Keely's Scary Dream from Allure of the Crystal Palace, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

Allure of the Crystal Palace will be available in November.

My books are also available at Barnes and Noble. Or scroll down for Amazon.

My heroine, Keely Harper, is trapped back in time, a harrowing experience. A modern woman in mid-Victorian London.

How would you react to such a change?

She is taken in by the kind Lady Sanderlund, but one night, she has a troubling dream. October is the time for spookiness:

Gasping for air, Keely ran through a shadowy alley that twisted and turned and seemed to have no end. Why was she here? She looked down, and she was dressed in her tight skirt again. Had she returned home? It felt too fuzzy to be really back in her modern world. She continued to scramble through the narrow, dark passage, the walls slimy to the touch. She appeared to be going around in circles.

Amanda emerged, holding the hands of her children, Ella and Hughie. “We miss you but understand your need for change.” Her sister gave her a sad smile. Then she moved away around a corner.

“Take me with you!” Keely rushed around after them, but no one was there; her heart sank.

A man loomed out of the shadows. He wore the frock coat and stovepipe hat of a Victorian. “Why are you here all alone?” he asked.

She backed up several steps. “I’m lost. Can you help me? I want to go home.”

“Oh, I’ll assist you, my dear.” He moved closer. At first, he looked like her ex-husband, Mark. Then he changed into someone grotesque, his face skull-like. “You’re a fine-looking whore.”

She tried to turn around to flee, yet couldn’t. “Don’t come any closer. Why can’t you help me?”

“There’s no help for it. You require a different life.” His gnarled hands reached out for her. His grin was predatory, his teeth rotten.

She raised her knee and struck him in the groin. She did it again, harder, her body shaking, a scream rising in her throat. It felt like striking a pillow. The man laughed as if her efforts meant nothing.

Baron Lambourne came from somewhere, broad-shouldered and handsome. “Be gone; you have no right to cause undue strife!”

Did he speak to the grotesque man or to her? She reached out to—

Keely woke suddenly, sat up in bed and clutched the blanket. She wheezed in her breath. A dream. A bizarre dream. Her subconscious was letting out her fears. Her own sister telling her she understood? Did this mean she was really exiled to the past and might never see her again? 

Keely choked back a sob. She massaged her temples, steadying herself. The skull-man must represent the obstacle she couldn’t get around.

Will Keely ever get home or must she make a life in 1851? No more cell phones, cars, or seeing her family. Will she find love with Baron Lambourne, who has obstacles of his own? 

To find out more about me and my books.

                    

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

How To Get Away With Murder In Your Sleep by Stuart R. West

I murder a lot of people in my sleep.

Click on through to the other side for murderrrrrr...

Wait, wait, wait... Before you call the police, let me explain. No, I don't sleepwalk and stab snoozily away, nothing like that. Rather, I have a recurring nightmare where I've killed someone (that and the horrifying nightmare where I walk into the world's grossest public restroom barefoot, but that's a dream better left untold).

The odd thing is I never dream the actual killing, nor do I have any idea who my victims are. You'd kinda think those two issues might be important, but no my Id chooses to cut to the Dostoevsky-like chase: waiting for the noose to tighten around my throat as Johnny Law moves in.

What does this say about me as a person? According to the intronets, I have a guilt-ridden mind. Of what? No idea.

I searched my back history for various explanations... Maybe that kid in Kindergarten who I helped to harass because everyone else was? Maybe how I rudely ghosted a woman I dated in college? How about when I used to smoke, I'd toss the butts out on the highway? Or perhaps Karma's getting back at me for cutting in line for a roller-coaster at Worlds of Fun. I don't know...

But these dreams are long, stressful and convoluted. The other night I had my victim all ready to go, trundled up in a plastic trash bag (I assume they were extra, EXTRA strength), and ready to put out on the curb for trash pick-up day. Once the body was picked up and put in the back of the trash truck, I'd be in the clear. However...dogs kept sniffing around the bag. I had to continue shooing them away. Then neighborhood kids kept circling on their bikes, moving in closer, wanting to know what was in the bag ("You kids get outta my yard!"). Then, cop cars started slowly crawling by my house...looking...

How'd it all turn out? Beats me. I ended up at some ridiculous bus station with a miles-long line of people waiting to board the bus, on the lam with my mug plastered on newscasts throughout the terminal.

Much scarier than any horror flick or current political administration.

Apparently, my "guilt-ridden mind" doesn't stop at nightmares, either. Whenever I see a cop, I break out into a cold sweat, start humming some nonsensical tune, hoping the cop will ignore me, view me as an inconsequential, law-abiding citizen. It doesn't matter that I am a law-abiding citizen. It's just one of those things. "Capiophobia" is what my research assistant, Ms. Google, calls this bewildering fear of cops.

Clicky for...um...murder most massagey.

So. I figured that's why I gravitate toward murder mysteries, both writing and reading them. Unlike my nightmares, I can control the destiny and fate of my characters (mwah, hah, hahhhh!), ensuring that justice is served, and that the good guy and/or gal (generally falsely accused) are cleared of any bogus murder raps. It helps to set my day world right, even if there's nothing to be done about my nightmarish night-life.

And like my nightmares, the murders are never gruesomely delineated. It's the aftermath that's important.

Huh. As a kid, I always thought episodes of "Columbo" were boring. Why? Because they always showed from the on-set who the killer was. It became ninety long minutes of watching the killer sweat it out while Columbo ("Just one more thing...") circled the drain. 

I suppose I might like Columbo better now as I can definitely relate with the killers' increasing paranoia.

Sorta like my character, Zach, in the Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Only he's innocent. You see, Zach (a vapid, but big-hearted male entertainment dancer--don't call him a "stripper!"), has an uncanny knack for stumbling across dead bodies, generally becoming blamed as the killer. It's up to his sister sleuth, Zora, to investigate and clear his name, usually with her entourage of four kids in tow. Together they traverse a warped path to the truth, complete with characters straight outta my nightmares: The hippy parents! The singing and dancing detective! Menacing nannies! The paranoid computer geek! Corrupt politicians! Frenzied furries! Rival strippers! Murderous televangelists! The list goes on...

So, take that, guilt-ridden mind! (Freud would be proud.)

Click it like it's hot!