True paranormal story told by Candace Morehouse

‘Twas the week before Halloween and all through the village, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Out to explore the beauty of nature one crisp fall day in the White Mountains, Candace Morehouse became disoriented. She allowed her writer’s mind to carry her away to another place and time. Candace was always mesmerized by the castles, vineyards and majestic mountainsides of Germany, and she found herself leaving Arizona to venture into the Black Forest.

Before long, she was in the deepest thicket of the woods, far from civilization. A dark shadow fell over the forest--and with a shudder--Candace realized nighttime had set in. The wind swooshed through the mighty pines, sounding like the wise old whispers of the ancient Mogollon Indians who populated the grounds thousands of years ago. But suddenly, shivers danced down Candace’s spine. And when she heard blood-curdling screams coming from deep in the thrush, her heart caught in her throat.

Bathed in the eerie glow of the full moon, busy little dwarves hammered and pounded, chiseling beautiful cuckoo clocks out of the barks of pine. In the distance, werewolves howled and witches cackled, their blood-curdling cries slicing through the forest. Over the pummeling of nails, the dwarves kept right on working. But as Candace moved in closer, she heard them chattering amongst themselves and her blood ran cold.

“Beware,” the tiny man’s scratchy voice echoed in the wind. “Tis the witching season when one clock will be snatched up by the werewolves and witches that come out during a full moon. And with the powers bestowed upon them by the Mogollon Indians, they cast a wicked spell on a clock.”

“Indeed so,” another little man screeched. “And that clock will haunt its owner. It will cuckoo precisely three times, even though the hands of the clock will show a different time. The witches and werewolves of the Black Forest play this trick to frighten a person out of their wits. And we are the only ones that can break the spell with our chanting.”

Captivated by this mystical legend, Candace moved closer, her feet crunching dry twigs and pinecones. The dwarves stopped hammering and gawked, their wrinkled little faces twisted into gasps.

“Who are you and what do you want, mere mortal?”

“I’m Candace Morehouse and I have one of those haunted clocks. Please help me. Can you break the ancient spell so I can sleep at night?”

“Sit a spell on this pine stump and tell us your tale of woe,” a tiny bearded man gestured with a gnarled green fingernail. “And we’ll help if we can. But first, we need to hear the entire story.”

Sucking in her breath, Candace began to tell the tale of the Haunted Cuckoo Clock:

“A couple years ago my folks took a trip to Germany. My dad loves going there and exploring his ancestral roots. Of course, shopping for gifts for their brood of kids and stepkids is always part of their trip. Especially for me they brought back an authentic cuckoo clock manufactured in Germany’s famous Black Forest region.

“I was tickled pink. I’ve always wanted a cuckoo clock, and this one features a delightful tune and a cute little boy and girl that dance in and out of the doors. I put it up in my Mesa home (much to the chagrin of both my son and my husband, who hated hearing the cuckoo noise). A few months later I moved up to my current home hear in northeastern Arizona. Of course, the clock came along with us. Unfortunately I didn’t pack it correctly for the move and when I hung up in my kitchen, it never worked right; it kept stopping at will. I got tired of starting it back up again so I let it hang as a decorative object.

“Some months later I was all alone working away doing my freelance writing. It was a blustery, gray, gloomy sort of day. The wind was blowing and a chill was in the air. As I was sitting in the living room at my laptop typing, all of a sudden I heard the cuckoo clock strike three o’clock in the afternoon. I got immediate goose bumps. I glanced at the clock on my laptop and noted it was exactly three o’clock. The cuckoo clock tick-tocked several times, then abruptly stopped. When I went into the kitchen to look at it, the hands were pointing at a completely different time.

“I got so freaked out I had to leave my house for a while. I told my husband the story when he got home that night and he pooh-poohed the whole idea of a haunted clock. To this day, I still think something paranormal was going on. After all, what are the odds that a malfunctioning clock would suddenly strike exactly on the hour even when it wasn’t set to that time, start out of the blue, and then stop and never do it again?

“Perhaps it has something to do with the ancient Mogollon Indians who populated this area thousands of years ago…”

“Indeed so,” the little man stood, excitement gleaming in his eyes. “You have a haunted clock. And we can break the ancient spell but it must be done before the clock strikes midnight tonight.”

“But,” Candace stammered, fear blazing in her eyes. “I’m so far from home and I’m lost. I can never…”

“Hush up and listen,” the bearded man took charge. “Drink this, dearie.”

“What’s this?” Candace peered at the blood red liquid in the silver cup the size of a thimble.

“Tis shiraz, m’dear. Drink up and you’ll be home.” He then proceeded to hand her a clove of garlic he snatched up from the floor of the forest. “Then rub this on the face of the clock. It’s been sprinkled with root of the pine. As you are rubbing the garlic into the face of the clock, you must repeat the chant three times.”

“What chant?”

“Spell of the ancient druids begone. Now drink the …ah…” A wicked chuckle spewed from his lips, “…shiraz and off you go. But you must never enter the Black Forest again…or else….”

And as Candace disappeared from the deep dark woods of the Black Forest, the mournful wails of the werewolves warbled through the mighty pines.

Beware haunted cuckoo clocks and have a happy Halloween!

To learn more about Candace Morehouse and purchase her books, visit her at:
www.candacemorehouse.com

Haunted Mansions of Wales ( Hywela Lyn) 2 - Gregynnog

At the beginning of October I commented on one of Sharon’s Halloween posts that I've only had one really eerie experience. It was some years ago when I was attending a writing weekend at an old mansion in Wales, Gregynnog. Various halls have occupied the site since the twelfth century and it was the ancestral home of the Blayneys and the Traceys from the fifteenth century. The house, a very large, mock Tudor building, was given to the University of Wales in 1963 by owners and art-collectors, Margaret and Gwendoline Davies, the granddaughters of Victorian tycoon, David Davies of Llandinam.

Some years ago, I attended a writing workshop at Gregynnog. We were told there was a legend that the house was haunted by a lady whose family used to own it but who lost their money and had to leave. Apparently she returned to the house after she died because she loved it so much. I felt nothing but a warm, welcoming presence, not cold or frightening at all. I slept soundly at night and enjoyed exploring the house and grounds, and writing in the large, comfortable music room.

The gardens were mostly formal, and extend to 700 acres, although they used to be considerably larger. There was an interesting statue of a huge hand in a secluded area, not far from the house I took a photo of a friend standing beside it, and he took one of me. When they were printed the one of him was fine, nice and clear and sharp. The one of me, taken seconds later, with the same camera, showed a mist in the bushes behind me and the shadowy figure of a lady in a long flowing dress. It wasn't easy to see unless you looked really hard, and it was another friend who first spotted it.
The figure eventually faded over time, although it was still visible once you knew where to look.

I’ve kept it in an album with several other photographs. Strangely enough, when I went to remove the photographs to scan some of them for this article, and see if anyone reading this could see the lady, that particular one had disappeared. It still hasn’t come to light. Is that a coincidence do you think, or something more...supernatural?

I would add that I’m not the only one who has had strange experiences regarding this beautiful old house.

I came across this, on the website ‘Ghosttheory’:

Sports reporter Gavin Grosvenor wrote that he believed he had encountered the spirit of the Davies sisters at Gregynog.

He said: “One cold winter evening near the hall my friend and I felt the presence of one of the Davies sisters. “We had stopped on a small bridge near the entrance to Gregynog Hall, known locally as Squew Bridge. It was a cold night but we decided to stop for a cigarette while hanging our legs over the side of the bridge.

“To this day I have no idea why I looked down into the river below but when I did I noticed the reflection of the moon on the water through an overhanging tree branch had created a very clear outline of a woman.

“I have been known to have vivid imagination so asked my friend whether he also saw the shape of a woman. He agreed it was definitely the shape of a woman in a long dress.
Before he could finish his sentence there was an inexplicable strong wind which seemed to come from nowhere.

“Minutes before the evening had been calm and quiet but now we could hardly hear each other for the screeching cold wind which seemed localised to the bridge.” Gavin and his friend quickly headed for home.

“With the wind screaming into our faces to the extent that tears were almost in our eyes we picked up the pace and just thought the person behind us was walking their dog and had been caught in the same bad weather. “As we approached the hill I looked behind and noticed this person had no dog. “No big deal I thought but I double taked and what I saw next will stay with me forever. Not only was this person not walking a dog but this person appeared to have no legs. There was also something eerily familiar about this person’s shape. It was the same shape we had both seen reflected in the water.” They picked up pace, but the spectre just followed suit.

“The wind was still strong and by now the spectre was within touching distance. Before we reached light we looked behind again. There it was. A faceless shape of a woman wearing clothes from over 100 years ago.

“I don’t know why but we both agreed afterwards that we had seen the ghost of one of the Davies sisters and it had wanted us to stay away from her former mansion home.”

Tom, the house manager, stated that he walked out of the outside office block, to go into the house proper, and had to walk past the windows of the old Edwardian laundry room (they were still used at times, but were obviously barred to guests. One evening, at one of the windows stood a burly white haired woman, with her hair up in a bun and wearing some kind of an apron. “She just stood and looked at Tom sternly, and as he was the overall boss at Gregynog, he marched round to the laundry room to see who she was, and to get her out of there.

“Needless to say the room was totally deserted.”

http://www.ghosttheory.com/2008/12/03/gregynog-former-employee-has-a-haunted-tale-to-tell

http://www.hywelalyn.blogspot.com

Lori Graham stars in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Costumed as the austere Nurse Ratched, Lori Graham walked at a brisk pace toward the Oregon State Hospital. The high-pitched keening of a flute floated through the crisp fall night. An eerie crimson light seeped from the floor of the mental ward, casting willowy shadows on the cracked pavement. A macabre atmosphere shrouded the grounds of the insane asylum, the muffled screams and manic laughter echoing through the hills. The wind rustled through the surrounding oaks, mimicking the hushed whispers of the demented trapped within the walls of the institution.

A little thrill hurled through Lori, knowing in just a few minutes, she’d come face to face with the casting crew of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Getting into the role of the rigid Nurse Ratched, a strong woman with great disdain for her charges, an evil smile curled Lori’s lips. What fun, a Halloween masquerade to commemorate an all star production. The cool breeze rippled through her crisp white uniform as she scurried up the rickety steps to the makeshift hospital. Sucking in her breath, she yanked on the rope to announce her presence, her heart palpitating with eager anticipation.

The heavy mahogany door creaked open with a jarring squeak, rusty hinges groaning in protest. Oliver stood there, portraying the once rambunctious Randle McMurphy. Blood oozed from the scars of his recent lobotomy, madness glinting in his eyes. Strands of red hair spiked upward in wild disarray, a fresh scar across the bridge of his nose. Giving his best Jack Nicholson imitation, he twisted his lips into a cock-eyed smile. “You rang, Nurse Ratched?”

With a wicked wink, Oliver extends his arm, leading Lori down the long, dark corridor to the parlour where the other guests await. The sound track from Thriller filtered through hidden speakers, the chilling lyrics the perfect ambiance. The scent of cranberry candles mingled with the smell of the birch wood log in the hearth. Entering the parlour, there they were in all their glory, the raucous and rowdy inmates of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Sharon floated about the room, costumed as Nurse Candy, chatting with Chief Bromden, Billy Bibbit, Dr. Stivey, Charles Cheswick and Rub-a-dub George. Martini stood off to the corner, hallucinating. Sharon rushes to greet Lori and the group gathers around the crackling fire.

Sharon: How are you this evening, Lori?

Lori: I am doing well but am a little concerned that I can keep up with the collection of characters gathered here.

Oliver materializes, shuffling his feet, carrying out his role to pure perfection. With a malevolent grin, he hands Nurse Ratched a chocolate martini, his specialty. Then he places a plate of warm tortilla chips and salsa on the table. Never losing eye contact with the nurse of his nightmares, he methodically dips a chip into the dip and feeds it to Lori. “I made this just for you, Nurse Ratched. What do you think?”

Lori: Although I find your offering very kind, a little angel food cake goes much better with a chocolate martini. You do make a fine drink, sir, and in order to properly participate this evening, I may need another.

Sharon: Ah, that can be arranged. That will be all, Oliver. You’re taking your role a little too seriously. Now that we’re all comfy with cocktails and appetizers, let’s chat a bit about who we really are behind our masks. Lori, these are all my friends and they are all wanna be suspense writers. So who better than the senior editor of the Crimson line of The Wild Rose Press to advise them. Can you tell us a little about this genre and what you look for when reviewing a suspense manuscript. What makes your skin tingle when you know you have stumbled upon a thriller?

Lori: There are so many ways to answer this question. First and foremost, I like something that makes me think. But thinking about a manuscript can take several forms. One way is a storyline that is action packed and always moving—maybe terrorists, kidnappers, running from something. Another way is for there to be twists in the plot so that I can’t figure out who did it until the very end. If I can figure out in the first couple of chapters who killed the heroine’s best friend and why, I lose interest.

Sharon: What specific character traits make or break the protagonist, antagonist and villain? What makes each unique?

Lori: Boy, Sharon, you ask some tough questions so I sure hope I do well on this test. J I know it sounds trite but reality is what I look for, especially reality combined with consistency. For example, let’s say the heroine comes across really strong in the beginning, but along the way, she can’t make decisions. That would be a manuscript that doesn’t work for me. I want characters that I feel I understand and can sit down at a table for some real conversation. I don’t want characters that shift from positions of strength to weakness and don’t recover. This does not mean that the heroine can’t be comforted and wrapped in the heroes arms when she discovers the killer has done something unspeakable but she shouldn’t become a whiner. The hero is larger than life. Isn’t it funny how much we expect from our heroes—strong but gentle, funny but serious, aggressive but not... handsome but…well, heck, handsome is a given. As far as the villain…humm, imagine fog. It is there, it is real, it is every changing, it floats, it hides things…that is what the villain needs to be. More than anything though, the characters have to stand up to real life and make me feel something.

Sharon: Good answers. Now I’m sure there are times you get the same old storylines, told over and over with what an author feels is a fresh twist. What is this fresh twist you hope to find in a submission? What haven’t you seen that you would like to see portrayed in a novel?

Lori: You know when I first start as an editor, I used to answer this question. I really don’t any more. I have discovered that every time I put an author in a box, they blow it up. I think there are some old standards that readers will always read because they love them. The trick is to change up the scenery, morph the characters, add a new dimension. With this as well as your characters, go with your gut.

Sharon: I’m all for that! Now The Wild Rose Press only accepts stories with a strong romantic platform. Would you like to see the company segway a bit into some other genres, say mainstream and women’s fiction?

Lori: Truthfully, right now, I think we have our hands full with what we have. I love that so many publishing houses put out every kind of genre there is and maybe someday we will expand to that. We have surpassed so many of our goals that who can say where we will be five years from now. For now though, I want to focus on romance and do it well. I think there are areas of romance left to be tapped and in today’s world, I also believe romance will never die.

Sharon: Amen to that! You know I’ve recently done a blog on Skhye’s Ramblings sharing my research on suspense novels. Thrillers have always been my passion, ever since Alfred Hitchcock Presents, The Twilight Zone and Rod Sterling’s Night Gallery. And who could forget all those classic cozy mysteries as Murder She Wrote, Barnaby Jones, Hawaii Five-O, and Magnum P.I. Now it’s on to Cold Case and CSI. So as a senior editor of a suspense line, I’ll bet you have some memories of old television shows, movies or books that linger in your mind. And if so, which ones and why? Do the feelings they evoke in you influence what you want in a suspense manuscript? There must be something intangible that literally screams off the pages of a good thriller. What is it?

Lori: Oh boy, I don’t have any new ones to add to the list you put up there, except maybe Mannix, Columbo and Kojak. I loved shows like that and am thrilled to have cable TV so that I can find them today. As a little girl, I devoured any book I could get from the library. My favorites were the Nancy Drew mysteries and when I ran out of them, I tried the Hardy Boys. Phyllis Whitney and others soon followed. I am not into the road filled with gore that some thrillers follow because I believe you can do so much more just messing with the mind. I mean come on…if you weren’t sitting on the edge of your seat for Hitchcock’s A Room with A View, you weren’t really watching. No gore, just the anticipation of what might be. From the shows out today, I have to admit I love NCIS.


Sharon: Isn’t that the truth. Who didn’t love Nancy Drew. And I agree. The old suspense scenes in Alfred Hitchcock were so palpable simply by playing on the imagination.

Just then, Oliver pushes out a silver caddy filled with goodies. With a glazed look in his eye, he unveils his culinary delights to Lori with a sweeping bow. Choosing the biggest of the caramel rolls, he feeds it to Lori. “Consider this succulent treat payback for the lobotomy you ordered, Nurse Ratched.”

Lori: Ooo, now caramel goes quite well with chocolate so another one of those martinis if you don’t mind, my dear fellow.

Oliver smiles. But of course. Your wish is my command!

Sharon: All right, Oliver, go shake up another batch of martinis so we can finish chatting with Lori. Maybe she’ll save you a dance later.

Oliver shuffles away, but not before blowing Lori a departing kiss.

(Right back at ya, Oliver.)

Sharon: Did I tell you Oliver is one of the characters in my current project? He seems to be creating quite a stir although all he does is annoy me! So what is your favorite Halloween memory?

Lori: This one isn’t a scary one. One of my very dear neighbor ladies made popcorn balls every Halloween for the town kids. (I come from a very small, rural town.) I used to love to go to her house for cider and a popcorn ball. It became kind of a gathering place for the kids on Halloween. We would play while our parents stood around and talked. I wish times like that could still happen today.

Sharon: Isn’t that the truth. The good old days. And what about decorating. Do you go all out in keeping with the spookiness of the season?

Lori: You know, this is the first year I haven’t. When my kids were around, my house was always decked out for every holiday—from 4th of July to Christmas and everything in between. My two older sons are at college now and my daughter is too cool for things like that. So it just doesn’t seem as fun any more. I imagine those decorations will come out again once I have grandkids but I am hoping that is a ways down the road yet.

Sharon: Well, it’s just about time to mingle and dance and have more of Oliver’s…ah…dare we say treats! But before the dancing begins, I must ask. I adore legends and lore and traditions. I collect them and am very superstitious. Can you share a favorite superstition with me?

Lori: I don’t know that I personally have one. Isn’t that strange…I have never really thought about that before. I remember all the ones when we were kids—step on a crack, break your mother’s back. (Didn’t we all stamp our little hearts out at least once, just to see what would happen?) I love the black cat ones…oh but wait, I have one. I love the ladder ones…wait, I did that over the weekend. Then there’s the salt…oops did that this afternoon. I guess I’m in big trouble.

Oliver grins as he hands Lori a fresh chocolate martini.

Sharon: Do you like to see ancient legends and superstitions work their way into a storyline?

Lori: If it is done well and the author has done the research, yes. I think about anything that is well done can make it into a manuscript. Whether it is a legend or an intimate scene between hero and heroine, don’t just stick it in to say it’s there. Research, know your stuff, build on it.

Sharon: Thank you, Lori. You’ve given us plenty of beneficial information for submitting that suspense novel. Any last words of wisdom? And where can authors submit suspense novels to The Wild Rose Press?

Lori: Don’t be afraid to try something new and give your character’s some room. Just make sure you know what you are talking about. Don’t try to make your hero an agent for the FBI if you don’t know the first thing about the FBI. Have some fun with the learning and give your characters the depth of that knowledge. You will be surprised where they take you.

You can submit through our website. Another word of advice is to always, always check out the submission pages. Every house is different in how they want things submitted and if you follow those guidelines, you will get a much better review of your work. The website is www.thewildrosepress.com and the email is queryus@thewildrosepress.com. If you want to ask a question, please don’t hesitate to email me at lori@thewildrosepress.com. Keep in mind, I won’t take submissions through that email or even look at a partial but I will answer a question.

Another tidbit…sshhhh…it’s a secret. There will be a special submission call coming out for Crimson the first week in November. Big doings…and you’re the first to know. I can’t give you the details because I have been sworn to secrecy but you are definitely going to want to check out the Wild Rose blog site. November is Crimson Rose month so it is all about us for the entire month of November. Woo Hoo. Anyway, check us out for those details and then plan on joining us for the November chat session because we’ll be talking even more about it. (I think I am being watched so I have to stop now.)

I see Oliver coming back and I am so parched. Oh Oliver…

Always one to accommodate, Oliver freshens Lori’s drink.

Just then, Martini cranks up the stereo, the chilling lyrics blasting through the parlour. Grinning an evil grin, Randle McMurphy scoops Nurse Ratched into his arms and they do the Monster Mash until they drop…

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

SKHYE MONCRIEF

The hunter’s moon hung low in the dark desert sky. From the deepest thicket of the woods, a coyote howled, its piercing wail slicing through the silence. The wind swooshed through the Ponderosa pines, sounding like the wise old whispers of the Paiute Indians buried thousands of feet below in the windblown sand. The bats circling the bell tower screeched, foreboding an eerie warning of things to come.

She saunters up the rickety old steps to the haunted mansion on the hill, black gown billowing in the breeze. Using the lion head door knocker, she raps three times, announcing her presence.

With a croak of rusty hinges, the door swings open and Oliver stands there, costumed in a black leather kilt and black leather cowboy hat. His eyes gleam and his pearly white fangs break into an engaging grin. “You rang?”

Extending one of his bulging biceps, he escorts the witch down the long dark corridor to the parlor. A mouse twitters and a bat screeches as it flaps its wings. Bones of previous guests line the walls in between the fiery red eyes that gleam then vanish into the void. From the parlor, organ music grinds out a spooky instrumental to the accompaniment of blood curdling screams. They enter the parlor where the Queen of Hearts sits in her throne, standing candelabras flickering. Hello and welcome to Week Three of my Halloween blog! Today’s special guest is friend and fellow Wild Rose author

SKHYE MONCRIEF

And she is here to chat with us and read us an excerpt from NAKED ON THE STAIRCASE,

A HALLOWEEN TIME GUARDIAN TALE

But first, a little about Skhye:

"I'm a Texan that believes men do look best in kilts. Unfortunately, my husband disagrees. I blog about reference books at http://blog.skhyemoncrief.com. I hold a BS in geology. Writing lured me away from finishing my thesis in (bioarchaeology) anthropology. Archaeology just dislikes the way we authors misconstrue fact. But the sacriledge is so enjoyable. Still, there's nothing like scratching around in the dirt looking for fossils or potsherds. I'm so detail-oriented that I suffer from an adrenaline rush when told to make a map.

I guess the easiest way to describe myself is as a person who finds nature incredibly pleasing and intriguing. The same about
reconstructing human prehistory and history. Yes, I am certifiably geek. I write cross-genre paranormal romance as a way to focus my academic interests in an attempt to write something capable of entertaining the masses. Let's just say, writing fantasy is a challenge."

NAKED ON THE STAIRCASE - BLURB

A demon stalks Druidess Aron MacKintosh, trying to use her to gain control of the timeline in present-day Scotland. Time plows toward Samhain when the doorways open between the Now and the Happy Otherworld. She finds herself in a strange alliance with an unusual time guardian, Cowboy. The duo struggles to defeat the demon. If Cowboy can't earn her trust, the integrity of the timeline could be endangered. Only Cowboy's charm and southern idea of chivalry has what it takes to leave an ancient evil bound NAKED ON THE STAIRCASE.

Sharon: Welcome, Skhye! Now before we chat and get too comfy in these nail-back thrones, I promised the beasts you’d read to them from Naked on the Staircase. And a witch is a witch is a witch….so go to it, dearie!

Oliver delivers a witch’s brew, a dark green liquid with mint leaves floating about. Skhye takes it down like a witch and takes center stage. She clears her throat and it comes out in a croak as she reads to the vampires, dragons and ghosts in the rafters.

Excerpt:

"Don't sweat the small stuff, Aron." Cowboy threw the knapsack's wide flap open and glanced sideways at her.

Her eyes widened like a kid in sugar heaven. He plucked out a M68 grenade, his choice for her given it wouldn't detonate until impact.

"These are jawbreakers." He placed the elliptical explosive on the counter and grabbed a stun grenade—a lightweight M451 explosive proving essential in blinding and disorienting bystanders with bright flashes of ligh t and high-pitched sounds. "That's your ultra-sour gummy bear." He placed the M451 beside the M68. "And here's your run-of-the-mill red hots." He pulled at one AN-M14 — an incendiary grenade capable of burning at 2,200 degrees Centigrade for half a minute. He set the cylindrical explosive next to the others.

She reached for them.

Too fast. He grabbed her wrist. "Hold on, Lara Croft. You gotta learn the rules or
your teeth will rot."

"Who's Lara Croft?"

Nice twinkle of jealousy in her eyes. "A heroine in a story who lives and dies by
weapons."

She stared at her reflection in the mirror and rolled those baby blues. Laughing would only tick her off. "If you don't learn to brush your teeth, you'll wish you had. I'd hate for you to loose an arm." Or kill his heart if she died using an explosive improperly. Talk about blood on one's hands.

Her reflection's gaze locked on meet his. "Please spare me the analogy. Do these all blow Its to bits?"

"No." Revealing the grenade she had been using gave her a four to five-second window
before detonation was not what he preferred to do. Babes shouldn't be airbrushed nor maimed. Women with curves and limbs rated right up there with breathing to men. She scowled at him.

"Calm down." He pushed her arm back to her side and rooted around in the bag for the bomb ranking numero uno with terrorists.

Smooth and rough surfaces bumped into his hands. He shoved them aside. "What you've been using was all I had at the time. Although the Soviet RGD-5 is exceptionally successful, I'd say you're risking life and limb dancing with it in your pretty little hand."

"What?" she squawked like a goose.

Gods, he despised cranky geese. With the luck he'd run into lately, any second, she would change into a goose like in all those Celtic tales he was forced to read. Or were those swans? He shook the thought from his head, placed the SGD-5 next to the other explosives on the counter, and locked his gaze on Red's ruby lips. A man would be a fool to let her play with the grenades. Her sweet small nose could be sliced off her face in a nanosecond. "The projectiles it sprays an area with aren't kind on soft skin or anything living."

Her disgusted mask drained of color. "You mean shrapnel? I wasn't thinking of flying dirks back then. Not to mention, I never saw one scrap of metal."

True. He hadn't thought of shrapnel at all. For some reason, It turned into tangible preserves during a grenade explosion. But not one bit of metal landed in the deluge. He scooted one side of his butt onto the cold stone countertop. "You know." He met her gaze. "Something's odd here. It can attack us here or in the blister armor but never do we see one remnant of the grenade after it has exploded inside It."

Red's gaze widened then narrowed with intrigue. She grabbed the SGD-5 and tried to cram it in her pocket.

No luck with those form-fitting jeans

Purchase your copy of NAKED ON THE STAIRCASE in paperback (anthology with SACRIFICIAL HEARTS) HAUNTED HEARTS at:

http://tinyurl.com/ahjmz2

in e-format

http://www.thewildrosepress.com/naked-on-the-staircase-p-980.html

Druids, magic, time travel. They're all present in Naked on the Staircase. The title of this book intrigued me, but by the time I'd finished reading I understood why the author chose this intriguing title. The entity is a mysterious being whose identity is not solved until the last few pages, but its very existence holds the story together.
Naked on the Staircase is well written with intrigue, mystery, magic and time travel,
ingredients that work well in a fantasy novel. The interaction between Aron and Cowboy was excellent and the background of the story was skillfully woven into the book.I enjoyed reading NAKED ON THE STAIRCASE and would like to read more of Skhye Moncrief's novels." Orchid: LASR

From inside the cracked walls of the mansion, the skeletons applaud. A bat screeches and perches on Skhye’s shoulder.

Sharon: Excellent. Bravo! What an enchanting read and one I must have one of the pet bats liberate. Are you ready for more brew, dearie?

Skhye: With this chilly ambiance? Of course! *rubs arms to stir up some heat*

Sharon: rings her vampire bell. "Oliver, we’re ready for our steaming green tea with mint leaves, corn curls and candy corn. Do serve them up." Oliver appears with a sinister smile. With a sweeping bow, he presents the steaming brews and snacks and winks seductively at Skhye. He whispers to her that the ingredients are as ordered, green blood with frog legs floating, fingernails of vampires and candied toads. Skhye winks. “Perfect mixture. You must have called my doctor! They’re making me take EVERYTHING these days for Lyme Disease.” She shoots Oliver a sinister grin. “I think I’ll take you over to Skhye’s Ramblings to be my little pet!”

Sharon: Go away, Oliver. Don’t you know you can’t fool Mother Nature. I’m the Queen of Hearts and still hold the power to turn you into a toad and sell you to the gypsies. Now tell me, Skhye, tell me what inspired you to write this book of druids, magic and time travel, the perfect Halloween-inspired ingredients, I might add.

Skhye: Sharon, the gypsies live in my neck of the woods. Oliver will be cared for on my watch. *rolls eyes contemplatively* Oh! Oh, you asked why I mixed all these crazy topics together in my time-travel series… Well, one just can’t write about one aspect of earth life with time travelers and make a story real for the reader. It’s best to incorporate as much as culturally possible. And I fancy the process challenging and fun.

Sharon: And how does a cowboy fit into the mix?

Skhye: He’s an ex-Legionnaire assumed dead but saved by the Hood (bad joke for brotherhood) in his induction into The Cause (time guardianship). Heck, if a good-looking man is going to die, why not save him for a higher purpose. Like--*eyeballs Oliver*--selling him to the gypsies where he’ll become the preferred stud!

Oliver grins and plants himself next to Skhye, tips his leather cowboy hat and takes hold of her hand. Then he pops a candied toad into her mouth.

Skhye: I see he’s well-versed in magic!

Sharon: Tell us about the Time Guardian Tales.

Skhye: A war wages among the Gods. Two Celtic time-travel orders from the future intermarry as soul mates to safeguard history. Paradox is but a stolen heart away. Open the door to a new reality where legend becomes history and destined love defeats timeless evil.

From the inside walls, a woman screams bloody murder. “Let me out! Let me out!”

Sharon: Oh, don’t mind her. She didn’t much care for my last book. And The Queen of Heart gets even. Isn’t that a good motto, Skhye dear?

Sharon: With your background in archaeology, I have to ask. As the charismatic Oliver escorted you through the corridor, you no doubt noticed my art gallery of bones. With your sharp eye, which bones might they be in your expert opinion and to what species?

Skhye: Definitely, human. Homo sapiens sapiens. That’s anatomically modern human. And you did mention bones of previous guests in the opening. Should I feel threatened? I guess good help is hard to come by… I do NOT see any spare ribs. Uh, I once worked on a Maya skeleton whose rib was erroneously marked “spare rib” on the bag. Ahhhh! Talk about science gone awry!

Sharon: Let’s dish about Halloween. What is the most interesting or bizarre costume you ever dressed in?

Skhye: I usually scare people the most when I dress like myself— and talk. Bwah ha haaa. I remember the year I had this great idea to staple leaves all over a garbage bag to wear as a bush. But I didn’t think folks were as big a naturalist as I was! LOL. I’m actually thinking about buying a medieval dress. I said thinking. I don’t make frivolous purchases and can’t justify the cost with a child. But she was asking me what I was going to be when we go trick-or-treating. Talk about scaring one’s mother. I have to come up with something now!

Sharon: And how do you decorate your house and yard? And how will the the wee one be costumed this year?

Skhye: We do the pumpkins, jack-o-lanterns, scarecrows, potion bottles, skulls (gotta have bones after working in a bone lab 2 years), and candy corn!

Sharon’s black cat leaps from the organ which is now playing the funeral dirge and lands with a heap on Skhye’s lap. Skhye scratches the kitty.

Sharon: That’s Freddy Krueger and he loves to come out and play on Halloween.But just then the raven clock screeches and the witching hour is over.

Sharon: Dearie me. Time travel does indeed fly when you’re having fun. Skhye, thank you for being with us on this special day. Where can readers buy Naked on the Staircase and get in touch with you? I know you mentioned it earlier (wicked chuckle escapes her lips) but that was before they drank the witch’s brew. So tell them again please.

Purchase your copy of NAKED ON THE STAIRCASE:

in paperback (anthology with SACRIFICIAL HEARTS) HAUNTED HEARTS at

http://tinyurl.com/ahjmz2

in e-format

http://www.thewildrosepress.com/naked-on-the-staircase-p-980.html

Oliver appears as the Gredorian chant plays on the organ. He thrusts his leather-clad hips and removes a chain from around his neck. He lassoes the witch close to his hairy chest and takes her for a spin around the ballroom. As the woman shrieks in delight from behind the walls, the ghostly figures vanish into the night. Skhye’s definitely getting more details to add to one of her paranormal romances!

Pumpkin Trivia Contest

With all the haunted mansions and ghostly images I’ve been spinning for you in the past few posts, today, let’s have some old fashioned fun with the pumpkin. See how many of these questions you get right. There might be a prize in the pumpkin patch for the person that scores 100%. Good Luck!!

1. What is a pumpkin? Fruit or vegetable?

2. How many continents grow the pumpkin?

3. Which continents do not grow the pumpkin?

4. What is the pumpkin capital of the world?

5. What is the claim to fame of this capital?

6. Where did the carving of the pumpkin originate?

7. What other vegetable is or has been carve if a pumpkin is not available?

8. What do the Native American Indians use the pumpkin for?

9. What other colors of pumpkins are grown?

10. How much did the largest pumpkin weigh?
11. Can you eat the flower of the pumpkin?

12. What vitamins are in pumpkin seeds?

13. What do you get if you scoop out a pumpkin, fill it with milk and bake it?

14. What gives the pumpkin the orange color?

This contest will run for the remainder of October. Winner TBA November 1st
Prize? Why, a pumpkin candle, of course!

The Haunted Legend

What once stood tall as a manor gracing the North Side of Pittsburgh is now a ghost legend. Formerly known as the most haunted mansion in America, the Ridge Avenue residence has a history dating back to the winter of 1871. According to legend, the lady of the manor came home one evening to find her husband in bed with the maid. On a jealous outrage, she stabbed her husband to death and beheaded the maid.

For the next twenty years, the mansion was vacant. But in 1892, the manor was renovated to accommodate railroad workers. But when a woman’s screams haunted the house, the workers fled, leaving the manor once more vacant.

Around the year 1900, a doctor moved into the mansion but was rarely seen by neighbors. On August 12, 1901, an explosion occurred in the house, shattering every window. A haze of red erupted from the residence, according to spectators. When authorities entered the home, they found the decomposed body of a woman strapped to the bed and five headless young women in basement graves. The doctor had fled the scene. It was later learned the doctor was experimenting with severed heads and was able to keep some alive after decapitation for short periods of time.

Once more, due to its unsavory reputation for being haunted, the mansion was vacant for several years. After going through a second renovation, immigrant workers moved into the home. Several workers complained of strange and bizarre happenings but wrote them off as pranks by co-workers. But when the corpses of two men were found in the basement, all thoughts of pranks came to an abrupt halt. One worker had a wooden stake driven through his heart and the other man dangled from the rafters.

In 1920, the famous scientist and inventor, Thomas Edison, came to the home to sample a device he was building to test communication with the dead. Although Edison died before the machine was perfected, his visit to the Ridge Avenue residence supposedly strengthened his belief in the afterlife.

But the haunted house on Ridge Avenue met its demise on the morning of November 15, 1927 when the largest natural gas storage facility in the world exploded. Located across the street, the tank ignited into flames. Thought to be an earth quake, the explosion shook the earth and was felt for a twenty mile radius. Chimneys toppled and bricks and debris flew. Twisted hunks of metal and steel and bricks rained on the victims caught up in the chaos. And although homes were partially destroyed all over the county, the haunted mansion was the only home totally obliterated, all remnants vanishing without a trace.

The Haunting

There are a lot of ghost stories floating about this time of year. Everyone has a favorite, and while some are legends and some are blarney, there really are things that go bump in the night. There’s also something about sitting around a roaring fire with a cup of hot apple cider on a chilly, rainy night that makes us want to share a tale or two.

Being a writer and a wee story teller myself, I crave these ghostly tales and hang on their every word. Maybe it’s my passion for the thrill and love of a good suspense, but my flesh gets all tingly when I hear one of these otherworldly tales. And here’s one guaranteed to cause shivers to dance down your spine.

A few years ago, I was taking a night class at the local college. One night after class while waiting for my ride, the guard patrolling the grounds struck up a conversation with me about the former glory days of the campus. The halls dominating the college are the renovated mansions of some of the founding fathers of Pittsburgh as Andrew Carnegie and Andrew Mellon. Curious, I asked the guard if she had the same section each night or if a different one was assigned. As the crisp fall air swooshed through the surrounding oaks, she told me a chilling tale about Byers Hall.

“No way will I set foot in that building,” she shuffled her feet nervously, leaves crunching beneath her feet. “Never again. That hall is haunted.”
“Haunted?” I asked, never hearing this tale before. “How so?”

The guard proceeded to tell me that one night she was in the hall, all alone, when she heard the floorboard creaking from the second floor. Then she heard a toilet flush and the sound of running water. A little startled, but not spooked, she figured it was one of the other guards using the rest room. But just then, the steps creaked, followed by the pitter patter of footsteps. Then she felt a draft so cold she gasped. Heart pounding, she fled, never to return. Feeling stupid and keeping her ghostly experience to herself, it wasn’t until one of the other guards spoke of a similar experience. And pretty soon, another. And before long, the history of the manor was unveiled. But there were no records…and three different stories have evolved.

The Byers were an extremely wealthy family and had all the luxuries to complement their fortune. Butlers, maids and a nanny for the children. One night while out to dinner, the nanny was home alone with her young charge. The manor had a skylight on the second floor and the nanny left the child unattended for a little while. In her absence, the child climbed the steps to the skylight and walked across it, breaking the glass and falling to her death. When the Byers returned home that evening, they supposedly found the nanny hanging from the rafters, her body dangling over the stairway while the cold air swooshed through the broken window. According to legend, the ghostly image of the child lay at her feet.

Another legend has it Lady Byer came home one evening and found her husband with a woman of the evening. She supposedly was so distraught she took her life in the elevator and her ghost haunts the mansion.

Yet another twist to the tale is the nanny hung herself in the tower window after her charge fell through the stained glass skylight. On the night she committed suicide, the image of her ghost is said to swing back and forth in the tower like a pendulum.

Whatever the case, there is something otherworldly in Byers Hall. Some say when a person takes his or her own life, the spirit lingers, trying to find peace. Tell me your ghost story.

The Loch Ness Monster

Sea Serpent? Dragon? Monster Mash? Myth or legend? What is this entity that has been the subject of much debate for centuries? The Lock Ness Monster, affectionately referred to as “Nessie” by its fans, has been sited since 565 A.D. when St. Columba is said to have spotted it while rescuing a swimmer from a sea urchin. Since then, various sightings have been documented. Whether fiction or fantasy, legend or lore, Nessie continues to be an unsolved mystery.

Located in Northern Scotland, Loch Ness is part of the Great Glen, an enormous fissure in the earth that all but divides Scotland in two. There are a number of lochs, rivers and canals which link the Atlantic Ocean with the North Sea, and Loch Ness is the largest fresh water lake in Britain. Its waters are so cold and cloudy, making it difficult to see more than a few feet below the surface. And because of this, there is a huge swimming pool in which Nessie can play games with its admiring public.

And even though rumors have shrouded the loch for centuries, it wasn’t until after 1933 that Nessie was seen with frequency. On April 14, 1933, the MacKays opened a pub near the loch. And one night, they spied an enormous creature in the water. They reported the sighting to Alex Campbell, the man responsible for salmon control, who is said to have witnessed the monster on many occasions. Campbell describes the monster as being very large, approximately thirty feet in length, having a long, tapering neck of about six feet and a serpentine look about it. He also claims Nessie has a huge hump on its back.

Since that time, there has been wide-spread attempts to prove Nessie exists. And although photos have been taken, submarine hunts orchestrated in the waters, there is no solid evidence the monster is real. Scientists have toyed with the possibility that Nessie may be some sort of dinosaur, but no bones or fossils have been found. So to date, the Loch Ness monster remains a myth. What do you think it is?

Joelle Walker Meets Dracula at Vlad Castle

An eerie whistle swooshed through the Carpathian Mountains surrounding the fortress as Joelle stepped off the Transylvania train. She shivered in eager anticipation of the evening ahead. A party at Dracula’s castle. Oh, what an intoxicating thrill. Tonight was the night she would fulfil her fantasy. She was Mina, once smitten, twice bitten, soulmate of the charismatic Count Vlad. And she could hardly wait. The crisp night air awakened her senses, every nerve ending snapping beneath her flesh.

And then she saw it—the castle looming high upon a cliff overlooking the Black Sea, dark and foreboding. But darker still was the sky as the blood-red moon skittered across the hemisphere like the gleaming eye of a serpent. From the nearby forest, a werewolf howled, the cry of the wild sending chills dancing down her spine. Oh, how she longed to meet Dracula, her champion, her one desire. A few more minutes and she would be at his castle, his fortress—his sanctum.

Romania was so stunning, so surreal. Gothic cathedrals and chateaux graced the landscape of fertile vineyards and lush green hills. Then she spied the cemetery next to the castle and her blood heated. Suddenly, a flash of lightening splintered the sky with forks of brilliant white light. And in that brief second, a vaporous glow illuminated the headstone of Count Vlad. Joelle licked her lips. He would come tonight—he’d promised her eternity.

She entered the courtyard, the ambiance dark and sinister. A wisp of cold air rippled through her crimson bustle gown, blowing her hair askew. Two werewolf knights in armor guarded the gate, the gushing water in the fountain the only sound. A wolf crept from the woods and rubbed against Joelle’s leg, a low but appreciative growl erupting from his throat. Surged with adrenaline, heart pumping, Joelle pounded on the door just as the clock in the bell tower struck the midnight hour.

With a groaning hiss, the heavy mahogany door opened and Oliver stood there in all his glory, costumed as Count Vlad in his scarlet embroidered cape. He treated her to a wicked wink as he pulled her into the vestibule. And with a beguiling smile, his searing gaze penetrating, he recited the lines from Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Her heart all a flutter, Joelle, knowing every line to her favorite movie, didn’t miss a beat.

Dracula: “The green fairy that lives in the absinthe wants your soul but you are safe with me.”

Mina: I want to be what you are, see what you see, love what you love.”

Dracula: Mina, to walk with me you must die to your breathing life and be reborn to mine.”

Mina: “You are my love. And my life, always.”

Dracula: “Then I give you life eternal. Everlasting love. The power of the storm. And the beasts of the earth. Walk with me to be my loving wife—

—forever.” Joelle and Oliver said in unison.

Joelle’s spine tingled as Oliver escorted her down the darkened corridor to the Gothic parlour where the party was in full swing. The powerful chords, the danse macabre that was Michael Jackson’s Thriller issued from the organ, the beat causing Joelle’s heart to palpitate. Sharon floated about, costumed as a vampiress in a mint green gown. Glass of Merlot in silver chalice, she greeted her guest.

Sharon: Joelle, welcome. You do Mina proud in that striking knock-off! Oliver, do bring a drink for our guest and some appetizers, please.

Oliver turns to Joelle, red cape flowing. He whispers something in her ear and she follows him to the bar and gazes while he shakes up the perfect Bombay martini. With a twinkle in his eye, he offers her the cocktail in a frosted long stemmed goblet. He grins, “There you are, just the way you like it. Very dry with two blue cheese olives.”

Joelle: Dragging one long, crimson nail slowly down Oliver’s arm, enclosing her hand over his, she brings the crystal goblet to her blood-red lips and sips. “Perfect, my darling…as are you.” She runs her tongue along her full lips and smiles wickedly. The heat in their gaze, palpable.

Reluctantly, Oliver disappears and returns to arrange snacks on the coffin table, ceviche, salsa and chips, shrimp cocktail and bruschetta with goat cheese and peppers, while Sharon and Joelle make themselves comfy in the wing back chairs.

Sharon: Well before the dancing gets underway and you meet more guests, why don’t I ask you a few questions about the Black Rose line of The Wild Rose Press. In real life, (Sharon tilts back her head and laughs melodiously). That is if you choose to go back to your real life after tonight, you are an editor of the paranormal. Sharon smiles. Not that there is anything paranormal about my world, mind you. But let’s start with the basics. What is a typical black rose story about? The setting, the characters, the time period?

Joelle: Ah, dear Sharon, I believe I can safely say there is no such thing as a “typical” black rose story. The settings and time periods range from the Ripper’s 19th century London and even long before, up unto the present and still far beyond—there are no boundaries. As for the characters, I believe most writers today have knowingly moved past the archetypical vampires, werewolves and shifters to inhabit their worlds with paranormal characters, consumed with unbridled passion and impetuous love—to feral savagery and primal obsession. Again—no boundaries. It’s said there are no new stories, yet, I firmly believe there will always be new twists to the old stories—I, for one, see them every day.

Sharon: And when you read the query and synopsis, do you know within a few lines if it is something you want or not?

Joelle: Oh, my, no, dear. We so appreciate the writers who choose to allow TWRP the opportunity to review their work, I think I speak collectively when I say that rarely is much purport put into the query letter or even the “dreaded” synopsis. In my years with TWRP—both the Crimson and now the Black Rose line—I have yet to reject a submission without at least requesting a partial. Although I’ve not received one, the exception would be if the synopsis actually indicates the story does not meet our romance ratio or, in fact, does not have the required HEA. But that is all spelled out clearly in our “queryus” guidelines.

Sharon: What do you look for? What makes your adrenaline pump when you know you have a smashing hit on your hands?

Joelle: If not the first sentence, then the first paragraph— or the first three paragraphs. No kidding. A great first line hook sends chills up my spine. Another thing is if I start reviewing a new submission, look down and I’m on page ten and still haven’t picked up my big red crayon—hey, I figure I just might have a winner on my hands. As for what I look for, although I’ve heard it said frequently that romance novels are generally character driven, I lean toward a healthy balance between plot and characters. In my opinion especially in the paranormal genre, it’s essential that the plot must carry its own weight. Often, when I’m working with an author on their excerpt, I remind them to search for a scene that whets the appetite of both the paranormal and romance reader—you must captivate both tastes. Of course, characterization is extremely important and possibly a bit different in a dark paranormal romance. In some romances in today’s market I suppose the hero can be a Beta male—sweet, understanding, empathetic, etc.—but I have a hard time envisioning a werewolf or a vampire as anything but an Alpha male.
And last but, by no means least, when a clean, well-formatted, grammatically correct manuscript comes across my desk, my heart goes all aflutter.

Sharon: Tell me a bit about the role of the vampires, werewolves and shape shifters?


Joelle: Simply put, Sharon, vamps, weres and shifters can play any role. They can be the hero, the heroine, the protagonist or the antagonist, most often, with a few mortals thrown in for good measure.

Sharon: Where does an editor draw the line between the Black Rose and the erotic reads of the Scarlet Rose?

Joelle: Well, Sharon, it’s the rare occasion that we, the staff editors, are in the position to make that decision. First, the author designates the line she/he feels the submission is best suited. The Editor-in-Chief looks over the synopsis to see if, in fact, she concurs and, finally, the query is forwarded to the Senior Editor of that line. Now and then, a submission is flagged and we are asked to make certain the story doesn’t overemphasize a graphic, strong sexual premise and “dark erotic journeys of forbidden pleasures,” …taking “ them down uninhibited paths that push the envelope.” That’s straight from Scarlet Rose’s guidelines, Sharon. Further, unlike in the Black where there is the promised happily-ever-after, Scarlet can merely imply the promise of one.

Sharon: About how long does it take you to review a full length manuscript?

Joelle: Admittedly, I’m slow-paced. That’s partially because I lightly edit as I review. For two reasons this works well for me—first, if I decide the manuscript is not yet ready for publication, I want to give the author feedback in the form of suggestions/comments as to why I’ve rejected the submission, particularly, if I’m requesting a resubmission. Secondly, if I suspect I will be requesting to contract the submission—well, heck, I’m ahead of the game on line edits. Therefore, depending on how “clean” the manuscript is when it hits my desk, it will probably take me anywhere from three to four weeks to complete a review.

Sharon: What type of workshops or research would you recommend for authors wanting to break into this genre?

Joelle: Read, read, read. My love for the supernatural began with Poe and then Stephen King’s Carrie and ‘Salem’s Lot—and I haven’t stopped reading any and everything paranormal since. Although, I must admit, I am decidedly more discriminating now than I was in the beginning. If a writer wants to break into the genre, research who the big names are and read their works. Or, better still, go to http://www.thewildrosepress.com/ (shameless plug) because we have some extremely talented authors in our Black Rose line. Further, if the writer is a member of RWA, she might look into joining the Fantasy, Futuristic and Paranormal Chapter, which offers plenty of good workshops and I imagine their loop is quite informative, as well. And did I mention—read, read, read.

Sharon: I’ve recently attended a writers conference. And word is, the vampires and fantasy and futuristic are all still very hot reads. Do you see this ending any time soon?

Joelle: No, not at all. In August I believe it was, Charlaine Harris, author of The Southern Vampire Mysteries, had an unprecedented nine books on the NY Times Best Seller list! Not to mention, its great HBO spinoff, True Blood. And if you believe what Stephen King says (I personally hang on his every word!), in his book, On Writing…or, maybe it was Danse Macabre…in times of turmoil— social unrest, wars, political upheaval, depressions/recessions—(I think our current times might qualify…) the reading masses repeatedly turn to the supernatural. Why? Partially escapism, I suppose, or perhaps the supernatural is less frightening than reality.
Help! Sharon, stop me! If I keep waxing on and on, everyone’s gonna leave the party!

Sharon: OK, enough work. Oh, Oliver, more drinks over here. Now let’s talk a bit about you, an up close and personal with Joelle Walker. What do you do in your spare time?

Joelle: (Laughing hysterically, covering her mouth with a black lace hanky and, finally, clearing her throat) …Uh, yes, spare time—that would be the hour for dinner and casual chit-chat with (looking over her shoulder and lowering her voice) my DH, then another half hour of quality time with my minions—Choc, Sunny and Dexter…another time, Sharon. Perhaps an hour of mindless TV or quality reading, then it’s back to work. Spare time, right…

Sharon: You have a huge love of Francis Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Do you know I belong to a wine tasting group and about a year ago, we had an event at a recording studio and the theme of the evening was Coppola. All his music played all night long and we sampled some of his vintage wine. What fun! Do you enjoy some of his other movies or is it Dracula, hands down?

Joelle: Great question, Sharon. Coppola happens to be one of my all time favorites. Would’ve loved to have been at your wine tasting party. Personally, I believe “Wolf” with the forever awesome Jack Nicholson and the ethereal Michelle Pfeiffer is probably right up there in the top five paranormal romance movies. The ending—breathtaking! Then, “Godfather”—all three. And, the seemingly, never ending helicopter scene with its unimaginable background score, “Apocalypse Now”—“I love the smell of napalm in the morning.” Brilliant. And last but not least, “The Outsiders,” written by S.E. Hinton about warring teenage factors in my home state of Oklahoma. It opened the door for so many great actors, including the late, great Patrick Swayze.

Sharon: What is your favorite Halloween memory?

Joelle: Well, I was only four but I remember it clearly, even treasure the ‘before’ picture to this day—smashing my evil, older cousin’s prize jack-o’-lantern from atop my dad’s car after the dirty no-good brat locked me in a dank, dark cellar for over two hours. Priceless!

Sharon: I’m very superstitious and adore legend and lore. I just can’t get enough of them and am a real sucker for good luck charms and spells. LOL How about you? Do you have a favorite superstition you can share?

Joelle: Well, y’know, I must admit I believe there’s something to the number 13. I lived in a high-rise once on the twelfth floor…and the next floor up was the fourteenth. And that’s creepy enough, but a guy jumped from the 14th…right past my balcony! Ewww. Wish I hadn’t even thought about that…
On the other hand, when you add 13 together, you get—voilà—4, my lucky number.

Sharon: What kind of music do you like?

Joelle: You know, strangely enough, the blues always has a way of lifting my spirits…

Sharon: Ah, and here comes Oliver with dessert.

With a sweeping bow, Oliver presents the crème brulee with rum sauce. With a glazed look in his eye, he feeds a bite to Joelle.

Joelle: She grasps the silver spoon in one hand and draws it to her mouth—with the other hand, she dips her fingers into the decadent dessert, throws back her head and slowly draws the mousse from her delicate throat down into her ample cleavage. Oliver leans closer, emitting a low, guttural growl.

Sharon: Well, uh, I’d say it’s time to do some dancing. It’s a party, after all. Joelle, thank you for being my guest of honor. You’ve been a delight, and have given us some very beneficial tips for submitting to the Black Rose line.

Joelle: Oh, darling, my pleasure indeed.

Just then, the hauntingly beautiful vocals of Annie Lennox filtered through the room. And as Love Song for a Vampire played, Oliver swept Joelle into his arms and held her close as they danced the night away.

Halloween Trial of Linda Banche

From deep in the woods, a coyote howls, its piercing wail slicing through the pumpkin patch. A black cat hisses, its back arched and rigid. Leaves rustle as the brisk fall air swooshes through the willowy pines surrounding the haunted house. Dare Linda Banche enter the manor on the hill where she has been summoned by Officer Oliver? A shiver hurls through her when she spies the spiked fence surrounding the fortress. Bats circle the steeple of the bell tower, flapping their wings as they soar toward the manor, screeching.

When she hears footsteps behind her, racing through the pumpkin patch, manic laughter echoing through the forest, she bolts up the rickety steps and bangs at the door, heart in her throat.
With a hissing creak, the door swings open and Officer Oliver stands there, razor sharp sword strapped to his hip. He grins, his eyes glazing over.

“Who be knocking at me chamber door? Why it’s Linda Banche, the Pumpkinnapper. This way, dearie.”

Oliver handcuffs her as he escorts her to where the Queen of Hearts sits on her nail-back throne. Dank air snakes through the long dark corridor to the parlor. The pet bat screeches and the floorboards creak. Skeletal remains bang at the walls, their chains rattling. From the parlor, the organ grinds out Humphrey the Blue-nosed Pumpkin.

Sharon: That will be all, Officer Oliver. Now while I decide if Ms. Banche is indeed the pumkinnapper, bring us some Diet Pepsi and Devil Dogs. Then the room goes dark as the facts about Linda Banche and the Pumpkinnapper illuminate on the screen.

Linda Banche writes sweet/sensual Regency romances. Her historically accurate stories include humor (most of the time), fantasy (sometimes) and the paranormal (once in a while).

Linda read romances for years before she finally decided to write her own. She quickly found out it's harder than it looks. She lives in New England and likes aerobics and ducks.

Pumpkinnapper, Regency Halloween comedy
Buy link: http://www.thewildrosepress.com/pumpkinnapper-p-3685.html

BLURB:
Pumpkin thieves, a youthful love rekindled and a jealous goose. Oh my!

Last night someone tried to steal the widowed Mrs. Emily Metcalfe's pumpkins. She's certain the culprit is her old childhood nemesis and the secret love of her youth, Henry, nicknamed Hank, whom she hasn't seen in ten years.

Henry, Baron Grey, who's never forgotten the girl he loved but couldn’t pursue so long ago, decides to catch Emily's would-be thief. Even after she reveals his childhood nickname--the one he would rather forget. And even after her jealous pet goose bites him in an embarrassing place.

Oh, the things a man does for love.

EXCERPT:

"Emily, even with Henry, formidable as he is--" Hank glared at the goose. The goose glared back "--you need protection. I will send over some footmen to guard the place."

"No. Turnip Cottage belongs to Charlotte's husband. What will the townspeople think, with Lord Grey's servants about my house?"

Her refusal increased his fury. The sight of her hand on that damned goose's head didn't improve his mood, either. He balled his fists as his patience thinned and something else thickened. "I'll find you a guard dog. You must have some protection out here all alone."

"But I have Henry." She patted the goose's head and the bird snuggled into her hand.

Again Heat flooded Hank, part desire for Emily's touch, and part desire to murder that damned goose, who was where he wanted to be. His insides groaned. "Very well, then, you leave me no choice. I will help you catch the culprits.

"But--" He changed his voice to the voice that either melted a woman or earned him a slap in the face. "Who knows, mayhap we would enjoy ourselves as I lie in wait with you." I would love to lie with you.

Her eyes widened. Had she understood the innuendo? "I cannot stay alone with you, and you know it," she said, her voice severe.

"You are a widow in your own home and no one will see. I will make sure of it."

"No." She marched back into her cottage and slammed the door. Henry smirked and waddled away.

Hank grinned. He would be back, whether she liked it or not.

Linda Banche
Regency romance--most with humor, some with fantasy, and occasionally a paranormal
Lady of the Stars--4 stars from Romantic Times, Regency time travel available from The Wild Rose Press
Pumpkinnapper--Regency Halloween comedy from The Wild Rose Press
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Officer Oliver places down the refreshments and takes a seat, his searing gaze penetrating.

Sharon: Hmmm. And tell me, Ms. Banche. How do you plead to this crime? Are you the Pumpkinnapper? And don’t lie because the inmates have sixth senses from beyond the other side.

A blood curdling scream shakes the chandelier and rattles the windows.

Sharon: That one lied. So how do you plead?

Linda: Innocent! I love pumpkins! I would never steal one.

Sharon: And what prompted you to write this book?

Linda: Pumpkinnapper is the byproduct of a Halloween story I planned for an anthology. As I sifted through Halloween legends for the first story, the idea for Pumpkinnapper popped into my head. A real Eureka moment. The original story, which is the prequel to Pumpkinnapper, is still in my Ideas folder.

Sharon: Tell us about your main characters, the setting, the aura of the book.

Linda: Pumpkinnapper is the story of a love triangle: man, woman and goose. Emily lives in the countryside of Regency England with her pet goose, Henry. Everything is peaceful until the Pumpkinnaper shows up. Enter Hank, who wants to help, much to Henry's chagrin. The goose isn't about to let this outsider win Emily without a fight, and bites Hank on an embarrassing portion of his anatomy. Meanwhile, the dread Pumpkinnapper, who has an agenda of his own, keeps trying to steal Emily's pumpkins. Hank and Henry trip over each other in their efforts to catch him, a regular comedy of errors.

Sharon: You look a bit faint. And we need to hear all the facts before deciding your fate. Officer Oliver, go get that lemon cake to revive our inmate. Sharon glances at the raven clock. And once the clock strikes the witching hour, your fate will be decided.

Linda gulps as Oliver feeds her a bite of lemon cake.

Sharon: Just time for a few more questions. What inspired you to write a story about somebody stealing pumpkins? Was this some secret fetish of yours, to nap pumpkins?

Linda: Fetish? What fetish? I'm so straight I'm boring. I would never steal a pumpkin. But, every story needs a villain, and the most dastardly of Halloween villains is a pumpkin thief.

Sharon: And what is your favorite costume for both male and female?

Linda: Why, Regency, of course. Ladies in high waisted dresses, and men in tight breeches and ruffled shirts. But only if they look good.

Sharon: And finally, will you be handing out tricks or treats to the wee ones this Halloween?

Linda: Oh yes, I always hand out candy. No tricks, only treats.

Sharon: Opens her mouth to speak but the raven screeches as the bell tower chimes in the witching hour.

Oliver slams down his fist on the coffin table. “Order in the Chamber.”

Sharon: Stand up, Ms. Banche. How do you plea?

Linda: Not guilty.

Sharon: We the people find you guilty of being the Pumpkinnapper. Officer, take her away!

Linda: No, no! I want an appeal! The Pumpkinnapper is still out there, stealing pumpkins!

Officer Oliver grins a wolfish grin as he snaps the handcuffs around Linda and leads her into the void.

Pumpkinnapper, Regency Halloween comedy

Buy link: http://www.thewildrosepress.com/pumpkinnapper-p-3685.html