Supernatural Central Short and Quick Interview
Tell me a little bit about your main character of this book.
Roger Nimanator is a studious guy with an interest in philosophy and the paranormal. He works as a freelance editor. He is parent to two busy twin boys and is dealing with the spirt of an evil witch who is buried upright in his basement.
His main battle is with disbelief. Hiding behind denial, he stands to lose his soul—and his children—to the witch. Fortunately, he meets a good witch who is very much alive and willing to help him out.
He’s a good husband, father, and all-around guy.
Do you believe in the paranormal and if so, do you have an experience you can share?
I believe in the paranormal. I have seen two ghosts who appeared to me twice while I was living in an apartment in Bangkok, Thailand. I’m going to write a short version below, and I encourage you and your readers to download my free short story in which I repurpose the experience for the main character in my Ghost Hunter series, a series I call Paranormal Vigilante Thrillers.
Please check the series out:
There’s the link to the free short story below.
The real story:
I have seen a ghost.
Two in fact.
They manifested themselves to me when I was living in a studio apartment in Bangkok, Thailand.
The crazy thing is they appeared to me one afternoon while I was having a phone conversation with a good buddy. As we discussed where to meet for dinner, I paced the apartment, phone to one ear, idling playing with this and that when I noticed a smudge in the mirror over the bureau.
I looked more closely, and the smudge appeared to be a hazy mist, like a heat mirage. Bangkok is hot, so I thought maybe that’s what it was. But when I looked from the mirror to the spot it reflected: nothing.
Double-checked the mirror: definite hazy mist.
Space between the desk and the wastepaper basket: nothing.
Mirror: the mist began to coalesce. As I watched, it suddenly popped into a sharp 3D image of a young girl in a black and red-checkered dress.
Space between the desk and wastepaper basket: hazy mirage, but then, as I watched the space: pop! A little girl in a black and red-checkered dress. Sharply defined, like the best hologram you’ve ever seen. A moment of time, frozen in space.
In the mirror, a new hazy phenomenon appeared next to the little girl.
After the same back and forth, pop! The severed head of a white foreigner. It looked like his head had been ripped from his body, the skin torn where the neck met the tile floor of the apartment, rather than cut.
All this while I was still on the phone with my buddy.
When the head popped into place in real life, I backed away and told my buddy I’d meet him soon, then hung up.
And tore out of there in a hurry.
I saw them again one more time, but that’s another story…
PS: The giveaway below is a repurposed telling of this story to fit the main character in my Ghost Hunter series, what I’m calling a Paranormal Vigilante Thriller series about a former ex-special forces soldier who sees the dead. All the dead he sees died unpleasantly, at another’s hand or their own. My main character, Max, goes after their killers in an attempt to rid himself of the visions and to give the dead the peace they deserve.
Check out the series: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BMJBKL5V?binding=kindle_edition&ref_=ast_author_bsi
PSS: Click on the following link to get a repurposed version of the true story above. I wrote it to fit the main character in the Ghost Hunter series: https://BookHip.com/BQJMJXS
A different version of it appears in book four, The Bad Beginning.
What titles are you working on now that you can tell us about?
I’ve got three works in progress:
A horror novel set on a container ship making a Seattle to Laem Chabang, Thailand voyage. Two ghosts haunt the ship (their story told in the prologue, part of which is below), both seeking human hosts to help continue their blood feud.
The problem is, two of the passengers are already compromised by invading spirits.
The book’s working title is Container.
Here’s the prologue:
Prologue:
Pichai Khasagone leaned over the wheel of his late-model Mercedes AMG, his eyes flicking from the road to the rear-view mirror. Sweat thickened his already thick black hair, the oily residue streaming down the sides of his neck.
He blinked as the sweat stung his eyes and raised an arm to wipe it away.
The Mercedes fishtailed around a corner on Laem Chabang Road as it arced left and south toward the port. The port glowed white and orange on the horizon, a beacon in the night, lit with bright white LED and orange sodium lights.
Pichai checked the mirror again, missed the next curve and plowed through some wooden tables and chairs set up outside a roadside noodle shop. He overcorrected, and the powerful car slid across the road to the other side, its left rear bumper kissing a ten-wheel truck.
The car jolted and slid, but Pichai had it under control again.
A glowing white light appeared in the rear-view mirror.
Pichai looked into the mirror and his whole body convulsed in terror: the head and shoulders of a beautiful young Thai woman floated behind the car, keeping pace easily. Below the ribcage, visible as glowing white bones in the moonless night, entrails dangled and glistened darkly.
Krasue, the ghost of Thai folklore.
Pichai stomped down on the accelerator, terror overwhelming reason, and the Mercedes shot along the road for the port, engine whining.
Krasue kept pace easily.
Little whimpers escaped Pichai, something like a small dog in mortal terror might make.
He gripped the wheel so hard, he’d squeezed all the blood from his fingers, his nails white and beginning to blue. His driving suffered for it, and he missed the final turn before the port and slammed through a laundry rack, a flimsy table, a couple of chairs and nosed the Mercedes into the side of a beach hut.
The airbags deployed with a bang that smashed Pichai back into his seat, bloodying his nose and dazing him.
But he sat for only a split second before he scrabbled for the door handle. He lunged for the beach, forgetting he was strapped in, hands scrambling at the seatbelt, finally loosing himself to step onto the beach.
He lost his footing in the thick sand, went to a knee, then, feet kicking up gusts of sand, fought his way to his feet, and kicked for the road.
The soft ping-ping-ping warning of a key left in the ignition the soundtrack to his desperate flight as he ran, arms windmilling, mouth open in terror, drool glistening on his chin, blood dripping from his nose into his mouth, fueling his terror.
Krasue followed at a leisurely pace, a spectral cat playing with its prey.
Pichai raced past the tall concrete wall shielding the container storage area, his breath labored and shallow, stars dancing at the edges of his vision as his body began to break down, unable to continue.
He looked over his shoulder, the movement unbalancing him and slipped and hit the road hard, slamming his head against the tarmac. More stars blossomed in the periphery of his vision.
Krasue paused to look down on him, mouth wide in a delighted smile that revealed teeth badly in need of dental and orthodonic care, stained dark brown and jagged.
Something like a laugh issued from lungs, visible as black-orange sacks in the glow of the sodium lights, the sound something like rotten meat falling to the floor—something soft and organic ripping.
Krasue hovered over him, her beautiful face a snarl of rage, her guts glowing and pulsing in the light of the port.
Her voice was the voice of the grave. Meaty. Liquid. Human, but in an uncanny-valley way.
“Big, powerful man,” she growled. “Look at you.”
“What do you want from me?” Pichai screamed.
More of the rotten laughter, the sound somehow amplifying the terror—unnatural, threatening, ominous.
Pichai rolled to his stomach, head pounding, lungs heaving, his bespoke leather shoes slipping on the fine layer of dirt over the road.
He lurched to his feet into a stumbling, forward-falling run, headed for a container ship docked straight ahead, The Ozymandias.
He lost a shoe in the scramble, but he didn’t slow down or appear to notice, everything in him pushing for the ship.
Sanctuary, he thought. A place to get away.
Something tapped him on the shoulder and he wheeled around so abruptly he once again fell to the ground, the back of his head slamming into the road. Stars obscured his vision, and he scrambled backwards, crabwalking, spun, got to his feet and cut through a narrow lane between the stacked containers, a glimpse of the Ozymandias beckoning from its berth.
Krasue smiled, eyes glinting in the orange light and followed.
I’m editing the final draft of book five to my Ghost Hunter series, which should come out in May: What Lies Beneath.
I’m also working on a nonfiction piece that details my ongoing battle with metastatic cancer: the gist of this one is to give readers the tools to help them battle their own cancers.
Finally, I’ve started book six of my Ghost Hunter series, but it’s on the back burner right now while I work on the other projects.
I appreciate your giving me so much of your time. It means a lot to me.
Thank you!
Excerpt:
A cat appeared at the threshold of the doorway.
A cat? A black cat? Are you fucking kidding me? How cliché.
Roger moved to swing his legs over the side of the bed, only he didn’t.
Body won’t obey. What the fuck?
You’re dreaming. Simple. Sleep paralysis. Told you.
This is no fucking sleep paralysis. This is happening.
Nonsense.
The cat arched its back and rubbed itself against the doorjamb in a way that sent a shiver of dread through Roger.
Sexual. Can feel the lust pouring off the thing…
The cat stretched, yawned lazily, the yellow slits of its eyes glaring in the dim light coming through the gauzy curtains covering the bedroom windows.
Those eyes…
The cat seemed to grin at him as if sensing his discomfort.
It walked lazily over to the side of the bed, coiled itself, then leapt up. It sat for a moment, staring at him, tail twitching, unblinking eyes staring into his, lips turned up to reveal its sharp little teeth.
Those eyes…reaching deep into me, reading my secrets, measuring the weight of my soul…
Nonsense.
The cat stood and put a paw on Roger’s leg.
Cold shot through him and he would have gasped if his body had allowed him.
The cat grinned up at him, yellow eyes glittering, lips curled back, and took another step.
It walked up Roger’s legs, the weight of the thing tremendous, out of proportion, the cold shock of its presence icy, penetrating to the soul.
Thing weighs as much as a grown woman…
How can that be?
Dreaming. That’s how. Sleep paralysis.
Wake up!
No, this is real. The goddamn cat a familiar or whatever the fuck they call them.
Don’t be an idiot. Wake up!
The cat seemed to relish the confusion and pain Roger was suffering, lingering with its paws on each of his thighs.
Then it lowered its head and butted his breastbone.
Pain shot through his chest and for a moment he was certain his heart had stopped.
The cat headbutted his sternum again and he found himself staring at the ceiling, unable to move, shadows from the streetlamp outside making ghostly shapes as the curtains swayed from the breeze coming through the cracked open window.
The shadows began to take shape: a ring of figures, dancing, flickering as if they were shadows cast by firelight. Trees in the background.
Smoke? Wood smoke and something else…flesh and hair and…
The scene suddenly so real Roger felt he’d been transported in place and time.
Nonsense. Wake up!
The cat walked up his belly to sit on his chest.
Weight tremendous. Can’t. Breathe.
The cat stretched.
And kept stretching, growing impossibly tall, changing, morphing into…
An old woman, breasts stretched out tubes of flabby flesh hanging down to her soft, sagging stomach, swinging as she straddled Roger.
Those yellow eyes stared into his, and the creature’s mouth opened, teeth a cross between a cat’s and human, blackened, rotten, with sharp fangs intact.
A foul odor issued from her mouth and added to the sense of suffocation. Roger’s mind began to fray under the onslaught, claustrophobia claiming him, panic rising.
The thing on top of him cackled again, sending a gout of foul breath into his face.
Roger tried to buck her off. To gag. To cry for help. To breathe.
Total paralysis.
Going to suffocate. Going to die any moment now.
The deep spot in his inner self was alive with panic, yammering at him:
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!
The thing on top of him stiffened.
At first, Roger thought it was nearing an orgasm of some sort, but no…
Another presence had arrived…
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