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Shiver

I envy writers who suffer from writer’s block. They probably get a good night’s sleep. As far as I’m concerned, they can have my source of inspiration. Really, who wants to have my nightmares?
I can never tell when I’m going to have a bad dream. My husband says that prior to a really bad one I will say, “My hands are itchy.”

What does that mean, itchy hands? You would think that meant I’d eaten too much salt? Drank too much cola? Whatever itchy hands meant (and it certainly didn’t mean I was getting any money) I’d never noticed. But my husband’s always observant and to my delight, he’s also a light sleeper.

I whimper when my dreams turn into nightmares. My husband also knows that when the whimpering starts, it’s time to rescue me from hell by waking me up.

He has rescued me often.

One night I dreamt of her, at least I think it was a she.
She’d appeared one early morning before dawn’s light had crept across the sky. I huddled next to my husband, his slumbering body was warm and slightly sweaty. The only light in the bedroom came from the muted television screen. But I saw it.

I don’t know how long it had been there.

Jesus, it was so close to me!

The thing stood less than one foot from our bed.  It looked like a shadow, and outline of a human except that it had eyes that blazed like hellfire.

It stared down at me with hatred, but I sensed the hatred was twofold. It had a robust hatred for mankind and a specific hatred for me. In fact, the hatred rolled at me in waves.

It just stood there, an incredibly defined two dimensional thing that seemed to dare me to scream.

Was I awake?

I held onto my husband as I choked down a whimper.

Join my Dreamer Team

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It's my mailing list & it's how I can send you FREE offers including Giveaways! My list is growing and I want YOU to join us.

Here's my first offer. Although the story about the hunky demon is FREE, but if you join my Dreamer Team you will also get the Cesar's Revenge: The Demon Lover's Chronicles Book 2 for FREE too!

Visit my website to join my Dreamer Team: www.juliancoleman.net

Ghostly Attachment Issues

I have a shiny bike. It’s pink with a little white wicker basket. I call it the grandma bike. So no, I’m not a cycling enthusiast. You won’t see me hunched over the handlebars wearing slick shorts on and a go-to hell helmet while looking fierce and cool at the same time.  I’m the one in baggy jean shorts who’s wearing an uncool helmet. There’s also a sandwich and a bottle of water in the white basket. My mission is to relax and enjoy a pleasant afternoon.

On warm spring days, I love to ride to the nearest cemetery. The Gardens of Stone is quiet. Dare I make a clichéd comment and say that it’s peaceful with the dead? The cemetery I visit on my pink bicycle is, or used to be, segregated. There’s the Jewish section, the Confederate section and the old-moneyed section with its elaborate angels and intricate tombs. The roads beyond the black wrought iron gates are narrow and windy. The headstone engravings, are sometimes brief, at times tragic and endearing or enlightening.

Sadly, I haven’t been there in a while.  The last few times I biked there, I didn’t feel quite alone.

The quiet and solitude that used to be comforting escalated into some creepy what-ifs. Like, what if my solitude is solely my perception? Is someone, or something, reading me as I read the headstones? Remember, humans can only see a limited spectrum of light. Or let’s examine part of a prayer, “…we believe in all that is seen and unseen”.

Am I in an enviable position because I still breathe? Worse, what if some spirit attaches itself to me and I end up taking it home?

Did you know that ghosts not only attach themselves to homes or things, but they can also attach themselves to people? Maybe one sunny day a nasty ghost might decide to cling to a frequent bike rider just to have a little fun?

Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve been there…

Stolen Prophet (The Prophet's Mother Book 1)

We are taking preorders for my new book 

Stolen Prophet (The Prophet's Mother Book 1)

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Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CMHLUPM

Stolen Prophet (The Prophet's Mother Book 1)

Evie is a strong and beautiful single mother with an adoring son. The only thing she ever wanted was a normal life. Her past is filled with pain and blood. She fled a cursed existence where her death was inevitable.

She hadn't meant to fall in love. She hadn't meant to give birth. When Victor's father died, her beloved son became her only reason to exist...and then he is kidnapped. To save her son, she unleashes her power, the dark forces of an angry demigoddess.

She coats the southern city in an icy hell while evoking madness and death. She will find Victor and there's no one to stop her...or is there?

You can get this Kindle Edition on Amazon. Click HERE to purchase this book. Enjoy reading!

Stephen King and I

Stephen King is my friend. He just doesn’t know it. Let’s face it, he just doesn’t know me. But he saved me, nonetheless. I grew up in the housing projects. Enough said, right? Want a dream killer? Grow up in an environment that seems to prep you for prison rather than for college.

I was plain and quiet, let me translate that for you, I was bully meat. I earned straight A’s. Need any more translation than that? Even so, I was overwhelmed by hostile surroundings that had me seeking shelter in my bedroom. Reading was my preferred outlet. I guess I needed pretend horror to help me deal with my reality.

Romance is nice with all the hugging and kissing and blending of bodies, but it was horror that stuck with me. It was the scary  stories that chilled my bones and kept me wide-eyed alert at night. I loved and still love horror stories.

Stephen King offered me the best get out of hell free tickets. Later on I would find other conductors on my horror train.  Anne Rice, Peter Straub and Toni Morrison all could deliver the requisite chills, but Stephen King was always my favorite. Indulging in those chapters was like consuming a satisfying meal. I only hope to be able to do the same.

Let me just say this again. It is an honor to be compared to him.