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This Blog Has Moved!

Managing my author website plus the ParaYourNormal blog got a little too complicated. So going forward, you can find ParaYourNormal here.


October Tarotscopes!

The Death card reminds us that all good things must come to an end, and October is the last month of Tarotscopes on this blog! But don’t worry, the Tarotscopes aren’t going away, just moving to my author blog (managing two blogs got too complicated).

I’m drawing one card for each sign from the Tarot’s Major Arcana and the second from its elemental suit. E.g. since Libra is an air sign, one card is drawn from the Major Arcana and one from the Tarot’s air suit, swords, for Libra. (Standard disclaimer: Tarotscopes are for entertainment purposes only). And in honor of the season, our gif theme is Hocus Pocus.

Libra, September 23 – October 22: Page of Swords and The Chariot. Your brain is in overdrive, but think (or feel) carefully. Are you being driven by conscious or subconscious desires? Neither is inherently good or bad, but it’s important to figure out where these thoughts are coming from. The best outcome places your higher self in the driver’s seat.


Scorpio, October 23 – November 21: Nine of Cups and Temperance. Are the holiday parties starting already? You’ll be tempted to extremes this month. They look like so much fun. But Temperance suggests while you should most definitely enjoy the well-deserved goodies, don’t go overboard.


Sagittarius, November 22 – December 21: Queen of Wands and The High Priestess. The outgoing feminine energy of the queen unites with the mysterious, wise, and secretive priestess for some serious inner witchery this month. This dynamic combination calls for you take your inner knowing and apply it in the world – lovingly.

Capricorn, December 22 – January 19: Ace of Pentacles and Strength. This Ace represents potential on the physical realm – health and wealth, house and home. But it’s potential. You need to actualize it. The Strength card counsels love. We all have beasts inside of us, and some of us our better at taming them than others. Be patient towards those who’s beasts are running amuck, and learn to love your own. Ultimately, fighting the beast never leads to a good outcome.

Aquarius, January 20 – February 18: Nine of Swords and The Magician. Things may seem stressful, but appearances aren’t everything (especially since what we experience is mostly in our heads). Here’s the thing, Aquarius, The Magician is YOU. You create your own reality, and you have the power to change your thoughts and actions and make it awesome.


Pisces, February 19 – March 20: Ten of Cups and Justice. This month you’re going to get what’s coming to you Pisces, and that means good stuff. And if, as you were reading this, you felt a tremor of anxiety, cut it out! Trust in the happy ending, and know there’s more adventure around the corner.

Aries, March 21 – April 19: Eight of Wands and Judgment. Do it. Do it now. NOW!!! You’re either being called to act and to move swiftly, or you’re being called to act, and things are going to move fast whether you like it or not. Judgment is a call from your inner (and outer) angels, so listen carefully to them so the river doesn’t sweep you somewhere you may not like.

Taurus, April 20 – May 20: Two of Pentacles and the Hierophant. This month promises to be a juggling act. To manage it successfully, pace yourself and ask for some damn help. What you’re doing now is laying the groundwork for some important moves forward in your life. So take it seriously, and do it right.

Gemini, May 21 – June 20: Two of Swords and The Emperor. It’s decision time, Gemini. And The Emperor suggests you choose the hard-headed, logical path. Not sure what that is? Then look to process. (I know, flighty Gemini, process ain’t terribly exciting), but if you want to move forward swiftly (and I know you do, because you’re impatient), you’ll need a plan and a map.


Cancer, June 21 – July 22: Ace of Cups and the Wheel of Fortune. The Ace of Cups is the figurative Holy Grail. Your fortunes are rising, Cancer. Enjoy them deeply and ethically, but don’t get carried away. The wheel is constantly turning.

Leo, July 23 – August 22: Two of Wands and The Hanged Man. A choice lies before you, but don’t let yourself get hung up in analysis paralysis. And know that doing nothing is a choice as well. If that’s your choice, then fine, but make it a choice, not something that just “happens” because you couldn’t make up your mind.


Virgo, August 23 – September 22: Queen of Pentacles and Death. This Queen is a nurturer, and she’s being called upon to nurture an ending. Everything comes to a conclusion, but too often we turn our faces from it and let it just happen. Bringing things to a positive close requires attention, grace, and love. Are you willing?

About the Author Diviner

Kirsten Weiss writes genre-blending steampunk suspense, urban fantasy, and mystery, mixing her experiences and imagination to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem.

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THE BAD ROOM: Residential haunts in Malden and Somerville

We welcome Sam Baltrusis, author of Haunted Boston Harbor to the blog. He’s very kindly written about residential haunts in Malden and Somerville. But before we get to his guest post, read a little bit about his book, below.

Boston Harbor
Genre: Ghosts and hauntings,
Local/Regional History
Publisher: History Press/Arcadia
Date of Publication: August 22,
ISBN: 9781626199569
Number of pages: 144 pgs
Word Count: 35,000
Cover Artist: Cover photo by
Frank C. Grace

Book Description:

Ghosts lurk in the waters near Boston’s historic seaport, haunting the secluded islands scattered throughout the harbor. Boston Harbor brims with the restless spirits of pirates, prisoners and victims of disease and injustice. Uncover the truth behind the Lady in Black on Georges Island. Learn about the former asylums on Long Island that inspired the movie Shutter Island, and dig up the skeletal secrets left behind by the Woman in Scarlet Robes. From items flying off the shelves at a North End cigar shop to the postmortem cries of tragedy at the centuries-old Boston Light on Little Brewster, author Sam Baltrusis breathes new life into the horrors that occurred in the historic waters surrounding Boston.
Amazon    BN
to Haunted Boston Harbor
The Lady in Black summoned me here. However, as I searched every nook and cranny of Georges Island during a five-month gig as a historical narrator in Boston Harbor, the ghost of Melanie Lanier—as the Lady in Black is otherwise called—refused to
reveal herself. She was playing hard to get.
  “Something touched me in there, and it wasn’t human!” screamed a girl running out of the corridor of dungeons after a field trip to Fort Warren at Georges Island. “It was the Lady in Black,” she said convincingly. The girl looked mortified.
  This was just one of the strange events that occurred during the summer of 2014 when I gave historical tours with Boston Harbor Cruises and traveled on large vessels carrying passengers back and forth to various islands in the outer harbor. I spent most afternoons during the summer searching for a repeat experience of a shadow figure that I’d seen there seven years before. No such luck.
  I frequently heard screams emanating from Fort Warren’s haunted ramparts.
However, it was usually one of the kids touring the dark hallway in the southeast battery.
  The location that Edward Rowe Snow said was the Lady in Black’s haunt was in the front of the fort. It’s still accessible, but it’s extremely dusty and dark.
  In 2007, I moved back to Boston from Florida and had a ghostly experience while touring the ramparts of Fort Warren at Georges Island. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an all-black shadow figure. I looked again, and it was gone. At this point, I had never heard the Lady in Black legend. I just intuitively knew Georges Island had some sort of psychic residue. While researching Fort Warren’s history, my interest in Boston’s haunted past gradually became a passion. History repeats itself, and it was my job to uncover the truth and give a voice to those without a voice—even though most of the stories turned out to be tales from the crypt.
  Lawrence, a fellow Boston Harbor Cruises tour guide and former park ranger, insisted that ghosts do not inhabit Georges Island, adding that the Lady in Black legend was completely made up by folklorist Edward Rowe Snow.
  “I spent so many nights there, I would know,” he said, as we passed Nix’s Mate en route to the mainland. “However, I would say the island has a spirit. Some rangers say the island’s energy, or spirit, welcomes people.”
  In hindsight, I’ve decided that my encounter on Georges in 2007 was the island’s spirit welcoming me. However, ghosts can almost certainly be found nearby.
  While several of the thirty-four islands have paranormal activity, Boston Harbor’s Little Brewster is allegedly the most haunted. The mysterious Boston Light, one of the five remaining Coast Guard–manned lighthouses in America, stands eerily on the rocky, two-acre island. It’s located behind Georges Island and can be spotted from the ramparts, which I explored regularly during the summer of 2014. While I was giving historical tours, the lighthouse was closed for much-needed repairs in preparation for its three-hundred-year anniversary.
  Boston Light reopened in 2015 and has once again become a Boston Harbor hot spot.
  Photographer Frank C. Grace, his father and I took a ferry out to Little Brewster. It was a rainy, overcast day—perfect weather for a ghostly encounter. Coincidentally, we visited hours before Boston Light’s 299-year anniversary on September 14, 2015 and the island was buzzing with excitement from both the living and the dead. The volunteers at the historic lighthouse were quick to confirm that Little Brewster was indeed
haunted.  “You hear ghost stories all the time,” remarked Val, a veteran tour guide. “One day, I had climbed all the way to the top and I heard phantom footsteps behind me and there was definitely no one else in the lighthouse.”
  Other volunteers have mentioned hearing what sound like congo drums, possibly Native American tribal rhythms, on the island, without a plausible explanation.
  Jeremy D’Entremont, historian for the American Lighthouse Foundation and author of The Lighthouse Handbook New England, confirmed the ghostly legends associated with Boston Light. “Coast Guard keepers experienced odd things and generally blamed it on ‘George,’ meaning George Worthylake, the first keeper, who drowned in 1718,” he told me. “The Coast Guard Auxiliary Watchstanders who spend shifts there today have also seen strange things.”
  On the way back, we passed by many of the islands I fell in love with during the summer of 2014. Nix’s Mate, the smallest of the Harbor Islands, seemed particularly ominous. Marked by a black-and-white beacon and completely submerged during high tide, the freakishly small island is where pirates were kept in a crude contraption known as a gibbet cage, an invention of the Puritans. They would showcase the pirates as sort of a
cautionary tale. While narrating Boston Harbor tours, I was pushed from my seat
by an unseen force multiple times when passing this spot. It was so intense that I physically tied myself to my chair. One time, I was pushed so hard that I almost fell off the top deck of the vessel.
  Disgruntled ghost pirates? Yep, Boston Harbor has them.
  Of course, I had multiple encounters while researching the various haunts featured in Haunted Boston Harbor. The most profound was during an exploration of the USS Constitution, or Old Ironsides. The famous vessel was scheduled to be dry-docked for a three-year hiatus. I had seen it multiple times in all its majestic glory in Boston Harbor. It was breathtaking to watch the three-masted frigate sail past my vessel; it brought me to tears.
  According to naval officer Wesley Bishop, Ghost Hunters was scheduled to investigate the oldest commissioned naval vessel still afloat. And yes, the uniformed crew did strongly believe that Old Ironsides was, in fact, haunted. “No enemy died on board, so if there are ghosts, they’re my fellow crew members who died long ago from battle-related
wounds or the elements,” Bishop told me. “I haven’t had an encounter, but several of my [living] crew members have.”
  Meanwhile, his fellow naval officer friend chimed in, “There are definitely ghosts on board.”
  While I was peeking into the berthing area known as “the rack,” I swore I saw a shadow figure dart by me. Of course, multiple reports have been made of a sailor wearing a navy blue jacket and gold buttons. Ellen MacNeil, who has investigated the USS Constitution with her team, SPIRITS of New England, confirmed that the vessel is paranormally active.
  “Is it haunted? Oh, hell yes,” MacNeil told Haunted Boston Harbor. Her team investigated the Constitution in 2010 over a two-day period. “We totally freaked out the captain with our audio and video evidence. With 308 deaths on the ship, mainly from illness not battle, the ship is very much loved and protected by these lost souls who were playful, curious and responsive to us being there.”
   In addition to the USS Constitution, I had an up-close-and-personal encounter with the extremely haunted Charles W. Morgan. One sunny afternoon, the last wooden whaleship in the world cruised past my vessel in the harbor. The Morgan is supposedly haunted by a nineteenth-century sailor smoking a pipe. It was so surreal to experience this
ancient vessel sail by me.
  I also had a few bizarre experiences on the mainland. One sunny June afternoon, I was walking up State Street near the Old State House. A Clydesdale-type horse—his name is Prince—was carrying two passengers to the heart of Boston’s Revolutionary War past. The carriage driver named Becky, a saucy brunette, was stunned when the horse stopped mid-trot, raised his hoof as if he was spooked by an unseen force and looked in my direction. “Whoa, it must be a ghost,” Becky said without hesitation. “It’s the ghosts of the revolution.”
  Apparently, horses are sensitives, too. If Becky only knew.
  While giving tours during the summer of 2014, a co-worker at Boston Harbor Cruises captured an electronic voice phenomenon while exploring Georges Island one afternoon. He spent the day with his brother exploring the fort and captured a voice of what sounded like a man. “You can hear breathing, and then it says something,” he told me, playing the recording over and over.
  “It sounds like it says ‘get out’ or something similar,” I told him.
  What’s even more fascinating is that the male voice saying, “Get out” in his impromptu EVP sounded southern. Could it be a Confederate soldier?
  One year later, I ventured out to Fort Warren and crawled through the original corridor of dungeons. I found the coffin used by Edward Rowe Snow to retell the Lady in Black legend. It was covered in dust and cobwebs.
  A message from the vice president of the Confederacy, Alexander Hamilton Stephens, popped into my head. His quote: “All the genius I have lies in this.”
  I laughed. It all made sense now. There is no Lady in Black. The ghost is a Confederate soldier or possibly even the cranky spirit of Stephens. I shivered in the beauty and the madness of the moment.
  I crawled out of Fort Warren’s corridor of dungeons armed with my latest tale from the crypt. Melanie Lanier is totally made up. The Lady in Black is a man.
THE BAD ROOM: Residential haunts in
Malden and Somerville
By Sam Baltrusis
As the author of six historical-based ghost books, I hear all sorts of stories about alleged
hauntings throughout New England. One of my readers, Michael Marciello, reached out to me about a haunting from his childhood home in Malden. As a kid, he called the off-limits haunted bedroom “the bad room.”
I got chills as he recounted tales of his father being pinned to the bed by an unseen force and sounds—he later described as evil and potentially demonic—echoing from a room that was unoccupied … at least by the living.
His mother ended up putting a lock on the bedroom’s door so he and his siblings would stay away from the paranormally active first-floor room.”It was always so
cold,” he said, recalling the inexplicable temperature fluctuations in the bad room. “We thought it was an animal,” he said, claiming that he would smell sulphur which is an indication of an evil entity.
When I posted Marciello’s account on social media, sociolgist Michelle Willms talked about her version of a
childhood bad room. “There was a room in my grandparents’ house that was the ‘wicked room.’ It was my father’s old bedroom and I don’t see how he ever managed to sleep there,” Willims explained. “It was always about 15 degrees colder than any other room in the house. I had a hard time even staying in the room by myself.”
Barbara Tolstrup, a lifelong resident of Malden and active member of the city’s historical society, interviewed me for her monthly show Malden Square on MATV. Like most typical New Englanders, she was initially skeptipical when we talked about the paranormal. However, she sheepishly opened up when I asked her if she ever experienced a haunting in her home that has been passed down several generations.
“I myself have been known to be sitting in the den and then see something at the corner of my eye through the double doors in the livingroom,” Tolstrup recalled. “I look again and there’s nothing there. This happens frequently.” Tolstrup told me that guests in her family her historic home have had similar ghostly encounters. She suspects it’s her grandfather or great grandfather keeping an eye on the family’s decades-old home. “It probably is a family member because the house has been in our family for a hundred years.”
As a paranormal researcher, I generally stay away from residential hauntings. Why? Because the phenomenon hits a little too close to home for me. I had my own experience with a “bad room” and it was my bedroom and office in a creepy old Victorian home on Hall Avenue in the Boston area.
While writing my first book,
Ghosts of Boston: Haunts of the Hub in 2012, my sensitivity to what could be
the spirit realm kicked into high gear. In fact, my old home in Somerville’s
Davis Square apparently had a playful older female poltergeist with an affinity
for scissors. One night, I invited a friend over who claimed to have some sort
of psychic ability. He said that she was a seamstress and mentioned, without
hesitation, the various things she did in the house to make her presence known.
While writing the book, an unseen force opened doors that were firmly shut. Lights mysteriously turned on and off without provocation. According to my roommate, scissors have disappeared and then reappeared over the years in the three-floor Gothic-decorated home. One night while I was writing into the wee hours on the Boston Harbor Islands’ Lady in Black myth, I noticed a gray-haired female figure wearing an old-school white nightgown and donning fuzzy slippers dart across the first floor. I ran downstairs and noticed that the closet door had been mysteriously opened and the lights had been turned on while I was upstairs hacking away at my computer. My roommate was out of town. No one else was there.
The poltergeist activity on Hall Avenue turned inexplicably dark around Halloween of 2012.
While writing my second book, Ghosts of Cambridge, I fled my room with a “boo!” in Somerville’s Davis Square. It was May 2013. At this point, the ghostly incidents escalated after the initial encounter.
While I was preparing for the launch party for my first book at Boston’s Old South Meeting House, the scissors sitting on the front-room table mysteriously started to spin, and one night, during an interview with Paranormal State’s Ryan Buell’s Paranormal Insider Radio, I heard a loud knock on my bedroom door. I quickly opened it, but no one was there. Oddly, the phantom knocking continued throughout the phone interview. I wasn’t afraid.
Months after I submitted the manuscript for Ghosts of Boston, a construction crew was hired to paint the exterior of the house. Apparently, the spirit I called “Scissor Sister” didn’t like the ruckus outside. What was supposed to be a month-long project turned
into more than a year. The first crew of painters claimed that paint brushes would disappear and ladders would fall. One guy, tormented by a series of inexplicable incidents, asked me if the place was haunted. I sheepishly nodded, and I never saw him again. After a series of freaked-out painters, scaffolding from the top floor fell on my roommate’s car.
The gig was up. I decided to move.
Master psychic Denise Fix picked up on the spirit of the seamstress during our second interview. “She’s not trying to scare you. She wants your attention,” Fix said, sitting at a table that, oddly, was a repurposed Singer sewing machine. “She sewed for many people
and felt quite tortured a lot of the time. She was celebrated by you, and she thanks you for that. She was released from whatever bound her there,” Fix continued. “And it wasn’t a good thing to be bound there.”
Two weeks later, I moved out. My last night in the house was memorable. My roommate’s exotic parrot escaped from its cage and perched on the oven’s open flame. The bird was quickly engulfed in flames but didn’t catch fire. The bird was unharmed. While carrying boxes down the stairs, I slipped. I felt something hold me back as I watched the box fall down the stairs. Glass shattered. It could have been me. I fled the haunted house on Hall Avenue and haven’t looked back … until now.
Peter Muise, a friend and fellow History Press author, posted about a bizarre cryptid encounter from the 1980s on his blog New England Folklore here.
“A young woman named Karen bought a Victorian-era house outside of Somerville’s Davis Square in 1983. She liked living there, but there were a few things that seemed a little odd. The basement often flooded, which was annoying, but Karen suspected that something else was going on,” Muise wrote.
“She often felt uncomfortable near the back wall of her house, particularly on the second and third floors. She kept her spare clothing up on the third floor but got such weird vibes that she did not go up there at night. She had tried sleeping in the back bedroom on the second floor, but did so only briefly because she felt uncomfortable there as well. She felt that there was something in the room with her at night,” he continued.
Karen was featured in The Ghostly Register by Arthur Myers.”I had a feeling of a presence at night, of its being almost like an an animal, as though it had claws or wanted to bite me,” she recalled.
According to The Ghostly Register, Karen and her roommate reached out to a Cambridge psychic who said the poltergeist-like activity wasn’t a ghost … but a troll.
“The troll was apparently connected with an underground spring that ran under the house and that caused the basement flooding,” Muise explained. “When the house was built on top of the spring the troll became trapped and would send its energy up along the back wall of the house. Karen had always felt its presence in the house, but the troll increased its activity once the roommate moved in and started to sleep near that wall.”
The troll supposedly revealed himself during the ritual and begged Karen to let him stay. She asked the cryptid to leave and the troll haunting and basement flooding mysteriously
However, did the troll have any ties to my paranormal encounter in 2012? After reading Muise’s post, it turns out the troll incident was literally across the street from old home on Hall Avenue.
“I am so curious where in the Davis Square area this happened. I lived in a Victorian near Davis Square and had what we believed to be a poltergeist who had an affinity for scissors … maybe she was a troll?” I joked online. However, Muise’s response made my jaw drop.
“According to Myers the troll house was 35 Hall Avenue. It’s weird there is so much strange phenomena on one street,” he responded. I gasped. My old home on Hall Avenue was a stone’s throw to the troll incident from the 1980s.
Muise suggested that maybe the troll just moved across the street. Or perhaps Karen was experiencing poltergeist activity and somehow mistook it as a mythical monster. For the record, there was a movie called Troll that came out around the time of this alleged cryptid
Did whatever Karen and her roommate experience in the 1980s somehow set up shop across the street? In hindsight, I believe it did.
the Author:
Sam Baltrusis, author of Ghosts
of Boston, Ghosts of Salem and 13 Most Haunted in Massachusetts, is the former
editor-in-chief of several regional publications including Spare Change News,
Scout Somerville and Scout Cambridge. He has been featured as Boston’s
paranormal expert on the Biography Channel’s “Haunted Encounters,”
and he is also a sought-after lecturer who speaks at dozens of
paranormal-related events throughout New England.
Twitter: @LoadedGun

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Flash Fiction! Tea Leaf Tales

We have a two-for-one here — a guest post and flash fiction by Marsha A. Moore, author of the paranormal romance, Witch’s Cursed Cabin! But first, take a peek at the book itself!

witchs-cursed-cabinWitch’s Cursed Cabin

Coon Hollow Coven Tales

Book Two

Marsha A. Moore

Genre: Paranormal romance

Date of Publication: 4-27-16

Number of pages: 380

Word Count: 111,000

Cover Artist: Marsha A. Moore

Book Description:

Eager to be on her own away from home, twenty-year-old Aggie Anders accepts a relative’s invitation to live in Coon Hollow Coven. Although she’s a witch from a different coven, what locals say about the Hollow confuses her. How can witchcraft there live and breathe through souls of the dead?

Aggie’s new residence in this strange southern Indiana world is a deserted homestead cabin. The property’s carriage house serves as the coven’s haunted Halloween fundraiser. It’s a great opportunity for her to make new friends, especially with the coven’s sexy new High Priest Logan.

But living in the homestead also brings Aggie enemies. Outsiders aren’t welcome. A cantankerous, old neighbor tries to frighten her off by warning her that the homestead is cursed. Local witches who practice black magic attempt to use their evil to drive Aggie away and rid their coven of her unusual powers as a sun witch.

Determined to stay and fit in, Aggie discovers not only that the cabin is cursed, but she alone is destined to break the curse before moonrise on Samhain. If she fails, neither the living nor the dead will be safe.

Amazon    Goodreads

A note to readers: the books in the Coon Hollow Coven Tales series are written to be read in any order. The series is about one community, and its residents may pass in and out of various books, but each book has its own unique and special story to be told.

About the Coon Hollow Coven Tales Series

The series is about a coven of witches in a fictitious southern Indiana community, south of Bloomington, the neck of the woods where I spent my favorite childhood years surrounded by the love of a big family. The books are rich with a warm Hoosier down-home feel. There are interesting interactions between coven members and locals from the nearby small town of Bentbone. If magic wasn’t enough of a difference between the two groups, the coven folk adhere to the 1930s lifestyle that existed when the coven formed.

Book One


Excerpt from Chapter One: The Homestead

A shove of my shoulder pried the rusty hinges on the heavy log cabin door loose. I flung my blond braid to my back and peered inside. Beings and critters, alive and furry as well as undead and translucent, flew, crawled, or slithered across dark recesses of the hallway, sitting room, and stairwell.

“You weren’t kidding. This place is haunted.” I shuddered and looked over my shoulder at Cerise. She looked perky as always with her dark bobbed hair and lively brown eyes beneath horn-rimmed eyeglasses. “Were those things relations or varmints?” I took a cautious step over the threshold to escape the blustery weather and unbuttoned my corduroy jacket.

“Oh, both, Aggie. Ghosts of witch kin and their talking animal familiars,” she said and moved past me to lift sheets off the sitting room furniture.

I raised a brow, curious about what talking familiars were but was too afraid to ask. She didn’t seem to think they were bad, and I needed a place to stay.

Cerise dropped the sheets in a pile and wiped her dusty hands on her skirt. “Those sorts of ghosts are in all the homes here in Coon Hollow Coven. Maybe some animal spirits, too, from the surrounding woods. This property has at least fifty acres of forest. The ghosts are harmless, part of the family. At least no neighbors have complained, that I’ve heard.”

Eyeing corners of the parlor and the length of the hall, I wondered if I could ever get used to living with ghosts of people who’d lived here before. In New Wish, Indiana, where I’d spent my entire twenty years, we only had an occasional ghost. Usually lost souls who, for some reason, hadn’t found their peace before death took them. Most times, those folks had been tormented by darkness and experimented with black magic while they’d lived. Or so Mom told me, but I always thought that was just her way of keeping me in line.

I pushed those thoughts out of my head. I wanted a place of my own more than anything else, and not in the tiny town of New Wish where everyone knew me…or thought they did. They all said I was the spitting image of my Aunt Faye, with the same light blond straight hair, deep blue eyes, dark brows, and quiet personality. Everyone thought I’d grow up to be like her with a houseful of kids, seven or more. Fact was, they didn’t know me. I wasn’t sure I even knew myself. There was so much I wanted to learn and do that wouldn’t happen if I stayed at my parents’ home.

Cerise struggled to open the stuck window. “Aggie, can you help me here? Some fresh air might tempt a few spirits outside. This place has been vacant since my mother passed in 2009. We might find just about anything in here after five years.”


spooktacular-guest-blog Are you brave enough to visit Coon Hollow Coven’s haunted carriage house?

Guest Blog by Marsha A. Moore

Coon Hollow is the setting for Witch’s Cursed Cabin, the second of my series, Coon Hollow Coven Tales, and there are a lot of strange happenings going on down in the Hollow as Samhain approaches.

The Hollow is a fictitious small valley in southern Indiana, south of Bloomington. Somewhere in Brown County near Nashville and Bean Blossom, if you’re from around those parts. It’s Hoosier hill-country at its finest.

The coven was founded on strict rules of adherence to lifestyle and customs that existed at the time of the coven’s conception, in the mid-1930s. The rationale: to keep the transmission of witchcraft from one generation to the next as pure as possible. Members dress in styles of that period and drive long sleek Packards, Studebakers, and Nashes.

Several times during the year, the coven puts on magical events open to the public as charity fundraisers for their schools and eldercare. Witch’s Cursed Cabin opens with the coven preparing for their annual Halloween haunted carriage house.

Here’s an excerpt of the night when the attraction is open only to coven members. Aggie Anders has just moved to the coven and is joining Cerise’s family at the event.


Dusk was changing to night, the gloaming time as I called it, with the sky ribboned in bands of blue-grays and inky purples. As we ascended the small hill that separated the two cabins, I pulled my hood over my head.

On the other side, a group of black forms mingled outside, perhaps fifty, but the dim light made counting difficult. I glanced down at my jeans, happy the blue color wasn’t too noticeable. A chilling scream that seemed to come from the cabin’s roof made me gawk, wide-eyed.

A hush spread over the crowd, and hoods turned upward toward the tall gable above the front door. Another scream pierced the air, this one more like the chilling, long wail of a banshee, which I knew signaled approaching death. And another shriek, as two dark shapes emerged from behind the chimney. One began the dreadful cry once again, while the other leered at those on the ground.

Little Bud tugged on his dad’s arm and whimpered.

“What is this I see?” A deep male voice growled down at us. “Intruders! You’ve broken the peaceful rest of the carriage house spirits.” He gave a guttural laugh, then shinnied down a trellis at one end of the small porch. From there, he rubbed his hands together while shuffling side to side as he scanned the crowd. His ragged cape hung in shreds around his hunched shape, and his death-white face reflected what little light the twilight offered. “Since you’ve awakened the spirits, why don’t you come in and pay them a friendly visit? I’m sure they’ll be glad to welcome you.” With a menacing laugh, he turned and opened the door. “We have guests of the best kind—willing.”

A chorus of howls and yelps responded from inside, and the banshee on the roof gave a higher pitched cry.

A small girl, no more than four years old, begged for her father to carry her.

The ragged spirit pointed to a sign posted high on the porch support post. “Heed this sign well before you go inside.” It warned pregnant women and people with heart conditions to not enter. With the wave of his arm, he spun on his heel, and the crowd moved toward the entrance.

“Looks like this year’s show will be good. Every year they try to top the last,” Cerise said and pulled me behind her, while Toby herded their boys.

Inside, ghouls lurched near, guiding us up the front staircase. Real enchanted spiders dropped onto our faces, bringing plenty of squeals and some momentary lost footing on steps. While clinging to the railings to keep my balance, oozy slime gushed between my fingers. Faced with the safe scares, screams that escaped my lips immediately turned to giggles.

Live rats ran the length of the upper hall, scampering across our feet. I was glad for my stiff-toed boots, but many of the ladies wearing dress pumps jumped a couple feet. One woman landed against me, and we both fell against the wall where arms extending from paintings held us captive until we pleaded loud enough for release.

The wall hazards kept people close to the middle, regardless of the rats. At the doorway to the first bedroom, the floorboards gave way. Five or more in the line ahead dropped down a black hole, their screams reverberating after them. Bats flew up the open shoot and corralled us into the bedroom and the outstretched arms of a red-eyed goblin. His touch sent a sudden disorienting delirium through me, and I fumbled behind Cerise through a connecting hall that led into the next bedroom.


What happens to Aggie? You’ll only know if you’re brave enough to enter the coven’s haunted carriage house!


Hello! I’m Marsha A. Moore and it’s great to be here and share some Samhain fun! I’d like to share with you one of my very popular mini-stories from my collection of fantasy flash fiction Tea Leaf Tales.

Tea Leaf Tales: The Necessary Practice Halloween Growl

“Oh, come on, Grindor,” I pleaded for the third time.

“Not until Halloween,” he replied with a terse snap, his face stoic, his body frozen.

“Just one pre-Halloween scare.” I climbed beside him and peeked over the fence.

“There’s a teenage boy walking this way toward your gate who’d make a great practice target.”

“Nope,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to knock me off balance with his left wing.

“It’ll feel good to do just one little growl.”

A whiz of loud pops sailed inches above my head, and I jumped behind my griffin guardian who spread his protective wings wide.

The teen burst through the open gate, gun in hand, and Grindor let out a horrific roar, so loud that my teeth rattled.

From behind, I winked at the boy with the bb gun, my five-dollar bill showing in his jeans pocket.

Tea Leaf Tales is a series of original ten-sentence short stories by Marsha A. Moore, relating to photos/scenes that resonate with her.

Visit Marsha’s website to read more archived episodes of the Mercantile of Tea Leaf Tales and watch her blog for new episodes.

About the Author:

Marsha A. Moore loves to write fantasy and paranormal romance. Much of her life feeds the creative flow she uses to weave highly imaginative tales.

The magic of art and nature spark life into her writing, as well as other pursuits of watercolor painting and drawing. She’s been a yoga enthusiast for over a decade and is a registered yoga teacher. Her practice helps weave the mystical into her writing. After a move from Toledo to Tampa in 2008, she’s happily transformed into a Floridian, in love with the outdoors where she’s always on the lookout for portals to other worlds. Marsha is crazy about cycling. She lives with her husband on a large saltwater lagoon, where taking her kayak out is a real treat. She never has enough days spent at the beach, usually scribbling away at stories with toes wiggling in the sand. Every day at the beach is magical!

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Creature Feature: Halja’s Demons and Beasts




Feature: Halja’s Demons and Beasts
One of the fun things about writing a dark fantasy series is that I get to create
different creatures, beasts, and demons for each book. Many of the characters
in my novels are true monsters. But others are harbingers, mentors, tricksters,
and lovers.
In honor of Halloween, our darkest holiday, here’s a sampling of demons and beasts
In my first book, I stuck with the familiar – literally. One of my favorite bit
characters from that book is Serafina, a demon familiar. Noon should have been
more careful… Pandora’s box isn’t the only thing that shouldn’t have been
A familiar?
My hand shook slightly as I held the ball up by its chain to peer at it more closely.
There was a demon in there. No matter how small, the thought should have been mildly terrifying. But instead I felt wonderfully intoxicated and numb around the edges, like I’d drank too much wine at a party. I looked for the button but couldn’t find it. I twisted and turned the ball, holding it up to the afternoon light streaming through my dormitory window, and finally found
the catch. I pushed it gently with my thumb and the ball sprang open.
Immediately the intoxicated, numb feeling went supernova. Serafina’s signature made me feel like my body had been liquefied and then turned inside out to congeal in the cold. I suddenly craved warmth and this demon was the only source that could satisfy.
I stared at her, hardly able to reconcile her with a lifetime of imagined fears. Haljan myths and legends spoke of brutish beasts hell-bent on fury and destruction. Haljan paintings, bas reliefs, and statuaries also often depicted demons as cruel fiends and vicious monsters. But Serafina didn’t look dangerous. She looked ungainly.
She belched and stretched, glaring at me through two black eyes the size of beads. She was naked but it was no pretty sight. Her body, though diminutive, was bloated as though she’d died in the Lethe and been left too long. Her skin was a grayish, sickly looking green, and she rubbed her distended belly with one clawed hand as she grinned malevolently at me.
In the second book, I introduced two mythological characters, who underscored one
of the book’s main themes – knowledge. Like many folktales, their story is
playful… with a hint of deadly…
They say Curiositas killed Cattus.
But no one really knows.
Curiositas was a fairly youngish demon living in the twelfth century, only a few decades old, when he met the gorgeously supple and fiercely feline demoness Cattus. When he asked her what she most wanted to do on their dates, Cattus kept telling Curiositas, “You don’t want to know.” But Curiositas, being Curiositas, kept at Cattus day and night, although mostly by night, because Cattus was nocturnal. Curiositas, on the other hand, was a day creature, all flecked with gold and shining brilliance. His preferred haunt was the Lethe and the two met at the docks every day at dusk.
Cattus would stare into the great murky depths of the Lethe, searching for any sign of Curiositas. Sometimes her ears would twitch. Sometimes her tail. Sometimes her eyes would grow big as saucers and her haunches would wriggle in anticipation. Curiositas never fully breached the surface of the water. He liked to tease Cattus, as she teased him. He gave her glimpses only of himself: a tiny bit of fin, a stream of bubbles, a patch of orange gold twisting just beneath the surface, sparkling, shimmering, just out of reach.
There’s a romantic version of the story the Hyrkes like to tell. Some nonsense about the two demons being doomed lovers. But that’s not the version I was told, nor is it the version I believe. Unlike the Hyrkes, I don’t have any romantic notions about demons. They’re much worse than Maegesters.Much. And that’s why I know—although I wish I didn’t—what Cattus most wanted to do with Curiositas. And that’s why I believe the version that puts an end to Cattus’ hunger.
Ivy, my Hyrke roommate, never gets my version of the story.
“Ends Cattus’ hunger?” she always asks, frowning and exasperated. “What does that mean? Did Cattus finally catch Curiositas? Or did Curiositas really kill her?”
And, every time, I always wink and tell her:
“You don’t want to know.”
In the third book, I added barghests to the beastly mix of creatures featured in the series.
The barghests looked as horrible as their food. Only in the vaguest sense did they resemble dogs. They had four legs, a tail, claws, and jaws full of sharp canine teeth. But barghests are to dogs the way drakons are to bats. First off, they were huge. Everything about them was bigger and
meaner. On four legs their faces were even with mine. Upon seeing them it became easy to imagine a demon like Lilith riding one. They had barrel chests and wolfish grins. Their teeth were as large as horns and their paws four times the size of Rafe’s booted foot. And their fur . . . well, let’s just say seeing it on the living creature didn’t improve its appearance. It reminded me of long, thick, tangled rat fur. I shuddered and tried to reconcile myself to the fact that, so long as I didn’t get eaten by one in the pen today, two of them would be under my care by midday. 
“So which of you is first?” Linnaea said, motioning to
the pen.
“Do we lasso them? Saddle them?” Rafe asked. Hands in his pockets, he rocked back and forth on his heels surveying them. “Cast a spell over them?”
Linnaea snorted. “I wouldn’t cast a spell over them at first. In time, as they get used to you, you might be able to cast something simple over them, but don’t start that way. In the beginning, all you’re going to do is let them get used to you. They’ll try to push you around. See what you’re made of. They’re as curious about you as you are about them.Don’t show any fear.”
Like dogs and demons, I thought.
“I’ll go first,” I said, walking over to the gate. “What about waning magic? What’s their response to that?”
Linnaea smiled, but it wasn’t reassuring. “That depends on the user.” She walked over to the gate and held it open for me.
“You’re not coming in?” I asked, trying to ignore the growls coming from the beasts behind her.
“Nah, it’s better if you go in alone,” she said, winking at me.
Better for who? Her or me?
The upcoming fourth book takes
place in Rockthorn Gorge, a bustling mountain town where so many demons live,
it’s often called a “demonic anthill.” Noon is sent there to make nice with the
demons who follow the law… and to find the one who isn’t.
Shortly after sunrise, we reached the rim of the gorge. Even though I stood on solid ground and there was no immediate danger of falling into it, my stomach dropped as if I had. The gorge was enormous – a near-vertical drop into a dark chasm hundreds of feet below us. At the bottom, the Acheron River was dry. I knew from the materials in my dossier that the river had been diverted during construction. The plans and specs called for the viaduct to be converted into a dam. Gazing at the wreckage below, however, I knew the project had once again been set back. Huge stone blocks and other pieces of debris were strewn about the dry riverbed as if they were toy building blocks that had been kicked over by a child with a temper. But it hadn’t been a child. It had been a bomber – one who’d killed almost a hundred people, possibly more.
One who’d possibly killed Ari.
All through the night, I’d managed to ignore my growing panic. Ari was strong and powerful… robust and nearly invincible…
Wasn’t he?
But standing at the edge of Halja’s northern-most ravine, staring down at what looked like an army of ants rather than a rescue party made up of demons and men, I could no longer ignore my feelings. I was afraid. Not of falling into the gorge, but of what I might find at the bottom.
Pocket Full of Tinder
Noon Onyx
Book 4
Jill Archer
Genre: Fantasy
Publisher: Black Willow
Word Count: ~ 85,000
Cover Artist:  Rebecca Frank
Book Description:
Noon Onyx is back! In this long-awaited fourth installment, Jill Archer returns readers to the dangerous world of Halja, where demons, angels, and humans coexist in an uneasy state of détente.
Maegester-in-Training Noon Onyx feels like she’s done it all – mastered fiery magic, become an adept fighter, learned the law, killed countless demons, and survived having her heart broken by both love and an arrow, but now she’ll face her greatest challenge yet…
Far to the north lies an outpost famous for its unrest – Rockthorn Gorge. The town’s patron has specifically requested Noon’s help. Her assignment? Help the neophyte demon lord build his fiefdom and keep what’s his. The problem? Lord Aristos – Noon’s new employer – is her erstwhile lover, Ari Carmine, the aforementioned heartbreaker. And the number one thing he wants is her.
When Rockthorn Gorge’s viaduct is destroyed by Displodo, an enigmatic bomber, killing a dozen settlers and wounding scores more, Noon sets off early to aid in the search and rescue. Ari is listed among the missing and the suspects are legion. But Noon’s search is just the beginning. Her journey forces Noon to confront not only those she loves, but also enemies hell-bent on destroying them.
Some things can’t be mended, they can only be mourned…
Noon Onyx #4
The claw-and-ball had been chewed clean off. It lay on a patch of sunny parquet floor, just to the right of an antique, aubergine wool rug now covered with the splintered remnants of an eleventh century pedestal table and one very large, ghastly looking, somewhat repentant barghest.
Nova’s head rested on her front paws as her gaze shifted warily from me to Miss Bister, Megiddo’s dormater, or house mother.
“Megiddo’s lobby is not a kennel, Miss Onyx. That”—she motioned dismissively toward Nova—“beast can no longer be housed here.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Miss Bister continued speaking, her tone rising only infinitesimally, her back as stiff as Luck’s lance must have been, and her expression just as hard. She pointed toward the previously priceless, three-footed piece of furniture that was now a worthless, two-footed pile of kindling.
“No amount of money – or magic – can fix that, Nouiomo. It’s beyond repair. I warned you. I made an exception to my ‘no pets’ rule because you never cause trouble. You never forget your key; you promptly pick up your deliveries; you change your own light bulbs; you double bag your trash. You leave nothing behind in the bathroom; you don’t monopolize the washing machines; you are exceedingly polite to the lift operator; you don’t sing in the shower.”
I suppressed a sigh. After a year and a half of painstaking efforts, harrowing experiences, and endless hours of education, my worth had just been measured by the fact that I could change a light bulb. I’d mastered fiery magic, become an adept fighter, learned the law, killed countless demons (one regrettably, the others much less so), freed myriad immortals from an accursed, tortured bondage, and survived having my heart nearly destroyed by both love and an arrow, yet none of that meant bupkis next to the fact that I double bagged my trash. And yet…
I couldn’t really argue with Miss Bister either. Everything she’d said was true. And who was I to tell her what she should deem important? I respected that she valued domestic order and antiques. I did too, if not nearly as much as I valued the thing that now threatened our continued access to such. I glared at Nova, who swept one paw over her eyes as if she could hide from me and the evidence of what she’d done.
Barghests are giant hellhounds. They’re bigger than bears, fiercer than rabid raccoons, and uglier than naked mole rats. Their teeth are the size of railroad spikes, their claws as sharp as a sickle, their breath as foul as sewage gas. But they are also affectionate, brave, and loyal. What barghests lack in magic, they make up for in devotion. And even though I was plenty mad at Nova for chewing up Miss Bister’s table, I also knew it wasn’t Nova’s fault.
It was mine – for thinking the lobby of a demon law school dormitory would be a good place to keep her.
“Miss Bister, please,” I said. “I’m truly sorry. I know I can’t replace that exact table. But if you would just allow me to—”
“No,” Miss Bister said simply. “Either the beast goes… Or you do.”
I stared at the small, frail, magicless woman in front of me, trying desperately to think of some way to fix this problem. Wasn’t there something I could do, or say, or offer her that would make amends and convince her not to kick us out?
But all I could think of was how useless some of the things our society valued most were. As Miss Bister had pointed out, neither magic nor money would help. If I was going to repair the table, I’d need to find another way. Which would take time. And that meant I’d need to find somewhere else for us to sleep tonight. Because if the beast was going… I was too.
“Yes, Miss Bister,” I said. “I understand.”
She narrowed her eyes, slightly suspicious of my now gracious defeat since I’d just spent the last half-hour trying to persuade her to accept various forms of reparation. But then she nodded, handed me a couple of paper bin bags, and left.
I slid one bag inside the other and stooped down to pick up the slobbery remains of Nova’s mangled chew toy. When I finished, she came over to me and nudged my arm with her head. She let out a woofy whine.
Was she sorry? She darn well better be!
I gave her a scratch behind the ears.
“Now that you’ve sharpened your teeth on my former dormater’s furniture, are you ready to eat some real food for breakfast?”
the Author:
Jill Archer writes dark,
genre-bending fantasy from rural Maryland. Her novels include Dark Light of
Day, Fiery Edge of Steel, White Heart of Justice, and Pocket Full of Tinder.
She loves cats, coffee, books, movies, day tripping, and outdoor adventuring.

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Flash Fiction! The Bucket List

Welcome to Constance Burris, author of Black Beauty! She’s written original flash fiction for the Halloween Spooktacular (below). But first, here’s a bit about her urban fantasy novel.

black-beautyBlack Beauty

Everleaf Series

Book Zero

Constance Burris

Genre: Urban Fantasy/Horror

Publisher: BE Publications

Date of Publication: September 2015

ISBN: 1515275892


Number of pages: 140

Word Count:  30,000

Cover Artist: Pixel Studio

Book Description:

At Vista Apartment Complex, life drastically changes for four of its residents when they decide to do business with Crazy Jade—the supposed voodoo witch that can grant your wish for a price.

Shemeya wants the confidence to stand up against the girls bullying her at school, but she soon has to choose between keeping her dreadlocs or living a normal life. After catching her boyfriend cheating, Latreece just wants to have the same curves as all the other girls. Ashley will do whatever she can to have “White Girl Flow”, but takes her pursuit too far when she steals from Crazy Jade.

Everyone who comes into contact with Crazy Jade soon learns the true price of her magic—and how horribly wrong it can go.




Shemeya knocked on Jason’s door. For the past two years, they’d ended up in the same chemistry course as lab partners. He’d asked her out a few times, but she’d politely said no. He bored her. Turning him down made her feel like an idiot who only went out with thugs, but she wasn’t stupid. She only wanted a little thug, not a full serving.

When Jason opened the door, she pulled off her backpack and stepped into his house. “Is your mom home?”

“No, she’s with her new guy.” He led her into his kitchen. “Want something to drink?”

“You got some juice?” She desperately wanted to get rid of the dry, earthy taste that the herbs had left in her mouth. Water hadn’t worked.

“I got something better.” He reached under one of the kitchen cabinets and pulled out a bottle of Hennessy.

“Jason, really?”

He smiled innocently.

She rolled her eyes. “Sure. I need a drink after the day I’ve had.” And liquor should kill the taste in my mouth.

He poured the cognac into two yellow plastic cups before they walked into the living room and sat on his couch. The alcohol warmed her insides and seared away the taste of the herbs.

“We should be talking about absorption, not sitting here getting drunk,” Shemeya pointed out.

“We always finish our projects tipsy. Why should this time be any different?”

Shemeya laughed. “Anyways, let’s get started: absorption vs. adsorption.” She pulled her chemistry book from her backpack.

“Stupid names. Why do they have to be so similar?” He sat back on the couch with a glazed look in his eyes.

“Are you going to get your books?”

He licked his lips and leaned forward. “I’ve heard stories about you and Latreece’s boyfriend.”

“So?” The buzz she had from the liquor quickly dissipated while her heart rate increased. She dreaded where the conversation was headed.

“I don’t understand. I’ve been asking you out for months, but you go out with him instead. He has a girlfriend.”

“I didn’t go out with him,” she said through clenched teeth. She’d expected to be harassed at school; she hadn’t expected it here. She had hoped her anger would shut him up, but no such luck.

“I saw you go in the room with Corey last weekend at Serena’s party.”

She threw her books on the table and stood. “Oh damn, Jason. Really?”

“I’ve treated you with nothing but respect since I’ve known you.”

“I’ve had a horrible day with everyone teasing me at school. Now I get here and have to deal with it from you, too. I’m leaving.” She turned from him and bent over to pick up her books.

“Are you crying?”

She brought her hand up to her face, and it came back wet. Why was she crying in front of him? Wasn’t the fake weed supposed to give her courage?

“Don’t go. I’m sorry.”

She was so busy wiping away her tears that she didn’t fight it when he grabbed her hand and pulled her back onto the couch. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

She let him hold her as she cried. Maybe it was the liquor, maybe it was the fake weed, or maybe it was her loneliness, but whatever the reason, she didn’t stop him when he brought his lips down onto hers.

His sweaty hands on her breast brought her back to reality. He wasn’t who she wanted. “No, Jason.” She pulled back. “I have to go.”

“Don’t go,” he pleaded, with his hand still under her shirt. Somehow they’d ended up on the couch with him on top cradled between her legs.

“No.” She tried to move from under him.

He loomed above her, flushed despite his dark skin. “Do you like it rough? Is that what it is?”

“No. This isn’t what I came here for.” Shemeya tore at his chest, but Jason refused to budge.

He kissed her neck. “I’m tired of being the nice guy,” he murmured, pinning her further beneath his body.

“Get off me!” she screamed. His erection rubbed against the crotch of her jeans. She punched and kicked, but it made him more excited. Her scalp itched as she fought. She wanted to scratch, but she needed both hands to fight Jason off. I’m getting raped, but I can’t fight the urge to scratch. The inconvenience of it almost made her laugh.

Something above moved. She looked past Jason. Five snakes were hovering above his head.

“I’m going crazy.” This time she did laugh, and the snakes, which were the same rusty brown color as her dreads, smiled.

Jason looked towards her. “Why are you laughing?” His eyes darted above her. The feel of his erection disappeared as he crept away, but she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Her itching scalp had been replaced with pleasurable tingles that ran from her head down to her toes. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“We need to leave,” he said, trembling. “There are snakes in here. There are snakes in your hair.” She pulled him closer while he fought to be released. “Let go. We need to get out of here.”

“No, stay,” she whispered in his ear. “They won’t hurt you.”

Shaking, he looked from Shemeya to the snakes. He tried to force himself from her legs. This time, when she tried to pull him closer, he punched her. Pain exploded in her jaw, but she never let go.

“Jason, that hurt.”

He looked into her eyes. “Please,” he begged. A snake sunk its fangs into his cheek. Another struck his ear. One clung to his nose, and another hung below his left eye. He writhed in pain as he tried to escape the snakes and her thighs. His pleading eyes came back to her before he stopped moving completely. The snakes retracted their fangs. She relaxed her legs. Jason fell onto the carpeted floor.

She stood and nearly fainted before she righted herself by grabbing the side of the couch. She brought her hands up to fix her hair but hesitated a few inches away. She’d never touched snakes before. But the snakes came to her, caressing her open palm. They were cold and smooth and full of life.


THE BUCKET LIST  By Constance Burris

Josephine lifts her arthritic knees up the steps of the small Japanese tour bus and stares past the rows of empty seats before she settles her gaze on a middle-aged woman with a curly afro.

When the woman turned and smiles, that is all the invitation Josephine needs. “May I sit,” she asks after she wobbles her wide hips through the tight aisles.

“Of course,” the woman says.

“Thank you. I’m Josephine from Texas.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Keisha from North Carolina.”

“Are you traveling alone?” Josephine asks.

“Yeah, are you?”

“No. My no good husband is at the hotel in bed. He ate some bad sushi or some shit.”

The woman blushes. She must be from the suburbs, Josephine thinks. Suburbanites are always blushing over curse words.

“Are you looking forward to seeing Mt. Fuji?” Josephine asks the girl once the bus starts moving.

“No, I’m getting off at the Aokighara forest.”

“The what?” Josephine asks.

“The suicide forest at the base of Mt. Fuji.”

“I’ve heard about that place. It’s where people go to die.” Josephine shakes her head. “I wonder why so many go there?” Josephine asks. “I suppose they’re all unhappy.”

“They can’t all go there because they’re sad,” Keisha says. “Maybe some are just finished.”

“Finished with what?” Josephine studies the woman. She’s too pretty to be so morbid.

“With life. Maybe they’ve crossed everything off their bucket list.”

“Well, then you create another list. Believe me; I’ve started over more than a few times. You can always reinvent yourself and create a whole ‘nother bucket of lists.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“You’re not thinking about going there to die are you?” Josephine asks suddenly concerned.

Keisha laughs. “Of course not. I’m just curious.

Josephine brings her hand to her chest. “Oh my goodness. You about gave me a heart attack.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I have a husband and a little girl at home. I would never leave them.”

“Good. Good,” Josephine says as she stares at the woman, looking for any sign of depression.

“I promise. It’s just a weird curiosity of mine. I’m not going to kill myself.

“Well if you’re sure,” Josephine says, finally at ease.

“Ms. Josephine,” the Japanese tour guides says with an almost flawless American accent “We’re here.”

“Oh my. I didn’t even know I was sleep.” Josephine looks over to Keisha, but the woman’s seat is empty except for a folded sheet of paper. Josephine glances around the bus for the woman, but she is nowhere in sight. All of her belongings are gone. Satisfied she has done her due diligence and no one can call her nosy, Josephine unfolds the paper.

Keisha’s Bucket List

Graduate High School

Go Ziplining in Costa Rica

Go To College

Get a passport

Make love under the night sky

Visit Canada

Write a book

Fall in love

Get married

Have a baby

Travel to another country

Visit the suicide forest

All but the last one is marked out.

About the Author:

Constance Burris is on a journey to take over the world through fantasy, horror, and science fiction. Her mission is to spread the love of speculative fiction to the masses. She is a proud card carrying blerd (black nerd), mother, and wife. When she is not writing and spending time with her family, she is working hard as an environmental engineer in Oklahoma City.



Flash Fiction! Dream Killer

We welcome Jamie K. Schmidt, of The Graveyard Shift! She’s created some original Halloween flash fiction for our Halloween Spooktacular (below). But first, here’s a bit about the paranormal romance anthology, The Graveyard Shift, including an excerpt.

graveyard-shiftThe Graveyard Shift

A Paranormal Romance Anthology

Jamie K. Schmidt

Genre: paranormal romance

Date of Publication: 6/26/16

ISBN: 1534805680

ASIN: B0177E5Z8S

Number of pages: 173

Word Count: 54,000

Cover Artist: Jamie K. Schmidt

Book Description:

Erotic, Sexy and Sweet tales of vampires, ghosts, mages, shifters and dreamers of dreams.

In this anthology, you will enter an adult bookstore run by two vampires and partake in the bloodletting and sex, see a witch accidentally summon a vampire who gains power through love making, and then go clubbing with an urban vampire.

But vampires aren’t the only supernatural beings in this compelling collection of stories. Ghosts jam with their favorite rock bands. A Grail Maiden helps protect Arthur’s cup, and a paralyzed cyber mercenary finds love inside virtual reality.



DEIRDRE WAS A EUROPEAN PRINCESS whose lineage, no one dared question too closely.  She kept close companionship with Viola, a dark Countess of equal renown and deadly beauty.  In a time where the night was feared, they flourished and fed at all the best parties of the nobility.

The Princess was as fair and fey as a moonbeam with silver hair and cerulean eyes.  She lived for excess and to play with her new found friends.

The Countess was the opposite side of the coin.  With raven locks and soulless black eyes, she was a lithe viper who struck quickly and gleaned minions from the throngs of addled noblemen.

But good times always end, even for immortal royalty and when the church’s mercenaries, The Prophecy of the Eye, became too interested in the beautiful thralls encircling the Princess and the Countess, the parties suddenly stopped.

This cycle continued for many centuries.  Deirdre and Viola graced Czarist Russia, continued on to Gay Paris and finally to the New World in gin joints and sleazy jazz dives of the Big Easy.

While America lacked the polished old world charm and the distinct respect for one’s betters, it also provided more of everything else, from money and thrills, to gambling and illegal liquor.

Its wide terrain allowed the Princess and the Countess to move from state to state until technology caught up with them and they learned the value of keeping a low profile.  They were able to exploit the innocence of the forties and fifties, but were swept away into a drunken frenzy of Free Love.

By the late seventies, they reached a rhythm that was blown away by the “Me” generation of the eighties and the cynical creep of the 90’s that exposed the world’s monsters in vivid detail across television screens and eventually the Internet.

Now in the new millennia, there is nowhere to hide and no other frontiers to explore.  They found out the luxuries of the day could be gone in an instant.  Swiss bank accounts could be seized and the Princess and the Countess could be among the nouveau poor, scraping their living feeding off homeless and runaways.  They have become merchants, biding their time and hoping for another renaissance of excess.

An ignoble end for two from the finest Carpathian bloodlines.

Perhaps a fitting end some may say, for however pretty the monsters are, they are still creatures of the night— or from hell as the church’s mercenaries proclaim.

The church’s vanguards have also migrated from Europe. And like the Princess and the Countess, they have morphed and remade themselves to fit the times.  Always hunting, they are similar to the women they chase, although they would balk to see the comparison.  The church mercenaries seek to destroy magic and any evil that lives outside their doctrine.

Whether their victims deserve their fate or not is irrelevant.

It was so much easier for both during the simple times, where murder was accepted and random acts of violence and carnage need not be explained for helicopters with news teams or amateur videographers.  They’ve learned a new dance for the modern world and it is kept to a very fine line.  Like the sword of Damocles, the truce poises hair thin.  It is not a matter of if that strand will break, but when.

And darkness save the innocents caught between.


Dream Killer

Flash Fiction By Jamie K. Schmidt

I swore I was going to do it. And this time, I meant it. He had finally gone too far,

pushed my last button, and said the unforgivable.

“When I married you my dreams died.”

The fight ended quickly after that. In the vacuum silence of words that can’t be taken back, he looked as stunned as I felt. But he put up his chin with false bravado and waited for my one-two riposte. I merely left the room.

The apartment shook when he crashed the door open. He peeled out of the complex driveway in a puff of smoke and burned rubber. A huge belch came from the living room and the stench of burning sulphur wafted into my study. I came out to investigate. My husband’s words had summoned forth a creature that was too small to be a demon, too malevolent to be an imp. The creature was straddling the couch. Its

yellow eyes were narrowed at me. It hissed, showing pointy teeth. I crept closer and it swiped out at me, its bony arms like broomsticks. His scissor bladed claws cut the sleeve of my robe. I backed away, threw a pillow at it. It caught it and shredded it into confetti. What was warlock born could not be witched away but it also could not harm me. I hissed back at it and cast a protective spell around my cat, whose back was arched like the letter A.

Three days of silence passed. My husband was grumpy and sullen, rattling the paper and slamming dishes to fill up the emptiness and the quiet. I moved like the walking wounded. There was a hole in my soul where happiness once lived. I was numb.

The creature would appear and disappear. Always watching, never attacking us. It

played with itself, picked its nose. But for the most part was content with existing in the silence of our world. If my husband noticed it, he gave no sign. I ignored it.

After a week, things gradually started returning to normal. I still pretended to be asleep when he came to bed, when I wasn’t in my office all night staring at the world map and wondering if anyone out there hurt as much as I did. We didn’t talk, but I found I could meet my husband’s eyes. I saw no apology in them, but I really didn’t expect to. The creature faded slightly, became translucent.

But as I became angrier at the unfairness, the creature fed on my emotions. As I thought, “Did he think that he was the only one who sacrificed, compromised?”, it solidified again. Its teeth and claws elongated and curved into Kris daggers. The creature followed me around and would preen when I clenched and unclenched my fist.

Back in our routine, my husband would go to work and come home. I stopped making supper or cleaning the house. He could do his own laundry and fend for himself. I made phone calls and robotically did what I had to do. He would stay in watching television or stay out late in bars. I didn’t care either way. The creature would curl up on the couch beside him or swing from the drapes, depending on our moods.

Today, I heard my husband in the shower and I walked over to the window of my study and laid my forehead against the window pane. The sensation was like eating ice cream too fast and I had a giddy recollection of summer time. The door slammed and jolted me away from tire swings and seagulls. I sipped my coffee as I watched him get into his car and drive to work. He never looked up. I wonder if he even thought of me.

The creature plastered its tongue on the window, making huge streaks. Shortly after ten, the movers arrived. I sat on my kitchen counter and watched them professionally pack up my things. The creature, hidden by my invisibility spell, danced around them and jumped from box to box.

“No, that stays.” I said when they started towards the TV set. I directed them to my office and went back to my perch, slowly stirring a head ache relief potion.

The movers were expensive. But if I had to carry box after box into my car all by myself I never would have left him. It wasn’t the first time, I sat contemplating leaving. I would grab a handful of clothes from the closet and got as far as the bed with them. I’d sit and wonder if I should donate most to the Salvation Army before packing. Then I would chide myself for giving up. And I would talk myself into staying. It was harder to leave than in was to stay. We had been playing at being happy for a long time.

I received my power from my dreams and prayers. If I had made him impotent by

marrying him, then I could rectify that by leaving him. I picked up my cat and my purse and walked out to the car.

When my husband came home tonight, I wanted him to see the living room as it always was. He wouldn’t notice that my books or my knitting would be gone. Maybe he’d watch TV for a bit. Maybe he would go into the kitchen to raid the leftovers or to pop a frozen dinner in the microwave. He wouldn’t notice my coffee mugs were missing or that my teapot collection had been lovingly removed.

But he would see the creature, formed out of his belligerence and sustained by our

negative emotions. I looked up from the parking lot to see it rubbing its butt cheeks against the study windows. They would make a good couple.

The End

About the Author:

USA Today bestselling author, Jamie K. Schmidt, writes erotic contemporary love stories and paranormal romances.  Her steamy, romantic comedy Life’s a Beach reached #65 on USA Today, #2 on Barnes and Noble and #9 on Amazon.  Her Club Inferno series from Random House’s Loveswept line has hit both the Amazon and Barnes and Noble top one hundred lists and the first book in the series, Heat put her on the USA Today bestseller list.  Her dragon paranormal romance series from Entangled Publishing, has been called “fun and quirky” and “endearing.” Partnered with New York Times bestselling author and former porn actress, Jenna Jameson, Jamie’s hardcover debut, SPICE, continues Jenna’s FATE trilogy.





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