The Beauty of Individual Things follows Margot Andrews, a young American
woman swept from New York high society into the dazzling yet fractured world
of 1920s London. When the transactional demands of privilege collide with
betrayal and violence, leaving her disillusioned and adrift, she escapes to
the freshwater shoreline of lost childhood summers.
With her past unrecoverable and her future uncertain, Margot searches for a
different life amid Detroit’s dynamic and monied Prohibition
era—with its yacht races, rumrunners, and industrial might. Set against
a city on the rise, she must navigate her family’s ruthless pursuit of
social standing, the magnetic pull of charismatic boat racer Ellis James, and
the relentless echoes of her past. The story explores the weight of loneliness
and the personal cost of love and reinvention as Margot decides whether to
remain a fragile ornament of her family’s design or forge an identity
that is beautiful, imperfect, and entirely her own.
Excerpt
No one tells a young woman that things usually happen because of money,
sex, or power. We learn it on our own. Polite girls go on to elegantly
suppress the notion, but most know it, and I was nothing if not polite. It was
different for Grace. She was a Maxwell. It wasn’t in their nature to
suppress things. They blew them up.
An early lesson remains etched in my mind. It was a summer day in 1913. The
Maxwells had secured a white clapboard weekly rental on the shores of Elk
Lake, tucked among the rolling farmland and evergreen forests of northern
Michigan.
The screen door slammed. I shaded my eyes as Uncle Fred crossed a narrow strip
of beach, wearing a faded black-and-white-striped bathing costume.
“You’ll burn, Fred,” Aunt Lou clucked from her canvas sling
chair under the shade of a lurid yellow umbrella.
Cousin Grace doubled over, shrieking with laughter. “You look like a
ghost,” she sputtered. I suppressed my giggles by intently staring at a
beached canoe.
Uncle Fred hadn’t brought any alcohol on that vacation.
“It’s called drying out,” Grace had whispered one night
after we were tucked away in our shared bed. “The booze turns dusty and
blows away … or something.”
I never saw the dust, but for two or three rocky days Uncle Fred kept to his
room, scolding us through the door to lower our voices. Then one bright
morning, the dust cleared. All breakfast table chatter quieted as he stood at
the head of the table, bright-eyed and eager to lead us on bracing outdoor
excursions involving tree identification—white pine versus
red—campfires, and fish brought home on stringers. I felt sorry for the
fish, but they were delicious.
Now, after nodding in acceptance of his daughter’s ribbing, Uncle Fred
called to me, “Margot, I’ll see you at the end of the dock.”
I immediately stopped giggling. I had been forbidden from docks and floating
canoes because I didn’t know how to swim. At ten years old, I was
mortified by this humiliating precaution yet too frightened to do anything
constructive about it.
Aunt Lou had dismissed all petulant objections. “The water doesn’t
care, child. It’ll drown you all the same.”
About the Author
Karen Thomas Yoo was born and raised in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. She graduated
from the University of Michigan and received an MBA from Duke University. When
she isn't writing, she can usually be found in her garden or on a paddleboard
in Lake Michigan. A mother of three grown children, she lives in Grosse Pointe
with her husband. This is her first novel.
Camp Shifter series DJ Jennings Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Romance
Welcome to Camp Shifter, where one mysterious letter changes everything. Hidden from the human world, Camp Shifter helps newly awakened shifters navigate their new lives—and discover the fated mates destiny has chosen for them. Filled with irresistible attraction, laugh-out-loud moments, emotional journeys, and steamy romance, these stories feature bears, wolves, owls, and other shifters finding love when they least expect it. From enemies-to-lovers and rejected mates to second chances and insta-love, the Camp Shifter Series delivers heart, humor, passion, and happily-ever-afters in a world where fate always has a plan—and love changes everything.
The author of the Camp Shifter series, Darla Josephine “DJ” Jennings, is originally from Ohio but now lives in Massachusetts in a household full of people who drive her nuts, but she loves them anyhow. She fills her days with writing, business management, and the never-ending task of herding cats.
Learn more about her in the New York Times bestselling novel, Random Acts of Crazy by Julia Kent, where she stars as one of the main characters. That’s right! DJ Jennings isn’t real, but Julia Kent sure is. :)
The Wednesday Box Jonathan Kieran Publication date: June 18th 2026 Genres: Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Horror
Some stories begin with “Once Upon a Time…”
This one begins with loneliness.
From the bestselling author of WistWood comes THE WEDNESDAY BOX, an illustrated supernatural horror novel for readers who love the haunting edge of stories like Coraline, The Thief of Always, The Graveyard Book, Neverwhere, and The Nest.
“At its heart, it’s a brilliant coming-of-age tale that isn’t afraid to get dark, showing the world through the eyes of a young girl dealing with heavy, adult-sized burdens.”
“Beneath all the strange events, this is also a story about exhaustion, poverty, protection, and the terrible compromises people make when they’re trying to survive. That emotional foundation makes the darker turns of the story hit much harder.”
May has learned to survive in a world of shrieking subway rails, soot-stained skies, and apartment hallways where silence, caution, and never asking for too much are simply facts of life.
But when a hulking stranger in a raincoat the color of broken promises begins to haunt her steps—on the train, in the tunnels, at her own door—May realizes that keeping quiet will no longer keep her safe.
Wednesday is the only day May cannot be alone.
The only night.
And when her weary mother leaves her with a new caretaker, May discovers that the tempting contents of an ancient box hold dangers far worse than anything she has ever feared
The greatest danger, however, is not what hunts her, but the impossible choice before her…
Tell the truth and risk losing the one person she cannot live without.
Or keep silent and face the darkness alone.
Because below the city, something is hunting.
And it knows her name.
“You’ll feel for May, just as I did. It’s quietly devastating in all the right ways.”
“I was absolutely gripped by how this story manages to be both terrifying and incredibly moving. At its heart, it’s a brilliant coming-of-age tale that isn’t afraid to get dark, showing the world through the eyes of a young girl dealing with heavy, adult-sized burdens. It feels like a fever dream you don’t want to wake up from—part mystery, part dark fairy tale—and the pacing is just perfect. It never rushes; instead, it lets the mystery coil around you until you’re completely pulled in. If you’re looking for a book that challenges you and lingers in your mind long after you finish reading, this is it.”
–
“From the very first page, The Wednesday Box pulls you into a world of creeping dread and unsettling wonder, masterfully balancing psychological darkness with raw emotional stakes. Thoughtful, tense, and hauntingly beautiful, this is a story whose rich atmosphere and emotional intensity will linger with you long after the final page is turned. You’ll feel for May, just as I did. It’s quietly devastating in all the right ways.”
–
“With The Wednesday Box, Jonathan Kieran delivers a striking dark fable that effortlessly bridges the gap between coming-of-age fiction and sophisticated adult fantasy. While the story centers on a young heroine navigating a perilous world, its core themes—confronting class divide, deep-seated neglect, and the sheer psychological weight of enduring hardship—track directly with mature, real-world anxieties. Kieran weaves a starkly beautiful tapestry of gothic atmosphere and fairy-tale danger, prioritizing emotional realism over easy genre tropes. It is a sharp, unsettling, and lyrical read that will deeply resonate with anyone drawn to high-stakes psychological tension and evocative, atmospheric storytelling.”
Author Bio:
Jonathan Kieran is an author and illustrator with a passion for world travel and ancient history—and an occasionally bewildered grasp of the present. He lives in a rustic house in the woodlands not far from Big Sur, California, where he awaits the future confidently with plenty of firewood, a new cat named Beezley, mercurial internet access, a magical footbridge (troll-infested and everything), and a reasonable supply of Cabernet Sauvignon. There also appears to be a significant Pinot Noir backup; viticultural shortages are not to be countenanced.
Jonathan’s interests are eclectic. He is as likely to regale you with an account of his latest misadventures in the Midi-Pyrénées as he is to ask if you happen to have any spare cookies about the house—and if so, whether you might part with five of them. Nothing piques his interest like a good old-fashioned discussion about cryptozoology, Tuscan cuisine, classical English literature, the perils of pop culture, or the harrowing details of great white shark attacks.
In addition to running up and down various mountainsides to burn off calories accrued from the wanton consumption of baked goods, Jonathan enjoys a good party with people unafraid to laugh, and he veritably lives for bedtime.
He is the author and illustrator of The Wednesday Box, WistWood and the Enchanted Heritage Chronicles, with more adventures to come.
A collective of mystery writers, known as the Society of Fibbers, has captivated thousands with their addictive podcast—catapulting each member into the limelight. But when one of their own is found dead under chilling circumstances, the remaining Fibbers realize their newfound fame may have painted a target on their backs.
Rebecca Stanchion, one of the group’s co-founders, is convinced her friend’s murder is a tragic case of domestic violence—until a sinister attempt on her own life shatters that theory and threatens her family. Meanwhile, Zach Hargrove, a fellow writer, becomes obsessed with the cryptic black cards left at both crime scenes. Each card seems to whisper a warning: the killer is watching.
Is this the work of a fan driven to madness, or has betrayal seeped into the heart of the Society itself? As an annual writers’ conference approaches, Zach and Rebecca race against time to unmask the killer before the Society of Fibbers’ headline appearance turns into a deadly final act.
Praise for Those Who Shall Die:
"Michael Bradley has done it again! Those Who Shall Die is a thrilling novel of mystery and suspense, a tense and twisty page-turner that will leave you desperate to learn who is killing mystery authors and why." ~ Lisa Malice, bestselling author of Lest She Forget, winner of the 2023 IBPA Best New Voice in Fiction award.
"A well-written, clever whodunit with crafty twists that will keep readers guessing." ~ Jennifer Sadera, award-winning author of I Know She Was There.
"... keeps the reader's head spinning as secrets emerge, friendships fail, alliances dissolve, and animosities rise to surface until the final betrayal is revealed. A page turner that plumbs the depths of ambition, betrayal, and murder." ~ Jane Kelly, Author of the Meg Daniels mysteries.
Those Who Shall Die Book Trailer:
Book Details:
Genre: Amateur Sleuths, Suspense Thrillers Published by: Initium Books Publication Date: July 7, 2026 Number of Pages: 388 ISBN: 9780986200243 (ISBN10: 0986200247) Book Links:Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub
Read an excerpt:
Chapter One
Zach Hargrove held the serrated hunting knife in a white-knuckled grip as he silently crept forward. No room for mistakes this time. This had to be silent, swift and deadly. Just one fierce thrust into the carotid artery. It would be messy, but she had to die.
Nellie sat—unmoving—in a black leather office chair, facing the third-floor windows that looked out over Old Mill Creek. If she was aware that he was behind her, she gave no sign. Her dark straggly hair hung over the back of the chair in tangled clumps. Zach couldn’t remember the last time he’d run a brush through it. She needed a wash too, but he’d given up on that long ago. Nellie had been exactly what he needed at first, but after so many years, she’d become more of a burden than a help. He hated having to move her heavy, awkward body from chair to chair, room to room. Caring for her had become arduous. No one would miss Nellie if he got rid of her . . .
Her head tilted to the right, blocking her neck from his view, and he hesitated. He wouldn’t be able to strike cleanly from this direction with her head tilted. He swapped the knife from his right hand to his left. The rubber handle felt awkward in his grasp. A few practice swings with his non-dominant hand felt odd and clumsy, so he tried some overhead plunges. Maybe he could stab Nellie in the back of the neck instead. A quick blow to sever her spinal cord, and she’d die in seconds. What if he yanked her head back and ran the knife across her neck, slitting it open from side to side? He shook his head. Too clichéd. Everyone slashed throats these days. He toyed, for a moment, with driving the knife through the back of the chair and into Nellie’s back. I’d never get the knife deep enough to kill her, he thought. She’d survive with a flesh wound—if that happened, he’d never hear the end of it.
With a frown, he shifted the knife back to his right hand and decided to continue with his original plan: one fast jab to the right side of the neck. Zach glanced at his prey. Nellie remained still, oblivious of what he was about to do. He inched forward, his gray Skechers silent on the plush beige carpet. His fingers tightened on the knife handle, and he drew his arm back. The muscles on his shoulder were taut, but his arm had a slight tremble. He had to get this right on the first try.
After two more cautious steps, he stood behind Nellie, staring down at a scalp of unkempt hair. Oh, how he hated that hair. With one barbaric swing, he brought his arm down, but the blow didn’t go quite as planned. The knife tip deflected off her head, tangled in a clump of hair, and plunged into Nellie’s shoulder.
“Damn it,” Zach shouted.
He stood for a moment, studying his handiwork. Nellie slumped forward, the knife standing tall in her shoulder.
He tried to withdraw the knife slowly, but the serrated blade caught on several threads and tore the seam in Nellie’s shoulder. Clumps of polyester stuffing—like giant cotton balls—tumbled out of the hole and fell to the floor. Zach let out a long sigh as he placed the knife on the nearby desk. Now he’d have to sew her up. He spun the office chair around and stared at Nellie. Her featureless face and black button eyes stared blankly back at him. Patches—both big and small—covered her arms, abdomen, head, and legs—scars of the many instances of his mistreatment.
“I’m glad you don’t hold a grudge,” he said.
Zach wrapped his arms around the life-size dummy and lifted her out of the chair, her canvas skin rough on his bare arms. A trail of white filling marked his steps as he manhandled her across the room and propped her up on the sofa.
Dropping into his desk chair, he reviewed the previous few paragraphs he’d written just before he attempted to kill Nellie. The murder scene “seemed” to flow, but he wasn’t satisfied with the way it turned out. His antagonist—the mysterious Mr. Price—had entered the home of Dallas Kincaid with the intention of killing Kincaid’s new girlfriend. But Zach had found the scene difficult to write. There was something about the logistics that bothered him, hence his attempt to “kill” Nellie, his long-time partner for acting out crime scenes. For her part, Nellie had endured a dozen or more stabbings, being thrown from windows, run over by cars, and even shot twice. And yet she never once complained.
Zach stood again, snatched a Bic pen from the desk, and paced around the room, pausing on occasion to glance out the windows that covered all four walls. The third floor of his house, his “Author’s Loft,” as he liked to call it, had a 360-degree view of the surrounding yard as well as the creek that flowed past the back of his property. The small Delaware town of Lewes hadn’t been his first choice of places to call home. But when he’d first toured the house three years ago, the bright openness of the room couldn’t have been more perfect for him. It satisfied his need for a place to write, and the room’s openness was preferred over the more confined spaces he’d seen in every other house he’d toured. He’d put an offer on the place immediately and moved in a month later.
As he paced, Zach furiously clicked the button on the pen with his thumb. He passed the lone bookshelf, stuck in the corner between the adjoining walls’ windows, and paused to study the colorful hardback spines of his previous eight Dallas Kincaid Mystery novels. Five of them had become New York Times bestsellers, but not the last two. His protagonist, Dallas Kincaid, had become increasingly more difficult to write over the past couple years. The character had become too clichéd, too much like every other amateur detective in the market, and Zach was struggling to keep each new book fresh and original. He was ready for something new, something different.
“This will be the last Kincaid novel,” he’d told his agent, Mariah Maddison.
“Don’t be too hasty,” she’d said. “You might regret those words once the book is released.”
With a sigh, Zach slipped the Bic pen into his pants pocket, returned to his desk, and hovered his fingers over the keyboard of his laptop. He stared at the text on the screen, the words fading together into a jumble of pixels that made no more sense than when he’d read them a few minutes ago.
Pushing back from the desk, he growled, “Hell,” and stood, rounding the half wall that hid the stairs from view and descended into the house below.
In the kitchen, Zach grabbed a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale from the fridge, twisted the top off and took a long sip. A calendar—tacked to a nearby corkboard—was open to the month of June. A quick glance over the dates made his stomach churn. He had until mid-July to finish the first draft of the next Dallas Kincaid novel. That gave him six weeks. The manuscript was only thirty percent done. He sighed as he eyeballed the next few weeks. There was an upcoming recording session for the Society of Fibbers podcast. A book signing with Jasper Stone and Martina Vargas in Virginia. He flipped up the calendar page and looked over July. The week after Independence Day was blocked out for ThrillNYC in New York City. Damn, that only gives me five weeks to finish the book. His stomach twisted in knots as his anxiety rose.
Zach moved through the open dining room to the sliding glass door, stepped onto his back deck, and gazed out across the creek. The tide was out, and the muddy banks were exposed to the Tuesday afternoon sun. An eagle was perched in the tree that hung over the water. The lush cordgrass stood tall along the edges of the creek, outlining the maze of the twisting waterway. A gentle breeze rustled the tips of the grass. The faint aroma of marsh water punctuated each deep breath. So peaceful. So relaxing. He closed his eyes and listened to the tranquility around him. But it did little to subdue the angst within him. When was his next therapy appointment? Maybe it was time to try some of the meds his therapist had so often suggested.
From within the house, the shrill of his mobile phone interrupted the serenity of the moment. Moving back into the kitchen, he scooped up the phone from the counter where he’d left it.
The voice that greeted him was grave and somber. “Zach? It’s Rebecca. Something terrible has happened. Martina Vargas is dead.”
***
Excerpt from Those Who Shall Die by Michael Bradley. Copyright 2026 by Michael Bradley. Reproduced with permission from Michael Bradley. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Michael Bradley is an award-winning author from Delaware who started life as a radio disc jockey, working at stations in New Jersey and West Virginia. His time in radio provided him with a wealth of fond, enduring, and sometimes scandalous memories that he hopes to one day commit to paper.
After spending eight years “on-the-air,” he realized that he needed to get a real job. He has spent the next twenty or so years working in Information Technology. And yes, he has said “try turning it off and on again” more times than he wants to admit.
Never one to waste an experience, he used his familiarity with life on the radio for many of his suspense novels. His third novel, DEAD AIR (2020), won a Foreword INDIES Award and a IBPA Benjamin Franklin Award.
This post is part of a virtual book tour orgainzed by Goddess Fish Promotions.Lynn Crandall will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
An Aeon by birth, Diane Butler knew when she walked away from her fellow Aeons that she wanted certain things: wealth, power, acceptance. But she'd come to realize she didn't belong with Dark Sides and joined in the battle to save Auralia from darkness. But when her past comes after her, she understand that she can't escape it with a simple name change.
A surprise encounter that turns ugly pits lone Emmett Forrest against thugs determined to hurt Cassie. With each threat out cold on the ground, he believes he's done. But when the men report the incident to the Auralia Police Department, he can't avoid the drama or the intrigue surrounding her.
Read an Excerpt
“Anyone else bored as sin? We stopped the Irish mob and Dark Sides from taking over Auralia in December. January and February, we took some time to recover from Dark Sides’ Project Reckoning. I know you all have been tending to your personal lives, your relationships, and your careers, but for me, those two months were the epitome of boredom. Now March is almost over, and still boredom reigns.”
“Diane—” Braden started.
“Cassie,” she interrupted. “Try to remember, Braden. I’ve told you so many times that I’m using my middle name now. I’m not Diane anymore.” She pouted her lips.
“Cassie. I told you, Cassie for short.” She swept her gaze around the living room at Braden and Payson’s house and flung her hands up. “I swear, it’s not that hard to remember my name. I made a change, I’m not Diane. I’m not that woman any more. I’m aligned with light and love. I’m Cassie. Cassie. Cassie Butler. Gauzy, gossamer, and open, not rigid, harsh, or angry Cassie.” The rock lodged in her gut weighed her down. Was she different? Truly? She’d been putting in the work with her counselor, Claire Eve Kelly, to make the change permanent. But with the chaos of the past not far behind, she ached for the excitement of the life she had. The parties, the conniving to get what she wanted. It had all been so mesmerizing.
About the Author After cutting her writing teeth as a feature writer for commercial and trade magazines, a reporter for newspapers and radio, and an executive editor for a communications company, award-winning author Lynn Crandall tuned her voracious appetite for stories to writing contemporary and paranormal romance, women’s fiction, and romantic suspense. In her books, she enjoys taking readers on emotional journeys with relatable characters who refuse to back down, and face challenges and tribulations with heart and soul. She believes every love has a story, and hers is with one handsome husband and a large, beautiful circle of family, including her cat Winter.
PI Bradshaw
receives a late night call from a client desperate to find her missing
daughter. The woman asks to meet him at a storage unit in upstate New York. The
woman hangs up before Bradshaw can inquire further. Woken by the jarring news,
Bradshaw decides to meet the frantic, mysterious woman pleading for his help.
Working as
a private investigator has its drawbacks. Bradshaw often receives prank calls
from clients with run-of-the-mill requests and chooses his cases wisely. But
there is something unusual and unnerving about this particular call. The
hopeless plea in the woman’s voice and the anonymity of her demand ignite a
maelstrom of questions.
While
Bradshaw decides whether the call is worth pursuing, a young dead girl from the
Other Side visits him, demanding attention and seeking help for the request he
just received. Who is this spirit? What does she want? And how is she linked to
the caller?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpt:
Thunder cleaved the sky, pulling me out of my
foggy dream.
In the glass, a flash of white light and a dash
of movement scurried past my periphery.
I shuddered at the pale flesh of a disfigured
face sneering at me.
I turned.
Nothing -- a line of locked unit doors.
Then footsteps, sprinting away, and a gaggle of
laughter from around the corner, along the corridor.
“Hello?” I yelled, chasing another phantom. My
legs felt like rubber bands as I dashed to the end of the long hall. I stopped
at the stairwell door, out of breath.
The sound footsteps seized. But intoxicating
laughter followed.
“Who’s there?” I yelled. “This isn’t funny.”
A mockery of demonic laughter filled the air and
cooled my skin.
I stepped back, drew a breath.
Behind me, one of the two elevators dinged. The
doors opened.
Curiosity consumed me.
I should not have turned around to the sound.
The lights went out when I did, plunging me into
complete darkness.
Up ahead, the exit signs flickered.
I reached into my coat pocket and gripped the
small bottle of mace I carried with me when working cases. My heart thrashed
behind my ribs, like a pack of hungry rats gnawing through the lining of
muscles, tendons, and intestines.
A coldness coiled in the space behind me. A
round of knuckles tapped against my head, and the sound of teeth clicked close
to my ear. I ran toward the elevator doors. They closed before I reached it.
I banged hard on the doors and pressed the down
button several times.
In the dim light of the corridor, I noticed
shadowy movement from something skittering across the wall, a chittering
screech of insectile legs rushing at me in the dark.
I raced a few feet to the left of the elevators
to the stairwell door.
Locked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Thomas
Grant Bruso knew he wanted to be a writer at an early age. He has been a
voracious reader of genre fiction since childhood.
His
literary inspirations are Ray Bradbury, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Jim
Grimsley, Karin Fossum, and Joyce Carol Oates.
Bruso
loves animals, reading books, and writing fiction, and prefers Sudoku to
crossword puzzles.
In
another life, he was a freelance writer and wrote for magazines and newspapers.
In college, he won the Hermon H. Doh Sonnet Competition. Now, he writes and
publishes fiction and reviews books for his hometown newspaper, The
Press-Republican.
Night Home Rose Titus Publication date: December 2nd 2017 Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Thriller
When Muriel Aubrey inherits an old house in a small town, she imagines that moving into the rural community will be deathly dull. But the old house once belonged to her eccentric granduncle, a professor who was said to be researching something very mysterious and unusual before his untimely death. While exploring the slightly rundown Victorian age home, she finds the research notes that had been hidden away and discovers that the professor was researching vampires.
It isn’t long before Muriel meets residents of the small town who knew the professor almost a century ago, and that everything he wrote in the notes he kept is true… And she suddenly finds herself stalked by a vampire hunter.
There was the usual convenience store stuff on the rack: Tabloids, celebrity gossip, fashion magazines, newspapers. The store sold lottery tickets, junk food, candy, beer, a few grocery items, even a few small appliances. She noticed the guy who owned the place was watching her. It made her nervous. Not because he watched her, but because he was so pale. He did not look unhealthy. It was like he just never got out into the sun.
“You must be the new girl.”
“Huh?” She spun around to face him.
“You’re new in town. You just moved into that old house.”
“H-how do you know?”
“Well, how could I not know? I live across the field and saw the light was on for the first time in a long time.”
“Oh,” she felt silly. “Yeah. That’s right. I’m new in town. The house will need some work, but it’s not really that bad. My eccentric old uncle owned it a long time ago and—”
“I know. Professor Aubrey. He was a good man,” there was sadness in his voice.
“Yeah, that’s what they say—” how the hell would he know if he was a good man? This guy looked no more than thirty. The old guy had been dead for at least since 1936, according to the old newspaper clipping.
“Elton.” He seemed to smile as he introduced himself. “Elton Masaryk.”
“Muriel Aubrey.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
She went up to pay for the magazine she picked.
“You let me know if you need anything over there, all right? I live just across the field. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. Really.”
“Thank you.” She went for the door but turned around. “You sound as if you know something about Professor Aubrey?”
He hesitated. “A little. Why?”
“He was related to me, but I hardly know anything about him. I heard he was murdered by his colleague from the University and—”
“Yeah. That’s right. The same guy who murdered your uncle also killed three other people too. They gave him the chair. Bastard deserved it.” But then he was silent. He was beginning to sound as if he knew more than he could tell. As if it still angered him somehow. “Oh well.” Then he went silent.
“Okay. Thank you.” She left. She returned home as the sky began to brighten, and finally slept.
Author Bio:
Rose Titus resides somewhere in cold, dreary New England with two manipulative cats and a very out of date computer with which she creates horror and fantasy fiction. She also has a restored classic Buick to ride around in while in search of adventure.
For travel she has stayed the night in an allegedly haunted castle, has taken a boat ride on Loch Ness, and has visited the Bermuda Triangle -- without getting lost.
Her work has previously appeared in Lost Worlds, Lynx Eye, Bog Gob, Mausoleum, Weird Terrain, Descend, The Dead River Review, and other literary magazines. She also writes regularly for Blood Moon Rising Magazine.
When she's not working or writing or messing with her old car, she waits by the mailbox for her Fortean Times to arrive.
