Title: The Haunting of Aaron
House
ISBN: 978-1-62420-202-5
Author: Joyce Zeller
Email: author@joycezeller.com
Genre: Paranormal/Women's Fiction
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 2
TAGLINE
Two predatory ghosts terrorize film producer Paul
Barlowe, his wife Samantha, and their son Andy when they rent an old farmhouse
while Paul shoots a documentary film.
BLURB
Paul and Samantha Barlowe didn’t believe in ghosts until
they stay in a one hundred fifty-year-old farmhouse in Lancaster County,
Pennsylvania. While Paul is shooting a historical documentary film for the
local tourist bureau, they are visited by two evil ghosts in need of a human
couple to grow even stronger. The Barlowes become caught up in ancient folklore
and the supernatural, putting their lives in danger. They seek the help of a
local “Pow Wow” woman who can cast an ancient spell that will free them.
EXCERPT
The
familiar darkness grew around Samantha; the same dream, repeated nightly, but
never during the day. No. Not during the day. It isn't possible.
"Dreams
don't come while you're awake." She tried hard to convince herself and
stave off the encroaching darkness. Always the same, an old farmhouse with a
maze of dark rooms. Determined, she clenched her teeth and fought the
blackness, willing it to go away, but it engulfed her.
Her
gut spasmed on the sweet, coppery taste of blood. Desperately she gripped the
edge of the kitchen sink, swallowing convulsively to keep her stomach still.
"I
will beat this. I am not going crazy. Somewhere there is an explanation. It has
to be stress, or nerves, or something," she said out loud, trying to
convince herself.
The
phone rang. The blackness vanished. Thank
God. A call this early had to be Irene, but she welcomed even her mother if
it killed the dream. No mere demon could battle Irene and win.
"Hi,
Mom." Keep it casual. "How is Nairobi?" Good. Voice
not too shaky. Her mother proved sharp as a fox at picking up stress.
"Oh, you're in France?"
Why
not? Irene traveled constantly, a nomad with no permanent address. Sam frowned,
irritated, wishing her mother wouldn't call before breakfast. Mornings were
special, reserved for family. What time is it in Europe, anyway?
"What
happened to Nairobi?"
Resigned
to hearing a long story, she tucked the phone under her chin and set about
assembling the makings of an omelet while her nerves settled into the morning
routine. With cool efficiency she split a muffin and slipped it into the
toaster, ready to go when Paul or their son, Andy, appeared.
"Yes,
Mother," Samantha Barlowe, patient and dutiful, responded. Conversations
with her mother required little besides occasional agreement whenever Irene
paused for breath.
"So
what are you doing in France?"
Irene,
the perennial guest, lived shamelessly off the hospitality of her friends.
"Count
de Coucy? Yeah, how fortunate you got invited to his party. He has a live-in
psychic?" Sam huffed in disbelief. Not good. Her mother and a
psychic meant trouble.
"Now
hold on. You will not seek advice from this psychic about my vacation."
Sam's
temper heated. Her mother simply could not stay out of her business since she
had her own family. Throughout her childhood, Irene had blithely ignored her
motherly duties—a little late to try for a relationship now.
"You
can consult every psychic in Europe, for all I care, I'm not talking about this
anymore. No way am I giving up the chance to live in a two-hundred-year-old
farmhouse filled with antiques, even if it's only for two weeks." Damn. Why had I ever mentioned the dream? Deliberately she changed
the subject.
"So,
tell me about this house party. It sounds exciting." Sam summoned patience
for the recitation.
House
parties by the upper classes were deadly dull, but Irene rarely required
comment. Her opinions were sacrosanct and she scattered them casually, as
though they were glass beads at a Mardi Gras festival.
Deftly,
Sam stirred a pitcher of orange juice with one hand, while using the other to
remove crispy bacon from the microwave.
"Uh
huh," she muttered as she worked, bare-footed, wearing her usual morning
dress of pajama bottoms and a sleep tee. Later she'd change into jeans and a
t-shirt and tuck her short, blonde hair under a baseball cap. Suburban Chicago
living required little else.
Oops. A
pause at the other end of the phone meant her mother waited for an answer. What had she been talking about? Oh, yeah.
"Yes,
Mother, the Biedermierer is perfect; the decorator is very impressed that I
could get my hands on such fine stuff so fast. I told him my clever,
globetrotting mother is my secret weapon." With no guilt whatsoever, she
fed Irene's insatiable desire for flattery. Sam's passion for antiques had led
her into a part-time career of antique finder for several decorator clients.
She prowled continually.
"Oh,
watch out for some French Empire when you get to Paris. I have another client
with a yen for female figurines with clocks in their bellies."
Laughing,
she opened the fridge to get the eggs, imagining her mother's look of
displeasure at such a display of irreverence for costly objects.
"Good
morning, Babe." Paul came up behind her and caught her in his arms,
nuzzling the back of her neck. A tingle of sexual tension hovered, never far
below the surface for either one of them. She leaned against him, loving the
feel of his lean, muscular body, while savoring his strength and what she
thought of as his "ready-for-the-office" smell; soap, after shave,
shampoo and toothpaste. On weekends she preferred him unadorned; pure
"essence of Paul."
"Morning,
Irene," he said loudly into the phone, and gave her another hug before he
settled onto a bar stool to listen to her conversation and drink the coffee she
poured for him.
Sam
gave him a wink while admiring the primitive masculinity she adored. The sharp
angles and planes of his face were enhanced by his dark shaggy brown hair, worn
slightly long. The razor-sharp intellect that reflected in his dark brown eyes
gave him a predatory look that never failed to excite her. He lived, and loved,
enveloped in an intense, passionate aura that he carried over into his career,
making him one of the most sought-after, and successful, documentary film
producers in Chicago.
Sighing,
she turned her attention, once again, to the phone, rolling her eyes in silent
communication. Morning phone calls from her mother were a given in this house.
"We'll
be on our way tomorrow. We'll start shooting the film next Monday. Use my cell
number. I'm not sure the farmhouse has phones." A pause, then she added,
grimly, "Mother, come off it. The local chamber of commerce arranged for
us to stay there and I'm sure they're reliable." Her mother really tried
her patience. The woman was relentless.
"I'm
not talking about this anymore. The dream is merely coincidence, not some
message from the netherworld." Her voice reflected an assurance she didn't
quite feel. Her heart rate rose, warning of anxiety simmering under the
surface, ready to engulf her. No, she wouldn't give into it.
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