Backseat Nightmares would like to welcome Shannon Grey author of The Shoppe of Spells to the blog.  She is currently touring her book around the blogs and is dropping by today with a guest post.  Without further ado, her she is:

When is a whole more than the sum of its parts? When it has ties to the quaint little town of Ruthorford, GA, as Morgan Briscoe discovers when a cryptic message threatens to change her life forever.

Morgan’s relatively normal life is turned on its ear when she learns not only that she is adopted, but her birth parents are dead and she now holds half-interest in a business with their ward, Dorian Drake, who, despite his riveting good looks, can barely conceal his hostility toward his new partner.

Morgan discovers that she is more than she seems and together she and Dorian have the ability to control a portal to another dimension. Unable to control their growing attraction, Morgan and Dorian dance around their desires and her burgeoning abilities, until danger forces them to face their destiny.

Shanon Grey

FictionWeaver

Weaving romance and suspense with threads of the paranormal

Shanon Grey weaves romance and suspense with threads of the paranormal. THE SHOPPE OF SPELLS is the first in her series, THE GATEKEEPERS. Shanon spent her life on coasts, both the beautiful Atlantic and the balmy Gulf. Hurricane Katrina taught her the fragility of life and the strength of friendship, family and starting over. She currently lives in northern Georgia, trading the familiarity of the coast for the lush beauty and wonder of the mountains, where her husband fulfilled her lifelong dream—to live in a cottage in the woods. There, she garners inspiration from horses grazing on rolling pastures and deer that wander by to tease her beloved dog.

You can join her on Facebook , follow her on Twitter at and visit her website at www.shanongrey.com. Contact her at shanongreybooks@yahoo.com. She would love to hear from you.

Welcome back to Backseat Nightmares!  Today we are visiting with Rebecca Royce again!  This time we are getting a chance to read an excerpt of her book.  Let’s start with the blurb for the book and then move on to the excerpt!

The Conditioned, Book one

Thirty years ago, after the breakdown of an oil negotiation, the President of the United States decided that all people born with unusual abilities, which he would now refer to as “the condition”, would be locked away from the general public where they couldn’t harm others. Parents and loved ones of these people, most of whom were children, were forced to turn them in upon penalty of death. Formed to keep the institutions secure, the Committee for the Protection of a Free Society now rules these institutions with an iron fist.

The granddaughter of one the Committee members, Addison Wade has lived her life wary of the institutions and all they represent. A woman of secrets, she is forced to turn to Safe Dawn, one of the facilities designed to hold conditioned people, when her nephew is kidnapped and, despite her best efforts, cannot be recovered. She knows the last thing anyone in ‘Safe Dawn’ will want to do is to help a Wade with any problems, but she is desperate and out of options.

Spencer Lewis is famous for being the premier conditioned ‘locator.’ There’s no one he can’t find and he has a soft spot for missing children. But, Spencer has been through a trauma and locating Jeremy Wade may be dangerous both to himself and to those around him. In addition, he takes one look at ice cold Addison Wade and wants nothing more than to knock her down a peg. Never having turned down an opportunity to help a child, he reluctantly agrees to help recover Jeremy.

In a world where nothing is as it seems and every person they encounter has his own agenda, Addison and Spencer will find that the only people they can trust are each other. But how can anyone fall in love living in a world that wants you dead just for being born?

Excerpt:

Spencer nearly swallowed his tongue when he’d stormed into the room in one of his too common rages and stumbled on the blonde with the cold blue eyes sitting in the chair to the left. Stunning didn’t begin to describe her. She had made the world stop for a moment.

That she was a Wade didn’t surprise him, not in the least.

Despite the heat of attraction, he could almost feel a chill. Then again, the whole family was said to have ice instead of blood running through their veins. Addison Wade sat frigidly in her chair, her expression haughty and removed, as if she was more concerned with not wrinkling her skirt than noticing that he was in the room. They had come asking for help to find a missing boy? She looked like she was making a quick stop before some trendy lunch date.

Spencer had some experience with finding missing children, he was used to the families falling apart, not sitting calmly looking like they had just come from a day at a hair salon.

At least they had come.

Surprising as that was, until then, Spencer would have sworn a Wade would rather swallow their tongue then come near one of the institutions. The whole thing was ironic, considering he was in the presence of two of the people responsible for the misery that plagued so many of his people and necessitated the continuing use of these places.

He should tell the Wades to go screw themselves.

Why was it his problem that they couldn’t keep track of their own child?

Even as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. In his life, he’d always helped a child if he could. In this case, the could would be the ultimate question. Spencer had no idea if he was even capable of performing the functions they would need to locate their nephew.

Knowing that every eye in the room was focused on him, including Will’s, he turned around to regard the women who sat behind him. Leaning on the desk behind him, he gave Addison a good long stare. If she already thought he was a savage, why not live up to the role? There would be hell to pay from Will later, but just watching the woman squirm would be worth it.

“Your nephew has gone missing.” He made his statement sound like a question. He knew the kid was gone, Will had just said he was and Will was, as far as Spencer could tell, never wrong.

“Yes, he disappeared from his bedroom a month ago.”

“Spencer, I told them you aren’t available for the assignment. I’m going to assign someone else.” He dark tones clearly expressed what he thought of Spencer’s presence in the room at that moment. “Your other issue, the one that had you storming in here like a lunatic, I’ll look into the matter later.”
Ignoring Will, he continued his long stare at princess Addison. “And it took you a whole month to come here? What were you doing?”

“Why we were too busy to come here, naturally. I had a ski vacation in Aspen and my aunt needed to get her nails done every day.” Addison’s sarcasm spit from her mouth and Spencer nearly laughed aloud. So, the cat had claws. What was wrong with him that he liked it so much?

“Temper, temper, Ms. Wade.” Spencer ignored the tug in his groin that said he was more than just a little aware of how attractive she was.

“I don’t like your implication, Mr. Lewis. For your information, we have been working with the authorities and trying to handle this nightmare ourselves.” She looked down and for a moment, Spencer swore she was biting the inside of her cheek. Her foot still tapped on the floor. When she looked up, her gaze was not on him, but on Will behind him. Spencer narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like that one bit.

“I realize this is the perfect opportunity to attack and humiliate us. We are sitting here in your office, easy targets. But, we’ve come here in good faith, to ask you for help in our most desperate situation. Can you help us or should we leave?”

“We can help you. I’ll assign you someone.” Will stood up and walked around the desk to stand next to him, placing a hand on his arm. Spencer started. When was the last time the other man had touched him? A jolt of psychic awareness filled the room, although he was sure the two non-sensitives wouldn’t feel it. Why was Will pushing on his senses so hard? “But it won’t be Spencer here helping you. As I said, he’s not capable of doing what you need him to do right now.”

Addison’s eyes showed relief. “That’s fine. We’ll be most grateful.”

Oh, hell no. “I can do it.”

“What?” Will and Addison spoke at the same time. Spencer crossed his arms over his chest.

“I said I could do it. I’ll find the missing Wade child, your nephew.”

“No.” Addison stood up.

Looking left and right between Addison and Spencer, the older woman Will had called Morgan stood up too, a pained expression on her features showing her worry.

“No?”

“Mr. Rhodes says you are not capable of doing the job. Therefore, we need someone else.”

“I said I would do it, and I’m the best there is. No one else can find your nephew as quickly as I can. You do care about that, don’t you, Ms. Wade? Or do people in your position, who wait a month to get the services of freaks like us, not care about things like the mental health of the missing child?”

Addison’s mouth gaped open and he had the momentary pleasure of watching her do her best imitation of the number zero. Satisfaction crept up his spine. Let the spawn of all things evil feel lower than low for a while. Nothing he’d ever said had felt better.

Until he saw her hand shake.

*     *     *

Author Bio: As a teenager, I would hide in my room to read my favorite romance novels when I was supposed to be doing my homework.  I hope, these days, that my parents think it was worth it.

I am the mother of three adorable boys and I am fortunate to be married to my best friend.  We live in northern New Jersey and try not to freeze too badly during the winter months.

I am in love with science fiction, fantasy, and the paranormal and try to use all of these elements in my writing.  I’ve been told I’m a little bloodthirsty so I hope that when you read my work you’ll enjoy the action packed ride that always ends in romance. I love to write series because I love to see characters develop over time and it always makes me happy to see my favorite characters make guest appearances in other books.

In my world anything is possible, anything can happen, and you should suspect that it will.

I’d love to hear from you!

LINKS:

Website

Facebook

Facebook Fan Page

Backseat Nightmares would like to welcome Rebecca Royce to the blog.  She is touring her latest book, Eye Contact with Sizzling PR.  Make sure you drop back by tomorrow when we’ll share an excerpt of this new book!

Backseat Nightmares would like to welcome Vernon Baker, author of Slow Boat to Purgatory back to the blog.  yesterday he dropped by and answered some questions for us.  If you haven’t read this post, you will find it just below this post.  I think Slow Boat to Purgatory sounds like a book that I would like to recommend!  Just to broaden the picture of this book and it’s author, let’s start with the blurb:

Gaspar De Rouse, an immortal Knight Templar, a man murdered by his brothers for the secret he possessed, resurrected and given a second chance at redemption. Dominicus Bureau, a renegade priest, torn between his vows and the secret he pursues, a secret protected by an immortal. Alex Donovan, a modern day warrior thrust into an ages old war, a war between good and evil, heaven and hell. All three, passengers on a Slow Boat To Purgatory.

Vernon Baker : Husband and father, voracious reader and entrepreneur, Vernon finally found the courage to put soul to paper. Slow Boat To Purgatory is his first novel. He lives with his wife and children on the coast of Maine and in the panhandle of Florida. Occasionally, when the need arises, he travels to Venice to see an old friend…a very old friend.

Contact info:

www.vernonjbaker.com

On facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1254398899

Links to the book:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

Backseat Nightmares would like to welcome Vernon Baker to the blog!  He is promoting his first book, Slow Boat to Purgatory.  We’d like to give a warm bloggy welcome to Vernon as he has had a bit of a stressful past week.  He lives in the part of the country that had that nasty hurricane weather   I am lucky and only have to deal with heat and possible earthquakes…..

I asked Vernon if he would answer a few questions for us.  Make sure you come back tomorrow as we are going to include more information about his book!

Backseat – How would your friends describe you in 20 words or less?

Vernon – Brutally honest, funny, intense, generous, scary at times, surprising, hard working, good father, quiet, in the witness protection program.

Backseat – Where would you live if you could live anywhere in the world?

Vernon – Venice, with out a doubt. The very first time I stepped off the train and into Venice I was hooked. I’m not sure I believe in past lives but when I’m in Venice I always feel as if I’ve walked those streets long, long ago.

Backseat – How long have you been writing?

Vernon – Off and on since I was in grade school. More importantly I think, I’ve been reading as long as I can remember. My parents used to buy me National Geographic, Readers Digest condensed books and even an encyclopedia at a goodwill store. I read them cover to back. Even the encyclopedia.

Backseat – Did you have support at the beginning and/or during your writing?

Vernon – My wife was very supportive, or should I say obliging, when I decided that it was time to go all in and write a book. I didn’t actually choose the best time to dive in seeing as we had a two year old boy and now have a nine month old little girl as well. The fact that we pulled it off and she didn’t hang me from a light pole speaks volumes. And I accumulated a core group of peers who have always been brutally honest with me and been there when I needed encouragement. Very big that.

Backseat – When you made your first sale, how did you celebrate and with whom?

Vernon – I love wine, which anyone who reads the book will quickly surmise. I think I cracked a bottle of ‘94 Beringer Private Reserve when the first print book sold. I didn’t get too excited over the $2.99 kindle sale which was actually first. And I drank alone. My wife is still nursing. I have a very nice bottle of French Burgundy set aside so that we can celebrate together.

Backseat – What do you love about writing?

Vernon – The story telling. To me that is the essence of my writing. I want to tell a story that grabs the reader and doesn’t let go. You can be the best writer in the world but if your story doesn’t grab the reader, by whatever part of the brain that is our imagination, then all the writing skills in the world won’t keep them.

Backseat – What’s the hardest part of writing a book?

Vernon – The directing. For me the ideas flow pretty freely. I never have trouble coming up with ideas and plot lines. It’s how you manage them, direct them, that for me gets tricky. I try to let the story evolve but sometimes you have to rein yourself in and take a step back. That and finding the actual time to write.

Backseat – Which scenes were the hardest to write?
Vernon – There are a couple of scenes in the book that to this day are very emotional for me. Without giving too much away, one involved the death of one of the protagonists and the other revolved around a mother who had died in child birth. They were emotional scenes to write and are still emotional to read.

Backseat – Describe your new book for us.

Vernon – Well, recently, someone, after reading the book, said if Dan Brown and Anne Rice had a love child this is the book that offspring would have written. It was funny at that time but it has that feel to it I think.

Slow Boat is the story of three men, each warriors in there own right. One is Gaspar De Rouse, A Templar Knight who is given a priceless secret to protect and then is murdered by fellow Templars. He’s resurrected by an Archangel and given a second chance at redemption.

The second man is Dominicus Bureau, a catholic priest who carries a silenced pistol and uses it. Often. He has been in pursuit of Gaspar and the secret he guards for many years.

And then there’s Alex Donovan, a retired Navy Seal, who’s thrust into the midst of Gaspar’s and Dominicus’ battles when his grandfather dies and leaves him an ancient book that tells the story of the immortal Gaspar.

This is the first book in a series of probably three books.

Backseat – Who is your favorite character in your new release?

Vernon – That’s such a hard question. I think Dominicus intrigues me because he is really conflicted at his core, although you don’t really see that in the beginning. Plus he’s a real bad man. In more ways than one.

Backseat – Do you see yourself in any of your characters?

Vernon – LOL. Oh, I see myself in all of them I think. Especially the heroic ones and the one with the cool car. But seriously, I’m not sure any of the characters in this story, so far, embody too much of yours truly. I don’t think I have that in me yet.

Backseat – What were the challenges in bringing this book to life?

Vernon – Time. Time to write, to balance my family, which should, and I hope always, comes first, with the overwhelming desire to put down on paper the story that was inside me. I have three jobs. This is the third. It would be nice to invert that at some point.

Backseat – Where can your fans find you ?

Vernon – Fans? Do I have those? J Well, I’m on Facebook a lot and I love conversing there with people who have read the book. I have a website vernonjbaker.com and a blog thingy, that I’m still learning to manage, that you can find at the website. The best thing is to send me an e-mail through the website. I answer every one.

Backseat – Where can readers find your books?

Vernon – Both the print version and the e-book version are available on Amazon.com. The print version is also available through my website. The e-book version is available on Barnes and Noble.com and Smashwords.com. Oh, and it’s available, in both kindle and print, on Amazon in the U.K. and Germany.

Backseat – Anything else you would like to add?

Vernon – Just want to say thank you for giving me the opportunity to be here and to interact with your readers. And finally, the most important thing for me right now is the feedback from those who read the book. I have already had readers impart nuggets of knowledge that I’ve learned from and I’m sure will only make my writing better.

Contact info:

www.vernonjbaker.com

On facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1254398899

Links to the book:

http://www.amazon.com/Slow-Boat-To-Purgatory-ebook/dp/B005CX3ZU2/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Slow-Boat-To-Purgatory/Vernon-Baker/e/2940013611429

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/74369

Backseat would like to thank Vernon for dropping by and sharing information with us.  Drop by tomorrow and see what else you can learn about this intriguing book!

Welcome back to Backseat Nightmares!

Yesterday we were lucky enough to have Jim Melvin visit the blog!  He wrote a wonderful guest post about where some of his ideas came from for his book, Dream House: A Ghost Story.  Today we are going to have the chance to read a excerpt.  I think this excerpt will have you running for the bookstore   Sit back and learn a bit more about Jim’s book.

Charlie Tor finds the perfect house for his soon-to-be family of three. Lots of room, a huge yard for his adopted daughter to play in, and an incredibly low asking price.

While waiting for his wife and daughter to arrive from Cambodia, Charlie handles all the tasks of moving into the new house, alone. As he gets to know some of his neighbors, and spends time exploring his surroundings, Charlie discovers he may have gotten more than he bargained for.

“Dream House: A Ghost Story” excerpt

Author’s note: Dream House: A Ghost Story is a sexy, scary, action-packed horror novel recently released by Out of Bounds Press. It now is available via e-book on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. The main character (Charlie) purchases a house in the middle of the woods and lives there alone for a short time while waiting for his wife and adopted daughter to join him. Problem is … you guessed it … the house turns out to be haunted. In the scene below, a half-crazed Baptist minister and his congregation attempt to help Charlie rid his home of the influence of demons. Here is an excerpt:

~~~~~

WE PARADED UP THE driveway, a strange conglomeration if there ever was one. The now-familiar fears rose within me, causing my eyes to water and my legs to tremble. Were any of the others feeling the same? I know that Jack and the Olsons seemed frightened when they were at the pond, and Milly definitely had been scared several times, so surely it couldn’t be just me.

When we got over the hump of my driveway and could see down to my house, my heart did a flip – not because of the house, this time, but because Greg Chastain’s beat-up van was still in my driveway in the exact same position that he had parked it yesterday afternoon. This brought it all back to me full force, because it was obvious now that he probably was dead. If he had somehow survived, wouldn’t he have made his way back to the van?

“Do you see?” I shouted at all of them. But they were now singing with such vehemence that my voice was drowned out, and none – not even Jack – seemed to be paying me any attention.

“Faint not nor fear. His arms are near.

He changeth not, and thou art dear.

Only believe, and thou shalt see

That Christ is all in all to thee.”

Pastor Milton led the way, his words like cannon shots rising above the din of battle. He walked without fear, his head held high and shoulders square, dwarfing the rest of us, as if he were beyond mere mortals. Part of me wanted to flee, maybe stand over in the Gaults’ driveway and wait for them to return with news of their triumph. Then we could all celebrate over at their house, and during the celebration I’d offer to sell the property back to Bo for a hundred grand less than I paid for it. I could begin house-hunting anew, with a different realtor this time, and all would be well. No more naked ghosts, no more hideous faces in bathroom windows, and definitely no more dalliances – planned or not – with Milly or anyone else. I saw all this as a chance to fix everything, to go back to the way things were before, which seemed like paradise compared to the way they were now.

But maybe it was too late to flee. We gathered in my front yard, more than one hundred in all. Now a breeze was mustering, and it became apparent that a storm was on its way – fast approaching. There was a flash of lightning, followed by thunder. And then another. From out of nowhere, a swirling wind blew into the hollow, yet to my amazement few of the candles went out. Instead they burned even brighter, dancing and flickering as if cupped by invisible hands.

“I’m not staying,” I shouted at Pastor Milton. “You don’t understand. I saw!”

When I turned to start back up the driveway, the wind blew so hard that I literally fell onto my back. Luckily, I was thrown so far that I missed the driveway and landed in a soft patch of grass. When I rose to my knees, Pastor Milton was chanting – and the others were swaying to his words, as if hypnotized.

“We are filled with the Power of the Spirit of God,” Milton shouted. “We command you, minions of Satan, to depart this place. We command you with the Power of the Spirit. We command you in the name of Jesus Christ. Depart this place forever!”

The storm intensified.

“Be silent, foul demons,” Milton continued. “Depart this place. I command you. We command you. The Lord Jesus Christ commands you!”

I finally managed to get back on my feet only to be buffeted anew by a surge of wind filled with swirling leaves and broken branches that was roaring down the driveway with the force of an avalanche. There was no way I, or anyone, could make progress in the face of that, so I decided to try a different tact. I would get my keys from the kitchen, battle my way back to my detached garage, and drive out of here. The wind couldn’t stop a Lexus sedan, could it?

I staggered and stumbled toward my front door, almost tripping over one of the dwarf boxwoods. I was stunned by the ferocity of the storm. Was this also a ghostly apparition? Or was this sudden burst of nature simply a coincidence? I didn’t know, and at this point didn’t really care, realizing with dread that I had made an idiotic mistake returning to my home. I should have run in the opposite direction, far, far away. Now I was again in a fight for my life. And I appeared to be the only one among the gathering aware of the enormity of the situation. The others were blissful as boulders in the midst of a hurricane.

Except …….

Milly was looking at me, and she looked worried too. And Jack? Was he scared?

I motioned for them to follow. Milly surprised me by immediately dropping her candelabra and starting toward me. Jack, however, shook his head, though he looked sad in doing so, as if resigned to a terrible fate.

Pastor Milton continued to chant.

The storm didn’t seem pleased by Milly’s desertion, and it increased in ferocity. The magical candles could not longer bear such power, and they were extinguished. Some members of the congregation were starting to look frightened. I called to them to get into the house. None seemed to hear. However, Milly finally reached me and grabbed my arm.

“What is it, Charlie? What’s happening?”

“How should I know? Ask your buddy the exorcist. All I know is whatever’s happening is real – and it’s deadly. I’m going to get my keys from the kitchen counter and get out of here. To hell with the rest of these fools. They can fend for themselves. I’m no hero. I’ve got a wife and kid to think about.”

“Can I come with you?” she said, her voice pathetic compared to the fury of the maelstrom.

“Yes, as long as you come inside with me to get the keys. As bad as it is out here, I’m not so thrilled about going in there, either.”

She nodded … but suddenly her eyes went wide and she turned back toward the others. Someone – an elderly woman – was screaming, which wasn’t so surprising, given the circumstances. What was surprising was just how loud the screaming was, and how it rose above even Pastor Milton’s voice. Milly pointed at her and screamed herself, and then I saw why. A pair of skeletal hands had erupted from the lush grass beneath the old woman’s feet, and they had grasped her scrawny ankles in bony grips. She was trying to squirm away, but in doing so had lost her balance and fallen onto her rump. Harry Gault knelt in gentlemanly fashion to help her up, apparently not yet aware of what had caused her to fall in the first place. When he attempted to lift her, the hands yanked hard and then disappeared beneath the surface of the lawn, dragging the woman’s legs with them. Suddenly, she was buried to her knees – and screaming louder than ever. Loud enough, in fact, to draw attention from more than just Harry. Though Pastor Milton was still engrossed in his chanting, several others – including the Olson boys – were now attuned to the woman’s distress. Danny Olson stepped over, wrapped his thick arms under the woman’s armpits, and pulled, obviously believing that he could yank her free. Though he gained a few inches, this was met with a far more furious yank from below, and the woman was drawn waist-deep into the grass, looking from my vantage point as if she had fallen into a hole. Danny Olson went to his knees, trying his damndest to wrest her free, but it was as if she was caught in some sort of B-movie quicksand that was as relentless as it was unreal. Milly and I moaned together as the woman was consumed to her sparse breasts, her arms outstretched. Danny Olson finally had to let her go, just to avoid being sucked down himself. The old woman continued to scream, filled with a terror of mind-boggling proportions, and then her arms were forced straight upward, resembling a soldier surrendering to the enemy. Her head went under, her elbows, her forearms, her hands. Her fingers wiggled like worms before disappearing beneath the surface.

Enough of the gathering had seen this to become terrorized, and they turned to flee, but then more hands emerged and more ankles were seized, and suddenly everyone who stood on my front lawn was being drawn downward, as if unseen sharks were pulling each person beneath the surface of a wind-racked sea. Even the powerful Olsons were succumbing to the assault.

My cowardice, seemingly grown legendary in scope, wasn’t enough to stop me from attempting to help the few of them who had become my friends. But when I started toward them, Milly grabbed my arm, turned me around, and screamed into my face.

“No … NO!!!!”

Then she yanked me toward the front door, and the two of us managed to stumble through it and slam it shut against the cacophony of horror.

We were greeted by silence.

Milly and I looked at each other, both of us as fearful as mice that had barely managed to escape the strikes of a snake. We stood there for a time and did nothing but breathe – even that small act seemed difficult to manage – and when there was a sound from deeper in the house, the sudden meow of a cat, we nearly leaped through the high ceiling of my foyer. Woody padded up, wet and filthy, and I could only surmise that he had been caught in the storm and had come through his cat door. I felt a surge of joy upon seeing him. It was as if he was a shred of reality in an otherwise unreal horror show.

Now the storm was shaking the entire house. I mustered the courage to look out the window. What I saw was even worse than I could have imagined. My yard looked like a beach containing a hundred people buried up to their heads in green sand, though some of their arms were also free, sticking straight up. Despite the thunder and lashing rain, I still could hear screams. Again I felt the urge to run out and try to help, and again Milly stopped me, leaning against me and sobbing as she said, “They’ll take you too. There’s nothing we can do.”

“Look at them,” I said, also sobbing.

“I know! But whatever is doing this is too strong.”

Then she pointed off to the right, and both of us gasped again. Pastor Milton was putting up the best fight of any of them. He still was only buried to his waist, and he retained the use of his arms, which he was using to push against the sodden turf in an effort to extricate himself. He had quit chanting and was using all of his strength to break free. But even he was losing the battle. Now he was buried to his chest. Now to his neck. Now he was drawn under, and he seemed to wave, like Captain Ahab strapped to the white whale. By the time he disappeared, so had all the others.

Immediately, the storm quieted to a drizzle. Other than some leaves and scattered branches, my yard looked pristine. There weren’t even any marks in the grass, and the dwarf boxwoods were unharmed as well. When Woody meowed again, Milly and I nearly swooned.

Jim Melvin was born in Poughkeepsie, N.Y., but spent more than forty years of his life in St. Petersburg, Fla. He now lives in Clemson, S.C. Jim graduated from the University of South Florida (Tampa) with a B.A. in journalism in 1979. He was an award-winning journalist at the St. Petersburg Times for twenty-five years and later worked at the Greenville News in South Carolina. As a reporter, he specialized in science, nature, health and fitness, and he wrote about everything from childhood drowning to erupting volcanoes. Jim is a student of Eastern philosophy and mindfulness meditation, both of which he weaves extensively into his work. Jim is married and has five daughters. He is the author of eight novels, including Dream House: A Ghost Story, which was released by Out of Bounds Press in July 2011, and The Death Wizard Chronicles, a six-book epic fantasy. Book 1 will be released in August 2012 by Bell Bridge Books.

Jim’s website: www.jim-melvin.com

Jim’s blog: www.deathwizardchronicles.blogspot.com

I’d like to thank Jim for visiting Backseat Nightmares these past two days. I know that he’s sold at least one book from our household. I think he’s an author to keep your eye on…..and read everything he writes

Welcome to Backseat Nightmares!

Today we are going to visit with Jim Melvin, author of Dream House: A Ghost Story.  Take some time to read what Jim has written and come back tomorrow and I’ll be posting an excerpt of his book.  I find him to be an incredibly creative man and this book sound like a keeper to me

Without further ado, here’s Jim:

‘Dream House: A Ghost Story’

Earlier this century, I moved from the Tampa Bay area of Florida to Walhalla, S.C., where my wife and I purchased a home situated in the center of 20 wooded acres. This was my first time “living in the country,” and I found that I adored the beauty and seclusion. But there also were elements that were a little disturbing to a “city boy.” For instance, I spent several nights alone at the house while the rest of my family was visiting relatives – and it was downright spooky to me.

A few years after relocating to the Upstate, we moved from the 20-acre Walhalla house to a one-acre home in the suburbs of Clemson, S.C. We did this not out of choice but rather so that we could live nearer our jobs. In the new house, my guest bathroom overlooked the front yard via an oval window at about eye-level, and on occasion I would use this bathroom late in the evening. Being (ahem) a man, I would stand in front of the window while taking care of my business. The bathroom was brightly lit, which made the window completely black from my viewpoint. Someone standing outside just a few feet away would have been invisible to me. One night, I stood in front of the window and thought, “How scary would it be if a monstrous face suddenly pressed against the glass? At the very least, it would throw off my aim.” J The key scene for Dream House: A Ghost Story was born. The rest of the story grew from that one image. (The monster image, not the aim image.)

The two houses morphed into one. The bathroom window from the house in the suburbs became the bathroom window in the house on 20 acres. I also used my literary license to change 20 acres to 100 acres. And the main character, a man named Charlie, ended up having to live alone in the wilderness for a few months rather than a few days.

One night while Charlie was using the guest bathroom, the monstrous face really did appear in the oval window.

And from there, it got a whole lot scarier – and more dangerous – for him.

Dream House: A Ghost Story has a lot going on between the lines, but for the most part it is a fun, scary and fast-paced adventure with a little bit of violence and a few scenes containing explicit sex. The novel explores how isolation – both physical and emotional – can affect a person’s judgment, and even sanity. When the flesh is tempted, how does the spirit respond?

Charlie is seduced and then tormented in ways he never dreamed possible. Does it destroy him? Or does he become even stronger in the end? You will have to read Dream House: A Ghost Story to find out. But once you’ve turned the first page, I would advise keeping a respectable distance between you and your windows after the sun goes down. After all, you never know who – or what – might peek in if you stray too close.

– Jim Melvin

Author’s note: Dream House: A Ghost Story is available as an ebook on Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com via Out of Bounds Press (2011). For more information, go to outofboundspress.com.

Charlie Tor finds the perfect house for his soon-to-be family of three. Lots of room, a huge yard for his adopted daughter to play in, and an incredibly low asking price.

While waiting for his wife and daughter to arrive from Cambodia, Charlie handles all the tasks of moving into the new house, alone. As he gets to know some of his neighbors, and spends time exploring his surroundings, Charlie discovers he may have gotten more than he bargained for.

Backseat Nightmares would like to welcome Alison Holt, author of Credo’s Hope to the blog! Today she is going to share some thoughts with us. Sit back, relax and read what she’s sharing with us today!

I love these blog tours! I’m getting to know fantastic groups of people who’ve written to say they’re excited to find a new mystery series that combines accurate police procedures with a lighthearted look at the “other side” of police work. Writing mysteries comes easily to me since most of my adult life has been spent unraveling true to life mysteries as a lieutenant in a large metropolitan police force. Solving cases is really nothing more than methodical fact finding and taking the time to follow up on every tiny scrap of evidence you can find. Can three words a four-year-old lisps while your trying to talk to her mom break a case? Of course! Well, if she says, “Daddy did it.” that’s a no brainer. But what if the mother is telling you the mailman did it, and the child whispers to her pink elephant, “Thath not twru.” A good detective would hear her and make note of what she said. A great detective would ask the mother to excuse them a minute, get down on the floor and start playing with the girl to see if he could get her to talk.

The Alex Wolfe Mystery series has been fun to write because Alex is like a dog with a bone. She digs and digs and gnaws and chews until she begins to drive everyone around her absolutely crazy. She does and says things to her superiors that would get me or any other officer fired in a heartbeat. I’m the type of person who comes up with the perfect comeback about two hours after the fact when I’m driving down the road playing back the conversation in my head. Not Alex. Her comments to her bosses are witty, biting or just plain outrageous and they’re constantly a source of contention between her and her fellow officers. Her methods are definitely not found in the regulation police manual, but

they work.

One of my favorite by-products of writing books is the chance I get to answer questions from other writers. I love to teach authors how to write realistic police scenes or dialogue. Most people are pretty well versed now on police procedures because of all the reality police TV shows. At a seminar in Tucson, Arizona, I was recently asked how one officer could handle a particular call so differently from another. In other words, how can Alex be successful when she’s so definitely “not by the book”?

Within the confines of the law, there is no one “right” way to do police work.

There are many, many different ways to handle the same situation. For example, a copwalks up to a local gang member on the street and asks for identification. The gang member takes off running down the street. If the cop has twenty years under his belt, he’ll probably watch the young man running away and think to himself “Tomorrow’s another day.” He knows he’ll run into the kid again.  Now take the same scenario, but make the cop a twenty-one year old rookie fresh out of the academy. Everyone knows, the chase is on. The rookie keys his mike while he’s running after the suspect, breathing heavily while giving his location and making sure everyone in his division know he’s chasing a bad guy. Alex on the other hand might run to her car, drive around the block and be leaning up against her car with her arms crossed waiting for the guy to run out of the alley. Three very different responses, all of them acceptable. “How can the grizzled old veteran’s response be acceptable?” you may ask. Actually, they did ask at the seminar, along with about a hundred other questions that turned into a fun discussion on how these fifty and sixty year old writers could best capture a fleeing suspect.

Anyway, I digress. If you go back to the original scenario, the cop simply walked up to a man who was dressed in gang clothes and hanging out on a street corner. The man ran. Nothing illegal in that. Suspicious? Yes. Illegal? No. The veteran has probably worked the same beat for fifty years. He knows who hangs out where, when, and why. If he didn’t know this particular gangster, he’ll know who he is by the end of the day, why he’s there and what drugs he specializes in. He’ll notify the undercover street narcotics squad who’ll set up several buys and get the man off the streets for good. It’s the difference between short-term and long-term thinking. Rookie versus Veteran.

To me, it’s these types of differences that make police procedurals interesting and

I like to put all different types of officers into my stories. So like I always say—Pop some

popcorn, curl up by the fire with Credo’s Hope and get ready to be entertained.

Backseat Nightmares would like to thank Alison for dropping by and chatting with us! Wander over to Amazon and pick up a copy of her book!

Welcome back to Backseat Nightmares!

We are going to learn more about Darlene Cypser and her book The Crack in the Lens today.  Let’s start with some information about the author:

Darlene A. Cypser was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, but lived in Poughkeepsie, New York, during elementary school and high school before returning to Norman, Oklahoma for college and law school. In 1987 she moved to Boulder, Colorado where she practiced law until 1999 when she began producing and selling movies, and running other businesses. Darlene is currently producing a movie set in 18th century England based on Alfred Noyes poem The Highwayman.

Darlene became an avid follower of Sherlock Holmes when she was in high school and she attended some meetings of the Hudson Valley Sciontists in her teens. Since then she has corresponded with a number of Sherlockians around the world and been a member of a number of Sherlockian groups including Dr. Watson’s Neglected Patients and the Hounds of the Internet. Darlene’s first contact with the Baker Street Irregulars was an exchange of correspondence with Dr. Julian Wolff in the 1970s and she wrote two trifling monograms which were published by the Baker Street Journal in the mid-1980s when Philip Shreffler was the editor. She is writing a sequel trilogy which follows Sherlock Holmes through his years at the university and into his early career.

Darlene loves to chat with her readers.  She can be found several places:
Website: http://www.thecrackinthelens.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/CrackintheLens
Twitter: http://twitter.com/CrackintheLens

Now, let’s find out more about this very interesting book:

If someone had asked Sherlock Holmes later in the year, there is little doubt that he would have said his life began that spring day in 1871 when he met Violet Rushdale upon the moors and ended in the winter some months distant. His mother would have disputed the former claim, and many, both friend and foe, would come to deny the latter. Yet what happened that year nearly cost him his life and his sanity, and strongly influenced the man he was to become.

It is well known that the toughest steel that makes the sharpest swords must be plunged into the fire, then beaten and reshaped. So it is as well with the best and wisest of men.

Although this is Darlene’s first novel, she has been receiving rave reviews. Here is a link to some of the comments that have been made.

Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 1:

Chapter 1

A young man leaned against one of the piles of the pier and watched the passengers disembarking from a steamship. If someone had asked him later in the year, there is little doubt that this young man would have said his life began that spring day in 1871 and ended in the winter some months distant. But his mother would have disputed the former claim, and many, both friend and foe, would come to deny the latter. His true date of birth, by his mother’s reckoning, was some seventeen years behind him.

Right now he was wishing his brother Mycroft was here. It would be a grand spot for the game. Even Sherrinford would do. Sherrinford wasn’t very good at the game, but it was always fun to best him at it. But neither of his brothers was here and he was left to make his own observations and deductions.

The man coming down the gangplank now was a prosperous owner of coal mines, the young man surmised. Though he was well-dressed by the standards of the merchant class, but he never quite managed to entirely shake off the coal dust which still coated the soles of his shoes. Would an examination of his fingernails show it there as well?

The coal merchant was followed rapidly by a tall man with sharp eyes and a critical stare. His coat was of good material, but well-worn. The elbows had been patched, and the sleeves, especially the right sleeve, had been worn quite shiny. A wad of foolscap covered with pencil scribblings stuck out of his left pocket. He was a writer, an essayist, the young man concluded. The foolscap was undoubtedly some spontaneous critique of the shipping industry that had come to him on board.

If his brothers had been there one of them would have crept away and asked the men their occupation to confirm their speculations. If he could have managed it, he would have done it himself. But he was in sight of his parents, and his father had decided ideas about the behavior of seventeen-year-old soon-tobe- gentlemen. The young man knew that interrogating strangers was not among them. Even staring at the people coming down the plank was a stretch of what his father considered proper, but he could always claim to be admiring the ship. He knew his father would approve of that.

I think this book sounds outstanding! I’m encouraging you to run right out (or move to the Amazon site on your computer!) and get a copy!
Amazon paperback:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/0971855250/
Kindle:
http://amzn.to/hKbAZw
Nook:
http://bit.ly/ffqUs2