ShriekWeek












ISBN Digital: 978-1-62830-563-0
Page Count: 69
Word Count: 15280
Rating: Sweet (G-PG)


Hauntings in the Garden

Events organizer Maggie Ballater has a new career, a new Island home, and a new life, and intends to make the most of it. But two things stand in her way. One is the dangerously attractive guitarist who brings back memories she’d rather forget. The other is the inexplicable murder of the lead actor in her ShriekWeek pageant.

Bram Jenkins wants to clear his name after being imprisoned for a crime he swears he did not commit. He has no time to be distracted by an opinionated woman he  suspects of working for his enemy.

Solving the ShriekWeek murder means they must both face up to the past before they can lay their ghosts to rest, and find out where their future lies.
 

Halloween
Rating: Sweet
Page Count: 69
Word Count: 15280
978-1-62830-563-0 Digital

Excerpt:

No one had said at her interview that the events organizer would stage-manage an open air pageant on a dark night in freezing October gales. The ghost walk, planned on a summer day, now felt unbelievably long in the bitter autumn chill.

And for the vicar, of all people, to be the one to wreck the rehearsal with his erratic behaviour…

Poised with her hand on the light switch, she took one last look round. Something wasn’t right. But what? Just as she snapped off the lights, the Gothic door to the street creaked open and amber light spilled down the corridor.

A cold draught curled round the back of her neck, and she shuddered. The ghostly robes on the cloakroom pegs fluttered into life, then subsided again into limp sheets with black holes for eyes.

The oak door crashed shut, and her boss, Kyle Lachlan, creator, producer, and director of ShriekWeek, strode down the corridor toward her. “No dithering, Maybe.” He did not wait for an answer, never did. “We’re late.”

“You’re late.” But she did not say it. And she hated being called Maybe, but she did not say that either. The nickname created by her initials M.A.B. had followed her since primary school, and wherever she travelled there was always some smartass who thought he’d invented it for the first time.

His Cuban heels clacked like a tap dancer’s over the stone flags. His black cloak swirled around him, and the night lights flickered in the pumpkin lanterns on the tables lining the walls.

Spooky. She shivered. Someone walking over her grave, her granny would have said. But it was just exhaustion, and the chill of a Victorian building after hours.

Irritation swept away her nagging uneasiness. She turned the old-fashioned key until the lock thudded into place and scurried after her boss toward the lights ahead.




Copyright © 2017 The Wild Rose Press, Inc.