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Paranormal Bar & Grill Tour
October starts out warm and sunny, but this is the month when everything changes. Mornings grow frosty, leaves change colors, and the breeze takes on a bite.
It’s a time for harvest celebrations. A boy loans a girl his coat. She snuggles a little closer and takes his hand. A riot of autumn splendor accompanies the farmer’s market where they stroll.
But the vibrancy of daylight doesn’t compare to the darkness of night. Is that chill on your neck the breeze or something else?
You walk a tad faster and look over your shoulder. The trees creak when the wind whips through their branches—at least, you hope that noise came from the undulating bows.
You check under the bed and inside the closet before climbing under the covers. Sleep doesn’t come easy. The old house groans its complaints, and the night magnifies every innocuous noise until terror paralyzes you—because you know nefarious things go bump in the night.
Welcome to the
Paranormal Bar & Grille Blog Tour
…where you can rub elbows with everyone from a gargoyle or vampire, to a creature from urban legend, or the ghostly realms of myth. Step up to the bar, grab a booth. You never know what’s on the menu, or if you might end up there yourself.
Sound like your kind of hangout? Then you’ve come to the right place. We’re a group of five authors who love nothing more than to trigger the chill that crawls up your back, the nervous glance tossed over your shoulder. We invite you to discover outstanding books and check out our awesome tour prizes.
Just be careful of what the bartender serves you. That heady brew may not be a beer, and witches can’t be trusted to provide effective antidotes.
Excerpt – Will O’ the Wisp
Headlights made their way towards us along the Bergamot Creek trail. “Damn it. I wish people would just stay away.”
Pete looked at them and said, “They’re far enough away we can still watch. Besides, they might not stay once the road ends. Maybe it’s Mrs. Matthews with another one of her boyfriends.”
“That’s gross. I don’t care to see that again.”
“Satellite,” Pete said.
It was no Comet Kahoutek, but we watched it pass overhead and waited for the next one. The car turned out to be a van full of older kids. Three guys and two girls. They built a fire and took out a styrofoam cooler. They looked like students on their way to college somewhere.
I turned my radio off and pushed my lower lip into my upper. “I suppose they’re spending the night.” The sound of their car radio reached our ears.
“So what? We might catch another satellite or a shooting star before we have to go home.”
“Meteor. They aren’t really stars. And now we have light pollution.” I looked up once more and tried to have a good time.
“Holy crap. What’s that?”
I snapped to attention and looked at Pete. He was fixated down toward the campers. A ball of green light, about the size of a softball, drifted along the stream bank. It was darker than the fireflies, more the color of moss, but it glowed in the dark. It lit up the gravel alongside the creek.
“That has to be the king of all fireflies,” Pete said.
“Maybe it’s a cluster.”
It turned and headed our way. Pete crab-crawled away from the light.
The glow got softer. It headed back toward the campfire. It was like it couldn’t make up its mind.
A blond boy with surfer good looks walked away from the fire toward the glowing sphere. He said something to his friends, but I couldn’t hear it over their radio. They all stood and looked. He spread his arms wide then waved the thing toward the campfire like he was calling his dog.
The glowing ball started flickering and moved toward him. It hit his chest and pushed him back. Then it went — it went insidehim. He arched rearward, then forward, hit the ground and convulsed.
The girls screamed and ran.
“What the hell was that?” Pete said. “Oh my God! What was it?”
Just a fiction writer, trying to reach the world.
Craig came to fiction writing later in life than most authors. He always had to write, to one degree or another as part of various jobs. Early one winter morning, he conquered the Internet and didn’t feel like shoveling the sidewalk until the sun came up. He tried a few pages of fiction and got hooked.
Craig doesn’t like limitations and calls himself a writer of speculative fiction. It’s a broad field, but he limits himself to science fiction, paranormal, and a bit of fantasy.
He has eight published works—six novels and two collections of short stories.
You can find him at the following locations:
A Thousand Yesteryears
“The phone might be on the fritz,” Eve said as she carried Doreen Sue’s glass to the sink. “I’ve been getting a lot of strange calls with screeches and clicks. I had the phone company check it out, but they couldn’t find anything wrong with the line.” Whatever their verdict, she still wasn’t convinced the odd calls weren’t the fault of an electronic malfunction.
“Screeches and clicks?” Doreen Sue paused mid-dial, pressing the receiver to her chest. “I’ve heard that happens sometimes when a family member dies.”
Eve rinsed the glass with water, then set it in the drain board to be washed later. Something cold slithered down her back. “Excuse me?”
“Your Aunt Rosie.” Doreen Sue bobbed her head as if the answer was obvious. “She might be trying to communicate with you.”
Eve started to laugh, then quelled the instinctive reaction when she noted Doreen Sue’s expression. The woman wasn’t joking.
“Spirits often try to converse through electricity and everyday instruments like TVs, lights, and phones. I know it sounds silly, but I follow all of that stuff…horoscopes, psychics, UFO theories.” A wave of her hand said she took only half of it seriously. “I’ve seen some strange things around here, especially by the TNT. I’ve never seen the Mothman, but I remember reading an article about a medium who was convinced her dead husband tried to communicate with her through phone calls. She heard things like amplifier feedback, insect noises, and strange clicks whenever she answered the phone.”
Eve felt her face drain of color. After talking to a disembodied “thing” in an igloo at the TNT, she should have no problem believing her dead aunt was reaching out to her. She’d sat in the living room only days after arriving and voiced that wish aloud. Aunt Rosie, I wish I understood what was going on. I wish there was some way you could talk to me. The phone calls had started not long afterward. Fluke or answer to her request?
Mystery & Suspense…with a dash of Myth & Romance
Mystery, Psychological Thrillers, Supernatural Suspense, Romantic Suspense
Quirky fact I don’t want anyone to know:
(or maybe I do)….I saw a UFO when I was six. Probably why I write some of the stuff I do.
They say everyone has a story to tell.
I wrote my first childish “masterpiece” at six and was immediately bitten by the writing bug. Since then, I’ve been composing nonstop, and have dabbled in multiple genres over the years, writing everything from fantasy, westerns, and horror to inspirational fiction, romance, and sci-fi. It took me a while to find my niche, but I’ve settled comfortably into the mystery/suspense genre (with a just a dash of romance tossed in).
Several of my earlier works have strong romantic themes, but all are infused with threads of mystery. I have a passion for folklore, myth, and urban legends and that attraction often factors into my writing. You’ll find threads of archaic tales and mysterious places woven throughout many of my novels.
I am a member of the International Thriller Writers and a past president of the Central Pennsylvania Writer’s Organization. If I’m not camped out at my keyboard or have my nose buried in a book, I’m likely looking up blurry images of cryptids on Google, sorting through vintage photographs or imagining life as a cat.
My name is Zoe Tempest. Just let me say, I had no intention of becoming a vampire hunter. My world revolved around the trendiest clothes, the boy of the week and shopping.
My life was as close to perfect as a seventeen year old can get. I had everything. Then my parents were murdered and my world came crashing down.
After their funeral, I went to live with my uncle Julian Kilmer. That’s when everything changed. In a manner more terrifying than anything I could have imagined.
Living life. Writing fantasy.
Sandra writes YA Fantasy, Paranormal and Historical Romance, and Metaphysical Nonfiction. She lives in sunny North Carolina with her husband, a brood of critters and an occasional foster cat. Although shopping is high on the list, her greatest pleasure is sitting on her screened in porch, listening to the birds, sipping coffee or a latte and enjoying a good book. She’s a vegetarian and a Muay Thai enthusiast.
“Mrs Wenstrop, I am arresting you for the murder of your husband.” The policeman grabbed hold of her forearms and continued, “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence.” The officer snapped the cuffs closed around her trembling wrists, and then gave her a hard look and asked her: “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Dullness, from deep shock, fogged Helen’s brain.
She kept glancing toward the door, which led to the hallway, where she knew the narrow stairs would take her up to the bedroom—to where her husband’s dead body still lay. She had left him lying in bed, and he looked for all the world as though he were asleep. But she and the police knew better. Helen wondered if this was some kind of crazy, twisted April fool. But no, it was after midday, so the joke would have to have been given up by now. Besides, Geoff would never put her through this—no matter how angry they might have been with one another over the past weeks. This was for real. Her brain refused point blank to process her situation. Even though she had killed him with her own hands, she couldn’t accept that he was dead. They would never, not in a million years, believe her story. No, they were more likely to admit her to the mental hospital than anything else. Hell, she couldn’t even believe her tale herself.
The author who gets write into your head.
Quirky Fact I don’t want anyone to know: Wrote the entirety of The Glade while listening to the Twilight movie soundtrack. And she’s not mentioning the glass of white (ahem) ‘grape juice’ that kept finding its way to her computer station.
Harmony Kent is famous for her laughter, and has made quite the name for herself … she’s also, um, a writer … and fairly well known for that too. She’s even won a few awards. Harmony lives in rural Cornwall with her ever-present sense of humour and quirky neighbours and refuses to admit to her age.
If you catch her at work, you’ll see that she also offers editing, proof reading, manuscript appraisal, and beta reading services. Not to mention being passionate about supporting her fellow authors.
Links to Harmony and her books:
Love Set in Stone
He gasped but only succeeded in inhaling thick embers. “I hate it when you do that to me, Anael. What the hell?”
“Not what, Damien,” Anael said. “Where. It’s against the rules, but you needed to see.”
“The first level.”
Damien choked on clouds of brimstone and looked around. Bodies hung on racks, some scourged by demonic creatures wielding whips of fire, others stretched until their limbs tore off only to reassemble and stretch again. Some souls were skinned and devoured, the torment cyclical, never-ending. Giant beasts with nine-inch claws and twelve-inch teeth tore people into bloody shreds. They gnawed on the bones of writhing beings, snarling and snapping at anything near them.
There was no blessed retreat into unconsciousness or death. This was their other side, their ever-after, their eternity. The tormented endured each torture, alert and unprotected. Impossibly hot gusts of wind howled through the cavern, tossing the departed from one horror to the next. And the maniacal screeches of the tormentors were only overpowered by the anguished wails of the damned.
“I’ve seen enough.” Damien’s words were barely intelligible through his coughing and wheezing.
“Are you certain? This is only the first level. The second level hosts souls feeding on their own entrails, or having a myriad of sexual violations forced upon them. Rape. Sodomy. Bestiality. And then there’s—”
Damien clutched Anael’s arm. “Enough!”
“Do you understand now?”
Damien looked up and howled, his throat burning, his voice mingling into the sounds of all the other lost souls, an agonizing dirge melodic only to Satan himself.
When he thought the devil’s name, the most sinister laugh echoed through the cavern, a shadow given voice and power. It sent chills down his burning spine. The demons cheered, their victims cowered, and Damien cringed, seeking escape that would only be denied him.
Staci Troilo. Writing Relationship Wrongs.
Romance, Suspense, Paranormal, Mystery, and Mainstream
Quirky fact I don’t want anyone to know:
The socks in my sock drawer and the books on my shelf are arranged in rainbow order.
I’ve always loved fiction, ever since my parents read me fairy tales when I was little. Today, my interests are much more eclectic. I love getting lost in sci-fi battles, fantasy realms, horror worlds, suspenseful intrigues, and romantic entanglements.
As goes my reading, so goes my writing. I can’t pick a single genre to focus on, so I don’t even try. I’m proud to say I’m a multi-genre author.
When I’m not reading or writing, I’m spending time with family and friends, possibly cooking for them, or maybe enjoying an afternoon in the pool. To learn more about me, visit me at http://stacitroilo.com or connect with me on social media.
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