In Progress: Spirit Talker, Audio

 

A Letter to Stephen King

Dear Mr. King,

I know just when to start this letter: in my very early childhood, when I lived in a PMQ on Prince Edward Island and was desperate to connect with a father who was, at the time, an undiagnosed bipolar who self-medicated with alcohol. 

When he was at home, he could be counted on to be doing a limited number of things: listening to music on his headphones and sitting on the couch, reading. Always reading. And often, it was your name that graced the cover beneath the title. 

I would sit next to him, reaching with my entire self to perceive the music that soothed him. Sometimes he'd even place the headphones, heavy and overlarge, on my head for a moment or two, and I'd be enveloped in the magic of Pink Floyd, Jethro Tull, Elton John or the all-time favorite: Eric Clapton. I learned how my father's gentle tappings, fingers on the pages of his book or on his thigh, connected to the cadence of the tunes he'd share. The ebbs and flows, the driving beat... and it was magic. And I would keep the beat with him when we'd sit together, regardless of whether I could hear the music or not, because by then I knew what spurred his rhythmic tapping, and knew, too, that he loved it. And maybe, if I loved it, too, he'd love me even more. Maybe he'd realize I understood something about him, and feel better. Stay home more, even.

I used my mother's never ending joy of reading to us to my advantage. My father devoured thick, heavy tomes with powerful-looking block letters on the jackets, his eyes roving over the page hungrily. His busy, troubled mind rejoicing in the distraction of those rows and rows of letters drawn together in chunks and then blocked into sentences and paragraphs. But my mother read my sister and I smaller, brighter versions that had pictures and far fewer words. And I knew two things: that each example, though different, was categorized as a book. And that I wanted to graduate to those bigger and obviously more fulfilling books that held my father's attention. Because in my mind, regardless of all else, my father was the smartest, coolest human ever.

So, when my mother read to me, I studied the words. I remember picking out the pauses between sentences and asking her why some letters were bigger than others. And I noted the sounds of each, whenever I was able. 

But three, I was reading to her.

It was a celebrated accomplishment; my parents and relatives, and later, teachers and peers, seemed to think it was pretty special that I'd learned at such a young age. But they didn't know how hard I'd worked, and for what purpose. 

And then something else happened: I learned that, though I was able to read, I would not be allowed to hold my father's heavy books on my own lap, nor should I tease them out of their tight spaces on the shelf.

Those books weren't for little kids.

Imagine my disappointment!

I was seven when my father finally put my first Stephen King (The Eyes of the Dragon) into my hands. He'd comforted my mother in that it was "tamer" than many of your other titles... sufficiently enough for her to allow it, anyway. She still pressed her lips together, her eyes darkening, whenever she found me reading it. Which was always, until I'd torn through it and, eager for more, read it again. 

I loved it. And there was something else: it felt familiar to read your words. See, I've always been a different sort of girl... one plagued with nightmares, visions and a sensitive perception of the supernatural. And finally in my hands was solid proof that, fiction or no, I wasn't the only one in the world who saw things with a bit of a tilt to them.

But it was different than I'd ever imagined any reading could be. I specifically recall the scene in which Thomas is watching his father through the eyes of Niner and being shocked when the King is described doing things people tend to do when they're alone - peering at themselves critically, picking his nose, lamenting drunkenly to the empty room. And then there was Flagg, a villian the likes of which I'd never imagined, manipulating and conniving and so very dark.

That was the only Stephen King I was allowed to read for a long time. And the ones I read next were read in stealth, after I'd pried them from my father's bookshelf in the living room and secreted them to my room. I read Christine and Thinner and The Tommyknockers, then Misery (which I adored) and The Dark Half. Much of what I read shocked me but, in the clutches of your mastery with words, I read on, confessing to my parents only after I'd managed to get through my father's collection. Can you guess what happened, then? 

He determined I was old enough to read your novels. And my mother unhappily admitted that, as I'd already been so exposed, it was useless to ban them any longer.

And the love affair went on. The first book my father gave to me after that was Needful Things when it came out in '91, and I was floored. Sure, I'd been reading everything I could in between, interspersing library copies of Pet Sematary, The Talisman and IT with The Babysitter's Club, Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret, and Sweet Valley High. I'd take my books outside in the warmer months, reading in the grass or on the tracks with the sounds of the river in my ears. Over the years, I found some of my all-time faves: Bag of Bones, Duma Key, Lisey's Story, 11/22/63, and by then, I was writing, too. Poetry, for the most part (like my father) and short stories here and there, but as I progressed through school and eventually university, I'd kept journals and songs, too... a collection of my own experiments. My personal tribute to the art of language.

Now, I write my own books - supernatural thrillers - and put them out into the world, delighting in the perpetual process of learning. Relieved at the outlet it allows me for all those things that live in me and fester, otherwise. Saved by it in the wake of a chronic pain diagnosis and early retirement from my day job. I won't say it's providing financially just yet, but I see it down the road. I have to! But even if not, I'll still do it.

And my father edits it all. Masterfully. Oh... and he's been sober for nearly 30 years.

Isn't that cool?

So, I guess I just want to say thank you. I've admired you since I could recognize your name, and that was almost from the very start of this stint, in this body, this life. You've unknowingly provided me - and I'm sure many others - a refuge through your work, and I wanted you to know.

Thank you. 

Theresa Dale

Coming Soon: Soul Seer: The Seers Series Book 2

Warning: Seers Series Spoilers forthcoming! 

Book 2 of The Seers Series is loosely scheduled for mid-March. 

Shya is enmeshed in her own personal Hell, somewhere between life and death and woven into the roots of a powerful demon. But Asmodeus won't be satisfied with the bright souls he's collected - he's always wanted more. He's always wanted it all. So, using the weakened barrier between the realms and Shya's incredible energy, he's breached the barrier so that dark souls can slip through to the land of the living. And while the earth turns dark, the souls of the living start slipping, too.

The Seers must untangle Shya from her trap, but how, when they're fractured and the world is spiraling into darkness? Dawn thinks she knows, but the only solution that feels right isn't one she's willing to divulge. Not yet.

She won't lose another member.

Coming January 12, 2021

 

A Snippet: Constance & Enzo's Tea Time With Peyton

Hi, all. I've been working on the audition script for Constance & Enzo, which is slated to follow Asylum in the audio book category, and thought to share a chapter for your reading pleasure. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 7 – Two Lessons

Enzo’s focus intensified as he brought his face almost to the tabletop, his hazel-green eyes narrowing on the little white feather they’d retrieved from Peyton’s duvet.

Peyton giggled. “Your eyes are crossing.”

Enzo remained singly engaged in his task.

Peyton sucked in a breath and pursed her lips in silent support.

Enzo inhaled, then blew, his gaze never faltering, and though the feather remained on the spot they’d carefully placed it (which was the same result as the first and every attempt that had followed), it fluttered, ever-so-slightly.

Peyton gasped painfully, her lungs already full of held air, then cheered on a giant outbreath.

Enzo peered up at her, a light in his eye. “Did you see that?”

Peyton nodded, and Enzo cheered, too, jumping up and dancing around the room.

“You did it!” she exclaimed, hopping a little on the spot in a rare moment of unfettered joy. But a familiar feeling stirred beneath the excitement, too, as she watched Enzo whirl about the room, his form leaving trails as it zipped too fast to be solid, too smoothly to be trapped inside a body that was tangible.

Apprehension.

For Enzo’s progress meant something more than an improvement to his mood and endless possibilities insofar as his freedom was concerned. It also meant an enhanced capacity for the types of tricks and teasing that Enzo loved - and Peyton would surely pay for, should Constance catch on.

But even more ominous was the fact that Enzo’s hair-trigger of a temper would experience a dangerous boost in potential outlets.

He was happy now, but Peyton knew him well enough, even after only a few months of acquaintance, to predict a shift back to resentment – or worse – boredom, as soon as the novelty wore off.

Enzo whooped as he spun again, then darted back to the table. Peyton watched, a small smile still playing at her lips as she tried not to ruminate on the darker implications of his success. But instead of refocusing on the feather, which had moved in the wake of their celebrations, he jerked his gaze to the windows. “It’ll be time for tea soon,” he murmured, his voice low.

Peyton scanned the line of windows along the western wall, then looked down at herself, her heart starting to race. “Oh, no!”

She’d been so busy with Enzo that she hadn’t even dressed for the day, much less for tea.

Enzo observed the frenzied flurry of activity that followed with an amused smirk.

“Can I have some privacy, please?” Peyton asked, her voice high.

He picked at his teeth, then looked at her lazily, his eyebrows raised. “Hm?”

“Enzo! I need to get ready!”

He rolled his eyes. “You know I could watch you dress anytime without you having a clue.”

Peyton threw her hands into the air, the dress and tights she clutched flouncing dramatically. “Can we please keep up the pretense, for my benefit, that I’m able to believe nobody is watching me dress?” she exclaimed, punctuating the sentence with several little stomps, like an overstimulated toddler.

Enzo bent to the table again, his eyes on the feather.

Peyton feared she might explode. “Enzo!”

He ignored her.

She shut her eyes, inhaling. Willed her heart to slow and her blood pressure to stabilize. She blew out, regarding him again as she concentrated her angst on the clothes she grasped with clenched fists. “I’ve spent a lot of time helping you in the last week. The whole time I’ve been here, actually.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow in her direction.

Peyton shuffled her feet a bit. She loathed confrontation, but had found herself challenged by it more in her short time with Constance and Enzo than she’d ever found at any other time of her life. And that was saying something, given the very things that made her different. “Enzo, please.”

Empowered by her gift or not, Peyton was ever-aware that she was at the mercy of the twins. And if Enzo was angry with her and refused to cooperate, Constance would know. And she was fully capable of acting on her whims, being alive and all. Peyton hung her head.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Enzo lamented, but something like satisfaction laced his words.

Peyton clenched her jaw.

Suddenly he was in front of her and she froze. It was hard being this close to anyone.

“You’re so weird,” he voiced, and it hurt her more than anger could have, because it was true.

She glanced again at the trees, the sunlight dipping behind them, making them into silhouettes. “Fine,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes as she begun to remove her shirt.

Enzo giggled. “Don’t be indecent!”

Peyton, pressed onward by the anticipation of Constance’s arrival, did not pause.

“Ugh,” Enzo sighed, then snapped his fingers and was gone, just like that.

Peyton did pause, then. “That was new,” she muttered.

He was back before Constance arrived, though, popping back into existence as soon as Peyton was dressed. He was watching! she internalized with a frown as he sat beside her on the bed.

“She’s late,” he said.

Peyton nodded. “Do you know why?”

Enzo shrugged.

Peyton studied his features. “You do, don’t you?”

He smiled as he studied his fingernails. “She’s had a visitor.” Something darkened his expression, even as he feigned indifference.

Peyton paused, then ran to the window. “That car’s here again,” she remarked, mostly to herself. It was a black Bentley, and she’d seen it once before, but had missed its owner. She whirled on Enzo. “Whose car is that?”

He regarded her darkly.

“A friend?”

He laughed.

“Family?”

His smile faded.

“Is it your father?” she tried, but knew it was wrong. He wasn’t due to return for another week.

Enzo shook his head. “If it were, we’d be at tea now. He’s not here even when he is.”

Peyton looked down at the car again.

“You’ve seen her before,” Enzo hinted, but the teasing tone she’d usually have expected was apparent.

She frowned again. Her? “I’ve only ever seen you and Constance,” she retorted. “Unless -” she gasped. “Oh!”

Enzo watched her, waiting.

“You know what I’ve seen?”

“Who do you think’s been showing you?”

She shook her head. She’d never quite understood just how the dead communicated. The methodologies escaped her, though she heard them, loud and clear. It wasn’t just conversation, though. The give and take of that was easiest to comprehend, but more difficult for them. Dreams seemed easiest, and visions came in as a close second, but there were so many more ways. Her thoughts turned to the one constant she’d seen in her head since Constance had approached her after her last art class: the stables. The hayloft. The blonde woman, naked and straddling the bodily form of the ghost who watched her, now.

“Her?” she asked, and the word was met with a single nod, Enzo’s eyes hard. She looked back down and as if by some miracle of timing, she was there, walking toward the car in a smart skirt and blazer, her hair pinned into a French twist. Peyton leaned forward until her forehead met the cool glass, straining to see details and failing as the woman lowered herself into the driver’s seat smoothly. She watched the car turn and fade down the driveway, then looked over her shoulder for Enzo. She jumped back, having found his head just behind her, disembodied and gazing out the window over her shoulder.

“Sorry,” he muttered as the rest of him materialized.

She shook her head. “Who is she?”

“My mother,” he replied without hesitation, all traces of mischief erased from his comportment.

Just for that moment.

And then there came the sound of a key in the lock.

Coming Soon...Asylum! ...but Different.

 I'm so excited to finally be entering the world of audio books. Honestly, it's always been on my back burner, but I've held off, saying I can't afford it (I can't) and that I'll get to it when some real money starts rolling in.

Hahahahahaha.

And then I thought, wait a sec! What if audio books are the thing that will help the real money to start rolling in!?

OK I'm not so ignorant (or unrealistic) as to think that this, this will be the big break I've dreamt of... but maybe it's the little nudge that'll help my stories out of obscurity. Maybe their accessibility in a new/widened market will garner more attention. 

Maybe I just need to keep investing in my passion, aiming way too high and landing somewhere between buried in a seemingly infinite stack of indie authors and #1 best-seller. 

I'd settle for extraordinary. 

:)

So, stay tuned. Up first: 

Poem

I'm writing something new (surprise!). The first book of a new series called "The Seers". I see fivish books in this one, and the first (Spirit Talker) is weird, with poems taking the place of chapters here and there. 

Here's one:

            The Dark

Do you feel them creeping there?

Beyond the door, under the stair

Roiling belly, whisper, glare

Dark energy dwells there

 

You’re right to shun the musty rooms

Forgotten casket, eternal tombs

Headache pulsing, thick dread looms

Heavy heart, impending doom

 

They reach with twisted fingers, limbs

Hot, bubbling beneath the skin

Encite the boiling fear within

Paint canvasses of chain-linked sin

 

Once tethered, they will grasp and hold

With frost-lined tendrils, veins of cold

Infused with thoughts and dreams so bold

To terrify, sicken and drain when told

 

So do not let them hang from you

Dripping menace, sticky dew

Hell’s honey clinging endless to

The secret danker spots in you

 

Turn body and mind’s eye away

T’ward lighter thoughts, dwell in the day

Let paths of good lead you and sway

Your tendency to joyful play

 

Turn, child, be safe! Build solid home

Between sinew and blood and bone

Hold strength and comfort, lessons shown

            Your beating heart is not alone