When June Haunts May - The Haunting of Pinedale High #10 - Cozy YA Paranormal Ghost Story - and a Giveaway #YA #Paranormal #GhostStory #Giveaway

Celaine Charles is here to tell us about When June Haunts May, The Haunting of Pinedale High #10, a cozy YA paranormal ghost story.

There's also a great giveaway.

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One visible spirit.

Two phantom thieves.

Three courageous friends.

When June Haunts May

The Haunting of Pinedale High #10

by Celaine Charles

Genre: Cozy YA Paranormal Ghost Story

June Brookes has haunted the library at Pinedale High for decades, without attention. Until one day, new sophomore, May Blakely, notices. Could this be June’s chance to cross over to the hereafter? If only she knew what needed to be finished from her old life.

Angsty May prefers solitude. Her deadbeat dad may have ditched her in this small town, but she has no interest befriending this strange girl, or the cute boy across the street.

June’s hereafter hustle goes haywire when two phantom soldiers plot to hijack her passage to peace, at the expense of hurting fellow students. June saves May’s life, igniting their joint efforts to protect the school. Can May help June to her happily ever afterlife?

  

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“Have you ever seen her in a class?”

What was he getting at? “We don’t have any classes together. But I don’t have any classes with you either.”

“Okay, so how about the fact that she was cold as ice when I touched her shoulder?”

The chills she’d sensed from June had felt like relief in the blazing sun, but she had noticed them. “What are you saying?”

Reid pulled her underneath a yellowing oak in an empty yard. Ignoring her look of annoyance, he glanced over his shoulders before whispering low and close to her ear. “Did you know Pinedale High is haunted?”

First the woods and now the whole school? May stepped back, hands up in feigned surrender. “Okay-okay, I get it. Prank the new kid. You know, I’m sorry I even thought about checking in on you. I don’t have time for this.” She about-faced and strode down the sidewalk without him.

“Wait, what? I’m not pranking you.” He caught up in only a few strides, his long legs veering her off to the side. “Please, hear me out.”

May’s mind flipped through any example of a high school boy wanting her to hear him out. This had to be a trick. “No, you listen to me. I’ve been the new girl far too many times than I care to count. And I get it. I’m easy prey…perhaps even a challenge.” She thumped him in his too-close-to-her chest. “But I’m not playing.”

“I think June’s a ghost. I’m not kidding or pranking you. And I need you to listen.”

Flashes of her strange interactions with her new friend…if she could even call her that…flickered through May’s mind. They’d only known each other for a couple of days, but she had sensed something off.

She turned away from him, trying to put everything together. Bouts of June’s chilliness, yes. But earlier, it had been strange how fast she’d flown down the spectator stands. Before that, she struggled to push open the main school doors.

May had attributed June’s glossy hollow eyes to the lighting, but maybe it was because of something else. She closed her own eyes for clarity, kicking her foot into the grass. Maybe allergies?

She tucked her hair behind her ear, running the strands between her fingers as more details registered. June’s peculiar way of speaking was odd, and her clothes that first day, like a blast from the past. She was still wearing her penny loafers…with pennies inside.

May dropped her backpack, shook her head at Reid, who was waiting for her to process. But her brain wasn’t cooperating. “Ghosts?” The word spat off her tongue like she’d swallowed a flick of her cat’s tail.

“I know I sound insane. I’m not. I promise.” He glimpsed her with creamy brown eyes. They were the color of Great-Grandma’s sweet tea, and she was overheating inside and out, ready for a tall glass.

“Is this why you’ve been crying at the pond during lunch?”

“What?” His face scrunched, cheeks burning past the eighty-degree temperature outside to a brighter shade of full-blown embarrassment. “No. I mean—I’m not crying at the pond. What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

They stood at an impasse, shock etching along both their eyebrows and drawn lips. Her mind raced for something to say, and if she had to guess, he was in the same boat.

Don’t miss the rest of the Haunting of Pinedale High books!

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Celaine Charles lives in the enchanted Pacific Northwest, teaching elementary school by day and writing by the stars at night. She’s an award-winning, multi-genre author who balances her dual life creating poetry, fantasy, and contemporary romance shorts, while blogging about her journey on Steps in Between. In addition, she’s embarking on the world of children’s picture books.

She’s published collections of poetry through Egret Lake Books and Palmetto Publishing Group, and fiction through The Wild Rose Press and Eliza Storm Books.

Celaine is a member of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, Storyteller Academy, Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, and reads poetry regularly with the Museum of Northwest Art, Writing’s on the Wall series.

 

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Adverse Reactions - Dystopian Paranormal Suspense - and a Giveaway #Dystopian #Paranormal #Suspense #Giveaway

Deborah J. Lightfoot is here to tell us about Adverse Reactions, dystopian paranormal suspense.

There's also a great giveaway.

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When your mind makes you the enemy, either your mind must die, or you will. 

Unless yours is the mind they can’t break.

Adverse Reactions

by Deborah J. Lightfoot

Genre: Dystopian Paranormal Suspense

Purity demands a bullet. Devin brings a reckoning.

Since she was six years old, Devin Perridin has been locked behind the walls of the family home to keep her hidden from those who would kill her. But at sixteen, she is exposed as a "Syke," one of an outlawed minority who possess extraordinary powers of mind over matter. Snatched from hiding, she escapes the firing squad, but only to be imprisoned in a house of horrors: the Peaceful Hills Sanatorium and Rehabilitation Center for the Treatment of Persistent Mental Disorders. After an unknown time of torture and "behavior modification," brutally designed to destroy her psychokinetic reflexes, she emerges from the asylum severely damaged in mind and spirit. Her salvation may lie in the series of crimes triggered by her release: first kidnapping, then attempted murder, and then a mustering of forbidden forces to assault the remote pseudo-psychiatric facility where she had been tortured into near-mindlessness.

Drawing upon a strength she had always known was hers but had never before been able to consciously control, Devin defies the authoritarian society with its unjust laws that demand her death. She pushes through pain, isolation, and moral quandaries to seek justice for not only herself, but all members of a maligned and cruelly persecuted minority. A post-apocalyptic, paranormal allegory for the times in which we live.

When your mind makes you the enemy, either your mind must die, or you will. Unless yours is the mind they can't break.

 

“This novel is immediately immersive, with an opening scene that sucks readers in with vivid sensory detail and a great sense of suspense.” —The Black List

“What a story! I was picked up from the first page and you never let me go thereafter. The premise is original … compelling … convincing.” —ARC Reader

“A very enjoyable read. Excellent pacing. Immersive language. Polished, effortless writing. I’d love to see a prequel (or three)!” —ARC Reader

“Relevant to the current situation in the world. Ostracizing others who are different out of fear and ignorance. Cruelty and inhumanity.” —ARC Reader

“Believable and relatable.” —The Black List

“Thematically rich, as Devin faces constant self-doubt but eventually comes to find empowerment in the unique abilities that have made her an outcast.” —The Black List

 

**Get it #OnSale for only $1.99 4/21 – 4/24!**

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Chapter 1

 

VAPORS BILLOWED INTO the chamber in thick masses of orange. Devin choked on the sickly sweet odor.

“Don’t fight it, child,” came the voice—equally cloying—from the darkness beyond the floodlit, glass-walled chamber. “Give yourself up to it.”

The gas surged into Devin’s face, blinding, gagging her. She made it go away. By force of will, a moment’s mental reflex, she flung it back.

Fresh air flooded her nostrils and drove out the syrupy stink. She sucked in a cool, clean breath.

“No!” snapped the voice, crackling with amplified static. “You must not.”

The therapist dropped her with two thousand volts. Devin collapsed to the chamber’s floor, her body jerking, her nerves on fire. The pain was beyond enduring. A pain this intense must be lethal. But she did not die. As she convulsed, her muscles knotted in spasms, she could not scream. No part of her, not even her voice, was under her voluntary control.

“Try it again, child.” Smooth and saccharine once more, her unseen therapist spoke from the concealing shadows as the shock ended and Devin’s pain faded. “Stand up,” the torturer ordered. “And this time, do not fight it. Or your punishment will be the same: swift, sure, and severe.”

Devin struggled upright. She had to brace against the curved glass wall of the gas chamber to keep on her feet. Her muscles had melted from knots into jelly.

An orange cloud flooded the chamber and filled her nose with the stink of rotting fruit.

“Breathe it,” her therapist instructed. “You must.”

But again, Devin reacted by instinct alone. No conscious thought interposed between stimulus and response. The cloud approached; she pushed it away. Pure reflex, action of mind: act of self-preservation. The gas held back, suspended in midair, blocked by the power of her impulse.

On the instant, thousands of volts knocked her to the floor. Pain engulfed Devin, such a pain as must be lethal but wouldn’t do her the service of killing her. She writhed, silent and barely conscious.

Her therapist withdrew the punishment. Devin remained on the floor of the isolation chamber, curled in the fetal position, her long brown hair covering her face. Her body was hers to command once more, but her muscles had no strength to obey.

“You give new meaning to the word persistent, don’t you, girl?” muttered the disembodied voice. Then, more forcefully: “The first step toward healing is to admit you are diseased, Miss Perridin. You have an illness. A mental disorder. I am offering you the cure—in a pleasant aerosol spray that you need only breathe. Once inhaled, the drug acts quickly, and its effects are lasting. But you must take the first step and acknowledge that you want to be cured.”

The voice grew soft, sugary. “Child, for as long as you hold to the notion—the mistaken notion—that your disorder is in some way a strength or a benefit to you, you will continue to fail. And you will suffer the consequences of that failure. We can’t have that, can we?”

Devin gathered the remnants of her strength and rolled onto her back. To stand was impossible; she could barely shape a word.

“No,” she whispered.

She wasn’t speaking to her tormentor.

But: “That’s the spirit!” the therapist responded, sounding genuinely enthused. “Now we try again. Take your medicine like a good girl.”

The orange stink flowed in at the top of the chamber. Devin, lying face up, watched through the curtain of her hair as the cloud descended. She had time to ward it off, to make it go away. But in the soul of her being, nothing sparked. Her reflexes, her instincts, failed to respond. What had been a spontaneous force of mind over matter could offer no resistance.

Devin’s mouth filled with the sickening taste of defeat. The orange cloud enveloped her, a sticky weight, and she choked down lungfuls.

“Wonderful!” her therapist exclaimed. “My dear, I couldn’t be more pleased. This is the tipping point. Your recovery will be much easier from now on, I promise.”

Devin breathed the sickly sweet drug and felt the core of her mind go dead.

Then came the retching. Her body contorted in gut-shredding paroxysms as the drug made her vomit—or attempt to vomit. Her keepers had starved her for so long, her stomach had nothing to bring up. The dry heaves racked her with such violence that she could not breathe. After long moments, unconsciousness brought relief.

Castles in the cornfield provided the setting for Deborah J. Lightfoot’s earliest flights of fancy. On her father’s farm in Texas, she grew up reading tales of adventure and reenacting them behind ramparts of sun-drenched grain. She left the farm to earn a degree in journalism and write award-winning books of history and biography. High on her bucket list was the desire to try her hand at the genre she most admired. The result is Waterspell, a multi-layered fantasy series about a girl and the wizard who suspects her of being so dangerous to his world, he believes he’ll have to kill her … which troubles him, since he’s fallen in love with her.

 

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Eternally Beautiful Summer Nights - Horror - Paranormal #Horror #Paranormal

Martha Wickham is here to tell us about Eternally Beautiful Summer Nights, horror, paranormal.

Read on for details...

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Horror / Paranormal

Date Published: 09-08-2025

 

 Experience the eternal, beautiful dread of summer nights, where every shadow holds a story and the past refuses to stay buried.

Welcome back to the world of *Summer Scares*, where the warmth of the season does nothing to banish the chill of the supernatural. In this pulse-pounding fourth volume, Martha Wickham weaves five tales of dolls, deadly secrets, and the ghosts that glitter in the darkness.

Inside, you will encounter the terror of:

Cursed Heirlooms: A vintage collector doll named Reiny uses an old, randomly chiming grandfather clock as her only way to communicate, and you'll find out just how protective (and creepy) she can be in "Girl Protected," "Reiny's Clock Terror," and "Reiny's Last Guardian."

*Glittering Ghosts: When Felicity moves into an apartment, she finds glitter that won't go away and hears tinkling bells—a terrifying trail left behind by the ghost of Lisa and an important clue for a murderer on the run in "The Glitter Veil."

*The Dollhouse Trap: Curious teens fix up an old dollhouse found in an abandoned Victorian, only to start a haunting that communicates its terrible ending. When Terri blames the trapped spirits for an accident, he must compromise with the ghosts to escape their approaching wrath.

These are stories for your eternal summer—a chilling journey where the dolls are more than just toys, the hauntings are inescapable, and every beautiful summer night ends with a scream.

Excerpt

Reiny’s Clock Terror

The grandfather clock chimed loudly and could be heard from Sara’s bedroom. It was closed and she ran to it. It said nine o'clock, but it was the middle of the afternoon. Sara Greyston wondered why it rang when it hadn’t in over a year. Her parents heard it too. The clock was very old and was built by her great-grandfather, George. She moved the arms to three o'clock. There wasn’t much hope that it was going to work right. She wasn’t sure what time it was.

She ran into her mother’s bedroom. “Can we take it and get it fixed?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s only for show,” her father said.

When she got to her room she checked the time on her cell phone. It said ten am. Her watch was right, but she never wore it. The time on her computer also said ten am.

“Did the power go out?” she asked her mother.

“No,” her mother responded. “I don’t think so."

Maybe that was it, and she shrugged. It was an old clock and an old house, and it had been in the family for at least a century. She had just graduated from high school and had time to do what she wanted. All she really wanted to know was when her friends were going to the beach and which school she should go to in the fall.

Just as she feared, the grandfather clock randomly chimed. She sat up in bed and checked her watch. It said one in the morning. It was so cold she got up to get hot tea and turn on the heat. Afterwards, she lay down and checked her watch. It still said one in the morning. In the morning, she would have to reset it. Lying there, she suddenly heard small footsteps in the attic. Reiny hadn’t seen that doll since Mary died, and the doll was locked with a bolt so that it couldn’t get out. The protector doll had become a threat in high school a couple of years ago.

Come early morning, she grabbed the keys and unlocked the attic door. There near the door was Reiny. Her lifelike eyes were staring at Sara. She picked her up, and the clock chimed. It was annoying, but somebody in the family had made it. She took the doll downstairs and shut the door behind her. She had planned to lock it up somewhere still.

She sat in the kitchen eating her eggs. From the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw the doll turn its head toward her. Her mom entered the kitchen.

“Mom, what’s the name of the relative that built the big broken clock?” Sara asked.

“George Greyson. He was a clock-maker and the original owner of this house. He was great at it. I’m sure there are pictures and tools he used to use up in the attic,” she answered sipping her coffee.

“I’ll definitely go up there,” Sara said. Her mom noticed how the doll sat in her green and white dress near Sara.

“That’s Reiny,” Sara said. “I believe she may be controlling the clock."

 

Cami Hensley · Eternally Beautiful Summer Nights

 

About the Author

 

 Martha Wickham has a knack for finding the ghosts hidden in the dust. A lifelong student of the arcane and the artistic, Martha has an Associate's Degree and professional writing credentials, but she honed her skills in the thrilling shadows of screenwriting and horror. Martha lives for the secrets that only come out "By Dawn". You can discover more of her work, including her newest audiobooks, at your favorite retailer.

Contact Link

Website

Purchase Links

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By Dawn - The 13th House - Horror - Paranormal #Horror #Paranormal

Martha Wickham is here to tell us about By Dawn, The 13th House, horror-paranormal.

Read on for details...

____________________

 

Horror/paranormal

Date Published: 11-22-2025

Nine Tales. Nine Secrets. All Before Dawn.

In the shadow of Bloomstone Manor, a dilapidated estate hauntingly known as "Lily Lane", the veil between the living and the dead is impossibly thin. This collection of nine paranormal mystery stories explores inheritances, dark family legacies, and spectral demands, all bound by the Manor's enduring, dark influence.

This Halloween, meet the three students who dare to knock on the door of "The 13th House"—a black, unnumbered prison that holds the sinister secrets of the past. Their trick-or-treating leads them to a terrifying collection of artifacts: a bent spoon, a rusted key, and a doll's eye. Every artifact is a clue left by a child who vanished, whispering pleas for help from beyond the grave. The teens must solve the mystery and free the spirits before the night's magic fades, or they might become the next secret the old house keeps.

Every house has a debt. Every ghost has a tether. Uncover the restless spirits and broken promises that demand attention and resolution. When the clock strikes dawn, the secrets settle back into the dust and the lilies—and it may be too late.

Excerpt

Night of the Spirits 

 

Anthony pushed through the thick brush that had swallowed the old path. His friends told him the house was hidden somewhere ahead, rumored to be haunted. When he finally saw it, the place looked half-demolished, with climbing walls that had paint curling and peeling. Yet every window was perfectly intact.

He opened the front door. Stale, cold air rushed out, thick with dust. His footsteps echoed through the empty living room.As he moved down the hallway, the front door suddenly slammed. He spun around and ran back, and in that moment, he was sure he heard a whisper: Sam.The door wouldn’t budge. He was trapped. He tried the windows too none of them opened.

Again, the whisper came, louder this time. Sam.

“Who’s Sam? I’m not Sam!” he shouted.

A hiss answered him, followed by footsteps upstairs. Heart pounding, he raced up the stairs. At the top, he stopped and listened. The footsteps were clear, moving steadily into an empty room. He followed them.

Moonlight spilt across the floor through a bare window. The invisible footsteps crossed the room and came to a stop at the closet. Inside, there was only a small box containing a single book. The spirits wanted him to find it; maybe it would explain everything.

He lifted the book. It was an old, battered ledger. Inside, a name was written: Samuel. He began to read.I made a promise to the spirits trapped here. One of them is buried downstairs. I swore I would help free them with my rituals. I study the occult, and they own a golden statue worth a fortune. It must be used in the ritual. If I hide it now, I can return for it later. No one alive will see me take it.

Anthony reached deeper into the box and pulled out a loose page, a torn sheet from another book. It carried a chant and the instructions for a ritual to free spirits.A freezing gust swept through the room. Then a booming voice declared:“Complete the ritual by dawn, or be trapped here forever!”

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked the spirit.

Once again, he heard footsteps descending the stairs and followed them. Near the kitchen, the basement door creaked open. He cautiously stepped down the dark basement steps and saw the cloud-like spirit hovering over a crypt in the floor, where it looked like a ritual had been started over someone’s grave. Candles and matches were scattered nearby.

About the Author

 

Martha Wickham has a knack for finding the ghosts hidden in the dust. A lifelong student of the arcane and the artistic, Martha has an Associate's Degree and professional writing credentials, but she honed her skills in the thrilling shadows of screenwriting and horror. Martha lives for the secrets that only come out "By Dawn". You can discover more of her work, including her newest audiobooks, at your favorite retailer.

Contact Link

Website

Purchase Links

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

iBooks

Books2Read

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Amaranthine - SciFi - Time Travel - Historical - Paranormal - Vampire - Romance - and a Giveaway #Romance #SciFi #TimeTravel #Historical #Paranormal #PNR #Vampire #Giveaway

Delia Strange is here to tell us about Amaranthine, a scifi, time travel, historical, paranormal, vampire romance.

There's also a great giveaway.

___________________

Eternal Life. 

Endless Love. 

Infinite Cost.

Amaranthine

by Delia Strange

Genre: SciFi Time Travel Historical Paranormal Vampire Romance

Eternal life comes at a cost

For centuries, Amaranthine has walked through time—an immortal bound by a gift she never asked for. From the opulent halls of the Roman Empire to the decadent jazz clubs of 1920s London, to the futuristic floating city of New Francisco, she has lived countless lives, loved deeply, and lost more than most could ever bear. With each new era comes new faces: lovers, rivals, and those drawn to the mystery of her eternal existence. But immortality comes with a price, and as the world changes, so too does the weight of the centuries she carries.

Torn between living for the future and haunted by the choices of her past, Amaranthine must confront the question that has followed her for an eternity: What does it mean to live forever when everything and everyone else fades away?

 

“This is the first book in a while that I have continued to mull over even after I'd finished reading it as it's definitely a story that gets you thinking.”
~ Lynne Stringer, Goodreads Review

 

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The olive trees stood like shadows in the distance, swaying in the night breeze. Amaranthine’s steps were cautious, her eyes scanning the darkness, but as she reached the edge of the grove, there was no sign of him. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sudden pang of doubt freezing her where she stood. Had she waited too long? Her heart sank as she looked around. She’d been foolish to think this was possible, that someone like her could step outside the boundaries of her life, if only for a moment.

But then Marcellus stepped forward, his form emerging from the darkness and appearing in front of her like a dream. His smile was slow, knowing, and when his eyes met hers, she felt that rush all over again, more powerful this time for the waiting.

“I thought you might change your mind,” he said, his voice cutting through the night.

Amaranthine exhaled, the tension leaving her body in a soft, trembling breath. “I almost did,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but then she smiled, feeling the same reckless pull that had brought her here. “But I’m here.”

Marcellus took her hand, his touch warm, and without a word he led her deeper into the olive grove. The trees closed in around them and the world outside the grove disappeared, leaving only the two of them beneath the cover of night. The air smelled faintly of the earth and the lingering sweetness of ripening fruit, but all Amaranthine could focus on was the heat of his hand against hers, the certainty in his steps as he drew her farther away from the villa, away from everything she knew.

When he stopped, she nearly stumbled, caught off guard by the sudden stillness. Marcellus turned to face her, his gaze sweeping over her with an intensity that made her catch her breath. His eyes roamed her face, her body, lingering as though his look could somehow touch her skin. It wasn’t just a glance; it was deeper, heavier.

Slowly, deliberately, Marcellus ran his fingers up her arm, light as a breeze. The touch sent a shiver down her spine, thrilling and delicate all at once. His hand traveled over her shoulder, warm and sure, before brushing against her neck, where her pulse raced beneath his fingertips. He cupped her face, his thumb grazing her cheek as his other hand slid into her hair, gently cradling the back of her neck. The closeness of him—his soft breath against her skin, his scent unfamiliar and intoxicating—made her dizzy.

When he pressed his body against hers, she didn’t hesitate. Amaranthine’s arms wrapped around him as though it was the most natural thing in the world, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. She could feel the heat of him through the thin cloth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the thrilling, terrifying anticipation that hovered in the air between them. He leaned in, his lips so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath, and her body instinctively tilted forward, closing the last distance between them.

The kiss began softly, their lips brushing with a delicate hesitance, as though both of them were testing the boundaries of something new. It was sweet, tender, like a whispered secret exchanged in the dark. Amaranthine’s heart fluttered, the warmth of his mouth against hers sending gentle waves of pleasure through her body. Her hands tightened their grip on his tunic, pulling him closer, and for a moment, everything else faded away—her worries, her fears, even the nagging sense of not belonging. Here, in this kiss, she felt connected, as though they shared something deeper than words.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the kiss deepened. Marcellus’ arms wrapped around her waist, his hands pressing her closer, and the softness between them gave way to something more intense, more urgent. Passion overtook them both, their lips moving with a fervor that surprised her. Amaranthine had never kissed anyone before, but she felt as though she’d always known how, the way their mouths fit together, the way their breaths mingled in the cool night air. Her heart pounded faster, and a strange heat pooled in her chest, spreading through her veins in a way that made her feel alive.

Then something within her awoke. At first, she didn’t recognize it, mistaking the growing intensity for the natural progression of a kiss. There was a pull, a sensation inside her, almost like the drawing of breath, but deeper, fuller. She thought it was part of the magic of kissing, the way it could make someone feel as though they were floating, untethered from everything. No wonder people kiss, she thought, her mind hazy with the thrill of it. It’s wonderful. She let the sensation sweep over her, unaware of what she was truly doing. But then, after a moment, she noticed something different. Their lips had stopped moving. The rhythm they had found, the tender push and pull, had stilled.

Amaranthine opened her eyes, confused, and pulled back. Her breath caught in her throat. Marcellus staggered away from her, his face ashen, his once bright eyes dull and clouded. He looked gaunt, hollow, as though something had been drained from him. His skin sagged against the bones of his cheeks, and before her eyes, he aged—twenty years, maybe more—his youthful vibrance withering into something frail and brittle. He gasped, his hands reaching out toward her as though for help, but no words came. Then, with a final shuddering breath, Marcellus crumpled to the ground, motionless.

The world around her seemed to tilt, the ground beneath her feet suddenly unsteady as she stared at Marcellus’ lifeless body. Her chest tightened, a wild panic rising inside her, but she couldn’t move. Her legs felt rooted to the spot, her mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. Only moments ago, they had been so close—he had been so alive. Now, the boy who had held her in his arms, who had smiled at her like she was a secret worth keeping, lay motionless at her feet, his face hollow and pale, drained of life.

An only child with an active imagination, I created many stories in my head. My bookcase was overflowing, and I loved visiting the library. I'd always been a reader, but I hadn't considered writing until a childhood friend said we should write our ideas down. Once I started writing my stories, I couldn't stop.

I gravitated to stories of peculiar places and happenings. I loved twists and dark reveals, so my writing didn't stray far from that. I was a fan of fantasy—of ancient Greek myths or contemporary paranormal stories. They captured my imagination and opened me to worlds of possibilities. There were no constraints on fantasy, no wrong or right answers; anything I dreamed up was acceptable. And then came H. G. Wells and science fiction, which also opened the door to paranormal and speculative fiction, my three favourite genres.

 

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