The Biker Ghost … Chapter 3 #paranormal

As this is the launch week for , the fourth novella in the Gambling Ghosts series, a saucy mix of fantasy, adventure and romance, I am posting chapter three today.


3 – Dead Reckoning

“Poker is a lot like sex. Everyone thinks they are the best, but most don’t have a clue what they are doing.” — Dutch Boyd

Rufus remembered the night he died. He remembered it well, on account of having to relive it every night at 11:45 p.m. precisely. Some ghosts are like that, trapped in an eternal loop.

He had been drinking with his buddies in the Scuttlebutt Bar by the harbor, celebrating a good day of business. He had managed to corner the local trade of illegal marijuana and helped organize the biker toy drive for the sick kids  hospital. His life was finally getting to where he wanted it to be. Money was flowing in and he was doing good stuff. Sure, he wasn’t as squeaky clean as his sister wanted him to be, but he had bettered his ways.

High on life he headed to his house on Moby Dick Lane, which he had bought at an auction a couple months before. He called it his Victorian gingerbread house. It had lots of charm and a quirky, magical feel that appealed to him. It kind of spoke to him, but he wouldn’t admit that to anyone at the time. When he walked through the old hallway and looked at the small rooms flooded with natural light from big bay windows, he felt as if he had come home.

He only used three rooms in the rambling old house: the kitchen, his bedroom on the second floor, in which had had put a big-screen TV and music system, and a poker room, which had a card table and chairs in it. The rest of the house remained empty except for a stray, black cat that had adopted the place and liked to roam around. He planned to finish his new home room by room when he had time.

Once he moved his stuff in, he noticed the house had its own personality. The worn floorboards squeaked, a lot; sometimes without anyone walking on them, as if the building was still settling, or as if someone he couldn’t see was walking around. That thought crossed his mind often. Cold drafts appeared and disappeared at odd intervals throughout the day and night. A musty, dead odor lingered in the attic that could not be hidden no matter how much room deodorizer he sprayed around. And an odd feeling of melancholia hung in the air, more pensive than sad. Another guy might have been scared, but he didn’t feel that way. The house felt more like his home every moment he spent in it and, as strange as it would sound if he said it out loud, it became his companion.

The third day he lived there he found the black leather book in the attic. It contained photos and clippings of the house, dating back to the day it was built. One journal entry caught his attention. “The shaman said the house is built on a nexus point, a place where the mystical powers of the earth collide, a place where good and evil meet, a place of magic . . .” He had filed that information away and intended to tell his wacko sister Azalea, who claimed to be a medium, but he had died before he had the opportunity. She would find the book the day after he expired.

That night, the night he had died, was etched in his memory as if it were yesterday. That was, he supposed, his ghostly penance.

He had needed to get ready for the poker game. The fridge was filled with beer and the remnants of a take-out pizza from the night before. He cracked open a bottle and headed to the poker room with a couple bags of chips to get it ready for his company.

At ten o’clock his friends started to arrive. Most of the guys had nicknames, a tradition of serious poker players and bikers. They called him Big Dog, because his name was Rufus. He had hated his name, but what could he say? His hippie parents had chosen it when they dropped acid in the company of their pet dog. He would have preferred his friends to call him The Master, or something seriously hard ass, but they went with the canine motif. That’s life.

First to arrive at his event was his best friend, Ron Smithers, a tall, lanky biker who owned an auto shop on Third and went by the name The Flying Axel. Ben Murphy, a steroid-loving biker who spent his days fixing plane engines, came next. His handle was The Mechanic. Sam Chin, a second generation Chinese black-belt who owned the local martial arts club and went by the poker name Zen, came next, and George Addison, the local lawyer for thugs, a tall smoker with a pallid complexion, arrived on his heels. They called him Slim. The fifth man was Andy White, the coroner, who they called Death Wish. Alice Flinshaw, who owned the town beauty shop, arrived last. They called her The Stylist. After some bullshit talk, they settled into their first game.

Azalea, his sister, phoned him at 10:30, a call he would never forget. She told him to get out of the house and stay out, that danger was gunning for him. He laughed at her and hung up. His older sister was a nag, and he wasn’t in the mood to listen to her complaints. She talked to spirits and believed she could tell people their futures, but he didn’t believe in any of that shit. That was then.

There were seven of them at the table when Mad Dog arrived uninvited. He stormed into the room and stood at the end of the table.

“I want in,” he barked. Now that didn’t surprise anyone in the room. Usually strung out on some drug, the guy was unpredictable and dangerous.

Rufus had taken in Mad Dog’s appearance. His clothes were clean. It looked as if he had shaved in the last week and he couldn’t smell him. That was all good, for a junky. He could refuse to let him play, but he was part of their biker gang and leaving him out would be crossing a line Rufus didn’t want to cross. He shrugged and motioned for the man to join them at the table. What’s the worst that could happen, he had thought. The man was lousy at bluffing, never remembered the cards he played and had money.

Mad Dog sat down and the games continued. He showed more skill than Rufus remembered him having and figured the guy must have been playing online or somewhere else in town.

Rufus hadn’t had good cards for a week, so he decided to improve his odds with sleight of hand. All’s fair in love and poker. Having spent a year in Vegas, he had polished his cheating skills and almost never been caught. He had to be careful. No one likes to be cheated by a hand mucker.

The card players had drunk a lot of beer. They had all won their share of hands. So why the hell not? He slipped an ace of hearts up his sleeve and waited for a hand that could use it.

They were playing five-card stud and he was holding a ten, jack, queen, king of hearts and a deuce. Perfect. His ace would make it a royal flush. He bet a hundred and threw down one card.

Everyone but Mad Dog folded. He smiled and took a minute to stare Rufus down. “I call your hundred and raise you five.” He threw down a card.

Rufus threw in more chips.

An extra card was dealt to both of them.

Mad Dog’s smile widened.

Rufus looked at his. Another fucking deuce. Oh well, I can fix that. He slipped the ace out of his sleeve and exchanged it with the deuce. “I’ll bet a thousand,” he said, fully expecting Mad Dog to fold.

Mad Dog smiled. “I’ll call your thousand and raise you another.”

Rufus kept his features still but his gut wrenched. This was the kind of moment that made the whole night in poker. He would have to put in all his chips and count on a cheating hand. His heart rate rose and he swallowed slowly. With the ace in place he had the winning hand. Nothing beats a royal flush.

But, if by chance Mad Dog had an ace of hearts, Rufus would be in deep shit. Not only would he lose the game, but his reputation as well. Time to fold?

If Mad Dog had been any other guy, he would have folded. But there was history between them, bad history. No matter the cost, Rufus wouldn’t let Mad Dog win. Ever. The asshole was running around town with Jennifer, a woman Rufus still cared about. No one else in town would dare hook up with her, knowing she had been his woman, but Mad Dog didn’t care. He didn’t get honor between men.

“I’ll raise you another thousand,” Rufus said.

The room went quiet. Although they didn’t play with a limit, never had they had so much money on the table.

Mad Dog studied his opponent’s face and laughed. “I don’t have that much on me.”

“I understand,” said Rufus, smiling. He threw his cards on the table, face down, and reached for the pot.

Mad Dog grabbed his arm. “Will you take my bike in lieu of the cash?”

The players moaned.

F**k. If he’s willing to bet his Harley, he has to have a good hand. Another royal flush? Possibly. They would end up splitting the pot, if that were the case. Four aces? Also, possible. He gave him a sideways glance.

“So, what do you got?” Rufus said.

“I want to raise you another thousand. You know my bike’s worth it.”

Mother F’n’ Hell. Rufus snickered. “Confident asshole, aren’t ya.”

“Jennifer tells me you’re not that good in bed. Not got the balls?” His grin turned dark. “It’s your turn, buddy.”

The ugly gleam in Mad Dog’s eyes told Rufus he was fucked. The guy really believed he had the superior hand. Rufus pushed in his chips. “I’m all in. What do you got?”

Mad Dog put down his hand: A nine, ten, jack, queen and king of spades. A good hand.

Rufus laughed. “Not good enough.” He put his hand down.

Mad Dog pulled out his gun. “You motherfucker. I threw away an ace of hearts and there aren’t two in a deck.” The shot at close range had a deafening sound that hit Rufus a millisecond before the bullet hit him in the middle of his forehead.

Rufus’s world spun before his eyes, a lifetime in a second. His spirit rose from his body and floated above the scene. The Stylist screamed. Holy hell! How could his life be over, just like that! It was just one mistake.

The next couple of days were a blur as he navigated the world of the undead. Desperately he clung to the earth. He wasn’t ready to move on, and for some unfathomable reason the universe let him stay.

Now, every night, he replayed his death.

The word got out that he liked poker and before long other ghosts joined him at the table and they had a regular, nightly game that ran before and his death. Even though he died every night, Mad Dog, his murderer, was never charged. None of his poker buddies admitted to being there and the cops needed a witness.

So, every night after poker, Rufus would visit Mad Dog. He took his revenge by playing pranks, hoping he might drive the guy crazy. It was almost as much fun as the poker. This had gone on for five years, though it seemed like five minutes to him.

Life after death had been pretty good for Rufus, until Charlie turned up.

Note: For some reason I felt I had to change the f work on my blog. In the book it exists in all its glory.

Want to read the whole story? The novella launches on Friday (June 23rd)

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I’ll post Chapter 4 on Wed.

The Biker Ghost … Second Chapter #paranormal

Here is Chapter 2 in my new ghost novella, The Biker Ghost Meets His Match, which launches Friday (June 23rd)

2 – The Joker

“Trust everyone, but always cut the cards”. — Benny Binion

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Rufus entered his poker room in the teahouse at his usual time, eleven thirty. Five of the regulars sat around the table playing Texas Holdem. Ten others stood around chatting.

The Viking had a tall pile of chips lined up in front of him, and the pirate, with blood dripping from a knife wound on his cheek, was down to his last chip.

“What have I missed?” Rufus took his usual chair at the head of the table.

The game stopped abruptly. The pirate called Three Sheets gave him a mischievous look. “Have you not seen the posters, mate?”


Eric the Viking laughed. “Aye. The woman looks like trouble to me.”

“The kind of trouble I’d like to taste,” said the pirate.

“A woman? Posters? Taste?” Rufus looked around at his friends and fastened his eyes on Leroy, the former New York City cop, for an explanation.

“It seems a young lady has been taping boycott posters around the house.”


The door banged open and a woman strode into the room as if she owned it. Headless Joe, a man from eighteenth-century France who held his head in his arms, gasped and disappeared into the night, along with several of the others who spooked easily. His best friends stayed, but went invisible.

“I’m looking for Rufus,” she said.

Rufus’s jaw dropped. The woman was magnificent. The sheer wonder of her took his ghostly breath away. She stood about five foot six, and she had the kind of curves men dream of, even after they’re dead. Her breasts were huge—high and firm. Like headlights on a good car, they blinded him, but he swallowed and managed to look past them to check out the rest of her. She had raven-black hair that fell loose to her waist, hips a man could hold on to, and hard, denim-blue eyes. She wore tight jeans and a tank top that exposed a finely detailed dragon tattoo covering her right arm from the wrist to her shoulder, as well as her goddess-like breasts. On her neck was an orchid tattoo. The woman was a work of art.

But the look in her eyes telegraphed danger.

His eyes shot back to her breasts. He groaned. So hot and bothered was he that he forgot to vanish, and stood in front of her in his full, shimmering, ghostly specter. “You found me.”

At least he could still talk.


Holy dragons, you are dead,” she said. Dead and hotter than hellfire. She laughed, because that’s what she did when she became nervous. The wraith shimmered with a silvery glow, but his form looked uber-human. So much so she wanted to touch him. All over. He was one hell of a bad boy, with hard muscles bulging beneath his clothes and a badass smile that warmed her inner fires. She wanted to run her hands through his thick mane of black hair and feel the bristle of his beard. His steely-gray eyes held a glint of vulnerability that pulled on her heart. He was a man—uh, ghost—with feelings. What kind of a hell-hole had she walked into?

“Last I checked, I was dead. Yeah.”

Detaching her mind from images of straddling him on a Harley she raised her chin. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

“A bone?”

“You’re haunting my brother, Mad Dog.” Wait, did I say haunting? I don’t believe in ghosts. What the hell? Is he a hologram or a figment of my imagination?

He laughed, and his ghostly chortle rumbled through the house, making such an unearthly sound Charlie’s heart stopped for a second. What was she doing talking to a ghost? Seriously. How could she make him do anything? He was beyond this world. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.

“Mad Dog killed me.”

“Well, I know that. But can’t you let bygones be bygones?”

“He shot me between the eyes. See the hole.” He pointed to it. Not a pretty sight, but it worked well with his badass presence.

“Look, I know Mad Dog ain’t perfect.”

“He murdered me.”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you, but you got to hear my side of the story.”


Rufus moved closer and looked down on her long eyelashes. He tried to focus on her eyes and not her magnificent, perky mangoes, but he was losing the battle. “Listen to me. Your brother did me in. I got a right to haunt him as long as I like.”

“Listen to me,” she said. “He’s gone straight. He’s off the booze and the drugs and he just got hitched. Yeah, it’s his third time, but Darlene, I swear, is the first nice girl he’s been with and I like her. She’s down to earth, and they have a chance at being happy.”

“And what about me? Don’t I deserve to be happy?” Haunting Mad Dog was his chief entertainment besides poker.

She scrunched up her face, but even twisted it looked hauntingly beautiful. “Can’t you go play in heaven?”

He groaned. “Hell, no. I deserve justice.” And more time on earth. “The cops didn’t lock up Mad Dog.”

“You had an ace up your sleeve.”

“Well, yeah. It was poker.”

“And you cheated him on a business deal.”

Rufus narrowed his eyes. “Listen, Babe, I don’t know if you can wrap your pretty little head around this, but drug deals aren’t always straight up.”

“I’m not stupid or naive. But you . . . you were as crooked as they come.”

“Your point?”

“You deserved the bullet.”

“Deserved?” Okay, it no longer mattered how fuckin’ hot this bitch was, she had no right to say that. “No one deserves to die.”

She unfolded her arms, balled her fists and glared at him.

Definitely feisty. His inner engine roared. “You don’t have to like me.” Though a part of him wanted her to. “Just take down the fuckin’ signs and go away.”

She took in a big breath, which lifted her breasts and made him want to groan again. Glaring at him she blew it out slowly. “No.”


“Not until you promise to stop haunting Mad Dog.” Her cheeks pinked with rage. “And swear it on your biker jacket, cuz I don’t trust you.”

Laughter broke out all around them, though she could see no one but Rufus, and the house echoed with beyond-the-grave guffaws.

“Oh, to hell with all of you,” she said, and stomped out of the room.

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Chapter 3 tomorrow:)

First Chapter – The Biker Ghost Meets His Match #Mondayblogs

The Biker Ghost Meets His Match launches on Friday (June 23rd). It’s the fourth novella in The Gambling Ghosts Series. Here’s the first chapter:

1 – The Queen of Spades

“The beautiful thing about poker is that everybody thinks they can play.” ~ Chris Moneymaker

With a stack of posters in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other, Charlie Walker stood in front of the haunted teahouse admiring her work. At two-foot intervals, all along the graying, cedar fence, she had put up posters. “Ghosts are Evil!” As she couldn’t box the ears of the spirit who haunted her brother, this, she figured, was the next best thing.

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If the teahouse lost customers, Azalea, the woman who owned it, would suffer and she would take her brother Rufus, the guilty ghost in question, to task. This was Charlie’s plan: a domino effect to knock out the bad guy. She shook her head at the thought. A week ago, she didn’t believe the dead could roam the earth, but when she saw how traumatized her big, bruiser of a brother, Mad Dog, had become, she took action. She would battle with the dead, or undead, or whatever this Rufus character turned out to be to give her bro peace. The feud had to be stopped.

She took a deep breath of the salty, west-coast air and blew it out slowly. The artist in her felt proud of the powerful design on her posters. Her ghosts looked truly gruesome and menacing. No one would set foot in a house that harbored them. But a voice in her head wouldn’t shut up. In what universe did she think she could take on any biker, let alone a dead one?

It was easy to feel confident standing in the midday sun outside the house famous for all things supernatural, knowing Rufus and his odd collection of friends wouldn’t be around until the night settled in. But this score had to be settled, one way or another, and if she were the only one in the family with the moxie to do it, so be it. She had never backed down to anyone in her life and no slimy-haired, pea-brained biker boy would change that. Even if he was beyond the veil.

Besides, she didn’t believe in ghosts. She believed that people believe in ghosts, and their fear creates trouble with a capital T. Mad Dog could lose his mind if he continued to hold on to the idea that the man he killed haunted him and would continue haunting him for all eternity. Those were the words Mad Dog had used over his cornflakes, an hour before. Sheesh, talk about gullible.

The haunting sounded stupid. Her new sister-in-law, Darlene, had called her the week before complaining that a dead, vicious biker with a hole in the middle of his forehead was haunting their house. She said the guy, dressed in leathers, came by every night, threw the pots in her kitchen onto the floor and made horrible groaning sounds, as if he ate chili that had been left out in the sun for three days. She actually said that! It was killing their honeymoon mood, big time, and she was ready to leave Mad Dog if he didn’t do something about it. Since he refused to talk about the ghost, or their beyond-the-grave feud, she called Charlie for help.

Charlie had mentioned at their wedding, after a bottle or two of wine, she would always be there for her. Her big mouth had got her into this.

The timing of Darlene’s call couldn’t have been more perfect. Having just broken up with her boyfriend who turned out to be the sleaziest scum of the earth, bar none, a road trip appealed to Charlie. He was into some serious shit and it was time to for her to get out of Dodge.

Charlie liked helping people out when she could. How hard could fixing a ghostly feud be? All she had to do was get to the bottom of the silly haunting story and make everyone feel safe.

A cold breeze ruffled through her hair and she shuddered. Nope, she wouldn’t let her imagination play games with her mind, even though Darlene’s fear had been so palpable on the phone it had turned her own guts upside down.

Ghosts don’t exist. Not now. Not ever. She put her poster stuff down on the ground, pulled out her cell phone and snapped a couple pictures of the house. With a coat of paint and a few nails it could look quite nice, but the old-and-haunted look probably helped the tea-leaf reading business Azalea ran inside.

An elderly woman dressed in a powder-blue jogging suit walked up to her with a slow, arthritic gait. “Do you know what you’re doing, dear?”

“Uh, taking pictures.” Ignoring the woman, Charlie took a selfie. But the woman didn’t leave, so she turned towards her hoping a “skedaddle” look would do the trick. The woman held her ground. The scent of lavender grew around them.

Brown age spots marked the woman’s round face, framed by wispy, white hair. Her blue eyes, the color of robin eggs, looked both fragile and determined. She pointed her crooked fore finger at the front door of the teahouse and shook her head. “Mark my words: there be ghosts in there. Real ghosts.”

“Right.” Charlie stopped herself from laughing. “Thanks for the warning.”

“You don’t want to be riling up the ghosts in Sunset Cove.”


“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Before Charlie could answer, the woman walked away muttering. “Young people never listen.”

The longer Charlie stayed in the small town the weirder she found it. She had arrived at eight that morning. After Darlene filled her in on the supposed “hauntings” over coffee and some wickedly good muffins, Charlie had hatched her plan.

If she had the story right, the ghost responsible was called Rufus, the deceased brother of Azalea, who owned the teahouse, and the former leader of the local motorcycle gang. According to local legend Rufus and his friends gathered every night to play poker in the house. Poker! Right, like a bunch of dead guys were hanging out to raise their bets and collect piles of plastic poker chips. It never ceased to amaze her how gullible people could be. The town had created its own Loch Ness monster and no doubt made profit from it during tourist season.

Still, she reasoned, stories were often founded on some kernel of truth. Someone was feeding the town’s people the paranormal tales, and she suspected it was Azalea. One could only make so much money from tea bags. By creating a mysterious aura around her run-down house, she improved her chances of snaring customers. Her business was not just selling tea; she sold a golden version of the future through tea-leaf readings. Having a haunted house as a backdrop was good for business. People flocked from miles around to visit her Victorian shack, and put out good money for her to tell them nice things lay ahead for them.

Since Azalea profited from the stories about ghosts that infected the minds of the locals worse than cholera in their water system, Charlie decided to stop her. The boycott posters would make people hesitate, and think about the ghosts and hopefully start to question the lingering legend of the house. Since this would not be good for Azalea’s business, she would want to stop the nonsense with Mad Dog.

It had taken Charlie twenty minutes to put up the posters she ran off the computer, and, so far, no one had tried to stop her. Not a ghost, a cop or a medium.

There was the old lady in blue, but she seemed harmless enough.

Another cold breeze ruffled Charlie’s hair and a tingling feeling crawled along her scalp. An icy wind off the ocean, that’s all it is, she thought.

The front door of the house opened and an older woman emerged. Thin and elegant, she had the fluid, athletic walk of a dancer as she approached Charlie. The woman’s white hair was piled on top of her head and held there by two black chopsticks inscribed with golden Chinese characters. Her gray eyes focused on Charlie, not with anger, or hate, or disapproval, but with incredulity.

When the woman reached Charlie, she stared over a pair of tortoise-shell reading glasses. Glancing over her shoulder at a poster on the fence, she winced. “What exactly are you boycotting?”

The woman’s strong and confident manner startled Charlie. She had been expecting the medium to be more of a soft, hippy-dippy type. “Rufus is causing trouble and I want him to stop.”

Azalea’s right brow arched in a regal manner. “My brother, Rufus?”

Charlie nodded.

“He’s dead.”

In all the scenarios Charlie had considered possible, none of them went this way. Time to start over. “My name is Charlene Bennett and Mad Dog is my brother.”

“How do you do. I have to say the art design on your poster is quite remarkable.” She glanced again at the fence. “My name is Azalea and this is my house.”

Charlie could say thank you for the compliment, but she didn’t give a fig what the woman thought of her art. She could also say it was nice to meet her, but that would be a lie and Charlie didn’t lie. She smirked. “Rufus is haunting my brother’s place.”

“I see.” The woman nodded.

Charlie’s gut squeezed. Something wasn’t right here. “What exactly do you see?” she said.

The woman’s lips pressed together. “First of all, you must take down the signs. While the dragon design behind the ghouls is alluring, the message is not.”

“They’ll stop people from coming to your business.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” She didn’t look the least concerned. If Charlie had to render what she looked like into a phrase, it would be: haughty and slightly amused.

“I’ll take them down when this supposed haunting business stops.”

“Supposed?” A wide smile slid across Azalea’s face and lit up her eyes. “You haven’t met Rufus.”

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure, but—”

Azalea waved her hand to stop her from saying more. “I don’t need to be in the middle of this feud. Come back at eleven thirty tonight and talk to Rufus directly.”

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Tomorrow, I’ll post chapter two.

Have a great Monday everyone.





#Paranormal Cover Reveal Midnight Magic #Mondayblogs

I’m over-the-moon excited about my new book cover created by Authors on a Dime:

A tale of ghostly charms, magic spells and secrets…

I’m still not sure about the tagline. Anyway. I had to share. Have a great week.

Working on a Book Tagline #Paranormal

It’s WIP (i.e., work in progress) Wednesday …

I thought I had my tagline for the book I’m publishing in the fall. It’s called Midnight Magic, A Ghost and Abby Mystery and the tagline was:

Maybe having a Viking ghost for a boyfriend isn’t such a good idea …

It worked fine until I decided that I might, just might, put this manuscript in Kindle Scout, the contest Amazon runs. Even though the chances of winning and getting a wonderful publishing contract with them is small, the exposure is great.

But the problem is the contest stipulates taglines must be no more than 45 characters. So now I’m stuck. Totally tongue tied.

I’ve come up with the following so far:

  1. At the stroke of twelve anything can happen..
  2. Beware the stroke of twelve …

But I’m not loving either. Any suggestions?

Photo credits: Shutterstock

3 Reasons I Write Ghostly Tales

It’s WIP (i.e., work in progress) Wednesday …

I’m a quiet, serious sort of person, so why do I choose to write lighthearted, ghost stories, or what I call paranormal light, or gothic with a wink?

One – My Muse has Peculiar Taste

I backed-up and fell into this genre.

I thought I would enjoy writing post- apocalyptic stories as they are great back-drops for strong characters.

Boy was I wrong! I have a draft of a story about life after bio-warfare. The virus is carried in weaponized mosquitoes and my tag line was: It only takes one bite. IMHO the bones of the story are pretty good, but it will never see the light of day, because it needs at least six weeks of editing and I can’t stand the thought of spending even one more day with my mind in the ugly darkness of that world. It’s unbelievably hard. Sort of like swimming through mud.

When I read post-apoc, I’m only in that world for a few hours, but when I write it, I need to put my whole mind and heart into it for days on end. [shiver, shiver] It’s just not my cup of letters.

Anyway … as I wrote the postapoc story, my muse would do its best to escape from the harshness of the world I was creating. First, I began writing Haiku, and imagined that my heroine would be writing it, to escape her surroundings. That helped and it was fun, but as I neared the end of the first draft I found I needed more diversion, so I started writing a silly ghost story and fell in love with it.

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It made me laugh and the writing was easy and fun. That story became A Highland Ghost for Christmas, my most popular story.

What I’ve learned from this experience is life is easier when I listen to my muse.




Two – Ghosts are Intriguing

Writing humorous ghost scenes, speculating about their lives after death and playing with horror is a lot of fun.

Once I had created the world of Sunset Cove, stories flowed through my head and I couldn’t stop writing them. The next three novellas came easily: A Viking Ghost for Valentine’s Day, Confessions of a Pirate Ghost and The Biker Ghost Meets his Match (launching in June).

Currently I’m working on a spin-off novel, tentatively called Midnight Magic: A Ghost and Abby Mystery, which I’ll publish in the fall.

Three – The Horror/Comedy Seesaw

Ghosts, even when they are funny at times, are dead and scary. I like the push and pull of the emotions they invoke in people (myself included). They create conflict in a story by their mere existence.

So, those are my reasons for writing ghost stories, which I hope will entertain you and let you escape from the stresses and confines of our modern world.

This is my latest release: link link

Name the Sorcerer Contest – finals

As this is WIP (work-in-progress) Wednesday, I thought I would share my semi-final list for the sorcerer’s name. What am I talking about???

In my last newsletter I asked readers to send in names for the sorcerer in a story I’m writing. It’s the first book in the The Ghost and Abby series, which is a spin-off of A Viking for Valentine’s Day, featuring Eric the sexy spirit from Sweden and the widow Abby. Eric is searching for a way to become alive, so that he can spend at least one lifetime with Abby in that form. He finds a sorcerer (who has no name at the moment) who will grant him his wish for a price, but Eric is unwilling to pay that price. This is the subplot btw.

Thanks to everyone who helped me narrow over forty names down to this semi-final list:

Godwin, Kaliber, Declan, Guiden (Swedish for wizard), Severin Segewick the Soothsayer, Grimland the Great, Gavill of Yeoncil, Gavrill the Grey, Eldrax of Eyancor, Wetzel, Daw Thorne of Eyancor, Lionnous

My DH likes Dingus:)

My final two:



Are you in the Declan or Guiden camp?