I don’t like thinking about those things.”
“Neither do I,” said Riga, her desperation growing. “So let’s go downstairs.” She hooked their elbows and steered them toward the steps.
Dot neatly twisted away, moving toward the bedroom. “But isn’t there a ladies room in here?”
“Not there!” Riga dodged between Dot and the bedroom door, pointed down the hallway. “There’s a guest bathroom, second door on the left.”
Dot clapped her hands together. “You have so many rooms! I do love this house.” She winked. “I suppose the casino business must be very lucrative? Your Mr. Mosse must love you very much to buy such an extravagant home.”
“Isn’t there another bathroom in the bedroom there?” Peregrine motioned with her purse and Riga ducked to avoid its arc. “I’d rather not wait for Dot. She takes forever.”
“Donovan’s in that room now,” Riga said. “There’s another bathroom in the guest room across the hall.”
Peregrine nodded briskly and clumped away. Riga watched Dot dart into the guest bathroom, then glanced at the bedroom door, still hanging ajar. All she needed to cap the evening was for one of the old dears to find the body and have a heart attack. Awkwardly, she shifted her weight, and realized she was still one-shoed. She wrenched off the second pump, placed it on the banister, and slipped downstairs. How much time had she wasted? The Sheriff’s station wasn’t far – nothing was really far at Lake Tahoe – and he would be here soon.
She darted past the wide, arched doorway to the living room, not daring to look left for fear of catching someone’s eye. The room inside was filled with celebrities and relatives and friends – mostly Donovan’s. Their laughter and the tinkling of glasses flowed toward her, a contented warmth, scented with cinnamon and wood smoke and sweat. She shied from it, through the stone-floored foyer with its massive Christmas tree decked in red and gold, and ducked through a nondescript doorway, into a claustrophobic, windowless room.
The uniformed man seated at a bank of video monitors swiveled in his chair to face her. He was middle aged, with a comb-over and a paunch, but she’d seen him in the boxing gym. The man, Thomas, was lightning with his fists. He lumbered to his feet. “Evening, Miss Hayworth. Can I help you?”
“Yes. The police will be arriving shortly. Could you let the man at the gate know?”
He grabbed a handheld radio off the narrow table. “Something I should know about?”
The floor here was stone too, and cold, and she curled her toes. “We discovered a body upstairs.”
“But you’ve called the police, not an ambulance. Foul play?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the video monitors behind him – views of the exterior, doorways, windows dripping icicle lights. No shots of the inside. “I haven’t seen anyone come or go for the last two hours, but I’ll check again.”
“Thanks.” She shoved the door shut with her foot. “Mind if we check now?”
He rolled his padded chair toward her. “Have a seat.”
She sat, watched him queue up the videos with one hand while he radioed the gate with the other.
Thomas grunted, eased himself into a swivel chair, and they watched the videos from the last hour on high speed, the sounds of revelry drifting through the closed door. Nothing caught her eye. Aside from the guard patrolling the exterior, nothing moved. No one entered or left the house.
Riga released a slow exhale. So that was it then. The killer was one of the guests. She didn’t realize she’d clung to the hope it had been an outsider until it was snatched away, leaving behind a weight of lead.
Frowning, she checked the slim gold watch – a gift from Donovan – that circled her wrist. Fifteen minutes had long gone. What was keeping the Sheriff? “When the police arrive, will you show them upstairs? The body’s in the master bedroom.”
His expression flickered, but he nodded.
She exited, pausing in the doorway to make sure the coast was clear, then hurried past the partiers and up the stairs, stumbling near the top.
An invisible miasma flowed out the bedroom door, coiled sluggishly on the stairs. Her stomach twisted, and she clutched the railing.
Corpses. Rancid things. Decaying flesh.
Her skin crawled.
“Donovan?” She called softly, forcing herself forward.
She was used to ghosts. This was something different.
The hallway chandelier flickered above her, brightened. Fingers trembling, she touched the slim silver cross that hung from her neck, gathered the forces from above and below. Fueled by her fear, the energies rushed through her and outward, creating a bubble of safety around her, cutting a path through the rot and horror.
She pressed her fingers against the bedroom door. It swung open at her touch and she sidled through, barefoot and silent. Her fingers curled, palms ready to strike as she prowled down the truncated hallway, turned the corner into the bedroom.
It was empty.
Do You Dare Visit these Haunted Places?
Guest post by Kirsten Weiss, author of The Infernal Detective.
We’ve all been there – those dark woods, the fog-shrouded cemeteries, the lonely, creaking houses. And we’ve all wondered – if even for a moment – if maybe there’s something… else. Something beyond. Something haunted. Some of us even seek out those spectral places.
For me, a deep, dark Sierra night, one of the settings for my urban fantasy The Infernal Detective, conjures all sorts of threats – natural and supernatural. My sister’s old apartment in Davis, California, is one of the most haunted places I know. But it’s also not a tourist attraction. So if you’re looking for a haunted spot to holiday, here’s a round-up of the top five around the world.
(Note: My selection was completely unscientific. I searched the Internet for haunted places and included on my list the five most frequently mentioned.)
5) The Screaming Tunnel, Niagra Falls, Ontario, Canada. This old tunnel runs beneath a railroad. Stand in it at midnight, light a wooden match, and you’ll hear a woman’s scream. The match will blow out too, which may not be such a mysterious occurrence in a tunnel.
4) Beechwood Lunatic Asylum, Victoria, Australia. Nearly 9,000 inmates died during the asylum’s operations from 1867-1995. Add to that the super-spooky architecture, and it’s little wonder the place is hosting night tours.
3) Highgate Cemetery, London, UK. All that history plus creepy gothic architecture? No wonder London is jam-packed with haunted graveyards. But Highgate Cemetery is probably the most famous, with its crooked tombstones, headless angels, and rumors of vampire and occult activity.
2) Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, USA. The sight of the bloodiest battle in the American Civil War, the spirits of dead soldiers are frequently sighted in the fields and roads around the town. A friend of mine claims when he and his girlfriend once drove through Gettysburg at night, a man dressed in Confederate battle gear suddenly appeared in front of their car. He slammed on the brakes, but couldn’t stop in time. The car went through the apparition. I’m still not sure if he was pulling my leg or not.
1) Bhangarh Fort, India. This fort came up the most frequently in my research, winning the number one spot. It’s said to be cursed by a black magician who was unable to win the love of a fair maiden by traditional means. She managed to reverse his dark love spell. In retaliation, he cursed the entire town’s inhabitants, so their souls cannot be reborn.
Have you visited any of these spots? Are there any haunted spots on your bucket list? Tell us in the comments!
About the Author:
Kirsten Weiss worked overseas for nearly twenty years in the fringes of the former USSR, Africa, and South-east Asia. Her experiences abroad sparked an interest in the effects of mysticism and mythology, and how both are woven into our daily lives.
Now based in San Mateo, CA, she writes genre-blending steampunk suspense, urban fantasy, and mystery, mixing her experiences and imagination to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem.
Kirsten has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching Ghost Whisperer re-runs and drinking red wine. Sign up for her newsletter to get free updates on her latest work at:
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