(A Lowcountry Ghost Story)
Publication date: April 1st 2014
Genres: Mystery, New Adult, Paranormal
~ What's It About? ~
A broken engagement sends Graciela Harper crawling back to Heron Creek with her tail between her legs,
but finds the sleepy little town too changed to set her life right. Not even her budding drinking problem can obscure
her Gramps’s failing health, or erase the mental picture of her first love happily married to her childhood best friend.
To top it all off, she’s having a heck of time convincing the town’s dashing young mayor of her unfit-for-dating status.
When the ghost of 18th century lady pirate Anne Bonny starts insisting on a near daily audience, Graciela has to confront
something else she never expected—being certifiably nuts at twenty-five years old.
Her brand new “I don’t give a crap” attitude makes it easy to dismiss the mysterious threats that seem to be tied to her search
for more information on the long dead pirate, but when her family becomes a target, Gracie knows she needs to find out why the
ghost insists on being a constant, reeking companion.
If Graciela can put aside her prejudice against people without a pulse, she may discover that Anne Bonny’s problems are
intricately linked with her own. The past harbors answers could help the cantankerous spirit find closure, but she is, after all,
already dead. If Graciela doesn’t move fast, she might find herself doing the haunting, instead of the other way around.
but finds the sleepy little town too changed to set her life right. Not even her budding drinking problem can obscure
her Gramps’s failing health, or erase the mental picture of her first love happily married to her childhood best friend.
To top it all off, she’s having a heck of time convincing the town’s dashing young mayor of her unfit-for-dating status.
When the ghost of 18th century lady pirate Anne Bonny starts insisting on a near daily audience, Graciela has to confront
something else she never expected—being certifiably nuts at twenty-five years old.
Her brand new “I don’t give a crap” attitude makes it easy to dismiss the mysterious threats that seem to be tied to her search
for more information on the long dead pirate, but when her family becomes a target, Gracie knows she needs to find out why the
ghost insists on being a constant, reeking companion.
If Graciela can put aside her prejudice against people without a pulse, she may discover that Anne Bonny’s problems are
intricately linked with her own. The past harbors answers could help the cantankerous spirit find closure, but she is, after all,
already dead. If Graciela doesn’t move fast, she might find herself doing the haunting, instead of the other way around.
~ Purchase ~
~ Excerpts~
#3
No one notices me leave the sidewalk and traipse around to the rear of my place of employment. It’s darker back here, away from any street lamps and lit signs. The unlocked window slides up under the pressure of my palm with no resistance and, most importantly, no noise. I have to jump a few times before my hands hook the sill, and it’s clear that I need to do more than walk to work if I’m going to get back into shape.
My grunts don’t carry far, and after a few more minutes of trial and error, I manage to hoist my hips over the painted wooden lip. It digs in, scraping hard enough that it’ll leave a bruise, but there’s no time to worry about that while my body is dangling half in, half out. The chance that anyone will wander back here seems slim, but there’s no excuse in the world that will work if I get caught like this.
I kick my feet and use my forearms to tug my body forward, which doesn’t work, until it does. I fly through the rest of the way, toppling face-first into the edge of the toilet.
"Holy shitballs, that’s gonna leave a mark." Quoting Tommy Boy, even to myself, is usually good for a chuckle, but at the moment my face feels as though it’s made of broken glass and pulsing pain.
My nose throbs, my vision blurs, and it takes more than five minutes of sitting still with my head between my knees before the dizziness subsides enough to allow me to stagger to my feet. The mirror reveals a weeping red line across the bridge of my nose, which promises to turn into at least one black eye. So much for Gramps not noticing I went out.
Oh, well. Onward and upward.
There’s no alarm system in the library, and no one else is in the building. Neither fact makes me slow down or feel less watched, and my steps move quickly toward the front desk. Mrs. LaBadie keeps her key in the locked top drawer, but she doesn’t know about my long and storied career picking locks with nothing but unbent hairpins. Another Nancy Drew–inspired talent. The multiple Carolyn Keenes had no idea what kind of delinquents she would spawn with those books.
My grunts don’t carry far, and after a few more minutes of trial and error, I manage to hoist my hips over the painted wooden lip. It digs in, scraping hard enough that it’ll leave a bruise, but there’s no time to worry about that while my body is dangling half in, half out. The chance that anyone will wander back here seems slim, but there’s no excuse in the world that will work if I get caught like this.
I kick my feet and use my forearms to tug my body forward, which doesn’t work, until it does. I fly through the rest of the way, toppling face-first into the edge of the toilet.
"Holy shitballs, that’s gonna leave a mark." Quoting Tommy Boy, even to myself, is usually good for a chuckle, but at the moment my face feels as though it’s made of broken glass and pulsing pain.
My nose throbs, my vision blurs, and it takes more than five minutes of sitting still with my head between my knees before the dizziness subsides enough to allow me to stagger to my feet. The mirror reveals a weeping red line across the bridge of my nose, which promises to turn into at least one black eye. So much for Gramps not noticing I went out.
Oh, well. Onward and upward.
There’s no alarm system in the library, and no one else is in the building. Neither fact makes me slow down or feel less watched, and my steps move quickly toward the front desk. Mrs. LaBadie keeps her key in the locked top drawer, but she doesn’t know about my long and storied career picking locks with nothing but unbent hairpins. Another Nancy Drew–inspired talent. The multiple Carolyn Keenes had no idea what kind of delinquents she would spawn with those books.
#1
I ignore the hand, getting to my feet and brushing dirt off my dress before confronting its owner.
A man with an overly strong jaw and wavy, sun-kissed brown hair watches me with humor sparkling in his hazel eyes. Too bad he picked the wrong girl in the wrong year, because nothing about getting knocked on my ass strikes me as humorous.
Undaunted by the cocked eyebrow I shoot his direction, he keeps a hand out, now poised for a shake. "Beauregard Drayton."
"That’s a mouthful," I mumble, searching the ground for my purse. It’s lying in a puddle, which stirs up more irritation, as does the fact that he hasn’t moved. He’s tall, at least six foot three, and even under the blue pinstriped suit and red tie, there’s no secret why he felt like bricks. His face is hard, too—all rough angles and sharp cheekbones.
His eyes are soft, though, and the enticing mixture of green, blue, and gold still reflects amusement. "Well, what do you think?"
"About you?" I shrug, even though I didn’t mean to study him quite so openly. "Typical."
"Interesting."
"Actually, typical is the opposite of interesting." I shoulder past him and continue toward my destination, annoyance tightening my chest when the sound of expensive shoes clicks on the sidewalk behind me.
Beauregard Drayton catches up, then slows his pace to match mine. It would have behooved me to drive to the Wreck, apparently. Or skip it all together, no matter how the thought of their fish tacos makes me drool.
"You can call me Beau, everyone does," he comments, as though we’ve been carrying on a conversation.
"Thanks."
"What should I call you?"
It’s clear my rudeness isn’t going to make him go away, and the part of me that was raised below the Mason-Dixon Line blushes in shame at my behavior. Grams would tan my hide if she could see me now. The thought of her stern, loving expression makes me relent, along with the fact that my eventful morning has worn me out. I don’t have the energy to outmaneuver him.
"Graciela Harper."
"Lovely to meet you. Where are you going?"
The fact that he doesn’t comment on my different name moves him up in my estimation. Still, his nosiness makes me sigh. Loudly. "To get some lunch."
"Are you meeting someone?"
"Yes. His name is Vlad and he lives to drink the blood of persistent, well-dressed men, so I suggest you run along."
"Really? Dracula’s making a midday appearance in Heron Creek? Did you call the paper? Danny’s is going to be mad if he misses out on the interview opportunity."
A man with an overly strong jaw and wavy, sun-kissed brown hair watches me with humor sparkling in his hazel eyes. Too bad he picked the wrong girl in the wrong year, because nothing about getting knocked on my ass strikes me as humorous.
Undaunted by the cocked eyebrow I shoot his direction, he keeps a hand out, now poised for a shake. "Beauregard Drayton."
"That’s a mouthful," I mumble, searching the ground for my purse. It’s lying in a puddle, which stirs up more irritation, as does the fact that he hasn’t moved. He’s tall, at least six foot three, and even under the blue pinstriped suit and red tie, there’s no secret why he felt like bricks. His face is hard, too—all rough angles and sharp cheekbones.
His eyes are soft, though, and the enticing mixture of green, blue, and gold still reflects amusement. "Well, what do you think?"
"About you?" I shrug, even though I didn’t mean to study him quite so openly. "Typical."
"Interesting."
"Actually, typical is the opposite of interesting." I shoulder past him and continue toward my destination, annoyance tightening my chest when the sound of expensive shoes clicks on the sidewalk behind me.
Beauregard Drayton catches up, then slows his pace to match mine. It would have behooved me to drive to the Wreck, apparently. Or skip it all together, no matter how the thought of their fish tacos makes me drool.
"You can call me Beau, everyone does," he comments, as though we’ve been carrying on a conversation.
"Thanks."
"What should I call you?"
It’s clear my rudeness isn’t going to make him go away, and the part of me that was raised below the Mason-Dixon Line blushes in shame at my behavior. Grams would tan my hide if she could see me now. The thought of her stern, loving expression makes me relent, along with the fact that my eventful morning has worn me out. I don’t have the energy to outmaneuver him.
"Graciela Harper."
"Lovely to meet you. Where are you going?"
The fact that he doesn’t comment on my different name moves him up in my estimation. Still, his nosiness makes me sigh. Loudly. "To get some lunch."
"Are you meeting someone?"
"Yes. His name is Vlad and he lives to drink the blood of persistent, well-dressed men, so I suggest you run along."
"Really? Dracula’s making a midday appearance in Heron Creek? Did you call the paper? Danny’s is going to be mad if he misses out on the interview opportunity."
#2
Maybe it’s lingering fear of Anne’s ghost, or a sudden urge to burn some fat, but my feet find the sidewalk instead of my butt finding the driver’s seat of my car. I have an hour, and the walk will take fifteen minutes. I’ll regret it later, when the trek home in a hundred muggy degrees drenches me from head to toe, but that’s then.
I’m out to prove that I don’t give a shit about consequences after all. Fuck adulthood.
Avoiding my car turns out to be a moot point when, less than two blocks from Gramps’ house, the scraggly redhead from my backseat joins me on the sidewalk. Her gait matches mine, but her feet don’t make any sound on the concrete despite her clunky, knee-high leather boots. Lord if she doesn’t smell bad enough to gag a maggot, even outside.
Yesterday, I ran. Today, for some reason, it’s as though none of this is happening in real life and I don’t go faster, or slower, just keep going, eyes forward, clinging to the hope of waking up. It’s like swimming through the air with my blood pumping through me ten times too fast, depositing a chilly sweat on my brow and palms.
She doesn’t talk, but based on my sideways glances, the premise that she’s Anne Bonny seems legitimate. The smell and her stiff men’s shirt, trousers, and boots, combined with the sword and dagger belted at her waist, convince me that she’s Anne Bonny or that I’m going nuts. Or both.
The expression on her face wavers between frustration and sorrow, but nothing about it or her posture suggests causing harm is on her agenda. We walk side by side a few more steps, me and my reeking ghost, before my nerve returns out of nowhere.
Dead or not, she’s kind of starting to bug me.
"What do you want?" The question would sound more at home in the mouth of the first victim in a horror flick, but it has to be asked.
Even so, Anne—if it is Anne—doesn’t reply. Maybe she thinks it’s a dumb thing to ask, too.
"Okay, obviously you left your tongue in your grave. Let me guess, you want to grab a coffee and a bagel? I’m thinking about stopping at Westies, but I’m not sure…Oh," I gasp as my body turns to ice.
I’m out to prove that I don’t give a shit about consequences after all. Fuck adulthood.
Avoiding my car turns out to be a moot point when, less than two blocks from Gramps’ house, the scraggly redhead from my backseat joins me on the sidewalk. Her gait matches mine, but her feet don’t make any sound on the concrete despite her clunky, knee-high leather boots. Lord if she doesn’t smell bad enough to gag a maggot, even outside.
Yesterday, I ran. Today, for some reason, it’s as though none of this is happening in real life and I don’t go faster, or slower, just keep going, eyes forward, clinging to the hope of waking up. It’s like swimming through the air with my blood pumping through me ten times too fast, depositing a chilly sweat on my brow and palms.
She doesn’t talk, but based on my sideways glances, the premise that she’s Anne Bonny seems legitimate. The smell and her stiff men’s shirt, trousers, and boots, combined with the sword and dagger belted at her waist, convince me that she’s Anne Bonny or that I’m going nuts. Or both.
The expression on her face wavers between frustration and sorrow, but nothing about it or her posture suggests causing harm is on her agenda. We walk side by side a few more steps, me and my reeking ghost, before my nerve returns out of nowhere.
Dead or not, she’s kind of starting to bug me.
"What do you want?" The question would sound more at home in the mouth of the first victim in a horror flick, but it has to be asked.
Even so, Anne—if it is Anne—doesn’t reply. Maybe she thinks it’s a dumb thing to ask, too.
"Okay, obviously you left your tongue in your grave. Let me guess, you want to grab a coffee and a bagel? I’m thinking about stopping at Westies, but I’m not sure…Oh," I gasp as my body turns to ice.
~ Meet The Author ~
Lyla Payne has been publishing New Adult romance novels for a little over a year, starting with Broken at Love and
continuing with the rest of the Whitman University series. She loves telling stories, discovering the little reasons people
fall in love, and uncovering hidden truths in the world around us - past and present. In her spare time she cuddles her two dogs,
pretends to enjoy exercising so that she can eat as much Chipotle as she wants, and harbors a deep and abiding hope that Zac Efron
likes older women. She loves reading, of course, along with movies, traveling, and Irish whiskey. Lyla's hard at work, ALWAYS, and
hopes to bring you more Whitman University antics and at least one more Lowcountry ghost tale before the end of the year.
Lyla Payne is represented by Kathleen Rushall at Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
If you want to know more, please visit her at http://lylapayne.com
If you're a fan of Young Adult fiction--science fiction or otherwise--please check out her work that's published under the name
Trisha Leigh. http://trishaleigh.com
continuing with the rest of the Whitman University series. She loves telling stories, discovering the little reasons people
fall in love, and uncovering hidden truths in the world around us - past and present. In her spare time she cuddles her two dogs,
pretends to enjoy exercising so that she can eat as much Chipotle as she wants, and harbors a deep and abiding hope that Zac Efron
likes older women. She loves reading, of course, along with movies, traveling, and Irish whiskey. Lyla's hard at work, ALWAYS, and
hopes to bring you more Whitman University antics and at least one more Lowcountry ghost tale before the end of the year.
Lyla Payne is represented by Kathleen Rushall at Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
If you want to know more, please visit her at http://lylapayne.com
If you're a fan of Young Adult fiction--science fiction or otherwise--please check out her work that's published under the name
Trisha Leigh. http://trishaleigh.com
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