I wrote a ghost story.
It’s official! I have a publication date of April 4th. YAY. Here’s the blurb. A friend commented that it told the entire story—do you think so? TMI?
Autumn Hartley purchases Allen Hall at a steal, but the northern lass gets far more than a beautiful plantation in the South Carolina Low Country. The house comes complete with its own ghost, a handsome and charming Civil War General—for the Confederacy. The stage is set for another civil conflict.
John Sibley Allen died in battle from a wound in the back, the bullet fired by the turncoat, Beauregard Dudley. The traitor’s reincarnation is Autumn the Interloper’s first dinner guest. Sib bedevils her date and annoys her with fleeting, phantom touches, certain he can frighten her away as he did previous purchasers. As time marches on, her resident ghost becomes more appealing while her suitor, Beau, pales in comparison. Autumn finds her ability to love didn’t perish in the divorce that sent her south seeking a fresh start.
After over a century in the hereafter, Sib discovers he is falling for none other than the feisty Yankee girl, but what future could a modern woman and an old-fashioned ghost possibly hope for?
Tidbit: The hero is named after my grandfather, who was quite a guy himself. Oops, I forgot to tell my aunt and she’ll know immediately that I pilfered his name. I don’t think she will object, but it might be a good idea to mention it since she’s his daughter and my age. Long story.
A short excerpt:
“You are not there.” Autumn dropped her book and leapt to her feet, shaking her fist at the apparition standing beside the fireplace.
The frolicking blaze shone through the whatever-he-was lounging by the hearth, his arm stretched along the mantel. A ceramic clock beside his hand chimed the hour—seven golden notes. Tall candles in brass candlesticks flickered in an eerie fire dance. He appeared to be a Civil War soldier of the South, his opaque uniform gray with a nasty red-stained hole near the heart. Double rows of gold buttons decorated the coat. Three gold stars and a wreath on the collar glittered in the firelight. No blood spilled from the apparition. Except for his wound, he looked perfectly healthy—for a dead man! He nodded and bowed elegantly…as much so as his lost society had been, regardless of the strong backs supporting that way of life.
“Oh, but I am, Miss Hartley.” He straightened, longish hair gently curling over his face.
A chill raced over her, but she suppressed the tremor of apprehension. Autumn swallowed hard and adjusted her white cotton blouse. “I don’t believe in ghosts. You’re not welcome here. I bought this house and am struggling to pay for it. Get your Halloween self out of my living room.”
He smiled. “It’s not Halloween, and we share this house. It was mine, you know, and still is. I’m willing to share it with you—even if you are a Yankee. After all, the conflict is over, and I’ll hold no grudge against the Northern aggressors. Even though the South will never surrender.”
“Northern aggressors?” She inhaled sharply. “And, for your information, the South did surrender.”
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