Friday, May 15, 2026

The Great Dick and the Dysfunctional Demon by Barry Maher #SupernaturalThriller


What inspired you to become an author?

 

I always wanted to be a novelist. But from the time I first mentioned it, people kept telling me there was no money in it. I needed to find a way to make a living. So, I decided to be a professional baseball player and write in the off-season.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t that good at baseball, even before I discovered girls. Which took me from one field where I wasn’t major league material to another.

At fifteen, my guidance counselor gave me an aptitude test. It yielded a long, singularly unappealing list of careers, including, I swear to God, forest ranger, lumberjack and rodeo clown. I thought the test was ridiculous and, moronically, I mentioned that to my Guidance counselor.

"So, what is it you really want to do?" she asked.

“Honestly?”

“Honestly,” she said.

Honestly, what I really wanted to do at 15 was to date Krissy Caperson. Or failing that, almost anyone else. But I didn’t see my guidance counselor helping with that. And mentioning it to her was probably another mistake.

I may the only person you’ll ever meet who actually flunked guidance.

I got through high school and hustled my way through Notre Dame — did you know you can sell blood plasma every week?  I was an English major, which is basically the definition of not having figured out the making a living thing. Then I hitchhiked out to beautiful Santa Barbara. Where I could just barely afford to live on the beach. Not in a house on the beach. On the beach. With the sand and the seagulls.

            Standing on a roof in the rain, holding the frayed cord of a toilet de-rooter, I realized that I’d rather struggle as a writer than get rich doing what I didn’t want to do. Besides, it wasn’t like I was getting rich. Just possibly electrocuted. Plus, I had an idea for a critically acclaimed, best-selling, novel: Think Harry Potter meets Hamlet, if Ophelia was oversexed, homicidal and undead.

As sure-fire as that sounds, it turns out reading novels — or in the case of books like Moby Dick and Ulysses, pretending to have read them — is a lot easier than writing one. Harry Potter Meets Hamlet died in the first twenty pages.

My next attempt, Legend, took two years to write. Then I couldn't get a single agent to read it. Apparently, a degree in literature means nothing to literary agents. Nobody even asked about my grade-point average. (Actually, nobody anywhere has ever asked about my grade-point average. That would have been a valuable piece of info to get from my high school guidance counselor.)

After years of submitting Legend to publishers — none of whom had Krissy Caperson's gift for speedy rejection — it ended up in the clutches of an aging book packager. Quoting Freud and promising “wealth, fame and beautiful lovers,” plus a decent advance and a shot at the national book award, he signed me to my first book contract.

If you’re checking, not only did I not win the National Book Award. I never even got most of the advance.  Eventually — to keep me from regaining the rights—he published Legend under his own microscopic imprint. No fanfare, not even a press release. And a world-class-ugly cover that misspelled the word "hindrance."

Then he died. I swear I was 3,000 miles away at the time. I have witnesses.

His imprint was absorbed by a not-quite-so-tiny publisher. In a cloud of purple whale manure about movie deals, they brought out the highly unanticipated second edition of my novel. This one had an excellent cover except for the spot where they called the book an allegory. It sold about as many copies as you would expect an allegory to sell. Maybe a few less.

Then, miraculously, Legend someone made it onto a UPI Ten Most Underrated list, just seven places below a Meryl Streep movie about a dingo that ate a baby. I got an agent. For 58 days. Then she also died. Buried and everything—I checked.

Her surviving partner talked me into writing a business book. I put together a proposal, which he sold within three weeks. You wouldn't believe me if I said he died, too. So I won't.

But he did. This writing business had a considerably higher mortality rate than I'd expected. It was like "Dawn of the Dead" out there. But I was an author. If not exactly a working novelist.

 

Do you write in different genres?

 

My novel, Legend, made that Ten Most Underrated List and remained spectacularly underrated. On the other hand, once my nonfiction book was published, The Wall Street Journal called. And TIME. A trade association asked me to speak. I turned them down. I’d never spoken. Then they mentioned the fee, which was exactly half of the advance on the book that had taken me almost a year to research and write.

I did the presentation. To my surprise, they didn’t ask for their money back. And from that point on, I talked for a living—and wrote nonfiction books on the side. My speaking clients were largely generated by those books and coverage in everything from The Today Show to The New York Times to Funeral Service Insider. I became a mini-celebrity or a quasi-celebrity or a B.S. celebrity, I'm not sure which. If you're thinking that you've never heard of me, that's the difference between a make-believe celebrity and, say, Taylor Swift or Tom Hanks or Jack the Ripper.

I'm someone reporters quote when Tom Hanks or Jack the Ripper isn't available. My mother would be so proud.

 

What would your readers be surprised to learn about you?

 

The next part of the story was as much a surprise to me as it might be to my readers. I was speaking on an Asian cruise when I realized I could no longer tell time. The next day, during a presentation, I introduced the ship’s captain. Twenty minutes later, I picked him out of the audience and asked him what he did for a living. (The uniform did look a tad familiar.) That same day, I gave up trying to understand foreign currency. Even American money was getting tricky. In Viet Nam, I handed a vendor two hundreds and a ten for a $7.00 baseball cap. It was a very nice cap. But not $210 worth of nice.

Back home, the first thing my doctor did was have me draw a clock face at ten to three. The second thing he did was take away my driver’s license. He sent me for an immediate MRI. The nurse there couldn’t comment on the results, but when I asked where the restroom was, she said, “I’m sorry, I can’t let you go in there alone.”

I explained that bathroom visitation was a particular expertise of mine.

“Like telling time?” she asked. “You need to talk to your neurosurgeon.”

“I have a neurosurgeon?” Just what I always wanted.

I also had a brain tumor—the size of a basketball. Or maybe the neurosurgeon said “baseball.” I wasn’t tracking too well at that point. Still, I immediately understood he was planning on carving open my skull with some kind of power saw and slicing the tumor out. Suddenly telling time didn’t seem nearly that important. Besides, I could always buy a digital watch.

Everyone said my neurosurgeon—or, as I thought of him, “Chainsaw Charlie”—was extremely intelligent and skillful. Still, I’ve spent my life around intelligent people, and I’ve seen some of the dumb things they’ve done. To me, human intelligence seems way overrated. Especially if it’s planning on slicing open my head with a power tool. If you think about it, on a scale of everything there is to know in the universe, everything there is to understand, the main difference between Einstein and Koko the Wonder Chimp was that Einstein couldn’t pick up bananas with his feet. (As far as I know.) 

But my brain was running out of room in my skull. So, I let Chainsaw Charlie carve away.  Maybe I had a seizure during surgery. The doctors weren’t sure. But I came out of it with Lady Gaga singing non-stop in my head, and a vivid, fully-formed, horrific story, like a memory of something that I’d just watched. Complete with open crypts, dark spells, sudden death and the Ralph Lauren version of the Manson family.

Lady Gaga went away after a day or so. But the story stayed with me. And when I was able, I spent a couple of years putting it all down, trying to get it just right, bringing out all the suspense and the humor. And that’s The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon.  And I became the working novelist I set out to be all those years ago.

 

How did you come up with the title for your latest book?

 

 Obviously, The Great Gatsby, a novel about a tragic love, and Moby Dick, a novel about a giant Whale, are the same story just worked out differently for their different eras. Or maybe not. Still, they’re both about someone’s desperate struggle to overcome a failure that threatens to define their entire life. So, The Great Gatsby /Moby Dick, if someone were to write that story today, why not call it, The Great Dick? No giant whale, no tragic love. But a demon, dead bodies, strange cults, deadly sins, bizarre rituals, and a hero who starts out by admitting he’s an ass, then seems to set about proving it.

And if you want to know about the dysfunctional demon part of the title, you’ve got to read the book.

 

Do you title the book first or wait until after it’s complete?

 

I’ve done it both ways. In this case, The Great Dick came to me after several drafts. The subtitle came after the book was finished and approaching publication. First, it was The Great Dick: And the Demon, but the publisher wanted something that would indicate the book’s humor. Thus, it became The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon.

 

If this book is part of a series…what is the next book? Any details you can share?

 

The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon was written as a stand-alone novel. However, the excitement and the characters were so great, and it’s been so well received, that I couldn’t resist doing a follow-up to investigate what happens next.

 

Do you have any advice for other writers?

 

When I speak to writers conference, most of what I have to say comes down to a single word. “Write.” If you want to be a writer, write. Treat it as a job. Maybe not one you can do 40 hours a week, but the more you write, the better you’ll get and the sooner you’ll develop you own voice.

Write when it’s flowing like liquid gold. Write when it you can barely come up with a coherent sentence. Then re-write—in both cases—and re-write some more. Don’t tell me you’ve got writer’s block.  Doctors aren’t allowed to have doctor’s block. Plumbers don’t get plumber’s block. This is a job. If you sit around waiting for inspiration, you’ll still be waiting while others—some of them with less talent—are autographing books for their fans.

And if you want to sell books get a platform. That’s what speaking did for me. It doesn’t matter what your platform is, if it’s social media, or a newsletter or column or podcast or a radio show, as long as it gives you a following. Once you’ve got a big enough audience, publishes want to work with you to get access to that audience.

 

When you’re not writing what do you do? Do you have any hobbies or guilty pleasures?

 

Discovering you have brain cancer focuses the mind. It made me realize that I no longer wanted to spend my life in airports and hotels doing all those speaking gigs. I still do some. I love speaking. But I wanted to be what I always wanted to be, a novelist. I also started writing the Slightly Off-Kilter column which is not only fun to do, but makes up for giving up some of my speaking platform. Fortunately, Creators syndicate decided to syndicate it. So writing is both my job and my hobby.

My other hobbies include reading, films, hiking, music. I’ve also been trying to learn Spanish, pretty unsuccessfully, for a while now.

 

Do you have a song or playlist that you think represents this book?

 

Playlist for The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon

 

Spotify     YouTube Music     Apple Music

There are nineteen songs positioned throughout the story. When you come to one, you can:

1.       let it play in the background at whatever volume you like while you continue reading;

OR

2.      you can stop and focus on the music;

OR

3.      Or you can ignore the music altogether. The story works without it just fine. (All those rave endorsements came from people who read the silent version.)

 

CHAPTER 1

 

Page 19. At the beginning, play:

 

Sunny Side of Heaven by Fleetwood Mac

 

 

CHAPTER 5

 

Page 45. After ”She bounced up the stairs quickly.” Play: 

 

Moonlight Mile by the Rolling Stones

 

 

 CHAPTER 7

 

Page 68. Zfter “The rain had yielded to a heavy mist” Play:

 

Ain’t No Ash Will Burn by The Renegades

 

CHAPTER 10

 

Page 95. After “Stephen was brave. At least when I knew him.” Play:

 

From Silver Lake by Jackson Browne

 

 

CHAPTER 11

 

Page 107. After “Then R. Dean Taylor began to sing his only U.S. hit,” Play:

 

Indiana Wants Me by R. Dean Taylor

 

CHAPTER 13

 

Page 131. After “then turned, apparently randomly, at various other passageways”  Play:

 

Blue Moon by The Marcels

 

CHAPTER 15

 

Page 172. After "Would you like to smoke some dope?” Play:

 

Let Me Touch You for Awhile by Alison Krauss & Union Station

 

 

CHAPTER 18

 

Page 193. After “a fringe‑covered Victoria with long straight hair” play:

 

Coming Back to Me by The Jefferson Airplane

 

CHAPTER 20

 

Page 237. After “climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling for a while.”  Play:


Working Girl—Let the River Run by Carly Simon (The Film Band)

 

 

CHAPTER 25

 

Page 282. After ”and inside the crypt it felt contaminated.” Play:

 

Dust by Fleetwood Mac

 

 

CHAPTER 28

Page 206. After ”I wanted her to want me too as badly as I ever wanted anything” Play:

Land of Hope and Dreams by Bruce Springsteen

 

CHAPTER 30

Page 330. After “my grandmother’s house on the morning after her death.” Play:

The Maker by Daniel Lanois

 

CHAPTER 32

Page 348. After “I got dressed, got in the VW and just drove.” Play:

Will You Remember Me by Rosanne Cash

 

CHAPTER 33

Page 369. After “within minutes was either asleep or pretending to be.” Play:

            Same Mistake by James Blunt

 

CHAPTER 38

Page 402. After “Hampert reached over and flipped a switch.” Play:

Bring You Joy by Argent

 

CHAPTER 43

Page 435. At the beginning of the chapter, play::

            Downtown Train by Rod Stewart

 

CHAPTER 46

Page 457. After ‘Before she allowed me to die.” Play:

A Whiter Shade of Pale

EPILOGUE

Page 483. After “In that case,” she smiled, “I’ll call him Gavin “  Play: 

Going Home by Mark Knopfler

 
AT THE END Play:

Night Rolls In by Al Stewart

 



The Great Dick and the Dysfunctional Demon
Barry Maher

Genre: Supernatural Thriller
Publisher: Crystal Lake Publishing
Date of Publication: 09/2025
ISBN: 978-1968532130
ASIN: B0FKWK2K7C
Number of pages: 464
Word Count: 125,000

Tagline: A wickedly funny, dark humor. supernatural thriller, blending horror with a thrilling murder mystery.

Book Description:

It’s 1982. Steve Witowski was once a hero. Now he’s simply a failed songwriter, running from the law. Worse, he’s just killed a man—while almost accidentally saving a woman from what seemed to be the strongest, most blood-thirsty wino in California. 

He should keep moving. But the woman, Victoria, is beyond stunning. Steve stays. And Victoria becomes just a part of a mystery he can’t unravel. Even as the face of the man he just killed slowly, gradually appears on his arm. And what starts out as a gritty crime story spirals into what author David Moody called, “A chillingly funny, hot, sweaty, magic and murder infused rollercoaster.” Complete with open crypts, dark spells, sudden death, and forces more powerful and demonic than Steve understands. Where nothing is what it seems. And Steve may be the next victim.

Excerpt 

Back in the 60s . . .

 

On Wednesday October 13th, 1968, a faculty panel recommended the dismissal of Professor John Harris—in absentia, as no one at Harvard had seen or heard from him in weeks. Harris later bragged about delivering his final lecture on “one shitload and a half of LSD.” According to the recording made available to the faculty panel, this was the sum total of that lecture:

 

“Good afternoon. Wow. American Literature, hunh? Let’s see. Moby Dick today. Right?”

 “Moby Dick?” asked a confused voice. “No. What happened to The Scarlet Letter?”

 “Right. Moby Dick,” Harris continued. “Great book. None of you have read it. None of you are going to read it. Nobody ever does. What you need to understand is that as far as I’m concerned—and I’m the fucking professor—Moby Dick is the same story as The Great Gatsby, which some of you may read. I call it, ‘the half-assed struggle of the individual to put their world to rights in the face of a failure that threatens to define their life.’ I think that’s from my thesis. Though maybe it’s not pretentious enough.”

Harris laughed. “Hey! How about this? Great Gatsby/Moby Dick: same story, different era, right? So, if someone someday tries to write that story for this generation, they should call it The Great Dick. That’d be perfect, wouldn’t it? The Great Dick. Alright, that’s got to be almost fifty minutes. See you next . . . whenever. Wow.”

 

 

SUNDAY, MARCH 21, 1982
Two Women and One Corpse


“Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to lie well.”
                                                                                        —Samuel Johnson

 

CHAPTER 1

  

            Okay, let me start out by admitting that I was an asshole. I know that. The ludicrous amount of fame and acclaim and money I’ve had dumped on me since that time only makes it more glaring. The fact that we lived in a different world back in 1982 is no excuse. It was the same world. It just wasn’t the world we thought it was.

            I remember it was a Sunday night. Sundays always feel different. Looking back now and Googling a 1982 calendar, I’d guess it was Sunday, March 21st. I remember waking up and within minutes making the decision to leave. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I eased myself out of the rickety hide‑a‑bed.

            Immediately, Maria rolled over into the spot I'd just vacated, breathing loudly through her nose and mouth, not quite snoring. I hate to say it, but she looked every minute of her thirty years. Her thick dark hair clung damply to her face; her heavy arms stretched outward. The cast on her left wrist looked like a giant manacle.

The grandfather clock beside the cigar store Indian read 1:37, though a few minutes before, it had chimed four times. That made as much sense as anything else in my life. I was thirty-five years old, a Harvard grad who’d spent the previous two years faking his way through a $13,500 a year job as an territory rep for the Richmond Tobacco company. That $13,500 was the most money I’d ever made. You’re probably thinking that when you adjust for inflation and translate that $13,500 into today’s dollars, it’s a lot more impressive.

No, it’s not.

I slipped on my jersey and my jeans and gathered the rest of my things in my old gym bag. Fortunately, enough moonlight crept in around the edges of the tattered drapes to give the room a dim glow. I wondered if it would be safe to hitchhike out of there, or if Indiana had already notified the California Highway Patrol that I was wanted.

My situation was bad. But not bad enough to, say, crawl into a grave with a rotting corpse.

That would come later.



About the Author:
 
Barry Maher may be the only horror novelist who’s ever appeared in the pages of Funeral Service Insider. In his misspent youth, his articles appeared in perhaps a hundred different publications and, in order to eat, he held nearly that many different jobs. Sometimes he lived on the beach. Not in a house on the beach. On the beach. With the sand and the seagulls. 

Then he started telling his stories to audiences. More important, he started telling his stories to audiences and charging. That took him all over the country and around the world: his client list a Who’s Who of leading corporations, associations and cruise lines. You may have seen Barry on The Today Show, CNN, CBS or CNBC, or read about him in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, USA Today or in his own, Slightly Off-Kilter syndicated column.

On the downside, he’s also been incarcerated twice. Once for not making a left hand turn out of a left hand turn lane, and once for aiding and abetting a loiterer. 

He’s deeply repentant. 

Newsletter: www.barrymaher.com
 



 






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Friday, May 1, 2026

Transcendence by Katrina Kimball #DarkFantasy #ParanormalThriller

What inspired you to become an author?

I’ve loved books my entire life. I was the girl that stayed up reading all night instead of sleeping. I wrote poetry as a teenager which was a perfect vessel to capture the emotions of those tumultuous years, but I didn’t think about writing a book until I was almost 40. I had a mid-life crisis of sorts, wondered what exactly I was doing with my life, and had a lightbulb moment in the shower that led to the idea for my debut horror novel, Transcendence. I’ve always been drawn to horror and the supernatural, so writing a horror novel seemed like a good idea. Once I started writing Transcendence, I became obsessed with the telling of the story. I can’t imagine writing not being a part of my life at this stage of it. I feel like I’m finally doing what I should be doing. 

Do you write in different genres?

I’m drawn to horror and envision most of my writing falling into that genre. However, I’m pretty sure there’s a romance novel somewhere inside of me that will come out one day, maybe under a pen name, maybe with horror elements to it. 

How did you come up with the title for your latest book?

I have no idea. It just came to me one day early on when I was writing Transcendence and it felt right. It’s been the title ever since. 

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

There are quite a few messages buried in Transcendence. Some might be more obvious than others. The overarching theme is that love always wins. No matter how messy life can be, how hard and cruel it can feel, there’s also moments within it of breathtaking beauty. Life is about experiencing both, never giving up hope, and always, always, always, hanging on to the love. 

Is the book, characters, or any scenes based on a true life experience, someone you know, or events in your own life?

Alexis’s first few meditation scenes are loosely based on my personal experiences when I started meditating. When she’s visualizing her chakras, the color and the mantras, those are methods that worked for me. The very first time I meditated and saw something I knew was not the workings of my own brain, I saw the universe, spread out in all it’s glory (just like Alexis). They say, “write what you know.” In some ways, I did. Although I’m happy to say, no demonic entity followed me ‘home.’ 

If this book is part of a series…what is the next book? Any details you can share?

It was when I was reaching the end of writing Transcendence that I realized the story didn’t end there. It feels like a trilogy and probably will be. I’m currently working on Convergence, the sequel to Transcendence. It focuses on two side characters, Linda and Mrs. Bates, their messy relationship and how what transpired between them 30 years ago ties into the events at the end of Transcendence. It’s heavy on the witchcraft, dives deep into why Mrs. Bates is the way she is, involves a murderous and angry god, and continues Demetria’s story as well. I have a feeling the third story in this series focuses primarily on her, but things may change as I write the second book. 

Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?

It’s important to me to capture the emotional complexity of my characters. I don’t want you to just read about them, I want you to feel them. Sometimes, digging into that emotional complexity can be exhausting. In the sequel I’m working on now, not only are we dealing with present day, we also time jump to 30 years ago, so I’ve set myself a difficult task of not only capturing who Linda and Mrs. Bates are today, but also the different people they were 30 years ago. It’s a struggle but a rewarding one when I think I’ve gotten it right. 

Do you have a song or playlist (book soundtrack) that you think represents this book?

90% of Transcendence was written to the soundtrack of Tron: Legacy by Daft Punk. Highly recommend! 

What would your readers be surprised to learn about you?

Aside from being a writer, I’m also a psychic medium. Much like writing, I didn’t discover this ability until I hit my 40s. Much like my main character Alexis, I questioned the shit out of it until I couldn’t question it anymore. Writing is my passion, but there’s nothing quite like connecting with the spirit realm to help people process trauma and pass on messages from loved ones. It’s a gift I wouldn’t trade for anything. 

When you’re not writing what do you do? Do you have any hobbies or guilty pleasures?

I actually have a day job as an analyst. When I’m not doing that, parenting, or writing, I enjoy using my mediumship abilities to channel messages for people. I’m lucky enough to live near the ocean and find myself at the beach as often as my busy schedule allows.  

Transcendence
Katrina Kimball

Genre: Paranormal Thriller, Dark Fantasy
Publisher: Rowan Prose Publishing
Date of Publication: April 28, 2026
ISBN: 978-1-961967-80-9
ASIN: B0F711QN1B
Number of pages: 348 pages
Word Count: 85,482
Cover Artist: Rowan Prose Publishing

Book Description: 

When a demonic entity seeking revenge starts tormenting her family, a young woman must rediscover their shared past and embrace her own divine power in order to save not only those she loves, but the creature bent on her destruction.

If you asked Alexis Ferelli what her biggest challenges are in life, she’d say it’s parenting her daughter, Luna, running her masseuse practice, and deftly avoiding conversations about marriage with her partner, Jack. At least, that was the case before she attended a séance. Now, the spirits are trying to contact her and there’s a demonic entity in her daughter’s closet.

Determined to find answers, she turns to the psychic from the séance and the spirit world for help. As she dabbles in the hereafter, she not only discovers another dimension filled with angelic guides, magic, and wonder, but also learns the shocking truth of her connection to the creature tormenting her daughter.

As the dark entity grows bolder and sets its sights on Jack as well as Luna, Alexis realizes that to save them all, she has to face the creature she once betrayed to bring it out of the darkness and back into the light.

Fans of Alix Harrow’s Starling House or Neil Gaiman’s Coraline will enjoy Transcendencs by Katrina Kimball.

Amazon     Books2Read

Excerpt:

Luna woke to a tapping sound coming from her closet. She knew closets weren’t supposed to make tapping sounds. She also knew that’s where monsters hid, in the back of dark closets or under your bed. Maybe that’s where aliens hid, too—waiting to catch you in your sleep.

The silvery light spilling through her parted curtains and pooling on the floor did little to soften the shadows. Through the gloom, she could see the outline of her closet. The door was shut. She cast a wary glance at the windowsill and the visible line of salt that gleamed in the faint moonlight. The salt was undisturbed, her window still closed against the night.

Tap, tap, tap.

She ducked under the covers and scooted to the far side of the bed. Tucked into the corner with her back pressed against the wall, she peeked out from under the blanket, her eyes glued to the closet.

Tap, tap, tap. The sound came again, swiftly followed by the soft click of the closet door as it started to inch open.

As she lay there, huddled in the darkness, too scared to breathe, a tall shadow, darker than the shades of night in which it had hidden, slowly stepped forward. Its red eyes reminded her of Aunt Dani’s cawing raven, the one with eyes like fire that scared you when you walked in the door. But these eyes were worse. Bright red flames surrounded a pupil an even deeper shade of red. And they were looking straight at her.

Frozen in fear, she watched as it glided closer, its footfalls silent, its eyes terrible and bright.

“Hello, little doll,” it whispered. 

Luna couldn’t tell if the thing had a mouth, for its entire face was black except for its terrifying eyes, but she heard the words just the same. A little voice in the back of her head was screaming at her to move, but it was too late, the thing was now between her and the door.

She remembered the bowl of salt on the nightstand next to her bed and finding her voice, tried to be brave.

“I am not a doll.”

“Oh, sweet child,” it sighed as it stepped into the puddle of moonlight, impossibly tall and darker than the nighttime shadows, “I shall make you my little doll. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

Its long arms ended in hooked fingers that looked as sharp as claws. Beneath eyes of flame ran a jagged slit where its mouth should be, as if someone had tried to draw a mouth, but had gotten it all wrong.

The scream that had been building for some time in the back of Luna’s throat finally worked its way free as the creature reached for her, talons grasping, eyes of flame leaping in the night.

She lunged for the salt next to her bed. Flinging the bowl itself at the creature, her eyes widened as it sailed right through it as if were truly just a shadow. Grains of salt flew through the air as the bowl shattered violently against the hardwood floor.

The creature jerked its head in the direction of her mother’s room and stared, its slash of a mouth widening into a gaping smile that made her stomach hurt. She could hear her mother’s footsteps racing down the hall.

Its head swiveled back in her direction, eyes alight with fire as its hideous smile somehow grew. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I’ll be seeing you little doll,” it whispered as it glided soundlessly back into her closet and snapped the door shut.

 

About the Author:

A horror enthusiast and lover of all things mysterious and unknowable, it was only a matter of time before author Katrina Kimball picked up her pen and mashed the paranormal, fantasy, and horror genres into one with her debut novel “Transcendence.” When she isn’t working on a novel or binge-watching shows about Bigfoot, ghosts, or aliens, she’s probably thinking about any one of those three things. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her two children and her adorable Boston Terrier, Beaux.








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Thursday, April 30, 2026

Gossiping About Grimoires by Mildred Abbott #ParanormalMystery


Gossiping About Grimoires
Whispering Witch 
Book One
Mildred Abbott

Genre: Paranormal Mystery
Publisher: Wings of Ink Publications, LLC
Date of Publication: March 10, 2026
ISBN: 979-8243417433
ASIN: B0GJTS4272
Number of pages: 400
Word Count: 103,600

Cover Artist: Christian Bentulan 

Book Description:

Maeve Hawthorn writes about witches for a living. They want her to stop.

When a book signing ends in her abduction, Maeve’s only priority is escaping with her corgi, Mischief, alive. That urgency deepens when she learns her captors are real witches, furious that Maeve has been exposing their secrets to the world.

Before Maeve can make sense of how her fiction has become reality, she’s caught in the middle of a murder that leaves her marked by magic she doesn’t understand. When a dying witch’s power floods into her, Maeve becomes the prime suspect in a crime she didn’t commit—and a target for every supernatural being certain she knows too much.

Turns out, magic isn’t a gift. It’s a liability. And clearing her name may cost Maeve far more than her safety.

With danger closing in and no clear allies other than Mischief, Maeve must navigate a hidden supernatural world that wants her silenced… or dead.

Excerpt:

Turning from dawn breaking over the Quarter, I crossed over to the canopy bed where Mischief was having a completely different experience.

After my thousandth time pacing the room, Mischief had crawled on top of the mountain of decorative pillows placed against the headboard and fallen asleep. As normal, she’d started off in a dignified little ball, resting her head on top of her fluffy tail. Barely ten minutes had passed before she flipped onto her back, front legs curved at her chest and hind legs spread in a most un-ladylike manner.

Without thinking, I mimicked her—flopping to the mattress on my back with a cry of terrified frustration.

Mischief snorted in surprise and tried to twist around onto her feet. Instead, she sank between the pillows. She only disappeared for a heartbeat before she thrust her head through a gap at the bottom and shook off a little trail of drool left over from her nap.

“Sorry, sweet girl.”

Mischief only groaned, yawned.

Despite everything, she could still make me laugh. I curled onto my side, snagged under her front legs, heaved her free from the pillow avalanche, and pulled her to my chest.

“Oh, Mischief, what have I gotten us into?”

She snuggled against me and in answer issued a long, relaxed sigh.

“You know, I’m always amazed how much you understand what I’m saying and what’s going on around us. However, you seem completely clueless at the moment, which is surprising.” I buried my face in the large white patch of fur at the back of her neck, tears stinging my eyes. “Although I have to admit, I wish I were clueless right now too.”

Mischief exhaled, sounding annoyed, then squeezed her way out of my embrace, trotted about a foot across the mattress, and plopped down, staring at me.

I laughed again. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to insult you or anything. I only…”

The expression in her eyes brought me up short and ushered back the memory beside Eudora’s body. How in the world had I forgotten?

“I could have sworn you talked to me earlier.”

Her annoyed expression deepened.

I leaned closer. “Are you irritated because that’s ridiculous or because I’ve been too busy being a stress-mess to remember until now?”

She glared, though not necessarily angrily, but more like another flash of what I thought was annoyance. She leaned closer so her nose almost touched mine and held my gaze, staring so hard had it been anyone else, it would have felt invasive and too personal.

But it was Mischief, so I stared right back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

She blinked, then stared again.

“You are!” I gasped at the realization. “You are trying to tell me something. Actually, trying to say something… right?”

Though I couldn’t hear even the faintest reply, the expression in her dark eyes was a resounding Yes. Truthfully, it was probably more of a Duh!

“Okay.” In my excitement, I attempted to push aside being captured and my probable purging and scurried up into a sitting position on the bed.

That was instantly too high, so I repositioned to my knees, leaning forward and resting on my forearms, returning our faces to eye level.

Again, I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I got the impression she was laughing.

Strange. Although I suddenly realized how I must look spread over the bed with my rump up in the air. “Kind of like you when you want to play, huh?”

Her eyes twinkled.

Another thrill shot through me.

I had always felt a bond between us and frequently had the impression we could read each other’s thoughts and feel each other’s emotions. But I’d heard other people who loved their dogs say similar. I figured every doggy parent felt that. But this was different, even though I couldn’t hear any words like I thought I had at the cathedral. This was new, even for us.

“Okay… what’s different from earlier?” I thought back to the moment at the cathedral, trying to recall. She’d been on my lap, and I’d buried my face in her fur, as I so often did for comfort. But… I’d just held her a moment ago. Just had my face buried in her fur while I tried not to cry.

Before I could sit up, drag her into my lap, and try again, Mischief drew closer once more and pressed her forehead to mine.

I started to argue, to tell her of my plan of recreating the scene. However, she seemed to know what she was doing better than I did, so I held my position.

Mischief pushed a little harder against my forehead and took a long, slow breath, then released it. Her breath didn’t smell minty fresh or anything, but the warmth washed over my cheeks and felt as familiar and safe as home.

I attempted a slow breath of my own, but it shook.

Mischief did it again.

So did I—longer, deeper, and slower that time. The tightness in my throat lessened, and the claws gripping around my heart loosened ever so slightly.

Safe.

I scrambled back, startled, as I hadn’t really expected it to work. “You said that, right? Not just my imagination?”

Her scowl was all the answer I needed.

“Okay, you did say it. That’s… amazing. And I love you think we’re…” My turn to scowl. “Wait a minute. Do you really think that, or is safe the only word you can say?”

Her chuff upgraded from mild annoyance to exasperation.

“All right.” Despite our situation, I chuckled, because talking or not, Mischief was Mischief.

I wasn’t entirely convinced, but whether because of hope or delusion, I wanted to find meaning.

“All right, let’s say you really are talking and I can hear you. We’ll go a step further and believe you’re choosing to say safe because you truly think we are.”

She blinked. Maybe confirmation? That seemed like a good sign.

“Great, so… you believe we’re safe.”

Reality broke through. I was sitting here talking to my dog. Although I always talked to Mischief—all the time—I’d never expected her to answer back with actual words.

Was I losing my mind?

Mischief growled softly.

“Okay, good point. We’re surrounded by witches. Plus, black cats, otters, alligators, and opossums while we’re at it. Not a huge leap that you might start talking.”

Her growling stopped.

“I’ll take that as agreement.” I couldn’t help but grin at her, then reached out and stroked her beautiful face. “So you think we’re safe. I guess that’s good, but there’s not a single thing that’s happened that leads me to believe that. Why in the world do you think we’re safe?”

Mischief’s tail began to dance behind her head. Magic.

I gasped again. “You can say more than safe.”

Her wagging ceased instantly.

“Sorry.”

She sighed.

“You think we’re safe because of magic. I don’t see how.” I continued to pet her and try to parse through things out loud, attempting to make sense of it. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m over the moon it’s all real, but magic is what put us in danger—it’s definitely not protecting us.”

Mischief shook her head, pulling away from my touch. She seemed to consider for a second, then stretched out one of her white little paws and placed it on my hand resting against the bedspread.

Magic.

My heart thrilled again at hearing her voice—which mostly sounded like my own voice, my thinking voice or conscience… but… different.

“Yeah, I get it. There’s magic. But it’s being used against us, Mischief, not—”

Magic. She batted my hand with her paw. Maeve. Magic.

“You said my name!” I gasped again and yanked my hand away, covering my heart like a parent whose baby just said “Mama” for the first time.

She rolled her eyes, which… wasn’t new.

“Sorry.”

She scooted close enough to touch again.

Maeve. She glared again. Magic.

Mischief shook her head in what looked like frustration. I didn’t get the sense she was frustrated at me that time, however.

She gave a little hop, then looked back at me before covering my hand with her paw once more. Magic. Maeve. She tapped my hand, one of her claws accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally—scratching my skin. Magic Maeve. Magic Maeve.

“Uhm…”

Mischief shut her eyes, and her tiny little caterpillar brows furrowed like she was straining. Maeve. Is. Magic.

She opened her eyes, looking deep into mine again. Maeve. Magic.


About the Author:

Mildred Abbott writes cozy mysteries filled with humorous and complex characters. Whether brimming with magic or simply an above-average dose of curiosity, Mildred's amateur sleuths solve murders with the cutest sidekicks ever. Fifteen years as a special education teacher and a lifetime of loving rescue dogs result in creating adventures with a ton of heart and the need for lint rollers.









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