I’m putting some of this after a jump so as to share the front page with all the other lovely excerpts we’ll be seeing here during excerpt week, which I’m sure we can all agree was a genius idea on Marcia’s part. Naturally, I’m tacking on a little shameless self promotion. I hope you’ll all do the same, to make it easy for me to find your books.
I’m looking forward to finding some new stuff for my Kindle this week, so get posting!
Ghost in the Canteen is a modern paranormal fantasy with elements of horror, comedy, severed stuff, and supernaturally powerful dogs. As the first in the Lydia Trinket series, it’s permanently priced at 99¢ at major online retailers. Book two in the series, Peak of the Devil, is coming next month. (For anyone who’s already read Ghost, an excerpt of Peak is available at my website, but you should be warned: that one contains adult language!)
You can find Ghost at:
Amazon | iBooks | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Scribd | Inktera
ONE
It was the Newfie that started it. It attacked me, which is not normal for a Newfoundland, much less a statue. I was sitting in the dining room of the Dodd house, giving its resident ghost a lecture. The faint scents of tobacco and vanilla were the only signs of him in a room made dim by heavy (and awful) mauve-striped curtains.
“Look Thomas, I get how hard it must have been.” I gestured down the long table. “All the Thanksgiving turkeys served here over the years, all the birthday candles blown out. Your brother at the head of your table. Spending your money. Married to your girl.”
Something growled behind me.
A life-sized wooden Newfie sat between the sideboard and a bookshelf that held china figures and teacups, but no books. The poor dog had seen better days. His paint was chipped, his body scratched. One of his ears ended abruptly in a splintered edge.
We were of a height when I knelt in front of him. “Are you Thomas’s dog?” In the interest of common ground, I hoped so. Establishing rapport and all that. “I had a Newfoundland too,” I announced for old Tom’s benefit. “White and black, just like yours. His name was Little John.”
The vanilla-and-tobacco smell grew stronger. I scratched the Newf’s worn wooden ruff. “You’re a good boy to try to protect him. But I’m here for his own good.” I felt the rumble of his second growl beneath my fingers, and took my hand away.
“I told you, Thomas, I get it. I’d be pissed off too, believe me. But a century is long enough to wallow in it. It’s not healthy for you.”
No growl this time. The silence grew thick, the air cold.
“What do you say, huh? Maybe you’re ready to go of your own free will? Save us all some trouble?” They almost never accepted this offer, but I considered it polite to ask. Apparently my good manners did nothing to impress Thomas Dodd.
The dog came at me in a flurry of snarls and barks. I jumped away a split second too late, and his teeth grazed my hand. He was still made of wood, his coat faded paint instead of fur, but his breath was hot and real.
My back slammed into the bookshelf, nearly tipping it over. I raised my arms to protect myself from its falling contents while I thrust a knee into the advancing Newf’s chest. (Although the force of my strike was tempered by the part of me, the crazy part, that didn’t want to hurt a dog.) He snapped at my leg as a china shepherdess broke across his back.
Something heavy smacked my shoulder, then bounced away. I heard it shatter against the table. The dog got hold of my forearm, drawing blood. Whatever had hit me had thrown me off balance, and my feet got tangled with the legs of a chair as I tried to pull away from those teeth that didn’t feel like wood at all.
My head hit the back of the chair, and then my cheek and nose were smashed into the musty-smelling carpet. Well great, this is it then. As usual, my inner critic sounded disappointed, but not surprised. You go down when a dog’s attacking you and you’re as good as dead.
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