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This thread is for excerpts posted by the 10 participating authors in the Spooky Halloween Sale.

Here is an excerpt of Dark Before Dawn. For more information, visit .

Dawn Christian curled under the covers, shivering in her nightshirt. Goosebumps popped up on her bare arms. She breathed in and out, trying to calm herself. Even the safety of darkness couldn’t hide it.
Something was wrong.

She knew it the same way she had known it would rain despite the weather report. Now gray clouds blistered outside the window.
I can’t go, I can’t go, I can’t go, something bad’s going to happen. Dawn rubbed between her eyebrows, the message flying around inside her brain like a loose pinball.

The red numbers of her alarm clock flickered to 6:29. Dawn rolled onto her other side and faced the wall. In an hour, she’d be starting her junior year at a lame new high school. She missed Boston and taking the T, the city’s subway system, wherever she wanted to go. Dawn used to hang out at museums, watch the college kids in Harvard Square and read books at the Common. Sometimes, she and her mother caught Saturday matinees in the theater district.
Not anymore. Ever since the wedding in July, Dawn had been stuck in Covington, Maine, a beach town overflowing with rinky dink carnival rides, cheesy souvenir stores and bad vibrations.

“Dawn?� She turned to find her mother framed in the dimly lit doorway, fully dressed. “Are you coming down for breakfast?�
“I’m not hungry.�
“Nervous about school?�

Gulping, Dawn huddled under the blankets. No way could she discuss her feeling with her mom. Her mother wanted a normal daughter who was on the basketball team or school newspaper, had friends and didn’t live in fear. “Kind of.�

Her mother lowered herself onto the bed and squeezed Dawn’s hand. Her manicured pink nails shone against Dawn’s pale skin. Since meeting Jeff eight months ago, Dawn’s mother had been letting her curly hair hang loose and wearing makeup.

She smoothed back a tangle of Dawn’s chestnut waves. “You don’t look like yourself. Do you feel all right?�
“I’m fine.� Dawn shoved her stuffed monkey, Buddy, further under the blankets. Her father gave her Buddy shortly before he died, and holding it was like hugging a piece of her dad. Still, sleeping with a toy monkey was kiddish and Dawn didn’t do it often. Her mother would get suspicious if she noticed.

Darn it. Her mother drew out Buddy by his slender tail and patted his furry brown head. “Calling in the reinforcements, huh? What’s on your mind, honey? Maybe I can help.�

Dawn sat up and clasped her knees. Her mother never understood about Dawn’s hunches. “I don’t think you really want to know, Mom.�
“Of course I do.�
Yeah, right. But Dawn didn’t have the stamina for lying today. “I’m getting one of my premonitions. Something’s wrong. I think it has to do with school.�

She waited and sure enough, her mother got the frightened look she’d worn too many times before. Dawn remembered the look that terrible night with Mrs. Frazier � but she didn’t want to think about that.

Her mother dropped Buddy onto the mattress and squirmed as if fighting off a chill. “I’m sure it’s just regular old nerves,� she said in an overly cheerful voice. “It’s hard enough adjusting to a new home and a new family without throwing a new school into the picture. Who wouldn’t feel edgy?�

“That’s not it, Mom.�
“Just be normal. Don’t worry about your premonitions. You shouldn’t have to live your life afraid.�
“Get real, Mom. I’ll never be normal and fit in.�
“If you paid more attention to talking with the other kids, and less to these visions and feelings, things would be so much easier for you.�

How many times had she heard her mother say that? Dawn rolled her eyes. “This is why I didn’t want to talk about it. I can’t help that I ‘know� things, Mom. The only way I can keep that stuff secret is by never opening my mouth. Then the other kids think I’m a snob.�

“Being different is no reason to separate yourself. You’ve been through a lot already, honey, and I want you to be happy here. We have a fresh start. If you pushed your feelings to the back of your mind and stopped working yourself up over them, maybe they’ll stop coming.� Her mother offered a brittle smile.
That was like asking Dawn to walk around blindfolded, or to stuff earplugs in her ears, giving up one of her senses. She couldn’t just shut off her feelings. They were too overpowering, demanding attention.

“You made me promise to hide my abilities around Ken and Jeff,� Dawn said. “Okay, I want them to like me, but I shouldn’t have to hide things around you. Why can’t you just help me?�

Her mother slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m trying to help you, honey. You need to tell yourself that your imagination is running wild and you’ve got normal jitters. Do you understand what I’m saying?�

Dawn’s jaw tensed. Her mother deserved an Oscar. She had an amazing knack for pretending Dawn suffered normal teenage angst, acting as if they were on some TV drama when the truth was closer to the Stephen King movie Carrie.

“Whenever I’m in a new situation, I say hi to the person sitting next to me and do my best to start a conversation,� her mother went on. “Maybe that would work for you.�
Dawn took a few breaths to contain herself, then muttered, “I’ll try.�

Her mother’s face lit up with relief. Dawn accepted her hug, inhaling the scents of Dove soap and raspberry body spray, but rather than make her feel better, the embrace ticked off Dawn even more. Did her mom really believe everything was solved? Dawn clamped her lips shut to keep back the harsh words brimming on her tongue.

“You’re smart, you’re pretty, you’re sweet,� her mother said. “The kids at Covington High will love you. Ken’s willing to give you a ride. Isn’t that great? I’d drive you myself, but I think it would be better if you’re not seen with your uncool old mother.�
“Yeah. Great.�

Her mother retreated downstairs to make breakfast. Dawn pushed back the covers. She knew her mom meant well. Since her dad’s death when Dawn was in first grade, life had sucked for both of them. They’d had lonely dinners, lonely holidays, lonely vacations. Having each other made it bearable. Now they had a chance to start over.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy as her mother believed.
Dawn left Buddy on the disheveled bed and rested her bare feet on her pink throw rug. She flipped the wall switch and winced as harsh light glared down on her bone white bedroom set. Everything looked orderly, the way she liked it. Young adult romance novels and the latest issues of Seventeen filled a pair of baskets, while trays on her dresser organized accessories.

She had enough clutter in her own head. Dawn couldn’t stand seeing it reflected in her surroundings.

A sudden wave of music blared down the hall, “I’m a rock-and-roller, that’s what I ammmmm …� Dawn cringed, pressing her temples against the beginnings of a headache.
She wanted to storm in and tell Ken to shut off his music, but he wasn’t her real brother. Then he’d hate her, for sure.

Dawn snagged her new jeans and shirt out of the closet and covered her ears as she crossed the hallway into the bathroom. She hung her clothes on a hook, shaking her head at the beach junk adorning the walls. Dawn had gotten used to the twig wreath overflowing with glued dolphins and starfish, but the foam life ring above the toilet reminded her of the Titanic.

A shower was what she needed. A steady stream of water sprayed into the tub as she undressed, the whooshing sound drowning out Ken’s music, but not her internal voice.
Be very careful. Something is wrong.

Oh spooky, Stacy. I can't wait to see what happens.

Okay, here's my excerpt from BLOOD ANGEL:

Kelly McClymer

I knew the woman sitting with Jamie this time. I'd always wanted to do a charcoal sketch � a Picasso-esque impression minus any hint of curve � of the way she held her spine and bought clothes that emphasized her perfect posture in a way that made me sit up straight the second I saw her. But even if I hadn't recognized her from the way she sat commandingly on the edge of the visitor's chair, I would have known her from her 'Jamie messed up' voice. "Tell your brother how much fun it is in jail."
Jamie's mom was taking turns glaring at Jamie and then at Daniel, who sat slouched beside her on another chair. I hadn't seen her this angry since the time Jamie and I had painted happy faces on her car with my new pink sparkle nail polish. We'd been in kindergarten then, I think, because I'd signed my artwork with a painstaking A that I'd just learned how to write while staying between the lines � the thin triple racing stripe had been too beautiful to resist, as if it had been put there just for my initials.
Daniel looked bored. When you're thirteen that can be normal or really bad. I itched for charcoal to capture the sulky curve of his smooth cheek. Not that I could pick up a piece of charcoal, even if it sat on the table in front of me.
I think she was convinced by Jamie's indifferent act. I had been, too, when I was alive. I thought he'd learned to tune her constant criticism out. But his soul told another story. So much red threaded with purple. I couldn't help wondering if he'd had the same need to be seen, to be accepted for who he was, pulsing through him when he pretended that Sam's bullying didn't bother him? That would explain a lot � so much dammed need pooling under the surface of the Jamie we all saw, it had to go somewhere.
One glance around the visitor's room reminded me that Jamie wasn't alone. If I could see my own soul -- if I still had a soul -- what would I see there?
Jamie focused on Daniel. His voice had the same big brother scorn it had had back when Jamie wasn't a murderer and Daniel was being a pain in the butt. "What are you doing, bud?"
Daniel shrugged. Typical for a kid, if you didn't know this kid. None of the other people in the waiting room would know that Daniel had been the kind of junior charmer who'd smile and wheedle until he got what he wanted. The opposite of Jamie, you might say. Now they could have been twins, in attitude at least. And in the red pulsing through their auras.
"Stop slouching," Jamie's mom poked Daniel in the ribs, but he didn't even flinch away. Just gave her a look that made me wonder if killing ran in families. "Your little brother is so upset by what you've done, that he took my car and tried to run away to California. It's a miracle he didn't kill somebody on the freeway before he ran out of gas and had to call me to come rescue him."
Imagining Daniel behind the wheel of a car was slightly horrifying. He'd always been the one to go full out and try to knock everyone else off the road at video games and bumper cars. "Good thing your mom never remembers to fill the gas tank," I said to Jamie. That had been his job since he was fifteen and got his learner's permit.
His soul pulsed faintly greenish purple for a moment as he realized, like me, that his mother would have to fill her gas tank herself now. I held my breath. If he retaliated like he had with Drew and the reporter... "Kid." Jamie sighed, just like he'd done a million times before, when Daniel had crossed the line from annoying little 'bud' to irritating 'kid.'
"Don't call me kid." That wasn't new. Daniel hated being called kid. But instead of puppy dog annoyance, there was pure pitbull mean in his eyes when he said, "You're not my brother. You're just a cold blooded killer.
I'm not sure why the truth hit me so hard. I'd been saying it plenty, but the words were sharper, more final out of Daniel's mouth. Every time I think I've finally accepted what happened, I find out I haven't. Like when I got braces and for two weeks, every time I looked in the mirror and smiled I was surprised to see the bristle of metal where once had been only smooth white teeth.
"I'm still your brother. I'm still older than you. I still know more than you." Typical brother argument, except for one brother was in jail and the other was lucky that no cop had caught him having a temper tantrum of juvenile-delinquent proportions.
"Take it easy on him, he's just a kid," I said. "He didn't kill anyone." Jamie and I both knew more than Daniel � and a lot of what we'd learned recently was about how mistakes can't always be fixed.
"Yeah?" Not that Daniel could hear what we � what Jamie � was trying to tell him. His voice broke a little and he sat up. His aura was pulsing his pain big time. "Then why has Mom taken all your pictures out of the house?"
Jamie leaned forward, his aura a twin to his brother's. "Because I'm a cold blooded killer. Because what I did to the family was stupid and selfish. Because she wishes I'd never been born."
I wanted to go away. To disappear. No one but Jamie could hear me anyway. I tried to will myself out of there. I floated up toward the ceiling, looking down on them from a distance. Jamie's mom looked smaller, her soul pinched in a little, as if her sons' anger could touch her. Usually they'd take it under the radar when she said, "Stop this right now!" Not this time. I floated near the ceiling, looking down at the odd triangle of family, one on one side of the table and two on the other. I wanted to hug them all, even Jamie's mom. Like a hug could do anything now.

Great excerpt and family interaction, Kelly!

Here's an excerpt from chapter one of THE DEEPEST CUT. For more information visit:

I didn’t hear my dad’s reply, because suddenly the hair on my arms stood on end. I straightened. I knew the old inn would be full of ghosts.

Maybe this time it would be my mom.

With my heart racing nearly out of my chest, I turned my head and could see the spirit standing just off the entry—a tall figure lingering in the shadows. Disappointment washed over me. It was a man, not a woman.

Not my mom.

I knew better than to make eye contact. Once I did, the spirit never left me alone.

“Why couldn’t you have waited to take this new job until we graduated?� Shane asked. “I wish I were eighteen. I’d be so out of here.�

A nerve in Dad’s jaw jumped. “But you’re fifteen, Shane, not eighteen. You’ll just have to tough it out with me for three more years.�

Shane glanced over at me, anger brimming in his blue eyes. There had been a time we’d been close, but after Mom died everything had changed, and now I felt the distance more than ever.

I cleared my throat. “Dad, where’s my room?�

“Up the stairs, take a right, first door on the left. Shane, your room is at the top of the stairs, take a left, and it’s the first right.�

Anxious to be alone, I headed up the creaky stairs to hide away in my room, praying the ghost didn’t follow.

“Nice, Shane. You know what your sister’s been through.�

“I lost my mom, too,� Shane said defensively. “Just because I wasn’t in the car with her when she died…�

I blocked out their voices and resisted the urge to take the steps two at a time.

Shane followed behind me, the ghost fast on his heels.

Forcing myself to remain calm, I took a right at the top of the steps, then pushed open the first door on the left.

I wrinkled my nose. The room, filled with my familiar furniture, was huge and smelled musty. There was a large window covered by heinous gold velvet drapes that might just be as ancient as the inn itself. I noticed two doors, one leading to a closet, and the other to my very own attached bathroom. Pleasantly surprised, I opened the door.
There was a pedestal sink with a mirrored medicine cabinet above it, and a tub/shower with a basic white shower curtain hanging from silver loops. Though the bathroom wasn’t huge by any means, it was mine, and I was glad I wouldn’t have to venture into the hallway at night to use the bathroom.

I crossed the room and looked out the only window to find I had a perfect view of a reddish stone castle sitting on a grassy knoll surrounded by tall trees. It wasn’t a Cinderella castle by any means, but there were elements of the whimsical about it with its turrets and spires, and yet something oddly menacing too. Dark and depressing–kind of like my life.

I caught my reflection in the glass and was shocked at the circles beneath my green eyes. My cheeks even looked hollowed out from all the weight I had lost this past year. I looked fragile, and even more, I felt fragile.

Loud music boomed from next door, startling me. Dad yelled at Shane to turn it down, and of course, he only turned the music up louder.

I leaned against the windowsill, my forehead resting against the cool glass. My gaze shifted to the castle again. There was something about that castle that both repelled and intrigued me–almost like it called out to me.

The air around me suddenly turned cold, and I felt someone standing behind me. It’s a sensation I’ll never get used to, and I feared turning around, afraid of what—or rather who—I would find. I felt an odd burning in my chest, and I could barely breathe, like something was stuck in my throat. From the time I saw that first ghost, I learned that I could physically feel what they had at the time of their death. The sensation usually lasted only seconds, but that was long enough for me to get the general idea of how they passed. I couldn’t tell if this guy had been strangled or what…but the pain grew more intense and a wave of nausea hit me.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I said my brother’s name out loud, knowing full well he wouldn’t hear me over the pounding bass that even now vibrated the floor beneath my feet.

An icy hand touched my shoulder. I closed my eyes, willing the spirit to go away.

It didn’t.

I turned my head to the left just the slightest bit, and saw a guy standing directly behind me. He appeared to be a little older than me, with shiny dark hair that brushed his broad shoulders. Though I wanted to look him straight in the eye, I didn’t. I couldn’t let on that I could see him. “Shane,� I yelled, louder this time.

Great atmosphere, J.A.!

These are great excerpts everyone!! I'm in good company.

by Flo Fitzpatrick

Excerpt:

A different sound filled the apartment. Very faint but I’d heard it before less than an hour ago.
I groaned. “Oh, howdy-doody, it is Irving Berlin. A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody. Some damn ghost is serenading me with old musical tunes. She’s lockin� doors, switching on lights, waterin� the shrubbery, openin� windows in the rain. And now auditionin� for Broadway?�

I headed for the piano. Perhaps playing a song or two on the old Grand would ease my shredded nerves. I froze. A piece of sheet music I’d never bought lay on the piano. The song was A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody. Copyright date was 1919.

“That’s it! I’m leavin� before I start looking up Exorcists-R-Us.�
I quickly threw open the doors to what passed for a closet and found a pair of black gaucho pants and a slinky black turtleneck top. Then I laced up my new black granny boots with trembling finger and tore out of Apartment 413 like the demons of hell were after me. For all I knew –� they were.

A smart girl would have run right across the hall to pound on the door of the gay couple who’d kindly helped that smart girl and her father move a few pieces of furniture into the apartment. Did I do the smart thing? Nope. I ran downstairs to the third floor where I’d yet to see any of the residents.

Two minutes later, Lucy and I stood in front of Apartment 313. “Four in the mornin� and I’m knockin� on a stranger’s door. In New York. Bright move, Mel. Can you say ‘possible serial killer�?�
I tried to stop trembling. Much as I loved my dog I needed human companionship just now - even from what would doubtless be one angry tenant. I hoped he or she didn’t own a gun.
I lifted my hand to knock. The door flew open before my fingers ever touched wood.

Standing dazzlingly resplendent with dyed orange hair tucked under a black Mets baseball cap; wearing a neon orange leather mini-skirt, a fuschia Animaniacs T-shirt, and green Shrek fuzzy slippers, was a four-foot-five-inch-tall, somewhat elderly gnome. She glared at me.
“Gotta ghost, doncha.�
It was not a question.

“How in Memphis blues did you . . . ?�
“Fiona Belle Donovan Winthorp. Call me Belle. Or Fiona Belle. Just not Winthorp. I despised that man.�

I tried to close my mouth before the drool gathering in the corners could slide down my chin. My jaw was currently resting somewhere near my collarbone.
Fiona shook her head. “Don’t gawk. It’s not pretty. Speak.�

I addressed my response to “Animanaic� Dot Warner on the woman’s T-shirt. It seemed less intimidating than talking directly to the tiny woman scowling up at me.

“Where should I start? Wait. Don’t say it. I got it. The beginning. If I just knew what that was. Or when. Anyway. Someone keeps checkin� the door locks. The lamp keeps comin� on. The window in the main room keeps openin�. And, uh, the plants are wet.�

“Yeah, yeah.�
I fought for words to explain the rest of the ghostly events. Couldn’t find them.

“Yeah? What else? You’re skipping the good stuff. Get on with it, child.�
“I . . . I mean It . . . That is. She’s. . . singing what sounds like old show tunes.�
“Irving Berlin.�
My eyes opened wide to match my gaping mouth. “How the hell . . . . ? Are you psychic or what?�

She glowered at me.
I blushed. “Oh, crap. Gee, I’m so sorry, where are my manners? I’m Mel Flynn � Apartment 413.�
The elderly munchkin snorted, then gestured inside Apartment 313 to a table where an elegant brunch had been prepared, presumably for me. My hostess was undeniably a witch. A stupidly-short witch.

“Sit down, dammit. You’re way too tall to suit me.�
I sat. Lucy plopped at my feet and promptly went to sleep, indulging in a well-deserved nap. I numbly nodded thanks when cranberry scones (my favorite) were thrust under my nose. I hyperventilated, gulped tea, then stared at my mug, which proudly displayed a picture of Elvis Presley singing into a microphone. The mike lit up when hot liquid filled the mug.
Fiona Belle reached over and gently took the sheet music from my hands. She held it out reverently, then clutched it to her tiny chest and sighed. She seemed completely oblivious to my presence.

My scan of the room halted when I saw the Colonial roll-top desk which held a beyond-state-of-the-art computer surrounded by six different pieces of Elvis memorabilia. The two most striking were the table lamp depicting images of Elvis on the shade, with blue suede shoes as its base, and a Hound Dog clock portraying the King singing to a basset. A Scottish brooch had been pinned to one shoe like a buckle.
The cream pitcher on the table was made in the shape of a small television. A neon sign reading Heartbreak Hotel flashed in the corner of the ‘set�. I waved the pitcher at Fiona Belle.

“I have this! I love Elvis. My mother was a total fan. Growing up, she’d take me to Graceland the way other kids get taken to the mall.� My eyes misted. “I miss her. She died two years ago.�
Fiona Belle nodded but stayed silent.
“I have every record Elvis ever made and I can play all the early pieces on piano. What am I saying? That’s not really relevant right now, is it? Where was I? Oh yeah, being haunted by a singing ghost. Not Elvis. I’m so sorry, I’m ramblin�, aren’t I? I tend to get a little stupid when I’m sleep deprived and entertainin� spectral visitors.�

Fiona Belle Donovan daintily sipped her tea, slapped marmalade on her scone, grunted, and wisely ignored the majority of my monologue. She carefully placed her own Elvis mug (the King standing on a record; guitar slung across his hips) on the table, then caressed the sheet music with unabashed affection.
“A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody. Irving Berlin created it especially for the 13th Edition Ziegfeld Follies. 1919. Catchy. Became the Follies theme. Irving wrote it after the dress rehearsal. Flo Ziegfeld needed a number for the staircase parade.�

Fiona Belle broke off a piece of her scone and fed it to Lucy, now awake and waiting patiently for a treat. “Follies girl. Exotic looking.� Fiona Belle hissed, “Slimy s.o.b stalked her. 1919 � vanished.�

Short excerpt from my book DEMON WHISPERER

Chapter 1

The skin on Alan Bigby’s pock-marked face rippled as if something was alive underneath it. Something big and bad and nasty wanted out to rip something apart. Unnatural black veins popped out on his forehead and temples as he bucked and writhed against the iron shackles chaining him to the chair. The fat rolls of his enormous ass hung over the sides and jiggled with each spasm. If it had been under different circumstance I would’ve laughed at that.

“I’m going to rip out your innards, Butcher, and eat them raw,� he spat at me.

Then he really did spit. Viscous green phlegm spewed from between his thin cracked lips and landed on the toe of my black Doc Marten. Disgusted, I shook it off, and then dug into the beat-up, brown leather bag I had slung over my shoulder and across my chest for the holy water. It was time to get busy. No more messing around. I had to exorcise this guy and be done with it. The money from this one would pay the rent for the condo my dad and I had. Groceries too for a few months.

“Not today, you’re not,� I said as I unscrewed the silver cap on the bottle of holy water.

I glanced over at Eleanor Bigby standing in the corner wide-eyed, wringing her hands as she watched in horror as her husband twisted and pulled at the restraints I had put on him. He was bound to a metal chair in the middle of a pentagram that I’d inscribed in blessed chalk on the blond hardwood floor of their big expensive house overlooking the Hollywood Hills. I could see the white sign out the front bay windows.
She probably had no idea that when she called the Butchers to exorcize the demon possessing her husband that it would look like this. She probably thought watching her fat husband crab-walk across the ceiling of their bedroom was disturbing enough.

“Dude, is he going to hurt himself?�

I glanced over my shoulder at the guy holding the camera trained on Alan Bigby. He had shaggy blond hair and a freshly clipped soul patch that I nearly envied. Except I didn’t like him much. He was a dick with too much time and money on his hands.

“For the last time, dude, shut up. I’m the only one supposed to be talking,� I answered, forgetting that the exorcism was being televised.

Trey Summers was an up-and-coming film maker, touted to be the next Tarantino, but I thought he was a hack. He’d directed one lousy music video for some useless pop star and voila, he was an insta-star. I thought he was a talentless hack with delusions of grandeur and of getting a lot of ass. Although he did appear to be getting quite a bit by the looks of the two chicks he’d come to the house with.

The red-head smiled at me around the little white straw she had in her mouth. She was enjoying the drink just a bit too much.

I didn’t smile back. It kind of made my stomach churn that she’d come to an exorcism for a good time. The fact that the house was full of people, watching, waiting, while drinking and enjoying finger food passed out by waiters in tuxes, made me down right nauseous. Why in hell did I hang out with these people? Why did I ever agree to this being put on TV? Ten thousand, that was why.

Seven in my pocket, well me and my dad’s pockets, and three to the International Order of Exorcists. Because they were going to be some pissed that I agreed to the recording. It was against the order’s mandates to involve the media in what we did. The world knew we, meaning exorcists, existed but we preferred to keep our business on the down low. But since I’d been crowned the exorcist to the stars, I figured it was good publicity for everyone involved. I was hoping the three grand would appease the more militant members of the I.O. into letting me off with a warning.

I returned my attention to Alan, who was still struggling against his restraints and mumbling under his breath. He was speaking Latin. I recognized the dialect but not the particular words. As far as I knew, it was probably a bunch of gibberish. A bunch of scary sounding Latin words strung together nonsensically to sound menacing and ominous. It was par for the course. Every exorcism was the same. Demons were so predictable.