Because I am, as the title of this post says, completely shameless.
Lost in the Shadows is officially available in paperback through Amazon, and I’d love it if everyone in the world went out and bought a copy, because it would mean that I might actually be able to pay my bills this month. YES, I AM THAT SHAMELESS. I WILL GUILT YOU INTO BUYING ONE.
Ahem…not really. But it’s worth a try, right?
Truth is, I’m ridiculously proud of this book, and I know Selah is too. It’s our first step toward taking over the world. If you’re wondering which of us is Pinky and which is The Brain, you’d best go ask someone else, because neither of us knows. I think we swap roles on a daily basis.
Yeah, I’m going to stop talking now. How about another teaser? I’ve got over twenty stories in the book, so I might as well use them to the fullest extent of my ability.
BUY A COPY!
From the front it appeared no different than any other house on the 200-block of Downing Street – a well-kept two story monument standing as a proud testament to pre-1900’s architecture. Festive decorations adorned the front porch while spooky blow-up caricatures lined the steps like undead marching soldiers. Even a pumpkin graced the front lawn, hiding inside it a peeping Frankenstein. Orange and black lights blinked along the trim of the wide porch day and night without fail. Hidden in the front hedges was a motion sensor that exuded an eerie laugh each time someone passed by. Many people paused to gaze at the spectacle. Some took pictures, but nobody ever stopped. Just because it was six days after Halloween with no change in scenery didn’t mean the still-standing decorations were that unusual.
No, it just meant that the owners of the house were dead.
If the passersby were to look closely they would have noticed that the broken door jamb was real, and that the dark trail marring the bright-white boards of the steps was blood, and it led across the threshold. If they were to push open the ruined door they would notice other things out of place – a broken crystal goblet and an overturned bottle of scotch to start. The trail would continue through the house into the kitchen where a once-beautiful blonde woman lay, face up in a pool of blood that had long-since oozed from the angry gash across her throat. From there bloody footprints would lead upstairs where her husband lay sprawled on the landing, almost completely disemboweled. Intestines would be strung along the banister much like the lights out front. His eyes would still be open, staring sightlessly ahead.
But nobody would witness these gruesome sights, because nobody paid attention. Nobody would stop to see what was wrong. Nobody would care.
At least, not until Christmas.