Book cover image copyright (c) Jennifer B. Fields 2012-2017
Wallflower
For Connie Boyle, helping a teenage half-ghost find her identity was never a question. But she didn’t plan on finding strength in their friendship or putting an end to a serial killer’s rampage. Fate may have chosen a mouse, but in Connie, it created a lion.
For Connie Boyle, a job at the Hayfork, Kansas library was just an excuse to get away from her abusive husband. But when she learns that she’s the only one who can hear the not-so-dead specter haunting her workplace, she vows to find out what happened to the ghostly teenage Wallflower.
Working in secret, Connie and Wallflower find strength in their unorthodox friendship as they track down leads to Wallflower’s identity. But the answer is closer than they realize when Connie inadvertently uncovers the bloody wake of a serial killer. Allies become suspects and suspects become allies as it seems everyone in sleepy Hayfork has murderous potential.
Excerpt
Prologue
“Where am I? Oh, God! Where am I?” a young lady calls out in terror. Distraught, she spins in circles, trying desperately to take in her blurry surroundings. Where is this place? How did I get here?
“Please, someone help me,” she whimpers. The sound of her own voice is a strangled echo in her head. Between a blinking strobe of darkness and reality, she sees people, lots of them, and books, rows and rows of books. She knows it’s a library, but how? How did she get here?
Her vision ripples and warps, but her hearing is keen, every sound around her magnified. Whispers trumpet in her ear, footsteps clang.
An old woman passes close. In pure reaction, the girl reaches out an unsteady hand to touch the woman’s shoulder. “Please, can you help me?”
The old woman shrieks, dropping her books, and swipes at her shoulder.
For a long-lasting moment, they stand eye to eye, but the old woman looks right through her as if she’s not even there.
“Please,” the girl begs again, but the woman says nothing, simply gathering her books and walking away.
The girl’s vision blurs again behind a surge of frantic tears. “Help!” she screams.
No one turns. No one listens.
“Help!” Louder this time, but to the same effect. Everyone continues about their business. The sound of crinkling pages and shuffling feet is nearly deafening.
I’m dreaming, she thinks to herself. I’m having a nightmare. Her weak knees buckle beneath her and she crumbles to the floor. People pass around her in all directions, never stopping, never slowing.
Just as her hearing begins to even out, the sounds she hears are overwhelmed by scent. She leans on her hands as her stomach takes a leap. The scent of every perfume and cologne, of every musty book and smelly foot fills her nostrils in one giant wave. Fighting the nausea, she forces herself to breathe through her mouth. Slow breaths, she says to herself. Slow, calming breaths. Focusing on her hands, she rubs the matted brown carpeting, finding it as gritty and hostile as sandpaper.
My hands, she thinks. What’s wrong with my hands?
With a curious cock of her head, she turns her hands over, examining them and wriggling her slender fingers. Youthful and smooth, she knows them to be her hands, but they are as gray as a London winter fog, stale and hazy.
Pushing up her sleeves, she finds that she is wearing a fuzzy white bathrobe. “This has to be a dream,” she says aloud. There’s no way she’d go out in public with nothing but a bathrobe on.
All at once, staring at the oddity of her colorless skin and bizarre attire, she realizes that not only does she not recognize where she is, but she doesn’t know who she is.
“Oh my God! Oh sweet God! What’s happening?”
Pushing up from the floor, she forces her quivering legs to stand and staggers to the nearest person. “Who am I?” She cries, and hangs on an unsuspecting woman’s arm.
The woman screams in terror and lurches backward, knocking over a small stand of paperbacks.
“Please help me!” the girl begs.
People come to help the panicked woman, but she breaks free of them and runs out the front door without saying a word, leaving everyone looking at each other in bewilderment.
Nearly hyperventilating, the young girl approaches the group. “Can someone please help me? I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t seem to remember who—”
“That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” an employee interrupts. “Did you see that? She acted like she saw a ghost.”
“Yes,” an older woman replies as she bends to gather up the scattered books. “I don’t know what could have happened.”
“It was me,” the young girl offers, raising her hand. “I’m sorry. I must have startled her. I was just—”
“I’ll help you pick up this mess,” the employee says as she squats to lend a hand.
The young girl stares at them, unsure of whether to be offended or frightened that she’s being so blatantly ignored. She turns, taking in the busy library. No one, absolutely no one has noticed the panicked girl in the gleaming white bathrobe. “Either I’m having a nightmare or…”
Her head whirls as the clash of noises return. Every aroma assaults her and her bathrobe becomes an unyielding constrictor. “Oh God, I’m dead,” she whispers. The word is a canyon echo all around her: dead, dead, dead. She feels herself falling, first in her legs and then in her mind.
With the wind of gravity, all falls silent.
“Where am I? Oh, God! Where am I?” a young lady calls out in terror. Distraught, she spins in circles, trying desperately to take in her blurry surroundings. Where is this place? How did I get here?
“Please, someone help me,” she whimpers. The sound of her own voice is a strangled echo in her head. Between a blinking strobe of darkness and reality, she sees people, lots of them, and books, rows and rows of books. She knows it’s a library, but how? How did she get here?
Her vision ripples and warps, but her hearing is keen, every sound around her magnified. Whispers trumpet in her ear, footsteps clang.
An old woman passes close. In pure reaction, the girl reaches out an unsteady hand to touch the woman’s shoulder. “Please, can you help me?”
The old woman shrieks, dropping her books, and swipes at her shoulder.
For a long-lasting moment, they stand eye to eye, but the old woman looks right through her as if she’s not even there.
“Please,” the girl begs again, but the woman says nothing, simply gathering her books and walking away.
The girl’s vision blurs again behind a surge of frantic tears. “Help!” she screams.
No one turns. No one listens.
“Help!” Louder this time, but to the same effect. Everyone continues about their business. The sound of crinkling pages and shuffling feet is nearly deafening.
I’m dreaming, she thinks to herself. I’m having a nightmare. Her weak knees buckle beneath her and she crumbles to the floor. People pass around her in all directions, never stopping, never slowing.
Just as her hearing begins to even out, the sounds she hears are overwhelmed by scent. She leans on her hands as her stomach takes a leap. The scent of every perfume and cologne, of every musty book and smelly foot fills her nostrils in one giant wave. Fighting the nausea, she forces herself to breathe through her mouth. Slow breaths, she says to herself. Slow, calming breaths. Focusing on her hands, she rubs the matted brown carpeting, finding it as gritty and hostile as sandpaper.
My hands, she thinks. What’s wrong with my hands?
With a curious cock of her head, she turns her hands over, examining them and wriggling her slender fingers. Youthful and smooth, she knows them to be her hands, but they are as gray as a London winter fog, stale and hazy.
Pushing up her sleeves, she finds that she is wearing a fuzzy white bathrobe. “This has to be a dream,” she says aloud. There’s no way she’d go out in public with nothing but a bathrobe on.
All at once, staring at the oddity of her colorless skin and bizarre attire, she realizes that not only does she not recognize where she is, but she doesn’t know who she is.
“Oh my God! Oh sweet God! What’s happening?”
Pushing up from the floor, she forces her quivering legs to stand and staggers to the nearest person. “Who am I?” She cries, and hangs on an unsuspecting woman’s arm.
The woman screams in terror and lurches backward, knocking over a small stand of paperbacks.
“Please help me!” the girl begs.
People come to help the panicked woman, but she breaks free of them and runs out the front door without saying a word, leaving everyone looking at each other in bewilderment.
Nearly hyperventilating, the young girl approaches the group. “Can someone please help me? I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t seem to remember who—”
“That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” an employee interrupts. “Did you see that? She acted like she saw a ghost.”
“Yes,” an older woman replies as she bends to gather up the scattered books. “I don’t know what could have happened.”
“It was me,” the young girl offers, raising her hand. “I’m sorry. I must have startled her. I was just—”
“I’ll help you pick up this mess,” the employee says as she squats to lend a hand.
The young girl stares at them, unsure of whether to be offended or frightened that she’s being so blatantly ignored. She turns, taking in the busy library. No one, absolutely no one has noticed the panicked girl in the gleaming white bathrobe. “Either I’m having a nightmare or…”
Her head whirls as the clash of noises return. Every aroma assaults her and her bathrobe becomes an unyielding constrictor. “Oh God, I’m dead,” she whispers. The word is a canyon echo all around her: dead, dead, dead. She feels herself falling, first in her legs and then in her mind.
With the wind of gravity, all falls silent.
Content copyright (c) Jennifer B. Fields 2010-2017