Winter's Mourn by Mary Stone Introduces FBI Agent Winter Black With Extraordinary Skills For "Seeing" Deadly Issues!

 

BEFORE 

Pain was like a living thing as yet another contraction tore through the girl. “Help me.” It was a whisper. It was a prayer. It was ignored by the observer standing on the other side of the cage. The burning between her legs intensified as she bore down, her young body seeming to know what to do. The pain faded, but it would be back, she knew. And it was. How had it come to this? A stupid fight with her parents. She’d been so cocky, so sure that she was a professional at life and knew it all. She was a grown-up. Heck, she’d even had sex with Scotty Jernigan, the captain of the football team. At sixteen, she’d thought she had it all figured out. “I hate you!” Those were the last words she’d flung at the man and woman who’d brought her into the world as she stomped from the house, intent on doing things her own way. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to the memory of their faces. And she was. So very, very sorry. She wanted to say more, make them hear her pleas from the ether, and maybe by some miracle they would find their way to her now. Because she needed them. Not just physically but in every other possible way. But before she could ask them for their forgiveness, pain sank its fangs into her again. She bore down, pushed, gritting her teeth. In the movies, there was a nurse counting to ten. There was a husband lovingly holding up one leg. There was a doctor ready to catch, ready to know what to do if things went wrong. And things were going very, very wrong. “Help me,” she said after the contraction abated. The observer didn’t react. Didn’t speak a word. Didn’t move. The burning grew even stronger, and she looked down, sure that her private parts had burst into flames. But instead of a red glow…there was a head, dark hair swirling wetly over the crown. Bursting into tears, she touched her child for the very first time. A baby. Even as her belly had grown bigger and bigger over the months, it still hadn’t felt real. The sickness. The exhaustion. The cravings. The movements under her skin. It felt real now. The vice contracted around her belly again, turning her attention away from the miracle of what was happening and back to the pain. The terrible, awful, body-splitting pain. She pushed again and again, screaming through the contraction, and the pressure increased. Swelled. Blossomed. Then it was over. Between her legs lay the bloody, squirming child. A girl. Reaching for it with shaky hands, she smacked its bottom, swept her finger in its little mouth. Her addiction to hospital TV dramas was paying off. There was a cry. Soft at first. Then it grew stronger as the baby’s anger and confusion at her new reality increased. “Shhh…” the girl soothed, sticking a finger in the baby’s mouth. She smiled as the little one began to suck. “That’s right, sweet girl. I’ll take care of…ohhh…” The pain this time was a surprise. Wasn’t that part supposed to be over? She had to stop herself from holding the baby too tight as she screamed through gritted teeth. The baby wailed again, and she laid it down beside her. Was there another child? Twins? Was that even possible? But when she looked down between her legs, she saw that the only thing she was delivering was blood. A river of it. She looked at the observer, her panic kicking in again. “Please help,” she cried as agony and fear stabbed through her. As she watched the key slide into the lock of the cage, heard the click of metal on metal as the mechanism opened, hope swept through her. Help was coming, after all. “Perfect,” the observer whispered, voice the very picture of awe. Gloved hands lifted her baby girl while shrewd eyes took in every inch. “Simply perfect.” The girl was weak now, but that didn’t stop her from trying to reach for her child. “Give her to me.” Cold eyes turned her way, making her shiver. As if that single shiver had triggered an avalanche of them, she began to tremble violently. So much blood. So much pain. Would it ever end? She looked at the observer again, clutched at the long black coat only inches from where she lay. “Help. Me.” She swallowed back the tears. “Please.” As she watched, the observer laid the child down. Scissors appeared, as well as two plastic clamps, and she watched in fascination as gloved hands quickly took care of cutting the umbilical cord, effectively separating her from the baby. She nearly wept as the bond between them slipped away. Those same hands then went to work wrapping her tiny baby in a blanket, placing a tiny pacifier in its mouth. All the time, there were the whispers of “perfect” and “I did it.” Other mumbles she couldn’t comprehend. When she cried out again, the knife of pain growing even sharper, the observer turned to her. “I won’t let you suffer.” Something was pulled from the pocket of the long coat the observer wore, a flash of metal that she immediately identified. No. Even as the word echoed in her mind, she looked at her baby one last time, then closed her eyes as the cold steel pressed to the back of her head. A click. Then nothing. The observer was right. She didn’t feel anything anymore.

~~~

Opening a book where a young girl is in distress as she responds to the fear and pain of an unwanted birth--or unexpected birth--automatically places the reader into a situation which is no longer a setup f0r a suspenseful mystery, but rather an increasing realization that danger is possible for any birth that is now happening in reality. And, as the girl in this story finds, there is for many in some states of our union, no help...for medical staff are now forbidden to do all they can to protect their patient...

I don't know why I keep choosing to read books that have now, in today's world, become depressing rather than a brief slide into a fantasy world where good always wins over evil... For, now, even when a book such as Winter's Mourn ends, and justice has been provided, there is still an underlying awareness that, for some, for those who have the misfortune of living in a red state, will, just as this teen who gives birth in a cage, be unable to have standard medical care available...just...across...a...state...line! At least for now.

But who knows just how far the moral deterioration of some American citizens will reach...and continue into further depths of depravity... For, consider the fact that a proven criminal, now under indictment, continue to be supported as the lead candidate for the republican party! How is that possible? Surely after the time period after January 6th, we have seen just how much greed, power, and lies have affected the many innocent americans tainted by the corrupt nature of politicians, judges and more that care nothing about anything but their own desires and power gained by falsifying everything that is happening in today's world, skewed by those who have no real intention of trying to "make American better..." Only their own vested interests...

Casually glancing around, Noah started walking toward one of the barns at the back of the house. “What are you doing?” She hurried to keep up with his long strides in the tall grass. “Just being nosy.” “Pretty sure that’s not okay as it pertains to warrantless searches of private property.” He’d already reached the barn doors and was glancing inside. “I’m not going in,” he pointed out. “Just taking a quick look at her setup.” Winter looked too. No large cages, just open pens. Still, electric tension raised the fine hairs on her arms. “Great. You looked. Satisfied your curiosity. Let’s go.” “You see that?” Noah asked, pointing farther out into the field. A yurt-like structure squatted in the wide-open space. It was round and low, with what looked like a tented top. “Wonder what’s in there?” He headed off in that direction. “Seriously, Noah, come on. We’re already on the edge with Max. What’s it going to look like when we’re caught trespassing? We’ll get pulled off the case.” His response was to whistle a couple of bars of the old Kenny Rogers song, “The Gambler.” Up close, the yurt looked old. The cream-colored walls were mottled with mildew on the outside. Grass had grown deep on all sides, and the semi-permanent decking that sat outside the front door was warped and weathered a grayish green. The door itself was made of thick wood and sounded securely locked when Noah jiggled the handle. He stepped down off the creaking deck and waded through the deep weeds to one of the windows set into the side of the canvas wall. The plastic was murky, yellowed with age, but he peeked in. “Check it out,” he told her. Winter had to go up on tiptoes, and the musty smell of the canvas tickled her nose, but she could make out a round room with benches ringing the walls, sitting on flooring made of the same decking material as the tiny front porch. In the center of the room sat a kind of podium, or altar, with a cross sitting on top. It was flanked by two tall candles. “I wish we could get in and see how fresh that candlewax is. It’s hard to tell, but the place doesn’t look like it’s sat empty since old Wesley’s time.” The sound of rapidly swishing grass behind them caught their attention at the same time someone yelled, “Hey! This is private property!” Rebekah Archer was struggling toward them through the field with a small child on her hip. Her face was red with exertion and fury. “She looks like she’d be immune to your charms right about now,” Winter whispered. Noah lifted a welcoming hand to the irate woman. “Just smile, and try not to look jealous, darlin’.” When he plastered a big, nonthreatening grin on his face, Winter had to admit, if he turned that wattage on her, she’d be inclined to forgive a little casual trespassing. “What are you doing here?” Rebekah demanded, her voice hard. “I saw your card in the door. It’s illegal for you two to be running around on my private property without my express permission.” “I’m sorry,” Noah said, his voice as smooth as fresh-churned butter. “Agent Black, Winter, told me the same thing.” He shrugged, looking almost boyish. “I’m afraid when I saw your cattle out there, it got me homesick, and I wanted to get out here and take a look at your spread. From a purely curious perspective, of course.” Rebekah’s eyes narrowed, and she set down the child she held, holding the little girl’s hand tightly. “Don’t feed me any of that down-home bullsh—” Noah cleared his throat, drowning out the last word. He hunkered down into a crouch and gave one of his winning smiles to the little girl beside Rebekah. Winter didn’t know much about children. She avoided them, usually, as painful reminders of the brother she’d lost. But this one was gorgeous. She looked to be about three years old, plump and sturdy. She had long, dark brown hair pulled up into a ponytail at the back of her head, held in place with a little red bow that matched her red and white checkered dress. Her face was like a porcelain doll, smooth and perfect, with rosebud lips and large blue eyes ringed with dark lashes. “Mama,” she whispered, tugging on Rebekah’s hand. “That man ith pretty.” Noah chuckled. “You’re pretty, too, sweetheart.” “But you hath denth in your cheekth,” she lisped seriously. “Right here.” She pointed one finger to the side of her mouth. Rebekah’s face softened as she looked down at the little girl. “Jenna, it’s time to go up to the house now. Remember? We were going to make cookies this afternoon.”

~~~

Still, there is solace when so many writers are also seeing the proliferation of the loss of personal freedom, and writing stories to "block" its advancement...

Mary Stone is such a writer. Her characters are created within the realm of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, where the worst criminal acts against Americans are handled. Winter Black is the main character, with a back story that has driven her into the FBI, and which continues to haunt her even while she, as a new agent, is assigned her first case. One that involves the discovery of a body buried in a shallow grave in a local well-used park area.

Winter has returned to her home town where tragedy struck in the worst possible way. In turn, though, she was left with a bit of clairvoyance that adds to her image as a top agent... But will that continue coming back where once The Preacher was leaving havoc in the community? And when other graves were found, other officers knew that Winter would want to be involved...

When you get into women being used for research, held in cages, and then the children being taken from the mother, this requires a need to have the case blown wide open! And, that's exactly what happens, with a little bit of romantic interests beginning... And then I turned to check the last song...and found this... Shoulda found the "Stones" first... It really is weird right now... Isn't it?

She could still hear the band playing inside, an offbeat rendition of the Stones’ “Satisfaction,” and wondered if Noah had gotten the phone number yet of the waitress who had been eyeballing him all night. She smiled, thinking about it, but it hurt a little. It didn’t matter, so she pushed it away. The moon hung low and bright in the sky. A hunter’s moon, she thought it was called. That, or a harvest moon. Whatever it was, it was beautiful, bathing the parking lot in a pale, chilly glow. She shivered a little and wished she’d opted for her heavier leather coat instead of a light fall jacket. She clicked the remote to unlock her door and opened it awkwardly with her left hand, sliding into the driver’s seat and automatically hitting the car locks. Tucked beneath the windshield wiper was a note on lined yellow paper that fluttered in the light evening wind. At first, it looked like someone had gone around putting fliers out on every car. But the note was pinned face down so that she could see what it said. Just two words were handwritten in big, masculine-looking letters. Hello, girlie. You look beautiful tonight. It could have been from anyone. But the paper glowed faintly red, and her hands trembled, just once, on the steering wheel in response. She stiffened, her hand automatically easing inside her coat to touch the reassuring weight of her gun. The parking lot was brightly lit. Except for a couple making out a few cars away, there was no one else around. No shadowy figures lurked, waiting to see their message received. She started the car and waited, still scanning the parking lot. Instinct told her the man who had left the note was gone, but still, she waited until the car slowly warmed, pumping lukewarm air out of the vents. She’d left a stretchy pair of knit gloves on the floor. She slipped one on and unlocked her door, opening it just enough to reach out and grab the paper. Shutting the door and locking it again, she didn’t spare the note another glance, just stuffed it in the glove compartment and closed it. The red glow wasn’t visible, but she could still feel its presence. No big deal. Just a serial killer checking in. Reminding her that he was out there somewhere, doing whatever serial killers did in their retirement years...

GABixlerReviews

Sophie Jaff Debuts with Love is Red - Unforgettable Fascinating Romantic Suspense Bordered with Horror!

She's your first drink after the drought, your first bite after the famine. Hers are the first streaks, the first leaks of bold and brilliant color. You intend to savor every drop.

In the Beginning you did not hunt; you merely sought out and destroyed.
In the Beginning you were swift and did not linger. You took what you needed, you harvested the Vessel, and you were gone. But as the ages of time passed you began to love the colors humming in your veins and pumping through your heart. Each color brought you closer to life, gave you a deeper understanding of how it is lived, so different from the nothingness, the great absence.
You began to slow down
You began to enjoy.

Terror is the color of under the bed,
it is the color of bone marrow and
the color of chalk, it wails like sirens,
it hums like wasps, it thuds like an
MRI machine, it tastes of sweat, it
tastes of metal, it tastes of rising bile,
if feels like the scrape of cement
against skin, it thumps like a pounding
heart.
~~~

You will tell her more stories. Stories to make her eyes wide and her thighs tighten as she tries to draw backward. That's why it's safer when you tie them up You learned that long ago. It's for her own good. Otherwise she'll move too much, more than you like, and you'll have to stop her moving. Then she won't last too long. This has happened before. Bad girls don't get playtime...You expertly gag her with the soft red silken scarf you keep for just such an occasion. Once she can no longer scream, you hold out your blade for her to see...
As you prepare her for your true purpose, you call her the name you wanted to call her all evening. You lean over the softly call her Katherine...

And she is only a means to the Vessel.
Katherine, who woke you from your darkness.
Katherine, who calls you ever closer.
Katherine, your destiny.
Katherine, the perfect one.
Katherine, the only one.

~~~

Love is Red

By Sophie Jaff

I wish I could say that my choice of the first vampire actor, Bela Lugosi, is an informed choice of "what" you will meet in Jaff's Debut novel, Love is Red. But I admit I have no idea what type of creature is stalking the women of New York City. He's dubbed the "Sickle Man" based upon, I am sure you can guess, his weapon...

The most intriguing part about this monster is that he seems to "think" in colors and perhaps even truly "tastes" them. Like the example above, he senses emotions, gives them a color--even to the point of what they taste like--as if he has literally explored what he was eating or what was on his tongue, and defines it until he has an acceptable definition of what that color tastes like.

For this reader, I was fascinated as I was stopped whenever this occurred in the novel, prepared to analyze the paragraph and try to imagine how the chosen definition had come about. Some worked for me; some were incomprehensible but still intriguing...

Petulance is maroon, it crumbles like stale graham crackers,

it smells of carpets stained with apple juice, it sounds like the

tap of impatient fingernails, it feels like the scratch of pearls

across your teeth, it gives a twist and pinch of salt to the

lavender of insecurity...

~~~

And then there are the places throughout the novel where excerpts of an entirely different novel, The Maiden of Morwyn Castle, a gothic novel that takes readers far into the past--but with no explanation for its being there. Are characters in that book, now living in the present time in Love is Red? I was willing to leave myself open, trying to pick up clues of what was really happening! Got to admit I was digging deep to follow this thought-provoking story... What a treat!

"The best part of New York," he drawls, "is the
people watching."
"What are you doing there?"  He was watching
me change, and I'm wearing my shitty underwear.
Did I scratch myself? Adjust my bra?"I thought it was obvious."
"I trust you enjoyed that?"
He paused in thought. Insult added to injury.
"Wasn't terrible." The sides of his lips turn up
ever so slightly.
"Aren't you going to apologize?"
"No."
"You should apologize."
"Why? I'm not sorry."
~~~

I won't go into the gory details of the slash murders of the women that came before Katherine...they are really minor diversions to what is coming...and it happens so, well, I must say deliciously...

Katherine gets conned into going to a party with a friend, who doesn't share early it is a costume party...and then leaves her alone most of the night as he seeks out the attention of the host. Finally, she decides to leave and heads for a room where she can change clothes...

I go into the host's room to change. The bed is a sea of clothes. The walls are a light shade of gray, soft in the glow of the bedside lamp. I move quickly. I don't want someone to walk it. I want to change and get out of here. Bra hooked, top pulled over and down, jean buttons done, shoes tied, and it is only when I look in the full-length mirror that I see the man sitting in the chair. He has been sitting there the whole time. I wheel around with a little scream...

Oh no, I'm not going to finish that scene, but I will tell you that it was wonderful how Katherine quietly turned the tables on him and got her own, shall I say, justice...LOL Loved this scene!

But that was not the end, because Katherine is presently getting to know and enjoy dating David. She finds out during a dinner date with him that a good friend of his, Sael, happens to be the guy who had watched her change clothes that night! They both pretend not to have met when they are brought together at dinner...but that, in itself, might have led to what happened...

Because Sael came after Katherine and their mutual attraction was no longer ignored...

Readers begin to watch as Katherine is caught between the two men, with lies all around...but...slowly begin to wonder...where is this leading because Katherine begins to have unexplained visions that haunt her--is there something wrong with me???

And then more supernatural actions are revealed as "You" remembers when "you" met your Ride...

He smelled like umber, the color of a day well done. He
sighed a faint scent of toothpaste and the deeper primal
wet of his mouth. He sighed and then he inhaled you in...
deeper, still deeper to the core of him of you--
~~~

You came in the night. You came in the dark, under the door, through the window. You came to him as he lay in bed, lay in the thin place between wakefulness and sleep. Why him? Why you?
Because. Because the wind blew, because the ancient cogs clicked into place, because the moon covered its face and the spray from the sea turned red and something stirred deep in the dust of the universe.

Got to tell you that although this book has a totally satisfying ending, you won't have all the answers. This is the first book in the Night Song Trilogy and you'll going to be looking toward the next book as soon as you finish this one!

What is it that is killing the women in New York? And what or who is Katherine that he calls his "vessel..."

Readers, this is unbelievable for a debut novel. Sophie Jaff writes brilliantly, with a touch of dark poetic language that is edgy, raw and compelling. I was caught from the very first and am still puzzling over where this trilogy might go--into the historical past or is it totally the supernatural realm...Jaff has me hooked in a suspense that won't stop until the full Night Song has been sung!


GABixlerReviews

A native of South Africa, Sophie Jaff, is an alumna of the Graduate Musical Theatre Writing Program at the Tisch School of the Arts, New York University and a fellow at the Dramatist Guild.

Sophie was the bookwriter/lyricist for the children's musical A Shelter in Our Car, written with Robert L. Wilson, which the New York Times called a "poignant, sensitively written and buoyant show." It was produced in 2007 at Symphony Space in New York, where it was seen by over 12,000 school children and subsequently published by Boosey & Hawkes.

Sophie's work has also been performed at The Library of Performing Arts, Lincoln Center, The Duplex, The Gershwin and Goodspeed Musicals. Her musical Erika's Wall, written with Dr. Kathleen Tagg, was given a full developmental production by the Music Theatre Company in Chicago, July 2010. Other works includes the cabaret Not That We're Bitter, written with Gaby Alter, song cycle Everything and written with Rob Hartmann, which won the Frederick Loewe Foundation Grant.

Sophie's first children's book The Adventures of Lula the Discontented Cow was published in 2005 (Human & Rousseau). She was the Dungeon Master (Head Writer and Creative Director) for the online Internet game Shadowtale where she wrote over 800,000 words of content.

Sophie is represented by literary agent Alexandra Machinist of ICM Partners and book-to-film agent Josie Freedman of ICM Partners.

You can like Sophie on Facebook and follow her on Twitter.

The Confessions of Jonathan Flite May Just Be Spookiest, Weirdest Novel You've Read...Whew!

...Jonathan's eighth birthday brought a surprise. Winifred had asked Clarette the nanny to organize a party and invite Jonathan's fellow second graders. Nine of them showed up with their parents close in tow. When it was time for cake, Jonathan blew out his candles as any good birthday boy would. Then he said, "Est-ce que quelqu'um veut du the avec son gateau?"
Only Clarette was able to keep from staring at him, agape. She went to the kitchen to boil a kettle of water. Only then did she realize Jonathan had spoken--in French.
In the weeks that followed, Winifred asked questions, and Jonathan answered.
"How long have you known French?"
"My whole life."
"Because of Clarette? Does she speak it when I'm not here?"
"No, she always speaks in English."
"Then how do you know it?"
"I just do."
"And could you always speak English, too?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you? Don't you know how worried I was?
"Because I've been confused."
"What confused you?"
"Molly and Elijah and Jillian and the others."
"What do you mean? Who are molly and Elijah?"
"The kids who went into the Moon Woods."
"What are the Moon Woods?"
"A place I remember."
"You've never been to a place called the Moon Woods. What on Earth are you talking about?"
Jonathan shrugged, then sauntered to the living room and grabbed his reading tablet. When he returned, he handed her a display of Google results for the search term "Idle County Seven." Most of them were headlines dated eighteen years earlier, in 2010. Some were from a publication called The Circle Gazette, others were from the Wind Prairie Tribune, and yet others were from the Minneapolis Star Tribune.
"Seven Idle County Teens Disappear Without a Trace,"
"No Ckues Yet in Idle County Seven Disappearances."
"Celebrity Victor Zobel Organizes search for Missing Teens."
"Police Find Evidence Teens Left Town.
After confiscating the reading tablet and putting all of Jonathan's internet usage under close monitoring, Winifred did her own research. Jonathan's search history showed that, since learning to read at age four, he had visited at least two hundred web sites relating to the disappearance of these seven teenagers...

~~~

The Confessions of Jonathan Flite

By Matthew Beier

Personally, I think the title, using "Confessions," is somewhat misleading... Jonathan Flite had nothing to confess. What he did have was something so unbelievable that even his mother was unable to accept him for what he possessed... But then, she had been in turmoil since Jonathan had been born, especially when he didn't start talking at the normal age. And when he did first speak, it was in French...

The concept for this book is so unique that readers must immediately realize that the author must be someone special, especially at this age. The idea is so well out of the realm of possibility that readers will perhaps have a difficult time even accepting the premise. However, before the book is completed, you will not open have read about a very cold case, a town with seemingly supernatural activities, but a realization that Jonathan who had spent most of his life in some sort of asylum, was all along quite sane...

You see Jonathan was born with all of the memories of the seven teenagers who had disappeared in Moon Wood, including Molly, whose picture is provided...

What? Yes, I wrote it correctly... But I must say that I totally empathized when Jonathan decided not to start talking...I mean, would he be using his own memories which were just now being formed of his new home, his mother...

Or would he speak of the awful memories that explained what happened to each of the teenagers...?

Can evil infiltrate into a physical location and stay there forever? And would the dead rest--those who had "disappeared" from that location? Although these individuals were not being taken by a serial killer, there was a specific reason ...and research being done...that required the use of humans...This book starts at the beginning of the century and moves from time period to time period, ranging back  and forward to the year 2034- which is, in essence, the present... But the story also  began earlier...near the beginning of the last century when a woman named Elizabeth Grime was born and a man named Simon Villard received a journal from Father Benedict Wise for his 13th birthday and later was ordained a priest... A couple of chapters go as far back as 1947...

1947 - Omitted from a preliminary draft of Idle County: A Living Mystery, by Dr. Thomas Lumen, dated April 18, 2028:

In trying to tell this story, I run into the obstacle of describing just what Elizabeth Grime saw and heard when she and Theodore Tarnish came face to face with Simon Villard in the old cemetery. There was a full orange moon, she remembered, and everything, even the ghosts, were cast under a fiery glow.

I cannot do the story justice, nor can I convey just how astounding it was to hear Elizabeth tell it, in her attic, during the lightning storm. It was one of those nights I will never forget and never be able to describe properly to anyone.

Simon Villard had beckoned to Elizabeth and Theodore. The approached him immediately and wasted no time in asking him what he had done to Joshua Grime. Villard never stopped smiling during Elizabeth's harangue. She asked him not just about her husband but about a number of other disappearances around the area, and there was never a point at which he denied being involved. When Theodore Tarnish tried to attack him, Villard left him with a sprained wrist and bruised neck...

You see, all of this is now being researched by a psychiatrist, Thomas Lumen who had once lived there. He had already been doing research of the area based upon his own personal experience, but then heard about Jonathan Flite and went to see him... BTW, I've enjoyed Stephen Fry as a TV psychiatrist and feel comfortable he'd make a wonderful Dr. Lumen although making this book for the screen would have to be for a TV series! However, the special effects of some of the scenes would be spectacular...one of them something like this

The first disappearance started some years afterward and continued from then on...until a major attack on Geneva, Switzerland on August 12th, 2037.

"I appreciate your giving me a chance to help," Dr. Lumen
said in a low voice, gesturing with his head toward the
common room. Winifred turned to see Jonathan and his
friend Mason playing cards by the window... "I know all
this seems silly to you," Dr. Lumen continued, "but you
might feel differently if you were in my shoes. Idle County
gets into your bones. The place is just weird enough to
make you doubt everything you know..."
!!!

"So, the fact that the FBI actually took the time to come out here and question Jonathan about Geneva means nothing?" Dr. Lumen said over an even breath. "Based on what he told me today, and what I know about Idle County, I'm convinced his memories are legitimate, in whatever way that might be possible. And if the FBI is trying to make some sort of case against Victor Zobel, it means Jonathan could know something incriminating. And that's a cause for concern. Victor Zobel is a powerful man..."

Winifred [Jonathan's mother] watched Dr. Lumen... The wisp of patience she had developed for him was menacingly beginning to coalesce into something resembling respect. If anything, the man was concerned for Jonathan in a way Dr. Freede had never been. This hit her like an empty treasure chest.

No matter what your beliefs, this literary horror story forces readers to consider whether there is something out there that only takes so much, and then decides to eliminate the accumulation of evil that has occurred. Jonathan Flite suffered for the majority of his life because of the method by which these horrendous activities, which continued occurring in Idol County, were done...  The author certainly puts forth a lot to consider if you read this novel. I've only highlighted parts because I don't want to give anything away on this one. It's literary horror at its finest and, for me, reminded me of the early books by Dean Koontz when his books were mistakenly categorized as comparable to Stephen King... 

Scenes definitely include the supernatural but these dead people have not become zombies... you might say they are instruments of vengeance... I dare you to read this one. This relatively young author, in my opinion, has an amazing career ahead of him... Highly recommended...

GABixlerReviews

Matthew J. Beier is a novelist, publisher, photographer, and screenwriter based in the San Francisco Bay Area. Since as far back as he can remember, he has been fascinated with visual art and storytelling, especially when they go hand in hand. Born in Duluth, Minnesota, he fostered a knack for these art forms at a very young age, whether by painting with watercolors to deal with his emotions or by drawing pictures to deal with the stories in his head (and sometimes writing their narrations with the help of his mother).

After learning to read in first grade, Matthew lost himself in the worlds of The Boxcar Children,Encyclopedia Brown, My Teacher Is An Alien,Goosebumps, and every other epic, adventurous, or mysterious story he could get his hands on. When he was nine years old, the film adaptation of Micheal Crichton’s Jurassic Park (and, subsequently, the novel itself) changed his life forever. After seeing the film and reading the book the following year, Matthew developed a passion for storytelling that branched in two directions: writing and movie making. He started making dramatized home movies with his siblings and friends at age twelve, when his parents were finally able to buy a Sony Handycam; during other spare moments, he began writing fiction, dreaming that he might someday be able to string enough words together to make a novel.

These interests influenced Matthew’s study of photography and writing in high school and led him in 2003 to Chapman University’s School of Film and Television (now Dodge College of Film and Media Arts) in Orange, California. There, he spent three semesters studying screenwriting, film production, and English before spending a final semester abroad at Victoria University in Wellington, New Zealand, where he studied popular media and art history.

In 2012, Matthew opened Epicality Books, LLC, an independent publishing and publishing services company. His current novel, The Breeders, is on sale now, and he is hard at work on his next book, The Confessions of Jonathan Flite, and its sequels.

Excerpt by David Callinan...An Angel on My Shoulder...Review Coming...

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The Pendulum Diaries

There are days when sunlight scythes through the branches of trees and etches the world into a still-life tableau. On such days time is banished as scintillas of light trap people in frozen poses, like statues, or shadows in a peepshow. It can last for less than a second but it might as well be a lifetime.

It was on a day such as this that Paul had stood with Annie outside a dome-shaped theatre surrounded by well-cut lawns. A straggling crowd was making its way into the exhibition, ‘Connections’. This was a mixed bag of a show, part market, part new age bazaar, part chicanery and pseudo wisdom, where you could buy organic juice, fresh vegetables, candles and love potions, visit a couple of clairvoyants, sit in a tepee, learn to meditate or buy oddball books.

Annie was eager to get inside. She had been showing an unusual interest in anything spiritual or even wacky. Paul had some reservations about this so-called new age explosion. His take on the whole question of life and existence had seen him delve much deeper than the transient world of ‘enlightenment’ that had now become a mass-market business worth millions.

It was partly, he supposed, because he lived and worked in a structured world of business where computers were the new gods and cyberspace the new universe.

“I want to learn to meditate,” said Annie as they went in, bought tickets and collected an armful of leaflets, “like you used to do.”

“That’s fine, but don’t be taken in by everything you see in here,” Paul replied. “A lot of this is just commercial mumbo-jumbo.”

“Yeah, yeah!” she smiled.

“I can teach you to meditate,” said Paul.

“Like you tried to teach me to drive,” she laughed. “We ended up in a shouting match.”

“I just mean, there’s real spiritual information out there and there’s razzmatazz like this.”

They entered a large hall with a decorated domed ceiling. It was full of colour and light, kaftans and dreadlocks interspersed with earnest and newly converted devotees of Hindu and Buddhist sects, po-faced Christians offering booklets, brightly coloured tarot stalls and I-Ching readers and smiling aloe vera salesmen. A heady mixture of perfumes and scents drifted through the packed hall. The visitors were a mixed bag. Some looked like refugees from a third-rate rock concert, or were gipsy travellers with snivelling kids in tow. Others were middle income bracket devotees determined to find enlightenment on their doorstep but the majority was just the plain curious.

Annie and Paul drifted with the crowd, pausing here and there. Annie rushed into the tepee to experience some Sioux Indian drumming and came out again a little later less than impressed.

“My hands hurt,” she complained.

“There’s a transcendental meditation stall over there,” said Paul. “Why don’t you check it out? I’ll have a wander around.”

Annie smiled and rushed through the crowd, pausing to buy a silk headscarf that she tied around her head tucking her long blonde hair inside. Paul smiled at her enthusiasm. You can learn a lot from your kids, he told himself.Maybe more than they can learn from you.

Paul stopped by the aloe vera stall and listened to the sales pitch that tried to persuade him to become an agent and make a fortune from residual income. He thanked the guy politely and moved on, tempted for a moment by an attractive tarot card reader who smiled at him encouragingly, as if to say, you’re special, you have a special future ahead of you.

Paul bought a pendant for Kate and then noticed a stall tucked away by a pillar. A number of people had gathered around a sallow skinned little man who was pointing out something on a large chart on the table in front of him surrounded by piles of book, manuals and pendulums.

Paul’s curiosity was aroused. Dowsing and work with pendulums did have some scientific validity and whenever something unexplainable seemed to fit neatly side-by-side with something that could be explained or surmised, Paul was intrigued. He knew, for instance, that many elements, including metals and ores of all kinds and, of course, water, could be dowsed. A pendulum was like a physical or quirky version of the periodic table. A pendulum would always spin a set number of times over or close to a chemical compound or a metal. It never varied.

He walked across to the stall and noticed that the small man was holding a pendulum above a chart upon which was printed a piano scale-like illustration with lines like barcodes of different thicknesses stretching in a semicircle across the page. Barcode was a pretty good analogy. He listened as the man explained patiently what he was doing to a sceptical onlooker.

“I am examining your past lives for debris and detritus,” he stated. “You can clear from past existences the trouble, crimes, sins and bad karma that have infiltrated your present life and are causing much of the grief and problems you currently suffer.”

“I don’t believe in past lives,” said the onlooker.

“You don’t have to believe,” said the stallholder, “you just have to notice the difference from now on. Then you will believe.”

The onlooker moved on, shaking his head. Paul stood watching the man for a moment. A sign above his stall proclaimed: ‘Ebenezer Nuttley – past life regression and clearance - parallel universes explored’. Here, at last, was Paul’s kind of stall. He didn’t know if he believed in past lives or not. He thought, on balance, that he did, but not as portrayed by any religious movement. Ebenezer - no one was called Ebenezer these days - crouched over his chart intently.

Paul glanced around looking for Annie. He saw her at the tarot card stall as she was about to sit down for a reading. He waved and she waved back.

“Can I help you?” Nuttley’s voice was thin, like a reed in the wind.

“I’m curious,” said Paul. “What’s all this about?”

“It’s a system devised by a minister of religion, believe it or not,” he answered. “Throughout various incarnations in which the spirit has been made flesh and in parallel universes where other versions of ourselves are living their lives, there takes place, what you might call, spiritual spillage.”

“Spiritual spillage?” Paul was now really curious.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Nuttley invited Paul.

Paul pulled up a small stool and looked closely at the chart. It was divided into sections with titles such as: soul partners; recently departed; parallel lives; historical relationships; future events; dark matter; angels; demons and spirit life.

“Time and space are one,” explained Nuttley and Paul looked closely at him for the first time. He had a gnome-like face, and it was difficult to guess his exact age: his bald scalp was wrapped in a bandana and he possessed remarkably long and delicate fingers.

“Each of us will die with, what you might describe as, a nugget of wisdom gained from our time in this material world. Since there is only the constant now, past and future are mental constructs that have no real substance. What does have substance is the imprint of our actions, emotions, hopes and fears on the spirit material we are made from. Most of the experiences of our lives are meaningless and serve no purpose. Other experiences have profound effects, both positive and negative. Problems, fears, emotional upsets, scandals, crimes and anything unresolved from past or future existences can affect our present lives and therefore our ability to gather wisdom and grow in spirit.

“This is a system by which we contact the supreme spirit and discover from this chart what the blockages are and where they have come from. These can then be cleared.”

“Fascinating,” whispered Paul.

“I sell the system and the instruction manual,” said Nuttley. “It is money very well spent, believe me.”

“Can you show me?” Paul asked.

“I can give you a small demonstration,” he replied. He handed Paul a pearl droplet pendulum on a silver chain.

“Hold the pendulum over the centre point,” Nuttley instructed him. “Then watch.”

Paul noticed that all the sections on the outer ring of the semicircle had lines drawn to a point in the centre of the chart. He did as Nuttley had asked and held the pendulum as still as he could. Slowly at first, then with gathering speed, the pendulum began to spin, then it oscillated until it was moving in a linear direction exactly along one of the lines leading to a section called ‘historical relationships’.

“You must be absolutely sure that you are in contact with your supreme soul,” Nuttley warned. “It is quite possible for unwanted entities to gain access and cause trouble. You will know when this happens because you will receive nonsensical answers to your questions.”

“Questions?” said Paul.

“You have to find out what is causing blockages from some historical relationship. Only the supreme spirit can wipe this clean. If the pendulum circles to the left, it is yes, to the right it is no.”

“How do I know what to ask? This could take hours.”

“Not really,” Nuttley replied patiently. “The thoughts will come into your head. Ask if you committed a crime.”

Paul hesitated at first, then, looking uncertainly at Nuttley, he asked the question in his head. Immediately the pendulum circled to the right, swinging powerfully. He watched Nuttley’s fingers as they twitched slightly, disturbing the dust motes which floated across the room in the kind of light peculiar to church halls or museums.

“That’s a no,” Nuttley told him. The fingers danced then came together.

Paul began to think over his past life. Suddenly, the pendulum veered violently to the left.

“What were you thinking of?” asked Nuttley.

“It’s personal,” said Paul.

“It doesn’t matter to me, my friend,” Nuttley smiled. “Ask for it to be cleared then confirm you are clear.”

Paul had been thinking about Marion and how he had left her pregnant. He had been carrying that guilt around ever since. His heart felt heavy and he could almost sense Marion’s presence.

“I’m sorry,” he thought and tears almost came to his eyes.

“Ask if it can be cleared,” Nuttley said softly.

Paul did so, trying to visualize the supreme soul. The pendulum stopped, then once again circled to the right before swinging to the left in a straight line to a section Paul hadn’t seen before which said the word ‘Clear’.

“I have other customers, my friend,” said Nuttley.

“I’ll take one,” Paul said.

“Good,” replied the little man. “Remember, you have to ensure you are talking to your supreme soul and not some errant spirit. The manual explains everything; all the safeguards.”

Paul glanced around and saw that Annie was making her way towards him. One or two others had been standing behind him watching. Nuttley wrapped up a chart, manual and pendulum and handed the package to Paul. As Paul paid him he noticed a pile of business cards.

“I’ll put my card in the bag in case you ever want a private consultation or need me to clear you,” said Nuttley. “Goodbye.”

“Wow, that was amazing,” said Annie as they walked across the lawn to the car park.

“Go on,” Paul encouraged her.

“I can’t tell you everything,” she said. “But, the next three years are going to be extraordinary. I have to be careful to make the right choices. I have to follow my heart and not my head. Maybe I should not try for medical school or university but try to be an actress. That’s what my heart tells me. There was a lot of other personal stuff I can’t talk about.”

“Why can’t you study to become a doctor and act part time? If you’re not any good you’ll soon find out and in the meantime you could have a career in medicine.”

Annie did not seem that convinced. “I had a funny feeling during that reading,” she told him.

“Go on.”

“It was kind of like, taking a step into the unknown. I don’t know. I’m not explaining it very well.”

“Was it like the sudden knowledge that you have moved in a particular direction and life will never be the same again?”

She looked at him. “Yes, that’s exactly it. How did you know?”

“Because it does happen to other people too, darling.”

Annie put her arm through his. “I’m glad I’ve got you as a dad,” she said.

“I should hope so,” said Paul as he blinked and looked away for a moment.

“What was happening on that stall?” she asked.

“Oh, just some wacko talking about past lives.”

“I’m sure I’ve been here before,” she said.

“I think once is enough for you, my girl. Come on, let’s go home.”

Paul forgot about the pendulum and past life clearance for a while. He was involved in a particularly difficult project that occupied most of his time. He put Nuttley’s package in a filing cabinet in his office with the intention of exploring it later.

In any event, three months went by before he was rummaging through some old paperwork and came across the packet with the name Ebenezer Nuttley scrawled on the outside.

“Why not?” he thought.

He opened the packet, took out the instruction manual and began to read. The concept of karma, or the law of cause and effect, had always fascinated him. At first sight it appeared a remarkably obvious process. But then, it implied that there was a form of super organic organization behind the scenes. Decisions would have to made involving millions of lives past and present lives all creating and burning off karma until they merged unsullied into the great light of creation, the permanent now.

This pendulum-based karmic clearance system had been devised by a man who claimed to have already by-passed it and reached the point where he was able to communicate with spiritual beings by blinking. Neat, Paul thought, although, what if you didn’t wish to communicate? Initially however, the process was straightforward. Whatever responded to the spinning pendulum, which seemed to act as a kind of cosmic key or telephone line, had to be identified as being your soul guardian - rather like a guardian angel. The guardian could not lie to you but other wayward spirits would do more than lie. It seemed the invisible world of spirit was teeming with life, albeit dead from a human perspective. By asking questions that you alone knew the answers to, it could be established that you were in direct communication with your guardian angel not with some mischievous spirit.

You could isolate past and future lives, discover who you were or would be, understand the nature of traumatic events that may have taken place and ask your supreme soul to clear them from your soul, spirit, psyche or karmic load. Some of the more sinister categories included satanic possession. A slight shiver ran down Paul’s spine when he saw this, but the problem was, did you have to believe in all this stuff for it to be true, or, was it just the way things were irrespective of what human beings believed?

Paul began by a process of self-analysis, letting the pendulum have free rein. He noted that it was purely a matter of dreaming up a question to which an answer of sorts was given. The answers prompted further questions and answers until Paul was deep in a kind of meditative trance.

“Do I have problems from a past life?” he asked.

The pendulum indicated he had. What followed then was a bizarre series of questions and answers. Paul didn’t know where the questions were coming from. They just popped into his head.

“Was I male?”

“No.”

“Am I male now?”

“No.”

“Hey, what is this?”

Paul realized he had not been carrying out the regular safety checks.

“Are you my soul guardian?”

“No, yes.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Yes.”

Paul asked for the soul guardian to return and this time he felt he could sense the difference. The manual recommended using the chart to narrow down areas of investigation and then position the pendulum over the palm of the hand to ask questions and request clearance.

He also realized that he could ask questions about other people. To begin with, he pressed on about his own life or lives.

“What event in my last life has caused trouble in this one?” he inquired.

The pendulum moved to the section covering death. Paul paused. Did he really want to go down this road?

This is more than self-analysis, he concluded. And the longer he pressed on, the deeper became the questions he was asking, mainly of himself. It was stunning how a simple yes and no question session began to unlock emotions and fears he had long since buried or didn’t know he had.

“Did I have a happy death last time?” he queried.

“No.”

“Why?” Paul thought he’d try a new tack.

The pendulum began to spin in a large circle, first to the left and then to the right. Then it changed direction and hit the section denoted as trauma pretty violently, Paul thought. The pendulum seemed to contain its own life force, gentle and passive when the questions were run-of-the-mill but markedly furious when they got to be near-the-knuckle.

“Was I murdered?” Paul ventured.

“Yes,” came the answer with what Paul felt was a degree of satisfaction.

“Are you my supreme soul?” he checked.

The pendulum swung to a yes answer and Paul believed it. Paul asked a series of questions relating to this death and discovered that he had lived around 150 years ago in Syria. He was learning the technique of short circuiting hundreds of questions and getting to the answer pretty swiftly. He didn’t know what to believe. What exactly was he communicating with? Whatever it was, it had to be in his mind, or in his brain. But it was wholly unlikely that he could have dug up some fantasy story about being a Syrian in a previous life on his own account.

He paused for a while and looked out of his office window. He needed to talk to someone about this. The process was starting to leave a faint whiff of unease inside him. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

He changed tack and began to ask questions about Kate and their marriage.

The pendulum adamantly moved to the section, which denoted discontent in this life. This was at the opposite end of the chart to his original questions about himself.

“Is Kate happy?” he asked.

“Yes.” the pendulum circled to the left. Then, before Paul could ask another question, it began to reverse its direction.

Concerned and irritated, Paul checked out his soul guardian to make sure no wandering spirit had happened to find the channel open. No, the supreme soul was still in control. On an impulse Paul asked:

“Has Kate ever been unfaithful to me?”

There was a pause as the pendulum returned to vertical and then spun conclusively to the left. Paul looked up stunned for a moment, alternately believing and disbelieving. He didn’t notice the pendulum had stopped circling and had reversed direction.

Paul slammed the pendulum down on the desk and stared at it. It wasn’t possible. He knew Kate so well. He would surely have known. Then a worm of doubt slithered into his subconscious. What about the visits she used to make to that riding stables with Bessie, their bay mare? She had always returned from those visits a little higher than normal. He hadn’t noticed anything in particular and he had met the guy who ran the stables at country shows when he accompanied Kate and Bessie to help out. Now, he thought back, had there been a spark between them? There was nothing obvious at the time.

None of this could be true. He refused to believe it. Dare he ask the question?

He picked up the golden chain and positioned the pendulum over his left palm then took a deep breath,

“Was it Terry?” he asked. “Has Kate had an affair with Terry Sullivan?”