About the book:
The Grave Artist
By: Paula Lynn Johnson
Synopsis:
16-year-old Clare can't
stop drawing the bizarre, winged skulls she calls "Sammies". Her
psychiatrist assumes the compulsive drawings are just expressions of Clare's
grief over her father abandoning her. But then Clare discovers that her Sammies
are exact matches for the Death's Head on the grave of Samantha Forsythe, a
teen who reportedly fell to her death over two centuries ago.
Before long, Clare's drawings morph into cryptic writings that urge her to uncover the truth behind Samantha's death. Together with Neil -- the friend she might be falling for -- Clare scours the local history for clues. She finds that, although Samantha was engaged to a wealthy landowner, there were whispered rumors of her involvement with a younger, biracial man.
Soon, Clare is haunted by disturbing dream images -- a mysterious eye, a broken chain -- that point to someone Samantha called her "Dearest". But who is Dearest? And why does Samantha need Clare to find him so badly?
Isolated and carrying hidden scars of her own, Clare fears her obsession with Samantha will threaten her sanity and safety. But it seems she has no choice in the matter . . .
The Grave Artist is a compelling paranormal murder mystery and a poignant story about loss and what it means thrive in a less-than-perfect reality.
Before long, Clare's drawings morph into cryptic writings that urge her to uncover the truth behind Samantha's death. Together with Neil -- the friend she might be falling for -- Clare scours the local history for clues. She finds that, although Samantha was engaged to a wealthy landowner, there were whispered rumors of her involvement with a younger, biracial man.
Soon, Clare is haunted by disturbing dream images -- a mysterious eye, a broken chain -- that point to someone Samantha called her "Dearest". But who is Dearest? And why does Samantha need Clare to find him so badly?
Isolated and carrying hidden scars of her own, Clare fears her obsession with Samantha will threaten her sanity and safety. But it seems she has no choice in the matter . . .
The Grave Artist is a compelling paranormal murder mystery and a poignant story about loss and what it means thrive in a less-than-perfect reality.
About the author:
Paula Lynn Johnson loves
a good ghost story. She's a former English major and attorney living in central
New Jersey with her husband, kids, cat, dog, and killer rabbit. She adores them
all, even the killer rabbit.
Paula also loves a good laugh! You can read her short, humorous pieces on sites like The Big Jewel and Errant Parent, or on her blog, Twaddle Like a Duck.
When she's not writing, Paula sells antiques and art out of Lambertville, NJ. You can visit her online at Tiny's Lambertville.
Paula also loves a good laugh! You can read her short, humorous pieces on sites like The Big Jewel and Errant Parent, or on her blog, Twaddle Like a Duck.
When she's not writing, Paula sells antiques and art out of Lambertville, NJ. You can visit her online at Tiny's Lambertville.
Website: www.thegraveartist.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheGraveArtist
Click read more to read an excerpt from The Grave Artist and enter the giveaway!
Excerpt:
The sale ends, and Gollum and I
grab some late fast food. Afterwards, I head back home to a dark house. Lauren
and Mom are asleep. I climb the stairs and go straight to bed, too tired to
wash up. I’m out almost as soon as I hit the pillow.
And then, the strangest of dreams.
Flashes
of naked limbs and scattered leaves. A
world painted brown and gray.
It’s
a forest in winter, and I’m running through it.
Thick
trees block my path. Spiny branches tear
at my clothes. I’m crying – choking
sobs that hardly let me catch my breath. But still, I run, my breath frosting
the air.
I
round a bend and stumble against a mound of moss-covered rocks. They’re stacked
like a totem – a stone god with a blank face. I push against them, propelling
myself forward.
I’m
gasping, now. Something thorny strafes
my ankle. A shrieking bird flies above.
And
then I break through the woods, cross a narrow pathway, and stop short.
My
toes curl tight over the edge of a precipice.
I rear forward, then back, regaining my balance. A swooping in my stomach as I register the
void below, a dark cavity. My pulse beats in my ears, behind my eyes.
Hoof
beats. At first, I can’t distinguish them from my pounding heart. But then they
grow louder, more deliberate.
I turn and look. A rider approaches from the
woods, on horseback. He has no face, just a vague smear of features. But I can
make out the broad span of his shoulders, the width of his hands clutching the
reigns. I can sense his strength.
Panic
floods me.
The
rider draws closer and dismounts. For a
horrible moment, he stands frozen. Then he paces towards me, slow and menacing.
Terrified,
I shuffle backwards, towards the edge. My lungs slow, filtering just enough air
for me to remain conscious. Not nearly enough to scream.
The
rider is upon me now. The wind catches
his cloak and unfurls it behind him in a deadly fantail. I cower down, spinal cord humming, sensing
the drop. Above me, he’s become all
darkness – a gathering storm cloud.
A
terrible crack, like a bone snapping in two.
Then staggering pain in my head.
I’m
hurtling through the void, spinning and spinning . . .
And then I’m awake, clawing at my
throat with my fingernails.
It only lasts a few seconds, until
I realize who and where I am. But when my hands calm, I feel something warm
clotting on my skin. Dazed, I go to the bathroom and find angry scratches
swelling around my neck, circling it like a choker. With my finger, I wipe a bead of blood from
my throat and stare at it, horrified.
Oh, my God, it wasn’t just a random
dream. The popping sound my skull made
as it fractured. That terrible, endless
fall. I know who I was, where I was. And how it felt to die.
My body goes limp with fear. I stumble forward and clutch the sink for
balance. And then the urge floods me,
washing away all thoughts except one.
Draw,
O coward.
I clean the one scratch, the bloody
one, wincing at the soap’s sting. Then I return to my room. In the dark, my neck throbs and gives off
heat. I turn on my desk lamp and sit, rummaging for a pencil and sheet of
paper. Then mechanically, I sketch an almond shape, not much bigger than my
thumb. I shade in a dark center, flecked with light, with thick strokes around
the rim. It’s only as I’m adding a
series of fine lines to the outer edge that I realize what I’ve drawn.
It’s an eye. And the way it seems to stare right through
me scares the living hell out of me.
Suddenly, all energy drains from
me. I’ve never felt heavier, more
leaden. I turn the sketch face-down,
then tumble into bed, exhausted.
The next morning, I blink awake.
Groggily, I take in the Kandinsky poster I’ve pinned to the far wall of my
room, the abstract pattern on my comforter. It’s like there’s a wet towel
jammed inside my skull. As I lift my head
from my pillow, I feel an ache in the crease of my neck. I touch my fingertips to the spot and trace a
rough line of torn skin. Now I remember.
I force myself out of bed. My gut cinches up when I see the sheet of
paper lying flat on my desk top. My hand
trembling, I pick it up by the corner and flip it over.
The eye freezes me. Its gaze is still penetrating,
unnerving. But plaintive, too, like it’s
asking for help. Asking me for help.
I stand there, stupefied, almost
levitating with panic. Get a grip, Clare. Somehow you’ve got to deal with this. Then I reach across my desk for my cell and
dial Gollum.
It’s four rings before he picks
up. “Yeah?” he says, sleepily. I glance down at my cell for the time: great,
I woke the guy before eight.
“Gollum, it’s me. Can you meet me at the diner this morning?”
A pause. “I think so,” he says, more awake now. “Why? What’s up?”
“I – I made another drawing last
night, and I don’t know what to do. I
think you should see it in person.”
“So something’s messing with you
again” he says, more a statement than a question.
“Not just something,” I say. “Samantha.”
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Sounds like this one is gonna have to be added to my TBR list. The cover is beautiful. Thanks for the giveaway.
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