Roxanne Rhoads's Blog, page 50

Interview- An Otherwise Perfect Plan: A Novel of Mystery, Love and of Chocolate that Defies Description by Ken Schafer

What inspired you to become an author?

There was no one person or thing that inspired me.  I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t devouring books, and when I went to the NYU film program, the way to get a film made was to write the script and then get enough people behind it who wanted to work with you on it.

Back then I was delusional enough to think I ultimately wanted to be a director; and the path that I chose to pursue was to create material that I would own, and hopefully leverage that into a directing job. 

Like every writer I know, I was very critical of my own work but when a producer came to NYU and wanted to meet with the top 10 writers in the program, the chairman of the film program picked me as one of the ten, which gave me a big enough boost of confidence for me to actually try and pursue it as a career.

Do you write in different genres?

Oh yes.  Not only different genres, but different mediums.  I’ve written a variety of feature screenplays, from straight thrillers, to ghost stories to comedies and even straight dramas.  I’ve also written Children’s Picture Books, a satirical musical (including all lyrics), TV Shows (ranging from Northern Exposure to Star Trek:TNG) along with two novels: the first being an adaptation of one of my screenplays, a historical/fantasy entitled Greensleeves set in the mid 1500’s mixing the historical record with the historical “mythology” of the time about Elves, The Wild Hunt and more.

If yes which is your favorite genre to write?

I don’t think I have one.  I love the variety as it keeps things fresh.

How did you come up with the title for your latest book?

Actually, that was a bit of a challenge.  Initially, it was the titled in the point of the view of the main character “Welcome to the Longest Run-On Sentence in the Entire History of the English Language, Or, How I Saved my Future by Digging up my Past.” However, as I started talking about this to people I found myself saying “oh, just look it up by my name as it’s simpler” which kind of pointed out that there was a problem.

I then brainstormed and came up with six different titles and put together mock-up of the title pages.  As the novel is a YA Coming-of-Age story, I then approached my daughter’s old middle school and high school and an English teacher from both schools were willing to present my mock-ups to their classes and host a little discussion about them.

The results were fairly consistent but the top contender I realized didn’t capture the sense of humor in the book, and when I gave them a short writing sample from it, they pretty much all agreed with my choice “An Otherwise Perfect Plan” as better reflecting the actual book.

This title came from a line in the book “the only problem with this otherwise brilliant little plan” but I decided to adapt it to Perfect Plan as that better tracked with the more common version of the saying, plus had a nice alliteration.

Do you title the book first or wait until after it’s complete?

It depends.  A number of times the title came at the same time as the premise, like “A Death with Brush” which was about a painter who fakes his own death to become famous and make his paintings worth more.  Other times, the premise or hook or initiating scene didn’t spur any specific title, in which case I will find it at the very end.

Is the book, characters, or any scenes based on a true life experience, someone you know, or events in your own life?

Yes, though the book’s elements were inspired by rather than based on.  Since it is a YA book told by a teenage girl and I am neither of those, I drew heavily on what my daughter and her friends were doing/experiencing at that age.

The main character, Gwen, and her fascination with books was based on my daughter and many of her friend’s voracious reading appetites, and a lot of Gwen’s interactions with her friend Peter are reminiscent of how I saw my daughter interact with some of her friends.

The only two elements that were directly lifted from real events/people was one of my daughter’s friends had an absolutely massive cat named Buddha, and that combination was too good not to steal.  Similarly, one of her friends became obsessed with the Hunger Games to the point of wanting to change her name which inspired the whole business with Peter wanting to be called Peeta, except they live in Boston, home of the silent R.  So wanting to be called Peeta, rather than Peetah is kind of insane in its own right.

And finally, Gwen, and I share a lot in common, particularly in our ability to find the ridiculous interpretations of common things.  Such as every time I watch a TV show which has an opening card saying Viewer Discretion Advised, I think, “What, they really don’t want us talking about it to other people?”

Of all the characters you’ve ever written, who is your favorite and why?

I actually really enjoyed writing Gwen, because I immediately heard her voice, and she was someone who was fun to hang around with.  Her relationship to the reader was also really fun, because she was not only narrating her story in real-time, but she was also aware of her readers and wasn’t afraid to talk directly to them.  For example, at one point she tells the readers to remind her not to do something ever again, then berates them for being absolutely no help when she repeats it a second time.

At another point she tells the readers to go away and read some other book for a while because she’s busy reading something important and she’ll get back to them when she done.  It’s a fun breaking of the fourth wall, and also implies that time is passing in the book at the same speed as it is in the reader’s world, which is a little trippy…

If this book is part of a series…what is the next book? Any details you can share?

It wasn’t written with the intention of it being part of series though it’s gotten such incredibly great reviews, and in fact several reviewers explicitly wanted it to be part of a series, so I’ve begun the process of noodling through what the next book might look like. 

I think it will be set a year or two after this one and be Gwen at Yale dealing with a mystery of some sort, though I’ve yet to come up with more specific details.  In this case, I do have a good idea of its title, which would be “An Otherwise Perfect Year.” 

An Otherwise Perfect Plan: A Novel of Mystery, Love and of Chocolate that Defies DescriptionKen Schafer
Genre: Contemporary Literary YAPublisher: Moon Jumper PressDate of Publication: July 31, 2023ISBN: 9-781958-4560-33ASIN: 1958456039Number of pages: 274Word Count: 95KCover Artist: Kendall Ohlsen
Tagline: Gwen Pendergrass has a problem
Book Description:
Life hasn’t been easy for Gwen Pendergrass as a free-lunch student living with her mom in a one-bedroom apartment whose tiny, Marquis de Sade-inspired kitchen seems intent on inflicting grave bodily harm. The only thing making life palatable is her neighbor, Peter, a loner like herself who goes to the same high school, and who shares her love of books, banter, and endless reflection on the absurd¬ities of the universe. 
When Gwen’s mom receives a once-in-a-lifetime oppor¬tunity to reclaim the life she’d given up due to Gwen’s unplanned birth, Gwen is beyond ecstatic...up until her mom says she has to reject the offer, because they don’t have the savings and can’t afford to take advantage of it.
Gwen cannot, will not, let this happen, no matter the cost. She intercepts the rejection letter her mom was mailing, then ropes Peter into a Hail Mary of a scheme to find her father, undeterred by knowing utterly nothing about him—not even his name!—and only having a strip of photographs of him and her mom, taken in a photo booth somewhere in Las Vegas the weekend of her conception to go on.
And while she receives surprising help from unexpected allies, before she knows it, her white lies, scheming, and emotional roller coaster start to make a mess of everything, and it quickly becomes a race to find her dad before her mom catches on, her head explodes, or it all spirals completely out of control.
Amazon     BN     MoonJumperPress

Chapter1 In which my English teacher completely loses it

I can’t believe he’s still obsessed.

I don’t know how long ago it was, but way back beforeit was even a “thing,” my best friend—formerly known as Peter—started baking.Well,  perhaps that’s not exactly the right verb, because what comes outof his oven bears about as much resemblance to bread as it does to, say,reinforced concrete.

Now, why a teenage boy who’s built like a refrigeratoris baking bread in the first place is a whole other story. The short version isthat it’s my fault, because I was the one who gave him the book The HungerGames for his birthday. If you’ve been living in a cave for the past couple ofdecades or are reading this in some far distant future where no one knows whoKatnis Everdeen is, well, it kind of sucks to be you because it’s a reallygreat book.

The long version would probably require a panel ofpsychologists, years of intensive therapy, and a whole lot of dark chocolate toget through, but suffice it to say while the rest of the world was kind offixated on the whole kids-killing-kids part of the book, what does Peter takefrom it? That boys can bake.

Yeah, go figure.

Oh, and of course, since the character in the book whobakes bread is named Peeta, Peter decided that was his new name. The onlyproblem with this otherwise brilliant little plan is that we live here inBoston, home of the silent “R”. You know, Pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd and allthat. So insisting that he be called Peeta rather than, well, Petah, is kind ofinsane in its own right.

Now, you’re probably asking yourself what asixteen-year-old girl is doing with a boy as her best friend, or you wouldhave, had I gotten around to telling you I was a sixteen year-old girl. Well,surprise! I am, my name’s Gwen Pendergrass (and don’t get me started on thebaggage that last name comes with!), and he is, so you might as well just startdealing with the concept.

Or you could move on to some other book entirely, onewhich could perhaps be reasonably called “intelligible.” And I wouldn’t faultyou; I mean, my mom’s the writer anyway, as you might’ve guessed from all thisincoherent ranting. She can’t spell to save her life, but neither couldShakespeare, so there you go. Me, well, I’m not quite sure what I am, but I’msixteen, so lay off, I’ll figure it out eventually.

Okay. Start at the beginning, Mom always tells me, sohere goes: I was born. At the usual age and in the usual manner. Or at least soI’ve been told, as it’s not like I actually remember it at all. Which isprobably all for the best, what with all the squeezing, screaming and cryingthat I’ve heard goes on. In any case, it’s always been just my mom and me, andsince I’m not much of a believer in virgin birth or parthenogenesis (see Mom, Ido pay attention in biology class! Well, at least sometimes...) I’ve alwaysassumed Dad was out there somewhere. I even have a small strip of pictures ofhim and Mom in some photo booth at a casino in Vegas. They both look kind ofdrunk but really happy, which I supposed explains a lot. Me in particular. Orat least my aforementioned birth nine months later.

But as I was saying, Dad’s never been in thepicture—or outside of the Vegas ones, if you take my meaning—and while I’m notthrilled with the idea, for the most part I don’t dwell on it. It’s just mylife, such as it is.

If you’ve happened to do the math—which I can assureyou I would never do in your place—you’ll have figured out I’m a high schoolsoph, which is just about as much fun as it sounds. In English class, we’vejust finished reading Oedipus Rex—you know, that timeless story of a boy whokills his father and marries his mother, something high school studentsthroughout history have always deeply related to.

“...so, using Oedipus’s failed relationship with hisfather as an inspiration,” my English teacher, the inimitable Mrs. Beecham,tells us as we’re scrambling to get all our stuff into our backpacks, “you’regoing to write about your earliest recollection of you and your father doingsomething meaningful together. Something other than going to his parolehearing, watching TV or playing video games.”

My fellow students let out the traditional collectivegroan of dismay, which Mrs. Beecham, just as traditionally, ignores. “And makeit good, people,” she tells us. “Because if I get one more essay on my dad mademe toast while momma was away, we’re doing six weeks of James Joyce. Solid.”

James Joyce, in case you’re fortunate enough not toknow, is the Mount Everest of writers. You read him because it’s such grueling,hard going that at the end you can plant a flag on the book and say Iprevailed; I reached the summit of Mt. Joyce without the aid of Sherpas oroxygen tanks, and I lived to tell the tale.

However, as I bet there aren’t more than two otherpeople in the room who have any idea who the heck he is, the whole threat thingis kind of pointless. But as I said, Mom’s a writer, so I know this stuff enoughto shudder at the thought.

The rest of my classmates start filing out, scramblingto get to their next class before the bell rings.

“Three pages, typed,” she calls after them. “And roughdrafts by next Wednesday.”

And then it’s just me, standing in front of her desk.I want to ask if I can approach the bench, but I have a feeling it won’t goover all that well.

“Yes, what is it?” Mrs. Beecham asks with a sigh.Actually, she adds a put-upon sigh as punctuation to every one-on-oneinteraction I’ve ever seen her have. She once even got so exasperated with uskids for “pestering her for clarifications” that she’d slammed a book down onher desk. “I’m here to teach,” she’d told us in the resulting stunned silence.“Not to answer questions.”

When the time comes, I’m going to push for gettingthat inscribed on her gravestone like a family motto.

“Um, I never knew my father,” I tell her.

“Consider yourself lucky. Most of ’em are pigsanyway.”

Not what I was expecting. But she’s on a roll, now.

“If I hadn’t met my kids’ father, I would have been awhole lot better off, let me tell you. For one thing, I can guarantee I’d bedoing something worthwhile with my life instead of being stuck here teaching thesame junk year after year.”

Well, okay, then. This is going well. I start to askif I could write about my mom instead, but she’s gone, lost in her own world.

“But they’re classics...” she whines, presumablymimicking some member of the school administration. “Classics my ass,” shetells me. “If you listened to those spineless worms on the school board, you’dthink nothing worthwhile had been written since Mark Twain.”

“Uh, that sounds pretty frustrating,” I mumble. “Butwhat should I do about this assignment?”

“Frustrating? You don’t know the meaning offrustrating. You kid all whine and moan about the assignments. Three wholepages. Please. I’ve been doing this same curriculum twice a year for fifteenyears. Fifteen years! At sixty, three-page papers a year, do you know how muchI’ve read?”

I start doing the math in my head, but she’s plowing onwards,saving me the effort.

“Twenty-seven hundred pages. Twenty-seven hundredpages of mostly incoherent drivel from you people! So don’t you complain, Missy,don’t you dare complain!”

“I wasn’t,” I protest. “I just need to know how to do theassignment without a dad.”

“That’s not really my problem, now, is it?”

“Excuse me?”

She looks down at me over her glasses. “This is acreative writing class. Be creative. Write about how the jerk broke your poormother’s heart, or about all the lies he told her.”

“I really don’t think it was like that, Mrs. Beecham.”

“Yeah, right. Is he dead?” she demands. I suddenlyremember there is no Mr. Beecham. Shocking, I know.

“I don’t think so,” I reply.

She smiles like she’s just checkmated with me. “Thenit was like that. Trust me.”

“Hey, Pita Piper,” I call, as I finally come out ofschool.

He’s standing next to this massive oak tree in theschool’s front yard, and he doesn’t dignify my adornment of his name with eventhe faintest of eye rolls. The tree doesn’t react either, but given that it’s atree and he’s Peter, neither of these events are particularly surprising.

By the way, have I mentioned how much I love thistree? It’s just brilliant. It’s supposedly been here since long before therewas a here, here. And despite its size, it has somehow figured out how to offerno shade at all no matter where the sun is in the sky. I’ve never been able towork out how it manages this trick, but if I had to deal with people carvingtheir names into me and covering me with TP on an annual basis, I wouldn’t givethem any shade either.

Peter steps away from the tree and matches strideswith me as I pass.

“It’s just Peeta,” he tells me patiently. He’s alwayspatient with me, even when most people would want to throw me in front of abus. Which may explain why he’s my best friend, I suppose, because if yourfriends are trying to throw you in front of buses, something is seriously wrongwith your life.

I’d met him when we moved into our current apartmentbuilding filled with double-income families. Unfortunately, the two incomestend to both be earned by a single parent working two jobs that together pay inthe low to starvation range. Peter’s family is the exception in that he stillhas both parents, though with all the weed they smoke, you could mash theirbrains together and the resulting creature still wouldn’t be as sharp as mymom. I wouldn’t particularly want to meet it in a dark alley either, but Iguess that’s pretty much a given for anything created from two brains.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice enough and do theirbest to take care of Peter... it’s just that their best isn’t particularlygood.

So where was I? Oh yeah, I was telling you how I metPeter. We’ve moved so many times that I can’t remember where we were comingfrom, but my job is always to sit on the lawn of the new place and guard ourstuff as Mom makes trip after trip in our old station wagon, moving our junk...sorry, our prized possessions... one carload at a time.  

Of the two or three carloads, only two things arereally mine: a huge box of books, and a ratty suitcase filled with hand-me-downclothes which are always somehow mostly smaller than I currently am, but whichare insufficiently worn out to be replaced.

Of these, I only really care about my books and myclothes can go up in flames for all I care. Well, as long as I’m not wearingthem at the time.

But back to yet another move. Mom was off on hersecond or third trip and there I was, bored out of my mind, so I decided tobreak open my book box and see if Frankenstein was anywhere close to the top.It is, without a doubt, one of my favorite books... and yes, I know, that makesme officially weird. Most of my generation don’t want to have anything to dowith something more than twenty minutes old and my favorite book just had itstwo-hundredth birthday.

If you’ve never read it, trust me, it’s nothing likewhat you expect. In some ways, Dr Frankenstein is even more of a monster thanhis creation, and I can totally relate with the monster’s perspective of havingthe world all around you, but being outside of it, only able to look in. Sure,being the poor kid on the free lunch program isn’t exactly the same as being areanimated creature too hideous to be gazed upon, but still, not being seen foryourself, can be pretty exhausting either way.

I had settled down and was in the middle of chapterfour when the sun pretty much went away. I looked up and found myself in theshadow cast by this really big guy looking down at me.

“Hey,” he said, then apparently realized he wasblocking my sun, because he took a large step to his left and it all camestreaming back in.

I blinked in the sudden light and tried to place him,but the only thing I could think of was that he could be the monster itself.Well, in size at least, because this guy was anything but hideous to look at.

“So, I was wondering,” he said, “if I could borrowyour copy of Frankenstein. When you’re done with it, of course.”

I had no idea who this kid was and considered theobvious questions that brought up, but decided to go straight for an even morebasic one. “Why?” I asked, looking up at him, innocently.

At this point in the conversation, most people willjust stare at you blankly with a “that does not compute” glaze to their eyes.Like when a waiter bounces up to you and says, “If you need any help, my nameis Candy” and you reply “What’s your name if I don’t need any?”

It kind of short-circuits their brain, and you canalmost hear the gears whirring as they try to go back and make sense of whatyou said.

And of course, this is exactly what I expected tohappen to Peter. For yes, this is Peter, and this is the moment I’ve been talkingabout when I first met him.

“Because the rats ate my copy,” he respondedpatiently, without even a hint of grinding gears, smoke, or glazed look at all.Impressive.

“Everyone’s a critic,” I told him, wondering if he’dfollow my logic.

“Actually, they were pretty indiscriminate. They alsoate one of my shoes.”

I’m beginning to like this kid, not that I’d ever lethim know.

“Right or left?” I asked, as if it somehow mattered.

“Left definitely. I remember Mitch–that’s mydad–saying it was ironic they ate the left shoe because with that one gone, nowthe right shoe is left.”

Ouch. I did mention that his parents’ brains are kindof cross-wired right? This sort of stuff comes out of their mouths all thetime, and a lot of it is actually pretty funny. All the more so, as they have absolutelyno idea that it is.

“You know,” I mentioned casually, “lending a book tosomeone who has rats which eat them is kind of like lending money to someonewith a gambling problem.”

“They’re not so much my rats, as rats who pretty muchsublet the entire building.”

Great, I’m just loving this new place already.

“If they bother you, though, you can always get coyoteurine from predatorpee.com. Works like a charm. The downside, of course, isthat your bedroom smells like a bunch of coyotes peed in it... or you couldjust embrace the rats as another marvel of nature’s infinite adaptability, andanyway, what’s a little black plague among friends?”

“One of these days,” I commented to the universe atlarge, “I would really like to live in a place which didn’t involve choosingamong bookeating rats, coyote pee and the Black Death.”

“Yeah, that would be nice, wouldn’t it. So, can Iborrow your book?”

Since the whole pee thing grossed me out, and havingmy precious books turned into rat turds was not something I wanted to risk,after we were all moved in he took me to this vacant lot where everyone dumpstheir junk and we found an old metal filing cabinet that he lugged up to ourapartment for me. Must’ve been from the twenties or thirties because thissucker was made of real steel, nothing like that tin foil aluminum stuff theysell nowadays.

Weighed a ton, but it’s been a life saver. Some peoplehave gun safes. Me, I have a book safe. In return, I let him come and read anytime he wants.

But back to me, Peter, and the shadeless oak tree thatI started talking about like half a chapter ago.

“Can I borrow a memory?” I ask him as we start walkingto the green line T-station to catch our train home. Sure, the orange line iscloser and takes about a billion fewer stops but what can I say, I like green.And it’s not like we have anything particularly exciting to do once we get toour luxury living accommodations anyway, so why hurry?

Life is the journey, not the destination. Therefore,the longer we can make the journey last, the longer we’ll live. Or somethinglike that.

By the way, for those of you outside of Boston, the“T” is the subway, short for the MTA, which stands for Mediocre TransportAutocracy, or something like that. Some of the stations are actually prettycool with art and bronzed clothing and stuff.

Ours isn’t one of them.

“I mean it,” I tell him. “I need a memory I can borrowfor Mrs. Beecham’s insipid Oedipus-inspired, father/relationships assignment.”He doesn’t respond, just slowly turns and gives me The Look. You know the one:the look that says, “you didn’t really just say that did you?” Which of courseI just did, or he wouldn’t have given me The Look in the first place.

So of course I hit him.

Remind me not to do that; the guy’s made of concreteor something because it’s like hitting a brick wall.

“Ow!”

As I shake my hand in the air to get some feeling backinto it–or at least some feeling other than pain–I glare at him as it were allsomehow his fault, but he shrugs, not buying it.

I rub my poor bruised hand as we descend into the openmaw of Boylston station. It’s cool and dim in there after the bright afternoonsun, and I fish in my backpack and we flash our Charlie Cards and head out tothe platform. A train’s already sitting there so we run for it, taking thestairs two at a time then dashing into the car, just as the doors... well, donothing.

And they keep on doing nothing for about another tenminutes and we get to watch everyone else do exactly the same thing we justdid: see the car from the top of the stairs and risk a broken neck running downto catch the train just before it doesn’t leave.

“It doesn’t have to be a good memory,” I say as wecontinue to wait. “How about the one when Mitch thought he was the prophetDavid, or when you went camping and the raccoons found his stash...?” The doorsfinally slide shut and the car lurches forwards. I plead all the way to ourstop in Roxbury, the dissolved municipality we call home. Yep, some people getburgs or boroughs or townships, or even just cool neighborhoods like Angleside,Ravenswood or Pigeon Hill like they have over in Waltham.

Me, I get to live in a dissolved municipality. Analka-seltzer of a former town, whose old buildings often look like they’ve beensitting there dissolving away over the years ever since the proud city ofRoxbury was eaten by Boston and dissolved into the melting pot of greaterBostburbia, relegated to a mere backwater of a neighborhood.  But we willnever forget!

Well, that’s true, but mostly because nobody everlearns that stuff anymore, because it all happened about a hundred and fiftyyears ago.

And it’s kind of hard to forget what you never knew.But the principle is sound. And there’s always Wikipedia.

Peter’s still shaking his head ‘no’ as we climb up thefour flights to our floor.

“Mitch is a bad enough influence in general,” Petertells me. “And you, in particular, don’t need another one. Why don’t you writeabout when your own dad was your imaginary friend?”

“I was about three. And it wasn’t real.”

“It was real to you.”

“Yeah, so was the tooth fairy.”

He looks at me, concerned. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing, I’m sure there are millions of cute littlepixies out there who have nothing better to do than collect used teeth.

“They aren’t pixies, they’re fairies. And I’m prettysure they’re not all that cute. Probably more like Rosie the Riveter withwings.”

I’m fairly sure he’s putting me on, but when you lookin the dictionary under deadpan it says: “see Peter.” Well, at least it doessince I whited out the old definition and penned that one in.

I know, me, the literary literalist, defacing a book.In my defense, I put a picture of Peter next to the entry which means Iactually also face’d the book, so between that and the defacing, it shouldcancel itself out karmically speaking.

Aaaah, I’m turning into Mitch with his right shoe leftthing...! Maybe Peter has a point about him being a bad influence after all.

About the Author:
Ken Schafer started his professional writing career as a screenwriter, working for companies as diverse as Disney, Paramount and ABC, and on projects ranging from a prequel to "Sleeping Beauty" to "Star Trek: The Next Generation," and ABC Night at the Movies.
His passion for all kinds of writing, and the enthusiasm of his daughter for all things word-related, inspired him to branch out to children's books--including his forthcoming "A... is for Ahhhhhhh!" A Halloween Alphabeastiary", and "The Cow who Conquered the Moon"--along with both adult historical/Fantasy novels, and his first YA Novel: "An Otherwise Perfect Plan: A Novel of Mystery, Love, and of Chocolate that Defies Description."
He is repped by Anne McDermott at AM Management, and can usually be found in San Diego along with his wife, and a Schrödinger's Number of Cats. 
https://www.moonjumperpress.com
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SPI (Spectral Paranormal Investigations) The team’s mission: Rescue ALL spirits left behind, even the evil ones. Murder, Mystery, and Mayhen…in ghost form
Book Description:  Bri Lancaster and Kyle Benton (SPI ghost detectives) investigate an 1880s rundown, haunted mansion in the middle of nowhere during one of the harshest winters remembered.
The SPI team uncovers that the evil entity bound to the mansion has trapped innocent spirits into an endless loop of abuse, sorrow, and the ultimate…death. In order to rescue the captives, the team discovers they must first defeat the crazed, abusive ghost.
But what happens when SPI team member, Kyle, goes comatose and the only way to rescue him is to extract the horrifying evil entity from Kyle’s body?

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Excerpt

Bri’spoint of view

“We’re fine but a bit rattled.” Kyle glanced at me andthen back at his father. “Sorry for the late visit, but I wanted you to hearwhat happened firsthand. Let’s sit at the kitchen table.” Kyle grabbed my handand pulled me to a chair.

Miles shook his head as he pulled off his outside gearand settled into a chair across from Kyle and me. “I had no idea the weatherwould turn into a snowstorm, more like a blizzard. It took some time for you toget back here, didn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued,

“Sorry about that. Glad you made it without incident.”

“Well, about that…” Kyle nodded toward me. “Tell Dadeverything.”

I did, not leaving out the woman in the window or thescary-looking man in the mansion doorway, or how the appearance of the buildingwent back in time to brand new. Nor did I skip describing the sign I saw thatdisappeared or the distance we’d driven when we saw the last two women and howsomething must be keeping them stuck there.

“Wow, I had no idea that kind of history was attachedto the old mansion. It makes me think of the bordello stories my grandparentsshared. Turned out more of a horror story.” Miles stared at me. “Did you opendoors to any of the rooms upstairs?”

“None. The vibe came across as pure evil.” A chillzipped up my spine like a sawblade, making me shiver, and my eyes slammed shut.Everything went dark.

Then suddenly, I popped back to the mansion, relivingeach moment there. Only this time, my trip ended with me standing in front ofthe black-eyed man at the door. His arms reached toward me. My paralyzed bodycouldn’t move as he grabbed my shoulders with stabbing force. I said, “I haveno fear,” repeating the mantra. His mouth stretched open, long and wide, andhis pointed teeth lengthened. The familiar stench coated my face, the same asmy earlier visit. Then I said, “I am filled with love and light; the Divine ismy shield.” Before I could repeat the mantra, his mouth closed, and he vanishedinto a cloud of black smoke.

Voices called my name, echoing inside my brain until Iforced my eyes open to Kyle’s handsome face. His warm hands released each sideof my head.

“What happened to you? It’s like you passed out in thechair, then after a bit, you’re repeating a mantra. Dad and I hollered yourname, but you couldn’t hear us.” Kyle studied my face. “You did pass out,didn’t you?”

“I’ve never experienced anything like what justhappened. I’m not sure how it happened, but I returned to the mansion and got agood picture of that man’s appearance. I believe his clothing dates back tothat of the 1885 plaque. That’s a starting point for research of when the placewas built and who owned it.” My heart beat like a mountain of drums in mychest. “Some horrific trauma must have happened to that man to make him sovile. He wanted to hurt me, maybe even kill me.”

About the Author: 
S. Peters-Davis writes multi-genre stories but loves penning a good page-turning suspense-thriller, especially when it’s a ghost story and a romance. Paranormal suspense-thriller romances are her favorites. When she’s not writing, editing, or reading, she’s hiking, RV’ing, fishing, playing with grandchildren and her dog, Sparky, or enjoying time with her favorite muse (her husband) in Southwest Michigan.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/spdavis788      
FB:  https://www.facebook.com/susan.petersdavis    
BWL Publishing Inc.: https://bookswelove.net/  
BWL Blog: https://bwlauthors.blogspot.com/
BWL Author Page: https://bookswelove.net/davis-s-peters/
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/susan-davis-8660542/     





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A Bewitching Tuesday

A Round-Up of Daily Virtual Book Tour Stops

Spectral Paranormal Investigations by S. Peters-Davis  #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3Y35TiJ

When fire meets ice, romance sizzles.
The Demon’s Fire by T. M. Smith
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Witching on a Star
Read the first 3 episodes FREE on Kindle Vella
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FREE short story: Big Owl Lake–Stormy’s Cabin (Ghost Guardian Series) by S. Peters-Davis + giveaway  #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3NZNrmg

Beetlejuice Halloween Theme Party Ideas #Beetlejuice #HalloweenParty
https://www.abewitchingguidetohallowe...

When fire meets ice, romance sizzles. The Demon’s Fire by T. M. Smith

Kole is a demon who needs his daily dose of sex.
Skyler is a prissy human with frost in her veins.
Together, they are fire and ice…
and when fire meets ice, romance sizzles.



The Demon’s FireBlood Coven SeriesBook 2 T. M. Smith
Genre: Paranormal RomancePublisher: Evernight PublishingDate of Publication: May 26, 2023ISBN: 978-0-3695-0823-2ASIN: B0C5S5RCS3Number of pages: 437Word Count: 117,584Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Tagline: When fire meets ice, romance sizzles.
Book Description: 
He’s not her type at all…
The commander is a barbarian. Despite a sexy smile and hot body, nothing can smooth the brute’s ragged edges. Besides, demons need a daily dose of sex. Skyler Maxwell has no intention of becoming a food source.
She’s not his type at all…
The chief legal officer of the Alliance is a buttoned-up, prissy human with frost in her veins. But Kole is stuck playing tour guide for her while she’s on his realm. He was ordered to “play nice.”
Together, Skyler and Kole are fire and ice…
She has a bullseye on her back, and the animus demon is her best chance to stay out of the line of fire. Trapped in a hostile environment, they survive mystical monsters and treacherous attacks. Despite the perils and their differences, their romance ignites, proving fire and ice sizzle. 
https://amzn.to/3PdO0LL 
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A Bewitching Friday

A Round-Up of Daily Virtual Book Tour Stops

SPOTLIGHT - NA PARANORMAL SUSPENSE - SPECTRAL PARANORMAL INVESTIGATIONS (Ghost Guardians, #2) by S. Peters-Davis  #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/44ut8EC

Witching on a Star
Read the first 3 episodes FREE on Kindle Vella
New episodes release every Monday
#spicy #paranormalromance #witchromance #vampireromance
#KindleVella #Vella https://www.amazon.com/Witching-on-a-...

Author Interview- Spectral Paranormal Investigations by S. Peters-Davis #ParanormalSuspense #ParanormalRomance  #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3Dje6pd

Michigan Monsters- The Michigan Dogman
https://www.patreon.com/posts/michiga...
#Cryptids #MichiganCryptids #MichiganMonsters #Dogman #MichiganDogman
FREE short story: Big Owl Lake–Stormy’s Cabin (Ghost Guardian Series) by S. Peters-Davis + giveaway  #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3NZNrmg

Beetlejuice Halloween Theme Party Ideas #Beetlejuice #HalloweenParty
https://www.abewitchingguidetohallowe...

A Bewitching Thursday

A Round-Up of Daily Virtual Book Tour Stops

Spectral Paranormal Investigations
SPI (Spectral Paranormal Investigations) The team’s mission: Rescue ALL spirits left behind, even the evil ones. Murder, Mystery, and Mayhen…in ghost form #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3OmeTfu

Witching on a Star
Read the first 3 episodes FREE on Kindle Vella
New episodes release every Monday
🌶 #spicy🌶 #paranormalromance #witchromance #vampireromance
#KindleVella #Vella https://www.amazon.com/Witching-on-a-...

Author Interview- Spectral Paranormal Investigations by S. Peters-Davis #ParanormalSuspense #ParanormalRomance #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3Dje6pd

Michigan Monsters- The Michigan Dogman
https://www.patreon.com/posts/michiga...
#Cryptids #MichiganCryptids #MichiganMonsters #Dogman #MichiganDogman

FREE short story: Big Owl Lake–Stormy’s Cabin (Ghost Guardian Series) by S. Peters-Davis + giveaway #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3NZNrmg

A Bewitching Wednesday

A Round-Up of Daily Virtual Book Tour Stops

Author Interview- Spectral Paranormal Investigations by S. Peters-Davis #ParanormalSuspense #ParanormalRomance #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3Dje6pd

Witching on a Star
Read the first 3 episodes FREE on Kindle Vella
New episodes release every Monday
🌶 #spicy🌶 #paranormalromance #witchromance #vampireromance
#KindleVella #Vella https://www.amazon.com/Witching-on-a-...

Spectral Paranormal Investigations by S. Peters-Davis Virtual Book Tour #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3Q3riGh

Michigan Monsters- The Michigan Dogman
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FREE short story: Big Owl Lake–Stormy’s Cabin (Ghost Guardian Series) by S. Peters-Davis + giveaway #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3NZNrmg

A Bewitching Tuesday

A Round-Up of Daily Virtual Book Tour Stops

Flash Fiction by S. Peters-Davis #ParanormalSuspense #ParanormalRomance  #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3NVBqhF

FREE short story: Big Owl Lake–Stormy’s Cabin (Ghost Guardian Series) by S. Peters-Davis + giveaway  #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3NZNrmg

Release Day Blitz & Giveaway Death’s Reckoning by Quinn Thomas  #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/3pQa3Od

Henbane and Halibut (Seaglass Cove Mysteries) by E. R. Blackwell & Cass Blackwell ~ #BookTour #Excerpt  #bewitchingbooktours https://buff.ly/44uJY6m

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Witching on a Star
Read the first 3 episodes FREE on Kindle Vella
New episodes release every Monday
#spicy #paranormalromance #witchromance #vampireromance
#KindleVella #Vella https://www.amazon.com/Witching-on-a-...

SPI – The team’s mission: Rescue ALL spirits left behind, even the evil ones. Murder, Mystery, and Mayhem…in ghost form. But what happens when Kyle goes missing and the only way to find him is for Bri to extract info from a horrifying entity? https://amzn.to/43dF64d
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