Friday, May 18, 2012



What do you do when a phantom needs your help?

A small plane crashes into Jase's backyard, and before long, he realizes the ghost of the pilot is haunting him. Jase needs help to rid himself of this supernatural visitor. When he sees his friend, Stevie, entering the town's legendary haunted house, he's certain she's the one who will have the answer to his problem. But will she help him? Would you?


            It was the late 60’s: the Beatles had washed across America like a British tsunami, Vietnam was a grainy, green and black dose of unreality on the evening news, a bunch of hippies had taken over San Francisco, and there was a heck of a rainstorm pouring down on Woodstock. But I didn’t know all that then.
            I was a little bit lost, looking for something.  But I swear I didn’t go looking for a ghost . . . well, okay, maybe I did.  But I didn’t expect to find one.  Heck, I was just a kid—I didn’t expect much of anything.

Chapter One

            I was twelve years old, standing knock-kneed in pigtails and ripped denim in front of a haunted house, trying to dig up enough courage to go inside.  I was terrified.  I’d read the books; I’d seen the movies on Shock Theater.  No matter what, you don’t go inside the spooky old house.  No matter who dares you, no matter what lures you.  You do not go in.
            Hand trembling, I opened the door.

Where to buy:

CHEMS, Book Cover Copy

In this 7,200 word short story, Billy discovers a chemical zombie hiding in his dad's toolshed.  Can he devise a way to keep the whole thing secret in order to help find, and destroy, a rogue CHEM named Z ?

I found him in our shed.  His silvery-blue skin was mottled with healing burns, and a few strips of charred flesh still hung in tatters from his elbows and forearms.  He was curled up like a comma in a pile of old feed sacks.  I was raising chickens for my 4-H project, and those old sacks came in handy for cleaning the bottoms of my shoes each morning before school.
 The year was 1974 and I was in the eighth grade.  I was in a hurry, running late as usual, and I had just opened the hen house to let my flock out for the day when I looked across the packed-earth yard and noticed the toolshed door wasn’t completely closed.  I was the one responsible for shutting things up in the evening, so I knew that door was closed and latched the night before.
I tiptoed up and tried to see inside through the crack—had my eye pressed to it just like that Tell-Tale Heart guy we’d read about in English—but I couldn’t see anything except that pile of old sacks.
Then they moved. 

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