My new tween read is finally available. You can read the first few pages for free, (just scroll down a bit) or buy at Amazon
here. The cover looks like this:
Now don't even try to tell me this doesn't make your fingers itch to start turning pages...
Here are the first few pages:
From
Thomas Avalon's pin board, newspaper clipping:
Bizarre
"pet murderer" scares residents
Flora
Jennings
Residents
of the eastern suburb Hillside are up in arms about a series of
incidents in which pets have apparently been killed and mutilated by
parties unknown.
The
local police is particularly mystified by the fact that many of the
bodies have been found inside their own owners' yards, indicating
that the culprit(s) must have entered the premises.
The
animals are typically found with their bodies torn open, as if by a
large predator. Thus far, only one resident has seen anything at all,
and her story seems incredible.
Hyena
Mrs.
Muriel Kowalski, a widow, has been living in Hillside for the past
forty-five years. Her cat, Mystic, was killed in the early hours of
Monday morning, but what makes the case unusual is the killer Mrs.
Kowalski claims to have seen.
"I
woke up in the middle of the night," she told City Press
reporters. "I could hear Mystic growling outside. I first
thought it was just a fight with another cat, but then she started
screaming. I heard a monstrous growling noise, much deeper than any
cat can make..."
At
this point the widow broke down and needed some time to regain
control.
"I
grabbed a broom and ran outside. And then I saw what had killed my
cat. I have never seen anything quite like it. It looked like some
hideous cross between a human and a hyena. It still had part of her
little body clutched in one paw, and when it saw me it ran off. I
couldn't save my cat, she was torn to pieces."
According
to wildlife officials, there is no chance that hyenas live in this
city, and the ones in the zoo are all safely behind bars and
accounted for. So what killed Mrs. Kowalski's cat? Was it the same
creature responsible for all the other dead and mutilated pets?
Police
officials have declined to comment.
"We
are still investigating the case," said police spokesman Jay
Smith. "Mrs. Kowalski is elderly and it is possible that she
simply misunderstood what she saw, but at this stage we cannot tell.
We can assure residents that the police force will do everything in
its power to bring the perpetrator of these attacks to justice."
Mr.
Smith declined to comment on whether any animal tracks were found on
the scene, or whether the police has any opinion on rumors that a
local coven of satanists was involved.
In
the meantime Mrs. Kowalski is left to pick up the pieces alone. She
is considering moving her crystal healing business elsewhere.
"I'm
just not sure this neighborhood is at all safe anymore," she
says.
Thomas
Yup,
I'm that kid. The one who lives in the basement room and actually
likes it there. The one with the "I want to believe"
poster on the wall. The weird one, who gets avoided by the half of
school smaller than himself, and rudely shoved by the half bigger.
Grade sevens are supposed to study math, participate in athletics,
think about high school and girls. You know, do normal stuff. Not to
investigate the paranormal. And no, I don't play around with ouija
boards and deliberately move the planchette to spell out creepy
messages to make the girls giggle and scream.
As
that replicant dude in Blade Runner said, I have seen things
you people wouldn't believe.
My
name is Thomas A. Avalon. The A stands for Alpha. My parents thought
they were naming me after Thomas Alva Edison. Not too bright, those
two. That could be why my interests bother them as much as it bothers
almost everyone else. My father thinks it is weird enough for someone
my age to actually read books. But books about ghosts! That's just
too much, and sometimes he bugs me about it. Mercifully, he's not at
home all that often, and when he is, he mostly ignores me.
Of
course they don't take me seriously. They never have, at least not
when it comes to my hobby. I have learned not to say too much about
it, or about what I have seen and heard.
I
was six when I saw the flying saucer. I was still sleeping in my
upstairs room then, and generally slept well. Funny thing is, I
wasn’t not one of those kids who thought there were monsters in the
closet or under the bed. Except of course when there really were. But
mostly, I slept like a log, and so it was actually a bit of a
surprise when I woke up one night and saw the blue light falling
through the window.
I
didn't feel afraid. I was just curious, so I slipped out of bed and
looked through a crack in the curtain. And there it was: my first
saucer.
It
was hanging in the air above the neighbors' roof, revolving, giving
off an unearthly, pulsating light of the richest blue I had ever
seen. It was simply beautiful.
In
high excitement, I ran to my parents' bedroom to go tell them. It
took minutes to get my father to wake up. He stumbled groggily into
my room, looked out the window, and saw nothing. There was nothing
left to see.
"Tommy,
you just had a dream. Go back to bed."
"But
dad, it was there! I saw it!" I couldn't believe he would brush
me off like that, though in retrospect I suppose I couldn't really
blame him. I was just six, after all. Six-year-olds do sometimes
confuse dreams with reality (where else would the monster in the
closet come from?), or have imaginary friends. Or see alien
spacecraft where none actually exist.
But
somehow I was not surprised when I heard the next day that Millie,
the neighbors' teenage daughter, had disappeared without a trace that
night. And when she was found two days later, a thousand miles away
and without any memory of what had happened to her or how she got
where she was, I knew: there is more in this universe than we think.
Maybe
when six-year-olds say they have seen things, we shouldn't be too
quick to dismiss it. Maybe they see more than adults do, rather than
less. Maybe because they are more open to simply seeing what is
there, without the filter of an education.
After
that night, I was scared of what might be out there in the
dark. But, I couldn't help it: I was also excited. It seemed to me I
had been offered a glimpse of a world most other people cannot even
imagine. I sat up many nights, waiting for the craft to return, but
it never did.
I
was hooked, however. If it is strange, if it is weird, if it scary,
if it is one of those things that can't possibly be, you can't keep
me from it with a barbed wire fence and a shotgun.
Hence
my collection of newspaper reports of whatever strange things happen
around here. And my huge and growing collection of books on such
things.
Sometimes
they are all I have to feed my addiction. Sometimes I manage get out
there and go make my own observations. I have quietly joined up with
some groups dedicated to that sort of thing, and when I can, I go
with them on their ghost hunts. My parents would probably go through
the roof if they knew all I got up to – what about our family’s
good name? I mean, they know I have weird interests, but not how
often I hang out with those sort of people. So part of my
job, you could say, is to keep the secret from my parents.
That's
where Rhapsody comes in. We've been friends since kindergarten, and
she's one of my few friends. She's as weird as I am, I suppose. But
if I pretend that I am over at her place, my parents don't bug me,
and they are not on intimate terms with her folks, so the two sets of
parents are unlikely to compare notes. And of course, Rhapsody will
happily cover for me.
She's
a certified genius and has helped me acquire most of the equipment I
use in my investigations. Some of it is better than anything the
professionals have, and I keep those items to myself. You will not
believe the stuff she can make, the things she can get a computer to
do, the information she can get hold of. And this despite the fact
that she's rather incredulous of the things I mostly investigate.
Well, she just hasn't seen much yet.
I
wouldn't have gotten her involved in the Getty Street thing. But I
didn't know how it was going to turn out.
Rhapsody
Mulder’s Diary
Of
course he's going to investigate this. Getty Street is just a few
blocks from here, no way one could keep him away, he's like a tabloid
journalist. And of course he'll want my help. Especially when he sees
the new gadget. He'd never get anything done without my gadgets, but
I gotta say, that's not the only reason why we're friends. Perhaps
the only reason is that we wouldn't have any other friends anyway, so
we might as well stick together.
I
first realized I was different in first grade, when I could read and
no one else could. And that I was quite different in grade two, when
I realized that my own teacher would have some difficulty following
the book I was reading (I was working on introductory calculus then,
seems like a million years ago). And again two weeks ago, when dad
asked my help in solving a problem he's working on.
Why
am I not in a school for the gifted? I'm clearly gifted. My parents
mumble things about socialization and learning to fit in and learning
humility and working with others and, and, and...
It's
pretty obvious I'm never going to fit in anywhere. Except with
Thomas, who doesn't have half my brain, but he at least isn't all
jealous about it. Now if I could get him to quit his woo-woo stuff
and do something real. It doesn't have to be physics.
Well,
let's see what happens tomorrow.
Thomas,
Rhapsody, Chip Dawkins.
"Yeah,
I thought you might want to, so I took the liberty of looking up a
few things."
Rhapsody
managed her usual, ever so slightly bored,
why-on-earth-do-you-bother-with-this-stuff look. Of course, she
wasn't fooling me. She enjoys this stuff more than she lets on.
Perhaps more than she would admit even to herself.
"Let
me guess: you have found out where the widow Kowalski lives."
She
smiled. "Indeed. Getty Street, just a few blocks from here. Who
woulda thunk your ghosts and stuff would come for a visit to our
neighborhood?"
"And
since this information wasn't in the paper, I guess it would be
better if I didn't ask where exactly you got it from..."
"Right
again. You might start to think I hack into systems, and that's
illegal, and I wouldn’t want you to think badly of me."
She
looks so innocent and nerdy, I don't think a judge could possibly
find her guilty of anything, even if she stood over a dead body with
a knife dripping blood. You know the type: perpetual bad hair day,
huge glasses (mercifully they're not thick as well), clothes that may
have been in fashion in 1970. Buck teeth as well? No, not quite, but
almost. And then the thing you can't see: a brain the size of a
planet.
No
wonder the boys don't exactly like her, and endlessly tease me about
my "girlfriend." But of course, it's not like that. We are
just pals, and have been just about forever.
"So.
What are your plans?" She probably have better ideas than I do,
but when it comes to paranormal investigation, she lets me take the
lead. Then again, perhaps it's the one thing I really do know more
about than she does.
"Well,
I would very much like some way to get into the widow's house, and
take some readings. Perhaps there is something to be learned from
that. Or maybe she has something interesting to say?"
"Yeah,
right. A batty old widow with a cat, who is into crystal healing,
will have new insights into the mysteries of the universe."
"Actually,"
I said, "she used to have a cat. Now she has cat goulash."
Rhapsody giggled. "Anyway, it's as good a start as any. I'm just
not sure how we are going to pull it off, because the press has
probably been bugging her for days and I'm not sure she'd open the
door even for the police anymore, let alone a couple of curious
kids."
"You'll
think of something. Let me know when you have a plan. Come, we're
late for, er, 'math.'" Yeah, she doesn’t think much of the
subject of grade seven math, but who can blame her? At least old Mrs.
Norton has the sense to leave her in peace to read a book instead.
Something
like a truck hit me from behind, sending me staggering into Rhapsody,
who uttered a little shriek.
"Hiya
Spooks! Howya doin'!" General laughter. I slowly got up from my
knees. So it goes just about every day around here. And yes, just as
I thought: Chip Dawkins. Standing there grinning his stupid grin at
me, daring me to do anything. Like I would dare to take on a guy who
weighs twice as much as I do.
I
stared at him without expression, then turned around and walked off,
Rhapsody beside me. We both had the sense to know that sometimes you
have to lose a battle to win the war. We'd deal with him one day,
some day. Or at least, that's what we liked to think.
I
didn't focus too well on school work that day, and couldn't really
think of any particularly original way to approach the widow
Kowalski. We'd have to go with the flow and improvise.
So
when the bell finally rang for the end of the school day, I asked
Rhapsody to put on her uniform and come by my place. We were going to
sell some cookies to a certain widow: who could possibly be rude to a
girl scout?
"And
what if she sends us packing? Or opens fire with a blunderbuss or
something?"
"I
don't know. If you can think of any better idea, now's the time to
tell me."
She
couldn't, so she didn't.
From
Thomas Avalon's field notes
Probably
not a real case. Getty street close by though. Pet murders seem to be
real, so there is something to investigate. Is it paranormal or just
a predator? Mrs. Kowalski's description - strange, will have to read
up on hyenas in folklore. Remember to assess her mental state during
interview. How reliable a witness is she?
Procedures
to follow if possible:
EVP
recording, orb photography, non-flash photography. Take temp.
readings if possible.
Questions:
Does she regularly see things? If so: result of being psychic or
mentally unstable?
******
And thus endeth the first bit. Trust me, it gets ever more exciting.
