Author Update

Happy July, everyone!

It’s been a strange summer with so much going on environmentally: Canadian forest fires, record-level heat, floodings, tornadoes, etc. Global warming is real, devastating lives around the globe. From my New York highrise, a surreal orange smog covered the skyline like a scene from an apocalyptic movie. A panorama I care not to see again. But I fear more environmental devastation will occur with soaring temperatures.

I’m a little late with my monthly update. I’ve been a captive of Ballard House, my WIP, and could not escape. However, I found a small window of time to send out my monthly newsletter, which hits subscribers’ inboxes on the first of every month. Below, I’ve provided some of the limited promotions from July’s newsletter. So catch them before they end on July 31st!

It’s not been all writing. I love good summer reads when I’m relaxing. For the Goodreads Reading Challenge, I’ve finished several books for June and July (See below).

Current Reading

Gabino Iglesias’ The Devil Takes You Home

June – July Reads

Limited Promotions:

Check these deals out before it ends July 31st!

CLICK EACH PICTURE TO LEARN MORE!

Update on Echoes of Ballard House

Simone (my protagonist) spent her first night in the enormous Queen Anne Victorian Home in New Orleans’ Garden District, with two long months of house-sitting remaining. Simone faces danger from spectral guests and a human intruder with evil intentions.

Excerpt from Echoes of Ballard House

***This is a work in progress and an unedited excerpt. The final product may differ as the story comes together. Enjoy!!

12:25 A.M. GLEAMS FROM THE GAS RANGE. Just as Gisele stated, Gabby sang for ten minutes before going quiet. But Gisele’s unaware of the music triggering the parrot’s nightly serenade. It’s not as she believes, lyrics Gabby heard from the maid, pool boy, or guests, but phantom music from the parlor—a haunting echo from a chilling past. Was the melody playing during the 1918 slaughter? At once, my mind swirls with realizations. If Gabby hears the ghostly tune, she must sense various disturbances in the home, which would explain her jitteriness in other rooms. Jazz lyrics from a dark, twisted night buried within the home’s walls threaten to unravel my focus, my reason for being here, until I unearth the brutal murders.

Though exhausted, I won’t sleep. I know it. My brain won’t shut off without a medicinal lever. I head to the pantry toward the jar I’d seen earlier labeled nighttime tea, gather a scoop of the dried herbs, and brew a cup of relaxation. I peek inside the library, finding Gabby’s head tucked in sleep beneath her feathers. Then race past the chilly den and halt at the parlor when a shadow flashes in my peripheral vision.

I glance over my shoulder. My breath catches, lumping in my chest, as I meet the gaze of a ghostly woman. Her eyes, a deep brown, hold me in their grip. The Victorian-style dress comes to life, moving and twisting like a slithering snake. Without a sound, the specter gestures with watery eyes, tears rolling down her face as she urges me to ascend the stairs. Her mouth forms a silent scream, and a tremble racks her body. The dress, no longer alive, but a distressed gray, drops flat to her ankles. Her face contorts into a rictus of pain. Vibrant red blood blots her chest, trailing down her dress, darkening and pooling around her ankles as she crumples to the floor. The fabric unfurls, flowing like liquid into a bloody puddle, merging with the wooden planks as she vanishes. I sprint upstairs with a racing heart, the hot tea sloshing in my hands, and never look back. Bursting into the bedroom suite, I close the door, twist the lock, and catch my breath in one startling swoop.

Placing the tea on the nightstand, I scuttle into bed, back against the headboard, hugging my knees and staring at the lit backyard. My senses heightened and attuned to the haunted hall just a few feet away. I listen for the slightest sound from presences lurking in the shadows, ready to unleash a wave of terror upon me again. Yet, why haven’t they made their move? My hands tremble as I draw the Egyptian cotton sheet around me, a comfort my mind refuses to embrace as my thoughts wander to the parlor. Was the woman Joseph’s wife, Corinne, who died that brutal night? Her tormented face will haunt me till daylight. Why did she point upstairs? Her grief-stricken face tells me there’s something she wants or wants me to see. My gaze sweeps the room. My mind fills with thoughts of ghosts. Which Ballard Family member slept in this room? How many died here? Many, I’m sure, given the home’s inception in 1869.

At once, the air grows thin. I inhale, holding onto my breath. The home’s vastness feels like an ocean around me, the crushing pressure weighing on my essence. I exhale and breathe several times, trying to catch more air. Taking a calming sip of tea, my hand embraces the cup’s warmth as I await slumber, praying the remaining twilight passes undisturbed.

To be continued…